I recently signed up to do some tutoring at the African Community Education Program here. The kids range from Grade I to high school. Some of them have only recently come to America. While they speak English well enough, they cannot read or write very well. They mostly ask you to help out with their homework on a one-on-one basis.
They assigned me to this kid called Vagaba from Liberia. He is 15 years old and has been in the US for 3 years. He had never attended school in Africa. He seemed like a nice kid. Typical teenager. Said he hated school, and was better off in Liberia where he never had to go to school. His goal in life is to play soccer. I asked him whether he wants to go to college. I got a huge guffaw in return. College, yeah right! He just wants to play soccer, he said. And after that, I probed. What when he is too old to play soccer...what then? He said he will just go home and die! I didn't read too much into that answer. I guess he really doesn't know what he wants to do. Heck, I'm 27 and still not sure what I want to do. At 15, I would be amazed if he knew.
I had to help him with his English homework. The child is in the 9th grade. His reading skills are those of a 3rd-4th grader. I'm not sure anyone ever taught him how to read. But he picked up quickly enough. I showed him a couple of times how to break up a word and try to read small parts of it. After the 3rd or 4th time, he was reaching for the pencil and paper automatically, and doing it himself, when he found a word he couldn't pronounce. He got frustrated with himself when he couldn't get the same word right, when it came up a second time in the chapter we were reading. But underneath all the "I hate English", "I'm too dumb for all this" bravado, I think I detected a hunger for knowledge. I believe he does care. He does want to learn. He is only 15. There were girls around him laughing at his halting reading. He seemed to take in good part and joked with them. But I think he was embarassed and he wants to learn. I liked him a lot. I think he is a good kid who could do well, given the right opportunities.
It took us 2 and a 1/2 hours to get through 1 and 1/2 pages of pretty easy reading. At which point he asked me to do his homework for him. I refused point blank, and gave him a piece of gum to chew on instead. Unfortunately we didn't have time to finish the homework, we only got through some part of it. He said he would try to get through the rest himself.
So the reason I'm writing all this in excruciating detail is this. I would like some feedback on how best to try to help this kid, and any others I may end up tutoring. Is there any particular thing I must keep in mind while dealing with him? How do I deal with teenage angst? This I just want to die drama....how do you respond to such a statement? I actually said, I don't think its that easy to die Vagaba. I don't think its a particularly good answer. I was a little taken aback when he said that, so I didn't know how to respond. Most importantly, how do you go about building a rapport with these kids? Do you probe into their lives, or not? Do you wait for them to talk with you, or do you talk with them? I tried telling him what I was studying at school. He seemed most uninterested. I don't blame him. Most people I know respond the same way.
So..let me know what you think. I know atleast 5 people read this stuff(you know who you are), so please...help me!
Saturday, September 29, 2007
A series of howlarious events!
Sometimes I feel like Lucille Ball. I'm not as gorgeous as her, nor do I have a Dezzie. But my life is definitely as happening. Savor the following samples. All of which occured within the last 24 hours.
Exhibit A: Roomie and I decide to get Pizza for dinner. I place the order, and we drive to pick it up 20 minutes later. Man at the counter asks for my name. I tell him my name. He says..we have no order by that name. But we do have an order for a Bharu. Roomie giggles. I fume. Its Charu, I say. Oh, I'm sorry Pharu, he says. I give up. Roomie is rolling on the floor. Since coming to America I have resigned myself to being called Shaaru, or even Sharooo without a shrug. I've even been called Chalu.(yeah, yeah, I know!) But even back home, my name has been a source of grief. I once had a birthday cake that said "Happy B'day Gharu". No kidding. Gharu. No matter. I shall have my revenge. My daughter will go by Akhilandeshwari Kanakasubramanian. Or if its a boy...Trimbayaknath Vidyavachaspati.
Exhibit B: HZ accompanied me to the mouse room yesterday. He wanted to take a closer look at some of them. Make sure they weren't cross-eyed or anything. He took 5 mice out and placed them on top of the cage. I was just about to tell him they were 17 days old, and hence rather frisky. One of the mice decided to show him just how frisky it was. It jumped out of the top of the cage, out of the hood, and onto the floor. Yep. A mouse had escaped. Like a typical woman, I squealed. HZ was running around the room trying to catch it. How to catch a tiny mouse that runs pretty quick? I told him about the large pair of forceps placed in each room expressly to catch escapee mice. He then ran around the room some more, brandishing said forceps. Finally, he came panting up, mouse in tow. The site of my boss trying to catch a mouse is one I shall never forget. I laughed fit to kill. HZ had his revenge for my inappropriate laughter though. He made me double-kill 13 mice. CO2 followed by cervical dislocation. When you CO2 them, they pee. So my gloves were covered with mouse pee. Suddenly, it all seemed distinctly unfunny.
Exhibit C: I decided to make sambar and beans curry this morning. As you know, you have to mix the beans as you cook them. I needed my kitchen tongs, which were in the bathroom (you know why!), to hold the pan steady. So, I fetched them from the bathroom, After I finished cooking, I decided to take a shower. I step into the tub, all ready to bathe. I can't open the tap. 'Cos my kitchen tongs are in the freakin' kitchen. I dress, come back out, and place it in its rightful spot, by the bathtub. I take it back out of the bathroom after I'm done though. Evil glint in eye. Roomie wasn't awake yet. 2 hours later, she stomps to the living room, where I'm leisurely eating the sambar sadam. "Why the Eff is the pakkad in the kitchen?", she asked. "I had to dress and come back out to retrieve it."
"You shouldn't laugh when people get my name wrong then, should ya?", I say.
Exhibit A: Roomie and I decide to get Pizza for dinner. I place the order, and we drive to pick it up 20 minutes later. Man at the counter asks for my name. I tell him my name. He says..we have no order by that name. But we do have an order for a Bharu. Roomie giggles. I fume. Its Charu, I say. Oh, I'm sorry Pharu, he says. I give up. Roomie is rolling on the floor. Since coming to America I have resigned myself to being called Shaaru, or even Sharooo without a shrug. I've even been called Chalu.(yeah, yeah, I know!) But even back home, my name has been a source of grief. I once had a birthday cake that said "Happy B'day Gharu". No kidding. Gharu. No matter. I shall have my revenge. My daughter will go by Akhilandeshwari Kanakasubramanian. Or if its a boy...Trimbayaknath Vidyavachaspati.
Exhibit B: HZ accompanied me to the mouse room yesterday. He wanted to take a closer look at some of them. Make sure they weren't cross-eyed or anything. He took 5 mice out and placed them on top of the cage. I was just about to tell him they were 17 days old, and hence rather frisky. One of the mice decided to show him just how frisky it was. It jumped out of the top of the cage, out of the hood, and onto the floor. Yep. A mouse had escaped. Like a typical woman, I squealed. HZ was running around the room trying to catch it. How to catch a tiny mouse that runs pretty quick? I told him about the large pair of forceps placed in each room expressly to catch escapee mice. He then ran around the room some more, brandishing said forceps. Finally, he came panting up, mouse in tow. The site of my boss trying to catch a mouse is one I shall never forget. I laughed fit to kill. HZ had his revenge for my inappropriate laughter though. He made me double-kill 13 mice. CO2 followed by cervical dislocation. When you CO2 them, they pee. So my gloves were covered with mouse pee. Suddenly, it all seemed distinctly unfunny.
Exhibit C: I decided to make sambar and beans curry this morning. As you know, you have to mix the beans as you cook them. I needed my kitchen tongs, which were in the bathroom (you know why!), to hold the pan steady. So, I fetched them from the bathroom, After I finished cooking, I decided to take a shower. I step into the tub, all ready to bathe. I can't open the tap. 'Cos my kitchen tongs are in the freakin' kitchen. I dress, come back out, and place it in its rightful spot, by the bathtub. I take it back out of the bathroom after I'm done though. Evil glint in eye. Roomie wasn't awake yet. 2 hours later, she stomps to the living room, where I'm leisurely eating the sambar sadam. "Why the Eff is the pakkad in the kitchen?", she asked. "I had to dress and come back out to retrieve it."
"You shouldn't laugh when people get my name wrong then, should ya?", I say.
Friday, September 28, 2007
On being LS....
Long years ago, when I was a mere teenager, there was this show on Sony anchored by Archana Puran Singh. It was a bollywood gossip kinda show, peppered with the top 10 songs of the week. The last segment of the show was when she talked about the HS(High Society) and LS(Low Society) happenings in Bollywood. You know...pink beaded purse-LS, (This was before Bunty and Babli, when everything beaded, and horrendously bright became hip) Aamir in Mela...verrry LS. Twinkle in anything, movies or otherwise-LS, Kajol in Gupt-HS. Kajol in Hamesha-LS. You get the picture, I think.
I've just had an epiphany. I'm a derelict because I'm LS. Verrrrrry LS, as the magnificent APS would say. Here's why.
1). I'm rude on the phone. Roomie says I sound as though I'm doing everyone a massive favor by taking their calls. In my defense, I will say this. I don't mean to be. I just dislike long phone conversations. There are only 3 people in this world with whom I can talk on the phone for more than 10 minutes, and not feel like I'm having a tooth extracted. And you have to have the phone permanently attached to your ear to be HS. So...LS, definitely LS.
2). On the subject of phones..I neither know nor care what model phone I possess. I have never used its camera. I don't know if it is bluetooth enabled, and I don't give a rats' ass if it is. I have no clue about MMS. I only use my phone to make and receive calls. Not phone savvy....totally LS.
3). I have no social graces whatsoever. I go to a party, and sip my drink quietly. I suck at polite chit-chat. I am no butterfly. More like an owl. In fact, I have been called an owl on occasion.(Long story. I'll save it for a different post!!)
4). I'm a poor liar. I stammer, and blush, and the person knows I'm lying when I say I can't make it to dinner, because I have to go to lab. When in fact, I have nothing to do in lab. I just want to curl up on my sofa, with "Pearls, Girls and Monty Bodkins." And everyone knows that you have to be a good liar to be HS.
5). Sometimes, I tune out of conversations. I get this glazed look in my eyes. I'm in a land far, far away. When this happens, Amma says I look preoccupied.(Mothers, you gotta love 'em!) Roomie says I look blank.(Unkind, but true) The truth is, I don't know WTF I'm doing at those moments. In any case, my periodic tuning out cannot contribute positively to my personality. Chalk another one up for LS.
6). I couldn't read past page 30 of Song of Solomon. I thought it was boring and too damn slow. I also once read a compilation of short stories by Nobel Prize winners, and I thought them all very sad. Everyone was unhappy. Felt like the Dementors had written the book. There was one particularly gruesome story about a village in which every single baby was killed brutally, in a planned assault. Thats all the story was. A description of the systematic cold-blooded murder of infants. In gory detail. I enjoy Wodehouse, Austen, Erle Stanley Gardner, or even John Grisham better than that stuff. Not highbrow....LS to the core.
7). I like Govinda. I think Hero No.1 is one of the funniest movies ever. Is there something lower than LS? I think I maybe the SC/ST of LS.
8). I can't air-kiss. I simply can't. The first time my salsa instructor "muah-muahed" me, I just froze. Thereafter, everytime I went to class, I had to prime myself mentally to receive that bristly brush against my cheek. An ability to air-kiss is intrinsic to being HS. I fail miserably....therefore LS.
So, there you go. As LS as they come. Oh well, it is my cross, and I shall bear it as best as I can. On the plus side, I can burp in public and not be embarassed. No one expects better you see.
I've just had an epiphany. I'm a derelict because I'm LS. Verrrrrry LS, as the magnificent APS would say. Here's why.
1). I'm rude on the phone. Roomie says I sound as though I'm doing everyone a massive favor by taking their calls. In my defense, I will say this. I don't mean to be. I just dislike long phone conversations. There are only 3 people in this world with whom I can talk on the phone for more than 10 minutes, and not feel like I'm having a tooth extracted. And you have to have the phone permanently attached to your ear to be HS. So...LS, definitely LS.
2). On the subject of phones..I neither know nor care what model phone I possess. I have never used its camera. I don't know if it is bluetooth enabled, and I don't give a rats' ass if it is. I have no clue about MMS. I only use my phone to make and receive calls. Not phone savvy....totally LS.
3). I have no social graces whatsoever. I go to a party, and sip my drink quietly. I suck at polite chit-chat. I am no butterfly. More like an owl. In fact, I have been called an owl on occasion.(Long story. I'll save it for a different post!!)
4). I'm a poor liar. I stammer, and blush, and the person knows I'm lying when I say I can't make it to dinner, because I have to go to lab. When in fact, I have nothing to do in lab. I just want to curl up on my sofa, with "Pearls, Girls and Monty Bodkins." And everyone knows that you have to be a good liar to be HS.
5). Sometimes, I tune out of conversations. I get this glazed look in my eyes. I'm in a land far, far away. When this happens, Amma says I look preoccupied.(Mothers, you gotta love 'em!) Roomie says I look blank.(Unkind, but true) The truth is, I don't know WTF I'm doing at those moments. In any case, my periodic tuning out cannot contribute positively to my personality. Chalk another one up for LS.
6). I couldn't read past page 30 of Song of Solomon. I thought it was boring and too damn slow. I also once read a compilation of short stories by Nobel Prize winners, and I thought them all very sad. Everyone was unhappy. Felt like the Dementors had written the book. There was one particularly gruesome story about a village in which every single baby was killed brutally, in a planned assault. Thats all the story was. A description of the systematic cold-blooded murder of infants. In gory detail. I enjoy Wodehouse, Austen, Erle Stanley Gardner, or even John Grisham better than that stuff. Not highbrow....LS to the core.
7). I like Govinda. I think Hero No.1 is one of the funniest movies ever. Is there something lower than LS? I think I maybe the SC/ST of LS.
8). I can't air-kiss. I simply can't. The first time my salsa instructor "muah-muahed" me, I just froze. Thereafter, everytime I went to class, I had to prime myself mentally to receive that bristly brush against my cheek. An ability to air-kiss is intrinsic to being HS. I fail miserably....therefore LS.
So, there you go. As LS as they come. Oh well, it is my cross, and I shall bear it as best as I can. On the plus side, I can burp in public and not be embarassed. No one expects better you see.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Why I will NEVER win the Nobel Prize...
HZ (The Bossman) took us out to lunch on Tuesday. We went to a decent Mexican Restaurant unimaginatively named "Tortilla Sam's. But the roots of the name are original. Its named after the owner's pet iguana. In fact, iguana paintings are a large part of Tortilla Sam's decor. But I digress. Iguanas have nothing to do with my never winning the Nobel Prize.
Over lunch, HZ, as he sometimes does, regaled us with tales of famous scientists and the crazy lives they led.
Case number 1: HZ's own post-doc advisor. Stanley Cohen. Inventor of recombinant DNA technology. Winner of the Laskar, and other sundry awards whose names I don't remember. Dude is 72 years old. Has had knee replacement and bypass surgery. Allegedly returned to the lab in the afternoon after undergoing bypass surgery in the morning. Works weekends and holidays. Even Christmas. Thinks vacations are a waste of time. Does take a week off with long-suffering wife once a year. But he takes manuscripts with him for light reading whilst water-skiing. Oh, and he only eats a yogurt for lunch. The guy is a millionaire several times over. The recombinant DNA patent alone fetches him 100s of mills. What motivates this man, I asked HZ. Why does he push himself when he has clearly achieved so much.
Answer: He really loves science. 'Nuff said.
Case number 2: HZ's wife's thesis advisor. This guy did his post-doc at Caltech. Apparently, for the 3 year duration of his post-doc, he didn't have an apartment. He lived in the lab. No kidding. He slept in the lab. Took a shower in the gym every morning.
Interesting aside: When I mentioned this to roomie, she said he must have been stingy. It never occured to me that he could be stingy. I can't fathom anyone who was apparently a genius, being that stingy. They would be too smart to be miserly. It has to be passion. Or does my idealism clog my better judgement?
Case number 3: HZ's wife's post-doc advisor.(HZ's wife is surprisingly normal for having intimately worked with these nut-jobs.) She was the youngest woman ever to be elected to the National Academy of Sciences.(She wasn't even 40 when it happened). Has a lab of over 40 people. Has more money than she knows what to do with. Publishes in great journals. HZ says she never sleeps. Never. She apparently catches a few winks in her office, but never sleeps for 6 hours at a stretch like normal people.
And none of these people, though they are all fabulously successful, have won the Nobel. So, what I got from this entire conversation was, that to be successful, you have to:
a). Starve
b). Live in the lab
c). Never sleep
d). Never take vacations
Thats why I'm never going to win the Nobel Prize. Apart from being too dumb of course.
Ah well, all these awards are fixed anyways.
NB: Now I know why HZ works like a dog. Its the sheer pressure of having seen up-close what it takes to succeed. I shall no longer wonder why he burns the midnight oil in his office, when he should be home dreaming sweet dreams.
Over lunch, HZ, as he sometimes does, regaled us with tales of famous scientists and the crazy lives they led.
Case number 1: HZ's own post-doc advisor. Stanley Cohen. Inventor of recombinant DNA technology. Winner of the Laskar, and other sundry awards whose names I don't remember. Dude is 72 years old. Has had knee replacement and bypass surgery. Allegedly returned to the lab in the afternoon after undergoing bypass surgery in the morning. Works weekends and holidays. Even Christmas. Thinks vacations are a waste of time. Does take a week off with long-suffering wife once a year. But he takes manuscripts with him for light reading whilst water-skiing. Oh, and he only eats a yogurt for lunch. The guy is a millionaire several times over. The recombinant DNA patent alone fetches him 100s of mills. What motivates this man, I asked HZ. Why does he push himself when he has clearly achieved so much.
Answer: He really loves science. 'Nuff said.
Case number 2: HZ's wife's thesis advisor. This guy did his post-doc at Caltech. Apparently, for the 3 year duration of his post-doc, he didn't have an apartment. He lived in the lab. No kidding. He slept in the lab. Took a shower in the gym every morning.
Interesting aside: When I mentioned this to roomie, she said he must have been stingy. It never occured to me that he could be stingy. I can't fathom anyone who was apparently a genius, being that stingy. They would be too smart to be miserly. It has to be passion. Or does my idealism clog my better judgement?
Case number 3: HZ's wife's post-doc advisor.(HZ's wife is surprisingly normal for having intimately worked with these nut-jobs.) She was the youngest woman ever to be elected to the National Academy of Sciences.(She wasn't even 40 when it happened). Has a lab of over 40 people. Has more money than she knows what to do with. Publishes in great journals. HZ says she never sleeps. Never. She apparently catches a few winks in her office, but never sleeps for 6 hours at a stretch like normal people.
And none of these people, though they are all fabulously successful, have won the Nobel. So, what I got from this entire conversation was, that to be successful, you have to:
a). Starve
b). Live in the lab
c). Never sleep
d). Never take vacations
Thats why I'm never going to win the Nobel Prize. Apart from being too dumb of course.
Ah well, all these awards are fixed anyways.
NB: Now I know why HZ works like a dog. Its the sheer pressure of having seen up-close what it takes to succeed. I shall no longer wonder why he burns the midnight oil in his office, when he should be home dreaming sweet dreams.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
"Anne of Green Gables" and "The Terrorist"
Two movies I watched last week had an impact on me. One made me blubber like a baby, and the other was simply beautiful.
I don't what made me pick Anne of Green Gables from Netflix. It must have been nostalgia. I was a huge Anne fan as a child. I'd read all the Anne books by L.M.Montogomery. I thought she was charming and engaging and everything I wasn't. Witty, smart, pretty(even though she had red hair. I thought red hair was way better than unevenly sized eyes. Still do). I could lose myself in one of her books for hours. I still remember the day I bought my first Anne book. It was at Higgin Bothams (which btw, is the most exquisite name for a bookstore ever) in Chennai. I was 10 years old. Visiting Chennai during the summer vacation. I bought this book there, and finished it on the train journey back to Pune. I must have re-read that book a thousand times in the next 5-6 years. I was in love. With Anne, and Diana, and Gilbert and the whole lot of them really.
In any case, that particular love affair terminated with my entry into adulthood. I was too grown-up to read childrens' books. So Anne, and Rebecca, and Katy were relegated into the depths of my bookshelf. And then I ordered this Netflix movie. It was like an LSD trip into my childhood fantasy world. It all came rushing back in this one giant wave of long-lost memories. I realise now that Anne is rather a silly child, who has a flair for the dramatic and talks too much. And that imagination of hers. It can only be fictional. But how could I not enjoy watching The "Lake of Shining Waters", and Anne dyeing her hair green, and floating away in a boat, and nearly drowning whilst trying to enact a tragedy? I could not help laughing at this chilhood world where there were only raspberry cordials and lemon pies, no responsibilities, no leaky faucets(!), and no work. And when Matthew died, I couldn't help crying, thanking my stars that Roomie wasn't around to laugh at my silliness.
The second movie was one I'd been wanting to watch for a long time. Santosh Sivan's "The Terrorist" is a visual extravaganza. Tamil Nadu has never looked more ethereal. The forests, the rain, the river. A village house. The temple pool. All captured beautifully. The occasional chants of MS in the background. And really, its a tale of horror, told amidst these verdant surroundings. Malli(Ayesha Dharkar) is a suicide bomber on a mission. It is the story of her journey and the people she meets in the last few days before she is scheduled to blow herself and a prominent politician up. Its like a coming of age movie. Except the prom is a suicide mission. How Malli's thinking is influenced by the discovery of her pregnancy, and the kindness she receives from an innocent man who's home she rents is the meat of the story. Dharkar is powerful, combining innocence with brutality superbly. The child who plays Lotus/Surya is haunting. SS's camera work will stay with me for a long time. Go watch it if you haven't already. Its at the top of my favorite list now.
I don't what made me pick Anne of Green Gables from Netflix. It must have been nostalgia. I was a huge Anne fan as a child. I'd read all the Anne books by L.M.Montogomery. I thought she was charming and engaging and everything I wasn't. Witty, smart, pretty(even though she had red hair. I thought red hair was way better than unevenly sized eyes. Still do). I could lose myself in one of her books for hours. I still remember the day I bought my first Anne book. It was at Higgin Bothams (which btw, is the most exquisite name for a bookstore ever) in Chennai. I was 10 years old. Visiting Chennai during the summer vacation. I bought this book there, and finished it on the train journey back to Pune. I must have re-read that book a thousand times in the next 5-6 years. I was in love. With Anne, and Diana, and Gilbert and the whole lot of them really.
In any case, that particular love affair terminated with my entry into adulthood. I was too grown-up to read childrens' books. So Anne, and Rebecca, and Katy were relegated into the depths of my bookshelf. And then I ordered this Netflix movie. It was like an LSD trip into my childhood fantasy world. It all came rushing back in this one giant wave of long-lost memories. I realise now that Anne is rather a silly child, who has a flair for the dramatic and talks too much. And that imagination of hers. It can only be fictional. But how could I not enjoy watching The "Lake of Shining Waters", and Anne dyeing her hair green, and floating away in a boat, and nearly drowning whilst trying to enact a tragedy? I could not help laughing at this chilhood world where there were only raspberry cordials and lemon pies, no responsibilities, no leaky faucets(!), and no work. And when Matthew died, I couldn't help crying, thanking my stars that Roomie wasn't around to laugh at my silliness.
The second movie was one I'd been wanting to watch for a long time. Santosh Sivan's "The Terrorist" is a visual extravaganza. Tamil Nadu has never looked more ethereal. The forests, the rain, the river. A village house. The temple pool. All captured beautifully. The occasional chants of MS in the background. And really, its a tale of horror, told amidst these verdant surroundings. Malli(Ayesha Dharkar) is a suicide bomber on a mission. It is the story of her journey and the people she meets in the last few days before she is scheduled to blow herself and a prominent politician up. Its like a coming of age movie. Except the prom is a suicide mission. How Malli's thinking is influenced by the discovery of her pregnancy, and the kindness she receives from an innocent man who's home she rents is the meat of the story. Dharkar is powerful, combining innocence with brutality superbly. The child who plays Lotus/Surya is haunting. SS's camera work will stay with me for a long time. Go watch it if you haven't already. Its at the top of my favorite list now.
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