Top 5 People I'd Rather Hit Than My Students

One of the teachers recently told me that she does not believe I’m strict enough with the children. I find this interesting because when compared with Kayleigh, Sam, and Elena, I fear I’m going to be labeled the “American Bitch.” They’re all so much calmer than I. I yell. I’m a yeller. But you see, to American ears, Chinese people speaking to one another always sounds like they’re yelling and fighting. Really they are saying “I love you,” and “pass the chili.” When I told a Chinese teacher about the trouble I was having with Harry, she said “oh yes, I hit him all the time.” Hitting. Cultural differences. Not quite my style, however I’ve made a list of the top five people I’d rather hit than my students.

Top 5 People I’d Rather Hit Than My Students

1)            I’m not exactly sure who is giving the children their English names, but I really wish I could find her, flick her in the head, hand her a RECENT book of baby names, and tell her that if she names one more girl “Betty” I will beat her.  If I am lucky enough to have two girls in one class, one will always be named Betty. The other will be Kitty. I have a class of six with James I and James II. I have a class of eight with Big Jerry and Little Jerry. Big Jerry haunts my nightmares…. All the American Susans and Bettys are at least fifty. “Hanty” is not a name. I don’t think any Esters survived World War II. And all non-Hispanic female Angels are prostitutes. I even have a boy named Zoe. Truly terrible kid. Refuses to participate, and gives you this glare like he’s going to eat your family. Seriously, his glare is worse than mine (which is really saying something for those of you who know me.) My theory is that a teacher he terrorized named him Zoe as payback. For my last day of teaching I received the most wonderful gift a teacher can get: a student named Slytherin.

2)            Those people who don’t put diapers on their babies, then have them pee in the middle of walking streets.

3)            The asshole at Volkswagen who invented what I like to call “seatbelt blockers.” Fancy looking sticks with the VW logo, that you can put in your buckle to prevent belts from going in.  According to my host family, “you only need a seatbelt on the highway.” Not on the crazy deathtrap city streets, where cab drivers swerve like madmen, walking paths are driving lanes, and one-lane streets exist but no one-way streets. I miss suing culture.

4)            People who drive on the sidewalk, then beep at you to get out of their way. THEY’RE THE ONES IN THE WAY!!

5)            We’ve all seen them. They swarm into rest stops and devour everything in sight. They aggressively weave through the most touristy attractions, while all wearing the same hat. Under the command of a ferocious woman with a flag and a microphone, they follow blindly. They make it impossible to actually see the tourist attractions because they’re so busy holding up peace fingers and taking pictures in front of them. You know what I’m talking about. Chinese tour groups. And somebody, I’m not sure who, thought it would be fun for us to be a part of one. Outside, in the 40 degree Celsius weather. Well…I mean…it's a cultural experience.

One of the company’s excuses for paying us so little to work so hard was that we would receive a free cultural trip at the end. So here I am in Phoenix (tourist trap hell.) It’s like Paris: there are lots of different bridges for crossing the river; it’s packed with tourists; things are waaaaay more expensive than they should be…okay that’s where the comparisons end. It’s basically an old minority town, where the natives sell cheap knock offs of their traditional jewelry, and tourist can dress up in their traditional garb and take pictures along the river.  The bridges I mentioned are actually terribly precarious logs slapped together. They’re about 3ft wide with tourists aggressively trying to pass each other on both sides. After the first day we’d had enough of the heat and the tour group (without an English translator.) We turned ourselves nocturnal. The second day we slept all day, and pa…went to museums all night.

On the bright side, I picked up some beautiful jewelry and saw a weird ass magic show. One magician claimed to have hypnotized a chicken. (I think the chicken was just well trained.) Another magician not only swallowed fire, but put it all over his body. And I mean ALL over his body. It was totally worth the 6-hour weakly air-conditioned bus ride. Not to seem ungrateful… but Person Who Planned This With No Thought At All: you’re number five.

I actually do love being in China…if that doesn’t come across in this post. 

Coke Zero

I really hope that I am making some sort of impact at the school. If just one student walks away pronouncing “the” as “the” instead of “zhe,” or maybe gets to university in London and understands when someone tells her they pulled an “all-nighter,” I’ll be happy.  Right now I suppose I’ll have to settle for knowing I truly affected the school in one way: Coke Zero.  My first two weeks in Changde I thought the only place to buy Coke Zero was Walmart. THEN suddenly one magnificent day, there was a single Coke Zero at the small store beneath the school. I eagerly went up to buy it, but OH NO! it wasn’t for sale! I guess it must have been the storeowner’s personal drink. But the next day something MIRACULOUS happened! The store was selling three Coke Zeros! Sam and I (let’s be honest) frantically purchased them. Teaching is exhausting; we began buying two a day. And then it spread like wildfire. All of our students began buying them. The store fridge now contains just as many Coke Zeros other drinks. The storeowner knows me. He always hands me the delightful beverage before I can even ask for it. Someday Chinese scientists will be studying the aspartame cancer outbreak that struck Changde’s children the hardest. That was me boys, that was me.

I mean “girls.” That was me GIRLS, that was me. In a previous post, “These things look weird without a title,” I wrote about how the boys greatly outnumber the girls in my classes at the very expensive school. In contrast, the less expensive school has a much more even boy-girl distribution. After consulting with one of the Chinese teachers, Nicole, I concluded that it was gender discrimination. However, a recent conversation with another Chinese teacher, Magic, made me wonder if I hadn’t jumped to conclusions. She said that girls are simply easier, therefore parents don’t have to spend extra money on the expensive school. The boys need the small class sizes; they need someone constantly making sure they are paying attention. Girls will pay attention in the big classes, so there’s no need to pay more for smaller class sizes. She told me that gender discrimination doesn’t happen anymore in the cities. I didn’t really know what to think. Nicole had told me herself that it was gender discrimination, but Magic seemed to have a point. The few girls in my classes were always so much better behaved and focused.

Then a new school appeared on my schedule. It was a kindergarten, the only one run by the company. Since there is only one English kindergarten, there are no price options. My first day at the school I was terrified. What was I going to do with a class of thirteen four-year-olds??? What I didn’t expect was that in a class of thirteen, I  would have only two girls. I don’t want to make assumptions anymore…so do with those numbers what you will.

The teachers at the kindergarten were such sweethearts. On my first day two of them shyly asked if I would have lunch with them. They bought me way more food than I could ever eat, and refused to let me pay for anything. I was surprised because most of the teachers at the school in which I usually teach seem a little wary of me. Perhaps it’s because I’m always with the other Americans. Perhaps we’re much more approachable when we’re alone. When living in homestay, it’s so nice to take a break and just talk to someone in rapid-fire English (who totally gets it) for a few hours a day. But I think in being together at school so much, the Northwestern teachers made ourselves unapproachable. To truly immerse oneself in a culture, and make the most native friends as possible, perhaps one has to forgo some of that rapid-fire English time. 

5 Senses

Asia I’ve found (well at least China, India, Cambodia) is constant sensory overload. I love it.

Seeing

It’s not an uncommon experience in the US to walk down the stairs and catch someone drinking straight from the milk or orange juice carton. You make a little awkward eye contact. They giggle. You role your eyes because it’s not really your place to tell them to stop. I had a very similar experience with my host grandfather. The only difference (and I kid you not) was that he was drinking straight from the teakettle.  Seriously, spout in mouth straight from the pot.

Smelling

I was walking to lunch with a teacher whose English name is Magic. I took a breath, and all of a sudden I was coughing and chocking.  I didn’t understand what was happening. My eyes were burning and I was chocking on air! When I was finally able to compose myself, Magic pointed to a giant pile of hot peppers across the street from us. “Those are very very spicy,” she said, “we won’t take this street back.” The air is too spicy for me here. THE AIR!  That’s it. I’m going back to America.

Tasting

You know what’s delicious? Cold, sweet, green (mung) bean soup. No one at home believes me, but I swear to God it’s amazing! It’s so refreshing on a hot  40 degree Celsius (boy did I pick the right time to come to China) day. Who would have thought that my new food obsession would be literally translated as “green bean mush.”

Hearing

Fireworks. Every night. Can’t see em because of all the apartment buildings. Apparently it’s a tradition to set off fireworks when someone dies. It’s depressing that someone within my hearing radius dies every day.  This sound really freaked me out until I asked what it was.

Touching

A Chinese friend of mine, Sophia, took me for a traditional Chinese massage yesterday. As I go through this I want you to keep in mind that I spent $11 USD. Before the massage could even start I had to take a tea bath, and let me tell you: a traditional Chinese tea bath is even more complicated than a traditional Chinese tea ceremony. I had to bathe, then get out, then wait for them to change the water, then get back  in THREE TIMES! While I was in the tub I would scrub my front with a giant teabag, while the masseuse scrubbed my back. Fortunately I read enough South American novels this summer to be moderately okay with being bathed.  Each time I got out of the tub I would have to put my slippers on to walk 1ft to the bed. Then I would lie down and the masseuse would dab the sweat and tea off my face with tissue, and feed me sips of tea, never allowing me to hold the cup myself. During the second and third baths the masseuse fed me sips of a different sweet red liquid. After the last bath I  could feel my pulse throughout my whole body. It was like the feeling you get when you know you’re going to get into deep trouble, or after just having run the mandatory school mile. I wanted to jump out of my skin I had so much energy. It turns out that the red drink was a natural Chinese energy drink. Between that and the tea I’d been soaking in I was hardly ready for a relaxing massage. I was in the mood to dance the night away.

Once in the massage room, the masseuse calmed my pulse by rubbing essential oils on my face.  Then she proceeded to comb my scalp with a wooden comb. It was slightly less than pleasant. The whole first half of the massage was focused on my scalp and face. The focus of the entire second half was on my back. Apparently it’s only supposed to hurt if you’ve messed up your muscles. I most definitely had. They also noticed the different heights of my shoulders, which I tried to explain to them was scoliosis. The massage concluded with masseuse rolling a hot grooved rolling pin-thingy up and down my back.  Oh and more tea.

After the massage, Sophia explained to me that my back might turn red in the next few days. If it did, that would be the toxins leaving my body. Today I am sore as hell, but not muscle sore, burn sore. My back is covered in red splotches…attractive.

No Buy, No Go Home

If I had to compare Changde to a city in the US…I would probably say Hartford, Connecticut.  It’s not even the main city in the Hunan Province. The main city is called Changsha. It’s about a two and a half hour drive away. I would compare Changsha to Cleveland, Ohio.

Last weekend my host family went to stay in their house in Changsha, and took me with them. Going on a road trip is a big step to take with a homestay family. You reaaaally get to know their weak spots, their pressure buttons. For my particular family it was parallel parking. My homestay father would get out of the car, and scream at his wife. My homestay sister would also get out of the car, and whine/scream at her father. My homestay mother would be silent at the wheel, proving all sorts of Asian stereotypes. The process could take up to fifteen minutes. Now I understand what it must have been like for Au Pairs who took vacations with my family. Sometimes you have to take a page from The Princess Bride and take your mind away.

The purpose of the trip was shopping. I bought a blouse they said made me look, “very white.” This is the highest of compliments in China. Betty’s (my homestay sister) only-child-syndrome came out in a major way. There was a pair of shorts her mother really didn’t like, and when Betty was in the changing room she exhaustedly turned to me and said, “I don’t like. But Betty fourteen. No buy, no go home.” That’s the biggest problem with the One Child policy (besides the rights violation): it creates a country full of only children.

Even more than the shopping, my family was excited about the restaurants. The first night they were thrilled to take me to a “Western” restaurant. There I watched people eating spaghetti with chopsticks and ice cream out of bread bowls. And the funniest thing happened. (I should preface this with saying that I eat A TON of street food.) For the first time since I’ve been in China, the food didn’t quite agree with me.  

The next day my family took me to an all you can eat buffet. Direct quote from Betty: It’s very expensive, so we have to eat a lot. And let me tell you, they took all you can eat as a personal challenge. Okay I stole that phrasing from Malcolm in the Middle. But they did! I did my famous/infamous disappearing act with steamed shrimp dumplings. I watched my homestay father eat six pieces of pizza, four pieces of lamb, and least eight salmon sashimis, and four bowls of Haagen-Dazs. And those are just the items I can remember!

Subliminal Empowerment

After weeks of, “Meh-Kan-Ik. Repeat! Meh-Kan-Ik. Mechanic,” I’d finally had enough today. I have one class with only two thirteen-year-old girls. They’re by far my most advanced students. One of the girls was absent, and the other is one of the happiest, giggliest, most positive people I’ve met. She pretty much lives in a Muppet musical. With her I’m allowed to teach more American culture and less vocab, so I thought the perfect theme for today would be American theatre (aka Broadway musicals.) I took some liberties; some of them were British.

It went over splendidly. The only issue was that I would get so passionate that I would start speaking rapid-fire English and she’d have to tell me to slow down. But I could tell she was amazed. She asked for the titles of the plays so that she could watch them on YouTube the next time she’s in Hong Kong. Imagine a world without YouTube! Thank God for Northwestern VPN. This was the line up:

1)   Wicked’s “Defying Gravity”

2)   Aida’s “My Strongest Suit”

3)   Les Miserables’ “One Day More”

4)   Evita’s “A New Argentina”  - I know that “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” is the more famous number, but aside from the dress I think this one’s a lot more powerful

5)   Dream Girls’ “And I Am Telling You” – Dream Girls isn’t my favorite musical, but Jennifer Holliday’s 1982 Tony Awards is my FAVORITE THING PERIOD.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rtnKI3ztz9w

6)   Jesus Christ Superstar’s “Damned For All Time/Blood Money”

7)   Hair’s “The Flesh Failures/Let the Sun Shine In”

I tried to include as many strong women and African Americans as possible (oops with “My Strongest Suit.”) This is something I do in all of my classes. If I’m teaching a vocab word like “business manager” I always make sure that the picture I include is of a female business manager. I don't like to think of it as brainwashing. I would call it "subliminally empowering." 

These things look weird without a title

I live in a happy homestay bubble.  Betty, my homestay sister, doesn’t eat fish. Therefore I do not need to eat fish. My family is dedicated to helping me experience everything Changde has to offer. They take me to traditional Chinese teahouses, and force so much expensive Chinese tea down my throat that every time I get car sick I panic that I’m getting a kidney stone. My homestay father doesn’t like to carry a wallet, so my homestay mother pays for everything and has complete control at restaurants. They’re a goofy bunch. At night we watch 3D movies and eat delicious Chinese fruit and ice cream. Best of all: Betty’s parents spend way more on her education than most girl’s parents would ever dream of.  It wasn’t until my conversation with Elena at lunch today, that I fully grasped how my individual homestay family and being white has colored (haha pun) my experience.

Elena is half Mexican and half African American. Her experience has been much different than mine.

I pretend I’m going to slap my student’s hands: they giggle hysterically

Elena looks as if she might touch one of her students: they back away terrified

I am frequently dodging men on motorcycles while waiting for a cab.

Elena has not been approached by even a single motorcycle.

I created a lot of trouble for the school when I refused to switch homestay families halfway through the program.

A few of the potential homestay families said they would not be comfortable with a black student.

Elena is beautiful. “Leggy” and “fabulous” are the words I’d use. But no one notices in a country where half the beauty products include the word “whitening.”

I cried myself to sleep most nights in India because of the way women were treated, but Elena is so strong. “That’s China,” she says nonchalantly.  “I’m lucky I don’t have to deal with motorcycles.”  “If I want my students to behave, I just have to look like I’m going to touch them.” I’m incredibly impressed by the way she handles it. She doesn’t let it get to her the way I would.

We’ve decided that it’s less racism here, and more ignorance. It’s not as if they have any people of African descent in Changde. They’ve only seen them on TV where they’re portrayed as gangsters and thieves. It’s difficult to describe, but it’s less of a “black’s are inferior” thing, and more of a “be scared of blacks” thing. Of course neither is right, but the latter is slightly less offensive. It’s ignorance. I feel it could be rectified by better information.  American media could take some of the blame.

I have also run into my fair share of gender issues. Oh no! Katherine’s ranting about gender issues again!

Elena and Kayliegh teach at the less expensive school. Their classes have about twenty students. I teach at VIP, the expensive school. I have no classes with more than eight students. Elena and Kayleigh have a gender split of about fifty-fifty. I have at least five boys for every girl. In fact, I have one class with seven boys and one girl. When I spoke to one of the teachers about it, she said, “It’s Chinese gender discrimination. I have four siblings because my parents kept trying for a boy.”

No official from the school contacts Elena, Kayleigh, or me with important information. They all run straight to Ralph and expect him to convey the information to us.

I would say that about 95% of the teachers are female. In speaking with the female teachers, I’ve found out that at least 50% of them are just teaching until they can find a husband.

It’s no India, but things are far from perfect here.

After all the seriousness, I have a funny problem:

The Problem:

The teachers in their early twenties are all in love with the only boy on my trip. Let’s call him Ralph.

Why the Teachers in Their Early Twenties Don’t Like Me:

They believe Ralph and I are dating.

The Biggest Reason Ralph and I Aren’t Dating:

Ralph is gay.

Why I Don’t Like the Teachers in Their Early Twenties:

They hit on Ralph all the time! They text him! None of the teachers have any of the girl’s numbers. If they believe we are dating, then they are trying to steal him from me! Uncool. Women should stick together. I’m hypothetically jealous and angry.

Also, swear to God I’m teaching the Chinese Dudley Dursley.  He terrorizes the smaller kids while swilling from his mammoth iced tea bottle. I’m pretty sure my hopes and dreams are being swallowed with his iced tea.

But teaching can be very rewarding…sometimes. It’s nice to go to sleep at night knowing I’ve accomplished something during the day. And it’s doing wonders for my patience. 

Things I Learned In China (So Far)

Because I have no time to write proper blog entries

I teach 29 classes a week

1)   Water chestnuts do not come from cans. They come from weird purple alien pod thingies.

2)   Do not eat water chestnuts from weird purple alien pods. They taste like dirt.

3)   Do not worry about culture shock. To facilitate an easy transition the Chinese government has kindly placed a KFC, McDonalds, and Starbucks right outside of the immigration line at the Beijing International airport.

4)   Do not thank the cook for dinner. The father who pays the cook will be offended. Thank god I was only in my Beijing homestay for two nights. And the mother was very nice. She bought me coke, breakfast cereal, and Thousand Island dressing to keep me from becoming homesick.

5)   THEY EAT DONKEY HERE!!!!!

6)   Babies don’t have to wear diapers in China. Nor do they have to wear clothing that covers their genitals. If you see a baby squatting in the middle of a train: Notify its mother!

7)   Driving lanes are more of a suggestion. So are breakdown lanes, seatbelts, and driving on the right side of the road.

8)   Beijing is disgusting. Wearing glasses may help to keep the pollution out of your eyes. They say that for every month you live in a developing country you take one year off your life. I believe I lost one year in the two days I spent in Beijing.

9)   Chinese homestay is the best in the world. In other countries one must pay families to host. In China families offer to pay to host. Then they try to figure out all your favorite foods and smother you in them. My homestay sister calls me “her real live Barbie.”

10)                 Always look for programs where teenagers find the homestay families. For our program the number one qualification was: chill. At first I thought my homestay family was terribly overbearing. Then I realized that the fourteen-year-old was just needy. I take her less seriously now.

11)                 Chinese people DO know how to knock. My homestay parents knock. The program organizers knock. Other people’s homestay siblings knock. Just because my homestay sister doesn’t knock doesn’t mean that all Chinese people don’t knock. That’s stereotyping.

12)                 Just because you’re and English teacher doesn’t mean you have to speak English. In fact you can teach from books titled “Good English.” Teachers in China can pretty much get away with anything. Throw a kid out of class: Never hear about it again.  Draw on students with whiteboard markers: No one makes a peep.

13)                 As for the students: CHEATERS!!! Which is why I’m coloring on them with whiteboard markers. Write answers on your hands and I am forced to cover them up with marker. And I’m not even giving them tests. They’re cheating on games!!

14)                 If enough random strangers tell you you’re beautiful you begin to believe it. Example, “she says you’re beautiful. She wants you to tutor her daughter.”

15)                 If cab drivers tell you you’re beautiful…I dunno…maybe get out of the cab. If they spend more time staring at you than the road: That’s bad.

16)                 I no longer notice people staring. It freaks Betty (my homestay sister) out. It bothers the other Northwestern students. But when they mention it my response it usually, “they are?”

17)                 Chinese people believe that hamburgers are a typical American breakfast. When I offered to make my homestay family a traditional American breakfast (pancakes with the Bisquick and maple syrup I brought from home) they said, “hamburgers?” Long story short: they took me to the grocery store and today I’m making hamburgers. The pancakes went over very well. My grandfather made more breakfast. I have to tell myself it’s because the Chinese eat lots of different foods for every meal, not because it was a backup.

18)                 The rice containers in the grocery store are bigger than my bed. And all the meat still has its face.

19)                 And entire Beijing duck (face included) makes a great souvenir. My host father brought two home from Beijing with him. One for the family, and one they insist I bring back to the US. Any idea on whether or not I can get this through immigration? I’m pretttty sure it’s already cooked.

20)                 Fear the police. They like to make their power known. Do not ask to borrow their phones (this was not me but a friend). Their headquarters are like palaces. They will visit you in homestay to make sure that you are in fact in homestay. The woman will ask real questions. The man will ask if you can eat spicy food.

21)                 The closest thing you’re going to get to Diet Coke is Pepsi Max. And you will only be able to find it in a Walmart. And why wouldn’t you want to be in Walmart? It’s got the best air conditioning in town.

The Secret Life of African Bees

3/13/12

Every house in Kwanokuthula has at least one, if not two clocks on the wall. And yet, in all the time I’ve spent here I haven’t found a single one set to the correct time. Here they call the phenomena where everyone shows up late “African time.” Perhaps if they could just get their clocks set straight I wouldn’t have to wait an hour every morning before Margaret shows up. This would have really bothered me if South Africa had been one our first core countries, but after India no degree of lateness fazes me.

Although, perhaps Margaret’s tardiness cannot entirely be blamed on a culture of incorrect clocks. She just has one of those personalities. It takes us forever to get to a patient’s house because we have to stop and gossip with every single person we pass on the street. Seriously, if I spoke Xhosa I can’t even imagine how much town gossip I’d be privy to.

Yesterday we spent and exorbitant amount of time in a non-patient’s house, and it became very “Secret Life of Bees.” You know, young white me getting advice from a bunch of middle-aged African women. Margaret and her friend were telling me all about how their generation of women was taught that you were not complete without a husband and children. No one taught them about safe sex. And they got pregnant at nineteen and were taking care of others before they ever had a chance to learn to take care of themselves. “Make your money, get your education, take care of yourself,” they told me, “and then if you must you can get married and have children.” Both of the friends lamented their money struggles, their lack of washing machines, the inattention of their husbands, and the fact that by the time their children grew up they’d be too old to get a proper education and good job. “I always tell my daughter,” Margaret said, “if you must have a boyfriend, use condoms. Men they will get you pregnant, and then they will leave you. And if they do marry you, they will lose interest in a few months.” Both women agreed that they wished they’d never gotten married.

Between this lecture, all the movies I’ve watched about Ugandan women getting AIDs from their cheating husbands, reading about men spending their children’s food money on alcohol, and all my experiences in India, this trip is really turning me off to men. I don’t think beforehand I would have seriously considered Margaret’s advice as I’m doing now. I’ve spoken with the other female students, and they all agree that they’ve become distrustful and resentful towards men. “ Are boys in America like this?” asked one of my friends. None of us can remember. All we know is that we’re sick of being catcalled and watching women we love be disempowered.

On a less depressing note, their conviction that their daughters should delay marriage and children to focus on their schooling gives me hope. It reminds me of Elena in Ecuador, who was so set on her daughters going to college that she faced the anger of the town to send them to a better primary school outside of the community. It also reminds me of my Indian homestay sister Chatena, who was the first woman in her family to be getting her BS. So many people now seem to understand the importance of education. That gives me hope for the world. But as TBB has taught me to incessantly question my every thought and feeling, I must remember that I have no way to make a comparison to past generations. Is it not possible that women have had these ideas for years, but failed to properly impress them upon the next generation? Margaret’s mother may have raised her to be a wife, but she certainly wasn’t pleased when she got pregnant at nineteen. Will the daughters of Kwanokuthula listen to their mothers? Will Elena’s children leave everything they know to attend college? Will they even have the money for college? Will Chatena quit her job/education once she gets married in a couple years? I have no way of knowing, and that makes me a little less hopeful.

Love,

Katherine

If it’s Good in Intent And it’s Just a Little Bent Does it Matter?

3/9/12

What do you think?

To Hell With Good Intentions

By Ivan Illich

http://www.swaraj.org/illich_hell.htm

            As we passed this speech around the room each reading aloud a paragraph, slowly all expressions turned to what I can only describe as dazed. I wasn’t angry with the author; I wasn’t converted. At first I was simply numb to protect myself from the existential crisis that I feared would come upon further reflection.

            I have to admit, it fazed me. I’m finding it incredibly difficult to organize my thoughts on this matter. I have far to many of them coming at me much too quickly.

I embarked on this trip truly believing I’d be doing good. I don’t pretend to still believe this. Seriously, who have I helped on this trip? Ecuador: I replanted trees for farmers who had destroyed them in the first place, and would probably (one of them already did while we were there) destroy them again. China: I “helped” privileged Chinese students learn English so that they could score well on exams and become even more privileged. India: I begged and pleaded to go to work every day, to pick 50 cents worth of cotton for farmers who were simply indulging a silly girl. South Africa: I “assist” caretakers who are perfectly capable of doing their work themselves. And if I think of all the plane fare spent on this trip and what it could have done if it had simply been donated…sometimes my resolution truly wavers. But then I remember that the purpose of this trip is “service learning,” and I feel much better.

During orientation I was introduced to the idea of service learning versus actual community service. I wrote a blog post on it, and I thought I understood, but I didn’t. In fact, I spent the first two core countries frustrated by this “service learning” where it didn’t seem like I was doing any good for anyone. Then I arrived in India. I was there to study sustainable agriculture. However, all I could focus on were the injustices towards women.  

A year ago I didn’t know if I could be truly passionate about anything besides theatre, and I had absolutely no clue what I was going to do with my life. Now I do. I wouldn’t call it a desire so much as a need to return to India. I can’t see what I saw and do nothing about it. I need to return to India and work for a women’s or human rights NGO of some sort. I was born with so much extra anger and passion, and I finally know where I can productively channel it.  So there is no doubt in my mind that this year was not wasted.  It was the best-used year of my life. I don’t pretend that it wasn’t selfish, it was. I don’t pretend that I  “sacrificed” to help others. And I am not ridiculously proud of myself.

 But if I can follow the career path that this trip inspired me to follow, I can make it up to the world. I truly believe I can.  Because although Illich was correct in saying that you can’t do any good in a month, I believe that he’s wrong in saying you can’t do any good abroad period. I can start studying Hindi (or Gujarati or whatever) in college, I can spend years instead of months in India, and I can learn to understand the culture enough to help.

How can Illich say that Americans can’t do good abroad? Look at Paul Farmer! Look at all he’s done for the Haitians! I assure you, if I were at all talented in the sciences I’d be chasing his example right now. However, I am not, but I will find other ways to help.  

I’ll admit, Illich hit pretty close to the home with the whole “living in a hut and eating tortillas” thing, and yes in four core countries I didn’t speak one of the languages. But I am skeptical towards his assertion that I have done “willy-nilly” damage.  Throughout the trip we have been studying “bad” development, and I hope that I have sense enough that I’d realize if I were participating in it. To convince me on this point, Illich would have to provide further and more specific examples.  As for getting into politics instead, if there’s one thing I’ve learned this year, it’s that politicians cannot be trusted to take care of the world by themselves. (Perhaps refer to USAID blog.)

Sarah brought up an interesting point that when we get home we’re going to have to really check our egos, because people are going to think we’re “soooo cooool” for doing this program. I know this program was right for me because if I could never tell anyone about what I did this year, I’d still do it again 100 percent.

Love,

Katherine

P.S. I know that some adults will be shaking their heads saying, “silly little girl will change her mind a thousand times before she really decides what she wants to do.” Maybe that’s true. But at least I have direction now where I had none before. 

Blood Pressure Battles

3/6/12

“Oh, you’re here now,” said the security guard as I was walking up the steps to our seminar room. “Yes…yes I am,” I responded in confusion. “You were in Kwanokuthula this morning,” he explained. “Oh, yes I’m in Kwanokuthula every morning.” The same exact thing happened three days later with a waiter outside of the Pilates studio. I never realized that we stood out in the townships. No one stares, gawks, or takes pictures of us like in India and China. I figured they were just used to seeing white people. Perhaps we make more of an impression than I thought. I guess they just have better manners (by American standards) here than in China and India.

I spent the morning fighting with the blood pressure machine. It’s absolutely ridiculous! It will take my blood pressure, it will take Margaret’s blood pressure, but heaven forbid you should put it on an actual patient, and it flips out. We’re guessing that it will only take healthy blood pressures. Now if it refuses to take a patient’s blood pressure we just have to infer that it’s too high. It’s incredibly frustrating. Funny how my frustrations have changed since last year. My battles with the high school computers seem so distant compared to my more recent technology struggles.

It was a strange day. I realized that all of the children of the Crech call me “Mama.” I know that it’s just a Xhosa sign of respect for your elders, but it’s still weird for me being called “Mama” at only eighteen. Then I found out that Margaret’s been fibbing to the township about me. Half the men think I have a large older brother in town, and half of them just flat out think I’m married. Margaret never told me this until I got proposed to two and a half times today. What’s half a proposal you ask? Well it goes a little something like this: (to Margaret) “I want to marry your daughter, but if I can’t have her I’ll take that one (“that one” being me) instead.” You can imagine how flattered “that one” was. It was almost as flattering as, “I neeeed a white woman.”

As we were walking up a hill that also serves as a dump, Margaret pointed out a broken, dirty, faded red plastic, seemingly useless, turtle shaped kiddy pool.  “On my way back I’m going to take that,” she told me, “and then I’m going to clean it and fill it with sand for the children.” I was impressed by her resourcefulness, but depressed by the necessity of it. These children deserve better than a decrepit sandbox that’s going to split in half the moment somebody plays the tiniest bit too rough.

I suppose it’s fair to wonder why a sandbox is of any great importance, but for me it’s about what the sandbox represents.  If not for the breakfast and lunch provided at the Crech, many of the children would rarely receive three meals a day. For only 100 Rand ($14) a month, the Crech provides each child with two meals a day, potty training, English lessons, a safe place to play, and the invaluable experience of interaction with other children. Donors provide 750 Rand ($107) a month for food, but it’s a struggle to feed 25 kids nutritiously with so little. As Margaret would call it, the school is pretty much a “shack behind the house.” Currently, she is raising funds to build a six-room brick preschool next to the church. With more room she could hire more teachers, and more students could enroll and benefit.

In each core country, TBB has us complete a media project. For my South African media project I am going to make a donations website for the Crech and the non-profit nursing home that Margaret wants to start. Margaret was extremely excited when I told her, and I’m very happy to have a project where I feel like I’m actually doing something. I just hope I can make the site look official enough to not seem like a scam. Did you know that you can purchase a .org on GoDaddy.com? And most of all I hope that we can raise enough money to really make a difference.  It’s nice to be able to productively channel my passion. In India I was so frustrated because I was so passionate about women’s rights, but felt so helpless in my situation. This is much better for my emotional stability.

Love,

Katherine

P.S. I will post the link here when the website is complete. 

Group 3B

4/3/12

       There’s a part of my sense of humor, let’s call it the American Dreamz factor, that most people do not understand or find at all funny. Last Friday we had a teambuilding/introductory workshop with all of the students and their caretakers. Of course the adults had us do that thing they think is fun, where each team (of one student and his/her caregiver) has to give themselves a name. “Let’s be Group 3, or Group D,” said Margaret. And that’s when I knew. We became Group 3B. Perhaps Margaret and I were the only ones in the room to whose sense of humor this appealed, but I didn’t care. I love her. Oh, and when the caretakers were introducing themselves and their students to the room, she introduced me as her daughter.  Possibly not as flattering as Ben’s caretaker introducing him as “sexy,” but still.

       I’ve finished my first week of work, and Margaret and I are beginning to develop a routine. She greets me every morning with,  “I’m tiiired toooday.” Then we set off to start visiting patients. I greet them with, “Moh-low Mama (or Dada depending.)” Sometimes they offer me tea. With the ones I know well I respond that it’s 40 degrees (Celsius) outside.  My favorite is visiting Simon, because he has the most adorable six-month-old granddaughter. The second time I visited I was admiring her, and her mother handed her to me, saying in baby talk, “I want to know you.” When I left, Simon told me to come back to check on his baby. I guess baby kissing is a pretty good way to get the patients to trust you. Now I get to hold her every time I go over there, while Margaret makes her usual half-hour of small talk. They have the most fun trying to get me to say the Xhosa version of goo goo ga ga. It’s sort of like “Niza, Niza, Niza, Niza, Niza,” but with a click instead of an “I.” My mouth doesn’t work that way. I can’t click that fast.

       After we visit a few patients, we go door to door looking for new ones. Currently Margaret doesn’t have enough patients.  She thinks that perhaps it’s because the Xhosa people are extremely neighborly. We found a stroke victim (new patient #4!) whose neighbors have been doing all her laundry and bringing her food.  Perhaps Kwanokuthula has a patient shortage (which is by no means a bad thing) because it’s almost entirely Xhosa, and they take care of one another. I doubt if I had a stroke the neighbors would be doing anything, especially my laundry.
       While we make our way through the streets, Margaret harasses me about sunscreen, and introduces me to people as her daughter’s twin. Her daughter is also 18. At least an hour before quitting time, we inevitably end up at her non-profit crech (preschool.) Sometimes we spend more time at the preschool than caretaking, and I feel more like a teacher than nurse. I don’t mind though, I just want to help in any way I can. And I just love the children. I end every workday completely covered in snot, and completely happy. I have never met such affectionate children in my life. Never before have I wished I had seven laps, and twelve arms. Usually I just end up getting dog piled. I don’t want to make assumptions; perhaps they’re not getting enough affection at home, but perhaps their culture just raises them to be more affectionate. Either way, I am happy to provide an endless supply of hugs.
       After a while their teacher makes them sit in a circle and listen to me read. They can’t understand a word of it, but it’s supposed to help them learn English. Really I have no idea if this technique works. I’m not even reading picture books, but books with words like “physiology.” I don’t know. My favorite part of English time is when they’re told to jump up and down and scream, “I…AM…JUMPING!”
Seriously these kids are so amazing. They’re only three-years-old but they all have completely different personalities. There’s the boy who pretends to be obnoxious with the truly obnoxious boy, but really he just wants to fall asleep on my lap. There’s the girl who plays teachers pet, and cries whenever I give anyone else my attention. The fiercely independent girl, one of my favorites, refuses to be a part of any of the child mob scenes. And then there’s the boy who won’t fight for attention, but is always calm, cool, and in the background waiting patiently. Oh my, I guess I shouldn’t bore you by describing them all.
       I really like it in Kwanokuthula. It’s going to sound weird, but I’m worried that I shouldn’t. It may not be as dangerous as the township ironically named “New Horizons,” or the less ironically named “Craags,” but every time I get home from work, my homestay mother asks me about how I deal with that “rubbish bin.” Okay she’s slightly racist (as her ten-year-old son would say,) but she sort of has a point. It’s a town of shacks and tiny government built homes literally covered in rubbish. Is it bad that I’ve become immune to shacks? Does my desensitization mean I’m no longer the bleeding heart I used to pride myself on being? Or could it be a good thing? If I’m not overwhelmed by pity, could it be I am better able to see the shack occupants as human? Does that put me in a better position to help? Or does that put me in a cold and indifferent place where I don’t understand their need for help? Have I been in too many happy shacks to understand how many unhappy ones exist? Have I loved to many shack dwellers to understand that that so many are suffering? I have to say; I’m a little disturbed by myself.
       Would that be a weird note to end on, and then sign off “Love, Katherine?”

You’re on CTTV Camera

2/25/12

            I was a bit nervous when Kelsey and I first arrived at our homestay. A huge fence topped with electrified wire covered the house. On the door was a sign that said, “Smile, CTTV camera is watching you.” At the time we didn’t even know about the guard dog or alarm system, but this was intimidating enough.

            Once I met my homestay family, I realized that the sign was not likely to have come from their imaginations, probably just the security company’s. I also learned that South Africa has such a high crime rate that this amount of security is the norm.

            The house is amazing. Once you walk through the gate, you enter a beautiful rectangular courtyard with a small swimming pool. My hostfamily lives in the home on the right side of the courtyard, Kelsey and I live in the middle, and my family keeps boarders on the left.

            I am living in the lap of luxury. We have our own bathroom! With a bath! We each have our own bed with a bedside table between us, and drawers where we can put away our clothes. After India it’s so wonderful to have a place that’s truly my own space. I can be comfortable in my own room, and not worry about being watched and judged all the time.

            My hostfamily is white and speaks English, which is kind of weird for me. My hostfather Garrith is a soft-spoken boat captain/driftwood artist/surf instructor. His wife Susie is a British retired model, who now works selling Garrith’s driftwood art. She’s sweet, and calls everybody “lovey.” She’s also a born again Christian who smokes, drinks, has a belly-button ring, and a son older than her marriage. Our first night we were sitting at the bar drinking juice and playing darts, when Susie said, “I think it’s time to break the news, we’re born again Christians.” I was pretty shocked, but she promised not to “thump us with the bible.” Her passionate rants about Jesus can get boring, and her speeches on Jews being left on earth a little bit incredibly offensive, but she was very accepting when she learned that I was Jewish. Some people wonder how I hold my tongue, when I was so completely infuriated in India by the whole women’s rights thing. I think that I get less fiery about my people going to hell because Garrith’s visibly embarrassed and tells Susie to keep eating, and because…well she’s just a wack-a-doodle. Susie and Garrith’s son Thomas is a very sweet ten-year-old. He chats nonstop, invites Kelsey and me to the beach, and loves to help us when we’re confused.

            The boarders on the other side are constantly in and out of the main house, and feel like a second homestay family. It’s just a small family, consisting of a single mother named Sarah, and her five-year-old daughter Olivia. Sarah’s really cool (a nice break from Susie,) and Olivia’s freakin adorable. She wants to play with us 24/7, and was ecstatic when she found out “the girls” were “sleeping over.”

            Olivia’s obsessed with Thomas, and for a ten-year-old boy he’s extremely nice to her. She’s absolutely stunning, and you can tell he’s going to be quite handsome. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they re-enacted the movie Clueless in ten or so years.

            Along with a chocolate lab, a hamster named Squeaks, and an orange cat, I have quite a comfortable little family here. Cereal for breakfast, PB&J for lunch, Brie (South African delicious BBQ) for dinner, it’s not so different from the US. My homestay mother actually said, “We don’t know how much you eat yet.” You have no idea how wonderful it was to hear that after being force-fed for so long. And when I was sick, they prayed for to Jesus for me, but left me the hell alone. Well…except for Olivia finding me on the bathroom floor and running to tell her mother I was dead. Today was Saturday, and Garrith took us to the beach to go canoeing and sailing. I think I’m really going to like it here. 

Kwanokuthula

2/23/12

Today was my first day at work in the township of Kwanokuthula. The township is almost entirely Xhosa. My caretaker, Margaret is also Xhosa, but she can speak English AND Afrikaans as well. Margaret is amazing. When she’s done seeing ten patients a day and earning less than a cleaner, she’s running a non-profit crech (preschool) out of her house, trying to get funding to open a nursing home, and raising two children. Plus she has awesome Whoopi Goldberg dreads. Although her English is excellent, I sometimes have trouble understanding her because she speaks so low. And by “low” I do not mean quietly, but in an octave I could never dream of reaching. But I absolutely love it when she speaks Xhosa. It’s so interesting to hear the different types of clicks. I don’t think my mouth even moves that way. She’s already started teaching me basic greetings. Now I can add Xhosa to my odd list of languages (that I really can’t speak to save my life.) Along with Gujarati, Safiki, and Mandarin (with a heavy Kunming accent) it’s getting to be quite a long list.

Margaret’s cool at the same time as being very affectionate and motherly. A ridiculous white person (not me of course) might hope she would play the August (of The Secret Lives of Bees) role in my life. God I’ve only known her for four hours. Actually three hours and ten minutes because she showed up 50 minutes late. Not a great first impression, but shit happens in her line of work.

When she finally picked me up, we drove to a patient named Simon’s house, and brought him back to the clinic. The clinic is amazing. It’s huge, brightly painted, and immaculate. It’s much nicer than the dinky little one-room ones in the other townships I’ve seen. However nice it was though, I was not prepared to spend two hours waiting there. Margaret said our days aren’t usually going to be like this, but if that’s not true I’m going to become the most patient person on the face of the planet. Except for the caretakers of course. And hopefully I’ll become immune to that clinic smell. You know, mostly sterile but with something salty, sweet, and sinister lurking beneath it? I don’t really want to know what that something sinister is.

When we finally left the clinic we started visiting patients. Our first patient wasn’t home, and our second was entertaining. This bothered me at first. Margaret works so hard to provide people with home care, and they can’t even bother to be home for it? Then I remembered that Margaret runs seriously late. Her patients shouldn’t have to be on house arrest waiting for her. But the patient whose blood pressure she just had to take, who sent her away because she had guests? I don’t know…

I didn’t get to see many patients or much work today. Hopefully Monday will be better. From what it seems. Margaret’s patients’ diagnoses range from hypertension to TB, asthma to AIDs. We’ve been told to just assume that everyone we meet has AIDS. That’s such a different way of thinking from in the States. I can’t quite wrap my head around it.

And TB just freaks me out. There are signs all over the clinic giving warnings about the symptoms of TB. Doors have “keep this open: Fresh Air Fights TB,” written on them. And several times today I followed Margaret into the Infectious Diseases ward. Well it is romantic to die of consumption. Regardless, as soon as I got back to town I invested in some vitamin pills and Purel.

I think I’m going to like it here. I think it’s so cute that the Xhosa people (and now I too) address all their elders as “mama” or “dada.” Margaret says it’s a sign or respect. And everyone on the street seemed so friendly. When I told my hostmother I was going to Kwanokuthula she gasped, but at least in the daylight it didn’t seem so scary. Then again, you’re always safest when traveling with a native.

South Africa

2/21/12

Dear Everyone,

So I’m in South Africa now, and I know what you’re thinking, “what the hell happened to India?” Well, India’s a work in progress. It’ll go up eventually, and probably all at once. Until then, I’ve decided not to be lazy, and to get a head start on South Africa.

We arrived here on Saturday night, over twenty-four hours after our departure. It was a simple route: Delhi to Mumbai (layover 4hrs), Mumbai to Johannesburg (layover 5.5hrs), Johannesburg to Port Elizabeth. And with G-D as my witness (I finally finished Gone With the Wind!) I shall never fly through the Mumbai airport again. If I had been on the fence on whether or not I was ready to leave India, this certainly sealed my opinion. Let’s flash back to when we first arrived in India via the Mumbai airport. During our midnight layover we were trying to sleep on the floor, but an instrumental version of Elton John’s “Yellow Brick Road” was being blasted on repeat for three straight hours! They were literally torturing us! Every time I hear that song now I feel physical pain. It’s like something that would have been funny on a sitcom if it hadn’t been so painful happening to us.

Our first stop on our way out of India was Mumbai, and I should have known something was wrong when we landed and they immediately started playing Elton John’s “Your Song.” Then we had to take a half hour bus ride from the domestic terminal to the international terminal. The immigration guy was convinced everyone in my line didn’t match his or her passport pictures. The security people went through my bag to find absolutely nothing, but took the time to play with all my stuff they found cool. And poor sick Connor was forced to leave the gate and go back through security a second time, because a little tag fell off his carry-on. We had a four-hour layover, but didn’t sit down for a second of it. As my leader put it, it was complete and utter “clusterfuck.”

In comparison, the efficiency of the Johannesburg and Port Elizabeth airports made me unreasonably giddy. We finally arrived and were greeted by wind and moisture for the first time in seven weeks! South Africa, or at least this part of it, is stunning, absolutely stunning. It’s like Vermont and the Berkshires and Arizona all mixed into one…in a weird sort of way. We were picked up from the airport in a van with enough room for all of us, and our luggage! That never happens! Then the driver started playing Eminem, and a collection of other tasteful rap songs with language I don’t even feel comfortable using. It was a wonderful shock after being in such a conservative country for so long. And all of the signs, they were in English! I’ve really missed English. I’ve been assured by my leaders that South Africa is not going to be easy, but so far it’s been wonderful to be in place that just seems so much closer to home. Perhaps doing South Africa last is TBB’s way of starting to bring us back into our own culture. Though once again, I’ve been assured things are going to be very different here.

Before we go into homestay, we’re staying at a wonderful lodge, and sleeping in carpeted, electricity-ed, double bed-ed tents. It’s a bit claustrophobic and Alison keeps slapping me in her sleep, but it’s nice to be so close to nature. We’ve even got “I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair” showers. And homey food that doesn’t hurt our stomachs! Do I use exclamation points too much?

All through India I prayed for a competent NGO, and I think the G-Ds may have been a little over-zealous in granting my wish. Our partner here took absolutely no time in yelling at one of us for doing something “fucking stupid.” He was referring to going for a run and getting lost. They’re really intense about security here. I personally think you should never yell at someone for something they didn’t do out of malice, but overall he seems like a good guy. He clearly has his shit together, which is really all that matters to me.

Yesterday they took us to see one of the townships we’ll be working in. It was mainly made up of Xhosa (pronounced with a click) people, but also some black Africans from other tribes, and some Coloured people. It’s odd, the town was made up of shacks and identical government built homes, and yet I didn’t find it depressing. Perhaps I’ve just loved too many people who love in this type of home, or perhaps it’s because the sun was shining, the grass was sort of green, and the children were absolutely adorable. When they saw us they all ran to the school’s wire fence, shouted hello, and stuck their hands through to touch us. My hands ended up a little sticky, but I loved meeting them. What little English they had they used on us, and they were quick to pronounce Andrew Kim “China.”

Here we will be living with white families, and shadowing non-white caregivers in non-white townships. It will be very interesting to see the contrast in lifestyle. We will be working mostly with AIDs patients, and studying public health with our leaders. I expect it to be challenging, but I’m also very excited for this core country. As usual, I have attached the official syllabus at the end of this post.

Love,

Katherine

Course Description:

HIV/AIDS and Public Health

South Africa 11-12

The global HIV/AIDS crisis is a complex issue faced by nations around the world. Some communities and nations have effectively slowed the spread of the disease and provided medication and services to those infected, making AIDS a chronic but non- debilitating illness. However, many countries, particularly in the developing world, have seen a rapid spread of the disease, millions of deaths, and the virtual collapse of local communities that are now stripped of a generation of teachers, doctors, nurses, and farmers. No region of the world is more heavily affected than sub-Saharan Africa, and no country has more infected individuals than South Africa. To understand the devastating reality of AIDS in South Africa requires an understanding of the challenge of the transition of a post-colonial society to nationhood, the development of physical and social infrastructure, and the relationship between disease and poverty. This unit engages students in localized observations of those affected and those who seek to serve them. The seminars challenge students to place their observations in the broad historical, cultural, political, and economic contexts that made the current state of affairs a reality.

This course challenges students to identify common assumptions about the needs of the chronically and terminally ill, public health policy, and the relationship between poverty and public health. Through daily trips accompanying home-based care givers to visit patients in the townships surrounding Plettenberg Bay, the students directly observe the challenges that patients, care givers, and public health NGOs face in addressing HIV/AIDS, TB, and other major illnesses. Readings and seminars push the group beyond common perspectives on intellectual property rights of drug companies, who is responsible for treating the ill, and the historical influence of colonialism in the contemporary struggle for development and equity. Finally, national level policies are compared and examined for lessons on effectiveness in policy development.

Objectives:

• Examine the root causes of the spread of HIV/AIDS and the challenges of addressing the needs of its victims in the developing world.

• Understand the impact of the transition from colonial to post- colonial society on long-term policy and infrastructure with regard to development.

• Observe and comprehend the personal reality of those affected by HIV/AIDS, their communities, and those who provide them services.

Essential Question:

Why are so many nations failing to effectively address HIV/AIDS and protect public health?

Seminar Questions:

Seminar One: Why does public health matter?

Seminar Two: Why is public health infrastructure difficult to create in the developing world?

Seminar Three: What is development?

Seminar Four: Why is it often difficult for post-colonial governments to create the infrastructure needed to protect public health?

Seminar Five: Why has sub-Saharan Africa been hit so much harder than other regions of the world?

Seminar Six: Why did Uganda succeed at designing an effective policy to address HIV/AIDS while South Africa failed?

Seminar Seven: What should a proactive, international response to the HIV/AIDS pandemic include?

Seminar Eight: If the medication to treat HIV/AIDS exists, why hasn’t the global community given everyone access?

Seminar Nine: Why is it so difficult to prevent the spread of a preventable disease?

Seminar Ten: How can we affect change? _______________________________________________________

_____________

Required Readings:

Mountains Beyond Mountains, Tracy Kidder

Chapters from: Guns, Germs, and Steel, Jared Diamond AIDS in the Twenty-First Century, Tony Barnett and Alan Whiteside Witness to AIDS, Edwin Cameron The White House and the World, editor Nancy Birdsall

There will be readings from The Economist, The New York Times, The New England Journal of Medicine, other periodicals, and various governmental and academic research sources.