recommended listening: let’s get retarded, by the black eyed peas
and
undignified, by the david crowder band
Though we love you as a brother, you’ve always seem to see things the hard way. Reading your letters makes it sound like even vacations are bad over there. Come on! People dread getting your emails. It’s difficult to say this, but we think you’re becoming a pessimist. And a workaholic! And if you don’t cut back then God isn’t going to use you. Stop complaining about the work load, and trust God! Get some rest! You can’t do everything, you know. God’s in charge! Take the time you need to get refreshed and relaxed. Just be yourself! God has great plans for work through you, and he will use you in a lot of ways, but he tends to use those who aren’t trying to do it all themselves.
It’s been almost a year since I really had a job. Fundraising took a lot of time before moving, and now the language learning seems like it’s not progressing at all. I was feeling a little better about it when we met Carla’s sister-in-law while out for an evening family walk, and were able to keep small talk going for several minutes, but the confidence fell when body language showed it was time to head home.
“So, I’m glad we say you again. Have a good evening. Good-bye.”
“Come to my home.”
“Come to your home? I’m sorry, but we need to go home. Goodbye.”
“It’s so nice to see you. Please come on over.”
“Lauren, did she say to come to her home?”
“I think so.”
“You try to tell her we can’t.”
“Thank you. It’s good to see you. But we need to go home. The children are tired.”
“Yes, your children look very sleepy. Are you tired, little ones? It’s past your bedtime, isn’t it? Please, please come on over to my home.”
“She said come over to her house again. I’m sure of it. Just tell her no, and smile and nod.”
“But, um, I mean, eh, we need to go.”
“Yes, come over to visit.”
“But… now?”
She laughs, “Oh, no, no, not now. You see, here, when we are leaving, we say, ‘Come to my home.’”
“But what say when you really want someone to come to your home.”
“When we want someone to come to our home, we say, ‘Come to my home,’ and when we say goodbye, we say, ‘Come to my home.’ It’s more friendly than ‘Goodbye.’”
“What if you don’t want someone to come to your home? Can you just say, ‘Goodbye’?”
“Oh, no! That would be rude!”
I remembered this the next day when I finally got to leave language study to attend an English school staff meeting. The agenda consisted of two items: deciding whether the American director should fire the local staff or whether they should resign first, and introducing me.
By all accounts, American, Cliff should have been fired. He was employed part-time to help with administration. His job description was basically the same as that of thousands of student-workers at American universities: show up on time, be clean, and do what you’re told. Come to the school from nine to twelve every morning to let the cleaning woman in and unlock classrooms. Then sit by the door as a guard until ten. He habitually showed up late, refused to keep guard, and didn’t respond to warnings. Obviously, he can’t be kept on the staff.
By all accounts, local, he should have been given a raise. He wasn’t a full-time worker, and he was spending eight to ten hours every day around the school. Maybe he wasn’t really necessary all the time, but who can really quantify such things? He made sure the chairs and desks were moved out of the way and back in place every day for cleaning even though it wasn’t in his job description. He did all kinds of helpful things without being asked. Everyone likes him. Obviously, he can’t be fired.
Cliff received a written warning for lateness on Monday. On Wednesday, he misplaced a third of the tuition money for the term. He was told he could work through the end of the term, but he would be fired if he made another mistake. The ultimatum outraged the local staff. Then Cliff found the tuition money, and resigned.
Two hours after the meeting, I visit Cliff, who lives about ten minutes’ walk from my home in a neighborhood with streets barely wide enough for a small car. Though it’s a surprise visit, three minutes after arriving, I’ve met his family, and been invited for supper. We’re drinking green tea. Fifteen minutes later, we’re looking at his photo album. Forty minutes later, I bring up the reason for the visit.
It turns out that Cliff has a degree in ecology, and he was only studying English as a hobby. His parents have been pressuring him for months to get a full-time job. The day he got his official warning, his father had finally gotten the necessary strings pulled to get him a job with a multi-national environmental advocacy group.
Misplacing a month’s salary for the entire faculty and staff was a way for him to get out of his contract for the semester without losing face by breaking the contract. (Feigned ineptitude is more honorable than open confrontation.) Resigning with mild indignation instead of being fired won him the sympathy and enduring support of all of the locals at the school.
Overall, it goes well. Cliff says he will not return to the school; thus, fulfilling the wishes of his father and the American staff. He will, however, ease the stress between the foreign and local staff and open a door for future relationships by referring his brother and cousin to the school.
As I leave, he shows me the boxing gym where he works out. He says, “Join me whenever you can.”
But maybe he means goodbye.
I see him a couple weeks later, waving from the crowd as I pick up the guitar, nod to the drummer, play the familiar riff, and start to sing: “So no one told you life was gonna be this way…”
I’ve spent most of the last ten years preparing to work here. I’ve learned languages! I got good grades! I directed research projects! I wrote books! I served on government committees!
But what they really need in developing autocracies are good cover bands.
See, “Because we have a party for the students at the end of the year and everyone wants to sing these songs that they learned in their courses, but no one else can pronounce the lyrics.” Introducing me got bumped from last week’s faculty meeting agenda, so my official introduction to a couple hundred students, faculty, and staff was covering Aerosmith, Tim McGraw, Paul Simon, and Nirvana.
Twenty minutes into the graduation party, the room is noticeably more humid than the hallway. Three hours into the party, the smell of sweat reaches the street. Four hours into the party, they’re staggering from heat exhaustion, joining hands, and swaying in a sing-along to, “Love Can Build A Bridge.” I’ve never sung in public before. It’s quite a bit more fun than committee meetings.
Almost 200 people graduated this year, so there’s cause for celebration. The snacks ran out after an hour or so, and the beverages were gone long before the party ended, but they keep going.
There are the guys from the countryside in their uniform black pants, white shirts, and black ties, trying to look like they’re not looking at the city girls in their pants so tight you can read underwear labels. Conversations bounce between eight languages.
And there’s a lot of sweat.
In my one week of officially working at the English school, I’ve done five things.
1. Acted intermediary in a dispute to avoid a potential walkout of the faculty and staff. (Temperature: ninety degrees.)
2. Got a stalker to leave a teacher alone by asking a mutual acquaintance to spread the word that I was praying God would show all of his power and justice to anyone who bothered one of my friends. (Temperature: ninety-eight.)
3. Laid the foundation for a future teacher’s union to balance the American staff. I waited in the windowless, sauna-like stairwell for fifteen minutes before someone unlocked the school door so I could explain that the local staff now officially have first right of refusal in the hiring of new employees. The first reaction to this new empowerment: “You’re really sweaty, aren’t you?” (Temperature: one hundred and eight.)
4. Established a seven-week intensive teacher-training program. (Temperature: one thirteen.)
5. Lead songs for the school graduation party. (Temperature: one nineteen.)
By the sweat of your face, you will eat bread. I am the bread of life. Take and eat.
And his sweat became as drops of blood. My blood is true drink. Take and drink.
Keep faith. Keep faith. Mmmm.
It’s only been five months.
And you pray, and there is no response. And you listen and don’t hear anything. And you have to stop trying to read the Bible at a desk because you drool when you sleep, and that’s the only time you can be sure to fall asleep. And you tighten your belt. And there is no sense of peace or joy. And you believe.
This is what salvation feels like.
