Value

Being a student again has made me acutely aware of the fragile relationship between cost, benefit and value. Especially when it comes to books. While I have been as resourceful as is academically viable, there are a few textbooks that I do feel are essential, and I have been simply agog at what they can cost. Academic books get the short end of the law of supply and demand, and even an Amazon addict like me staggers at the prices. Knowing what those books cost, I treat them like gold.

Is that what it takes to value something?

At the state-funded institution where I work, textbooks are provided to students and staff for the duration of each semester, free of charge. As the English department has mushroomed, the storage area has spread almost virally from one small room to three, without rhyme or reason. The overflowing rooms are separated by hundreds of meters, two of them on the second floors of separate buildings. Nobody is personally accountable for the hydra-like book collection, but the head of department holds the only keys. There is no record of which books- or how many- the college has, or in which of the three rooms they are. Since the stores are in such disarray, books are often damaged or lost in storage.

When the annual ministerial textbook order arrived yesterday, the bill came to 67 000 Omani rials- over GBP 90 000. Over the past two days I have been making an Olympic sport of inventorying both the existing books and the new delivery, making space for the newcomers and trying to ensure some kind of system that will soften the coming storm- which is as much as I am able to do until other staff return. It turns our huge numbers of books in the storerooms have never, ever been used in courses, even when 200 copies have been ordered. They have just been sitting there. Why? No information flow. There is no line of communication to inform staff what books have been ordered, far less in which of the stores they are. But there’s more. Many of the new orders are for books of which there are more than enough copies in store to cover the remaining students- but nobody knew it, because the storerooms are so disorderly that the books have been out of sight.

All those books, laden with knowledge ripe for the picking. Underutilised. Undervalued. Free of charge. Perhaps it is better to pay.

Big Strategies, Little Tactics

I have heard strategies defined as the big picture plan, and tactics as the small steps that make it happen. The definition is debatable, but it suits me.

What I am trying to do at the moment is break down my own strategy in three separate but overlapping areas: study, work and life at large. It is all looking very big from where I stand right now, and to take it all on, I need to break things down into bite-sized chunks.

This means calendars with lots of space for lots of plans. It means backward mapping, starting with deadlines and working them back to where I am now. It means a whole week of parachute time before that deadline, in case things go all pear-shaped. Things have a way of doing that. It means blocking out one day a week for R&R, come hell, high water or head of department.

And most importantly, it means dealing with today’s little bite-size chunk. Today. Every day.

Small Steps and Giant Leaps (Or: I am Not a Potted Plant)

Two great statements come to mind when I think of steps. No. Three.

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” – Chinese proverb

“One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” – Neil Armstrong

“Make your stumbling block your stepping stone.”- Motivational catchphrase/ cliché

Yesterday I took a step that may prove incredibly foolish or incredibly wise in the perpetual casino that is the scheme of things. I agreed to bite off far more than I can chew, evacuate my comfort zone and boldly go where I had certainly never contemplated going before. I accepted a proposal to coordinate the English foundation year programme for the college’s brand new faculty of business. There is no monetary compensation. I will still have a full teaching load. This is uncharted territory. The parallel programme in other national colleges has been fraught with frustrations. Students, whose studies and living expenses are funded by the state, are notoriously unmotivated and not academically inclined. Most of the teachers will be new to the college- and the cultural enigma of the Arabian Gulf.

So am I OUT of my friggin’ TREE?

Quite possibly. This is guaranteed to be the toughest thing I have done in my life. Ever. And for the next year, there will be no turning back.

So why’dya do it?

Comfort zones are all good and well, but I am not a potted plant. My work environment offers very few opportunities for personal and/or professional growth, and though my studies are an important step, MAs in English teaching are not particularly rare flowers. The experience is reward in itself- and the better I do the job, the more rewarding.

And that brings me to the point that probably won’t show up on a CV. Education in Oman has been developing phenomenally, but it has been a tumultuous process fraught by pendulum swings in policy, frustrated students banging their heads against brick walls and frustrated teachers who take the money and run after one contract. In a bureaucracy, there will always be mysterious forces beyond one’s control. But I think- I think- I can take the reins of those few things that will be within my control and let the teachers and students get on with what they are there for. I can help them see that they are allies, not enemies. I can put logic and simplicity to the test in a workplace that has been torn apart by their opposites. And hey, I can let this terrifying cup pass my colleagues by if I dare to drink it for them. Being the boss holds no charm for me. But serving people does. That, I know, I can do.

(And I am writing this partially because I know there will be days when I wonder whatever in the world I could possibly have been thinking. So I’m bookmarking this page to help me remember. )

A Fortnight of Organic Sloth

I love work. In the years of semi- or unemployment that hounded me after my graduation, a close friend always told me that work is to the soul what food is to the body. In those dark days, food for the body was a more urgent priority. But as I settled into the gracious luxury of enough that comes with a steady income, I discovered just how nourishing work can be to the soul. Work is purpose, connection, service. Work is active prayer answered in results.

And so, after another year of pouring my soul into my job, and squeezing just a little harder to wring out every remaining drop into my studies, I am delighted to have worked so hard, and accomplished a thing or two along the way. But now it is time to go underground ground and germinate new energy and new ideas. A fortnight of organic, chaotic sloth has begun: a chance to do exactly as I please in a last-ditch bout of belated adolescence, overhaul my routine, habitat, wardrobe and the spidery empire below the kitchen sink at whatever ungodly hour is my wont; watches and the whip of obligation packed far away.

Just for fourteen days and fourteen nights. After that, a return to the saltmines will be welcome.


I love work. In the years of semi- or unemployment that hounded me after my graduation, a close friend always told me that work is to the soul what food is to the body. In those dark days, food for the body was a more urgent priority. But as I settled into the gracious luxury of enough that comes with a steady income, I discovered just how nourishing work can be to the soul. Work is purpose, connection, service. Work is active prayer answered in results.

And so, after another year of pouring my soul into my job, and squeezing just a little harder to wring out every remaining drop into my studies, I am delighted to have worked so hard, and accomplished a thing or two along the way. But now it is time to go underground ground and germinate new energy and new ideas. A fortnight of organic, chaotic sloth has begun: a chance to do exactly as I please in a last-ditch bout of belated adolescence, overhaul my routine, habitat, wardrobe and the spidery empire below the kitchen sink at whatever ungodly hour is my wont; watches and the whip of obligation packed far away.

Just for fourteen days and fourteen nights. After that, a return to the saltmines will be welcome.

Freedom

Freedom has been on my mind a lot lately. Although I am not in any literal prison, I have been acutely aware, recently, that I am not free. Of course, we are all free to different degrees. We have free will, whatever the circumstances. We have the freedom to determine our attitude. We have the freedom to make a multitude of choices with the hand we are dealt. But within those parameters, I am aware that, through the response I freely chose to the circumstances I did not, I have established myself in an environment where, no, I am not free. Although there are no legal constraints on my freedom of movement, it is astounding how strong social constraints can be. I step outside my flat and dozens of eyes on me. Much as I long and ache and burn to take a walk, every step is marred by hateful comments, car horns, sometimes stones thrown or spitting. I knew before I came here three years ago, that this is a conservative society and there would be sacrifices. So I dressed to defy the merciless desert weather, covered from neck to foot. It was not enough. Later I also began to wear a headscarf, dark glasses, anything to preserve some modicum of anonymity. But it doesn’t change things much. There are still knocks at the door at night, because I am a woman on my own, and everybody knows what that supposedly means. And whatever they think it means, here I am, alone. I now only leave home for work and urgent errands. Because I have freedom of choice, and I choose not to put myself in harm’s way. I freely choose not to provoke a situation that will let people act in a way that tempts me to hatred. And so, I freely choose captivity.

But everything is relative. During six and a half years of being held hostage, Ingrid Betancourt believed beyond belief that she would be released, long after the world had forgotten, or given up. In the spate of interviews she has given since her miraculous release last week, it is clear that she used her freedom to choose to continue to believe, for all those years. Finally, it was belief that won.

And then there is the insidious captivity of material things. Some are held captive by wealth: Affluenza is the term coined by UK psychologist Oliver James for the malaise of the middle classes and above. At the other end of the spectrum, much of the world is still marching along, meagerly fuelled by under a dollar a day. Escape from Luanda is a bold film documenting the lives of students at a music school in Angola’s capital, currently airing on BBCWorldNews. Rather than narration, the students tell their tales in subtitled Portuguese to the soundtrack of their heavenly music. The wistful melody of Africa has a mesmerizing rhythm, and therein lies the escape. Music, art, dreams transport us beyond poverty of the body and the soul, beyond the fragile human form, beyond captivity.

And therein lies freedom.

Graduation!

For those of us who can still barely make out our graduation on the distant horizon, this year's ceremonies might provide some inspiration. The videocast links can be found here. Be inspired!

Sound Reasoning (A letter to The Times of Oman)

A few weeks back I noticed advertisements for a courseq1 promising amazing results in English learning in just one month in The Times of Oman. Except for the liberal use of interactive DVDs, it had all the makings of the charismatic language learning methods of the 70s, right down to the balding visionary guru. Advertising is one thing, but today the company’s press release was placed as an article in the paper. (With a limited readership in its media infancy, this is common practice here. PR paradise, I tell you.) I could not let this pass unchallenged. Here is what I hope to be a balanced viewpoint, sent to the Times’ Readers’ Forum.

In response to the article New English Learning Course Promises to Improve Skills (Times, 5 July 2008), I would like to welcome “The Sound Way” programme to the English Education field in Oman. I also believe your readers should know the facts about the state of the art of language learning, which this programme claims to embody.

Like in many human sciences, the jury is still out on the mysterious process of language acquisition. Yet even the feuding experts agree on one fact: the One-Size-Fits-All Silver Bullet Method for language learning does not exist. Mastery of a language, like that of any skill, takes passion, persistence and personalisation. Mastery of the English language does not cost RO 165 over one month: it costs true, fiery commitment over a lifetime.

I am certain that “The Sound Way” can provide a solid grounding in English learning for keen learners and will benefit many clients. However, they should know that mastery does not derive from a cutting-edge method or a charismatic expert teacher, but from the ongoing, reflective process of language learners themselves. And that is not for sale.