Once upon a time...

Once upon a time, I was a Division I athlete. I pumped iron, ran sprints, and played tough. Unfortunately, the fairy tale ending, “And she lived athletically ever after,” has evaded me. I would most certainly collapse under the weight I used to squat. I only sprint to escape the jaws of stray dogs. I experience the thrill of victory when my students pronounce the “s” at the end of a plural word. Times have changed.

The time is 2:30, Thursday afternoon. I’m used to hearing “Teacha! Teacha!” as I walk around campus, but I heard a particularly intent beckoning from a few students and looked up to see them gesturing for me to come closer. I approached and was redirected to the gym teacher, Pi Ma, who had interesting news for me. “Teacher. You run Saturday five kilomet. Meet here 6:30 morning. Tell Chinese teacher, June. Stay. I bring you shirts.” As I waited for her to return with the race gear, I counted on one hand the number of times I’ve run since arriving in Thailand. This was going to be interesting.

Saturday morning came in the blink of an eye. Butterflies raging, I laced up my sneakers and secured my bib. Given the choice between the numbers 0329 and 0330, June chose the former. Nine is an auspicious number in Thailand, and apparently in China too. I liked the symmetry of 0330 anyway. Plus, three times three is nine so I was counting on some subtle luck to kick in. I was definitely going to need it.  June and I warmed up by jogging for thirty seconds in the direction of the school gate. Turning the corner to a sea of students, my initial reaction was to run. Not toward the finish line, but back home. The realization that my UT running shorts were outrageously short for Thai social standards sparked a minor panic attack. Luckily, June was able to quell my anxiety and I reluctantly surrendered to the madness that would characterize the morning. After a useless attempt to stretch my shorts to some level of modesty, I scurried toward the sign-in table and endured the customary stares. Twenty minutes and forty seven pictures later, we made our way to the starting line. The teachers assembled behind a large banner for one last photo op, all of the students behind us, raring to go. Out of nowhere, Pi Ma yelled, “Go!” and the charge began. Trapped between the banner in front of me and the stampede behind me, I exploded with laughter at the absurdity of my current situation. Untangling ourselves from the mob, June and I fled to the outer edge of the pack and watched as the bulk of the students tore past us at full speed. “Slow and steady,” I told her, burying the fear that maybe this race was actually a 500 rather than a 5K. Sure enough, the kids began dropping like flies. It was classic tortoise and the hare. June and I moseyed along, not sprinting, but not stopping either. Whenever the boys would catch a glimpse of us closing in on them, they’d kick it into the next gear, temporarily avoiding the embarrassment of being overtaken by the foreign girl teachers. At one point, two boys approached on a moped, camera phone pointed my way, capturing the sweaty splendor of my endeavor. I flashed the customary double peace sign, hoping in vain that they were taking a snapshot rather than a video. Start to finish, the race was ridiculous. To top it off, thirty minutes after that chaotic start, finishing first among the female competitors was yours truly, Kelsey Nawalinski. I was treated like a bionic woman after a performance that would have had me plunked in my coach’s office, re-evaluating my future as an athlete. I received a lukewarm juice box of strawberry milk and a mayonnaise-filled, pork-topped bread roll to help me refuel post-race. In the wake of my victory, the boy who finished first overall has taken up the habit of shouting, “Champions!!” arms lifted Rocky-style over his head, every time he sees me at school. I’ve now realized that the most impressive feat was finding a way to identify myself as more of an oddball.

Our students and long distance running just seem to be like oil and water. Give them a soccer ball, however, and it’s like seating Mozart at a baby grand. Asking them to run three miles is more like handing him a paintbrush. But we all have our strengths and that’s the beauty of humanity. Another brilliant man, good ol’ Einstein, recognized that, “everybody is a genius, but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.” When it comes to long distance, my students are like fish out of water, but ask them to belt out some karaoke, bend it like Beckham, or whip up some killer Thai food, and they’ll do it swimmingly. 

I'm not sure if "30.21 MIN" means .21 minutes or 21 seconds, but either way, its impressive.

Embracing Yi Sib Saam

In high school I was a partner in a hypothetical ice cream shop, brainchild of Meghan Price, called 22 Scoops 4 U. I’m going to cut to the chase, save face, and blow past the lunacy of that statement. The significance is in the number. From my stint as a pseudo-entrepreneur, my love affair with the number twenty two has blossomed. I’d go on to bear the number on my hockey jersey for four years at William & Mary. I’d set my alarm for 7:22. I’d beam if I pulled deli number 22. I’d treasure a receipt for $22.22. My devotion to the number seems to have been returned to me in some sort of karmic way throughout my 22nd year of life. The 365 days that separated last February 5th from last Sunday were extraordinary. Begun by bashing a glitter-filled Spongebob piñata, those days exploded with joy and laughter. They saw my first alumni tournament, my last Blowout, and my only college graduation. A legendary Beach Week in Myrtle followed by a precious road trip throughout  Texas, countless train rides to Philly, a blissful week in Avalon, an unexpected but rewarding return to Villa, a half marathon in VB, then a lengthy flight to Bangkok. Naturally, on arrival in Suvarnabhumi airport, I retrieved my suitcase from the 22nd baggage carousel. The first full day I spent here was October 22nd. The first number ingrained in my head in Thai? Yi sib saung, of course, as I was often asked to provide my age in Thai. The days I called myself a twenty two year-old were too good to be true.

So as the final hours of my Golden Age dwindled, I was ushered into a new year of life in the typical, delightfully unconventional style that is becoming the norm for any Western celebrations I've experienced here. I sat sprawled out on the wooden-planked floor of a guest house in the ancient Thai capital of Ayutthaya, surrounded by new friends who seemed like old friends. When the clock struck twelve, we tore ourselves away from the outrageously talented foosball player displaying his skills on the only English television channel available. Chris and Vi, the man with The Rules and the girl with the lens, demanded a lowering of the lights and emerged with an unthinkable delicacy: ice cream cake. The candles were illuminated not by flames, but by a strategically positioned cell phone glare. The song was sung, my wish was made, the candles were “extinguished,” and the cake was demolished. No table, no plates, just a collection of spoons, forks, and hungry, dairy-deprived amigos. I guess it was kind of Thai in that communal consumption sort of way. Also in the sincerity and smiles of the people surrounding me.

The next morning, I left behind a magical year and stepped out into the mystery of the next. I squinted and smiled under the morning sun and classic clear blue Thai sky. After a hearty birthday greeting from the owner of our guest house, wishing me good luck today, this year, and always, our motorbike gang departed for the ruins of an ancient temple, Wat Chaiwatthanaram. We made a quick pit stop for breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. We ordered our food in Thai and devoured it soon after, seated snugly on rickety stone benches. With full bellies and youthful exuberance, our caravan continued on to our destination. Ayutthaya exists in this incredible state, simultaneously modern and ancient. Massive brick temples, long ago sites of sacred Buddhist rituals, overlook multitudes of 711’s, which garner a religious devotion of their own. After a morning of exploration, we bade adieu and I hopped on a van back to Suphan. It was a typical day-in-the-life. The greatest gifts were in the details.

On the train to Ayutthaya, we were playing musical headphones, picking songs for each other and inventing games utilizing the noise cancelling quality of my headset. I was the current victim and Vi said, “watch this,” to Chris, hit play on Your Love is My Drug by Ke$ha, and they both laughed as my eyes lit up and my arms launched into their reflexive robotic dance moves. After the ecstasy of the beloved tune wore off, I was struck by the fact that Vi has already come to know this little nuance of my personality. What a gift it is to have dear friends like that here. Or anywhere.

My next door neighbors, June and Bixia, are from China. They’re two-thirds of the make-believe family we’ve created. Mother Bixia does the cooking. Father June does the dishes. I’m the helpless child who eats the food and gets in trouble. I love them and dread the day, two weeks from today, that they’ll return home. When I returned “home” to Suphan from Ayutthaya, to my empty apartment, mountain of laundry that still hadn't washed itself, and sobering stacks of ungraded midterms, I was saved by a prompt knock at the door, two smiling faces, and two precious gifts. From June, a little gold ring adorned with a tiny bulky camera, just like my Nikon. From Bixia, a brand new Tupperware to save the leftovers of the many dishes she’s taught me to cook. Exceedingly thoughtful presents from the strangers who have become my family. What a gift it is to share my time here with them, to receive their cultural perspective, cooking tips, and dependable company.

At my belated Monday night birthday dinner with the English department, I was admiring a fellow teacher’s new floral wallet, which she had recently purchased in Chiang Mai. Moments later, she pulled another from her purse and presented it to me, a spontaneous sacrifice to celebrate my special day. I pulled out the travel-worn neon pink and cheetah print duct tape contraption that was currently serving as my wallet and everyone laughed at the timeliness of Kate’s random act of kindness. She also joked in Thai that hers had cost ninety baht while mine had cost ninety nine baht, so the gesture was exceptionally generous. What a gift it is to begin to understand this once-cryptic language and to literally receive more than she had kept for herself. This Thai ideal of radical generosity becomes more sensible the longer I’m immersed in it. That is a gift beyond compare.

So now I’m yi sib saam. Twenty three. And I’m happy to report that rather than clinging to the glory days, I’m whole-heartedly embracing my twenty third year. So much so that I’ve decided to make some New Age Resolutions. And I mean that literally, not in a holistic or esoteric kind of way. I’m ready to grow up a little, welcome my new age with open arms. I want to learn more Thai.  What I’ve picked up through cultural osmosis is not enough. I have a newfound drive to unlock the meaning behind these puzzling sounds and tones. I want to be more involved in the local Donchedi community. I love it here. These people have given me a job, a broader perspective, an opportunity to grow and solid discounts on vegetables. I hope I can reciprocate some of their kindness, or at least express my deep gratitude for their hospitality. I want to give more to my students. They’re awesome and hilarious. They appreciate life and I appreciate them. They’re my top priority here and I hope my actions always reflect that. In this coming year, I want to struggle and laugh, work hard and play hard, gain knowledge and give it, be poured out and poured into, and love and be loved. I’m too far down the road less travelled to turn back now, so I’m moving forward, content with not knowing what lies ahead.

ERIC: The Man, The Myth, The Legend

Eric must have been an all-star teacher. I’m talking as Gandhi is to India, as Oprah is to talk shows, as Chanel is to my mother, Eric seems to have been to Baharn 1. He’s a legend. I can tell because his name is everywhere. I’m a mildly competitive individual, so naturally as the new kid on the block, looking to make a splash in my teaching debut, I engaged in an unspoken, metaphorical teaching competition with this Eric character. Unfortunately, I was playing 1 v 1 teacher-ball against the Michael Jordan of ESL. “Welcome to ERIC!” reads a huge, beautiful banner in our foreign language office. There wasn’t a banner for my arrival, but if there had been, I’m sure it would be displayed as prominently. I’m guessing Eric was the first Western teacher at Banharn. And maybe he was quite a catch for a rural public school, with extensive teaching experience or an excessive fortune, perhaps? Maybe he used a negligible portion of that fortune to purchase a boat load of English language resources for the school. After all, most of the workbooks and textbooks that clutter our office are emblazoned with his name, shouting my ineptitude to no end. He was probably exceptionally pale and abnormally tall, making him devilishly handsome by default. As I spun this story of the enigmatic Eric, my patience for him dwindled.

One fateful morning, I found a binder of worksheets on my desk. Eric’s name sneered up at me from the spine. Just before the exasperated question, “who is this Eric!?” escaped my lips, I got my answer. The front of the binder revealed my opponent’s identity. ERIC: English Resource and Information Center. Eric’s not a person. He’s a place. My confusion cleared and my cheeks flushed. I’d been losing a one-sided competition to an acronym. For weeks.

I too often slip into these silly competitions. Eric, of all people, taught me that. Our society makes it so easy to compare and compete. Class rank, GPA, goals scored, dollars saved, degrees earned, miles travelled, BBMs received, football players befriended, real estate purchased, Facebook friends acquired. Some of it’s legitimate and some of it’s ludicrous. We have been created for things greater than these. Not just to be a number in the world. I forgot that. And it had me feeling inferior to an acronym for far too long. Eric will always be out there. Smarter, richer, and more popular than I am, but that’s okay. I wish him the best and return to my pursuit of greater things with renewed focus.  I still wince inwardly when I catch a glimpse of Eric’s omnipresent name, not because he’s creaming me in the Teacher Olympics, but because he reminds me of my own tendency to strive for victory, rather than excellence. I’m learning though, so ERIC has found a way, in only four letters, to impart some wisdom after all. He’s a master of brevity.

The Rules

Sarah-Graham Turtletaub is a conversational genius. I’ve never met someone so adept at getting strangers to pour their hearts out in a matter of minutes. The secret to her success? Ask questions. Meaningful questions. Ones with answers that give you a glimpse into who someone really is. My current favorite is, “if you could do anything for a living, what would you do? Don’t be practical, don’t be shy, just dream big.” On January 1st of this new year, my friend Vi beat me to the punch and asked our lovable, ragtag group of friends, “what’s your dream job?” The answers that followed were fantastic. Sunk low in a colorful beach chair on the shore of a tiny island south of Bangkok, I listened to seven people give raw, honest responses to a question that really requires you to bare a piece of your soul. Vulnerability is necessary and optimism is key. Among the tremendous answers, from a Californian bro with an internal Rosetta Stone and an outlook eerily similar to my brother Ian’s, was the idea of using his connection and appreciation for nature combined with his knack for picking up foreign language to lead wilderness excursions in the States for international visitors. Brilliant. The South African, rugby-playing bloke who sat to my left sipping a Chang would love to apply his fine arts degree at a place like Pixar. An oxymoron that makes perfect sense. Is that a paradox? People are just continually surprising me here, with their wealth of life experience and diversity of passions. Every conversation seems to serve as a reminder that you really don’t know anything about anyone. You can be so certain that you have someone figured out and then they throw this curveball about their vision for the future and you're back to square one, which is usually where you belong anyway, I guess. From square one, I know that the Brit that rounded out this circle of comrades is from Manchester. He’s an avid United fan. I am constantly laughing in his presence and he lives by two rules.

Rule Number One: Its only paper.

Rule Number Two: It’s not where you are, but who you're with.

He’s mostly joking when he demands our adherence to these laws, but I so often find wisdom in his silliness. Money is only paper, but it can be traded for greater things. A ticket to Thailand, a meal for a monk, an education, or a beachside feast with a bunch of dreamers. Because it’s not where you are, but who you're with. I sat down to lunch that day with seven goofballs I’d met at orientation, traded some paper for some grub, and stood up an hour later with a National Geographic photographer, a professor of industrial engineering, an employee of the National Basketball Association, a cross-cultural wildlife excursion guide, a student ambassador at a Thai university, a writer for a comedy series, and one of the creative minds behind Pixar. Not too shabby.

Khop Khun Kha

This year, on the third Thursday of November, I found myself in a circle of girls I had known for anywhere between one month and one hour, with a peanut butter sandwich in one hand and a microphone in the other, noddin my head like yea, movin my hips like yea, and essentially shouting Miley Cyrus’ timeless classic, Party in the USA, with the passion of a Bieber Fever-stricken tween. It was the most outrageously unconventional Thanksgiving celebration I could have ever imagined, but it was hilarious and joyous. Above all, in true Turkey Day spirit, it had me adding to the ever-lengthening list of things that I am thankful for.

For the short walk to school, the balmy weather, open windows of wild painted buses, for old friends, new friends, red pens, blue pens, for Nikons, clean water, and mandatory barefootedness, for e-mail, snail mail, and the palms pierced by nails, for new levels of patience, and no level of urgency, for the angel in the front row who whispers the pronunciation of her classmates’ names during attendance, for joints that move and eyes that see, for silky webs that entangle my blood-sucking foes, for Mom, Dad, Ian, and Molly, for the blonde locks that are as good as a tattoo on my forehead reading, “I’m not from around here. HELP!”, for fresh perspectives and fresh coffee, for the Land of Smiles, and the residents who live up to the name, I am thankful.

For the meaty chunks of fresh papaya that I’m downing as I write this, for the mouthwatering perfection of the fruit’s ripeness, for the Thai teacher at school, the embodiment of Mother Willow, who gave it to me so unexpectedly, for the way she always uses my name when she greets me, for her shy and brilliant students, for all purposeful, personal, passionate teachers, for lifelong learning, for a new definition of generosity, I am thankful.

For my proficiency in English, I am newly and deeply thankful. I’m ashamed to admit that the immensity of this blessing has been almost completely lost on me until now. Learning English as a second language must be absolutely maddening. It’s absurdly inconsistent. I’ve been practicing it all day every day for almost 23 years now, and I still get things wrong. Maybe the response, “I am Balloon old” to the quiz question, “What is your name?” isn’t that distressing after all. He was on the right track. The image below further validates his confusion. This poster hung in Sister Kathleen Dunn’s English classroom at Villa. Read it aloud without messing up. I dare you. And despite the momentary hostility, for you I am truly thankful. Whoever you are, wherever you are, and however intently you perused this post, Khop khun kha.

I watched the sun rise today!

Well, sort of. As the sun burst over the horizon of the clear blue waters that cradle Phuket, painting the undoubtedly cloudless sky with another morning masterpiece, I watched its rays gradually illuminate an equally humbling scene. Many miles away, at my little school in Suphan, dawn emerged on a group of steadfast teachers, hardworking staff, and selfless, sleepy-eyed students as they prepared a thousand boxes of fresh homemade food for the flood victims in Bangkok. The orchestra of chopping, scooping, sizzling, and packaging was a different sort of masterpiece, though it rivaled any skyline I’ve ever see.

I arrived on the scene at 4 AM and by 4:04 I had been welcomed with a hot cup of soy milk, a fresh pastry, and about ten surprised but enthusiastic “good mornings!” to ease me out of my walking slumber. As my coworkers resumed their tasks, conversation returned to the chorus of speed-Thai that my arrival had briefly interrupted. It flew well over my head, but I was secretly grateful for the language-locked state that allowed me to labor introspectively in those wee hours of the morning.  Although I couldn’t understand the content of the impenetrable hum, the laughter and light-heartedness made it very clear that it wasn’t griping, drudgery, or martyrdom. I was submerged in the purity of their intentions and had no intent on coming up for air. Overwhelmingly here, I’ve found that generosity is more of a lifestyle than a whimsical ideal. It’s an inextricable part how things work. I have, you lack, therefore I’ll share. It’s common sense and it’s awesome. For this culinary crew, the morning’s activities most certainly will not appear on their resumes in the future – “Devoted numerous mornings of 4 AM to 6:30 AM shifts preparing food for victims of the 2011 flooding”. Today was just life. Thais helping Thais. People sending light out among the dark waters, just as the sun sent its rays to steadily brighten our endeavor as night became day. The morning culminated in a Thai-style communal breakfast of rice, vegetables, meat, and, for me, a heaping serving of humble pie. The latter didn’t taste great, but my soul needed the nutritional value.

On second thought...

After reflecting on the fact that life here is different (surprise of the century), I’ve started to realize that there are many elements of human life that transcend culture. As a veritable Martian in this Thai society, it’s been a delight to uncover them little by little.

Considering that my Thai is so elementary (actually, it’s borderline non-existent if I’m being honest), I thought that reaching the level of joking around with people here was a distant dream. I’m not sure how a goofball like me could forget that humor is universal. I was shopping at the supermarket (which was totally “picked over,” as you would say Mom) with two Chinese teachers and two Thai English teachers. #Cultureshock. After a solid seven-minute group effort to figure out that one of the Chinese teachers, Luk Tan, was looking for a “washbasin,” I set off to find the plastic bins I had seen earlier. I returned with a bin, about 2 ft. in diameter, and Luk Tan thought it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. “Too big!” she squeaked between giggles. So I reached for the next smallest size, which was considerably smaller in the aftermath of panic-driven pre-flood shopping, and she laughed even harder at how outrageously tiny it was. As she walked around the corner, still chuckling at my cluelessness, one of the Thai teachers grabbed about six of the most enormous bins on the shelf and casually set them into our cart. No need for language. Sarcasm is universal. We laughed and continued on, and I had no clearer idea of the proper size of a washbasin, but it was clear that this language barrier would crumble with time. There are greater things than common language and luckily laughter is one of them.

Play seems to be another. I went swimming the other night in the school’s Olympic-sized pool, filled with water that somehow magically matches the temperature of the air. A small crowd of M1 (US grade 7) students were scattered throughout the pool, totally unsupervised and totally loving it. A few were busy stacking way too many kickboards on top of each other and, playing way too close to the side of the pool, trying to maintain their balance but inevitably crashing into the water and erupting with laughter. Other students were lined up on the diving blocks, jumping in succession, doing spirals and spastic flips as they plunged into the way too shallow water. The reckless childish energy was abundant and contagious. Only their tan skin, Euro-esque bathing suits, and lack of supervision would have given them away among their Main Line counterparts.

During orientation we went to an authentic Thai bar with authentic Thai food and authentic Thai clientele, where an authentic Thai acoustic duo was performing. Their opening number? I’m Yours by Jason Mraz. I guess we all speak the language of dreamy acoustic musicians - "Mraz-ese," if you will. During the same week, wandering aimlessly and contently through an open market in Bangkok, a familiar tune drifted its way over to my ears from a nearby stand. “Country roads...take me home...to the place...I belong...West Virginia...Mountain Mama...take me home...country roads...” Anyone who was or is a member of the Tribe Field Hockey team can imagine the big cheese smile that immediately lit up my face. We’ve requested that song relentlessly on bus trips over the years, and our obliging head coach, Peel Hawthorne, has been kind enough to indulge us with a few acoustic performances. The music wrapped me in a reassuring hug from home. Hearing it so unexpectedly at this market in Bangkok made the ‘burg and my Tribe family feel much closer than 9000 miles away.

So maybe I’m not a Martian after all. These experiences of solidarity have kept me grounded in the fact that I’m an Earthling. Granted, I’m an illiterate, mute, blonde-headed foreigner in this Thai society, but I'm an Earthling all the same.