Cash Flow

I’ve always thought of writing as a kind of performance, with different forms and genres each requiring different skills and presuppositions. Even when I was writing opinion columns for Chimes, I was always aware that I was adapting my writing to whatever argument I happened to be making. Actually, when I was thinking about some issue, sometimes I would write two different drafts with opposing ideas, and then pick whichever one I thought sounded better. Often, I feel that language determines my beliefs, rather than vice versa.

All of which is why the habit of writing a blog doesn’t come naturally to me. Everything that I might post is, presumably, the Real, Authentic Thoughts and Feelings of Adam Petty. Still, as I’ve been writing these posts, I’ve been aware that I’ve been trying to project the image of someone who has things together, more or less, or at least wouldn’t get too bothered if he didn’t.

But I am. Bothered, that is. And frustrated, and anxious. You see, I started teaching at an institute about a week ago, and thought that my worries about finding work were over. Then, during a casual conversation with another teacher, I found out exactly how much I’m earning per hour, and it’s far lower than what I was expecting. I know, I really should have found out the exact amount before I started working there, but I was worried about finding work, and I guess I just took the first thing that came along.

Exact numbers don’t matter, and probably would be inadvisable to post on the internet, but suffice it to say, I need to be earning at least twice what I’m making right if I want to continue paying rent, and eating. To say nothing of my ever-present student loan payments.

I’ve been reluctant to explain the situation to my few friends here, as I feel embarrassed about taking such a bad job, so you can imagine the annoyance I’m experiencing by posting my frustrations to be read by anyone who might care to. I simply feel like I’ve been duped, like I’m just another dumb American getting hustled in a foreign country.

Obviously, I don’t know what exactly I’m going to do about this situation, or else this post would have a much clearer resolution. But for reasons that I can’t explain, I felt that it was important to record and preserve this unresolved frustration of mine.

I’m not good at praying, and so could probably use any prayers that you readers might have lying around.

In the Waiting Room

This is where I catalog all of the reasons why I haven’t posted recently, and apologize for my neglect. You know the drill.

Other than laziness, what’s kept me from writing is the feeling that I don’t have any subject any matter. Now, I’m sure that some of my friends would tell me that the simple fact that I’m in Chile is subject matter enough, and that describing a simple trip to the grocery store would hold some interest. And I might well do that, at some point.

But the past week and a half, all I’ve been doing is looking for jobs, and the stress of not yet finding one has curdled my creative juices. I might have some leads, though, and a few drops of inspiration along with them, so I thought I might try to describe some of my experiences.

Mostly I’ve been sitting in waiting rooms. And riding in elevators, nearly all of which are quite narrow and wouldn’t hold more than four people. After completing my TEFL certification course a week and a half ago, I found a website that listed the names and addresses of English schools and institutes in town. So I put on a suit, mapped out my route, shook off the feeling that I was a Jehovah’s witness and headed out.

There are plenty of sights and sounds and smells here to remind me that I am, indeed, in South America. But it was the unremarkable, habitual actions of going to office buildings, asking what floor this English school was on, taking the elevator up and ringing the doorbell that made me feel most strongly feel that I’m in a foreign place. Maybe because these mundane events are familiar to me from home, and doing all of them in another language was like hearing a stranger’s voice come from a friend’s lips. Traveling to different countries, you steel yourself for the more obvious cultural novelties, unprepared for encountering the familiar boredoms of home.

It could also be that handing out resumés is the kind of daily routine that attunes one to the rhythm of a new place. As a teacher staying for a decent amount of time, I’m in a different position than a tourist, or even a student abroad. After a few days, I actually came to enjoy walking around the city most of the day, and purposefully. I grew to recognize streets and places, and could get around without having to consult my map every few blocks. All of which reminded me that I do, in fact, live here, and seem to like it.