"Are You My Father? Then How Am I Your Grandmother?!" How Telemundo Made Me Feel Strangely Accomplished

For the length of 2011 and a month into 2012 I had the privilege of living and working as a volunteer English teacher in The Republic of Georgia. As to be expected with any international traveling there were challenges and cultural differences to overcome. How to properly refuse excessive marriage proposals or how to respectfully decline a fifth glass of wine were only a few of the How-To skills I picked up in a country abundant with oxymorons. One How-To skill I managed to borderline master was how to stay clear of engrossing myself into the drama of Spanish Telenovela's. 


I understand the soap opera's exaggerated worldwide appeal, but the steadfast determination Georgian women held to their 'stories' caught me off guard. It wasn't unlike the determination you may find with a housewife and her own daytime 'stories.' I was surprised to find that women in Georgia were looking for the same nonsensical drama in their TV sets as most women in America were also searching for. (Honestly, I was also surprised that most homes in Georgia had at least one television set.) In a way it made a lot of sense. In a country where a sexual revolution had yet to break free it made sense that Georgian women (and sometimes men) would cling onto their TV sets waiting to find out whether it was the muscle-clad businessman Carlos or the oily-haired farm boy Jorge that impregnated the innocent yet feisty Sonya. It was a cheap way to obtain all of the sexual drama so obviously lacking in a typical Georgian women's life. Telenovela's were exotic. 


It could be early or late. At home with my host-mother, fifteen minutes across town with my grandmother, or across the dirt road at my neighbors home. If I entered a room and a 'story' was on the television I would be instructed to join in and watch the fictional drama unfold. I usually did not mind since it always concluded with tea and chocolate. Not an awful set-up. 


I'd watch as five different Enrique Iglesias lookalikes would run laps around the scantily-clad Beauty chanting promises of fortune and happiness. She was almost always in tears. The tears would almost always cue the dramatic music. I could barely contain my laughter and eye-rolling. 


A huge family secret was just exposed, Beauty (or Sonya or...[insert generic name]) would break down hysterically, the weepy violins would begin playing...and commercial break. The first time I attempted to watch an episode with selected members of my host-family I thought it was a joke and I laughed. I was the only one in stitches. The others were stuck on deciphering the dialogue (the Spanish dialogue was still in-tact and at a medium volume while Georgian dialogue, dubbed over the Spanish, rang clear. It was common to hear both languages at the same time) and intentions of every character involved that they could not see through the hilarious nature of the ridiculous premise. I could only allow myself to sit for ten minutes of each episode before excusing myself to catch up on some reading, take a walk, or play with the stray dogs in the street. But it was at least an amusing ten minutes of watching both the Spanish and Georgians handle their dramatic love lives (or lack thereof). 


The only Georgian female I knew who wasn't sucked into the kaleidoscopic-like world of Telemundo broadcasting was my 15 year old host-sister Linda. She would comment on occasion how much she detested the Telenovela's and how frustrating it was to watch so much crying. 


"Everybody is always crying!" Linda would scoff. "Stupid girls!" 


Yes, Linda was a smart one. 


It was common for our television in the home to always be on. Every five minutes a commercial advertising a new serial of "Telemundo Presenta" would chime through the walls into the bedroom I shared with Linda. A deep-set voice would explain in Georgian the plot of next week's episode and end suddenly and dramatically with the words "TELEMUNDO PRESENTA!"


Eventually as Linda's English skills increased so did her level of humor, sarcasm, and wit. It was our tradition to sit in the kitchen late at night and eat sweets or drink a cup of hot chocolate. We were as silly as two girls could be at late hours consuming a bucket of sugar. 


"Linda, could you hand me a napkin?"
"No," she smiled at me.
"No?"
She shook her head.
I slammed my hand on the table. "Young lady! I am your father and you must do what I tell you to do!"
"Are you my father?!" She whipped her hair to the side and stared at me dead in the eyes. "THEN HOW AM I YOUR GRANDMOTHER?!"
"Wait, what?"
"TELEMUNDO PRESENTA! (Dun Dun Dun)"


It was the first time she Telemundo Presenta-ed me. 


"Oh, that's some good stuff," I said. "I'd watch that episode. Is there a lot of crying?"
"Of course, Gogo.* [Georgian for 'girl.'] She is his grandmother. There has to be a lot of crying."


Every now and then Linda would catch me off guard and run into our room screaming various one-liners:


"Quick, Gogo! A goat has escaped!"
"Wait, what?" 
"TELEMUNDO PRESENTA!"


                                                                 or


"My father has killed someone! But he was never my father! He was my sister!"
"Wait, huh?"
"TELEMUNDO PRESENTA!"


Eventually you could end any conversation with a "Telemundo Presenta!" 


One night Linda approached me with a proposition. 


"We should film Telemundo Presenta. I want to remember this when you are gone."
"That sounds like a great idea. What should it be about?"
"I have a story. Can you write down my words?"
"Of course."


And this is what she had me write down:

(I saw you in the garden! Don't you deny it!)

 (I just could not tell you what I wanted to tell you...)

(And our father is our brother!)

"Wait, so I was kissing my brother in the garden then?"
"It does not matter," Linda waved her hands in the air. "That was so long ago. Nobody will remember."
"All right, if you say so. This is your Telemundo."


After a couple of takes and one interruption from Meri, Linda's mother (it was after Midnight...), wondering what all of the screaming was about we finally got our 'picture.' It was also Linda's idea to set the alarm on her telephone so it would appear that the two-timing Alejandro was calling her. She's one for details. 

(Telemundo Presenta: Secret of Relationship)

It has been about three months since I've been back home in America. Looking at my papers and videos from Georgia and especially from this one night with Linda I am struck with a thought. Perhaps enough time has passed that I can now look at certain people, events, and moments objectively, but I was impressed with the level of creativity Linda had put into this tiny production. Eleven months prior to when this was filmed Linda knew very basic English. Words like "far" and "close" escaped her. After watching this I had this realization that I had a hand in helping this young girl build up enough English vocabulary, structure, and wit. All within a year. It left me feeling rather accomplished. 


It was quite easy to feel as if I wasn't accomplishing a whole lot in the classroom due to weather, school, and/or common structure restrictions, but when I look back on this little gem I am reminded that I did serve a purpose. And Telemundo had a strange way of helping me along to this realization. It's like that Albert Einstein quote (because no entry would be complete without a sappy quote!):


    "It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge."


Yes, I suppose that's true.

As Dreams Are: The Man

I fell asleep. 

An unnamed city. It did not look familiar. But I knew the way home. It must have been Spring because I was wearing my light trench coat and I wasn't cold. It was night time but it wasn't dark. I was on the phone with a man. He was in the theater business. We decided phoning would be easier than skyping. The streets had the criss-crossed cobblestone patterns you find in old cities. 

There were bright colors on the low rise buildings. I noticed that there weren't many cars. A few people stood around on the sidewalk; outside of their shops. A few buildings were having work done and I stayed on the road because I recalled a friend once expressing fear from walking underneath the scaffolding. 


The blur of colors: blue, orange, black. 


I talked to Daniel on the phone and he gave me advice about the steps needed to take to enter into the theater business. He made me laugh. We talked as if we had been friends for a long time and for a moment I worried that I had confused him for my other good friend Daniel. 


I was aware I was speaking loudly. I could not hear him. There may have been music or construction work happening in the distance. It was hard to hear. 


"Can you repeat that," I repeated but he only spoke in low, soft tones. My wandering led me from the close-quartered city streets to an open space. I could see to the horizon: to the left, to the right and ahead.

The streets were wide and it had that feeling as if it was a street that should be off-limits to women wandering around at late hours, but that could just be hindsight. There were a few lit buildings at the end of the road. To the right was a field. A very large field and it was obvious that grass had just started to grow. On the field was a large abandoned brick building with broken windows. 

It was very similar to the buildings in the town I had lived in in Georgia. I was still on the phone. I was speaking louder to compensate for Daniel's quietness. He asked me if I wanted to meet him in person. To talk. I hesitated. I was confused, as I often am, about what would develop between us. 'Must keep things at bay,' I felt. Before I could answer a very tall Man, traces of Asian roots, khaki's, a white undershirt approached me. He had a dark car parked by the field at the end of the street. Things felt open. I did not feel threatened. He did not say anything but motioned with his hands, wavering his palms above the road. 


"I'm sorry, would you like me to be a little more quiet?" I asked him. 


He nodded and his eyes appeared to radiate a 'thank you.' I could feel Daniel waiting for an answer from me. I began to speak, to begin explaining my delay. "There is a Man here but it is okay. I am too loud," I wanted to say. But before I could...

The Man slapped me. My phone was in my right hand, I kept it on. I stared at it hoping Daniel would hear this and save me. The Man's eyes were fixated on me. He said things I could not remember. He mentioned rape and I recalled in my dream the previous dreams I have had recently where the men announced upfront that they were going to rape me. I usually keep silent in my dreams but recently I have been loud. I have kicked. I have screamed. 

I yell "Help."

My perspective changes as I imagine Daniel on the phone listening to the words of the Man, to my cries and screams, and I hope he contacts somebody. I know though that he won't. I feel as if he may think it is a joke. He may assume that he does not know my location so really how could he help? My voice is hoarse and I see a short man with dark round sunglasses, slightly balding, a green tattered shirt approach us. I ask him for help as the Man is on top of me and the green-shirt man looks at me and shakes his head 'no.' He looks disgusted. I get the impression that these two men know one another. The Man appears to be embarrassed. 


The streets feel very empty and very dark. It is quiet. The Man disappears. I don't remember how I got away. I run down the wide street and enter one of the abandoned buildings. There is an elevator inside and I run in. I think to myself "I must be in Georgia and there are only a handful of Asian men in Georgia." In the elevator is my friend Christopher who lived in a village near me in Georgia. He is getting ready for his flight back to America and he has a baby in his hands. 


"Let's take a photo together," he asks me and I receive a weird feeling that if I do we will get married and I don't want to play these games anymore. 


I ask him what one should do if she was attacked. He says 'no such things could happen here.' I ask him 'if I were attacked by a foreigner would it be easier to track him down?' and he does not answer. 


The Man, the attacker, enters the elevator and I jump. I make noise. I tell Christopher that it is the Man but he does not listen. The Man leaves. 


The elevator stops on the floor that is designated for flights but it looks very similar to Grand Central Station or a similar train yard from the 1940's but with a slight modern twist. There is grey. There are metal walls and very sharp angles. I follow Christopher into a room where his host family is and I ask again where I can find police officers to report an event. He does not listen. I leave to walk and I find guide books to the city. I keep entering different floors with receptionist desks and a faceless blond lady. Nobody can point me in the direction where the cops are. Nobody can help me. I look through windows and I see movie theaters. A lot of empty seats with a few people facing away from me. They are wearing blue vests with white writing but I can not make out what it says. There are people on a stage and they are preparing for a presentation. 


I re-enter the room where Christopher is and he has the baby still. I tell him that my attack was real but when he and his host sister ask if I was raped I do not know what to say. I can not remember. I am unsure. I tell them I think he was Asian and they insist it will be easy to find him since there are no Asian men in Georgia. Christopher takes me into a different room where there will be a movie playing. It is an old movie house and he still has the baby in his hands. He introduces me to a very large man and I fear that he is actually one of the dark fog monsters that always seem to track me down in my dreams. Christopher gives me the baby to hold and he says that we will have a family one day and the child cries. 

I am in a room of a big house. There are many levels and I think to myself that this may actually be a ship and it is going to sink soon. There are men everywhere. I can not see them but I can feel them. Every time I enter a room trying to find a way out I hear laughter. I am reminded of Christopher and I feel guilty for leaving him. I am reminded of the Man and I feel guilty that I may have lied. I think about how I probably will never get a job with Daniel in the theater business because he heard me on the phone and he will never be able to look at me the same way again.


I am broken. 


The house is bright. It is open with a lot of white space. I can hear a teacher. He sounds like a teacher and I think maybe it is a drama teacher of mine and he is testing me. I do not feel the surge of fear or worry and in a strange way I miss it because it is what I know. 


I am quiet here and I am confused. I think about the eyes of the Man and his power. People are running in and out, but nobody listens to my story.