Breaking news: UN conference makes the world a better place

A couple of weeks ago, I took 10 students to Bangkok for a Model UN conference. Model UN is a class at AES, so we had weeks to rev up for this event. The bad news was that the class had 15 students but the conference only accepted 10 delegates. Hence, I had to tell 5 students that they could not go, but of course they would still have to go to class for the rest of the semester. This is the equivalent of telling your boyfriend/girlfriend that you are rejecting him/her for someone else, but that they have to accompany you on your dates with the new person. Not only that, but if they don't eagerly participate in the conversation, if they "ruin things" by acting sullen or interrupting, etc., then they will get a bad "grade" from you, which will probably affect their ability to attract a new "love." It's just ugly all the way around.

Of course, I had been flattering myself that the reason everyone in the class laughed at my jokes, said encouraging things, helped me to my feet after the whiteboard hit me on the head, and said that they appreciated my harsh grading, was not just because they wanted to be selected for Model UN but because they were students who truly appreciated me, finally, after years of talking to students whose MFQ (most frequent question) was "Can I go to the bathroom?"

So you can imagine my surprise when, after sending out the acceptance and rejection emails, suddenly student behaviors changed. Those who had not been selected immediately stopped smiling, sat together in a corner of the room, and demonstrated a textbook case of "acting out" in response to low expectations. For some odd reason, these students no longer seemed enthusiastic about researching and debating topics that would be the focus of the Bangkok conference. They didn't relish the conversations about dress code and who was buying a new suit and what river cruise we would be taking and who was rooming with whom. And frankly, I didn't blame them, and I told the principal that I did not want to teach the class again unless the whole class could go to the conference and/or the class size was limited to match the number of delegates who could travel. So . . . next semester, when I will be teaching the class again, all 16 of them will be heading to St. Petersburg with me. Wait . . .16? What WAS I thinking?

OK, so leaving those children behind (get it?), the "chosen ones" started to become childish and annoying - since they had already been selected and the air tickets purchased immediately by our travel office - they felt that they could now be their "real" selves. Great. So those who wanted to go to Bangkok to #1 shop and #2 attend some old conference suddenly revealed this in an unwanted "tell-all" . Those who wanted to be out of school for as long as possible for any reason at all experienced a rapid drop in IQ as the conference approached.

Bangkok - all went well on the trip, despite my anxieties beforehand. Our delegates didn't get much of a chance to speak ( a couple remained shell-shocked by the high level of debate through the entire conference) because there were many experienced students there. I realized that the proposal to make the class into a club makes sense, because then ninth graders can participate and gain several years of experience. Currently, the only way students can gain experience at conferences is by taking the class more than once, which leads to a class that seems overwhelming to some and boring to others.

The delegates each had their strengths and weaknesses.

First, Pranav, our shining star, who had been nominated and selected to serve as one of 12 committee co-chairs. Pranav remained seriously committed to the process the entire time, refusing to be distracted by the raunchy notes being sent to him from committee members.








KY, the student who normally seems soft-spoken and deferential, made his debut as "most diplomatic-looking delegate" at this conference. That's him on the right and below.















Ananya and Tanvi, two of the three girls who went along (which was pretty much the standard proportion of females to males - what is it about Model UN? Girls, join!) became frustrated at not being called on during the General Assembly, despite their smiles here.







Renaud, the French-Canadian young man on the left in the picture, has already graduated from high school but wanted to come to India for a year with his parents so he signed up for a second senior year at AES. Despite being voted the "most confused" delegate on his committee, he was the main attraction for the young female pages who were ready at any time to deliver a message for the Russian delegation (his assigned country) and who stood in line while he sketched portraits of each of them at the final banquet.

Renaud had his first "professional massage" at the Bangkok airport while we waited for our plane, and he said afterwards, thoughtfully, "That was the first time that I have had a massage from someone whom I do not know." My response was (thought: boundaries!) "Renaud, maybe I don't need to hear more on this topic." But he continued, "I find it much better to both give and receive a massage." At which time I decided that I really should go check and see what the other students were doing. Keep in mind that Renaud is quite good-looking and imagine the word "TABOO" stamped on any further classified material.




Highlights of the trip - seeing the Reclining Buddha,


student enthusiasm for the sightseeing events I arranged, particularly the river cruise,













the walk from the hotel to the UN conference center, where there was a lovely canal

with giant lizards climbing out of it (?!) . . .








and the poster-boy cute, overenthusiastic page who literally ran back and forth with messages while the female pages hovered around Renaud.
Low points - missing out on the Grand Palace due to the common "it's closed but my friend with a cab will take you to other open attractions" scam; losing my cool and making a fiery speech that would have left Gloria Steinem weeping for joy (or at least weeping), after other advisors insisted - " it's no big deal" - that numerous sexual comments about girls were being read over the microphones during committee proceedings; getting yelled at at the MBK mall during my first attempt at bargaining, during which the saleslady told me to go away and never come back, that I had made her late for lunch, and that she did not need customers like me (and she actually meant all of this, since she then went to join her friend at a nearby lunch table, who also gave me a venomous look and told me "Just go away"); and last but not least, setting my watch alarm wrong and sleeping through part of the opening ceremony on the first day.

A couple of random observations during the trip: The ticket-takers for the river boats appeared to be occupying their time touching up their gray roots with permanent markers,

or (something I haven't seen adults doing for awhile) shooting bottle caps at each other.






All in all, I loved Bangkok. It is a mix of huge malls with lots of cheap "stuff" mixed with Western fancy brands, nice people trapped in a repressive political environment, beautiful architecture, and great food. And beaches. What more could one want?

the Bubble

You may think I'm talking about Edina, where students avoid contact with the nearby city of Minneapolis, aka the "Inner City." But actually I'm talking about where I live in New Delhi, India, which you would expect would be filled with smells of spices, rotting garbage, unwashed people, and car exhaust. And it is, but we can't see it from . . .

inside the compound at the American Embassy School where the fountains run, the gardens grow, the population density is about 1/5th of what it is on most sidewalks, and food is plentiful.

Here's my little "cave," my bedroom with the new quilt I bought at . . .the American Embassy quilt sale - well, it WAS made by Indian women who are being microfinanced - and there's the comfy reading pillow that allows me to hibernate here and watch episode after episode of "Rome" or read yet one more book about India, just in case I decide to leave the compound.



And here's my partially-decorated living room, another cozy retreat from the hubbub that I can almost see from my patio - I know people are out there, on the other side of the wall! At least, I hear children playing and dogs barking and cats fighting and nightly fireworks and various loud electronic emissions.
So is the reclusive lifestyle we live here a problem? Don't we deserve to have just a little refuge from the poor people surrounding our barb wired lovely gardens and exclusive private school?

One of my colleagues was ordering lunch at the staff canteen and when the server asked her if she wanted a beverage, she said "Not today. I'm poor. " And then we sat down and I looked at her and said, "If you're poor, what is he?" And she realized that she, a multimillionaire in the eyes of most Indians, had just said that to a man who has worked full-time serving food in our canteen for 25 years, for a salary that is probably about 1/10th of hers. Not to mention that the cost of a full lunch is between 80 cents and , if you go wild, $2. She looked chagrined. I should have apologized, since I do the same kind of thing sometimes.

Instead, I felt like Martin Luther at the Diet of Worms - with loud music playing (in my head - "Onward, Christian So-o-o-ol-diers, marching as to-oo war . . .). "Here I stand. I can do no other." Actually, we laughed. Just think, if only Martin Luther and Holy Roman Emperor Charles V had had a good laugh, instead of taking themselves so seriously with all of this Excommunication and Reformation stuff. We'd probably still be enjoying the Inquisition

As the faculty advisor for the student newspaper, I get an inside view of the bubble (does that give anyone else an image of a mime?). In our last issue, a student wrote an article about "getting to know your driver when you're stuck in traffic." It was a humor piece - ha, ha, the thought of actually talking to "your" driver. What, you don't have a driver? Does anyone not have a driver?

Dialogue at a recent meeting of newspaper staff, brainstorming for the next issue:

Editor-in-chief: OK, let's here some ideas.
10th grader: What about another video game review?
Other 10th graders: No, that was stupid, X, you got a lot of details wrong!
X: No I didn't. I heard what Joey said and he doesn't know what he's talking about.
Massive yelling ensues (interestingly, only the 10th grade males).
Editor: Ok, other ideas?
12th grader: What about an article on how teachers act different on the week-long minicourses?
Editor (who is a 12th grader): That sounds great!
Advisor Ms. G.: What are you talking about?
Editor: You know, how teachers act all normal and everything on field trips, and then get all uptight when you talk about stuff - like, how the boundaries change.
Advisor: So what sorts of boundaries are you talking about? (legal issues dancing like sugarplums in her head)
Editor: Well, talking about stuff kids around here do.
Advisor: Hmnn, well I'm curious to see this article, because there might be some issues if you talk about specific cases (thought: "Delete article.")
Editor: Well, what about another article complaining about how it's not fair that high school students have to share the soccer field with the elementary school kids this year?
Advisor (sigh): That's not an article, Editor, it's an opinion piece.
Editor (rolling his eyes): Ms. G, that's what the newspaper is FOR. Everyone knows what's going on already.
Advisor: Well, what about an article on the massive city strike, the one where strikers were shooting at cars 20 miles from here?
Editor: No one CARES about that, Ms. G. It doesn't affect us.
Advisor: How about an article on the violence in the recent elections?
Editor (impatiently): Ms. G., students just want to write about stuff that affects them. They don't care about stuff that goes on "out there."
Advisor (voice rising): Well, isn't that a part of a newspaper's mission? to educate people? (this is actually a deep philosophical issue, but high school editor is no longer listening to my Jeffersonian rant).
Editor: How about an article about how the new high school took away one of our five lounge areas, and the new cafe doesn't have enough coffee drinks?
Staff member: Yea, I wanted a mocha the other day and I had to settle for a double cappucino! And the sound system wasn't working right!When I plugged in my ipod, only 3 of the 4 speakers were on!
Advisor mumbling to self.

So there we are, freedom of the press here in the AES bubble.

Why ever leave campus? In fact, you don't have to. You can get deliveries from: several grocery stores, the pharmacy, a bakery, and a strange liquor "entity." This is how the latter works. You call a number. There are two men who "work" there - Berev and Shektev, or that's what the names sounded like to me when I heard them. What I was told is that they get liquor from "the Russian Embassy." But yesterday I heard that they're not actually Russian, and they don't get liquor from the Russian Embassy. They buy duty-free liquor from the US Embassy, or maybe the Swedish Embassy - depending on who's telling the story - (we can't do that; only embassy staff can) then sell it from their "office," which is near the Russian market (hence the Russian connection). But you can't actually go to this office - no one has seen it. Oh, and their number has changed in the past week - the old one doesn't work anymore. So everyone here is calling and ordering liquor and no one even knows where it comes from or who is selling it. Hmnn . . . but it arrives quickly, is alcohol, and is cheap. No questions necessary. And so it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut would say.

Everyone else comes to you, also. Tailors, rug sellers, leather briefcase makers, etc. Today, on campus, for people who want to buy holiday presents, home furnishings, and everything in-between, was the "American Women's Association MELA." As soon as you get to India, the word "sale" or "fair" disappears and is replaced by "mela." I first heard the word as "melee" and imagined events with people running crazily into each other, burning things, and shouting "Huzzah!" But it's apparently a bazaar, and quite the "thing" here. You can spend every weekend at a different mela - ranked in order of the best to worst, according to people with more shopping stamina than I, there's the "Blind School Mela," the "Swiss Embassy Mela," and now, our very own. So, for the daring people willing to leave their apartments and go 100 yards to the school field, there is India!

Uh, wait, Pizza Hut? Of course, along with the Glen Campbell CD that kept playing over and over. (That's Debbie, Robyn, Genta, and Christopher, by the way.)

I didn't know what to do. I wondered where I was, in Limbo? Didn't the Pope eliminate Limbo? Where was India?

I decided to go to the booth at the mela that might be able to help me out. . .


There was a little girl there with a skinned knee who looked more lost than I was, so I asked them where else I could go to find out who and where I am. So, I went over to the booth where my friend Brent was deeply engaged in some activity.

This looked good. Everyone was leaning over the table with intense looks. There was a line. And I recognized the man behind the table as the US Embassy physician. Were people paying for finger pricks? Was he giving out LSD samples? Then I saw the answer to my questions . . .or at least the answer to my question about my questions:
This was great! Now I had an excuse to have my palm read - it was only $2, the proceeds were going to a good cause, and he was a "real" doctor. Maybe he could tell me all about myself. Wait a minute, did I really want that? Plus, by the time I got to the front of the line, some 10-year-old boy was watching with way too much interest. I got worried that maybe this stuff worked and this kid would find out enough about me to run screaming to his mother.

If you're going to get your palm read, this was the way to go. Dr. Campbell spent about 10 minutes reading my palm, with revelation after revelation. OK, here's the scoop. I'm going to live almost forever, I have an "old soul" that has already lived several lives (that's how I usually feel after running these days ), I am stubborn, I have an intense long-term love that will begin in middle age (any time now . . .) and I have two other strong love connections that are children - I assume my own. Now, stop shaking your head, this guy is a REAL DOCTOR. And he even studied palm reading in Hong Kong. When I told him that my half-Japanese grandmother used to read tea leaves, he scoffed at that, "Well, that's easy." So he must be an expert. And, I had not told him that I have two children and am unmarried. But, it gets even better. He told me that I have a strong "head" line, which means not that I need a lobotomy, but that I will "live and die studying." I liked that. More troubling was his final observation, which he said was the "strongest" of all - I am "ruled by" my senses. Hmnn . . .I did like him stroking my hand while telling my fortune. Wait . . .what? Have I no self-control? Will I live my life sniffing the ground like a dog? No, Dr., don't tell me my turn is over. Don't send me out there with no way to protect myself from the onslaught of sensory stimuli!

So there is some trauma possible in "the bubble." I decided to leave the mela and go across the street - to get away from Glen Campbell, my troubling palm reading, and head to the American Embassy compound, just to get a different perspective on life. This is India, right? There I sat, in the middle of Delhi, understanding what life was like for the masses:



Yes, I'm sure that most New Delhi folks were enjoying Sunday afternoon by the pool, ordering "fresh lime sodas" (you can't call them by any other name - all three words are necessary -or the server has no idea what you are talking about).







Here, from the archives, is an example of a relaxed citizen of the world's largest democracy:
Ouch! Maybe you can't see this - click on the picture to enlarge it to the level of sickening detail. This man has stuck needles through his skin in numerous places (I had a student like this last year). He is part of a parade that occurred, on a recent Sunday afternoon, of men with needles through their faces, torso, and limbs. And this demonstration of religious reverence (actually the Flagellants come to mind) leads me to believe that he would not approve of sitting by the pool on a Sunday afternoon. So let's not think about him anymore. Instead, let's turn away from the pool and look in the opposite direction, away from the pool, for another taste of India.


Look! It's the AES teachers playing softball against the school softball team. This is probably the only place in Delhi where anyone is playing softball. Are we actually in India? Seriously, I'm starting to doubt that I've left Minnesota.




Back to the archival photos. Let's see what was happening on another Sunday, in another part of Delhi - before they banned me from the streets due to my illicit photography of prime minister's residences:

Here's one of the many untended and deteriorating ruins - this one the 12th-century fort at "Haus Kauz Village." In the course of visiting this ruin, I saw three groups of boys and young men playing viciously competitive games (or is that "matches?") of cricket and then was almost hit by a firecracker on its way to exploding. Then some authority came and started digging a hole in the middle of one of the unofficial cricket pitches, which meant that two other officials had the job of watching him dig the hole - the upshot was that a heated argument among the cricketeers had to stop because they could not continue the game. No, this was definitely not Minnesota. But I couldn't remember - when had I last been out of the US bubble?

To be honest, I HAD crossed the street between the school and the embassy compound, which involves seeing a few people from India bicycling along, or a rickshaw here and there. But maybe this was my personal version of The Truman Show. OK, if I run in one direction, will I hit a wall? No, just the barbed wire fence around the embassy. Maybe if I run down the street between the embassy and the school . . . . although the idea of millions of people watching me with great interest isn't so bad, now that I think about it.

So ok, it's too easy to stay perched behind walls here, and it requires actual effort to get out into "real" Delhi. Sometimes I feel like I'm trying to escape from centrifugal forces pushing me to stay inside (ok, Mike Roddy, I realize that my understanding of centrifugal force is flawed due to my 1970s physics experience, but I don't care - it's just an analogy, OK?). But it takes time - I do have a job here - and I'm seeing a lot more unfamiliar territory than I used to in MN (unless you count my trips to the math or science "wings" of EHS. I never COULD find Mike Roddy's room on the first try, another thing he probably doesn't "get" about me. )

Here's a lovely photo of me taken by a local photography prodigy, my 4-year-old friend Kayla, that will serve as the "random photo of the day."

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