The absolute hardest part of teaching English as a secong language to business professionals in Poland

Sure, most of you know people that are doing it. Everyone hears about these ESL teachers. After all, isn't that what JK Rowling was doing before she was making mansions with Harry Potter? I do believe it is. Can't go wrong by following in JK's shoes.
That might be, but I'm gonna come right out and say this at the beginning: not the biggest fan of teaching English as a second language. Don't think anything would change it either. Perhaps its the short duration I've been working at it. Don't think it is, though. Have a feeling, though, my relationship with ESL is about as warm as it's going to get. Ok, maybe if I was teaching it to people in the US. That might work, but I would never do it full time. Good gracious, no.
The job's not hard. Hell, right now, I only teach 10 or so hours a week. And that's enough money wise. I'm not living high on the hog, but what person in their right mind would want to? I travel to businesses most of the time. Get on this bus, shove my way into this tram, push this person out of the way so I can grab on to some pole above my head. I can even take that. Sometimes, I hop on whatever bus comes first after class and see where it takes me. So it's not the transportation.
It's not the students, either. Most are nice. Most don't come every week. The class of 6 students, a whopping 2 showed up last week. Not one shred of me cared, we had a nice class. I talked, taught them some vocabulary, discussed, hell, I don't even know, something that seemed to interest them.
The hardest part of my job, and I'm being serious, is getting in and out of the buildings. I have not entered one business like a professional. I have not entered one business with the confidence that I could even get inside the door. Two have the subway set up. However, the subway is much easier. At the subway, I can purchase a top priority access card to swipe and have everything magically open. And at the subway, I do not need a magic touch to get out. At the businesses, I do. Yeah, they have to buzz me in and out. At one, I thought I saw a man press a button and have somehting open, so I tried it. Have no clue what I pressed, but it didn't open anything I could see. I end up standing there, with an occional "Csezc, hello." said in the direction of the receptionist lounging in the free land. I always say it quietly, though, because I feel really awkward. I'm bundled up in my huge green coat, which has pieces of duct-tape hanging from the botton, a beanie and a scarf around my head. I have not acquired the city-chic look yet, and don't expect to anytime soon. Too damn cold to care about how you look. So at these businesses, I'm no needle in a haystick.
I stand there, staring at the gates keeping me in, and then, when I'm daring, I go for it. I charge the gates. - Nope, the doors aren't opening. Just running into hard plastic, here. No, don't bother letting the idiot out. I'm getting all my exercise in this way and having fun! Watch me go, just ramming into hi-tech exit door one after the other.
I've done this, and they won't get the hint that I want out. So I'll walk slowly past the subway exit doors. Sizing up my competition. Looking for a weakness, a gap I could wiggle through. I find nothing. Then, when I'm just about ready to jump over the damned things, they finally let me out. "The other door. Use the other door," 'cause they never open up the one I'm standing next to.
Gosh, that's what I dread most about the classes - the doors. Not the lesson, not the students - who are business professionals older than myself. And tomorrow, I should actually be making some plan for the lesson, some questions to ask, look up some vocabulary. But when I think about the class, I think, how the hell am I going to get out the door?

Letter to President-elect Obama

Dear President-elect Obama,
Recently, I have had the misfortune of sending the wrong document attachment via e-mail to an editor I was writing for. Now, certainly this must happen to many a people pressing the wrong button in haste – Browse…click on document...Attach…Send. Then, sometime later, the document you clicked on flashes in your mind. It wasn’t the right document. I’m sure you’ve been there.
Well, this time Mr. President-elect, I do not believe I was the one at fault. I will admit, yes, yes, I was in a hurry. I had a train to catch; I was finished with the article and was excited to send it to the editor. As I was shutting off my laptop, I had to close out of all the Word documents. That’s when it hit me – I’d sent my notes and not the article. But the article wasn’t open. I had hit save; I hit the save button multiple times and saw the green bar on the bottom of the window show the saving progress...complete, saved, protect. I thought I was playing it safe, wasn’t going to have anything to worry about. Why then couldn’t I find the document? The question became, what folder did it save in? Documents, the logical choice. No, wrong. Not there. Desktop. Another fine choice. Out of all the lone files, the article was not there. Search the entire computer and C drive, you say. Did it. Nothing. The file was nowhere to be found.
I didn’t have time to sit for hours at my laptop searching through all the folders, files, documents, texts, and hidden folders. As I mentioned, I had a train to catch. But now, two days later, I’m back. And yeah, you could say I’m still up shit creek without a paddle. I’m no Windows expert, and I’m new to this Vista operating system, but I know that a document, once saved, should not disappear.
I’m guessing your campaign received a hefty financial boosts from Bill Gates. I’m not asking you to pass any of that money my way. Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Obama. I’m asking, though, that since he has supported you, in turn, you support him. No, I don’t mean give him the money back from the U.S. Treasury. Have him take another looksie at Windows Vista. Have him look at what happens when documents don’t save anywhere. They save and then, poof, they’re gone. Maybe they are buried deep in the computer’s Mordor, but shit, average people like you and me, Mr. President-elect, we sure as hell won’t be able to find them there.
As a technological creator, innovator and computer king, Bill Gates is an ambassador of America everywhere in the world. I hate to tell this to you, but here in Poland, even apart from my personal mishap, this Vista deal has not gone over well. You’ll have representatives attending the 14th Conference of the Parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change. They will be handed a cd presentation on climate change and state forests in Poland. Watch it. Pay attention to the movies. Yeah, we all love to watch movies. Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret. To get those movies to play on Vista, it took some time, a long time, and it took just about an entire forestry department’s patience. Why, Vista just didn’t want to cooperate, didn’t want to show movies. Something, that to work on older Windows operating systems and on Apple computers was a breeze, was like fighting a flippin’ tsunami with Vista. If it wasn’t for sheer will power on the Polish forestry department’s part, you and other world leaders would not be too educated about climate change.
Please, talk to Bill.
In all sincerity,
A concerned citizen

Up the down staircase

I was nervous the entire bus ride. Nervous I might miss the stop, be late, walk down the wrong street and end up walking for an hour before I found the building. I had gone to it on the weekend, but another way, from another direction. But being nervous about getting lost was just to take my mind off of being nervous about teaching adults. Something that before this week I had never done. Sure, I've tutored adults and college students, helped people from 9 up to 30 write essays. This, though, it felt like a whole new ball game.
I found the building. Now, the architecture, my goodness, it was like the hippest building in some sitcom about the hippest people ever. Metal siding, the top painted barn red, oval windows, square on the bottom. Inside, goodness, it was like a warehouse transformed into chic by a billionaire. Shiny cement floors, charcoal drawings with a dash of red paint. I had to be buzzed through a subway entrance look-a-like. The elevator, all glass, so the artwork, the collage, the creative vibes could shoot you full of art juice on your elevator ride.
Then there was the company, an advertising agency. There were no suits to be found. If there was a person over 40 in there, they were disguised as a Levi's model. I waited to speak with the secretary, the office was open, cubicle walls replaced with space - I'm guessing there was better flow this way. People walked passed me, fitted jeans, Bed Head hair. I had somehow fallen into the set of Ugly Betty, but this was in Poland and there was more red.
"Oh, you're the English teacher," her face brigthened up. "Right this way, I'll show you the room."
The board room, red chairs, metal handles, hi-tech equipment, in no way an intimidating environment. Then my students started filtering in.
"Hi." "Hello." "I'm Chris, I think." And then, it wasn't so intimidating anymore. There were 6 altogether, and it reminded me of high school. There were the 3 who weren't excited to be there. The gay guy: never answering the question but making a stupid joke and talking in exaggerated syllables.
"Meeee?" he touches his chest. "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas."
"Well, that's a lie."
His hand leaves his chest and he gives a short, quiet laugh. "Mmmhaaa."
And who was his partner in class interruption? Right-O, folks, the girl who bleached her hair, cut it short, and felt the need to remind people that she parties and even past the age of 30, as a strong woman, guys are still into her.
"Sex in the City. What you don't like that show?"
"I don't like the city...I don't like the Yankees."
"Then I bettter get out of here."
Yeah, cause being from Poland makes you the chick from Sex in the City. Sure.
The last who didn't want to be there wasn't because of trying to prove something, but because she was shy, hadn't spoken as much English, but when she spoke, it was regarding sex.
"I agree with Freud. You know, that on maybe some level, all dreams are about sex."
Thanks for joining the conversation.
Then the other 3: One just wanting to learn, excited to speak with a native speaker,
"Maybe we can do a lesson on talk shows." the leader of the class who has the best grasp of English grammar, "I want to learn the rhythm of the language." and the guy who figures these conversations might be a nice break from work. "
And for bullshitting with this group of people, I get paid. And you want to know something? Right now, it's illegally. It really is crazy, though. I get paid more than the average Polish worker. Way more.

Letters to President-elect Obama

Dear Mr. President-elect Obama,

While riding the bus down Pięnka St in Warsaw, Poland, I saw one of the harshest, most hideous buildings in the city. And what would be flying from that building? Why, an American flag! You guessed it, Mr. Obama, it was the US Embassy, looking more like the hang out for people awaiting execution than a building of safety for Americans abroad and a show of goodwill toward Poland. And this cannot just be simply passed off as fitting in with the trend of Warsaw embassy architecture. No, sir. The only other atrocity on the same level of disgust as our great nation’s experiment with cement is the Russian Embassy. Since when did the US and Russia decide to become twinsies? Are our soldiers going to start wearing matching hats now? Wait, did you hear something? Oh, don’t worry, that was just Roosevelt and Eisenhower screaming from their graves.

The other embassies hold true to Piękna, they are beautiful, as I’m sure you know the word means. Most, from Switzerland, United Kingdom, Hungary, are light pastel painted seventeenth century buildings, gated estates with their flag flying high and a lovely garden surrounding the walk way. They give pride, beauty and justice to their own country’s past and give hope to their people by carrying that culture like a light into the future and to far-away lands. They are homes away from homes. And, then, there stands the US of A, a dirty, gray, cement brick with a guard house in front of the building.

I suggest one of your first moves as president to improve foreign relations is to renovate our embassy in Poland. Share the beauty of the States with the world. You know we need this as much as I do. The US just can’t be twinsies with Russia and friends with Poland.

In solemn sincerity,

A Concerned Citizen

Oh, look, what lovely symbols of countries! Hungary and Switzerland must be swell nations.

Wait, is this the same street? It is, and that is the US Embassy. The flower beds in front aren't cuttin' it.

And this, taken in haste as to not arouse suspicion in the guards, is Russia.

Notes on Poland

A few things I find interesting:

• If you want to name your baby an untraditional Polish name, for instance something other than Agata or Bartyk, you must submit the name to a division of their government. More than likely, the name will not be approved. So Poland will never have an Appleseed Blossom, Starlight, or even a Micah.

• This one is more interesting to me, and I feel silly I didn't know it before. The president of Poland Lech Kaczynski has an identical twin brother, Jaroslaw, who used to be the prime minister.

It's like a Bond movie. Identical twin brothers ruling a nation. The big difference in the two: one has a wife, the other lives with his mother.

• It's perfectly acceptable, normal, expected to come back from a trip and give a slideshow presentation. Not just at your house, but at an institute, in a lecture room. Maybe Americans do it, too, but it caught me off guard.
  
• Hose are called anti-rape socks.
  

The waiting people

November 6, 2008

Chicago O’Hare International Airport

Half an hour priori to a person announcing boarding over the intercom, 70 percent of the people at Gate M-9 rose from their seats in unison, as if something inside each of their minds was triggered at the same time. They straightened their pants, grabbed their bags and headed to the closed terminal door.

I checked my ticket. No zones were designated, but there it was, my seat. Each person was designated a seat. Still, most of the people were gathered around the closed door, behind the first set of ropes.

My Polish friend had mentioned it: “You can tell Polish people because they’ll always stand in a line, even if they don’t know what it is for.” I thought it was a joke, at least an exaggeration. But there in the airport, still in the United States, I saw the country I was headed to, I saw Poland - in the lines, in the people waiting long before any announcement was made.

Eventually, the woman at the gate announced the rows that were to start boarding. The back of the plane first, where I was sitting. I grabbed my bags then, stood up, and headed for the front of the line. I was too late. The line was there. I was in the first group, but it didn’t matter what had been called. The line was impenetrable. They called other rows and still more rows. I couldn’t get in, I had missed my chance. Their line had done away with order, boarding in a certain fashion. They’d been passed up once before, and if they had any say in it, by God, they wouldn’t let it happen again. They’d be stubborn; they’d make their own rues to get where they wanted, where they needed. Like a herd of bulls tearing down the walls of the chute, no one was going to tell them how they were to get from point A to point B. Except they didn’t move; they waited – still and protective of their place in line. They waited, not for their row to be called, but for their chance to walk on. When it was another’s turn, they didn’t much care. They were already in line; they’d been waiting. Sure, maybe things are done differently, but this is how they do things and so that’s how it will be done.

When the plane landed, I told my friend.

“I do it, too,” she said. “You have to understand, Lindsey, when we used to be a communist country, there was nothing in the shop except vinegar, ok? To get something, you had to stand in long, long queues for whatever, toilet paper or sausage. That’s instinct now.”

She thinks it will be the Polish instinct until the generation of her grandchildren.

Since I’ve been here, I’ve seen lines – at the movies, on the trams, on the subway, in the grocery store.

Dzien Niepoleglosci - Polish Independence Day

I’m sitting in my friend’s Warsaw apartment, thinking, romanticizing, dancing with my visions of America. The dirt roads I haven’t gone done, the mountain highways I’ve wrecked on and loved. Roads that take me to the tops of mountains and with one turn, make me feel like I’m falling into an exultant ocean. I’ve been here a week, one week, and already the distance is making my heart grow fonder.

Poland’s Independence Day was recently celebrated. I got to be in the middle of it all. In the country’s capital city, yards away from their president, standing by the Unknown Soldier’s Grave, speaking to his country.

“What’s he saying?”

“I don’t know, I’m not paying attention.”

Children all around being hoisted onto their father’s and grandfather’s shoulders, waving the red and white flag – Polska. Cameras slung over young men’s shoulders, clicking cameras and camera’s filming from cranes erected for the occasion.

“Everyone has really nice cameras. I’ve never seen so many nice cameras.”

“That’s because the boys are trying to impress the girls. To be a photographer is cool and artsy. They can’t sing or write or paint, but anyone can take pictures…They can’t afford a car, but they can buy a nice camera.”

The tanks firing off, young men covering the ear’s of their squeeze, children on the verge of crying. But then came something I haven’t seen much of in Poland – smiles. People were happy. Maybe because they didn’t have to work, but I like to think it’s their country. They’re proud, proud to be Polish, proud of the fight that their country has, that they have, that the Polish people have had for hundreds of years.

People began walking, forming lines, walls of lines. A parade through the streets of Old Town Warsaw was going to take place soon. Not Macy’s parade, but a march. Soldiers, calvary, policemen, airforce, navy, marching through the streets. Old and young protestor’s held up their signs. A man passed and muttered “Murderers,” while people around ignored or showed disgust at his words. A coffin was put in front some of the protest signs, and the young men took out their cameras.

My friend and I waited in line. On the streets that weren’t marked off. Someone had told someone that the soldiers would walk by here. After close to an hour, the men began walking – another direction.

“What a hilarious joke.”

My friend was upset, the irony, the irony was frustrating and funny.

Then the soldiers marched on and began marching down our street. The beginning of the parade, other nation’s marched – the French, the Slovakians and the Americans. Two black men and a short soldier.

“I think people are amazed that the black man actually exists.”

And I was proud of my country, too. Sure, there were only 3 soldiers compared to the hundred of Poles, but still, mine were the only black men marching and the shortest person marching. Heartwarming.

They sounded like the armies of orchs, and then the Navy men, with stern faces, halted feet from us. Every motion amplified by multitude’s unified action.

People’s face lit up. My fiend and I swooned at the men, and I took pictures so we could pick out our imaginary Navy boyfriend when we came home. People pushed by me, more pictures were taken. The soldiers standing in our presence gave everyone a thrill. What men of honor! the crown felt. The feeling was infectious.

Poland’s been a country, a free country, one it can call Poland, for 90 years, again. Congrats, Poland. Please, be kind to me.