I Have Iraq in My Shoe (39 page)

The ministry kids had concluded their semester of English study, and we had three days of final exams in which to chart their progress.

I projected the following up on the whiteboard, explained this was their final writing exam, and didn’t anticipate any additional questions:

• Your favorite artist
  

• Your personal values
  

• Your personality type
  

• Your food passions
  

Straightforward, no? Even for low-level students.

But as soon as I put the essay topic up, at least four people raised their hands and started asking questions.

Azheen said, “Only two topics we choose?” Then she said, “Artist? Not art?”

Rabar asked, “Write one, two, three?” (I had explained, ad nauseam in class, what an essay should look like, and that no, it should not be three numbered sentences.)

Then Aryan asked, “You want we write one paragraph, then two?”

Solin asked, “For about artist, I tell you, and also explain?”

I had to explain, again, that part of the exam was being able to understand the instructions. And honestly, I don’t think the instructions could have been any easier or clearer.

The following was a perfect example of the disparity in levels of the students in my class.

Dastan (who was at the appropriate level) wrote:

Grammatical mistakes? Yes. Creative spelling? Sure, but he gets his idea across effectively.

Rabar, on the other hand, wrote:

What?

The ministry kids had varying results on their final exams. Some actually did well, others barely passed, and Rabar was a solid “fail.” What was more disappointing was Warren and Jill’s pro bono offer failed to produce the dubious result they had hoped for, and the ministry did not pay to re-enroll any students in the course.

I expelled a heavy, yet unsurprised, sigh. Warren was leaving his contract early, just because he was sick of Iraq. He was supposed to stay until May.

I wondered if I could add a few concrete blocks to his packed hockey bags.

Jill and I had very different ideas on how to ice a cake, and she was mistaken about my understanding. Forget the Iraq War, forget the War on Terror; we were still engulfed in the War on Gretchen’s Privacy. Distress ran through me like Indian food. Who thought this was a logical idea?

Tom Pappas was not staying in my villa. There would be no bathroom sharing, and
no
chance encounters in the hallway in tighty-whities, possibly with Tom playing his guitar and crooning a ballad about fighting lionesses. My hair was standing on end and I was close to hyperventilating as I carefully typed back a response to Jill. It said, “Please do not offer my villa as an option for Tom. I am not comfortable with that arrangement.”

I could not believe that I was the only person to recognize how totally inappropriate that was. This was a Muslim region, where unmarried men and women were hardly permitted to be seen together in public, much less have sleepovers at one another’s houses. I had Kurdish neighbors. This was a university building. Why was there absolutely no concern for how that would look? If I had been a Kurdish female employee, the subject would never have been brought up. If I had been the daughter of one of the board members or faculty, this idea would have been considered an offense. And “plus, he’s the chancellor”? Was that some sort of ultimate trump card that could be pulled at any moment? Where was the line drawn with that? “I’m sorry, but yes, you have to wear this gag ball and rubber dominatrix catsuit.
He’s the chancellor
.”

The next morning my cell phone rang and it was Jill. My stomach tightened and I rolled my eyes as I answered. She was there at the villas and wanted to speak with me. I went downstairs and across the deck to Steve’s villa, where Jill was waiting. She began with, “There will not be any overnight guests.” My relief was hesitant, and I was still wary. She continued on to explain that, after our emails, she sat down and thought about the situation. She said, “I realized
I
didn’t want to be running into Tom in the middle of the night in the hallway!”

Yes! Finally, we had some perspective! No matter that it took Jill actually having to almost be in my shoes to understand this; we were there. I think Jill’s common sense must have temporarily broken, but she managed to fix it. She then went on to explain that she called both the chancellor and the provost and told them Tom couldn’t stay in my villa, and now they were both very angry. The provost threatened, “Jill, you’d better talk to Gretchen, or I will.”

I was aghast that both were “angry” about the situation, and I told Jill, “I will
gladly
have a conversation with the provost, gladly!”
Why did they not get this? What was wrong with these men?

Jill said that wouldn’t be necessary, and the issue had been resolved, but the tension was still there.

The following week I received something a little closer to cake icing:

That is how you ice a cake. I didn’t care if he wanted to use me as a sponsor to get his family to the United States. I was just grateful to have someone ask how I was doing. The only other person who was sympathetic and understanding was the Citibank agent on the phone, when I called to yell about the fraud alerts that kept shutting down my card when I was trying to use it. After they transferred me several times, I had to talk to a hard-nosed manager, who was difficult up until the point where I exhaustedly said, “I’m in Iraq, and it is impossible to have to keep calling about this!” She was immediately profusely apologetic and uber-sympathetic, and I realized she probably thought I was in the armed forces, keeping our country safe and whatnot. I didn’t correct her; I really needed the sympathy.

The Erbil living situation was exhausting me. I had less privacy than ever. The university hired a part-time administrative assistant and had turned the downstairs bedroom into her office. A large copy machine had also been placed at the bottom of the staircase. This was horrible feng shui, I was sure, or possibly one of those weapons of mass destruction everyone had been wailing about.

The new admin was a short, plain, guarded Kurdish woman who wore T-shirts and jeans to work. She was also a tattletale and complained to Jill that Steve and I weren’t always in our classrooms. Jill wanted Steve and me to be sitting in our classrooms “during working hours,” which meant pretending we actually had eight hours of work to do. Warren hadn’t cared if we spent part of the day upstairs in our villas. Jill was less flexible. Whatever slight perks there had been in the Erbil villas were slowly being taken away.

My newfound contentment with Dadyar was short-lived. I had to have an awkward conversation with Jill regarding other “complaints from the staff,” which meant either Dadyar or Vana. Jill said that Vana was “incredibly intimidated” by me, and she proceeded to recount a story in which the innocent, put-upon heroine (Vana, who I then decided was like the stupid, incompetent Prissy in
Gone with the Wind
) had been diligently scrubbing away in the kitchen when the wicked and ruthless Scarlett happened by and disgustedly wiped a fingerful of dust in poor Vana’s/Prissy’s face. This was absurd, and I had thought Jill might have been joking, except when I said, “Oh my God, are you joking?” she said unsmilingly, “No. That was what I was told.”

Vana had complained to her boyfriend Dadyar, who then complained to his cousin Rana, the HR director, who then complained to Jill. I could only imagine the story becoming more and more sinister as it passed from person to person. Ellen informed me that Jill and Rana had adjoining offices at the university and were frequently seen talking and laughing together. This was not good news.

Of course Vana was intimidated by me. I knew about the torrid, illicit love affair! She knew I knew! It was like
The Young and the Restless
, except no one was particularly young. I had long passed the point of caring about the infidelity of “the staff.” It was none of my business. I just didn’t care. I was so disappointed in this turn of events, however, as I had gone out of my way to be nice to Vana. Each week she would drag her bucket and mops into the villa, and I would give her my most winning smile and say, “Hi, Vana! How are you?” And I had warmly welcomed her back from her three-week trip to Ethiopia by saying, “We’re glad you’re back! We missed you!” I didn’t understand how any of that could have been misunderstood to be intimidation. These were the few people involved in my day-to-day life, and I couldn’t trust them. From the moment I set foot outside my bedroom in the morning, until 5:00 p.m. when the staff left, I had to be on my guard. All of that nonsense, combined with the fact that Katherine had gone back to Australia to begin her diplomat training, and most of the other people I knew in Erbil had finished their respective contracts and left to go on to bigger and better things, equaled me really wanting to go back to Suli.

The teachers in Suli had recently been moved from the isolated villa compound to a high-rise apartment complex, with beautiful, spacious, brightly lit apartments. They had designated one entire apartment building for the university staff. The top floor had been made into an all-purpose recreational area, with a Foosball table, movie-screening room, and workout room. Ellen had moved in with Carey, who had brought even more crap than I had and whose apartment could have been featured in a special homesick-themed issue of
Elle Décor
. Once you set foot in the apartment, you may as well have been back in the United States. Carey had generously offered for me to live with them, in the pretty
Elle Décor
apartment, where Ellen was still channeling Betty Crocker and Mrs. Fields. I wanted to be in Suli.