What a summer I had this year!

It's strange to me to think that I have already survived the first week of my second year in TFA. My summer is already over, but I think it deserves a few words. I traveled every which way this summer and spent quality time visiting and catching up with dear friends all over the world.

It began when school ended May 20. I stuck around Louisiana for another 10 days, working desperately to finish my portfolio (a mandatory part of my certification process). That is done, and the Department of Education is sending me my certification. On May 30, I began the journey from Louisiana to Edisto Island, SC. It was an incredible drive, complete with an Exxon that had a llama and ostrich petting zoo in the back. It was full of unusual rural sights and beautiful swamp lands. Unlike most road trips, I even ate well because of the bizarre stops along rural, twisty roads with excellent home-cooked food. My favorite was this enormous peach orchard that had a country shop and cafe where I got chicken quesadillas with peach salsa. Naturally I thoroughly enjoyed the drive and the quirkiness of it all, though I missed having someone else to share it with. I'm used to making lots of road trips by myself (I've been making them since I was 18), but I've never quite experienced such a distinctly quirky/bizarre road trip that made me wish quite so much for someone else to remember it with me.

Finally I arrived at Edisto Island, where I joined my parents for the week. It was such a wonderfully relaxing time, complete with dolphins jumping at sunset on the Bay and all the usual delights that Edisto has to offer. For the first time, I actually documented it all fairly well with my camera. I wanted to show my friends far away why Edisto draws me back every year. Of course, the photos, which are on Facebook now, only tell part of the story. The other part is the memories my family has made since I was toddler. To me, the swamps and Spanish Moss of Edisto tell me that I am home in a way. It is most definitely because of Edisto that I ended up in Louisiana for two years. I knew that if I went to somewhere with swamps, Live Oaks, Cypresses, and Spanish Moss, my heart would be restored a little everyday, no matter the pain of the job. I was right. Every time I see a Giant Oak with the Spanish Moss waving gracefully, my heart sails above time and place, and I am so grateful to be living in South Louisiana.

I drove up to North Carolina, spent the night there, and then flew to visit a friend in Cambridge, MA for a week. That was also a lovely week, spending time with my friend and exploring a part of the country I had never been to. From there, I came back to North Carolina for two weeks, hung out with Mike (who had just moved down to NC) and packed for my next set of adventures.

On June 27, my mom took me up to one of the towns right next to the Dulles Airport (near DC), where we enjoyed a relaxed evening. The next day we explored a bit, ate good Vietnamese food, and in the evening I boarded the airplane headed for Amsterdam. This summer represented a significant change for me: in all the travels I have done the last few years, I've never *returned* to any country I'd been to previously. This time the entire point of the trip was to return to my German friends and family and to visit my sister in Israel, a country I have also spent two weeks in before.

From Amsterdam, I took the six hour train, with a transfer, to Bremen, Germany. The experience was strange to me to step off the plane and realize I was in Europe but I still couldn't yet speak the language and to watch as gradually, on the train, I began to hear less and less Dutch and more and more German. Even hearing so much German after five years of being away felt odd, but it also felt right. I was thoroughly jetlagged, my mind could not process any language fast, and yet I felt instantly that old sense of home rekindled at hearing German. Finally, I arrived in Germany, where my host mom met at the train station with tears in her eyes and a big hug, in the same spot where five years previously she and about ten others had waved, shouted, and ran after the train at 3am as I disappeared out of their lives.

I discovered something: returning is nice. It's nice to have a community somewhere. For the most part, I've lost my community in North Carolina, though I thoroughly appreciate those individuals that I still see when I visit my parents. I have had many other experiences of intense community sense then, such as while a Page or in college, but those were always temporary situations, and my friends from them are now scattered all over the world. There is no single place to return to. But Germany represents the exception.

In truth, my German friends are a bit scattered now, but they are all still connected to the same hometown that I am. When they heard that I was coming back for a bit, many of them were able to visit home for a while, because that's just it, the town I call my German town is also their home still. Even more, most of them are within two hours travel. I visited many in Hamburg, where I have more German friends now than anywhere else. And, of course, my German family is ever my German family. I celebrated my Oma's 90th birthday with the family this year, an experience I thoroughly appreciated. Somehow, experiencing the sense of being "home" in Bremen, even just for a week and a half, was a beautiful experience. I don't know if I will ever have the opportunity to live in Germany again, but I would be happy to. I would be happy to return once again.

After 10 days in Germany, I boarded the train back to Amsterdam. I purposefully took the earlier train so I could have time in Amsterdam to explore and go see the Van Gogh museum, a childhood dream of mine, ever since I decided he was my favorite artist when I was six years old. Of course, exploring a foreign city in a foreign country, where I don't speak the language and have never lived, all by myself represented a new step in my world travels. I may have traveled a lot, even traveled a decent amount by myself, but I generally either travel by myself where I speak the language or quickly pick up a buddy to experience the travels with. This represented a new exception: I was alone. My mother was initially very worried about this, but I knew I needed to prove to myself that I could do this.

I arrived at the central train station in Amsterdam, having read online that there were lockers that could be rented for the day somewhere in there. I immediately began the process of exploring and getting lost in the land of confusing signs until I finally found my way to the lockers. The instructions were all in Dutch, and I could not understand how to swipe my credit card to lock the locker, so I tried to get help from the attendants. The man who helped me was very useful. He said, "Just follow the directions. You try again." I tried again. The machine printed a receipt for me. I wasn't sure how it happened. I checked the locker. It did not appear to open. I left.

I then began the process of trying to figure out what form of public transportation I needed to get to the Van Gogh museum. Thankfully, I quickly found an information desk. After waiting in line, the man at the desk informed me I would need to stand by the 2 or 5 trains. Something in the way he was pointing seemed inconsistent with his words, but I figured I would go to the trains and try to figure it out there. I asked him how I get a ticket, and he tells me I must buy it on the train. Unfortunately, the station is a bit hectic, I get a bit lost, so I go to next information desk. He cannot tell me how to get there but emphatically reminds me I must get on the 2 or 5 train. Finally on the train platforms, I see twos and fives, but they do not appear to be going downtown, so I go to the next information desk. This lady then informs me, "No, no, not the 2 or 5 train. You need 2 or 5 tram." Okay, tram, not train. Makes sense. She then informs me I should buy my ticket, so I do. She tells me the name of my stop is "Van Gogh Museum." Thankfully she gave fairly specific directions for me: Exit the train station and go left to find the trams. I do so and rejoice at finding the trams! But now I have a new piece of confusion: I see a 10, 18, 6, and 4... but no 2 or 5. I wander about for a little while. I search every tram sign I can find. FINALLY, I give up and wander into the next information desk. She informs me that, no, I should not have turned left. Right was the way. Frustrated at having been given a thousand and one directions, I follow my new set of directions, arrive just in time for the two, board the train and found myself headed toward the museum. What a sigh of relief I breathed when I finally made it on that tram! I rode past quintessential outdoor cafes and fans preparing for final game of the world cup. Finally, I hear Museum Place Stop... I wonder to myself, because this was not the name I had been told, but I determined my gut seems to have been better this day than people's directions, and I get off. Finally, a good choice, because I immediately found the signs to get to the museum. I also had the chance walk by and photograph the famous "I AMsterdam" sculpture. Got into the museum. Loved it. Enjoyed it. Ate a meal. Went back to the train station.

At the train station, I went to pick up my bag and went to the machine to insert my receipt as the pictures seemed to show, but the machine wouldn't take it. Just like last time, I went to get one of the attendants, who was also not Dutch and could not speak English or German very well. As soon as I showed him the receipt though, he says, "No good. You must try again to pay."

I start to laugh and then ask, "You mean, it's not locked?"

"Yes, no good," he repeats again. "I help you. Come."

I try to tell him that's not necessary and walk up to my locker to assure that I can, indeed, get it out. Sure enough, it hadn't been locked all day.

Again, the attendant insists, "I help you pay."

"I am leaving," I try to explain.

"But it is not locked," he insists.

"Yes, I am picking up my bag," I again explain. "I'm leaving."

"You take your bag somewhere else?" he asked indignantly.

Finding no better way of responding, I say, "Yes, to the airport."

"But you not store it here?" he asks again.

While he continues to waste my time with linguistic confusion, I searched my bag through entirely, finding nothing missing or added to my bag, crossing my fingers that no security guard would ask if my bag had been at all unattended during the day. Finally, I looked up at the confused attendant and told him goodbye, silently wishing I had learned Dutch or better Arabic, as that would have been the language of choice for this man, I believe. The man kept shouting that he could help me as I left, and I felt somewhat guilty for having had free storage for my luggage all day. I would have paid if I could ever have found a way of explaining to him what happened.

Off to the airport I went to board the airplane for Tel Aviv... Seeing Sharona was wonderful! Both Sharona and Ariel picked me up at the airport. They had to wait a bit because my plane was delayed and then I was delayed a little longer for questioning, due to my interesting passport. Thankfully everyone was respectful, however. No security horror stories. In fact, I got the sense they were laughing at me when I didn't even know what Sharona was getting her degree in. Oops. But I was confident in what I did know, and eventually my answers sufficed.

Sharona and I explored all over the North, visited Ariel at the camp he was working at several times, explored Jerusalem, visited friends in Tel Aviv, visited with Ariel his family in Ariel (yes, he has the same name as his hometown), and genuinely enjoyed ourselves. Of course, many of Sharona's friend don't quite get why I have no interest in making aliyah or moving to Israel myself, but that's okay, if rather amusing. I still liked them, and I liked the world Sharona has entered. I feel called elsewhere, but I sense that Sharona has found her own home. Due to the time we experienced together, I can positively say congratulations to Sharona and Ariel on their recent engagement!

Then quickly back to the states, a few days in North Carolina, and down to Louisiana. After a week in Louisiana, I flew to Ohio, where Brooke and Benjamin married each other! It made me so happy to be a part of their special day, a couple I (and all in MESP) watched slowly come together from the day they met each other, as we flew to Egypt. Seeing Brooke and helping her get ready for the wedding was very special. I don't know when I will see Brooke again, but she will always be a very special friend to me, with whom I can talk about all the most awkward topics. It was also good to see other MESPers, whom I haven't seen in years. For all of us, it was a very exciting mini-reunion, and I was reminded why that semester was so very special and pivotal in all of our lives.

And now back to teaching. I'm loving this year so far. It'll be tough again, but this time it's a challenge that I truly desire. Strange how very much a year has changed me. :)

Only two more days of students and one more teacher day... Strange. It's all wrapping up, and it turns out that I survived my first year of teaching. Actually, I think I should stop using that word even if there is a degree of reality to it, because though surviving is all I did at times, most of the year I did a lot more than survive. I connected with sixteen students, whose futures will forever matter to me, no matter what. Somewhere across the year, these kids grew, and they grew a lot. I could give you numbers and data about how much they grew (TFA thankfully requires careful tracking), but, instead, I'll just tell you that these kids are true superstars and deserve all of our respect for their willingness to shoot for unlikely goals because a strange woman tells them to and then to achieve them. I'm so proud of them. About half of them will no longer be my students next year, and I have no words for how I will miss them. These same students took me, a recent college graduate with clear dreams for her own future, and hijacked all of those plans. I don't know what the future holds, because I realize more and more that my dreams for myself are now intertwined with my dreams for my students. It's a strange thing teaching does, and I now understand why 2/3 of all TFAers continue working in or on education issues. I cannot ever let down my students, whom I love... we shall see where that leads...

On another note, this summer I will be traveling overseas, and for the first time in my life, going overseas does not mean going somewhere new. Instead, I will be returning to two familiar places: first to my German friends and family in Bremen, and second to visit my sister in Jerusalem. Keep checking here for all my updates! Thank you for all your e-mails, comments, and phone calls of concern and support this year. :)

Strange, we're already into the second week in May. There are nine more instructional days of school, though four of those are only half days. I can't believe it. I've survived my first year of teaching. Yes, there's plenty to get done between now and then (e.g. finish my PTP portfolio, so I get certified!!!), but I don't just see the light at the end of the tunnel: I'm a mere few steps away from it. And then summer! Oh glorious summer that I have worked so hard for!!! My plans include going to Edisto, Archdale/High Point/Greensboro, Boston, Germany, and Israel this summer! I am SO ready. I know I will come back a much better teacher for having taken this break.

It has occurred to me somewhat sooner than I planned on that a year from now I'll probably have a plan as to what occurs after my two year teaching commitment. For the average non-TFAer, the significance of this sentence could easily be missed. The thing is, you run boldly into your first year of teaching, thinking the entire time of everything you'll do better once you've experienced a year of teaching, and then suddenly it's already your last year. It's the strange dynamic of only making a two-year commitment; you only have a first year and a last year. Many, many do stay on for a third year, but it is not a part of the commitment... and so begins the decision-making process, very much like the senior year of college but long before you've even oriented yourself to life as a teacher... in fact, I'm doubting that two years is at all long enough to orient oneself ever to life as a teacher.

That being said, watching the current second year teachers scramble to finalize their decisions, I'm realizing I really must begin to move forward in thinking about life post-TFA. So here are my current options that I'm seriously considering, and I would appreciate hearing any of your gut reactions.

First, I could continue down the path I left Messiah on, and that would be to pursue a PhD in Political Science, with the hope of one day becoming a professor. I truly love the academic life, and I love what I studied. The problem with this idea, however, is that I began to desire this life out of phase of wariness, mostly wariness of the transitional aspect of the life choices I've made (a year here, a year there, 1/2 year there, etc.) and fear of the addictive whirlwind of government and government-related life, and academia seemed a way out of the whirlwind. Yet, though I continue to look forward to growing roots, teaching has really made me question whether I would ever truly feel that I was making enough of a tangible difference as a professor (and, besides, I think most people would also point out that I have also enjoyed the whirlwind and had invaluable experiences in the process). I have always been very hands-on and have always chosen the path that takes me right into the center of the things I care about. An apt example would be how I chose studying in the Middle East easily over studying about the Middle East at Oxford University. The latter would have been far more academic, but I had the need to throw myself into the midst of the issues, rather than merely study them.

Secondly, I've off and on toyed with the idea of studying theology. It simply remains one of those topics that rattles around in my head a lot. If you'd asked me even as recently as a week ago, I might have really thought this is what I really wanted, but today this dream does not appeal to me... again, because I need to know that what I am doing matters to other people. Theology matters a great deal to me, and I will spend a lot of time thinking about it for sure, but I cannot help but think that the study of theology would be a largely selfish pursuit for me (I do not believe this is the case for most of my friends who are studying theology, by the way). I would just be satisfying my own personal muse, rather than following a true vocation. Yet, I imagine this possibility will resurface in my thoughts as a viable option. 

Thirdly, I could stay in the classroom. At this time, I find it highly unlikely that I would remain in special education, impossible that I would remain in an elementary school, and questionable that I would remain in Louisiana (it's just so hard being away from so many people I care about). However, I could see myself teaching in a functioning, high-quality middle or high school that serves the same socio-economic group as I'm currently working with (and many exist) if I were teaching social studies or humanities. In fact, when I begin to dream, sometimes I think I could positively love this job. My impact on the world might be limited to the students I taught, but I could thoroughly love those students (as I love my current students) and teach them to think critically about the world and believe in their own ability to make a difference. My best moments have been when I've had the really deep conversations with my 13-15 year olds about societal trends, racism, or history. My one TFA friend here, however, has reminded me that I can always return to the classroom. The easiest time to pursue any of the other options I'm considering would be now (by now, I mean actually immediately following TFA). Still, this option has a strong draw to it.

Finally, the newest option I am considering after several convincing TFA spiels would be to return back to the direction I was going before my senior year of college: the policy/non-profit route. TFA has strong partnerships with nearly every major university for various scholarships and fellowships in their Public Policy programs, so this would be a very affordable route to begin down academically-speaking. Moreover, I will always be aware that this (the policy route) is what I spent many years preparing for, and when I see educational problems at the systemic level, it is hard to walk away from this option. Yet, though I do not consider myself a cynic, I was thoroughly disillusioned with government work at a fairly young age, and I question if I can schmooze my way through it all again, the way I feel effective policy writers and advocates must. I have ideas, but I prefer working independently, quietly and away from all the drama... spending my life shaking hands and convincing others to get on board... I think I could be quite good at it and even get a buzz from it all, but is it the life I want to choose? This is what I began to run from my senior year... this was the question I asked myself repeatedly and what ultimately led to me wanting to pursue an academic career. Yet, am I being hypocritical? Am I running away, simply because I fear the challenge? Or am I running away because there really is something negative that I can see myself being sucked into? It is also appealing to not spend a life working with individuals who may only rarely know how to show gratitude (as in the case of teaching), and interacting with adults everyday... just a thought... not a strong one, but it exists.

Today's toss-up is between the last two... which is quite a shock after a year of longing for the academic life, but perhaps I have finally adjusted to life outside the ivory towers and can envision my place in the so-called real world... and perhaps one particular professor was especially right to tell me to go get some life experience before choosing the academic life. :) Admittedly, though, a week or so later, I might be thoroughly fed up with my unacademic life and start looking more seriously at the first two again. So tell me your thoughts. I'd love to hear. You all know me best. :)

For a change from the often serious nature of this blog, some updates from Thursday's classroom:

B (who has autism) now has an imaginary friend. I was very excited to be having some rare one-on-one time with B, while my 6th graders had to finish up some testing in their regular rooms. Unfortunately, I did not yet know about Jim, B's imaginary friend. It turned out that every other question I asked had to be directed to Jim, not B. If B also knew the answer, he would tell me what Jim said, but if he did not, he'd say he couldn't hear Jim. Then when the sixth graders actually started to enter the room, K almost sat on Jim! Braylen quickly stopped her, and I had to go up to Jim and ask him politely if he would mind moving and then give him a big high five so that K could finally sit down. If you could have seen poor K's face! She was utterly confused, and the other sixth graders were just barely holding themselves together!

Also on Thursday, two third graders (whom I don't teach) came into my room during after-school tutoring, after nearly inciting an epic fight with some boys. I proceeded to show them my sign on the wall that says in Thai "jai yen" (cool heart) and talk to them about keeping cool when boys are purposefully trying to torment them. I then allowed them to sweep and clean my room, during which time conversation shifted quite predictably to Rosenwald students' favorite topic, "Miss Kara, you single?" When I answered affirmatively, I got an especially delightful answer this time, "Miss Kara, why?! That's ridiculous! You are so pretty and nice." However, the next part of the conversation I could barely even contain myself for. "Ms. Kara, did you know Mr. Q is also single? He's lonely at night, and he might spend the rest of his life alone! You should spend some time with him." To which my response (while carefully guarding my laughter) was, "That's true, he might spend the rest of his life alone, but the problem is I am not lonely. I'm quite content, so I think I'll be okay without a boyfriend for now." They solemnly shook their heads at my misguided ideas.

Happy birthday, Langston Hughes, and welcome to the start of Black History Month. For my three highest 6th grade readers, this month will be marked by a broad study of black poets in America. Today we began with Langston Hughes, which was especially meaningful, as today was also his birthday. We compared to poems ("Dreams" and "Harlem") written in the 1920s and 1950s respectively and talked about how time and place impacted Hughes' writing. 

Yet, what amazed me was how little my students have learned about civil rights history. Trying to get them to say the Civil Rights Movement, I asked what began in the 1950s and really took root in the 1960s; they tentatively answered the "end of slavery." I couldn't find complete error in the spirit of this reality, especially in Louisiana, but I needed them to understand the chronology of American history in order to truly look at the writings coming out of the African American culture. As we talked I realized more fully what exactly my students have been robbed of. It's not merely that my students have been robbed of an excellent education and the opportunities that such an education affords; my students have been robbed of a heritage and an identity that comes with an excellent education.

As I began to talk to my students about the Harlem Renaissance, I saw them waking up. They were practically hanging on every word I spoke today. They wanted to know that at one point there had been an African American cultural explosion that warranted the term "renaissance." They wanted to know that African American art and writing was worth revering, even among whites. As I talked about the hopes and disappointments of the era, they understood that what had happened in New York City was about a struggle that was felt throughout the country. I was so proud of them for the way they took to the deeper issues quickly.

It was strange, though. I felt unworthy to be the one to expose them to this whole world and heritage. After introducing them to the first two poems, I stopped and took the time to talk about how I have envisioned this poetry unit, focusing on African American poets (which they have been uber-excited about for the last two weeks). I then pinched my skin and reminded them that I knew full well I was white, and I understood that this unit would inevitably include many conversations on race. I asked them if they were comfortable and willing to have these conversations with each other and with me and in front of me. They assured me eagerly that that would be okay, but I still wonder... I wonder if I, who have never experienced what it is like to be black in America, can possibly present this unit half as well as I ought.

So wish me luck, as I engage the unit I have been most excited about all year.

I did not realize how long it had been since I last wrote, until I signed in now to write a new post. I was considering today how very different this MLK Day is from last year. How vividly I remember getting ready for last year, then narrating the tour of downtown Harrisburg to my assigned service group. I remember crossing the semi-frozen Susquehanna and getting out at the Civil War Museum, overlooking Harrisburg, to read the moving "I Have a Dream" speech to the other members of the van. I remember sitting in Sci-Tech Academy listening to an African American teacher discuss teaching African American poetry to his students and thinking about the educational needs in America, hardly considering that in less than a year I myself might have my own class of students. I remember going with my group to Paxton Home, where I would then choose to spend the rest of the semester volunteering, to help up fix up a halfway home for them.

Today I will not take a tour of Pointe Coupee or read aloud Reverend King's "I Have a Dream" speech. Today I will not get my hands dirty painting walls in King's honor or tour schools that appear to be one more  step along the long path to meeting King's dream. No, today I will simply lesson plan and hope, in doing so, I too am honoring King with the dreams I hold for my students.