School, the focus of my universe.

I was told that people were wanting to know how school is going. Well, it's okay. For the sixth formers (16-18 year olds, and where I was placed) the classes run on a block schedule, two classes in the morning, two after lunch. Each day you have a different class, and the schedules rotate in a weekly pattern. The expectations of learning for up here are so much different than the curriculum in America. I'm learning math topics that I wouldn't learn until I was a senior in high school.

I'm taking Math, English, and Photography as major courses, and science as a catch up. In all utter honesty, I'm running ragged. I have always detested the idea that my whole life should revolve around school but because I'm from America I'm already behind in the courses so school is supposed to be my only priority. Now, I say that meaning that I should spend most of my nights studying, but the part of me that really hates school refuses to make my whole world revolve around school (Which means I procrastinate on studying.) I hate studying with a burning passion. But it's something I /Have/ to overcome.

So other than my complete mental exhaustion, school has become only minorly overwhelming. The teachers are becoming more and more agitated with me because some of them have such thick accents and they talk so fast that I can't understand a word they say. So I keep having to ask them to repeat themselves and they get so sick of it. But it's becoming easier: my friends have learned to slow down when they talk and how to recognize when I can't understand them.
So everything is good here, under the circumstances. Thank you for asking. :D
It's an adjustment but one that I'm steadily getting used to.

02:29 pm livejournal post

So...

I want to talk about A.

I have been so good...I have not called her names or said nasty things or decked her or done any of those things that I actually do /think/ about doing.

I got to hear all about her pet name for me from Stephen's best friend's house mate, who is friends with her. She calls me bint, and Ashley brat. To everyone. As in that is what we are known as. bint and brat. She has done this, apparently, for long enough that when being spoken of, people have to use those terms in order to recognize who I am.

bint: an arabic word for daughter, and in the UK, a slang term for a woman who is unpleasant and domineering. Not a nice word AT ALL.

The best friend and housemate were having a housewarming party, to which Stephen and I were invited. A would be there. I wanted to go for a very bad reason... I wanted to show her up with my impeccable manners and haughty ignorance of her. I had visions of her feeling cut to the bone by the fact that I had so little care for her. I wanted to hurt her by being so bloody nice. But I knew I couldn't be friendly with her. I still can't.

Anyway, I decided to not go, because my reasons for wanting to go were shit. I told Stephen that he could go if he wanted, and he did. And then called me from the party and told me that he wanted me to come too. Honestly, I was glad. I had told him that I didn't care if he went... but I think I lied. Not on purpose, I didn't realize that I would end up feeling upset by it, but I was.

I kind of expected A to not be there, as I had told Stephen all of my reasons for deciding not to go... but she was. And I was terrified. Completely cowered by her... and it ticked me off so much. And one point in the evening, she brandished a knife in the room in front of me, not at me, but in the room, and I recoiled from her. And later she ran up to me, grabbed my hand, and drew a heart in lipstick on it. (Which she did to everyone except Stephen, so in that I wasn't singled out) I spent the whole time scared of her, my heart racing, and fuming for being scared.

She sent me a message on facebook afterwards. It has slowly turned into a conversation, as I cant seem to not respond without feeling rude. But the thing that gets me is that she wrote about me again, after the party, on her livejournal, in a public post, calling us bint and brat. Citing a conversation that she had with a friend about me (though it is not stated... and in my very defensive defense, its a new country, new water, new soap, and yes, she has fucking clearer skin than I do!) The link is here... you have to read the post and the comments.

I have NEVER called her anything but A. Even at my most angry, I never called her demeaning names and told all my friends what a such and such she is. And I am so very offended, and frustrated that there is nothing at all that I can think of to do that I am willing to do about it. I don't like to hate people... I don't even like the word hate... but she pushes all my buttons just the right way. Part of me really wants to confront her, get up in her face... but I never would. 1. It would serve no purpose, and 2. I don't want her to know that she gets to me like this.

I want to be a nice person. I want to be accepted by the people that Stephen hangs around with. But I feel as though she has taken all of them and poisoned them against me, and that there really is no point in even trying. So I'm sitting her whining to you all about it. *sigh*

Tears... and Why They Come.

It was not quite 11 in the morning, and I was sitting alone in a coffeeshop on the High Street, crying. Tears were leaving little tracks down my cheeks. It was the second time I cried since I got up this morning.

The reason I was crying was standing outside the window of the shop. She was maybe 18 months old, her hair a peach fuzz of blonde against her skull. Her mummy and daddy were standing on either side of her. I didn't know who she was, and I knew that I would never see her again. It didn't matter, because it was not really HER that made my eyes pour tears, but what she had done.

They walked up beside me, one parent on either side. She was walking by herself between them, you see; possibly one of her first experiences with the freedom of not having to hold hands. Abruptly she stopped and reached for them, and I thought, "Ah... she is ready to touch base again." They both reached down for her hands, one each, and tried to pull her along, but she didn't budge. She grabbed their hands, and put them together. She didn't want to hold their hands: she wanted THEM to hold hands with each other. And when they did, she smiled and clapped her hands and started walking again. Her world was happy. Her parents were holding hands.

I don't know why this 30 second exchange made me cry. It was so sweet. It was endearing and my heart ached. "Maybe this just shows that I'm sensitive today," I thought.

The first time I cried this morning was equally as silly. I was lying in bed next to Stephen, and we were taking our time waking up, just holding onto each other and sharing thoughts and other random bits. I told him about an image I had last night before bed that made me feel slightly sad and lonely and needing of him. I write him a journal, you see. I have for quite a while. And it is a very personal thing, to write to him like that. The image was of me, much older, writing in his journal... writing in the last journal he had ever bought for me, because he had died and I was alone.

I imagined that I wrote in his journals long past while he was here to read it. That I just kept writing to him, going through them one at a time, until I was almost done with the very last one he had ever bought... and it made me sad. It makes me sad just writing about it now. It brings tears to my eyes writing about it. And when I told him, I couldn't help myself, but started to cry. And he pulled me deeper into his arms and held me while I sobbed, called me his silly girl and loved me.

I don't know why I am so sensitive today.

Questions and Answers...

Happy October to you all! Pumpkins and Samhain and soon it will be Stephen's birthday, and I am excited to be able to try out my carrot cake recipe for him. Everything is just slightly different cooking here. Spices act and taste just a bit different, things need a titch more or less cooking. It's a lot to adjust to. I have high expectations that my carrot cake will come out as delicious as I hope it to.

I love it when people interact with my blog. I love it when people ask me questions and give me something to look at specifically for them, and in the hopes of getting more questions, I'll share the ones I just received. Dan the Man sent me an email asking me all sorts of 'curiosity' questions. So instead of posting a reply just to him, I though that, since other people might be curious about the same thing, I'd answer them here.

Here's what Dan said... "So, overall, how does it feel being in the UK? Have you felt any different (besides cold)? Have you met any other "yanks" in Canterbury? The university experience any different from NM? On the school front, how does Ashley like school? How are her classes different than here in the States? Number of periods? Length? Class size. etc. Thanks ;)"

How does it feel being in the UK? Have you felt any different (besides cold)?

You know when you are 12, just turning 13 tomorrow... and you think for sure you will feel different because you will be a TEENAGER... and tomorrow comes and you really don't feel any different at all? That is how this is. It is so awe-inspiring, so overwhelmingly mind blowing, that I can't stay in the mindset of how amazing it is. I forget to be appreciative in the trudge of daily existance. I have to remind myself to look up and conciously remember that these buildings are older than the entire COUNTRY I was living in. I have to remind myself to notice.

And then, there are times when England reaches out and grabs me by the throat and forces me to remember. Like when staring at the tree in Westgate Gardens that has a trunk larger than the diameter of a car. Or when listening to the piper standing on a street corner of the High Street playing in rags, with a dog at his feet and a small pool of coins on a cloth in front of him. Or standing by the eternal river flowing past the ancient gate and into the city center. Times like that it is impossible not to wonder if I am really here and now, in this time, or if I have somehow managed to slip back into the past and stand in the completely different body of some wandering peasant. And if so, have they slipped forward to take my place for a moment? Are they as awestruck as me?

Sometimes, I'm held motionless by it. And sometimes, I forget. Both are disconcerting.

Have you met any other "yanks" in Canterbury?

As far as other Americans, I have met 1 who has been at the University I attend and works in the International Office. She is leaving come spring to go back to the States. She is from Oklahoma. The next closest is a collegue of Stephen's, who is from Canada. He sounds fairly North American, and has been living in Ireland for 7 years. Otherwise, everyone around me is British. Their voices have become normal enough that an accent like mine stands out in a crowd more than the English accent does. On the news this morning, they were interviewing an American, and she sounded strange to me, almost harsh. I wondered if that is really how I sound.

However, Stephen's mum works in the same corridor with 4 Texans. Just the other day she asked me, in all seriousness, if I carried duct tape and WD-40 (though she called it CD-23 or something like that, and it took us forever to figure out what she meant) in my purse, because one of the Texans she works with said that ALL real Texan women carry Duct tape and WD-40 with them everywhere they go. I had to sheepishly explain that I must not be a real Texan - and that I lived on the border anyway... we don't carry duct tape and WD-40, we carry black eyeliner and Our Lady of Guadalupe medallions.


The university experience any different from NM?

The first week I was completely overwhelmed. They absolutely piled on the workload, and said things like, "Now, you need to be doing a lot of reading on your own, which is why we are not giving you a lot to do." I think I figured out why I was overwhelmed.

Here, there are 3 terms in a year. You stay in the classes you take for the entire year. And they give you a list of all the work you have to do for the entire year at the start of the classes. So all this work is spread over the entire year. I'm not used to that. It seems like too much, and I'm going to have to really work to figure out how to manage my time effectively.

I still haven't figured out the book situation. I'm not sure what I need to buy or even if I need to buy. And in general, the University seems disorganized. But it is nothing that I can exactly put my finger on.

On the school front, how does Ashley like school? How are her classes different than here in the States? Number of periods? Length? Class size. etc.

I think it best if I let Ashley answer this question for you, as she is the one actually experiencing her schooling, and can compare it much more effectively than I can. I'll have her post on this tonight.

Now for a complete change of subjects... Stephen and I had an interesting discussion last night on my post about grocery stores and the plethora of ready meals. He said it sounded 'cheeky'. After a discussion of exactly what 'cheeky' means (which I'm still not sure I understand... but it is something like sometimes bratty and sometimes slightly rude, but not always...) he stated, and rightly so, that the US is /known/ for being a country that is so focused on fast foods. So I feel that I should clarify. I haven't been to a whole lot of grocery stores here, so I can't really generalize that ALL stores have so much in the way of ready meals. And I went to stores in the US that were geared towards my kind of cooking (whole raw foods). So it's not entirely fair to say that the UK has more ready-meals in a general sense. Its like comparing apples and oranges.

I stick by my statement that I have seen more ready meals (in % of the store focusing on them) in the stores that I have been to here than I did in the stores I frequented in the States. I am open to changing my mind as I see more.