Thanksgiving has coincided, coincidentally, with me making some rather unexpected new friends, and receiving an equally unexpected snack with them.
It began yesterday during Arabic class, when I was sent with a stack of copybooks to correct to the classroom next to the English teacher's staff room. The room never seems to be occupied by classes, but remains far from empty. It seems to have been co-opted as an unofficial headquarters by a number of women from the multitude of mid-level school employees. Less prestigious than teachers but higher than kiosk workers and custodians, these are the bus supervisors and hall monitors of the school, who have no official place to be, and, for much of the day, no official work to be doing, and instead wander throughout the school, keeping the discipline, helping out, and entertaining themselves however they see fit. The hierarchy of employees is clear; although they are right next door to the English teachers, the two groups almost never interact or enter each other's space, and when they do it is with a respectful yet cool politeness. Similarly, although cleaning women might wander in and out, wiping down desks and pausing to ask a question, they will never be invited to join the mid-level employees in their activities and socializing. As a student, however, and a foreigner, I occupy an odd place in all of this. The English teachers, naturally, don't wish to have me in their space. Ms. Sherouk, however, the teacher I help to grade papers, took it for granted that my presence would be acceptable in the neighboring classroom, even though it was clearly already occupied by the bus supervisors, and told me to simply go in.
Having greeted the room's occupants with a wave and an awkward part Arabic, part English greeting, I sat down at a desk to start in on my corrections. I was midway through a list of sentences when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned behind me to see two women I was pretty sure I recognized as bus supervisors looking at me. "Ismik eyh?" ("What is your name?"). "Carson," I replied in my best clear voice. I'm finally realizing the trouble children with foreign sounding names go through at school, having to explain to teacher after teacher the proper pronunciation. "Eyh? What is your name?" (this time in English.) "Car-son." "Carson?" "Aiwa."
Thus began a rather stilted three-way conversation in a combination of Arabic and English. Both sides had a habit of speaking in the other's native language--that is, I spoke Arabic and they spoke English--until we came to vocabulary we didn't know, in which case we'd become stuck and substitute the word from our own language. It was, of course, a less than effective strategy, since for the most part if I didn't know the word in Arabic, they didn't know it in English, and vice versa, but I think they more or less figured out that I was an exchange student from Portland, Oregon, U.S.A., which is somewhere near California.
We were interrupted by the entrance of Safie, a constant inhabitant of the school hallways with an undevinable set of responsibilities. I asked a classmate once what her job was, and he replied that she was once a bus supervisor, and then got promoted. What she got promoted to, he didn't know, but she appeared to be pleased with her new job. I knew who she was quite well, because she was in the habit of asking me my name every time she saw me, in both Arabic and English, and telling me hers. I'm not sure if this was an attempt to be friendly by using her English vocabulary, or if she just didn't remember what to call me, because after a few attempts to pronounce "Carson" she inevitably ends up calling me "Christina" or some variation of such by the end of the conversation. (The bus supervisors apparently heard about me from Fatma, my bus supervisor, and call me variations of "coo-coo." I'm not sure if the nickname came to her from my host mother or she created it independently, but at least it's consistent and doesn't have me turning around every time anyone says something that begins with a "k.")
At the moment, she was carrying a black plastic bag tucked under her arm, and, after hastily shutting the door, furtively opened it to reveal a large casserole dish filled with a type of Egyptian dessert made of a crust with white custard-like filling and matted strings of crisp sweets on top. She pulled out a knife and began to quickly cut off large hunks to pass out to her companions, and one she handed to me. "Bsora! Quickly!" she said, glancing at the door, and the moment I had finished my first piece, cut off another rather large hunk, considered it, tore off one end and ate it herself, and handed me the rest.
Once everyone had eaten seconds, the remainder was quickly piled into a tupperware and stowed away in one of the women's substantial purses. Food complete, everyone was ready to relax, passing around a bottle of water. Eyeing my sticky hands, one of the bus supervisors pulled out a tissue for me, which was intercepted by Safie, who proceeded to brush me down, pour water over my hands, and scrub my face with a wet tissue. "The food--secret," she said. "Mishi? Secret." I nodded my agreement. She turned to the bus supervisors and conversed briefly with them.
"Bokra-tomorrow-bring, ismu eyh, bananas."
"Bananas?" I asked.
"No, apples."
"Apples?"
"Yes, apples, apples. Bring apples." She then asked to borrow my red correction pen and rushed out the door.
Ms. Fatma, one of the bus supervisors (coincidentally the same name as my bus supervisor) gestured after Safie. "She's crazy." I nodded and grinned. The other bus supervisor gestured for me to wait, and began to rummage through her purse, pulling out an extraordinary array of items: tissues, a tomato, some green leafy vegetable, a bottle of water, and so forth. Finally, she pulled out a plastic bag of what appeared to be a sort of legume. It resembled a fava bean in size and shape but was canary yellow and apparently meant to be snack food. She poured a pile of them out for me on a piece of paper and showed me how to eat them, biting the edge to crack through the outer skin and squeezing the inside out into your mouth. After a few attempts I succeeded, and was rewarded with a slightly crunchy yet soft salty, pea-like inside, that tasted a bit like a softened peanut.
When the bell rang for the end of the session, I returned to Ms. Sherouk with an unimpressively small pile of completed booklets, and much too happy to care about her disapproving look.
The next day, I showed up in the same classroom as the day before with three apples and another stack of exercise books. Within moments of my entrance, Safie appeared in the doorway.
"Where are the apples?" I pulled them out of my bag and handed them to her. She took them and exclaimed something in Arabic, passing around the bag so the other two bus supervisors could take theirs. They talked excitedly for a few minutes, pausing occasionally to say to me, "Very good." One of the bus supervisors pulled a knife out of her purse and used it to start cutting them up to eat. Safie returned to me.
"Are you hungry?" she asked. Not quite sure of the proper response, I answered with the truth: yes, I was, having skipped breakfast in favor of trying to find the bag of apples which I was sure had been in the refrigrator the night before.
"One moment." Safie disappeared, and I started correcting grammar errors in students' practice sentences. A few minutes later, she reappeared through the door, staggering beneath a gigantic cardboard box on her shoulder. The other supervisors cracked up (apparently they hadn't been expecting this performance either) as she stumbled to a desk and set the box down with a thunk. From its depths came the most unique Thanksgiving meals I have ever eaten (this from someone whose mother cooked a turkey in a pit in the yard). First came a mostly eaten container of cold maccaroni, fork still sitting in it, then a plate with a bit of soft cheese on it and a cucumber, which one of the supervisors took over to the garbage can to peel with her knife. Two olives and a single slice of tomato followed, and a piece of brown Egyptian flatbread was dredged up from the bottom of the container.
Thus began my acquaintance with three bus supervisors, all of whom speak only Arabic. Communication is rather limited, because of my limited language skills; even when I do say something correctly in Arabic, my words are doubted because of all the times I've said something incorrectly, and vice versa, so very little actually gets across. However, visiting with them has become one of the highlights of my school day (besides, of course, break), and given me a fascinating look into the daily work (and lack thereof) of the these three women and all of their friends who they take me to meet during my free sessions.
It began yesterday during Arabic class, when I was sent with a stack of copybooks to correct to the classroom next to the English teacher's staff room. The room never seems to be occupied by classes, but remains far from empty. It seems to have been co-opted as an unofficial headquarters by a number of women from the multitude of mid-level school employees. Less prestigious than teachers but higher than kiosk workers and custodians, these are the bus supervisors and hall monitors of the school, who have no official place to be, and, for much of the day, no official work to be doing, and instead wander throughout the school, keeping the discipline, helping out, and entertaining themselves however they see fit. The hierarchy of employees is clear; although they are right next door to the English teachers, the two groups almost never interact or enter each other's space, and when they do it is with a respectful yet cool politeness. Similarly, although cleaning women might wander in and out, wiping down desks and pausing to ask a question, they will never be invited to join the mid-level employees in their activities and socializing. As a student, however, and a foreigner, I occupy an odd place in all of this. The English teachers, naturally, don't wish to have me in their space. Ms. Sherouk, however, the teacher I help to grade papers, took it for granted that my presence would be acceptable in the neighboring classroom, even though it was clearly already occupied by the bus supervisors, and told me to simply go in.
Having greeted the room's occupants with a wave and an awkward part Arabic, part English greeting, I sat down at a desk to start in on my corrections. I was midway through a list of sentences when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned behind me to see two women I was pretty sure I recognized as bus supervisors looking at me. "Ismik eyh?" ("What is your name?"). "Carson," I replied in my best clear voice. I'm finally realizing the trouble children with foreign sounding names go through at school, having to explain to teacher after teacher the proper pronunciation. "Eyh? What is your name?" (this time in English.) "Car-son." "Carson?" "Aiwa."
Thus began a rather stilted three-way conversation in a combination of Arabic and English. Both sides had a habit of speaking in the other's native language--that is, I spoke Arabic and they spoke English--until we came to vocabulary we didn't know, in which case we'd become stuck and substitute the word from our own language. It was, of course, a less than effective strategy, since for the most part if I didn't know the word in Arabic, they didn't know it in English, and vice versa, but I think they more or less figured out that I was an exchange student from Portland, Oregon, U.S.A., which is somewhere near California.
We were interrupted by the entrance of Safie, a constant inhabitant of the school hallways with an undevinable set of responsibilities. I asked a classmate once what her job was, and he replied that she was once a bus supervisor, and then got promoted. What she got promoted to, he didn't know, but she appeared to be pleased with her new job. I knew who she was quite well, because she was in the habit of asking me my name every time she saw me, in both Arabic and English, and telling me hers. I'm not sure if this was an attempt to be friendly by using her English vocabulary, or if she just didn't remember what to call me, because after a few attempts to pronounce "Carson" she inevitably ends up calling me "Christina" or some variation of such by the end of the conversation. (The bus supervisors apparently heard about me from Fatma, my bus supervisor, and call me variations of "coo-coo." I'm not sure if the nickname came to her from my host mother or she created it independently, but at least it's consistent and doesn't have me turning around every time anyone says something that begins with a "k.")
At the moment, she was carrying a black plastic bag tucked under her arm, and, after hastily shutting the door, furtively opened it to reveal a large casserole dish filled with a type of Egyptian dessert made of a crust with white custard-like filling and matted strings of crisp sweets on top. She pulled out a knife and began to quickly cut off large hunks to pass out to her companions, and one she handed to me. "Bsora! Quickly!" she said, glancing at the door, and the moment I had finished my first piece, cut off another rather large hunk, considered it, tore off one end and ate it herself, and handed me the rest.
Once everyone had eaten seconds, the remainder was quickly piled into a tupperware and stowed away in one of the women's substantial purses. Food complete, everyone was ready to relax, passing around a bottle of water. Eyeing my sticky hands, one of the bus supervisors pulled out a tissue for me, which was intercepted by Safie, who proceeded to brush me down, pour water over my hands, and scrub my face with a wet tissue. "The food--secret," she said. "Mishi? Secret." I nodded my agreement. She turned to the bus supervisors and conversed briefly with them.
"Bokra-tomorrow-bring, ismu eyh, bananas."
"Bananas?" I asked.
"No, apples."
"Apples?"
"Yes, apples, apples. Bring apples." She then asked to borrow my red correction pen and rushed out the door.
Ms. Fatma, one of the bus supervisors (coincidentally the same name as my bus supervisor) gestured after Safie. "She's crazy." I nodded and grinned. The other bus supervisor gestured for me to wait, and began to rummage through her purse, pulling out an extraordinary array of items: tissues, a tomato, some green leafy vegetable, a bottle of water, and so forth. Finally, she pulled out a plastic bag of what appeared to be a sort of legume. It resembled a fava bean in size and shape but was canary yellow and apparently meant to be snack food. She poured a pile of them out for me on a piece of paper and showed me how to eat them, biting the edge to crack through the outer skin and squeezing the inside out into your mouth. After a few attempts I succeeded, and was rewarded with a slightly crunchy yet soft salty, pea-like inside, that tasted a bit like a softened peanut.
When the bell rang for the end of the session, I returned to Ms. Sherouk with an unimpressively small pile of completed booklets, and much too happy to care about her disapproving look.
The next day, I showed up in the same classroom as the day before with three apples and another stack of exercise books. Within moments of my entrance, Safie appeared in the doorway.
"Where are the apples?" I pulled them out of my bag and handed them to her. She took them and exclaimed something in Arabic, passing around the bag so the other two bus supervisors could take theirs. They talked excitedly for a few minutes, pausing occasionally to say to me, "Very good." One of the bus supervisors pulled a knife out of her purse and used it to start cutting them up to eat. Safie returned to me.
"Are you hungry?" she asked. Not quite sure of the proper response, I answered with the truth: yes, I was, having skipped breakfast in favor of trying to find the bag of apples which I was sure had been in the refrigrator the night before.
"One moment." Safie disappeared, and I started correcting grammar errors in students' practice sentences. A few minutes later, she reappeared through the door, staggering beneath a gigantic cardboard box on her shoulder. The other supervisors cracked up (apparently they hadn't been expecting this performance either) as she stumbled to a desk and set the box down with a thunk. From its depths came the most unique Thanksgiving meals I have ever eaten (this from someone whose mother cooked a turkey in a pit in the yard). First came a mostly eaten container of cold maccaroni, fork still sitting in it, then a plate with a bit of soft cheese on it and a cucumber, which one of the supervisors took over to the garbage can to peel with her knife. Two olives and a single slice of tomato followed, and a piece of brown Egyptian flatbread was dredged up from the bottom of the container.
Thus began my acquaintance with three bus supervisors, all of whom speak only Arabic. Communication is rather limited, because of my limited language skills; even when I do say something correctly in Arabic, my words are doubted because of all the times I've said something incorrectly, and vice versa, so very little actually gets across. However, visiting with them has become one of the highlights of my school day (besides, of course, break), and given me a fascinating look into the daily work (and lack thereof) of the these three women and all of their friends who they take me to meet during my free sessions.
