Infinite Tiny Sweet Moments

Caitlin Kennedy is from Gaithersburg, Maryland and is a 2016-2017 Fulbright-AMCHAM ETA placed in Yangtalad Wittayakarn School in Kalasin, Thailand, where she teaches English to Mattayom 4-6 students (10th-12th grade). She graduated with a B.A. in Mathematics and a minor in African Studies from St. Mary’s College of Maryland in 2013. In her free time, Caitlin likes to go rock climbing with her Thai friends in Khon Kaen, sing wildly off-tune songs in the shower under her bubble gum pink stairs, jog around the school’s football field while teachers on the sideline shout, “running, running,” and go on hiking adventures throughout the mountains of Southeast Asia. At the end of her Fulbright grant, she hopes to find a new opportunity in another part of Thailand working with an NGO to improve education for migrants and refugees. 

I was elated when I found out that I would be living alone in rural Thailand, teaching English. I had yearned for this type of cultural challenge, but I was scared of the loneliness and solitude that would inevitably come with a year of confusion, misunderstanding, and such an abrupt change of pace in life. When life is slow, the time and moments that consume it can feel empty. However, this string of seemingly empty moments that has woven its way through my last 8 months here has turned out to carry so much meaning, depth, and feeling. I fear that if I tried to explain the meaning of or knowledge gained from moments such as these, I wouldn’t be doing the moments or feelings that they have evoked adequate praise for their pure existence. I hope that through this narrative, you may possibly be able to feel for yourselves a bit of what I had the pleasure of experiencing first hand. 

***

I’m wearing all black. Everyone around me is wearing all black too; except for the teenagers, who seem to be wearing a mix of bright colors. These must be the students. Each class is wearing an assigned, brightly colored polo. They have black ribbons pinned to their shoulders. As I walk behind the crowd, attempting to be discreet, heads turn and stare as if this wave of movement was pre-choreographed. I’m sweating. Is it from the blazing heat of the October sun? Or is it my nerves and insecurity of having so many eyes glued to my face, my hair, my clothes, and my entire being? I see a familiar face and take a deep breath as I anxiously make my way towards him. A feeling of relief washes over me. As I am about to say something, music starts booming through the loud speakers and everyone turns to the stage. Standing straight and proud, they sing along to the National Anthem. People who were rushing in have stopped abruptly for this moment of worship, making their tardiness obvious and noted. When the music stops, the kind, familiar face turns to me, “Good morning! Welcome to Yangtalad! Have you eaten yet?” In this moment I don’t yet realize the significance of this greeting. Eventually, I will come to understand that “Gin khao ruyang? (Have you eaten rice yet?)” can almost be equated to “How’s it going?” in America, highlighting the importance of food and rice in Thai culture. My anxiety evaporates with the beads of sweat that have built up along the edges of my forehead. I feel welcome. I reply, “Yes, thank you. I ate already.” The kind voice says, “Okay, come gin kanom (eat snacks).” And just like that, this confounding scene that had given me anxiety only moments before, becomes the backdrop of my new home.

***

I am walking to room 423. Inside my backpack I have my laptop, HDMI chord, paper and colored pencils to make name tags, and the attendance sheet (written in Thai of course). I realize how hot and humid it is as I feel the back of my shirt clinging to the sweat lining my spine. Today marks the start of the second semester of the school year for Thai students, but this is the first day of school for me. I feel like a 2nd grader all over again; my backpack stuffed full of supplies and a nervous, yet excited feeling residing on the tip of my tongue. Thoughts are buzzing through my mind. Will it always be this hot? How does the Korean teacher’s hair stay so silky and her make-up so pristine? Did I put on deodorant? Is my skirt long enough? Will the students like me? How much English can they speak? I make my way up the stairs and pass a group of students who turn to me and wai (bringing their hands together as if in prayer and bending slightly forward as a form of greeting), as I hear a chorus of “Hello, teacher!” Oh no, what do I do back? I think they taught us this during orientation… Do I wai? Do I wave? If I wai, do I bring my hands to chest height, chin height, or up to my forehead? I remember there was some important distinction between the different heights. Do teachers even wai to students at all? I panic and settle for an awkward, double-handed, yet enthusiastic wave coupled with a nervous smile. The students all giggle and say, “Teacher, so beautiful!” before continuing on their way. Little do I know, the phrase, “teacher beautiful today” is almost as common as “have you eaten yet?” My confidence is really going to take a hit when I move back to the US and don’t get told I am beautiful at least three times a day! 

I finally get to my classroom and peek inside: no students yet. I walk in and unload the contents of my backpack before walking back to the door to check if any students are standing outside. I pace for a few minutes and then decide to write my name on the whiteboard. Class was supposed to start ten minutes ago and still no sign of any students. I sit down by the fan and start flipping through the “About Me” PowerPoint I prepared. I have not yet discovered the sad truth that the projector doesn’t even work with my computer. T-minus 10 minutes until I will have to improvise! The minutes continue to tick by. I start to wonder if I am in the right classroom. Suddenly, a student with a red polo pops his head around the corner from the doorway and says, “Teacher, may I come in please?” “Yes! Hello!” I stutter as I stand up. The student takes off his shoes at the doorway, leaving them outside and enters the classroom, followed by the rest of this Mattayom 6 (12th grade) class. They are all chatting, looking at me, and giggling as they find their seats. I feel a mix of nerves and excitement coursing through me. I really want them to like me. With a veil of confidence, I walk to the front of the classroom and am about to introduce myself when that same student who walked in first stands up and says, “All stand up please.” I don’t know what is happening. The class falls silent and comes to stand as an army. Together, they chime, “Good morning, teacher.” They pause for a moment, their faces somewhat expressionless as they continue, “How are you today?” I reply, “I’m good, thank you! How are you?” Like a well-oiled machine, they answer, “I’m fine, thank you. And you?” There is an awkward silence. They are all still standing and staring at me, not even realizing that they just asked me the same question twice. This is clearly rehearsed, but what am I supposed to do next? I try, “You can sit down…” Everyone takes a seat while echoing, “thank you, teacher.” Okay, so that’s how it goes, I note to myself. “Hello, everyone! My name is teacher Caitlin!” I blurt out with a bit too much enthusiasm. They all stare blankly. I wonder if they are bored or confused. Some students are whispering to each other. Finally, one student courageously asks, “Teacher Kade?” Oh boy, this is going to be tough.

One of my 11th grade classes (now 12th grade class) at the end of last semester.

***

It’s a typical afternoon. Midterms are just around the corner and with them, winter is coming. Outside, the sun is shining radiantly against the bright greenery surrounding the school buildings. I check the weather app on my phone, realizing that this crisp winter weather is actually 85 degrees Fahrenheit. The only sign of anything resembling the coming of the winter season that I am familiar with is the dry piles of dead leaves that students have swept into perfectly manicured piles. I’m sure these piles of leaves will be burnt soon, leaving the yards, gardens, and pathways throughout the school campus looking as clean and precise as the student’s neatly tucked uniforms. 

I’m sitting in the foreign language office, staring out the window and daydreaming about clearing piles of snow, cutting down a Christmas tree, and drinking hot chocolate on a truly cold winter’s day when I hear a melodious echo coming from the door, singing, “Hello… it’s me…” I join in, “I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet…” and we sing together in a gloriously off-tune rendition of Adele’s “Hello.” It’s one of my M6 (12th grade) students named, Sean. His friends, Anucha and Nut are in tow, not far behind. On many afternoons, these three students come to chat with the foreign language teachers and their entrance is often preceded by a dramatic opening of the door, followed by Sean singing Adele. It never gets old. This office was clearly their home long before it became mine. Sean struts over to my desk. “Teacher Cait! How many cups of coffee today?” he asks. “Only two today,” I reply. “Drink more coffee!” he laughs, always finding the amount of coffee I drink to be both hilarious and alarming at the same time. We sit together, joking about Katy Perry’s crazy new hair-do and playing Uno, which they have become addicted to despite the disapproving looks from other teachers who associate any card games with illegal gambling. Taylor Swift is dancing at her concert streaming on YouTube from a cell phone on the floor. We sing along to “22” as Anucha worships Taylor’s beauty and style. “Uno!” someone shouts. The room is filled with laughter and cheer. Maybe this does feel like the start of the holiday season after all, I think to myself.

             Celebrating Christmas morning with fellow Fulbright ETAs outside of my little pink house after a super slumber party.

Making "Gingerbread Houses" with my 11th grade students before Christmas.

                                                           ***

I’m so excited! My sister, Annarose, is coming today! I have been counting down the days until she would visit. She has been studying abroad at Chiang Mai University and now that the semester has ended, she will come spend ten whole days with me before flying home for Christmas! Her flight arrives early in Khon Kaen, a city that is about an hour from my school. It’s 5:40 am and the sun has not yet stretched her warm, glowing fingertips over the sleepy town of Yangtalad. Nonetheless, I’m wide awake in eager anticipation. I walk out the front door of my bubble gum pink house in the woods behind my school. As I make my way down the dirt road that winds its way to the highway in front of school, I listen to the cicadas humming. I keep a careful lookout for snakes and giant centipedes that may be hiding in the brush lining the uneven road. Dogs that belong to neighboring teachers perk their heads up as I pass by. Most give me a nod of recognition before snuggling back into their cozy morning slumber, but one jumps up and starts barking as it leaps up to greet me… or chase me. I exit the school gate and cautiously run across the unforgiving traffic that is the epitome of Thai highways. A few minutes later, I see the first van heading my way and wave it down. The driver rolls the window down and I ask, “Bpai Khon Kaen, mai kha? (Going to Khon Kaen?)” He nods and I hop in. The other passengers stare at me in bewilderment, probably surprised to see a young, white girl in this part of Thailand. I can’t blame them; I too have caught myself staring whenever I see a young, western-looking person anywhere within a one hour drive of Yangtalad. On bad days, the staring gets to me, but today I am too excited to feel an ounce of irritation. As we make our way through the rice fields, I see the farmers working hard as the sun makes herself known for the day. A family of water buffalo is swimming playfully in the deep edges of the rice fields. We arrive at Khon Kaen bus station and I am met by my Thai friends, Wan and Bon, with whom I often go rock climbing.

Rock climbing on Tonsai beach in Southern Thailand.

I am always shocked by the kindness and generosity I am met with here. They drove out at 7 a.m. on a Sunday to take me to the airport to meet my sister and all get breakfast together. When I see Annarose walking out of the arrivals gate, I almost cry. I feel an odd tingle of energy that starts deep in the pit of my stomach and makes its way up my spine and into my throat, where it feels somewhere between a desire to gasp for air and a sigh of relief. Wow, it feels good to have a piece of home! Until this moment, I didn’t realize how desperately I needed this. I can’t stop hugging her, poking her, playing with her hair, and annoying her in all ways possible as older sisters are wont to do. She cringes at the annoyance as I giggle and provoke her more, but she takes it in stride because deep down, I know she craved this sisterly “comfort” as a gentle reminder of home as well.

Taking a selfie with students and foreign teachers before heading to the market.
Left to right: Jan Jaew (Chinese teacher), Chompoo (Korean teacher), Duang Dao (Chinese teacher), Sean (12th grader), Not (10th grader), Nut (12th grader), Anucha (12th grader), and me (front and center, taking the selfie)

***

Peddling my rickety bicycle with two mostly flat tires down the dirt road behind my school makes me question why I agreed to ride 20 minutes down the highway when I can barely make it 100 meters down a road with no traffic. I put air in the tires often, but somehow they always end up flat by the end of the week. According to my research from Google, I am guessing the cause is somewhere in the realm of “hole in tire.” I must get that fixed at some point, I think to myself. I round the corner and see Chompoo (the Korean teacher), Duang Dao (a Chinese teacher), and Jan Jaew (another Chinese teacher) alongside a few of my Mattayom 6 (12th grade) students standing with their bicycles by the school gate. We look like a group of kids from a Stephen Spielberg movie about to take on some mysterious adventure in the rural town of Yangtalad. I make it to the gate, ready to continue on our way to the Friday night market in “downtown” Yangtalad, but of course have to hop off to take a group selfie first. Before I moved to Thailand, I thought selfies were a bit embarrassing or unnecessary. After a few months here, I think I have fully embraced the selfie culture, rarely going a day without taking or being in a selfie with some students, teachers, or even random strangers. The selfie has somehow tiptoed its way into my daily routine, and I can’t say that I hate it anymore. 

We ride down the side of the highway, single file with me in the back like a group of kids from The Goonies or Stranger Things. Smoky air fills my lungs as I dodge the chaotic cars, zooming motorbikes, and intimidating street dogs. People stare at us as we whizz by. We are an odd site to see in this town: a group of Thai teenagers riding bicycles followed by… the farang (that’s me). At the market, we spread out in search of the perfect feast. Sean, Chompoo, and I stick together, snaking through the crowds, our eyes dancing from colorful seas of fruits and vegetables to sizzling pots of fried chicken and further still to the sugary trays full of mysterious treats. The omnipresence of sugar and spice floats through the air, making our taste buds yearn for what is soon to come. I can’t help but feel excited whenever I come to the market; so much energy, so much vibrancy, and of course, so much food! 

I see many of my students here with friends and family buying kanom (snacks), or dinner, or both. As they pass me, they become shy. It must feel weird to see the foreign teacher outside of school, I think. They smile and wave, “Hello, teacher,” then giggle as they are on their way. When we meet the rest of the group, we realize that we truly do have a feast ahead of us. We compare our newfound treasures of Pad Thai, Som Tam (Papaya Salad), mini bananas, fried chicken, some sort of jelly looking dessert, spring rolls, grilled fish, and of course sticky rice. Our mouths are watering in excitement and anticipation as we stuff our delicious delicacies into our bicycle baskets. Mae Mam, the former head of our English department has invited us to bring dinner to her house for a celebration! Alas, the semester has come to an end, and these students will soon be graduating and moving on to further their studies at University. Mae Mam is like a Thai mother to me (that Thai word for “mother” directly translating to Mae), always offering support, guidance, and kindness with every action she takes. I can tell that these students feel the same way. We all hop back onto our bicycles, making our way back towards school with hungry bellies, excited for our Friday night dinner together. I look ahead at this single file line of bicycles, and while I cannot see their faces, I can feel the presence of their smiles. These students have become my people. As we peddle into the dark, the air continues to leak from my tires. I peddle harder to keep up with everyone and realize that a grin has begun to spread across my face. In this instant, on this Friday night alongside a bunch of Thai teenagers and fellow foreign teachers from China and Korea, I realize a tiny sweet moment of joy.

Me with some of my graduating seniors after the final day of a series of weekly English camps that were fully organized and facilitated by my student, Anucha.
Left to right: Not (10th grader), Anucha (12th grader), Pachara (12th grader), me, Sean (12th grader), and Nut (12th grader). 

The perfect, imperfect, and everything in between

      

Jessie Durning is a 2016-2017 Fulbright-AMCHAM English Teaching Assistant (ETA) at Ban Kumuang School in the Ubon Ratchathani Province. She is originally from Winnetka, Illinois. Last May, she graduated from Connecticut College with a B.A. in American Studies and Human Development as well as an elementary education teaching certification. In her free time, Jessie enjoys visiting with local friends, exploring Ubon on foot or by bike, traveling around Thailand to meet up with fellow ETA’s, and staying connected with family and friends from home. After the completion of her Fulbright grant, she plans to travel for a few months learning about other cultures and return home ready to work in a field that helps to promote cross-cultural understanding. 

Ring ring. Ring ring. The first alarm of the day goes off. I quickly reach for my phone and without even opening my eyes, turn it off. I fall back asleep for just five more minutes as I wait for the second alarm to go off. Ring ring. Ring ring. I slowly sit up in bed and turn off my alarm. It’s still dark outside as I walk across the room to turn the light on. “You ready?” I say to my roommate before turning on the bright fluorescent light. “Okay yes, go,” she responds timidly. After the light is on, we both scurry around the room quietly to get ready for the day. The songtao, a truck with bus-like seats in the back, leaves in 20 minutes from the staff compound to the hotel and if we miss it, we would have to walk, which neither of us wants to do at 6:00 am. I cover my body with sunscreen, put on my mahout uniform, grab my hat and sunglasses, and I’m ready to go. My roommate and I head outside and say hello to the driver. If we’re running a few minutes late, he knows to wait for us because we are the only ones on this early ride.

My roommate, Laetitia, during our early morning commute.

This is a typical morning during my internship at the Golden Triangle Asian Elephant Foundation (GTAEF). The elephants start their day bright and early, so we do too. My roommate and I eat breakfast while watching the sunrise over the mountains and trees filled with mist, just spotting Myanmar in the distance. We load up on coffee and black tea before heading down to the elephant camp to begin the work day.


The Golden Triangle Asian Elephant Foundation is a non-profit organization that aims to provide a safe haven for rescued elephants, while also helping the wild population thrive and grow. The foundation currently has 24 elephants from all over Thailand with a variety of backgrounds. Some elephants were once logging elephants, while others were taxi or show elephants. The foundation works hard to ensure that the elephants live a happy and healthy life which is not an easy task. It takes space, passionate and flexible employees, and lots and lots of food. Luckily, the foundation works directly with the Anantara Golden Triangle Resort, which helps provide a beautiful and appropriate environment for the elephants to roam. The foundation staff consists of seven members as well as 32 mahouts. For food, elephants eat about 10% of their body weight a day, which roughly equates to about 200 kg of food every day. The foundation hires local farmers to bring in large bundles of grass, pumpkins, sugar cane, and bananas to feed the elephants.

One of my favorite elephants, Beau, eating some tall grass. Not as tasty as sugarcane, but still pretty good

The foundation strives to treat the elephants kindly and ethically. It also works to bring in enough donations to feed and care for these magnificent animals. Asian elephants have been captive in Thailand for thousands of years. However, it was not until relatively recently that true conservation efforts began to save and care for these important animals. All over Thailand, you can find sanctuaries and foundations with one single goal: to help captive Asian elephants. Despite this common goal, every sanctuary and foundation has different methods and opinions on the best way to protect and help these animals.


Throughout my time as an intern, I have learned how to assess an imperfect situation and to look at it from all angles and perspectives before making a judgment. The GTAEF believes in protecting the elephants, while also ensuring the mahouts, guests, and elephants are safe. Domesticated elephants are no different than wild elephants, except for the fact that they are more comfortable around humans. That does not mean, however, that they might not unpredictably resort to their more “wild” ways. Ultimately, this means that some practices used at the foundation are arguably controversial and difficult, at least for me, to accept. The mahouts use bull hooks. At the foundation, these hooks are not used to harm the elephant, but rather to guide the elephant using the wooden end (non-hook end) of the stick. These hooks are a part of mahout culture and the mahouts feel strongly that they need to have some way to protect themselves if something were to go wrong. In a perfect world, the mahouts wouldn’t need these hooks. However, as long as humans are interacting with elephants in an intimate way, the hook is perceived as a necessary precautionary measure. Another uncomfortable practice is that at some points throughout the day and night, the elephants are on chains and prevented from roaming freely. While the chains are extremely long and give the elephant plenty of space to roam, interact with friends, and forage for food, they also prevent the elephants from fighting or hurting each other and from crossing the border into Myanmar and finding themselves in a less safe situation.

A 26-year-old female elephant, Jathong, at the end of the day.

In a perfect situation, these elephants would be able to roam freely around Thailand without fear of abuse or being killed. At this point, however, that is simply not possible. Therefore, foundations such as GTAEF work tirelessly to provide a home for these elephants, albeit imperfect, but away from abuse and harm. Initially, I was uncomfortable with this imperfect situation. I had researched about hooks and chains and I made a snap judgment about the “best” way to treat elephants in captivity. After working at the foundation, I learned quickly that there is no “best” or “perfect” situation because the perfect situation would be that all elephants live in the wild. I learned that an imperfect situation isn’t always a bad situation. GTAEF makes active choices to protect and care for their elephants while continually researching and learning more about alternative methods to better provide for the elephants. The organization has taught me to research thoroughly, all sides, not just the one I think I might agree with, before making any decisions or judgments. I am reminded to be critical of a situation, while also keeping an open mind.


These lessons will stay with me throughout my time in Thailand because, truly, no situation is ever perfect. The Thai school system, like any school system, is not perfect. During my first six months teaching in Thailand, there were many times when I expected a situation would be “perfect” and then I would be disappointed when something went wrong. I found that I often needed to improvise or change my lesson plans on the spot usually because of circumstances beyond my control. Sometimes I would find out minutes before a class that those students would not be coming. Other times, because of a mandatory assembly, students would show up to class 40 minutes late giving me just 20 minutes to teach them a modified lesson. Throughout my time in Thailand thus far, I have been given the opportunity to observe teaching methods and discipline strategies. I don’t always agree with these methods and strategies. My internship at GTAEF taught me that instead of placing a judgement on these methods, I should try and look at them with an open, yet critical eye. It is impossible to make any judgements about the school system before learning about how it relates to the history and culture of Thailand. It has taught me to look at an imperfect situation, such as the Thai school system, from a broader perspective first in order to understand the cultural context before narrowing in on specific issues.

Walked outside my classroom to find every female student being treated for lice...
a less than perfect situation indeed!

I must admit that these imperfect moments still shake me up a bit. Yet, my time at GTAEF has taught me to view these situations differently, with an open mind and a flexible attitude. I’ve begun to realize that there is no such thing as a “perfect” situation. There will always be multiple sides to complicated issues. There will always be things that go wrong, materials that are missing, miscommunications. I’ve begun to believe that these imperfect situations are what make life interesting and I look forward to many more during the rest of my time in Thailand.

Can't think of a better way to end my day than bathing elephants and getting muddy.

I am exactly who you want me to be.

Tyler West is a Fulbright-AMCHAM English Teaching Assistant in Chiang Saen, Northern Thailand, where he teaches English to Mattayom level students. This year is Tyler’s second time teaching English in Thailand for he spent a summer educating in Phuket during college. His experience in Phuket changed his perspective on his future, on the world, and on himself—immersing himself into writing and visual arts, which is now a common past-time. He is from Boston, Massachusetts and graduated from Claremont McKenna College as a Psychology major. He hopes to use the knowledge gained from this Fulbright experience to inspire others to discover and follow their intuitions. 




At first it was silent, a pure silence, one that I thought would never leave, it was oddly familiar and comforting, but it seemed so distant, like as if I reached for it, I would lose my hand. It was like this was what would be heard from the inside of a pristine, clear crystal. The way it cloaked my surrounding caused me to remain very still. On the first night in my new home in a foreign small town called Chiang Saen, located on the northern border of Thailand, that shared a scenic view of the Mekong River with Laos, I looked for someone to talk to. I knew no one was there, but I still looked. I had an idea what I was searching for, my mind blending thoughts with lyric with whispers, it was the kind of utterance that could be heard, but lost if focused on.

I knew no one was going to speak up from behind my bedroom door or rise up from under my twin-sized mattress and metal frame to greet me [believe me, I had checked], but the silence was starting to get under my skin and I wanted some thoughts to circulate that were other than my own. That night, I remember having the lights off as I laid on the blue stiff-sheeted bed staring at the tiled ceiling, dozing off, thinking:

I have been here before.

Odd how years ago look like last week from inside the crystal, and it is even odder that I am visited by questions I asked in my adolescence and the earnest statements spoken to me on my high school graduation day. This type of solitude, this deep deep deep deep dive, plays the same games as it used to, finding a way to move the dark, dashing the distance between you and the greater cosmos; that’s how I knew this was familiar. I knew that out there floats a nondescript pair of chanting, muttering lips that had a quiescent buzzing that never stopped. 

At that moment, I was keen, the room was at the surface and the space was empty besides myself, some basic bedroom furniture and three lifeless suitcases. The lips must be sleeping, I thought, catching up on the lag, figuring itself out, still lost somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, muttering. Then suddenly the silence of the room began to turn like I was strapped with vertigo, and a temperament wet the room. 

All the places you’ve been, and you are home.

[That was all I could make out.]

* * * * * *

The lilt of schoolgirls and schoolboys lingers around Chiang Saen Wittayakhom’s campus until about 18:00 o’clock on Fridays with a lightness sweet with thoughts of the next day, and in this particular case, the next three days as Monday was a national Buddhist holiday. I walk the two hundred yards from the English Teacher’s Office to my house on campus in less than three minutes. I get home, drop my bag, change out of my teacher clothes and open my shutters.

Light sprints into the room doing cartwheels, throwing spirals, and the final rings of worrylessness gleam by with the passing of a school van. Two weeks have passed without this room seeing this light and the floorboards' immediate reaction was this booming sort of crackling. Reaching my hands far above my head, I stretch to push everything out, 

trying to ready myself for the long weekend ahead.

* * * * * *


About a month ago, after spending Thanksgiving weekend in Chiang Rai City with other Fulbright peers, I left the city seated at the back of a green bus that looked like it had been designed in the 80s and running ever since. For the whole hour and a half ride to Chiang Saen, I had a restful feeling coursing through me, telling me that it was time to settle in. So when I got home, I went to find my paints and pens and pencils that were still in their boxes and spread them out on the table. Looking over the street and at the other teacher houses on campus, there was not a person in sight, and that recognition—for one reason or another— firmly gripped me and twisted my lid open. And there was a satisfying tingle that filled the air and my fingers, like when you open a fresh jar of pickles and feel the pop. 

Without a word, I was decanted and spread across the wooden floors of my new home. For that week, I stepped outside of myself and the world around me. I converted the second bedroom in my new home into a part-study, part-studio, and also took it upon myself to transform it into something more than that. This space was given to me for one year, a year that I am blessed to be gifted, and I wanted to make this space representative of that. I think that’s what was getting under my skin, scratching at my walls. My recent affliction for creating art and the rush that accompanies the process seemed to have been patiently waiting for this space and this time to become, and for once in my life, I knew exactly what I had to do and exactly where I needed to be.

A photo I took of one of my students preparing for the school's march for the commencement of sports day. Here, you can see the fog that rests over the Mekong River most mornings.

By the next weekend, I had grown these strange desires, ones of a wallowing recluse, where I did not want to witness another’s walking pace or spoken word or even their manner of washing their hands for fear that it may untie my focus and potentially tarnish my perspective and its inspirations. In my bedroom studio, hours slid by unnoticed like a black cat’s strut overnight sand; hours where I was thoroughly entranced and riveted, putting lines, colors, and water on the page. Everything I have learned about the world its motions—from human psychology to rhythm recognition to social dynamics to spatial awareness—were felt inside of me like leaves swirling in a wind tunnel as I put paint together with curves and paired angles with patterns and symbols. I was looking for what rules held a simple design together. And then I would tell myself to go crazy, and break the rules I just spent hours defining. And then I would be mad at myself and risks. And then I would take a step back and see it differently. And I would start anew. 

It was as if I were in a bowl of soup of my own making and I yearned only to bask, bathe and butterfly within it, all the while acknowledging the reality that just over the brim of this bowl, all ceased to exist. The rest of the world succumbed to this blossoming interest of mine and bowed, fading to black. Every evening it got darker. After the sun dipped its head in the ocean, there was an uncanny motivation inside of me to get to work, and this radiated through the floors and up the walls of my state.

A genuine thrill rose up from the space, and gradually I found myself no longer in a chamber of silence, but amongst company; ones of my kin. For with each creation and each development, there was a new character, interaction and relationship in my life to maintain and get to know, like each design and concept was an excitable, breathing child yanking on my end of shirt posing questions. And before I could realize it, I was surrounded, though isolated, on this island. Part of me knew this was all I ever wished for, part of me was speechless, but as the creations came to life night after night, the words emitted by the floating lips became more comprehensible, more guiding.

A digital collage piece that is mad compositing photos I've captured of flowers, a camp fire, my inspriation—my girlfriend, and a sketch that I created. This work took up many of my hours of solitude in my home in Chiang Saen, and for that I am so thankful.

I spent mornings studying Gaugin, Malevich, Kandinsky and his text Concerning the Spiritual in Art. Then I would indulge in writings of eastern philosophy, thoughts pertaining to Taoism, Buddhism, and the Zen mind. By night, I was filling my rooms up entirely with water, and letting myself be surrounded by its muted buzz, simultaneously trying to communicate, swim and fly. Entire days came and went and all that I asked for was no disturbances. 

Drawing inspiration from my studies and the depth of musical soundscapes, I returned to being a student, a serious student, one with more air

and thusly more fire. Novel phrasing, niche terminology, and different ideas took my understandings and altered them, changing how I approached creating an artwork and more so

my lifestyle, asking the rules and standards to no longer be boundaries but mere objects and props. One painter’s style sticks close to representation, another vies to completely reject it. 

[Asking: What do I do? Both? Something in the middle? Neither? What does “neither” look like?]

There was no proper side that I should choose; there was only my choice. And that was liberating. These were lofty, high-reaching thoughts to consider for a new man in a lone room. But I was lucky—it was not just me anymore, there was other life present in my works, and they could talk me through it. 

I believe everything happens for a reason, when this line is drawn it give the possibility for the next line, the next angle to be drawn, and that how all the elements are related. For me, a component of the process that I find so very intriguing is the ability and challenge for the mind to see things that are not there yet—to conceptualize and to feel—and to be tasked with finding a way to make what you see come to be. What I knew to be true was that parts of my story and my experience somehow managed to be externalized in this artistic process and, with due effort, successfully put myself on display right in front of me—like my works were a mirror.  And I became obsessed with looking at myself, my past, my future.

* * * * * *

Inspiration came from all angles—there is no other way to put it—I was experiencing the wonder that many minds have tried to outwardly explain, but could not quite capture its grandeur because, as I realized, it is too intricately constructed and uniquely personalized in each of us.

Though, one thing we all knew, the energy of it all was undeniable; it is powerfully distracting and wholly consuming. 

From this position, the crystal could not have been any clearer, and the words no sharper, for all the time alone and this personal space to create revealed a dormant, clandestine side of me that is closer to whom I really am than the person I wear on my back. A side—rather, a person—that I always have known was there, and for as long as I can remember, it was this someone that I constantly summoned and one [though I don’t know his name] who gave me veiled replies. But it was not until these hours, in this space, that he opened his door, opened his lid, poured me a glass, and sang me a song. It was as if I was meeting my legitimate father for the first time who had been my neighbor my entire life. I felt much older and at the same time as sprung as a child. 

Together—we talk and talk and talk. Together—we break down bricks and mold our own castes from its clay, marvel at the flame of struck matches and the constellations that form theories across our open sky. Looking down at the foothills, I don’t think I could have done this without him. In fact, without him, this mountaintop probably would not even exist.

A picture of three of my students and I on the last day of school before New Year's break.

When it has spoken and every of pencil lines has been erased, there stands another piece of myself, free of ever vessel. Together—we rejoice for the connection we have made is much greater than any single point or any single line; we achieved the impossible, the immaculate, for we created one from one. 

Looking at myself in this mirror I am proud of the person that I see, the person I have made. I would not take back any moment, any decision, I would not take away any line that was drawn as that would be jeopardizing everything else that followed. I am proud of my determination, proud that I can make what I envision a reality. I am proud I have made it past tomorrow. I didn't know this process would end in feeling a heightened sense of love for myself. All I knew was that—deep deep deep deep down—it was what felt fitting and good and right.

Taking a second, I looked at the four orange midnight-glazed walls that cradled all of me. And I thanked them. This discovery would not have reached the surface if I were not given this time, this space, and this opportunity to create my insides outwardly and to follow my gut—my illustrious intuition—which, I believe, is what led me to self-love.

* * * * * *

Three hours have passed since the light danced in through my windows and splintered the dust covered floor, but I remain in the same place, unmoved, oozed over immobile by some kind of glue and I can’t find that guiding voice. The long weekend ahead grows more daunting with each moment of stasis and beaded sweat in the confines of my part-study, part-studio. At the moment, what is circulating through my head is not the life that lived in this space a couple weeks ago, but the recent social life that recorded many memories and burns them bright. And I am stuck here, stunned by the past, tangled in the fact that I cannot go backwards and relive and redo, and therefore cannot go forward. The whirls get so 
wicked that I am suddenly asking myself:


Who are you? Who are you?


For some reason, the actions of my seventh grade self that caused my first love to fall and leave me disappointed come to haunt me, crippling me. I stand up to find my legs and go over to the speaker and turn the music up louder as if that would bring the voice back to me, but it didn’t. It makes things worse. And then the song changes, and it's my favorite, and chills turn my skin to brail, and there I am again—a younger me—singing the words of my youth’s religion, finding that the problems that shackled me then have not been broken away from me now almost a decade later. And my spine folds. 

A watercolor piece that I mixed with digital art, using an old photo of myself
when I was an adventurous kid and some digital lettering. 

From between the two parted wooden shutters, a bike’s wheel crunches a dry, open-faced, fallen autumn leaf and in a found rhythm, the bike’s bell chimes once, twice and I am instantly reminded of where I am. I stop the music, but mindlessly continue singing the words of my creed, urging myself to feel how I did when I first

heard this melody—to be inspired and hopeful and understood and angry and isolated—determined and lost. But every color looked different in me now. I have gone places, I have changed.

1: Who are you?

2: Give me time, and we will see. Who are you?

1: I am exactly who you want me to be.

The Give and the Take

Madison Chicoine is from Des Moines, Iowa. She is a 2016-17 Fulbright-AMCHAM ETA placed at Thasala School in Nakhorn Si Thammarat Province, Southern Thailand. Madison studied elementary education with an art minor at Cornell College. She is not entirely sure where her path will lead her once she is done teaching in Thailand, but she knows that whether formally or informally, she will always be a teacher. In her free time, she likes to go for runs, blog, and explore local markets. 

Growing up I was always told about the big things that I was going to do one day. Like many parents, mine made me feel special, as if I was a gift to the world and that my special talents were going to make it so much better one day. This mindset was further reinforced in my college days when everyone was pumped full of Ghandi's "be the change" attitude. However, what my parents, college leaders, and then I forgot to consider was that perhaps sometimes the world is doing just fine on its own. Sure, there's a lot of room for improvement, but wouldn't it be a bit egotistical to think that there isn't at least one place out there that is doing fine without me coming in and being a do-gooder? This is something that I think is often forgotten in all the hype of volunteering and giving back. I know that I certainly forgot about it as my month long internship at the Camillian Social Center in Chiang Rai approached. What I realized after spending some time here is that sometimes, despite other intentions, I end up taking more than I give.


When I applied to work at Camillian’s Home of Charity, a boarding school for students with disabilities, I felt that it was the perfect opportunity for my particular experiences and training. I am a licensed teacher. I have a few years of experience working with the special needs population, and, thanks to Fulbright, I now have experience teaching in Thailand as well. With supposedly the perfect skills, I came to Camillian with the confidence that I was going to fulfill my parents' prophecy and really make an impact during my time there. I was excited to use my past experiences and training to contribute to their organization. 

 

The kids loved learning how to play UNO.

During my time at Camillian I taught a few English classes in the mornings, and some afternoons I shared a bit of my culture with the students. One day we spent the afternoon making woven yarn monsters and God’s Eyes, an American summer camp classic Another day we made peanut butter cookies, which turned out quite well despite not having measuring cups and being over-mixed from all the fun that the kids had playing with the pre-baked dough. I thought I had mastered the art of imprecise baking by the time we attempted chocolate meringue cookies. However, if I would have had more experience in making meringues I had realized that this recipe in particular needs a bit more precision than other cookie recipes. In the end, the cookies were pretty ugly but the kids had fun and they were still tasty. In addition to yarn crafts and cookie making, I spent the rest of my time at Camillian playing with the kids, teaching them songs, and assisting the staff whenever I could. 

My amazing coworkers were always ready to help me with my baking experiments.

Even though I contributed to Camillian in all of the ways I could, I was humbled when I realized how independent the staff was in their day to day activities. Of course they found ways for me to be involved, but, at the end of the day, my being there did not drastically change their success or institutional capacity. Additionally, I realized that even though sometimes they did things differently than what I was used to, any suggestions I could have made would have been a lateral move--even though their processes weren’t the same as mine, they worked just as well. For example, in my prior experiences, it was not okay to have mobile children push around their wheelchair bound peers as a precautionary safety measure. However, at Camillian children were always helping each other out in those ways and I never saw any negative consequences because of this. Actually, because everyone was encouraged to help each other and these were some of the most caring children I had ever met. Realizing that I was misled in assuming all of the ways I could change how things were being done was humbling, but in addition to that, I was also ashamed of the white savior complex I’d unknowingly fallen into. This was one of those instances when the “be the change” attitude steered me wrong: the Camillian Center is a well run organization which was doing well before I joined them and will continue doing great things when I leave. Truth be told, in the end, I feel that I got more from them than I was able to give back.


Of the many things I learned during my time at Camillian--the most prominent lesson I learned from the staff and children--was how to welcome a stranger. Despite the many volunteers that come and go within a month or two, everyone there welcomed me as if I had planned to stay there for a year or more. With volunteers being so transitory, I would have imagined, and even expected, them to be a bit more closed off than they were. Instead, I was warmly welcomed into their family: the kids called out greetings to me every morning; and it was noticed if I missed a meal (the cook even ensured there was extra food if I ran late for dinner). Similarly, instead of running away from me, as I experienced with my shy students during my first few weeks teaching in Southern Thailand, the kids would call out to me asking for assistance or just someone to chat with. At first I thought that maybe I was special in some way. After all, I did speak a bit of Thai and could communicate more with everyone there than the typical volunteer. However, after seeing such a warm welcoming to another volunteer I realized that this is something special about the children and staff at Camillian. They are incredibly open to accepting strangers into their lives, especially considering that they already know how fleeting each volunteer’s time will be there.

In addition to this lesson in love, my time at Camillian also taught me a lot about the culture of Northern Thailand. As the students began to return home for summer break, I was allowed to go and drop them off with other staff members. Often the students’ homes were high-up in mountain villages and, despite how scary it was to zip up, down, and around on the narrow dirt roads, I felt very fortunate to get to see so much of where these students called home. To top things off, when we arrived at each of the houses we were offered to share lunch with the student and his or her family. Sitting on my little woven stool and sharing an Akha style meal (which is one of the many tribes located in Northern Thailand) was an amazing and truly authentic cultural experience that I will never forget.

Here I am feeling so happy to share a meal at one of my students' homes.

When I first signed up to intern at Camillian, all I really wanted was to learn more about life for individuals with disabilities in Thailand. I never anticipated all that I’d learn about love, culture, and all of the different, yet equally effective, ways to operate in the special needs community. I feel that the little bit of English and culture I taught pales in comparison. At first this made me uncomfortable, since an axiom of most volunteerism (or related work) is to give more than you take. So what happens when you end up taking more than what you put in?


After some reflection on this and talking to one of the Catholic sisters who works here, I stumbled upon the realization that perhaps it’s impossible to actually know how much is given or taken. While currently the scale seems unbalanced, perhaps in the future more volunteers will end up at Camillian because of the experiences I share with them. Or maybe I will teach my future students about what I learned of Thai culture and help shape them into more open-minded individuals who will then go on to give back in their own ways. At the same time, I’m sure that my friends at Camillian will continue to teach volunteers through their warm and welcoming ways. It feels like I wasn’t able to do enough to make up for how much Camillian has given me, I am, nonetheless, confident that what I learned during my time here will become a part of an even bigger cycle of give and take – a cycle that will continue on as long as people keep learning, caring, loving, and growing from each other.