Okay, so there are times when my work certainly has its disadvantages. "Selbstständig" is the word for "freelance," which literally means "self-standing." However, "ständig" can also mean "constant(ly)" -- so if you are selbstständig, then you work both selbst and ständig! Ho ho! And true!
But what other job can leave you so completely jazzed? I just had one of those classes today: the kind that turn out constructive, fun, and textbook-perfect. Not only were the material and lesson plan all logically organized and relevant -- wrapping up into a neat conclusion at the end of the hour -- but it was also just the right balance of structure vs. organic flow. Even more importantly, all the students were engaged and learning and enjoying themselves; they practically interrupted each other to be able to apply the vocabulary and express themselves in English, making jokes and really getting into the topic. Afterward, everyone expressed how much they enjoy their English group and how empowering it feels to be able to communicate in a foreign language.
Other times, when I have asked students (during a discussion of workplace culture or something) what they like most about their jobs, they've beamed at me and answered: "English class!"
Add to that the fact that it's not only gratifying for me, it's healthy, too: professionally (boy, have I learned a lot!) but also personally, in that I get to know and like and care about all these lovely people. So many different kinds of people -- everyone from a completely different background, different ages, stages in life, different education, gender, personality, even different countries, and yet all of them equally valuable. It's just a priceless lesson to be able to internalize. Of course we all are told in school, "everyone is special," but reconciling that with our innate, animal-survival tendency to view groups of "others" as "others" unless they belong to our clan is not so easily reprogrammed. To therefore be granted the opportunity to reinforce the truth, every day I work with these unique and utterly special individuals, is a blessing.
And I get paid for this? Jeez, I'd do it for free!
Friday, October 23, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Let's see, where was I?
Right, wine and language and all that!
I think I pretty much covered the wine part, at least up through the fest on Saturday night in Bernkastel-Kues. (They even set off eye-boggling fireworks, from both the riverside and the castle above. Fireworks! Did I mention the coolness of this festival?)
It was the next day that I also got to experience the Best Parade Ever, which earns that title because it's entirely made up of free wine. That is, each of the different wine villages along the Mosel sends their own delegation, in which "wine princesses" wave from grape-covered floats while their minions run around distributing free wine. Everyone goes, "Oh look, here comes Piesport!" and some Dionysius-clad gentleman -- or maybe he's one of the folks in tricorne hat and breeches, or dressed as a Roman centurion, I never did figure out what the various costumes are meant to represent -- pours golden Piesporter Riesling into our outstretched glasses. Then he gets impatient filling all the proffered cups and just leaves us with the bottle, while we call, "Hail, Caesar!" or however you thank a centurion who just granted you your third free bottle of Goldtröpfchen.
Anyway, so all this was fabulous, until a lady standing next to me at the parade heard my non-Mosellaner-accented speech and discovered I was not only a foreigner, but -- gasp! -- an American! Thus, in accordance with proper Miss Manners etiquette to finding out that your conversational partner is from another country, she proceeded to ask me, point-blank, why Americans "all talk so f***ing ugly." That's exactly how she said it: one moment, she was asking me in calm German where I was from and I was answering in German, and the next, she was suddenly shrieking in grotesquely-caricatured English that "Americans talk so f***ing ugly!"
Wha---
How do you respond to such improbable behavior?
In fact, I didn't. I stared at her for a moment, then demonstrably turned on my heel and pushed away through the crowd.
First, a note about the f-word. It wasn't (only) the fact that this lady was cussing at a perfect stranger that appalled me, since I'm aware of how many Germans seem to misunderstand the intensity of the f-word: they see it in movies all the time and think, huh, it must be like Scheisse, which literally means "shit" but is really about as strong as "damn." So if a German ever drops the f-bomb on you, be aware that he possibly doesn't mean it quite as invectively as it sounds. (Although it's still pretty shocking to hear your local morning show hosts use it in clueless imitation of English-speaking political figures -- I just about dropped my toothbrush!)
That said, it still startled me, more so because of this woman's apparent eagerness to demonstrate the intensity of her dislike than because of the word itself. The whole exchange was a bit like being slapped. I know she was probably drunk or crazy or both; but at that moment, I was already a bit sensitive about my outsidership, anyway, what with having met a whole bunch of new people in a new place with a new dialect. Plus, I had just been watching the colorful parade roll by through a golden, sunshiney wine haze, thinking how much I like it here in Germany and how lucky I am to get to be included in all these wonderful traditions. It was like a little demon had suddenly leapt up in the middle of my contented musings to shriek at me: "That's what you think! Intruder! False! She doesn't actually belong here!" And he was right -- these weren't my people, my traditions; it was especially not my language. The woman had been crass and unjustified, but it still hit a nerve. I went and leaned on the bridge, staring gloomily into the water. I felt suddenly disoriented. Was I just kidding myself, really? Is this whole "oh-I-finally-feel-at-home-in-a-foreign-country" game just wishful thinking because I'm growing sick of being rootless?
Which is a ridiculous reaction, because of course the other 99% of the population is so accepting and kind, and would be shocked themselves by this woman's behavior. But sometimes all it takes is just that one jerk, because I am occasionally insecure about being an immigrant. It frustrates me when I can't find the right word, and people stand there looking at me expectantly and I am sure they're exasperated that I've been living in Germany for three years now, and how long do I expect them to keep patiently smiling and going along with my "I'm just the clueless foreigner" schtick? Which of course is not what they're thinking (I hope) but it certainly is what I'm thinking. So it particularly hurts when someone seems to expose me for the fraud I sometimes feel like. Yet I chose this life -- how am I entitled to pity when I chose to come here?
Or maybe all this angsty overreaction is just me being melodramatic, and everyone feels unanchored at some point in their lives. Or it's just the obvious starting point for when you feel like questioning every choice you've ever made. In any case, I felt better as soon as Martin came looking for me and responded to my complaint with a "Pfft! We'll just have to teach you some more dialect."
I'm not quite kidding about the language part, though. I feel more and more like I'm just floating sometimes, suspended between two languages. The fault lies entirely with my job (or so I like to think) in that I teach English: in other words, I spend my whole workday not really immersed in German, but not speaking natural, nuanced English, either. This means that my German has sort of plateaued out at a perfectly competent but certainly not native-speaker-like proficiency, while my English is going stale with the same International Fundamental Vocabulary for Dry Technology and Boring Business. "Context" is a word I get to use a lot. "Vile" or "ignominious" or "titillating," not so much.
So there you have it. I suppose the elusive Home and the impossible Language parts will just have to settle themselves into a sort of limbo-truce someday. In the meantime, thank heavens there are good friends and tasty Wine to help lubricate the process.
I think I pretty much covered the wine part, at least up through the fest on Saturday night in Bernkastel-Kues. (They even set off eye-boggling fireworks, from both the riverside and the castle above. Fireworks! Did I mention the coolness of this festival?)
It was the next day that I also got to experience the Best Parade Ever, which earns that title because it's entirely made up of free wine. That is, each of the different wine villages along the Mosel sends their own delegation, in which "wine princesses" wave from grape-covered floats while their minions run around distributing free wine. Everyone goes, "Oh look, here comes Piesport!" and some Dionysius-clad gentleman -- or maybe he's one of the folks in tricorne hat and breeches, or dressed as a Roman centurion, I never did figure out what the various costumes are meant to represent -- pours golden Piesporter Riesling into our outstretched glasses. Then he gets impatient filling all the proffered cups and just leaves us with the bottle, while we call, "Hail, Caesar!" or however you thank a centurion who just granted you your third free bottle of Goldtröpfchen.
Anyway, so all this was fabulous, until a lady standing next to me at the parade heard my non-Mosellaner-accented speech and discovered I was not only a foreigner, but -- gasp! -- an American! Thus, in accordance with proper Miss Manners etiquette to finding out that your conversational partner is from another country, she proceeded to ask me, point-blank, why Americans "all talk so f***ing ugly." That's exactly how she said it: one moment, she was asking me in calm German where I was from and I was answering in German, and the next, she was suddenly shrieking in grotesquely-caricatured English that "Americans talk so f***ing ugly!"
Wha---
How do you respond to such improbable behavior?
In fact, I didn't. I stared at her for a moment, then demonstrably turned on my heel and pushed away through the crowd.
First, a note about the f-word. It wasn't (only) the fact that this lady was cussing at a perfect stranger that appalled me, since I'm aware of how many Germans seem to misunderstand the intensity of the f-word: they see it in movies all the time and think, huh, it must be like Scheisse, which literally means "shit" but is really about as strong as "damn." So if a German ever drops the f-bomb on you, be aware that he possibly doesn't mean it quite as invectively as it sounds. (Although it's still pretty shocking to hear your local morning show hosts use it in clueless imitation of English-speaking political figures -- I just about dropped my toothbrush!)
That said, it still startled me, more so because of this woman's apparent eagerness to demonstrate the intensity of her dislike than because of the word itself. The whole exchange was a bit like being slapped. I know she was probably drunk or crazy or both; but at that moment, I was already a bit sensitive about my outsidership, anyway, what with having met a whole bunch of new people in a new place with a new dialect. Plus, I had just been watching the colorful parade roll by through a golden, sunshiney wine haze, thinking how much I like it here in Germany and how lucky I am to get to be included in all these wonderful traditions. It was like a little demon had suddenly leapt up in the middle of my contented musings to shriek at me: "That's what you think! Intruder! False! She doesn't actually belong here!" And he was right -- these weren't my people, my traditions; it was especially not my language. The woman had been crass and unjustified, but it still hit a nerve. I went and leaned on the bridge, staring gloomily into the water. I felt suddenly disoriented. Was I just kidding myself, really? Is this whole "oh-I-finally-feel-at-home-in-a-foreign-country" game just wishful thinking because I'm growing sick of being rootless?
Which is a ridiculous reaction, because of course the other 99% of the population is so accepting and kind, and would be shocked themselves by this woman's behavior. But sometimes all it takes is just that one jerk, because I am occasionally insecure about being an immigrant. It frustrates me when I can't find the right word, and people stand there looking at me expectantly and I am sure they're exasperated that I've been living in Germany for three years now, and how long do I expect them to keep patiently smiling and going along with my "I'm just the clueless foreigner" schtick? Which of course is not what they're thinking (I hope) but it certainly is what I'm thinking. So it particularly hurts when someone seems to expose me for the fraud I sometimes feel like. Yet I chose this life -- how am I entitled to pity when I chose to come here?
Or maybe all this angsty overreaction is just me being melodramatic, and everyone feels unanchored at some point in their lives. Or it's just the obvious starting point for when you feel like questioning every choice you've ever made. In any case, I felt better as soon as Martin came looking for me and responded to my complaint with a "Pfft! We'll just have to teach you some more dialect."
I'm not quite kidding about the language part, though. I feel more and more like I'm just floating sometimes, suspended between two languages. The fault lies entirely with my job (or so I like to think) in that I teach English: in other words, I spend my whole workday not really immersed in German, but not speaking natural, nuanced English, either. This means that my German has sort of plateaued out at a perfectly competent but certainly not native-speaker-like proficiency, while my English is going stale with the same International Fundamental Vocabulary for Dry Technology and Boring Business. "Context" is a word I get to use a lot. "Vile" or "ignominious" or "titillating," not so much.
So there you have it. I suppose the elusive Home and the impossible Language parts will just have to settle themselves into a sort of limbo-truce someday. In the meantime, thank heavens there are good friends and tasty Wine to help lubricate the process.
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