And the award goes to...

Alison "Hi, my name is Alison Bradley and I watch American Idol."

Chorus: "Hello Alison"

I woke up early this morning to tune into the show live. An hour ago a colleague was reading the news online and called out, "Guess who won American Idol?" I found myself climbing on the desk with excitement and dread. Did I want to find out or should I wait for the grand finale this evening? They've got me hooked.

Yes, it's embarassing but true. I tuned in about five weeks ago and have since not been able to tear myself away. I find the episodes engaging yet tacky, the contestants appalling yet catchy and the competition itself ridiculous. But I'm one of the millions of people who tune in every week for a little dose of who the next American Idol might be.

This addiction (yes, I've said it) entirely contradicts my own perception of who I am. Every week I'm mortified when asking my roommates to change the channel at idol time, or when I find myself discussing the possible outcomes. When did I become this...lame?

I know there are no fingers to point, no blame to cast so here I am admitting that the show sucked me in and I'm waiting for the results. And hopefully when the competition is over, I can spend some time re-connecting with the non-American-idol-addict-Alison.

June

June is drawing closer in Ho Chi Minh City and with it has come the furious mid-afternoon downpours. The sky opens and within seconds Vietnamese motorbikes are at the sides of the road with frantic drivers pulling their poncho's over their heads. And the city is transformed. Plastic, motorized ants glide the streets and, while the rain comes down from the clouds, muddy water sprays from the ground, soaking the shoes of Saigon.

The horizon of June has lunged my students into laziness. Once bright eyed models of hard work and diligence, the promise of tomorrow and the American skyline has rendered them unmotivated and tired. Tired of the 6 hour days and crack of dawn mornings, tired of the feeling that they're never actually leaving, tired of our classes and our work. I hope they leave soon. I am severely attached to them but do not want to enforce education anymore. It's time for them to go.

While the airports of June wink at my students from afar, they also hurtle me to the U.S. The smells and sounds and mayhem of Saigon will recede for a month while I tiptoe through the streets of New York and experience what once was. The land seems as foreign to me right now as Vietnam did 9 months ago. What to expect? Who knows...

And with the calendar of June, comes the midpoint of the year, the time when we all sit back and ponder what happened to the days, how the pages flipped so fast and whether it's all been real or not. My June of 2005 will signal a healed bone, a broken friendship, balmy evenings and frigid nights, the teaching of something, the un-learning of everything, the awe of Saigon and the fear of being foreign. But above all it signals a discovery, a process of uncovering that I have only just begun.