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Published: February 27th 2006
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I am sitting at my desk falling in and out of consciousness, as paper airplanes and spitballs whiz past my head. I stare absent-mindedly at the back wall where "MR DUEK IS GAY" is crudely written in bright blue letters with permanent marker. I squint to see the letters more closely and notice that someone has scribbled "I NOW" with a black pen beside the original statement. Underneath the two messages is a badly drawn penis. There are a lot of badly drawn penises in my classroom; three of them occupy spots on the seats of random classroom chairs, others live between the worn pages of various Shakespeare texts, accompanied by the occasional message, "turn to page 42!" Incidentally, on pg. 42 is yet another badly drawn penis, underneath the heading, "Ur MuM".
I debate taking a stand against the atrocious spelling on the back wall graffiti, by writing on the white board:
"Mr. Dueck is Gay!"
"I know."
It occurs to me that I might also draw a much more detailed and realistic picture of a penis below the message. However, today is the last day of teaching before the Half term break, and I have lost
all drive to fight back, teach my kids important lessons, or make them laugh. Also, I am pretty sure that someone, somewhere would deem my actions inappropriate. I've learned over the years that I should never act on my gut instincts, no matter how funny I think they are. 2 hours until the bell, then mid term break!
A Thursday off in Leeds
Feet. Thousands of them. Most inside uncomfortable but fashionable shoes. Most have places to go, providing the percussion to accompany the incessant base note of distant traffic. I sit on a bench, eating a sub, listening to the sounds of the daily grind. I would attempt to spend a day as a tourist in a place I have lived since September. I watched as English teenagers struggled to stand up on the open air ice rink on Millennium Square, I watched old men in sweater vests and fedoras play chess on the giant chess board in front of the town hall, I watched actors dressed as ninjas engage in a sparring match at the Royal Armouries, I smelt the yeast as I watched smoke billow from the stacks of the Tetley brewery, I bartered the price of strawberries and grapes from the boisterous fruit merchants of Kirkgate Market. When the sun decides to shine and the hooligan children of Britain are locked safely away in their bedrooms doing drugs and having unprotected sex, life in Leeds can be pretty good.
Boundaries of Comfort
A sleepless night of drinking and a 6:30am bus ride to Nottingham are not the best way to start a trip that is destined to lack certain comforts. I walked across the tarmac in Wroclaw, Poland, eyed down by armed military men with communist looking moustaches. As the plane descended towards Wroclaw, as I rode the bus through vast stretches of apartment blocks, as I struggled to find directions to my hostel, I saw a Poland that is desperately poor and deteriorating.
An extremely interesting cross section of Polish society awaited me as I opened the door to my hostel room. 5 men on a mission to gain cheap fame and a story to tell their grandkids about greeted me with enthusiastic handshakes and hearty laughs. The first wore a piece of bling around his neck emblazoned with the words "50 Cent". He was extremely proud of this bizarre piece of jewellery and insisted in non-existent English that I try it on. The second man was one of the loudest, rudest and most aggressively friendly people that I have met; one was a drug-addled artist who left half a bag of marijuana in the room when he left. The last man was my saving grace; an academic who'd lived in Dover and New York City, spoke perfect English and acted as my translator. The men immediately befriended me and took me to dinner at a local milk bar. Milk bars were created during the communist era as a means to feed to working masses. Extremely cheap, extremely basic and extremely unattractive high school lunch ladies. A Polish Feast for under £2.
The men were in Wroclaw (strangely enough pronounced Vrosvov) to break a Guinness World Record for by watching films in a movie theatre for 115 hours straight without sleep. A television crew came into our hostel and video taped the guys eating bananas and caffeine pills and pretending to sleep.
The next morning was spent in the town square basking in the glorious sun, drinking coffee at a sidewalk cafe, and watching enviously as little kids chased pigeons. I looked down at the end of the English language menu at the cafe; "Thank you for patronizing our restaurants" was written in bold black letters... Brilliant.
Trains in Poland are made up of many small compartments that force you into an uncomfortably intimate space with a lot of people. The situation can be worsened if these people think you are a Nazi because the book you are reading has Swastikas all over the cover (
Plot Against America by Philip Roth). Amid angry and suspicious stares I stayed strong, I was able to narrowly escape being lynched, and arrived in Krakow, greeted by a 50 pence hamburger that induced a gag reflex with each bite.
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kris is the tits.
you are getting good with the digital camera. its unfortunate that your kids dont know how to spell "know." thats kind of crappy for them. its also unfortunate that they cant draw a penis properly. it's not that hard.