I don't know many people who operate without a sense of the ideal. The perfect scenario in many contexts, the elusive and mostly unreachable dream. Most people have some sense of this whether it be in the context of friendships, romantic relationships, family, career, or life in general.
I may think about ideals more than most people. I don't really know- it isn't exactly a frequent topic of discussion. Regardless, I have an ideal situation in my head for many parts of my life. And I know that the vast majority of details in my dreams will not become reality, and this allows me to feel comfortable dwelling in these thoughts.
One particularly developed ideal is my classroom. This is something I have been creating and shaping and forming for a few years now, and I was certain. Like so many other elements in my life, I was completely confident in what I wanted, and not very open to the chance that this might change. And like so many other elements in my life, I feel like God or karma or fate (pick the one you believe in :) just swiftly kicked me over. And upon falling and hitting my head, I was exposed to an entire world I never dreamed of.
I used to imagine my classroom in an old building, somewhere in the heart of the city. "Urban education" at it's finest, with rough kids and limited resources and demographics that left me in the minority. I really like the culture of different cultures, and especially in the city. My classroom would be filled with hope of a better life and experiences that thrill the heart and inspire the mind. I would have books that drew students into exploration and a uniformed sort of chaos in my classroom decorations. The classroom would feel warm, complimented by items of comfort and assurance like soft chairs and lamps and music. I have arranged seats in a way that allows for collaboration and individuality at the same time. There are centers that focus on writing and reading and math and science and social studies and friendship and growth. I display student work with pride and create opportunities in the classroom for students to connect with each other and discover themselves as a unique person. My classroom is colorful without being too bright- one continuous theme that clutches the room. And so we grow together.
This is my ideal. I used to think that things would be easier if I could just snap my fingers and find myself standing in this situation, completely ready to take on the world. I would dream of the day that I could make this come true- work with my hands and use my resources and pour time and energy into such a place.
My Romanian classroom is very likely not going to fit with this vision. I won't be teaching all of the subjects, and I certainly won't be in a Chicago neighborhood confronting poverty and rejecting stereotypes. But I will be reveling in another culture. And I can create in my classroom opportunities for growth and friendship and collaboration and individuality and inspiration and excitement. I can develop an environment of warmth and trust and risk. I can be an awesome teacher outside of my comfort. I can become someone who grows and develops friendships and collaborates and finds a deeper sense of individuality and seeks inspiration and experiences excitement. And I am quickly becoming convinced that this is the best thing of all about this jump outside of the ideal.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
A Long Time
During a recent conversation with a friend, I commented that a year "really isn't that long." I believe that I was trying to talk myself down a little bit, to backtrack my justifications for wanting to say goodbye to people. I mentioned all of the friends I wanted to see one last time, and then thought about the drama of my words- leading to the remark about a year really not being that long. In the grand scheme of life, a year isn't that long.
She replied "yes, it is."
And she is right. I know that a year, 365 days, 52 weeks- it isn't really a huge deal. It may seem like a long time, but people look back on entire years of life and think "what was I doing?"
But THIS year, these 365 days, these 52 weeks. They are a huge deal.
Just saying.
She replied "yes, it is."
And she is right. I know that a year, 365 days, 52 weeks- it isn't really a huge deal. It may seem like a long time, but people look back on entire years of life and think "what was I doing?"
But THIS year, these 365 days, these 52 weeks. They are a huge deal.
Just saying.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Vague Sense of Home
My life, especially in the last four years, has been incredibly transient. I have little sense of home anymore, resulting from the various places I have resided and become comfortable and felt at ease.
There is my childhood home in rural Michigan with all of the charms and frustrations of small-town life. This is my family home, the place I am familiar with, the location of my childhood memories.
There is my college home in central Indiana. Anderson was for me a place of discovery and growth and connection. It is the place I associate with my closest friends, and the development of self-knowledge and some sense of actualization in life.
And then there is Chicago. It represented my future, the person I wanted to be, the progress in life that I wanted to make. It was here that I thought I would find all of myself, or at least the rest of myself that seemed to be missing. After a year, I learned that a place, no matter it's draw, cannot completely sustain me.
I thought I was completely happy and content. I felt more at home here after two months than I did after 18 years in my hometown, and I was convinced for a very long time that I would stay here regardless of the career prospects. I am currently anticipating my departure from Chicago with some sense of urgency.
Things change, as they are naturally inclined to do in the life of a post-college, pre-career, unsettled person. I DO still want to settle here, I think- but a year somewhere else sounded really great too. Settling is not something I am ready for right now, anyway. Currently, this is the last place in the way of Romania. I have to leave this place before I can go. I will spend two crazy weeks at home, visiting Indiana and Marquette where my brother will go to college, and then I will return to this city as a visitor, driving straight to O'Hare and depart for another home.
When does the concept of "home" become more solid that it's current shade of vague?
*Update on neurosis* Every single dream I had last night was about greasy hair. I am currently researching strategies for preventing greasy hair, just a little problem I have that is completely managable. Totally unimportant in my everyday life, but still something I am trying to control. All in anticipation of traveling and the possible lack of shower opportunities during our first week in Bucharest. A WEE bit obsessive, no?
There is my childhood home in rural Michigan with all of the charms and frustrations of small-town life. This is my family home, the place I am familiar with, the location of my childhood memories.
There is my college home in central Indiana. Anderson was for me a place of discovery and growth and connection. It is the place I associate with my closest friends, and the development of self-knowledge and some sense of actualization in life.
And then there is Chicago. It represented my future, the person I wanted to be, the progress in life that I wanted to make. It was here that I thought I would find all of myself, or at least the rest of myself that seemed to be missing. After a year, I learned that a place, no matter it's draw, cannot completely sustain me.
I thought I was completely happy and content. I felt more at home here after two months than I did after 18 years in my hometown, and I was convinced for a very long time that I would stay here regardless of the career prospects. I am currently anticipating my departure from Chicago with some sense of urgency.
Things change, as they are naturally inclined to do in the life of a post-college, pre-career, unsettled person. I DO still want to settle here, I think- but a year somewhere else sounded really great too. Settling is not something I am ready for right now, anyway. Currently, this is the last place in the way of Romania. I have to leave this place before I can go. I will spend two crazy weeks at home, visiting Indiana and Marquette where my brother will go to college, and then I will return to this city as a visitor, driving straight to O'Hare and depart for another home.
When does the concept of "home" become more solid that it's current shade of vague?
*Update on neurosis* Every single dream I had last night was about greasy hair. I am currently researching strategies for preventing greasy hair, just a little problem I have that is completely managable. Totally unimportant in my everyday life, but still something I am trying to control. All in anticipation of traveling and the possible lack of shower opportunities during our first week in Bucharest. A WEE bit obsessive, no?
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Control
I have what some professionals might call a "control" issue. I'm not sure where exactly it comes from, but it sometimes creates problems. And by sometimes I mean pretty frequently. And by issue, I just mean that I like it.
I like control. I like having control, I like being in control, I like taking control. And because of this, I live in fear of being a "control freak." I know the part of my personality that lies deep within, and I smush it down farther and farther. I don't want to be that person, that overbearing, over-intrusive, constantly annoying person. THAT is something I do not want to be. So I make choices.
I chose a career (none of this "career chose me" bunk- I am in control :) which most people think is about control, but really is not. Teaching is not about control. There are some aspects of the job that may seem this way- but when it is really fleshed out, teachers shouldn't have control. Controlling a classroom is not something I want to do. I like to think that I can create order in any situation. I can quiet a classroom and engage minds and draw attention. But is there anything more beautiful than the organic process of learning in a classroom? The natural, inspiring, uncontrollable movement of thought and energy and resource into the very being of a little person? Friends, there is nothing more pure- and so I chose a career where control is something to be shaken off.
I have relationships that I have no control of. Certainly I have input and insight and choice in relationships, but I consciously choose to interact closely with people in a way that allows me to be passive. I can practice not being in control, and these people temper my spirit and ground me. In a desperate attempt to keep them close I change little bits about myself. I become better as a person, more balanced and whole, when I work on the loss of control.
For someone who is still in complete control even of the practice of being uncontrolled, I am pretty proud of myself for what I am going to do next year. The plan thrown out the window (or at least filed away neatly in the "save for later" folder), I am abandoning my control issues and living as an unreserved person! I will be spontaneous and fun! I don't care that I have no information on where I will be living! All cares are in the wind when it comes to packing! I have no problems with my lack of information concerning my classroom or students! It matters naught that I don't even know what my salary will be! I will be a free spirit, moving where the winds of fate take me! RIGHT.
I push the control down farther and farther. And sometimes, the pressure is just too great, and I crack, and teeny bits of me leak out.
Don't worry. I try not to let the control seep onto other people. I keep my messes pretty much to myself. But a mess I am. Here are some things I am currently trying to have control over:
1. How much sleep I will/will not get on the plane. My mom pretended to fall asleep when I talked about this today. Nothing like that to show you the true importance of such matters. Is this truly something I should spend time thinking about? Probably not. But still my time is filled with thoughts of how long the flight is, and whether or not I should stay up the night before, and if I should take a sleeping aid, and how groggy I will be the next morning, and how terribly embarrassing it would be TO take a sleeping aid and do something stupid in a state of deep slumber, and, and, and...
2. Lesson planning. I KNOW that I don't have any idea what I will be teaching. But do I still have a lesson plan all ready for the first... um... month of school? Yes. Do I know I will have to scrap these plans? Yes. So long as I know, right?
3. Arrival to airport. We are 4 weeks and 4 days away from my departure. My parents will be dropping me off at the airport in Chicago. No, I haven't looked up our airline approximately 12 times. No, that wasn't me who searched the international terminal website, despite having flown through the EXACT terminal twice in the last 15 months. No, I certainly did NOT mapquest directions to an airport located IN THE CITY that I have called home for a year. No, it was not me who created contingency plans in the case that the car breaks down.
4. How I will look during travel. This one is particularly ridiculous. Spending time reading tips and techniques for how to "stay fresh" during international travel is probably a little bit absurd, right? Yes.
5. Boredom on the airplane. I have 4 times flown over the Atlantic Ocean and never once died of boredom. In fact, I don't even recollect being bored. So please explain to me the countless internet searches regarding "how to survive a long-haul flight." Please explain the thought and energy I am putting into what books I am going to bring and letters I can write and music I can listen to.
6. My personal life. Haha. Hahahahaha. Hahaha.
Control I want, and control I have none of.
Brought to you be the word of the day: control.
I like control. I like having control, I like being in control, I like taking control. And because of this, I live in fear of being a "control freak." I know the part of my personality that lies deep within, and I smush it down farther and farther. I don't want to be that person, that overbearing, over-intrusive, constantly annoying person. THAT is something I do not want to be. So I make choices.
I chose a career (none of this "career chose me" bunk- I am in control :) which most people think is about control, but really is not. Teaching is not about control. There are some aspects of the job that may seem this way- but when it is really fleshed out, teachers shouldn't have control. Controlling a classroom is not something I want to do. I like to think that I can create order in any situation. I can quiet a classroom and engage minds and draw attention. But is there anything more beautiful than the organic process of learning in a classroom? The natural, inspiring, uncontrollable movement of thought and energy and resource into the very being of a little person? Friends, there is nothing more pure- and so I chose a career where control is something to be shaken off.
I have relationships that I have no control of. Certainly I have input and insight and choice in relationships, but I consciously choose to interact closely with people in a way that allows me to be passive. I can practice not being in control, and these people temper my spirit and ground me. In a desperate attempt to keep them close I change little bits about myself. I become better as a person, more balanced and whole, when I work on the loss of control.
For someone who is still in complete control even of the practice of being uncontrolled, I am pretty proud of myself for what I am going to do next year. The plan thrown out the window (or at least filed away neatly in the "save for later" folder), I am abandoning my control issues and living as an unreserved person! I will be spontaneous and fun! I don't care that I have no information on where I will be living! All cares are in the wind when it comes to packing! I have no problems with my lack of information concerning my classroom or students! It matters naught that I don't even know what my salary will be! I will be a free spirit, moving where the winds of fate take me! RIGHT.
I push the control down farther and farther. And sometimes, the pressure is just too great, and I crack, and teeny bits of me leak out.
Don't worry. I try not to let the control seep onto other people. I keep my messes pretty much to myself. But a mess I am. Here are some things I am currently trying to have control over:
1. How much sleep I will/will not get on the plane. My mom pretended to fall asleep when I talked about this today. Nothing like that to show you the true importance of such matters. Is this truly something I should spend time thinking about? Probably not. But still my time is filled with thoughts of how long the flight is, and whether or not I should stay up the night before, and if I should take a sleeping aid, and how groggy I will be the next morning, and how terribly embarrassing it would be TO take a sleeping aid and do something stupid in a state of deep slumber, and, and, and...
2. Lesson planning. I KNOW that I don't have any idea what I will be teaching. But do I still have a lesson plan all ready for the first... um... month of school? Yes. Do I know I will have to scrap these plans? Yes. So long as I know, right?
3. Arrival to airport. We are 4 weeks and 4 days away from my departure. My parents will be dropping me off at the airport in Chicago. No, I haven't looked up our airline approximately 12 times. No, that wasn't me who searched the international terminal website, despite having flown through the EXACT terminal twice in the last 15 months. No, I certainly did NOT mapquest directions to an airport located IN THE CITY that I have called home for a year. No, it was not me who created contingency plans in the case that the car breaks down.
4. How I will look during travel. This one is particularly ridiculous. Spending time reading tips and techniques for how to "stay fresh" during international travel is probably a little bit absurd, right? Yes.
5. Boredom on the airplane. I have 4 times flown over the Atlantic Ocean and never once died of boredom. In fact, I don't even recollect being bored. So please explain to me the countless internet searches regarding "how to survive a long-haul flight." Please explain the thought and energy I am putting into what books I am going to bring and letters I can write and music I can listen to.
6. My personal life. Haha. Hahahahaha. Hahaha.
Control I want, and control I have none of.
Brought to you be the word of the day: control.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
A Short Letter
Dear Lady Who Made My Day,
Could you BE any more pretentious? Standing at the bus stop like you own the world, dressed in an outfit straight off the cover of Vogue (the kind that no one actually wears), sporting designer shades and a blond blow-out that probably cost your stylist his sanity this morning. You are laden down with bags from every glamorous store on the Magnificent Mile, and looking angry about it. You pulled your cell phone from your weird, ugly purse and spoke into it with a fake accent and the hallmark phrases of one schooled in snobbery. You discussed the ridiculous impertinence of the salespeople at Neimen Marcus and the trials of having to wait for the awful bus- "this city just doesn't know a thing about style." Snapping it shut you shielded your eyes from the sun (because designer sunglasses apparently don't work that well) and looked up the street impatiently, as if you have some kind of GPS tracking device and the bus pulls up to wherever you are. You pulled a fan (YES, an actual fan) from your bag and delicately wafted the breeze over your face, until it clearly disturbed your bangs enough to be unacceptable. With a huge sigh of exasperation, you rolled your eyes at me, as if we share this moment in terrible agony together.
Friend, we have been waiting for the bus for approximately two minutes. So I smile back at you, thinking of the times I have waited at the 47th Street Station for, um, longer than two minutes. Like, forty-three minutes longer than two minutes. You seem to think that we are friends as you shift closer to me at the stop, and you say "I just hate taking the bus. It is so dirty!" I try not to grimace at many things: your pitiful attempt at conversation, the fact that this route is just about the nicest and cleanest of ALL the bus routes, and the whine in your voice that I don't tolerate from a 6 year old. And then I begin to laugh because many things happen all at once.
Pigeons swoop down from the sky, dive bomb your fantastic Valley Girl hairstyle, and you scream and duck. A very eclectically dressed homeless man (or woman) approaches, smelling just fantastic- you recoil in horror. And a little grubby child runs straight at your white linen pants with what appears to be jelly on his hands.
Karma bites back.
Sincerely,
Stephanie
*My favorite part of this whole story is that I followed this girl when the bus finally pulled up. She got off two blocks away when a very normal working man attempted to sit down next to her and her purple jelly pants. And no, she didn't really appreciate the wave I gave her as the bus sailed by.*
Could you BE any more pretentious? Standing at the bus stop like you own the world, dressed in an outfit straight off the cover of Vogue (the kind that no one actually wears), sporting designer shades and a blond blow-out that probably cost your stylist his sanity this morning. You are laden down with bags from every glamorous store on the Magnificent Mile, and looking angry about it. You pulled your cell phone from your weird, ugly purse and spoke into it with a fake accent and the hallmark phrases of one schooled in snobbery. You discussed the ridiculous impertinence of the salespeople at Neimen Marcus and the trials of having to wait for the awful bus- "this city just doesn't know a thing about style." Snapping it shut you shielded your eyes from the sun (because designer sunglasses apparently don't work that well) and looked up the street impatiently, as if you have some kind of GPS tracking device and the bus pulls up to wherever you are. You pulled a fan (YES, an actual fan) from your bag and delicately wafted the breeze over your face, until it clearly disturbed your bangs enough to be unacceptable. With a huge sigh of exasperation, you rolled your eyes at me, as if we share this moment in terrible agony together.
Friend, we have been waiting for the bus for approximately two minutes. So I smile back at you, thinking of the times I have waited at the 47th Street Station for, um, longer than two minutes. Like, forty-three minutes longer than two minutes. You seem to think that we are friends as you shift closer to me at the stop, and you say "I just hate taking the bus. It is so dirty!" I try not to grimace at many things: your pitiful attempt at conversation, the fact that this route is just about the nicest and cleanest of ALL the bus routes, and the whine in your voice that I don't tolerate from a 6 year old. And then I begin to laugh because many things happen all at once.
Pigeons swoop down from the sky, dive bomb your fantastic Valley Girl hairstyle, and you scream and duck. A very eclectically dressed homeless man (or woman) approaches, smelling just fantastic- you recoil in horror. And a little grubby child runs straight at your white linen pants with what appears to be jelly on his hands.
Karma bites back.
Sincerely,
Stephanie
*My favorite part of this whole story is that I followed this girl when the bus finally pulled up. She got off two blocks away when a very normal working man attempted to sit down next to her and her purple jelly pants. And no, she didn't really appreciate the wave I gave her as the bus sailed by.*
Monday, July 26, 2010
Books
I have a lot to say here about books. And I have no fluid way at the moment of stringing everything together. Please indulge my list-making mania.
1. I love the smell of a book, the feeling of cracking a binding, the mental journey one can take. Like a dear friend that one can return to for confirmation of emotion, of knowledge, and of humanity, books stabilize me. They indulge my wishes and distract me from problems and show me more of myself. Books ground me and frighten me and enlighten me and inspire me and evoke in me feelings I cannot explain.
2. Because I love books, I love libraries. I marvel at the public buildings that contain the knowledge of generations and the wisdom of history and the future of our society. They make me very happy. In particular, I have a little bit of a love affair going with the Harold Washington Library in downtown Chicago. The exterior building- meh- it's okay. There are much prettier places in the city, I promise. But the interior wealth of this place is astounding. I spend hours just walking and browsing and sitting and working and thinking and listening and of course... reading.
3. There are three books that I love more than any other three books on the planet. I like to think they represent three phases of my life thus far. The first book is "Madeline." The second book is "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." And the third book is "The Poisonwood Bible." I cannot stop loving these three books. I have read them over and over and over and feel attached to them as a baby has a security blanket. Can I bring them with me?
4. I don't know when this part of my psychosis began, but I cannot stop reading a book once I have started it. I am bound and completely determined to press on and persevere through even the dullest of texts. It is because of this part of my personality that books like "Moby Dick" were ever finished. (You should know that I am struggling a great deal with this because I cannot find an underline button and book titles are meant to be UNDERLINED.) Anyway, this leads to more stories, of course.
5. I like to travel, and when I travel, I like to read. Okay. I like to read all the time. But when traveling, I am particularly interested in "light" books that I still can call friends. Books with substance and some humor and a wee bit of meaning. No Faulkner for traveling- but we should talk about the other end of the spectrum as well. I don't like trash- reading trash makes me kind of want to regurgitate the information from my brain- especially because (see #3) I had to read the whole thing. A book is trash if it is written in a purposely pithy and stale style without substance. A book is trash if the entire plot line is based around a man and a woman and perhaps another man or another woman and their adventures and misadventures in love. If there are half-naked people on the cover, the book is probably trash. And finally... if the book is about vampires, it is most likely trash. I said it. That's right. AND I'm moving to Romania. Booyah.
6. One such trashy novel is "The Devil Wears Prada." I can hear your brain exploding from here, because the movie was so fantastic, right? Cute and approachable Anne Hathaway turns into a major B**** when pressured by the fabulous and striking Meryl Streep and finally regains her true personality, credibility, and adorable boyfriend in the end. Well, that all happened in the book. Except it was written down, and it was TERRIBLE. Great story, awful writing, and the bane of my existence. Why, friends? Because this is the book I chose to bring to Romania the first time around. It has never in my life taken me ten days to read a novel- and I barely finished this one. I kid you not, I have never in my life wanted to throw away a book more. With great disdain and a churning stomach, I finally read the last page and promptly discarded the book, sometime on our return journey.
7. On my next international trip, I was a little bit more intelligent. My mom and I each packed two books from an author that I knew I liked- nay- loved. Barbara Kingsolver is, in my opinion, God's gift to literature. And so we read her wonderful books and I didn't want to cry or scream even once. Of course, because I loved the books I finished them too quickly and had to buy more- but there are plenty of good little bookstores in Europe.
8. I recently was kept awake all night reading a book that I feared was going to be a repeat of many books I have started and not enjoyed and been forced to finish. I picked it up on a whim, desiring to be current with the times and the approximately 17 people I see daily reading this book. Seriously- I saw SEVENTEEN different people today with this book in their hands. Anyway, "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" didn't immediately catch my attention, but I plodded onward. Two nights ago at around 11 o'clock, I was about a third of the way through the text, and I realized that I had to finish it THAT night. Because, friends, there was no way I could put it down. There would be no sleep with that storyline hanging open. And so I turned all the lights on and read and read and read the sadistic and intriguing and freakin' terrifying murder mystery. And went to bed at 7 o'clock in the morning. This has happened with precisely TWO other books in a lifetime of reading: The last book in the "Harry Potter" series, and "Native Son." I highly recommend all three if you have many hours of sleep to miss out on.
9. All of this to ask: Who has recommendations of books to take with me this year? Books for the flight, for travel while there, for teaching, for boredom?
Thanks for the indulgence. I am sure that someday these posts will again be short and pithy. Today was just NOT the day.
1. I love the smell of a book, the feeling of cracking a binding, the mental journey one can take. Like a dear friend that one can return to for confirmation of emotion, of knowledge, and of humanity, books stabilize me. They indulge my wishes and distract me from problems and show me more of myself. Books ground me and frighten me and enlighten me and inspire me and evoke in me feelings I cannot explain.
2. Because I love books, I love libraries. I marvel at the public buildings that contain the knowledge of generations and the wisdom of history and the future of our society. They make me very happy. In particular, I have a little bit of a love affair going with the Harold Washington Library in downtown Chicago. The exterior building- meh- it's okay. There are much prettier places in the city, I promise. But the interior wealth of this place is astounding. I spend hours just walking and browsing and sitting and working and thinking and listening and of course... reading.
3. There are three books that I love more than any other three books on the planet. I like to think they represent three phases of my life thus far. The first book is "Madeline." The second book is "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." And the third book is "The Poisonwood Bible." I cannot stop loving these three books. I have read them over and over and over and feel attached to them as a baby has a security blanket. Can I bring them with me?
4. I don't know when this part of my psychosis began, but I cannot stop reading a book once I have started it. I am bound and completely determined to press on and persevere through even the dullest of texts. It is because of this part of my personality that books like "Moby Dick" were ever finished. (You should know that I am struggling a great deal with this because I cannot find an underline button and book titles are meant to be UNDERLINED.) Anyway, this leads to more stories, of course.
5. I like to travel, and when I travel, I like to read. Okay. I like to read all the time. But when traveling, I am particularly interested in "light" books that I still can call friends. Books with substance and some humor and a wee bit of meaning. No Faulkner for traveling- but we should talk about the other end of the spectrum as well. I don't like trash- reading trash makes me kind of want to regurgitate the information from my brain- especially because (see #3) I had to read the whole thing. A book is trash if it is written in a purposely pithy and stale style without substance. A book is trash if the entire plot line is based around a man and a woman and perhaps another man or another woman and their adventures and misadventures in love. If there are half-naked people on the cover, the book is probably trash. And finally... if the book is about vampires, it is most likely trash. I said it. That's right. AND I'm moving to Romania. Booyah.
6. One such trashy novel is "The Devil Wears Prada." I can hear your brain exploding from here, because the movie was so fantastic, right? Cute and approachable Anne Hathaway turns into a major B**** when pressured by the fabulous and striking Meryl Streep and finally regains her true personality, credibility, and adorable boyfriend in the end. Well, that all happened in the book. Except it was written down, and it was TERRIBLE. Great story, awful writing, and the bane of my existence. Why, friends? Because this is the book I chose to bring to Romania the first time around. It has never in my life taken me ten days to read a novel- and I barely finished this one. I kid you not, I have never in my life wanted to throw away a book more. With great disdain and a churning stomach, I finally read the last page and promptly discarded the book, sometime on our return journey.
7. On my next international trip, I was a little bit more intelligent. My mom and I each packed two books from an author that I knew I liked- nay- loved. Barbara Kingsolver is, in my opinion, God's gift to literature. And so we read her wonderful books and I didn't want to cry or scream even once. Of course, because I loved the books I finished them too quickly and had to buy more- but there are plenty of good little bookstores in Europe.
8. I recently was kept awake all night reading a book that I feared was going to be a repeat of many books I have started and not enjoyed and been forced to finish. I picked it up on a whim, desiring to be current with the times and the approximately 17 people I see daily reading this book. Seriously- I saw SEVENTEEN different people today with this book in their hands. Anyway, "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" didn't immediately catch my attention, but I plodded onward. Two nights ago at around 11 o'clock, I was about a third of the way through the text, and I realized that I had to finish it THAT night. Because, friends, there was no way I could put it down. There would be no sleep with that storyline hanging open. And so I turned all the lights on and read and read and read the sadistic and intriguing and freakin' terrifying murder mystery. And went to bed at 7 o'clock in the morning. This has happened with precisely TWO other books in a lifetime of reading: The last book in the "Harry Potter" series, and "Native Son." I highly recommend all three if you have many hours of sleep to miss out on.
9. All of this to ask: Who has recommendations of books to take with me this year? Books for the flight, for travel while there, for teaching, for boredom?
Thanks for the indulgence. I am sure that someday these posts will again be short and pithy. Today was just NOT the day.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Droplets of Water AND Favorite Teaching Story- Whoa
I apologize in advance for the length of this posting. Sometimes I just can't help it. And I am of the general opinion that Americans don't do enough reading. But mostly, I just can't help it.
Sometime in my childhood, I developed a crush on a boy who I thought loved the outdoors. He had a deep respect for animals and plants and nature in general. And in my child's brain, I thought that if I too became enraptured with the world outside, he would take notice and we would share secret moments together behind the school building, complete with flowers. I don't even remember who this boy was, but I do know that he rode my bus route, because it was on the bus that I perfected my Nature Girl persona. (Yes, I actually referred to myself this way.) I would stare longingly out the window, breathe meaningful sighs periodically, run my fingers through my tangled little-girl hair (please just try to picture the hilarity of this), and sneak furtive glances to see if Nature Boy was watching. He wasn't.
This behavior persisted for just a few weeks, but it was in this short span of time that I learned to observe. I certainly wouldn't say that I am typically the most observant person in any group of people- solo endeavors included. It is a long-standing joke in my family that I have the skills of a spastic squirrel when it comes to noticing my physical environment. However, I can become fixated on little details, tiny occurrences with almost insignificant consequences. And one of these is water. Specifically, water droplets.
I just like watching them form, holding my breath until the last second when they finally became too heavy and succumbed to gravity. Sometimes it seems to happen instantaneously, and other times it is a long, slow procedure. For some reason, it is the similarity of every journey that appeals to me. The fact that every single droplet of water ever formed has been through the graceful process, regardless of location or speed.
This is the part of the blog post where I become profound. Bordering on revelatory. Prepare your mind...
Teaching is like the formation of water droplets. Yeah, I said it. I made that absurd metaphorical connection. But faithful reader- stick with me on this one. Because there is an awesome story at the end.
Sometimes it is all you can do to get the words out of your mouth before a student takes them and runs away. They move with speed through the material you are teaching, and make huge leaps and giant splatters of the mind all on their own, with almost no effort on your part. These students are sharper than you thought possible, and make connections you yourself hadn't thought of. They integrate subject matter and find meaning in everything in the classroom. Pouring knowledge into them happens almost instantaneously. These kids are HARD to teach. They are always looking for more, for deeper, and for better. They are frequently bored and create all kinds of behavioral problems. They make you feel inadequate almost every day- but I wouldn't lose these feisty kids for the world.
On the other end of the classroom spectrum there are the students who seem to take forever to form that droplet. You pour everything you have- all the knowledge and the skill and the energy you have- into the brains of these students, and connections don't hold as firm. The molecules just take longer to bond, and you hold your breath, praying every moment that this moment will be the one. And my friends, when this moment arrives, and the lights flash and the heart jumps and the soul rejoices... let's just say I wouldn't lose these kids for the world either.
Okay. You have read through a lot of incoherent blabber. But I do hope that you someday have the chance to pour knowledge and watch droplets form- with whatever speed they fancy. A good amount of my work last year was with ELL students- students learning English, non-native speakers. One group in particular was exceptionally special to me, and the characters in what is perhaps my favorite teaching story up until this point.
The fifth grade students were facing the dreaded (dun dun dun...) ISAT test in the beginning of March. Similar to every other standardized test in every other state, preparation for the ISAT was accompanied by the descention of gloom over the school, it's teachers, and the students. I literally had crying nine-year old students, worried that they wouldn't pass. Shaking my invisible fist at the nitwits who designed such as system, I would carry on and dream of the day that I could actually teach again. One of the particular challenges of the fifth grade test was the inclusion of the TIMED WRITING TEST. And let me tell you, for a group of 5th grade students learning English- this was not the most promising assessment.
And so I took on this task, and taught my kids how to write. We talked about structure and how to write a good introduction. They learned about grabbing attention and finding a main point. Considerable confusion ensued when we discussed the three main points within the main point and the three details that must accompany the three main points within the main point. Pushing onward, they studied conclusions and wrote "gotcha sentences" and make good personal connections. And they wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. And I read some dismal essays. I'm talking crazy, incomprehensible, barely readable work. And I assessed them the way the state would, and sometimes at night I cried, and neglected to hand back the papers the next morning for fear of crushing little spirits. But their faces shone with such anticipation and they asked for more timed practice and we barreled through the calendar towards the test.
Some of my students caught on right away, like the quick droplets of water. They honed their skills and produced work that was both readable and enjoyable. And others steadily improved- everyone steadily improved- but steadily does not mean quickly. One of my favorites is the most earnest, hardworking student I have ever encountered. And his writing was atrocious. But he carried on, always hoping, always trying. He got better and better.
One night, I was sitting in my living room assessing essays. Again. And I got to this kid, this amazing, wonderful, hardworking kid... and I read his essay waiting for the bottom to drop out. And I read it again with tears welling up and a growing sense of pride. And I read it again crying and smiling and laughing. And I put the elusive number 5 at the top, the top score, the "Exceptional" marking.
The next day, I put the essay face down on his desk as I was passing back papers, and continued to move around the room. I didn't say anything because I wanted to gauge his true reaction- and so I was terribly surprised when he began to cry. He came up to me with streaming tears and held the essay out and said "Thank you, Ms. Sablich. For weeks I feel myself to become a better writer. But never I think it would happen. Thank you, Ms. Sablich. For now I know I am to becoming a better writer." (Please repeat the following sentences aloud while speaking with the accent of the cutest little Mexican kid you have ever met.)
We cried together that day. He was a slow droplet- but the beautiful process was the same.
Sometime in my childhood, I developed a crush on a boy who I thought loved the outdoors. He had a deep respect for animals and plants and nature in general. And in my child's brain, I thought that if I too became enraptured with the world outside, he would take notice and we would share secret moments together behind the school building, complete with flowers. I don't even remember who this boy was, but I do know that he rode my bus route, because it was on the bus that I perfected my Nature Girl persona. (Yes, I actually referred to myself this way.) I would stare longingly out the window, breathe meaningful sighs periodically, run my fingers through my tangled little-girl hair (please just try to picture the hilarity of this), and sneak furtive glances to see if Nature Boy was watching. He wasn't.
This behavior persisted for just a few weeks, but it was in this short span of time that I learned to observe. I certainly wouldn't say that I am typically the most observant person in any group of people- solo endeavors included. It is a long-standing joke in my family that I have the skills of a spastic squirrel when it comes to noticing my physical environment. However, I can become fixated on little details, tiny occurrences with almost insignificant consequences. And one of these is water. Specifically, water droplets.
I just like watching them form, holding my breath until the last second when they finally became too heavy and succumbed to gravity. Sometimes it seems to happen instantaneously, and other times it is a long, slow procedure. For some reason, it is the similarity of every journey that appeals to me. The fact that every single droplet of water ever formed has been through the graceful process, regardless of location or speed.
This is the part of the blog post where I become profound. Bordering on revelatory. Prepare your mind...
Teaching is like the formation of water droplets. Yeah, I said it. I made that absurd metaphorical connection. But faithful reader- stick with me on this one. Because there is an awesome story at the end.
Sometimes it is all you can do to get the words out of your mouth before a student takes them and runs away. They move with speed through the material you are teaching, and make huge leaps and giant splatters of the mind all on their own, with almost no effort on your part. These students are sharper than you thought possible, and make connections you yourself hadn't thought of. They integrate subject matter and find meaning in everything in the classroom. Pouring knowledge into them happens almost instantaneously. These kids are HARD to teach. They are always looking for more, for deeper, and for better. They are frequently bored and create all kinds of behavioral problems. They make you feel inadequate almost every day- but I wouldn't lose these feisty kids for the world.
On the other end of the classroom spectrum there are the students who seem to take forever to form that droplet. You pour everything you have- all the knowledge and the skill and the energy you have- into the brains of these students, and connections don't hold as firm. The molecules just take longer to bond, and you hold your breath, praying every moment that this moment will be the one. And my friends, when this moment arrives, and the lights flash and the heart jumps and the soul rejoices... let's just say I wouldn't lose these kids for the world either.
Okay. You have read through a lot of incoherent blabber. But I do hope that you someday have the chance to pour knowledge and watch droplets form- with whatever speed they fancy. A good amount of my work last year was with ELL students- students learning English, non-native speakers. One group in particular was exceptionally special to me, and the characters in what is perhaps my favorite teaching story up until this point.
The fifth grade students were facing the dreaded (dun dun dun...) ISAT test in the beginning of March. Similar to every other standardized test in every other state, preparation for the ISAT was accompanied by the descention of gloom over the school, it's teachers, and the students. I literally had crying nine-year old students, worried that they wouldn't pass. Shaking my invisible fist at the nitwits who designed such as system, I would carry on and dream of the day that I could actually teach again. One of the particular challenges of the fifth grade test was the inclusion of the TIMED WRITING TEST. And let me tell you, for a group of 5th grade students learning English- this was not the most promising assessment.
And so I took on this task, and taught my kids how to write. We talked about structure and how to write a good introduction. They learned about grabbing attention and finding a main point. Considerable confusion ensued when we discussed the three main points within the main point and the three details that must accompany the three main points within the main point. Pushing onward, they studied conclusions and wrote "gotcha sentences" and make good personal connections. And they wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. And I read some dismal essays. I'm talking crazy, incomprehensible, barely readable work. And I assessed them the way the state would, and sometimes at night I cried, and neglected to hand back the papers the next morning for fear of crushing little spirits. But their faces shone with such anticipation and they asked for more timed practice and we barreled through the calendar towards the test.
Some of my students caught on right away, like the quick droplets of water. They honed their skills and produced work that was both readable and enjoyable. And others steadily improved- everyone steadily improved- but steadily does not mean quickly. One of my favorites is the most earnest, hardworking student I have ever encountered. And his writing was atrocious. But he carried on, always hoping, always trying. He got better and better.
One night, I was sitting in my living room assessing essays. Again. And I got to this kid, this amazing, wonderful, hardworking kid... and I read his essay waiting for the bottom to drop out. And I read it again with tears welling up and a growing sense of pride. And I read it again crying and smiling and laughing. And I put the elusive number 5 at the top, the top score, the "Exceptional" marking.
The next day, I put the essay face down on his desk as I was passing back papers, and continued to move around the room. I didn't say anything because I wanted to gauge his true reaction- and so I was terribly surprised when he began to cry. He came up to me with streaming tears and held the essay out and said "Thank you, Ms. Sablich. For weeks I feel myself to become a better writer. But never I think it would happen. Thank you, Ms. Sablich. For now I know I am to becoming a better writer." (Please repeat the following sentences aloud while speaking with the accent of the cutest little Mexican kid you have ever met.)
We cried together that day. He was a slow droplet- but the beautiful process was the same.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Preparation and School Supplies
I was once told that writing a paper has three steps. I am not sure of the wisdom of such advice, as it turns out that writing is dependent on an unbelievable network of nuances concerning grammar, orthography, phrasing, vocabulary, style, organization, voice, and many other things. Regardless, I am going to go ahead and follow this directive: "Tell them what you are going to say, say it, and tell them what you told them." RIGHT.
PART ONE:
This posting is going to be about my manic-obsessive need to plan, and my semi-unsettling fascination with school supplies.
PART TWO:
I recently have had a lot of free time, owing to the change in my job situation that is basically awesome-ness in all facets. Regardless, I spent much of this free time concentrating on things that need no thought- hours on Facebook, for example. I worked more on my Romanian language skills, now the master of such phrases as "I speak a little Romanian." And finally, I began to plan for the coming school year. Right.
There is time every summer that I spend just detoxing from the previous year, and the time frame for such a rest is completely dependent on the stress and intensity of my activities during the year. This summer, it took me a longer-than-normal 39 days to recharge and jump back in. But last night, June 23, 2010 at around 6:45 pm CST, the instinct struck with a vengeance. Right.
I started making lists and doodling brain webs and sending emails and compiling ideas. It hit hard this year, my friends, regardless of the fact that I know shockingly less about my job than ever before, and nothing of my students. I have no idea what my classroom will be like, what the school culture allows or promotes, or even if I will be allowed to do what I want. I have no grasp on the technology available or the supplies accessible for me or my students. But I am planning. Right.
One of my most favorite and cherished ideas began with one email and quickly spiraled (almost) out of control. I thought about the possibility of "adopting" a classroom in the States to partner with, sharing letters and emails and cultural learning. For ELL (English Language Learner) students, it is imperative that they have authentic interaction with other students and the language. So I sent out a few (okay, 30) messages... and things are looking good. I probably cannot express the immense amount of excitement I feel about these possibilities. So I won't try. Those who know me well probably can picture the expression on my face, accompanied by much jumping and arm flailing and random squealing. Those who don't know me quite as well... count it as a blessing. Right.
Despite being reminded by D~ (jokingly, I hope...) that we agreed to "wing it" this year- I cannot resist the temptation. And so like every other year, I will probably be forced to make room for standards and customs and circumstances and timing that I know little of at this point- but the planning itself is almost as fulfilling for me. Right.
Secondly, I went school supply shopping today. The more I think about it, the closer I come to realization that I have a problem. And while recognition is the first step to recovery, this is not a condition I seek to cure. Right.
Around this time every summer, stores begin to run school supply sales, and my brain shorts out a few times and my bank account rapidly depletes itself, seemingly without my knowledge or control. Today was the first of these instances, but probably the only one this summer. Why?
Because this year, unlike every other year, I cannot just load up the front seat of my car with a few more bags. This year, my school supplies will have to fit into a suitcase, which will be checked and then loaded and then transported from Chicago to Rome to Bucharest. Right.
So I balance the crazy with my desire to travel as "lightly" as possible. I think about what they might have in Romania that I could easily (and probably more cheaply) purchase, and talk myself down from the possibility that they DON'T have binder rings or highlighters or binder clips or index cards- and buy it all anyway. Don't worry, I didn't completely lose focus. I might not have room for a spare pair of pants or some extra socks, but at least my space is being used for something USEFUL. Right.
PART THREE:
This posting has been a humorous and charming account of the neurotic nature of my personality, with significant focus on planning and the purchase of school supplies. Because of this posting, people will both understand me more deeply and find me even MORE likable. Riiiight?
PART ONE:
This posting is going to be about my manic-obsessive need to plan, and my semi-unsettling fascination with school supplies.
PART TWO:
I recently have had a lot of free time, owing to the change in my job situation that is basically awesome-ness in all facets. Regardless, I spent much of this free time concentrating on things that need no thought- hours on Facebook, for example. I worked more on my Romanian language skills, now the master of such phrases as "I speak a little Romanian." And finally, I began to plan for the coming school year. Right.
There is time every summer that I spend just detoxing from the previous year, and the time frame for such a rest is completely dependent on the stress and intensity of my activities during the year. This summer, it took me a longer-than-normal 39 days to recharge and jump back in. But last night, June 23, 2010 at around 6:45 pm CST, the instinct struck with a vengeance. Right.
I started making lists and doodling brain webs and sending emails and compiling ideas. It hit hard this year, my friends, regardless of the fact that I know shockingly less about my job than ever before, and nothing of my students. I have no idea what my classroom will be like, what the school culture allows or promotes, or even if I will be allowed to do what I want. I have no grasp on the technology available or the supplies accessible for me or my students. But I am planning. Right.
One of my most favorite and cherished ideas began with one email and quickly spiraled (almost) out of control. I thought about the possibility of "adopting" a classroom in the States to partner with, sharing letters and emails and cultural learning. For ELL (English Language Learner) students, it is imperative that they have authentic interaction with other students and the language. So I sent out a few (okay, 30) messages... and things are looking good. I probably cannot express the immense amount of excitement I feel about these possibilities. So I won't try. Those who know me well probably can picture the expression on my face, accompanied by much jumping and arm flailing and random squealing. Those who don't know me quite as well... count it as a blessing. Right.
Despite being reminded by D~ (jokingly, I hope...) that we agreed to "wing it" this year- I cannot resist the temptation. And so like every other year, I will probably be forced to make room for standards and customs and circumstances and timing that I know little of at this point- but the planning itself is almost as fulfilling for me. Right.
Secondly, I went school supply shopping today. The more I think about it, the closer I come to realization that I have a problem. And while recognition is the first step to recovery, this is not a condition I seek to cure. Right.
Around this time every summer, stores begin to run school supply sales, and my brain shorts out a few times and my bank account rapidly depletes itself, seemingly without my knowledge or control. Today was the first of these instances, but probably the only one this summer. Why?
Because this year, unlike every other year, I cannot just load up the front seat of my car with a few more bags. This year, my school supplies will have to fit into a suitcase, which will be checked and then loaded and then transported from Chicago to Rome to Bucharest. Right.
So I balance the crazy with my desire to travel as "lightly" as possible. I think about what they might have in Romania that I could easily (and probably more cheaply) purchase, and talk myself down from the possibility that they DON'T have binder rings or highlighters or binder clips or index cards- and buy it all anyway. Don't worry, I didn't completely lose focus. I might not have room for a spare pair of pants or some extra socks, but at least my space is being used for something USEFUL. Right.
PART THREE:
This posting has been a humorous and charming account of the neurotic nature of my personality, with significant focus on planning and the purchase of school supplies. Because of this posting, people will both understand me more deeply and find me even MORE likable. Riiiight?
Friday, July 23, 2010
Stories
I used to really enjoy travel (any kind of travel) for a few different reasons. I liked having the chance to see new things and experience new people. I took pleasure in the sense of betterment I felt when expanding my horizons and making new discoveries (how pretentious that sounds). But most of all, I enjoyed making up stories.
I made up stories about all kinds of things- people and their families, the fights that entrapped them and the love stories that drew them together. I would glance through car windows and spin great and detailed tales about the lives of the passengers- where they were going on their journey, where they had come from, and how they operated within the reality that I had created. I dreamed of stories that explained the land and its use and the history behind the culture and the creation of each building.
This tendency of mine grew less fanciful with age, but certainly never died completely. And so my move to Chicago was like reentering a paradise I had known as a child, for there is no better primary source material in the world than the public transportation system. I have had the chance to not only write but act in stories of every genre in this city; stories of suspense and horror and joy and love and curiosity and humor.
Sickened by pneumonia and still over an hour from home, I crumpled in my seat on the bus. I was completely outside of my comfort zone in an unfamiliar and depressed neighborhood, but my illness kept me from my usual vigilant observance. Without warning, a smell overtook me when the bus doors opened- 10 o'clock in the morning and someone was stumbling drunk already. Making his way towards me was an older black man, weaving back and forth, smiling a big, inebriated grin. "A vision in green!" he called out, and I realized he was talking about me, in my green coat. Getting down on one knee (a much more difficult feat on a bus than you can probably imagine), he pulled a jewelry box from his pocket, and opened it to reveal a huge diamond ring. (Slur while you are reading the following sentence aloud) "Will you marry me, my sweet vision in green?" I sputtered a little bit and asked him where he got the ring, completely thrown off-guard by his proposal. (Again with the slurring) "I stole it. From Tiffany's. Or maybe WalMart." I told him I was flattered by the offer, but I would have to refuse this time. He pulled himself up and sat down next to me, waving goodbye as I promptly puled the cord and got off at the next stop.
Watching the young mother struggle with her three tiny children was an experience both of humor and empathy. She wrestled her way onto the bus and then off again at the train station, all the while trying to keep her infant warm, her toddler from screaming, and her preschooler from running away. She had the first two situations under control, but the preschool child had a mind of his own and a devious smile to match. Pointing across the 4 lane highway to a semi truck, he took off running. Away from the mother, away from the station, away from safety. And so when she screamed and I stepped in his way and scooped him up, I like to think a collective sigh of relief was felt in the 47th Red Line Station. I held him in my arms and carried him to his waiting family, his mother now in tears. She cried and thanked me, and the little boy looked into my face and said with the seriousness of a wizened adult, "Hey there. Why did you do that?" I laughed and made friends quickly, and spent the rest of my journey playing games with a very entertaining and feisty child.
It was a really cold day in January, and the snow was just crisp enough to still look pretty. I was exhausted after a long day at school, and looking forward to my warm apartment. Just 6 more stops and a bus. Just 5 more stops and a bus. Just 4 more stops an a bus. And then I noticed the man looking at me. I shifted my glance away, but he struck up a conversation. Trying to be polite, I answered his question quickly and buried myself in a newspaper, but he persisted. Growing more and more nervous, I finally decided to jump off a stop early and just catch the next train. Moving with as much swiftness as is possible in a winter coat and with three bags, I jumped off the train, looking just in time to see him get off with me. I quickly hopped back on, trying to leave him behind... but he did as well, this time looking angry, having realized what I had tried to do. Reaching my stop, I was relieved to see that my bus was waiting, and boarded quickly. And he was right behind me. He wasn't talking anymore, just watching and waiting. And a sense of foreboding came over me, and I panicked. I worried about where I should get off the bus- certainly not somewhere else in the neighborhood, but the wisdom of getting off at my corner was also being called into question. I thought of calling someone to come and meet me on the bus so that we could get off together, but quickly realized no one was home. I looked up then, right as a young man got on. For whatever reason his heart heard the beating of mine and he walked confidently right up to my seat, beckoning with his eyes, silently asking for me to trust him. With a quick nod he sprung into action. "HELLO, dear! How was your day?" He sat down next to me and his giant presence and strong body erased the fear and I responded in kind. We got off together a few stops before mine, he walked me around the block, and right to my doorstep. With a wave and a goodbye, he was gone, and I was safely home.
On the long ride back from the northernmost stop on the Red Line, I sat next to my dear friend C~ and talked quietly about the people around us. It was around 4 o'clock in the afternoon. We laughed about the teenage girls in front of us, and made up a story about the old couple on the car. There was one woman, around our age, sitting alone in a seat across the aisle. She was quietly looking out the window and seemed to be completely at peace. A man straggles onto the train and sits down in the empty seat beside her, mutters "It's been a long night..." and promptly passes out. He is dressed quite nicely with a sharp haircut and once-pressed trousers, and appears to be suffering from a hangover of epic proportions. As the train barrels onward, he shifts from side to side, moaning and muttering and snoring, and finally passes out on the woman's shoulder. She has a look of sheer annoyance on her face, but unsure of what to do, she just sits completely still. The man continues to shift around, but maintains constant contact with her body for support. The rest of the train stares and laughs quietly, unsure of how to help the woman and unsure even if we wanted to end the scene. Finally, her stop approaches and she stirs. The man sits up and realizes what has happened. "I'm so sorry! Oh my gosh! It's been a really long night." She slides by him, steps off the train, and he falls right back to sleep leaning on the window.
It is early morning as I wait for the bus in the chilly air, and as the ever dependable 15 pulls to the stop, I am jarred by the noise I hear. Penetrating even the music coming from my i-Pod, I look to see two men arguing. I quickly pass them and settle into my normal seat by the backdoor of the bus, shutting my music off and watching the situation progress. The argument seemed to get more and more heated, and I couldn't make out what was being said or even discussed, and in a fraction of a second everything changed. One man leaped across the aisle at the other man, pinning him against the window. I jumped and gasped, but the men either didn't hear me or didn't acknowledge it, because they continued to struggle. I looked for signs that others were going to do something, that the uncomfortable white girl wouldn't have to act... and then the pinned man stopped moving. There were hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing with intensity, and I thought of a lifetime. My lifetime, the one that stretched ahead of me, in which I witnessed a violent attack, a murder, and did nothing about it. I flew past the men to the front of the bus, and the driver promptly stopped and called the police, and others then acted. They separated the men and kept them contained and stepped in front of me to block me from view. As in one beautiful choreographed act, I was protected by the citizens of Bus Route 15 that morning, and only then did I begin to tremble. I was crying by the time I gave a statement to the police, and still relatively jittery when I arrived at school, but I was safe. I thought no one had noticed.
Reading text messages is one of my favorite things to do (a terrible habit) and you would not believe the personal lives that people communicate through text. Every once in a while I feel a sense of guilt and remorse, but am bolstered by the fact that everyone does it. Someone I know (ahem...) was once wedged in a seat between a young Hispanic gentlemen and a young Black man. She sent a text to her friend, saying "I am sitting between a hot Hispanic guy and a beautiful black guy. My ethnic attraction has never been more confused." Not twenty seconds later, the black man says "Thank you!" She is mortified, but they end up going out for drinks and Brailon really is a very nice man in addition to being beautiful. Another time, I had the opportunity to read a text message for my friend D~ on a crowded bus. I began just to show him I could do it, but quickly became uncomfortable regarding the message content. With some amount of amazement and aghast surprise, I told D~ what was on the text message and we tried to clear the image from our minds on the walk home from the stop. It was considerably more awkward when I sent him a text later that week, letting him know that I was sitting next to our friend on a bus. And the situation grew even more hysterical when she clearly read MY text message about HER, including the little pet name we had assigned her. The moral of the story: Don't read text messages on the bus. Or do.
These are just a few stories from the past year of riding the CTA. Something happens everyday to laugh at, cry about, or simply shake one's head in wonder. I wonder how much of this amusement will continue on the public transit system in Bucharest. Humanity has a unique ability to communicate without words at all, and I have great hope that my ignorance of the Romanian language is not a barrier in storytelling.
I made up stories about all kinds of things- people and their families, the fights that entrapped them and the love stories that drew them together. I would glance through car windows and spin great and detailed tales about the lives of the passengers- where they were going on their journey, where they had come from, and how they operated within the reality that I had created. I dreamed of stories that explained the land and its use and the history behind the culture and the creation of each building.
This tendency of mine grew less fanciful with age, but certainly never died completely. And so my move to Chicago was like reentering a paradise I had known as a child, for there is no better primary source material in the world than the public transportation system. I have had the chance to not only write but act in stories of every genre in this city; stories of suspense and horror and joy and love and curiosity and humor.
Sickened by pneumonia and still over an hour from home, I crumpled in my seat on the bus. I was completely outside of my comfort zone in an unfamiliar and depressed neighborhood, but my illness kept me from my usual vigilant observance. Without warning, a smell overtook me when the bus doors opened- 10 o'clock in the morning and someone was stumbling drunk already. Making his way towards me was an older black man, weaving back and forth, smiling a big, inebriated grin. "A vision in green!" he called out, and I realized he was talking about me, in my green coat. Getting down on one knee (a much more difficult feat on a bus than you can probably imagine), he pulled a jewelry box from his pocket, and opened it to reveal a huge diamond ring. (Slur while you are reading the following sentence aloud) "Will you marry me, my sweet vision in green?" I sputtered a little bit and asked him where he got the ring, completely thrown off-guard by his proposal. (Again with the slurring) "I stole it. From Tiffany's. Or maybe WalMart." I told him I was flattered by the offer, but I would have to refuse this time. He pulled himself up and sat down next to me, waving goodbye as I promptly puled the cord and got off at the next stop.
Watching the young mother struggle with her three tiny children was an experience both of humor and empathy. She wrestled her way onto the bus and then off again at the train station, all the while trying to keep her infant warm, her toddler from screaming, and her preschooler from running away. She had the first two situations under control, but the preschool child had a mind of his own and a devious smile to match. Pointing across the 4 lane highway to a semi truck, he took off running. Away from the mother, away from the station, away from safety. And so when she screamed and I stepped in his way and scooped him up, I like to think a collective sigh of relief was felt in the 47th Red Line Station. I held him in my arms and carried him to his waiting family, his mother now in tears. She cried and thanked me, and the little boy looked into my face and said with the seriousness of a wizened adult, "Hey there. Why did you do that?" I laughed and made friends quickly, and spent the rest of my journey playing games with a very entertaining and feisty child.
It was a really cold day in January, and the snow was just crisp enough to still look pretty. I was exhausted after a long day at school, and looking forward to my warm apartment. Just 6 more stops and a bus. Just 5 more stops and a bus. Just 4 more stops an a bus. And then I noticed the man looking at me. I shifted my glance away, but he struck up a conversation. Trying to be polite, I answered his question quickly and buried myself in a newspaper, but he persisted. Growing more and more nervous, I finally decided to jump off a stop early and just catch the next train. Moving with as much swiftness as is possible in a winter coat and with three bags, I jumped off the train, looking just in time to see him get off with me. I quickly hopped back on, trying to leave him behind... but he did as well, this time looking angry, having realized what I had tried to do. Reaching my stop, I was relieved to see that my bus was waiting, and boarded quickly. And he was right behind me. He wasn't talking anymore, just watching and waiting. And a sense of foreboding came over me, and I panicked. I worried about where I should get off the bus- certainly not somewhere else in the neighborhood, but the wisdom of getting off at my corner was also being called into question. I thought of calling someone to come and meet me on the bus so that we could get off together, but quickly realized no one was home. I looked up then, right as a young man got on. For whatever reason his heart heard the beating of mine and he walked confidently right up to my seat, beckoning with his eyes, silently asking for me to trust him. With a quick nod he sprung into action. "HELLO, dear! How was your day?" He sat down next to me and his giant presence and strong body erased the fear and I responded in kind. We got off together a few stops before mine, he walked me around the block, and right to my doorstep. With a wave and a goodbye, he was gone, and I was safely home.
On the long ride back from the northernmost stop on the Red Line, I sat next to my dear friend C~ and talked quietly about the people around us. It was around 4 o'clock in the afternoon. We laughed about the teenage girls in front of us, and made up a story about the old couple on the car. There was one woman, around our age, sitting alone in a seat across the aisle. She was quietly looking out the window and seemed to be completely at peace. A man straggles onto the train and sits down in the empty seat beside her, mutters "It's been a long night..." and promptly passes out. He is dressed quite nicely with a sharp haircut and once-pressed trousers, and appears to be suffering from a hangover of epic proportions. As the train barrels onward, he shifts from side to side, moaning and muttering and snoring, and finally passes out on the woman's shoulder. She has a look of sheer annoyance on her face, but unsure of what to do, she just sits completely still. The man continues to shift around, but maintains constant contact with her body for support. The rest of the train stares and laughs quietly, unsure of how to help the woman and unsure even if we wanted to end the scene. Finally, her stop approaches and she stirs. The man sits up and realizes what has happened. "I'm so sorry! Oh my gosh! It's been a really long night." She slides by him, steps off the train, and he falls right back to sleep leaning on the window.
It is early morning as I wait for the bus in the chilly air, and as the ever dependable 15 pulls to the stop, I am jarred by the noise I hear. Penetrating even the music coming from my i-Pod, I look to see two men arguing. I quickly pass them and settle into my normal seat by the backdoor of the bus, shutting my music off and watching the situation progress. The argument seemed to get more and more heated, and I couldn't make out what was being said or even discussed, and in a fraction of a second everything changed. One man leaped across the aisle at the other man, pinning him against the window. I jumped and gasped, but the men either didn't hear me or didn't acknowledge it, because they continued to struggle. I looked for signs that others were going to do something, that the uncomfortable white girl wouldn't have to act... and then the pinned man stopped moving. There were hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing with intensity, and I thought of a lifetime. My lifetime, the one that stretched ahead of me, in which I witnessed a violent attack, a murder, and did nothing about it. I flew past the men to the front of the bus, and the driver promptly stopped and called the police, and others then acted. They separated the men and kept them contained and stepped in front of me to block me from view. As in one beautiful choreographed act, I was protected by the citizens of Bus Route 15 that morning, and only then did I begin to tremble. I was crying by the time I gave a statement to the police, and still relatively jittery when I arrived at school, but I was safe. I thought no one had noticed.
Reading text messages is one of my favorite things to do (a terrible habit) and you would not believe the personal lives that people communicate through text. Every once in a while I feel a sense of guilt and remorse, but am bolstered by the fact that everyone does it. Someone I know (ahem...) was once wedged in a seat between a young Hispanic gentlemen and a young Black man. She sent a text to her friend, saying "I am sitting between a hot Hispanic guy and a beautiful black guy. My ethnic attraction has never been more confused." Not twenty seconds later, the black man says "Thank you!" She is mortified, but they end up going out for drinks and Brailon really is a very nice man in addition to being beautiful. Another time, I had the opportunity to read a text message for my friend D~ on a crowded bus. I began just to show him I could do it, but quickly became uncomfortable regarding the message content. With some amount of amazement and aghast surprise, I told D~ what was on the text message and we tried to clear the image from our minds on the walk home from the stop. It was considerably more awkward when I sent him a text later that week, letting him know that I was sitting next to our friend on a bus. And the situation grew even more hysterical when she clearly read MY text message about HER, including the little pet name we had assigned her. The moral of the story: Don't read text messages on the bus. Or do.
These are just a few stories from the past year of riding the CTA. Something happens everyday to laugh at, cry about, or simply shake one's head in wonder. I wonder how much of this amusement will continue on the public transit system in Bucharest. Humanity has a unique ability to communicate without words at all, and I have great hope that my ignorance of the Romanian language is not a barrier in storytelling.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
International Travel (2)
With little else to occupy my time (okay, little else I am motivated with to occupy my time), I have come to my last international travel experience.
In August of 2009, my mom and I went to Europe for two weeks. We had a (ridiculously) ambitious agenda- 6 countries in 12 days. In hindsight, this was pretty stupid, because we barely had the energy to enjoy some of them. Regardless, it made for some fantastic memories and wonderful stories.
One such wonderful story is a travel debacle of nearly-epic proportions. I want you to picture a situation, movie-like, growing from slightly problematic to terribly exhausting. And despite it being the most stressed I had EVER been in a lifetime of stress, (for recent update on stressful scenarios, see my post titled Tumultuous-ness) it is my favorite tale of the trip. Allow me a brief screenplay.
Scene: Airport, 45 minutes outside of Athens, Greece.
Time: 15:35.
Time: 15:35.
Destination: Vienna, Austria
Two females sit on the floor outside the terminal at the airport. The floor is coolly tiled and a welcome respite from the HEAT of their time spent in Athens. Without a scrap of dignity the women (clearly a mother and a daughter) talk and laugh, and the younger one checks the departure screens they are sitting next to every few minutes. Everything appears to be normal and relaxed until the younger woman seems to make some kind of terrible mental connection. With a look of frantic alarm once more at her watch and the departure screens, she jumps up with a shriek. After a few more glances at both screens, she hastily grabs up the luggage around her, screaming for the older woman to get up and join her.
Stephanie:
"Oh my GOD! I totally misread the time! We are supposed to leave in twenty minutes! Twenty minutes! Get up! Grab the stuff! Come on- GET UP!"
Theresa:
"I don't appreciate you talking to me that way. What do you mean?"
Stephanie:
"GET UP!!! We have to go to the counter and check in!"
The women run across the airport terminal to the airline counter, where they are met by a very peaceful ticket agent.
Stephanie:
(Breathing heavily) "We need to check in for our flight to Vienna! Do we have enough time?"
Peaceful Perfect Ticket Agent:
"May I please see your passports?" (REALLY LONG Pause) "It appears that your flight to Vienna has been rerouted."
Stephanie:
"Rerouted to where?? And can we get on it in time? And why?"
Peaceful Perfect Ticket Agent:
"Bratislava. And yes, you should be fine if you hurry. And honestly, I have no idea."
Theresa:
(Whispering in Stephanie's ear) "Where the h- is Bratislava?"
Stephanie:
"Um, Slovakia?"
Theresa:
"Behind the IRON CURTAIN?"
Peaceful Perfect Ticket Agent:
"Take your bags over there to be checked through to your flight. And hurry."
The women gather their luggage and run to the machine where a man is waiting to scan the bags and put them on a conveyor belt. Panic ensues when the older woman realizes she doesn't have her suitcase.
Theresa:
"I just had it. I JUST had it. Where is my suitcase?"
Stephanie:
"Mom. Seriously? You don't have it? I'll go back and grab it."
(As one could probably have guessed... ) The suitcase is not to be found. It isn't at the ticket counter, isn't amongst the masses of people waiting in line, and isn't where the women had earlier set up camp on the floor. This is all known because the younger woman ran from place to place, with a look of growing desperation on her face.
Stephanie:
"It's not over there. It's not anywhere! We have to go. We have to go now."
Theresa:
"Stephanie, we have to tell someone about this! We have to report it!"
Stephanie:
"Mom, we have approximately 15 minutes to be on a plane headed towards Austria. Or, in this case, Slovakia. Oh my word. What is going to happen to us? We have to GO!"
Theresa:
"Fine. Let's go. Let's just GO. NOT REPORT IT. JUST GO."
Much chaos ensues as the women run as quickly as possible through the crowded airport toward security. They are relatively lucky that the Grecian border guards are so lackadaisical in their efforts to stop terrorism (or they just anticipated the drama involved with stopping two harried and frantic women), and make it to the gate with approximately 5 minutes remaining before takeoff.
Stephanie:
(Running to Peaceful Perfect Ticket Agent #2) "Is there still time to get on the plane?"
(Running to Peaceful Perfect Ticket Agent #2) "Is there still time to get on the plane?"
Peaceful Perfect Ticket Agent #2:
"Ma'am, there is no plane."
Stephanie:
"The plane for Bratislava is supposed to leave from here in 5 minutes!"
Peaceful Perfect Ticket Agent #2:
"Ma'am, that plane has been delayed."
Stephanie:
"..."
The women move to a corner of the waiting room to gather themselves. They begin to make a recording of all that was in the stolen luggage (a desperately small and quite depressing list), and the younger woman walks to a payphone to call the States and check in with her father. The woman tries to call with a calling card, but after three tries puts it away with some frustration. Drawing out her debit card, her thoughts of the ridiculous expense of her forthcoming call seem to drift visibly out of her head. Nevertheless, she dials about four hundred numbers, and then puts the phone back on the cradle with some hesitation. She picks up the phone again, and breathing deeply in an effort to calm herself, repeats the dialing of the numbers in a more slow and deliberate manner. Again, she puts the phone back in the cradle, and begins to cry. Walking slowly back over to the older woman, she reports her findings.
Stephanie:
"My credit card has been cut off. For illicit activity. In Europe."
Theresa:
"Didn't you report it? Didn't you tell them we would be here?"
Stephanie:
(Crying AND *itching) "OF COURSE I DID!"
Theresa:
"Well, try mine. Here is my... Oh my God. My purse is gone. My purse. Are you sitting on it? Where is my purse? Are you KIDDING ME?"
Stephanie:
(Cries loudly)
Theresa:
"Stop crying! That is NOT helping!"
Camera follows the older woman to the bathroom, where she begins to cry. Pan out to the two women getting onto a tiny little airplane nearly 4 hours later, staffed by perfect peaceful women wearing pink polo shirts, short black shorts, and hot pink pageboy hats. The women are barely phased. The older woman has her purse, someone having turned it is to the gate check-in. They look hot and hassled and completely un-confident in their ability to travel, and wondering how they are going to find the hostel in Vienna when they are landing in Bratislava.
Theresa:
(After walking into the baggage claim in Bratislava) "Is that my suitcase?"
Stephanie:
"Um, yes."
The women grab the previously stolen and assumed-lost forever suitcase, and open the zippers. The inside is in disarray, but they discover that nothing is missing. Amazed, the women are slightly dejected and disappointed that the would-be thief found nothing of value to take, and they board a bus that will take them to the airport in Vienna.
Cut to scene of women walking through the dark streets of Vienna at approximately 1:00 am, with a clear sense of growing terror.
Theresa:
"I don't think we are going the right way. I think we need to ask for help."
Stephanie:
(Still *itchy) "And who exactly are we going to ask?"
Theresa:
"Well I just don't know! But we need to ask someone. What is your PROBLEM?"
Insert Karen, Angel of Mercy, riding a bicycle. Clearly recognizing the plight the two stupid and exhausted American women found themselves in, she offers to walk them back to the hostel. The women check in, lug baggage up just ONE MORE flight of stairs, and find themselves not in the private room they had reserved, but in an 8 bed dorm. 6 of the beds are occupied with naked young adults, not all of whom are female. With no regard to the wellness of others (due in part to a lack of sleep, a draining of adrenaline, and relief at the final arrival), the younger woman makes an enormous amount of noise. The older woman yells at her one last time. They both take out their sleeping bags and crawl into bed and ponder silently the day they had experienced.
Theresa:
"Goodnight, Stephanie."
Stephanie:
"...goodnight, Mom."
And thus, we made it to Vienna. It really was a fantastic trip.
I just want to say that I made it through that ENTIRE posting without a spelling error. Booyah.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
International Travel
I have had the pleasure of going overseas three times in my life (because Canada doesn't count). And every time, there has been a hang-up of some kind in the travel arrangements.
When I was in eighth grade, I went to Honduras for 10 days. Our mission was to build a church in the tiny village of Savanetta. My mission was to avoid a serious allergic reaction brought about by the concrete dust at the site. Regardless of my inability to do just about anything, we had a fantastic time. I learned about the people and culture, and the God I serve, and even more about myself.
Another lesson I learned was about the wisdom of traveling internationally 6 months after the September 11, 2001 attacks. The hassle involved in every airport, with every customs agent, at every border crossing- it was almost funny. Except for a 13 year old girl, it really isn't very comical when the Honduran customs agent holding a big gun pulls all of your...um... personal items...out of your luggage and holds them in the air for everyone else in the group to see. Regardless, a pretty tame entry into the world of international travel. If only I could have known what was to come.
My next venture abroad was in May 2009, when I traveled to Romania and Hungary as part of a program called Tri-S (study, share, serve), and we were mostly on a cultural trip. I discussed part of our journey in my last post (which is really about babies), but left out our rather conspicuous arrival to Eastern Europe. Our flight left from Chicago mid-afternoon on May 11, and we arrived in Dusseldorf, Germany the next morning for a few hour layover. After a quick and grimy nap on the pilled carpet, I sat in anticipation of the next flight that would take us to Budapest, and the van ride that would bring us to Romania. We boarded the flight without thought as to the possible ramifications of such an action. This is the part of the story where the music goes "dun Dun DUN..."
About 30 minutes from our scheduled arrival time in Budapest, I felt my feet getting warm. Okay- just deal with it, right? Really warm. Whatever. Kind of hot. What was wrong with my body? Is this jet lag? What is happening? Oh look- everyone appears to be warm. And suddenly, things get kind of hazy. A quick glance at D~ sitting across the aisle and J~ in the seat next to me confirms that I am NOT suffering from some kind of hallucinational daze- that really IS smoke in the cabin. And so as D~ and I laugh and J~ begins to frantically worry and we all look uncertainly at our team members dispersed throughout the plane, the German-speaking flight attendent runs to the back of the cabin.
Upon hearing a struggle, I turn around just in time to see her smack herself in the nose with the FIRE EXTINGUISHER (!!!) and blood starts pouring out. She runs back to the front, our plane begins to descend quite rapidly, and we hear these English words: "Emergency, 4 minutes." And yes, those ARE flames coming from the engine out my window.
Without any sort of other emotion to express, I continue to laugh. (This might be the plague of my spirit- laughter at weddings, funerals, imminent death.) D~ continues to laugh. The German-speaking gentleman behind us looks quite nervous (having heard all of the details). J~ asks what she should do, and I realize in hindsight it was quite cruel to tell her to get into crash landing position. (Sidenote: is that REALLY supposed to help? Really? I mean, if my airplane crashes, I'm going to be more concerned about, say, my spine getting crunched into the seat in front of me, or developing my own bloody nose when it hits my knees, or... death???) Yes, I stayed sitting up.
Regardless, we arrived in Budapest smoldering and flaming, amidst a few fire engines and a bus ready to lug us to safety. Miraculously, we survived along with all of our luggage. I emerged with a really awesome story to tell, and now I almost always win the game "Two Truths and a Lie." Because freakin NO ONE believes that you have been in a plane crash.
So. I have been overseas three times, right? The first travel experience quite harmless. The second a little more chaotic. The third, my friends- that tale needs it's own post. And it is coming soon.
When I was in eighth grade, I went to Honduras for 10 days. Our mission was to build a church in the tiny village of Savanetta. My mission was to avoid a serious allergic reaction brought about by the concrete dust at the site. Regardless of my inability to do just about anything, we had a fantastic time. I learned about the people and culture, and the God I serve, and even more about myself.
Another lesson I learned was about the wisdom of traveling internationally 6 months after the September 11, 2001 attacks. The hassle involved in every airport, with every customs agent, at every border crossing- it was almost funny. Except for a 13 year old girl, it really isn't very comical when the Honduran customs agent holding a big gun pulls all of your...um... personal items...out of your luggage and holds them in the air for everyone else in the group to see. Regardless, a pretty tame entry into the world of international travel. If only I could have known what was to come.
My next venture abroad was in May 2009, when I traveled to Romania and Hungary as part of a program called Tri-S (study, share, serve), and we were mostly on a cultural trip. I discussed part of our journey in my last post (which is really about babies), but left out our rather conspicuous arrival to Eastern Europe. Our flight left from Chicago mid-afternoon on May 11, and we arrived in Dusseldorf, Germany the next morning for a few hour layover. After a quick and grimy nap on the pilled carpet, I sat in anticipation of the next flight that would take us to Budapest, and the van ride that would bring us to Romania. We boarded the flight without thought as to the possible ramifications of such an action. This is the part of the story where the music goes "dun Dun DUN..."
About 30 minutes from our scheduled arrival time in Budapest, I felt my feet getting warm. Okay- just deal with it, right? Really warm. Whatever. Kind of hot. What was wrong with my body? Is this jet lag? What is happening? Oh look- everyone appears to be warm. And suddenly, things get kind of hazy. A quick glance at D~ sitting across the aisle and J~ in the seat next to me confirms that I am NOT suffering from some kind of hallucinational daze- that really IS smoke in the cabin. And so as D~ and I laugh and J~ begins to frantically worry and we all look uncertainly at our team members dispersed throughout the plane, the German-speaking flight attendent runs to the back of the cabin.
Upon hearing a struggle, I turn around just in time to see her smack herself in the nose with the FIRE EXTINGUISHER (!!!) and blood starts pouring out. She runs back to the front, our plane begins to descend quite rapidly, and we hear these English words: "Emergency, 4 minutes." And yes, those ARE flames coming from the engine out my window.
Without any sort of other emotion to express, I continue to laugh. (This might be the plague of my spirit- laughter at weddings, funerals, imminent death.) D~ continues to laugh. The German-speaking gentleman behind us looks quite nervous (having heard all of the details). J~ asks what she should do, and I realize in hindsight it was quite cruel to tell her to get into crash landing position. (Sidenote: is that REALLY supposed to help? Really? I mean, if my airplane crashes, I'm going to be more concerned about, say, my spine getting crunched into the seat in front of me, or developing my own bloody nose when it hits my knees, or... death???) Yes, I stayed sitting up.
Regardless, we arrived in Budapest smoldering and flaming, amidst a few fire engines and a bus ready to lug us to safety. Miraculously, we survived along with all of our luggage. I emerged with a really awesome story to tell, and now I almost always win the game "Two Truths and a Lie." Because freakin NO ONE believes that you have been in a plane crash.
So. I have been overseas three times, right? The first travel experience quite harmless. The second a little more chaotic. The third, my friends- that tale needs it's own post. And it is coming soon.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Nobility of Purpose
One of the most horrific and interesting experiences I have ever had occurred during my trip to Romania in May 2009. I journeyed there as part of a group from my university, and we were centered in Oradea, a city on the far western border of Romania. We worked to repair soccer bleachers in an orphanage called Caminul Felix, a family-based organization meaning "happy home." It truly was a joyful place filled with hope and love and peace. There were two villages- our work was done in Village One, and we stayed in a hotel located at Village Two. We met an incredible amount of wonderful people and played with children that radiate beauty despite some despicable childhood circumstances. However, we also had the chance to experience Romanian life through some of the other places in the city and countryside.
For instance, we traveled to the "bear cave;" really an underground cavern filled with bear bones. This journey was both touristy and fun, but also terrifying- I cannot count the number of times I closed my eyes on the road and waited for death. Romanian drivers are notorious for using the center line as a passing lane- in both directions- and the mountainous roads were no exception.
We were exposed to a few different organizations in the town, one which was a school for children with disabilities, and another that was pioneering the field of assistive technology for orthopedic injury and disability in the region.
We visited a Roma (Gypsy) village and saw abject poverty in it's raw form. Barefoot children running amongst broken glass in the town dump. Houses made of scrap metal and cardboard and tires. People blackened from the soot of burning anything at all to heat the house or cook food. Men scarred by the violence that sometimes characterizes the community. And a sense of unmistakable pride.
Amongst all of these experiences, though, there is one that will forever plague my heart. One that I have thought of countless times, in all places, in all moods, and with all people. And despite the incredible amount of positive and meaningful experiences I had in Romania- it is this thought, I believe, that is drawing me back to this country.
We took a tour of a maternity hospital while in Oradea. And things were grim and at times surprising; two pregnant women lying in a bed together waiting for delivery, the screams echoing up and down the hallway on the delivery floor, learning that the babies were immediately separated from their mothers after birth, watching a nurse run up the staircase with what appeared to be a bundle of blankets but was actually a newborn. These things, though- I was prepared for them. I could handle the shock and the surprise and the difference.
And then we visited the abandoned baby room. A fairly large, institutional room with one nurse and 12 bassinets. These newborn children are left in the hospital by families who cannot support them, and they lay in cribs. And they have bottles propped up on blankets to feed themselves at two days old, as if to prepare them for a life of forced independence. They are left alone overnight to attempt survival. In reality, there is not the money nor the concern to care for these children who will end up in institutional orphanages. And so these little bundles of baby that should exude potential and joy and laughter and happiness and delicious smells- they become so much less than they could be.
And for 14 months now, I have dreamt about these infants. I have imagined myself holding them, feeding them, pouring love into them. When I was first looking into Romania, I jokingly asked friends if it was feasible to just go and hold babies for a year. The answer is clearly a resounding "NO," so instead I looked for a teaching job. And as excited as I am about teaching English, as wonderful an opportunity as it is, I have a sense that my arms will feel empty.
So now I obsessively watch news reports and videos and read articles about "The Lost Children of Romania." And my heart bleeds for them, and my hands ache to act in a way that will resolve my desperation, and I pray unceasingly for the chance to do something more. Maybe in addition to teaching English in what I expect to be a fairly "cushy" locale, I can make it my mission to hold a bunch of babies.
I'm not baby-crazed. I am abandoned Romanian baby-crazed.
For instance, we traveled to the "bear cave;" really an underground cavern filled with bear bones. This journey was both touristy and fun, but also terrifying- I cannot count the number of times I closed my eyes on the road and waited for death. Romanian drivers are notorious for using the center line as a passing lane- in both directions- and the mountainous roads were no exception.
We were exposed to a few different organizations in the town, one which was a school for children with disabilities, and another that was pioneering the field of assistive technology for orthopedic injury and disability in the region.
We visited a Roma (Gypsy) village and saw abject poverty in it's raw form. Barefoot children running amongst broken glass in the town dump. Houses made of scrap metal and cardboard and tires. People blackened from the soot of burning anything at all to heat the house or cook food. Men scarred by the violence that sometimes characterizes the community. And a sense of unmistakable pride.
Amongst all of these experiences, though, there is one that will forever plague my heart. One that I have thought of countless times, in all places, in all moods, and with all people. And despite the incredible amount of positive and meaningful experiences I had in Romania- it is this thought, I believe, that is drawing me back to this country.
We took a tour of a maternity hospital while in Oradea. And things were grim and at times surprising; two pregnant women lying in a bed together waiting for delivery, the screams echoing up and down the hallway on the delivery floor, learning that the babies were immediately separated from their mothers after birth, watching a nurse run up the staircase with what appeared to be a bundle of blankets but was actually a newborn. These things, though- I was prepared for them. I could handle the shock and the surprise and the difference.
And then we visited the abandoned baby room. A fairly large, institutional room with one nurse and 12 bassinets. These newborn children are left in the hospital by families who cannot support them, and they lay in cribs. And they have bottles propped up on blankets to feed themselves at two days old, as if to prepare them for a life of forced independence. They are left alone overnight to attempt survival. In reality, there is not the money nor the concern to care for these children who will end up in institutional orphanages. And so these little bundles of baby that should exude potential and joy and laughter and happiness and delicious smells- they become so much less than they could be.
And for 14 months now, I have dreamt about these infants. I have imagined myself holding them, feeding them, pouring love into them. When I was first looking into Romania, I jokingly asked friends if it was feasible to just go and hold babies for a year. The answer is clearly a resounding "NO," so instead I looked for a teaching job. And as excited as I am about teaching English, as wonderful an opportunity as it is, I have a sense that my arms will feel empty.
So now I obsessively watch news reports and videos and read articles about "The Lost Children of Romania." And my heart bleeds for them, and my hands ache to act in a way that will resolve my desperation, and I pray unceasingly for the chance to do something more. Maybe in addition to teaching English in what I expect to be a fairly "cushy" locale, I can make it my mission to hold a bunch of babies.
I'm not baby-crazed. I am abandoned Romanian baby-crazed.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Details
This post will contain nothing spectacular or insightful. Just a fair warning.
I read one time that writing down worries and concerns lulls the mind into a (false) sense of peace before sleep. And because I spent the entirety of last night glancing at the clock every 30 minutes or so, I am going to try it out. A detox for the conscious, of sorts.
1. I have been in frequent contact with my English department head at Scoala #79. We exchanged a few emails today and I learned a lot of new details. For instance- my students have textbooks. This is a big deal. Additionally, I will only be teaching "intensive" English classes, which both frightens and excites me. I will be teaching 18-19 lessons each week, and NO, I have no idea how this works. Also, the teachers are supposed to wear "decent" clothing. Hmm.
2. I discovered that my "flat" (geez, that just SOUNDS cool, right?) may not be available when we first arrive in Bucharest. I was counting on D~ and I being able to stay there during our orientation at the beginning of September. One more thing to add to the list... but at least I know about the possibility now. We haven't really heard any details about the orientation or when D~ needs to/should leave for his placement... all in good time. Probably on August 29th.
3. My parents found a suitcase of massive proportions at Goodwill for $3.00. Massive enough that my friend C~ can fit inside of it. She IS quite tiny, but she honestly crawled completely into this suitcase this past weekend and we could zip the lid. I am not quite as worried about packing anymore. I still have this vision in my head of being forced to drastically eliminate an enormous amount of items at the airport and having to haul this luggage around the world and it being lost somewhere in transit and forgetting something essential in the States. But I have a really big suitcase now.
4. I think that I will bring along said giant suitcase and one more duffel bag as checked luggage. For carry on luggage, I will have my hiking backpack with all the essentials (change of clothing, few toiletries, small blanket, valuables, book, i-Pod, computer, playing cards, etc...) and a purse. Here I will be co-opting the definition of purse by bringing a GIANT tote bag. Plus, it says I am a teacher, so it makes me feel more grown-up and somehow legitimate. I am playing around with the idea of bringing my pillow. My mom did this when we went to Europe, and despite the hassle it caused... it might be nice to have something so familiar.
5. Speaking of familiar things, I am wondering what to bring. I have always craved personal touches to make me feel comfortable in a situation- things like pictures and curtains and rugs. But left with the choice between bringing my vase of fake flowers and a winter jacket, I think I will be forced to ditch the sentimental. So, who has ideas about what I can bring that will remind me of home, and takes up a tiny little bit of space? Maybe a CD with some good songs on it. Suggestions? (You know who you are... help me out!)
6. My personal life is a mess. Some of you know what this is about, many of you don't. But it is sufficient to say that this whole thing is a disaster. A good, wonderful, beautiful kind of disaster- but a heart filled with chaos nonetheless. And doing THIS in the midst of this is an odd experience.
7. I haven't even told D~ this bit of information, but I discovered that it can actually be cheaper to fly from Bucharest to the city he will be teaching in. And so instead of taking 8 hours on a train, it is only about 50 minutes. This makes me happy. I know this is an adventure I need to take. And it is an opportunity I should be happy to experience alone. And I planned to do this before knowing it was even an option for D~. But frankly, it is really nice just to know that someone is just an hour away. He might not be as excited about my reliance on his presence... but it is a great comfort in the moment. And I don't really care what he thinks :)
8. I recently devoured a culture guide on Romania, and I am both more excited and more anxious about living there. I think that I am going to need to be especially sensitive to the fact that the people of this country experienced great hardship under a communist government for many years. I am used to living in a country that forces me to temper down my national pride and assume a position of supplication in order to interact well with the world. This may not be the case in Romania, and this is okay. Development is happening at rapid speed in some places, and peasants live centuries-old traditions in others. This is a country with a history of terrible violence and invasion and foreign rule. This is a country that gained and lost millions of miles of land in the course of two World Wars. This is a country that was handed to the U.S.S.R. after a directive brought about in part by the government of the country I come from. This is a country with Latin roots and Slavic influences and a barrage of other peoples in between. A country with rolling hills and sprawling plains and soaring mountains and beautiful beaches. This untapped, undiscovered, "wild" part of Europe is going to be my home. And here, I shouldn't scoff at the national pride these people carry as they emerge from a centuries old struggle for power and order and self-rule. I cannot laugh at the patriotism as I sometimes do here in the States, for in Romania I feel it has been earned more valiantly, and certainly more recently.
I should be clear that I too am patriotic, I too feel proud of my country in so many ways. When I laugh at patriotism, it is the kind that asserts itself in blatant and hateful ways. Patriotism that excludes people and uses superlatives and invokes God to justify campaigns of misinformation or self-interest around the world. And in Romania, these people have much to be proud of- but it will be nice to exist in a place that hasn't recently invaded someone else. And I promised this post wouldn't contain anything serious or insightful. Ha.
9. Romania is apparently a "couple centric society." Meaning that it is generally unacceptable (according to the book I read and different sites I have browsed) for women to go out in groups together. Additionally, it is apparently perfectly common to get offers of marriage on the street or the bus, or to get fixed up with every available young man your school contact knows. So here are the options as I currently see them: I could lead a desperate and lonely couple-less life in Bucharest. I could endure the annoyance of being constantly fixed up with unsuspecting young men. Or I could meet someone. Hmm...
I wonder which one my mom is most fearful of. Her biggest concern (after the chance that I will be sold into some kind of sex-trafficking ring... we have a code-word, don't worry) is that I will find an abandoned baby and stay into Romania until I can officially adopt it.
My biggest concern is that I won't.
Just joking.
I read one time that writing down worries and concerns lulls the mind into a (false) sense of peace before sleep. And because I spent the entirety of last night glancing at the clock every 30 minutes or so, I am going to try it out. A detox for the conscious, of sorts.
1. I have been in frequent contact with my English department head at Scoala #79. We exchanged a few emails today and I learned a lot of new details. For instance- my students have textbooks. This is a big deal. Additionally, I will only be teaching "intensive" English classes, which both frightens and excites me. I will be teaching 18-19 lessons each week, and NO, I have no idea how this works. Also, the teachers are supposed to wear "decent" clothing. Hmm.
2. I discovered that my "flat" (geez, that just SOUNDS cool, right?) may not be available when we first arrive in Bucharest. I was counting on D~ and I being able to stay there during our orientation at the beginning of September. One more thing to add to the list... but at least I know about the possibility now. We haven't really heard any details about the orientation or when D~ needs to/should leave for his placement... all in good time. Probably on August 29th.
3. My parents found a suitcase of massive proportions at Goodwill for $3.00. Massive enough that my friend C~ can fit inside of it. She IS quite tiny, but she honestly crawled completely into this suitcase this past weekend and we could zip the lid. I am not quite as worried about packing anymore. I still have this vision in my head of being forced to drastically eliminate an enormous amount of items at the airport and having to haul this luggage around the world and it being lost somewhere in transit and forgetting something essential in the States. But I have a really big suitcase now.
4. I think that I will bring along said giant suitcase and one more duffel bag as checked luggage. For carry on luggage, I will have my hiking backpack with all the essentials (change of clothing, few toiletries, small blanket, valuables, book, i-Pod, computer, playing cards, etc...) and a purse. Here I will be co-opting the definition of purse by bringing a GIANT tote bag. Plus, it says I am a teacher, so it makes me feel more grown-up and somehow legitimate. I am playing around with the idea of bringing my pillow. My mom did this when we went to Europe, and despite the hassle it caused... it might be nice to have something so familiar.
5. Speaking of familiar things, I am wondering what to bring. I have always craved personal touches to make me feel comfortable in a situation- things like pictures and curtains and rugs. But left with the choice between bringing my vase of fake flowers and a winter jacket, I think I will be forced to ditch the sentimental. So, who has ideas about what I can bring that will remind me of home, and takes up a tiny little bit of space? Maybe a CD with some good songs on it. Suggestions? (You know who you are... help me out!)
6. My personal life is a mess. Some of you know what this is about, many of you don't. But it is sufficient to say that this whole thing is a disaster. A good, wonderful, beautiful kind of disaster- but a heart filled with chaos nonetheless. And doing THIS in the midst of this is an odd experience.
7. I haven't even told D~ this bit of information, but I discovered that it can actually be cheaper to fly from Bucharest to the city he will be teaching in. And so instead of taking 8 hours on a train, it is only about 50 minutes. This makes me happy. I know this is an adventure I need to take. And it is an opportunity I should be happy to experience alone. And I planned to do this before knowing it was even an option for D~. But frankly, it is really nice just to know that someone is just an hour away. He might not be as excited about my reliance on his presence... but it is a great comfort in the moment. And I don't really care what he thinks :)
8. I recently devoured a culture guide on Romania, and I am both more excited and more anxious about living there. I think that I am going to need to be especially sensitive to the fact that the people of this country experienced great hardship under a communist government for many years. I am used to living in a country that forces me to temper down my national pride and assume a position of supplication in order to interact well with the world. This may not be the case in Romania, and this is okay. Development is happening at rapid speed in some places, and peasants live centuries-old traditions in others. This is a country with a history of terrible violence and invasion and foreign rule. This is a country that gained and lost millions of miles of land in the course of two World Wars. This is a country that was handed to the U.S.S.R. after a directive brought about in part by the government of the country I come from. This is a country with Latin roots and Slavic influences and a barrage of other peoples in between. A country with rolling hills and sprawling plains and soaring mountains and beautiful beaches. This untapped, undiscovered, "wild" part of Europe is going to be my home. And here, I shouldn't scoff at the national pride these people carry as they emerge from a centuries old struggle for power and order and self-rule. I cannot laugh at the patriotism as I sometimes do here in the States, for in Romania I feel it has been earned more valiantly, and certainly more recently.
I should be clear that I too am patriotic, I too feel proud of my country in so many ways. When I laugh at patriotism, it is the kind that asserts itself in blatant and hateful ways. Patriotism that excludes people and uses superlatives and invokes God to justify campaigns of misinformation or self-interest around the world. And in Romania, these people have much to be proud of- but it will be nice to exist in a place that hasn't recently invaded someone else. And I promised this post wouldn't contain anything serious or insightful. Ha.
9. Romania is apparently a "couple centric society." Meaning that it is generally unacceptable (according to the book I read and different sites I have browsed) for women to go out in groups together. Additionally, it is apparently perfectly common to get offers of marriage on the street or the bus, or to get fixed up with every available young man your school contact knows. So here are the options as I currently see them: I could lead a desperate and lonely couple-less life in Bucharest. I could endure the annoyance of being constantly fixed up with unsuspecting young men. Or I could meet someone. Hmm...
I wonder which one my mom is most fearful of. Her biggest concern (after the chance that I will be sold into some kind of sex-trafficking ring... we have a code-word, don't worry) is that I will find an abandoned baby and stay into Romania until I can officially adopt it.
My biggest concern is that I won't.
Just joking.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Sustainability
A now overused and thus misunderstood and diluted buzz word, sustainability is often defined as "the capacity to endure and remain productive." This term is often used to describe an ecological mindset, a goal of environmentalism, or a category of agriculture. While I am all in favor of saving the planet by whatever means we have available, the kind of sustainability I am discussing flows more deeply than through the fields of crop or tides of politics.
In anticipation of the move to a brand new country and culture, I have experienced a lot of fear and nervousness this past week. Uncertain of the specific cause, and unwilling to investigate enough to identify a reason for these feelings, I have struggled greatly. Part of it, I am sure, is the sharp reality of what is going to happen, and the rapidly approaching time frame of this adventure. As previously written about, this is not the sort of thing that I do. I am the girl with the plan, the steps, the system. I color-coded every single class I took in college. I agonize over simple plans for a visitor and record details with an obsessive bent. I organize my life to fit into a meticulous structure.
I have always hated this about myself, always wished it to change. And so I stepped out onto this branch of uncertainty with a kind of pride in my bravery, an assertion that THIS is the kind of person I wish to be. So I do a little research and lay down my life outline (bullet points included) and decide to teach in Romania. And I know almost nothing.
So on August 30th, 2010, I will arrive at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago with some luggage and family members and anticipation and hope and fear and a certain amount of loneliness. I will meet someone there who seems to be much better at adventure and spontaneity than I (one of the many reasons I am grateful for him), and we will get on a plane and leave the United States for a year. I will probably still be unsure of my living arrangements, my teaching situation or the cultural expectations. I won't know how to navigate my physical or cultural surroundings, and I will have a year of trial and a year of error and a year of growth. And I will be mostly alone.
I find myself envious of the Peace Corps volunteers I know and have read about, especially those serving in Romania. They have 10 weeks of pre-service language training and cultural immersion and group bonding time. I sit in the library alone pouring over cultural guides, travel planners and language tapes. While not trying to negate the tremendous difficulty of their service experiences, they at least have each other. They become familiar with a place while already familiar with some people. I am traveling to Romania with D~ and after a brief orientation he will leave for his city and his school and his job, and I will be left in Bucharest. And again, while tremendously excited, I am also terribly afraid of loneliness.
And so we return to sustainability. Because I know that such thoughts and feelings are neither good for my spirit nor sustainable in my brain, I find myself dwelling in the comfort of friends. I have such meaningful people in my life- those who bring joy and laughter and perspective and thought and prayer and happiness and beauty and inexpressible comfort. They force me to consider the world around me and think about more than myself and dwell in the good. They lift me up in ways unforeseen, in ways I could not ask for nor expect. They enable in me "the capacity to endure and remain productive."
Consider this quote, recently written to me by my dear friend L~. I sit in the library downtown and read this over and over. This little piece of wisdom spoken from the mouth of a true friend and accepted by the heart of one who was searching. This, my friends, is life sustainable.
"We need to flex our strengths and bend our weaknesses under new lights where they may become stronger- taking risks and stretching ourselves until we grow into the giants we hope to be."
In anticipation of the move to a brand new country and culture, I have experienced a lot of fear and nervousness this past week. Uncertain of the specific cause, and unwilling to investigate enough to identify a reason for these feelings, I have struggled greatly. Part of it, I am sure, is the sharp reality of what is going to happen, and the rapidly approaching time frame of this adventure. As previously written about, this is not the sort of thing that I do. I am the girl with the plan, the steps, the system. I color-coded every single class I took in college. I agonize over simple plans for a visitor and record details with an obsessive bent. I organize my life to fit into a meticulous structure.
I have always hated this about myself, always wished it to change. And so I stepped out onto this branch of uncertainty with a kind of pride in my bravery, an assertion that THIS is the kind of person I wish to be. So I do a little research and lay down my life outline (bullet points included) and decide to teach in Romania. And I know almost nothing.
So on August 30th, 2010, I will arrive at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago with some luggage and family members and anticipation and hope and fear and a certain amount of loneliness. I will meet someone there who seems to be much better at adventure and spontaneity than I (one of the many reasons I am grateful for him), and we will get on a plane and leave the United States for a year. I will probably still be unsure of my living arrangements, my teaching situation or the cultural expectations. I won't know how to navigate my physical or cultural surroundings, and I will have a year of trial and a year of error and a year of growth. And I will be mostly alone.
I find myself envious of the Peace Corps volunteers I know and have read about, especially those serving in Romania. They have 10 weeks of pre-service language training and cultural immersion and group bonding time. I sit in the library alone pouring over cultural guides, travel planners and language tapes. While not trying to negate the tremendous difficulty of their service experiences, they at least have each other. They become familiar with a place while already familiar with some people. I am traveling to Romania with D~ and after a brief orientation he will leave for his city and his school and his job, and I will be left in Bucharest. And again, while tremendously excited, I am also terribly afraid of loneliness.
And so we return to sustainability. Because I know that such thoughts and feelings are neither good for my spirit nor sustainable in my brain, I find myself dwelling in the comfort of friends. I have such meaningful people in my life- those who bring joy and laughter and perspective and thought and prayer and happiness and beauty and inexpressible comfort. They force me to consider the world around me and think about more than myself and dwell in the good. They lift me up in ways unforeseen, in ways I could not ask for nor expect. They enable in me "the capacity to endure and remain productive."
Consider this quote, recently written to me by my dear friend L~. I sit in the library downtown and read this over and over. This little piece of wisdom spoken from the mouth of a true friend and accepted by the heart of one who was searching. This, my friends, is life sustainable.
"We need to flex our strengths and bend our weaknesses under new lights where they may become stronger- taking risks and stretching ourselves until we grow into the giants we hope to be."
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Botox
The kid conversation of the day:
S: "What does your mom do? Like, what is her job?"
Munchkin #8: "She does botox."
S: "Oh?"
Munchkin #8: "Yeah. She says that I am perfect just like I am, but not everyone is that way."
While not specifically about botox, this post is about imperfection. The procedure itself IS completely disgusting to me. I have no judgement for those who choose to undergo such treatment- I have heard many times of the self-confidence that people claim to have after cosmetic procedures. My problem is with the fact that such cosmetic surgeries and appointments are necessary to feel confident in oneself. But I digress- I will save the postulation about societal ideas of beauty for another post.
This is about is the pain that I felt for so long concerning my own imperfection, and the huge amount of energy I spent trying to cover it up, trying to "smooth out to wrinkles," attempting to "fill in the cracks."
Today I realized that the amazing amount of lies I told and secrets I kept were little more than emotional botox. I was injecting toxin into my life, my spirit- and it worked for a while. I looked good for a while, enough for everyone around me to believe the best. Meanwhile, I was desperately searching for cracks in the facade, signs that would show the person I really was.
It took a long time for me to realize the beauty of imperfection, the essential component it is in our lives, really. It is in my own weakness that I discover the strengths of others, and together we become whole.
And so in this new environment and unfamiliar culture, I must resist the ever present temptation to use emotional botox. It is a terribly easy procedure to undergo, but the recovery period is long and difficult. And with only a year, it is possible that full healing will never occur. I must commit now to embracing imperfection and being genuine in all of my difficulty, because I want experience life in the most real of ways.
S: "What does your mom do? Like, what is her job?"
Munchkin #8: "She does botox."
S: "Oh?"
Munchkin #8: "Yeah. She says that I am perfect just like I am, but not everyone is that way."
While not specifically about botox, this post is about imperfection. The procedure itself IS completely disgusting to me. I have no judgement for those who choose to undergo such treatment- I have heard many times of the self-confidence that people claim to have after cosmetic procedures. My problem is with the fact that such cosmetic surgeries and appointments are necessary to feel confident in oneself. But I digress- I will save the postulation about societal ideas of beauty for another post.
This is about is the pain that I felt for so long concerning my own imperfection, and the huge amount of energy I spent trying to cover it up, trying to "smooth out to wrinkles," attempting to "fill in the cracks."
Today I realized that the amazing amount of lies I told and secrets I kept were little more than emotional botox. I was injecting toxin into my life, my spirit- and it worked for a while. I looked good for a while, enough for everyone around me to believe the best. Meanwhile, I was desperately searching for cracks in the facade, signs that would show the person I really was.
It took a long time for me to realize the beauty of imperfection, the essential component it is in our lives, really. It is in my own weakness that I discover the strengths of others, and together we become whole.
And so in this new environment and unfamiliar culture, I must resist the ever present temptation to use emotional botox. It is a terribly easy procedure to undergo, but the recovery period is long and difficult. And with only a year, it is possible that full healing will never occur. I must commit now to embracing imperfection and being genuine in all of my difficulty, because I want experience life in the most real of ways.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Perfection
For whatever reason, I have worked for perfection my entire life. I used to worry that I had a problem with obsessive compulsive disorder when I would have to restart an assignment because of a misspelled word or create a calendar that is perfectly color-coded. Like living in an alternate reality, I was able to observe my obsession with perfection from the outside, but still felt compelled to achieve more, do better, and make neater.
I am a perfectionist in many areas of my life; socially, emotionally, and spiritually. However, this particular feature of my personality presents itself most in academic discipline. In second grade I quite literally cried because I was worried about admission to college after getting a "2" on a report card. My parents constantly encouraged me to relax; my mom told me that the best thing for me would be to get a "B" in a high school class. This preoccupation continued throughout college: the one "A-" I got in an Honors biology course occupied my thoughts for weeks. And now I am a teacher. And teaching, my friends, is not about perfection.
Teaching is about trying to succeed and being disappointed. It is about knowing one self and using experience to create a classroom of warmth and depth. It is about connecting with students and loving people. Teaching is about the brightness that shines from each child and the joy they exude. It is about pouring hours into a lesson plan and watching it disintegrate in five minutes. It is about spending time and money and energy for students who may never realize what you do. Teaching is about writing "Friday Fuzzies" and encouraging potential and communicating about life. It is about being exhausted and drained of energy and being excited about going to work in the morning. It is about being "on" at all moments, and completely preoccupied with a group of little friends and their every wish and hope and dream. Teaching is about calling students to become their best selves, their most creative selves, their most beautiful selves. It is about sharing truth and communicating love. It is about imparting knowledge that extends beyond the classroom and infects the soul. Teaching is about knowing content and strategies and techniques, and integrating them into life and lessons in a meaningful way. And in a unique and not at all depressing way, teaching is about failure.
So the part of me that strives for perfection must tempered in the classroom. Because as much as I want to be the best teacher, I recognize that the little voice spurring me on to do better is not helping. Teaching is both an art and a science, and I have already learned the technical. Perfecting an art, though, is not achievable. Sure, it will become more and more comfortable and easier to teach sharp and important lessons. Of course the quality of my planning and techniques and strategies will improve with time. But the spontaneous moments in the classroom will never change. There will always be something to invade my airtight lesson plan and force adaptation. And therein lies the beauty in teaching. Unlike other areas of my life with such tremendous pressure, it is impossible to be perfect.
I am a perfectionist in many areas of my life; socially, emotionally, and spiritually. However, this particular feature of my personality presents itself most in academic discipline. In second grade I quite literally cried because I was worried about admission to college after getting a "2" on a report card. My parents constantly encouraged me to relax; my mom told me that the best thing for me would be to get a "B" in a high school class. This preoccupation continued throughout college: the one "A-" I got in an Honors biology course occupied my thoughts for weeks. And now I am a teacher. And teaching, my friends, is not about perfection.
Teaching is about trying to succeed and being disappointed. It is about knowing one self and using experience to create a classroom of warmth and depth. It is about connecting with students and loving people. Teaching is about the brightness that shines from each child and the joy they exude. It is about pouring hours into a lesson plan and watching it disintegrate in five minutes. It is about spending time and money and energy for students who may never realize what you do. Teaching is about writing "Friday Fuzzies" and encouraging potential and communicating about life. It is about being exhausted and drained of energy and being excited about going to work in the morning. It is about being "on" at all moments, and completely preoccupied with a group of little friends and their every wish and hope and dream. Teaching is about calling students to become their best selves, their most creative selves, their most beautiful selves. It is about sharing truth and communicating love. It is about imparting knowledge that extends beyond the classroom and infects the soul. Teaching is about knowing content and strategies and techniques, and integrating them into life and lessons in a meaningful way. And in a unique and not at all depressing way, teaching is about failure.
So the part of me that strives for perfection must tempered in the classroom. Because as much as I want to be the best teacher, I recognize that the little voice spurring me on to do better is not helping. Teaching is both an art and a science, and I have already learned the technical. Perfecting an art, though, is not achievable. Sure, it will become more and more comfortable and easier to teach sharp and important lessons. Of course the quality of my planning and techniques and strategies will improve with time. But the spontaneous moments in the classroom will never change. There will always be something to invade my airtight lesson plan and force adaptation. And therein lies the beauty in teaching. Unlike other areas of my life with such tremendous pressure, it is impossible to be perfect.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Rest and Rejuvenation
I have had very little opportunity to rest in the last four years. There have been brief periods of respite between school terms, or during breaks, but there was always something coming. I have had summer jobs that required a tremendous amount of energy (mentally or physically) and filled my time with activities and work and scholarship. And so every once in a while, usually after a week as stressful as this one, I need some rest and some help.
And every time it happens, I feel bad. I feel somehow inadequate, as if the need to withdraw is not something that I should experience. I should be more stabilized, more prepared to deal with the adult world, more independent. And every time, I am not. I rely on other people to pull me through the time of difficulty and hold my hand and help me function again. And I have wonderful friends and family that come to my aid without question.
But next year, I won't have that. I will still have the support system I do now, but they will all live here, not there. I cannot just call for a quick chat or rely on my parents to rescue me. There are so many unknowns about the coming year, but one particularly frightening one is the lack of help in these times that I need rejuvenation.
And every time it happens, I feel bad. I feel somehow inadequate, as if the need to withdraw is not something that I should experience. I should be more stabilized, more prepared to deal with the adult world, more independent. And every time, I am not. I rely on other people to pull me through the time of difficulty and hold my hand and help me function again. And I have wonderful friends and family that come to my aid without question.
But next year, I won't have that. I will still have the support system I do now, but they will all live here, not there. I cannot just call for a quick chat or rely on my parents to rescue me. There are so many unknowns about the coming year, but one particularly frightening one is the lack of help in these times that I need rejuvenation.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Tumultuous-ness
Reading back through my recent posts, I realize that I sound nearly as ungrounded as my pre-adolescent former self. I move from complaint to appreciation with a smooth disregard for anything approaching maturity. Having very little to emotionally stabilize me at the moment, this blog has become my tool of choice. You are welcome to skip over this post- be warned that it has very little to do with teaching or Romania.
I started the weekend with a pretty positive outlook concerning my stolen car. I had an awful night, dealt with the hassle of everything, and then moved on. I got some perspective on the issue, and realized that it could actually benefit me next year.
The person who is also going to be teaching in Romania next year, D~, came into town on Friday for a certification class in Skokie for Teaching English as a Foreign Language. It was actually a well-run class for the most part, and we had a wonderful time making fun of people together. Already being certified in Teaching English as a New Language, this class was more of a resource-gatherer for me. I didn't realize until I was sitting there how incredibly brave D~ and the other people in the class were. I had four years to learn and practice my teaching skills, and they literally had 20 hours in one weekend. The nervousness I feel about moving to Romania has little to do with the actual teaching, and I cannot imagine the feelings of anxiety that my classmates must be feeling. Regardless, I think we had a great, if exhausting, weekend filled with a lot of laughter.
Today was a completely different kind of day, and I want to send up a prayer of thankfulness that the weekend was good. Because I am not sure I could have made it. I got a call on Sunday morning that my car had been found, and was being towed to an impound lot on the VERY far South Side of the city. I planned to go after work today to pick it up, which I did. I took a bus all the way south, and found myself in the kind of environment a CSI Miami episode opens with. I could see the cars in the impound, surrounded by a barbed wire fence, but no entrance. The lot was at least a square mile in size. There were tall weeds everywhere, it was a completely deserted area other than a few cars on the highway nearby, and no sidewalks. I have lived in this city for a year, witnessed a strangling, been followed on a bus, and hassled on the street. I experience city life with all of the rough edges every day, but have never been so nervous about a location or situation. I finally find the entrance to the pound nearly 45 minutes after getting off the bus, in a state of panic and in tears. (Warning: this story is filled with tears.) After waiting another 45 minutes, I am instructed to go to my vehicle, from which the plates have been stolen, and get my registration.
Throughout this entire situation, my biggest concern was the hassle. I was annoyed at the inconvenience it caused, the obstacle in my life. I had not prepared emotionally at all- I didn't anticipate the need. I opened my car door, and got physically ill when I saw what was there. Whoever stole it left stuff in there, and it appeared they had lived in it for a while. There were dirty clothes and an umbrella and a razor and other things. The smell was terrible, but I think it was the sense of intrusion that knocked me backward. I know that this sounds ridiculous (believe me, I KNOW), but I feel like it is no longer mine. Like I have no right to be in that car again, as if another presence has taken ownership. All my personal stuff was strewn all over the car- my mail was everywhere and the stuff was out of the glove box and the trunk was a mess. Someone stole my car and went through my stuff and decided what to take and what to leave. And one of the things they took was my registration.
Which, unfortunately, is necessary to take the car off of the lot. Oh, and so are license plates. Nothing that I could have been informed about ahead of time, of course.
So I walked away, crying again, and made my way back to the bus station. I need to find a way to get to Indiana, get new plates, come back to the lot, with a copy of my title (currently living in a lock box in Michigan), and get into a car that I am physically sick about. All while working a full time job. Right.
Literally two blocks into the bus route to get back home, we break down. More crying ensues. So at this point in the evening I am talking to friends and spilling my tears and eating leftover Thai food and grapes. And writing, which is an incredible relief.
I started the weekend with a pretty positive outlook concerning my stolen car. I had an awful night, dealt with the hassle of everything, and then moved on. I got some perspective on the issue, and realized that it could actually benefit me next year.
The person who is also going to be teaching in Romania next year, D~, came into town on Friday for a certification class in Skokie for Teaching English as a Foreign Language. It was actually a well-run class for the most part, and we had a wonderful time making fun of people together. Already being certified in Teaching English as a New Language, this class was more of a resource-gatherer for me. I didn't realize until I was sitting there how incredibly brave D~ and the other people in the class were. I had four years to learn and practice my teaching skills, and they literally had 20 hours in one weekend. The nervousness I feel about moving to Romania has little to do with the actual teaching, and I cannot imagine the feelings of anxiety that my classmates must be feeling. Regardless, I think we had a great, if exhausting, weekend filled with a lot of laughter.
Today was a completely different kind of day, and I want to send up a prayer of thankfulness that the weekend was good. Because I am not sure I could have made it. I got a call on Sunday morning that my car had been found, and was being towed to an impound lot on the VERY far South Side of the city. I planned to go after work today to pick it up, which I did. I took a bus all the way south, and found myself in the kind of environment a CSI Miami episode opens with. I could see the cars in the impound, surrounded by a barbed wire fence, but no entrance. The lot was at least a square mile in size. There were tall weeds everywhere, it was a completely deserted area other than a few cars on the highway nearby, and no sidewalks. I have lived in this city for a year, witnessed a strangling, been followed on a bus, and hassled on the street. I experience city life with all of the rough edges every day, but have never been so nervous about a location or situation. I finally find the entrance to the pound nearly 45 minutes after getting off the bus, in a state of panic and in tears. (Warning: this story is filled with tears.) After waiting another 45 minutes, I am instructed to go to my vehicle, from which the plates have been stolen, and get my registration.
Throughout this entire situation, my biggest concern was the hassle. I was annoyed at the inconvenience it caused, the obstacle in my life. I had not prepared emotionally at all- I didn't anticipate the need. I opened my car door, and got physically ill when I saw what was there. Whoever stole it left stuff in there, and it appeared they had lived in it for a while. There were dirty clothes and an umbrella and a razor and other things. The smell was terrible, but I think it was the sense of intrusion that knocked me backward. I know that this sounds ridiculous (believe me, I KNOW), but I feel like it is no longer mine. Like I have no right to be in that car again, as if another presence has taken ownership. All my personal stuff was strewn all over the car- my mail was everywhere and the stuff was out of the glove box and the trunk was a mess. Someone stole my car and went through my stuff and decided what to take and what to leave. And one of the things they took was my registration.
Which, unfortunately, is necessary to take the car off of the lot. Oh, and so are license plates. Nothing that I could have been informed about ahead of time, of course.
So I walked away, crying again, and made my way back to the bus station. I need to find a way to get to Indiana, get new plates, come back to the lot, with a copy of my title (currently living in a lock box in Michigan), and get into a car that I am physically sick about. All while working a full time job. Right.
Literally two blocks into the bus route to get back home, we break down. More crying ensues. So at this point in the evening I am talking to friends and spilling my tears and eating leftover Thai food and grapes. And writing, which is an incredible relief.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Incredibly Blessed
Because my car was stolen, I have once again realized how wonderfully and richly blessed I am. This may seem like a terribly odd statement, and I promise this won't be a post about how lucky I am for all the trivial details, though I am . I am lucky that I wasn't in the car at the time, or that I had nothing of real value. I am lucky that my gas tank was almost empty (work with me...) and that I happened to notice it missing within a relatively short period of time. But frankly, it still is really awful. And a little bit funny.
I am blessed with unbelievable friendship. My four "C~ friends" mean so much in vastly different ways, but they pour into my life with exactly the right amounts of what I need. My parents M~ and T~ have been incredible as well- first with the details and then with the emotional support. And so many others have offered prayers and asked questions and thrown their support behind me. These people in my life offer perspective and love and humor. They freely give time and energy and thought to my problems and joys. They sort through my spirit and allow me to be a truer person. I am blessed and sustained completely.
Leaving for Romania was daunting on one level simply because of friendship. The lack of intimacy with others who know me best is a frightening thought. And then this happened, and it was a reminder of the support system I have, and the beauty of connection. I'm not really frightened anymore.
I am blessed with unbelievable friendship. My four "C~ friends" mean so much in vastly different ways, but they pour into my life with exactly the right amounts of what I need. My parents M~ and T~ have been incredible as well- first with the details and then with the emotional support. And so many others have offered prayers and asked questions and thrown their support behind me. These people in my life offer perspective and love and humor. They freely give time and energy and thought to my problems and joys. They sort through my spirit and allow me to be a truer person. I am blessed and sustained completely.
Leaving for Romania was daunting on one level simply because of friendship. The lack of intimacy with others who know me best is a frightening thought. And then this happened, and it was a reminder of the support system I have, and the beauty of connection. I'm not really frightened anymore.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Perhaps
Yesterday I wrote about a day of mediocrity and some disappointment. And I asked at the end if it is okay to just have a crappy day.
Perhaps it isn't. Perhaps we are committing a pretty major offense when we let a day pass without some acknowledgement of blessing. Perhaps karma does exist. Or perhaps, today was just another crappy (er) day.
The work day itself was fine- a little sticky with some frustrating situations, but nothing too abnormal. I have had a lingering tooth ache for a few days, and my dentist called in a prescription to a pharmacy here in Chicago for me. As one in total control of my life, I decided to drive to pick up the prescription and a few things for dinner, and return to the apartment for a lovely evening.
And thus it begins. The pain in my tooth has morphed into a pain of consumption, and when it throbs my entire body seems to feel it. Just a little thing, a little obstacle in my day. I leave my apartment, going back into the heat and the liquid, nearly unbreatheable air clutching my jaw in pain. And I grasp my keys and walk to where my car is parked. And my car is no longer there. Thinking about the absurdity of my brain (it must be the pain, right?) I walk around the block. The only block I have ever parked on. And my car is not to be found. So I walk around again, pressing the panic button every few yards. And alas, there is no sound of panic, except in my own heart. I remember distinctly the last time I was in my car. I had gotten groceries and parked right THERE and had two loads and noticed the pretty flowers in the pot that are still right THERE. I raced back up to my apartment and called my father and emotional breakdown ensued. We found my license plate number and the VIN number, and I stopped crying for a few moments to call the police. After 30 minutes, they informed me that my vehicle does not exist in the database- anywhere. Would I be so kind to file a report personally at the station? The station located at 29th and King Drive? The station that would take me over an hour to reach on public transportation? Sure thing.
More crying ensued, and then a quick cold shower and a walk to the bus station. And now would be the perfect time for a... thunderstorm! Standing at the stop, still clutching my throbbing head, cars pass by and splash me and I think about whether or not this is all even worth it. Who needs a car anyway? I am completely and totally drenched when I walk into the police station and spend an hour there filling out paperwork and waiting on the staff Sergeant to finish his sandwich.
And I have this conversation:
"Well, Ms. Sablich. We find about one in every two thousand cars reported stolen."
(eyes welling up with tears) "Oh, so..."
"Right. Have a nice night."
And I leave the police station and walk to the bus stop in the rain, still holding onto my jaw, and just start to laugh at the absurdity of my life. And 90 minutes later I am home, prescription and pain killers in hand, and realize that it could have been much worse.
So it is not okay to just have a crappy day. Because, friends, the next one might be worse.
Perhaps it isn't. Perhaps we are committing a pretty major offense when we let a day pass without some acknowledgement of blessing. Perhaps karma does exist. Or perhaps, today was just another crappy (er) day.
The work day itself was fine- a little sticky with some frustrating situations, but nothing too abnormal. I have had a lingering tooth ache for a few days, and my dentist called in a prescription to a pharmacy here in Chicago for me. As one in total control of my life, I decided to drive to pick up the prescription and a few things for dinner, and return to the apartment for a lovely evening.
And thus it begins. The pain in my tooth has morphed into a pain of consumption, and when it throbs my entire body seems to feel it. Just a little thing, a little obstacle in my day. I leave my apartment, going back into the heat and the liquid, nearly unbreatheable air clutching my jaw in pain. And I grasp my keys and walk to where my car is parked. And my car is no longer there. Thinking about the absurdity of my brain (it must be the pain, right?) I walk around the block. The only block I have ever parked on. And my car is not to be found. So I walk around again, pressing the panic button every few yards. And alas, there is no sound of panic, except in my own heart. I remember distinctly the last time I was in my car. I had gotten groceries and parked right THERE and had two loads and noticed the pretty flowers in the pot that are still right THERE. I raced back up to my apartment and called my father and emotional breakdown ensued. We found my license plate number and the VIN number, and I stopped crying for a few moments to call the police. After 30 minutes, they informed me that my vehicle does not exist in the database- anywhere. Would I be so kind to file a report personally at the station? The station located at 29th and King Drive? The station that would take me over an hour to reach on public transportation? Sure thing.
More crying ensued, and then a quick cold shower and a walk to the bus station. And now would be the perfect time for a... thunderstorm! Standing at the stop, still clutching my throbbing head, cars pass by and splash me and I think about whether or not this is all even worth it. Who needs a car anyway? I am completely and totally drenched when I walk into the police station and spend an hour there filling out paperwork and waiting on the staff Sergeant to finish his sandwich.
And I have this conversation:
"Well, Ms. Sablich. We find about one in every two thousand cars reported stolen."
(eyes welling up with tears) "Oh, so..."
"Right. Have a nice night."
And I leave the police station and walk to the bus stop in the rain, still holding onto my jaw, and just start to laugh at the absurdity of my life. And 90 minutes later I am home, prescription and pain killers in hand, and realize that it could have been much worse.
So it is not okay to just have a crappy day. Because, friends, the next one might be worse.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Redemption?
The first day back to work after a holiday is always difficult, and this day was made more so because of the ridiculous temperature (97 degrees at one point this afternoon). And this heat exacerbated by our two most dreaded hot day activities: back-to-back BASEBALL and TENNIS. Right after swimming. So the sunscreen doesn't stay on and the sweat is pouring and we have just 12 minutes to get everyone out to the far field for hours of sun and moving and feigned excitement and a counselor terribly worried about heat stroke and sunburn.
And so we take group drinks ("Ok Munchkins, we are going to do a group drink! Remember, you aren't allowed to stop drinking until I do! Everyone ready? One, two, three- guzzle!") and one minute shade breaks and I pass out back rubs and face massages like candy. And we sweat. We sweat and sweat and sweat. ("Stephanie, my face is soggy too!") And I carry little ones on my back because their feet just will not move any more and we have 2 minutes to get to the bus lines, and I hold little hands and try not to drag them along. I pretend that all is well when I am literally hours away from my air-conditioned room and I am thoroughly convinced that I might not make it. I climb on the bus and nearly pass out from the swell of sticky air and breathe a sigh of relief when my kids elect not to sing a song because it is just too hot. And I rate the day a miserable failure.
I struggled for a while to find the positive parts of this day. I met an interesting man on the bus and talked passionately about the fate of public school students (a subject I could discuss for hours). I played a fun game and encouraged my girls and managed Munchkin #2. I kept all of my Pineapples from getting burned and getting sick. I cooked a good dinner and shared it with an even better roommate. There are many positive parts of this day, and I feel that I should feel different. I feel like I should expect less, and enjoy more. I should have a sense of blessing to even be working, and to have a place in this wonderful city, and a beautiful life ahead.
But sometimes, is it okay just to have a crappy day?
And so we take group drinks ("Ok Munchkins, we are going to do a group drink! Remember, you aren't allowed to stop drinking until I do! Everyone ready? One, two, three- guzzle!") and one minute shade breaks and I pass out back rubs and face massages like candy. And we sweat. We sweat and sweat and sweat. ("Stephanie, my face is soggy too!") And I carry little ones on my back because their feet just will not move any more and we have 2 minutes to get to the bus lines, and I hold little hands and try not to drag them along. I pretend that all is well when I am literally hours away from my air-conditioned room and I am thoroughly convinced that I might not make it. I climb on the bus and nearly pass out from the swell of sticky air and breathe a sigh of relief when my kids elect not to sing a song because it is just too hot. And I rate the day a miserable failure.
I struggled for a while to find the positive parts of this day. I met an interesting man on the bus and talked passionately about the fate of public school students (a subject I could discuss for hours). I played a fun game and encouraged my girls and managed Munchkin #2. I kept all of my Pineapples from getting burned and getting sick. I cooked a good dinner and shared it with an even better roommate. There are many positive parts of this day, and I feel that I should feel different. I feel like I should expect less, and enjoy more. I should have a sense of blessing to even be working, and to have a place in this wonderful city, and a beautiful life ahead.
But sometimes, is it okay just to have a crappy day?
Monday, July 5, 2010
Passage of Time
For most children, days are spent in constant anticipation. They ache for camp in the morning, swimming after lunch, and snack time in the afternoon. They ask multiple times a day about the schedule and pester adults about plans in the evening. They live from holiday to holiday and birthday to birthday, counting the months, weeks, and even days. Ask any elementary school child how old they are, and you will more than likely get a response with a fraction of a year attached (6 and a half, 7 and three-quarters, and in the hysterical case of Munchkin #9, 6 and five-sixths).
And so time passes, and pretty soon an infant is a toddler, and a toddler is in preschool, and the preschooler is in elementary school, and the elementary school child is in the throes of pre-adolescence, and the pre-adolescent is a terrible teenager and the teenager is looking at colleges and the college-bound kid is graduating and getting a job teaching in Romania.
My younger brother C~ and his girlfriend J~ just graduated from high school at the beginning of June. So graduation party season descended upon us, and dutifully I went. I ate LOTS of potatoes and chicken and cake and looked at pictures and through scrapbooks and socialized with the same people over and over. And I celebrated the milestone, the huge accomplishment, the BIG deal that this is. I gave hugs and cards and congratulations and good luck wishes. And I thought about the passage of time.
As I sorted through snapshots for C~'s graduation party and marveled at the beautiful growth of my beautiful brother, I was struck by the magnitude and multitude of life. I taught that child to walk, and then watched 17 years later as he walked across a stage. I watched him grow and change from a child of energy and craziness and perseverance to a man of integrity and strength and humor. I observed from a distance his growth, and in the meantime forgot that it was happening to me.
Though my other brother hasn't yet graduated from high school, the same thing happened to him. I watched E~ develop into a real person this year. I am struck by my memories of the sweet little boy he used to be, always joking and playing and making everyone laugh. He was an unbelievably bright and beautiful child, and I blinked, and he became a man with talent and grace and confidence. Even his body seemed to change in an instant, from a soft and approachable boy to a solid and self-assured man. And again, while I was watching E~ grow, I forgot that I was doing the same thing.
And so now the baby, the firstborn, the caretaker, the testy adolescent, the planner, the worrier, and the kid who couldn't WAIT for the passage of time is grieving a tiny bit. She is a little sad about how quickly these last 22 years have passed. And as she prepares mentally and physically and emotionally to leave the certain and the known and the sure, she is a little bit afraid of the growth that is certain to happen this year.
And so time passes, and pretty soon an infant is a toddler, and a toddler is in preschool, and the preschooler is in elementary school, and the elementary school child is in the throes of pre-adolescence, and the pre-adolescent is a terrible teenager and the teenager is looking at colleges and the college-bound kid is graduating and getting a job teaching in Romania.
My younger brother C~ and his girlfriend J~ just graduated from high school at the beginning of June. So graduation party season descended upon us, and dutifully I went. I ate LOTS of potatoes and chicken and cake and looked at pictures and through scrapbooks and socialized with the same people over and over. And I celebrated the milestone, the huge accomplishment, the BIG deal that this is. I gave hugs and cards and congratulations and good luck wishes. And I thought about the passage of time.
As I sorted through snapshots for C~'s graduation party and marveled at the beautiful growth of my beautiful brother, I was struck by the magnitude and multitude of life. I taught that child to walk, and then watched 17 years later as he walked across a stage. I watched him grow and change from a child of energy and craziness and perseverance to a man of integrity and strength and humor. I observed from a distance his growth, and in the meantime forgot that it was happening to me.
Though my other brother hasn't yet graduated from high school, the same thing happened to him. I watched E~ develop into a real person this year. I am struck by my memories of the sweet little boy he used to be, always joking and playing and making everyone laugh. He was an unbelievably bright and beautiful child, and I blinked, and he became a man with talent and grace and confidence. Even his body seemed to change in an instant, from a soft and approachable boy to a solid and self-assured man. And again, while I was watching E~ grow, I forgot that I was doing the same thing.
And so now the baby, the firstborn, the caretaker, the testy adolescent, the planner, the worrier, and the kid who couldn't WAIT for the passage of time is grieving a tiny bit. She is a little sad about how quickly these last 22 years have passed. And as she prepares mentally and physically and emotionally to leave the certain and the known and the sure, she is a little bit afraid of the growth that is certain to happen this year.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Character Education
Most of what I do every day is fun. I play silly games and sing wacky songs and dance embarassing dances. I hold little hands and little minds and little hearts in my care, and I find moments of time to show my munchkins I value them. I pass out hot dogs and give out more chips and slather on sunscreen and find the front of a bathing suit and search for missing underwear (always the underwear) and catch kids in the deep end and clean up messes and compliment art projects and encourage soccer players and marvel at dramatic leanings.
But on some days, and at certain times, I revert to being an educator. And today was certainly one of those days. Specifically, I become a character educator. Of course there are opportunities for "character education" in every day and in many moments, and I truly believe that such education is most beneficial when woven into the daily activities. However, there are some times when "group meetings" are necessary. And today, on the tenth day of camp, I was tattled to 17 times before lunch. And so I convened a meeting of the Pineapples, with the help of co-counselors A~ and M~.
"Friends, I want you to raise your hand if you are four years old. No one? Okay, how about five years old? No one!! So, this must mean you are ALL six years old, right? "Munchkin #1- look at my eyes." Wow- we sure have a mature group of campers. Friends, I want to let you in on a little secret. Listen close- can everyone hear me? Okay, kiddos, the secret is that when you are six years old and going into the FIRST grade, you have to work out your own problems. It is one of the very first steps towards being a grown-up kid."
"Stephanie, what do you mean?"
"Well, Munchkin #7, it means that when you have had a problem with one of our friends in this group, -Munchkin #9, put that down please- you try to work it out with them first."
"Like what?"
"Well, what would happen if A~ and I got in a fight, and then instead of talking to A~ about it, I went and told M~. Would that be the right thing to do? NO WAY! "Now I am bringing someone else into the problem. -MUNCHKIN 9!- And that isn't really fair to A~. What could I say to A~ BEFORE talking to M~ about it?"
"Hey, stop it!"
"I don't like it when you say that."
"Shove off!!!"
(MUST STIFLE LAUGHTER) "Wow- I love the way you just said those things. Maybe saying 'shove off' is a little extreme, but we should talk to someone before we T on them."
"What is T, Stephanie?"
"T is a word I really don't like to use. It makes me frustrated, and it makes me pretty sad. In fact, I can't even hear kids when they T."
"WHAT IS IT?"
"T is tattling. And tattling is something we just don't do in this group. Can we make that commitment?"
"Yeah..."
"What are you going to do if someone does something mean to you?"
"Take care of it myself."
"WOW, Munchkins, I am so proud of you!!!"
"Can we sing the moose song now?"
Fast forward two hours. I witness Munchkin #6 and Munchkin #12 arguing about a place in line, and look away. Munchkin #6 starts to run to me, when all of a sudden I hear Munchkin #12 scream out "DON'T FRUSTRATE STEPHANIE! I am sorry."
And all is right in the tattle-telling world of the Pineapple group.
But on some days, and at certain times, I revert to being an educator. And today was certainly one of those days. Specifically, I become a character educator. Of course there are opportunities for "character education" in every day and in many moments, and I truly believe that such education is most beneficial when woven into the daily activities. However, there are some times when "group meetings" are necessary. And today, on the tenth day of camp, I was tattled to 17 times before lunch. And so I convened a meeting of the Pineapples, with the help of co-counselors A~ and M~.
"Friends, I want you to raise your hand if you are four years old. No one? Okay, how about five years old? No one!! So, this must mean you are ALL six years old, right? "Munchkin #1- look at my eyes." Wow- we sure have a mature group of campers. Friends, I want to let you in on a little secret. Listen close- can everyone hear me? Okay, kiddos, the secret is that when you are six years old and going into the FIRST grade, you have to work out your own problems. It is one of the very first steps towards being a grown-up kid."
"Stephanie, what do you mean?"
"Well, Munchkin #7, it means that when you have had a problem with one of our friends in this group, -Munchkin #9, put that down please- you try to work it out with them first."
"Like what?"
"Well, what would happen if A~ and I got in a fight, and then instead of talking to A~ about it, I went and told M~. Would that be the right thing to do? NO WAY! "Now I am bringing someone else into the problem. -MUNCHKIN 9!- And that isn't really fair to A~. What could I say to A~ BEFORE talking to M~ about it?"
"Hey, stop it!"
"I don't like it when you say that."
"Shove off!!!"
(MUST STIFLE LAUGHTER) "Wow- I love the way you just said those things. Maybe saying 'shove off' is a little extreme, but we should talk to someone before we T on them."
"What is T, Stephanie?"
"T is a word I really don't like to use. It makes me frustrated, and it makes me pretty sad. In fact, I can't even hear kids when they T."
"WHAT IS IT?"
"T is tattling. And tattling is something we just don't do in this group. Can we make that commitment?"
"Yeah..."
"What are you going to do if someone does something mean to you?"
"Take care of it myself."
"WOW, Munchkins, I am so proud of you!!!"
"Can we sing the moose song now?"
Fast forward two hours. I witness Munchkin #6 and Munchkin #12 arguing about a place in line, and look away. Munchkin #6 starts to run to me, when all of a sudden I hear Munchkin #12 scream out "DON'T FRUSTRATE STEPHANIE! I am sorry."
And all is right in the tattle-telling world of the Pineapple group.
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