"Do these rights count in the home?"

The United Nations Human Rights Declaration: Article 5 - "No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment."

My students understood this article and were quick to state their need for it. They could think of countless examples.

But then one particularly astute student stumbled for his words as he said, "No, I don't know about this. These are all rights for out in public. What about in the home? Do these rights count in the home? If a husband is beating, even torturing his wife, can someone really intervene into the privacy of the home? Don't families have a right to self-determination?"

I held my breath and looked to the rest of the students, thinking one of them would speak. They looked back at me.

Kham Moen, my Shan co-teacher, and I had been teaching this class more in the role of facilitators than instructors, and despite the temptation, I did not want to stop this time. I wanted my students to come to make up their minds on tough ethical quandaries, because they had thought it through, not because an authority figure had told them "the answer."

So we made it personal. We came up with specific examples of domestic violence and sexual abuse. The students listed the rights (even sometimes conflicting rights) of every member of the family in these situations, and we talked about what was the right and moral thing to do in really difficult situations.

And then it continued... for the entire week of the Human Rights workshops. We could not simply talk about human rights in the public sphere, if we did not talk about human rights in the places closest to students' hearts: the home. So we did both: we had examples of government interactions with villages and more intimate interactions within the home. We engaged them both constantly.

I was fully invested in working through the material with my students for two reasons: 1) It is infinitely valuable for these individuals to think through the rights of others, 2) It is the last gift I can give my students.

You see, in two weeks, I will be moving and will begin a new job teaching a fantastic group of Thai second graders. It breaks my heart to think about leaving these Shan young adults, however, and so I've tried in one week to give them everything I could: a sense of compassion, empowerment, and responsibility. Before this class, only one student out of the eighteen had ever heard of the concept "human rights" or even the idea that all people might have certain rights. To talk about the international law, to which Burma is a co-signer, mattered to them.

When I asked the students what they found most interesting to study, I will never forget when a usually meek student, who keeps her head down and rarely speaks, spoke first in the class, lifting her eyes level with the others, "That my body belongs to me." This was in relation to our right to say no to unwanted sexual advances in a discussion the day before. This is what this girl remembered most of all. If that is all she remembers, we have one a huge battle in one young woman's life.

Now, over the next couple weeks, the other English teacher will be giving historic examples of non-violent resistance, as a means others have used to fight for those basic rights. Sometimes I look at my students and wonder if we're throwing fire at gasoline. They are tired of injustice already, and they are just so ready to do something. I can only pray they will have the wisdom to see when and what action is helpful. I also pray that the world will never be black-and-white to them and that they will always see the complexities, even in the midst of choosing action.

Truly I have been privileged to work with these students.

Talking about the Holocaust and reconciliation

Some days I am pretty sure I teach the most incredible students ever. Seriously.

Last week we had a conversation that I still have not gotten out of my head. You see, it started off by reading a story that just mentioned a "senator's wife." But these students are from Burma, and you can't explain even a simple political word without really talking about.

So we talked.

We worked through the different parts of government in the American system as a point of comparison, and then we talked about Burma. So far, I had not had any political conversation with my Shan students, and I was a little nervous about opening it up, but I also felt it was necessary. Because politics in Burma, to migrant workers in Thailand, means everything. It's what determines whether they ever return to the places where they were born.

Amazingly, as I began to ask about the constitution, my students demonstrated incredibly maturity and insight. I asked them what they thought would happen at the next election (when a majority of the seats are going to be contested), and they tackled the issues of whether Aung San Suu Kyi's NLD party might win and what that could mean for the country. They went on to discuss their fears and how sometimes they feel inside Shan State, Burma, as second class citizens.

If we had stopped there, I would have felt the lesson a great success. My goodness, they were incredible--seriously, incredible. They came from many different walks of life with so many different experiences, and yet they held a conversation with mild debate in a respectful and considerate manner.

But the story doesn't finish with talking about government.

One of the more thoughtful students had something he needed to tell the class: you see, on the way to class that day, he had seen a man stranded on the side of the road after a motorbike accident, and he stopped to help him, only to discover this man was Burmese. For my student, who has suffered deeply by the Burmese in the past, he had a decision to make. He wanted to turn away and leave this man to suffer alone, but this student really and truly is incredible. He did not turn away. He stepped in and helped him.  He looked at the class, fresh from the emotions and asked, "Did I do the right thing? I wasn't sure if it was right, because he was Burmese, and the Burmese have hurt our people so. But he was just a person."

The students stared back at him. They did not rush to tell him he had done the right thing, because I suspect all were wondering if they would have done the same thing. After a short silence, I told him that I thought what he had done was extremely brave and good, but I would tell them a story and see if my story helped them decide for themselves.

I told them about growing up, knowing of my Jewish heritage and therefore learning early on about the Holocaust and all those that died. Since my students did not know what the Holocaust was, I gave them a history lesson and showed photographs. As I paused, you could hear only the constant whir of the fans in the students' silence.

Then I confessed the fact that I came to know sometime later than I came to know my Jewish heritage: that's the Nazi war criminal past as well. That "other" cousin.

You see, I share in my blood the blood of many who died but also of one who did much to assure that more died. That's my heritage. Both.

I have since lived in Germany and come to speak German fluently, and my sister lives in Israel and has married an Israeli. We never walk away from the understanding of humanity's deep capacity for incredible good or evil, and, knowing that terrible evil has existed even within our family, we have no choice but to walk in forgiveness. That is why I went to Germany, and that is why I learned German. That is also why I chose to love what is German. Forgiveness is my heritage.

And it's precisely that understanding of my heritage which has translated into a passion for justice and reconciliation and sent me off to work with those who have suffered most by the Burmese regime's discriminatory and violent practices. I then turned to my student, who had helped the Burmese man, and asked him if he understood why I was telling the class this story.

"Yes," he responded and smiled. "I believe in helping him too."

The next day the class continued the conversation, adding that the only chance Shan State has for true freedom exists through forgiveness and valuing all people. I was floored. This is not normal Shan speech, and my students said it, not I. This may sound like ordinary Western meaningless fluff, but this kind of speech is completely foreign here and most definitely has meaning. We watched some videos about the Holocaust, and the students talked about both what was similar and different to what the Burmese have attempted against the Shan and the incredible risk of what the Shan could attempt against its minorities if ever given independence, if they do not first deal with their own hate, fear, and other issues. I. have. never. heard. anyone. actually. say. that.

I have hope today, because my students will one day be leaders, and these leaders will lead well.

As I said, I have incredible students. I am so incredibly privileged to be their English teacher.

Lessons Learned

Blog entry written October 4, 2011:

Lessons Learned

Right now in the intermediate English class of community health worker
and medic students, we are going through Jack Johnson's Curious George
album. The last song we did was “We're Going to Be Friends,” and now
we're working through “My Two Hands.” This class has been very
interesting to me, because they're all right on the verge of
conversational English, light years ahead of their beginning
classmates, but they have not yet grasped the rhythm of English. We
use music a lot to learn how we put together phrases. Lyrics often do
not even use complete sentences, but it's okay, because they
communicate concepts we understand in shorter phrases. I believe
students must first feel the rhythm of the shorter phrases, before
they move into full-length structured sentences. It appears this gut
instinct is right, because I am watching both their vocabulary expand
rapidly, as well as their general ability to put words into meaningful
phrases with an understandable word order. This excites me
exceedingly, because I can see that these students will truly advance
to meaningful conversations very quickly.

However, to the students, they feel what they do not know. Every song
there are so many new words, which overwhelms them. I am amazed by how
quickly they learn and grasp new words, but they are discouraged that
they do not already know them. They long to make longer utterances
comparable to their conversations in Shan, and yet they are confined
to shorter child-like phrases. These are the students who have often
been at the top of every class they've ever been in, and they likely
excelled in their English classes in school. The shock of real
language is hitting them hard. Real language is not grammar. Real
language is not even about the size of one's vocabulary. Real language
is about communication, and when we start learning a new language, we
all become like children again. We must accept what we do not know and
begin the process of decoding this other strange system set before us.
We simply do not begin by excelling; we begin by the humbling process
of pointing to something and saying “I want.”

Yet every evening the tables turn, and I become the student. Now it is
I who must discipline myself to not speak English, even if I know they
know the word in English, and do my best to use every Shan word
possible to try to communicate a concept until I am given the correct
Shan word. I use motions. I use sound effects. I become the child, and
my students of the intermediate class becoming my greatest
cheerleaders. They do not forget their own frustrations when
attempting the same thing in English. They know my challenge, and they
patiently say phrases again and again in context until suddenly I get
it and know myself how to create novel phrases of the same structure.
In this strange switch of roles, my students are slowly realizing that
what I am doing in their intermediate class is not meant to be cruel
or overwhelming. I am giving them the same opportunity that they give
me each evening, no matter how difficult or painful. I am giving them
the chance to speak English. Every student that lives at the clinic
and interacts with me in the evening feels this, knows this, and even
expresses enjoyment in the English class. I watch their excitement
when suddenly the light bulb goes off and I can tell they've just
mastered a new concept.

Sadly yesterday I received a letter from one of the students who does
not live at the clinic. He has been missing a lot of class, and I had
wondered why. He wrote in his letter of how difficult he found the
class to be and how he really wanted to learn grammar. What struck me
was how different his approach to the language is from those who have
been assisting me in my daily struggle to learn Shan. They intuit what
I am doing for them, but this poor student is still stuck on what he
has been told he should be learning in class. He is actually one of my
top students, and I know his difficulty to hear spoken English cannot
be any more acute than his classmates. What's different is his
understanding of why the struggle is worthwhile. I do teach very short
grammar lessons in context, but I am more concerned about
communication right now than grammar. This student would rather know
rules than be able to communicate. While his classmates are moving
forward quickly in their ability to strings words and phrases together
into meaningful conversation, he remains focused on what he is yet
unable to do.

Reading this poor student's words has caused me to reflect on where I
am doing the same. Linguistically I accept my limited abilities for
now and am moving forward quickly to decode this system of
communication. Yet I have found myself deeply frustrated by all the
cultural rules I do not understand. I have allowed myself to become
deeply discouraged by the cultural mistakes I have made and the people
I've accidentally offended. As hard as it is, I have to see that in
the mistakes I've made, I've learned one more cultural norm. I cannot
start off knowing the rules, just as this student cannot start off
understanding 100% of spoken English. We must take bits and pieces,
combined with our mistakes, to create a new system of understanding.
For those of us that pride ourselves on learning other things fast, it
is time to learn humility fast.

Meanwhile, I am so very proud of my students, who read through “My Two
Hands” yesterday and demonstrated, in collaboration and through
carefully asking for help in English, complete understanding of the
song and all its vocabulary. I watched their own feelings of pride
when they realized they understood the song. Even a week ago, this
song would not have worked for them. Yet yesterday they were smiling,
laughing, and expressing themselves in English. I have to face that I
too am able to do things now, not just linguistically but culturally
as well, that a week ago would have ended in frustration and breaking
cultural taboos. I smile in the midst of humiliation at this thought.

August has arrived

I bought my ticket to Thailand back in January. At the time, I remember thinking how long I had before August would come, and it was true. I still had left 1/2 a year of teaching (a whole 1/4 of my TFA experience). I needed to focus on my Louisianan students and be present for them. I had to also tell them I wouldn't be coming back and tell them that I loved them.

Those months have soared past, and August has finally arrived. In 22 short days, I board an airplane to Doha, from there I take an airplane to Bangkok, and finally an airplane to Chiang Mai, where I will spend a few days before heading to the border.

People have lately been asking "How do you feel about leaving?" It's really a strange sort of question. Truthfully, I'm in action mode. At the beginning of the summer, I was in reflection mode and felt a lot of different things, but now it's action time. I have tie up all loose ends, buy any last minute items (ziploc bags!), and pack it up. Mostly, I guess I just feel ready. I've been preparing, and it's time to go. But, yes, I will miss people, and, yes, my parents are sad to have both their daughters so far away. Please comfort them if you see them. These are the questions asked most often, but the other side of it is also, yes, it's time for August to be here.

my Louisianan students

I did not appreciate my students enough the last two years. Oh, I suppose it's all quite cliche to make a statement after the fact, but what I'm trying to say is actually more important than the cliches. Sometimes I became so overwhelmed by the experience, by a very real experience that could also be terrifying at times, that I survived on only my time away from work. That was wrong.

I went into Teach for America and into my position specifically, because I believed every child deserved an excellent education, and I still believe that. Yet today, in reflection, I have become overwhelmed with the truth of my frequent attitude. I forgot to repeat to myself and to my students how much I loved them often enough. I let violent threats and assaults control my emotions and my attitude. I was wrong for that.

My students deserved better. My students were fantastic kids who have the real potential to not just do well, but also to impact the world for good. When I let a threat shake me up or when I became overwhelmed by the facts of my school, I did not make the best choice for my students. I, of all people, needed to be their best advocate. I loved my students, and I still love them with my whole heart. My students can succeed. My students have a chance at a good life. My students will be productive citizens.

Yet these mantras do not simply become true by saying them after the fact. I am not confident that I convinced my students of them always, because I escaped emotionally. I learned something about burnout this last year. Its risk is the greatest when you attempt to escape it the most. I did not face the emotions. I did not take time to meditate and pray. I ran. I watched TV. I surfed the internet. I tried not to think about school or the overwhelming grief I felt over what I watched my students experience and do to each other. In doing so, I prevented myself from appreciating them fully. I certainly developed thicker skin, but it was the wrong sort--the type that is cold and distant. I'm not saying that I was this person all the time, and I think most of my students did in fact know another version of me (a kinder, warmer version), but I regret how often I did distance myself from the pain of the situation. I regret that I did not appreciate their young lives and youthful expressions of the image of God everyday. I regret that I ever feared them even for one second. In my fear, I held back a bit of the love that they so desperately needed.

Rosenwald Elementary is getting a new principal this year, and the school will be receiving a significant shake up. I pray for the absolute best for Rosenwald. This is the year for turning things around and showing the community what an excellent education can mean. This is the year for determining that our students have the potential to reach for the highest positions in American society. Rosenwald, I wish you all the best, even as I will not be there for this part of the journey. Most importantly though, Rosenwald teachers and all teachers who find themselves in the particularly challenging schools in this country, I wish for you the deepest and most profound appreciation of your students, no matter what. Cultivate it, because your students so desperately need your appreciation.

As for myself, I am committed to growing in this area. Escape is not a mechanism I want to embrace.

I suppose to all those who've begun reading this blog again, returning to North Carolina deserves a post.

My two year commitment to New Roads, Louisiana is over.

Even typing those words feels strange. How could it be that I will never again puzzle over how to help BL make friends? or CJ to count backwards? or TD to control his anger? or TB to be brave going home everyday? From this point on, I have no further control over their education. I cannot change whether their next teachers think they're smart or not. I cannot control whether they feel safe at school. Even as my focus needs to steadily turn increasingly to preparing for my work along the Thai-Burmese border, my mind falls ever out of habit on the names and faces of my community in New Roads. I have so many hopes and dreams for them, and I pray that their lives will be full of teachers who also carry their hopes and dreams.

Returning to North Carolina is also something. I haven't spent an entire summer here in five years, and I haven't spent longer than a summer here in eight years. This prolonged returned (such as 2 1/2 months feels to me) carries the added weight of all the bittersweet memories from past summers, when old friendships still provided laughter, conversation, and activity. That is not to say in any sort of melodramatic way that there is none of the above now. Certainly I find laughter, conversation, and activity through my parents, brother, and family friends, but things have changed, and time spent here is now a lot quieter and emptier than ever in times past. I suppose that's the thing about growing up and leaving. Some things you can never return to.

ON A SIDE NOTE: I will be sending out the first trial "update" e-mail for my list for while I'm out of the country to make sure all the e-mail addresses I've collected are correct. If you have not given me your e-mail address and would like to be added to my list, please send me your e-mail address asap. Thanks!

Two quotes on my TFA farewell poster by two students that I love that caused me to tear up:

"Last year I wasn't reading good. Miss Kara helped me grow in reading." - TD

"My favorite memory is a picture of me and Miss Kara." -BL

(only I know, and now by default all of you, that for this child with autism, who refers to memories in pictures, he means that his favorite memory is the picture in his mind of the two of us)

I truly love these students, and I am consistently surprised by how many more tears there are left when thinking about them. I hope and pray they have more teachers who encourage them to become all that they can be and give them the skills to be successful. I hope they make the right choices. I hope they defy every dooming statistic. I hope they lead meaningful lives that they can feel proud of. I hope that one day I hear from and about them. They have meant the world to me.

Today I said my final goodbyes to my students. I actually lost it sitting next to one particular student with autism, whom I've had for the last two years and to whom I've grown particularly close. He kept wanting to talk about the arcade, while tears ran down my face. Eventually he understood this was the last time I would see him, and he became upset, and he told me he'd miss me. I could not control my emotions as I told him to help his mom with using e-mail. Another student I couldn't find until he was on the bus, and the best I could give was a wave through the window. It's rough. I've truly loved these kids and given my last two years to them. They'll never really know how much I've loved them and how much I will always care for them. I hope and pray for the best. This is the end of one chapter.

As little as I've been posting (none since August!), I'm guessing I've lost the majority of my readership. Perhaps, that's good. It used to exhaust me when I could count on over a 100 people reading my posts, back when I lived in Germany. I had to constantly think about all the different readers and who I might offend with each little comment. Yet, I have to realize something else has been lost, because now, as I suddenly feel re-inspired to write, I can't help but realize my words are more than likely going off into cyberspace emptiness where a couple individuals will likely stumble on my page, but there are few too concerned.

Yet, inside me lately, I've felt my "narrator voice" turning back on, that is to say the inner monologue that I have at times kept narrating my experiences for some outer audience... in other words, what has made blogging possible in the past. And now I have a few things to say. Whereas for so long, I was simply deep in the murky mud of teaching, now, as my time in Louisiana comes to end, I feel myself suddenly better able to reflect on my experiences and to grab a few bites of wisdom here and there.

So here are some things, I've learned...

First off, I am incredibly arrogant (perhaps it's good that not many will read this blog). Kids have really taught me this.

Secondly, parents have the scariest jobs in the world.

Thirdly, and the one I've been thinking about most lately, pacifism is... incredibly audacious. I talked so much about pacifism in college and how I was an "almost pacifist" back then, while attending the most wonderful anabaptist college. But I didn't understand it at all. I couldn't have, because I had never yet really experienced violence. Sure I'd listened to stories and witnessed the survivors of violence. I understood genocide occurred (which is what made me only almost a pacifist), but I positively did not understand violence. I did not know how a violent world changes the psyche of everyone around. I simply could not understand violence or understand the simple craziness of non-violence.

Which is why I am more committed to nonviolence and pacifism today than I ever could have dreamed of in college.

Suddenly, I've seen violence, and I have sobbed over violence, and I've experienced fear. Now let me clarify that many, many individuals in this world, including sadly many of my students, experience far worse violence and unimaginable fear. Those surviving wars know far, far more on this subject than I can ever imagine. Yet, even my taste of this life has completely shaken me.

[On a side note: I realize this is the point in which you want to know the specifics about my experiences. Stop and realize that I cannot tell you. Can you trust me? It's been tough, and sometimes things happen in elementary schools that we would never otherwise imagine. Kids grow up fast. Kids, who are victims, often become perpetrators. But they're still kids--kids who deserve a childhood and a future. So do not let a single word on this subject alter your perception that every child can be successful and deserves the chance at a high quality education and teachers who love them. They are, after all, still children. Nevertheless, it comes as a shock for many of us with comparatively innocent backgrounds.]

When violence is assumed the norm, nobody feels safe and all must fight. They feel they must fight for every item they needs (pencils, chicken nuggets, girls, etc.) and for their pride (their place in line, their mamas, somebody who made a face at them). It becomes a "fight better or be beaten" society. Even teachers sometimes implicitly accept this mindset with phrases like, "I hope so-and-so hits back, just to show him!" I am fully guilty in this respect. Many times I've wished the kids would gang up on the bullies to show them what it felt like to be bullied, what it felt like to be afraid. There is nothing Christ-like in this desire. It has not been difficult to discover my angry, retributive side in this job.

Lately, I've begun reading Gandhi's autobiography, and his discussion on the Sermon on the Mount has really struck me as incredible. I simply had not realized how dangerous pacifism was until my teaching experience. In this world of violence, to not fight back, even for these kids could really mean getting beat up... or perhaps worse. Yet, what hope is there for the bully except that he be moved to guilt over the senselessness of his actions? Will being "ganged up on" like I sometimes retributively wish actually teach him anything, except to fear his actions and make sure he's stealthier in his bullying? If you want to end bullying, you must expose the bully's weakness--the fact that the bully beats even one who does nothing but show love to him. Of course, I realize there are sociopaths in the world, but since I am not God and cannot determine for sure who is forever beyond the point of experiencing compassion or guilt, I must continue to give each person a second chance... and third chance... and four hundred ninetieth chance...

What kind of teacher would I be to tell my kids to love their enemies and turn their cheeks? To tell them to allow themselves to be beat up? I don't know. I haven't quite said that, but I'm beginning to realize that perhaps the only way to stop the chain of violence is through a bit of insane, radical nonviolence, and I certainly believe this applies to adults as well. I don't know what this means at a national and international level, and I don't know what the right response to genocide ever is. I'm not ready to generalize my experiences that broadly, but I will say that I see nonviolence as both more insane and more powerful than I ever imagined. I am convinced, if any movement will ever truly change the world for better, it will have to be a nonviolent movement. All others... will, at best, only be temporary bandages on gaping wounds, even if occasionally necessary.

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. :)

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.

Dear Friends and Family,

It has been a long time since I last wrote here. It is hard to update, because so many of the best stories I simply cannot post here. Even without names, if the wrong person stumbled upon this site, they could figure out which students I was discussing just based on the stories. I still write the stories down, but I find much of what I write, I cannot post. Yet I feel an update is in order.

First, on Tuesday I finally got my enormous SmartBoard installed and running. I cannot even say what a blessing this is, especially in a low-income school, where such high technology can never be taken for granted. Though I  have not had time to do a lot with it yet and I have not been able to get it hooked up to internet yet, already I have seen what an amazing asset a SmartBoard is to a teacher's room.

For those of you who don't know what a SmartBoard is, it is essentially an electronic board that hooks up to a computer and can be used just like a marker board (without all the mess) AND a computer. The screen/board is fully touch sensitive, so I can surf the internet with it and it becomes just like a touch screen monitor OR I can run videos on which I can draw and point to specifics OR I can turn ordinary PowerPoint presentations into fun, interactive games. Thankfully today and tomorrow are the Louisiana conference on technology, so I'm getting lots of great ideas on how to use it.

Secondly, on Tuesday I also got a new student. The SmartBoard could not have come at a better time, because this child is both hearing and visually impaired. The SmartBoard allows me to keep her attention better than I otherwise would have, and I'm going to need that a lot with her. I've got a lot to learn quickly through teaching this child. Thankfully, one of the other sixth graders told her (in front of me) that I'm a little crazy. Such an image can only help.

In terms of the other stuff -- the rough stuff, the emotional stuff, the stuff that this job is really all about... well, on Monday, my sixth graders and I were discussing the book Number the Stars (some of you may remember one boy reading the book earlier in the year, but now the entire class is for our historical fiction unit) when they asked me what the Star of David was. I showed them on the board, and we discussed the meaning and also the meaning of the title of the book. When I explained that the words "number the stars" comes from the promise in the Jewish and Christian Bible where God promised Abraham that his descendants would number the stars, which the Jews are a result of, one girl looked at me and asked very poignantly, "So then all those who hate Jews, really be hating Abraham?" I smiled at her quick understanding. Then they asked me what a swastika was, and I immediately knew this would be a longer conversation. After all, the shadow of the KKK has not lifted off Pointe Coupee yet. So I told them that this was a symbol I was not comfortable drawing. I tried to describe it to them, thinking some of them might have seen it before, but then I decided on showing them on the computer (remember I did not have a SmartBoard yet). We all went to the back of my classroom, and my students circled around me as I found photos of Germany during the WWII era. Sadly, and not unexpectedly, I heard their audible reactions as they recognized the symbol.

I have no words for how proud I was of the maturity levels of my sixth graders. They are such a great group. Older than the average 6th graders, they are very much at the age where realizing their racial identity is an important developmental step. They go to an all-African American school, which has delayed many racial encounters, but the fact that they are part of a racial minority has begun to matter to them in a way my fourth graders don't even think about. So, without any words spoken, they all sat down and made themselves comfortable where they were (huddled behind the computer), I turned around to face them, and they began talking. They had stories to tell of the KKK or other racial encounters, and they certainly had lots of fears to talk about. They had frustrations and confusions, and they wanted to talk about slavery and today. I had no clue that this conversation was going to come pouring out at that moment.

I felt humbled to be a part of that conversation. After all, they have many black teachers with whom that conversation could have been held. I'm glad they felt the safety to talk in front of me. In the end, we ended the lesson with a conversation about "standing for peace in a violent world." Ha, I suppose my pacifist Messiah education helped prepare me for that moment! It was interesting, though, because one of my students had been in a car that received five bullet holes over break, and I definitely choked up as I looked this student in the eye and told them all that they have to live long enough to be able to stand up for peace. They have to be careful about the places they go and with whom they choose to associate, because they can't make a stand if they're already dead. It was emotional for all of us, as they thought about those that have died to violence and I thought about the statistics society waves of special education students from low-income neighborhoods. I love those kids, and I want them to live and to make a difference in this world. They're good kids.

My fourth graders are still incredibly difficult, and my sixth graders are no cake walk. Oftentimes, I'm very discouraged. Yet, there's no question that I love my kids. I wish teaching were easier, and I wish teaching in a failing school was easier, but maybe "failing" will someday be a word of the past to describe the school. Today some teachers were discussing what a difference TFA is making in the two elementary schools it's at in Pointe Coupee. It amazed me to hear them, because I don't feel that we are, but perhaps they're right. Perhaps in the midst of all the discouragement, change is secretly and quietly creeping into our midst... or, perhaps, kids are merely learning. :)

Kara

Dear Friends and Family,

It's been nearly a month since my last post, and I feel like I'm in a completely different place emotionally and spiritually. I just got off the phone with one of my students, which kind of made me smile, and while I'm still very behind on grading and all sorts of teacher-y things, I can positively say that I *love* the opportunity to work with my students everyday. Sometimes it gets overwhelming, but you could not convince me to leave them right now. They have so many struggles, and, for whatever reason, I am one person with whom they can work through some of those struggles. I do not have a story to tell you. I only want you all to know that I am doing really, really well.

Always,

Miss Kara

Dear Friends and Family,

 

            Some of you have commented on my very negative Facebook status updates, so I have attempted to reduce those. Not everything I experience is negative. Yet, today I am at the point of admitting how very discouraged I really am. I don’t feel like a good teacher or even like I’m helping my kids most days. The only thing that keeps me in this job is I know that if I quit they’ll be even worse off. God knows, though, that’s not really saying a whole lot.

            At 8:00am yesterday I happened upon two eleven-year-old students trying to strangle each other to death. They both appeared to be within seconds of passing out. I’m convinced that the first one to pass out would not have survived had I not walked up on the incident. The rage and expression I saw on their faces scared me more than almost anything I have ever seen. I realized they each fully intended to kill the other. Usually when I fight happens, kids get excited and circle around shouting, “Fight, fight, fight!” It was the first time where I saw little boys really scared saying things like, “Stop… no, really, guys… stop, you’re killing him… please stop!”

            That’s how I knew something was terribly wrong as I walked to my class, holding my freshly copied worksheets in my hand. Next thing I knew I was running, shoving myself between the two boys, shouting at the two, and shouting at the teachers for more help. One of the boys was my student, in fact the boy that I have worked with more than any other child and seem to spend every spare second of the day trying to imagine how to help him more. I love this child, and I am scared to death of the direction I see him going. Another special education teacher advised me to just count him “lost” in order to ease my own emotional stress levels. That teacher does not understand how deeply I love this boy already and how I can never give up on him, no matter the emotional cost.

            Most days I fantasize on the way to and from work of just driving off, of simply failing to stop until I am far, far from Louisiana. Sometimes I think how amusing it would be to just pass my school, keep going on the ferry across the Mississippi, and to keep going until I find myself 14 hours later in North Carolina, just to leave everything and not come back. I am not going to do this, because my heart remains somehow with my kids, but I will never deny how tempting it is. Sometimes, I just want to forget all of this and pretend I was never a teacher so I never have to feel guilty about leaving, but the reality is that even if I left today, you could never take the memories away. Life forevermore will be impacted by what I’ve seen in the last two months and what I will see in the rest of my two-year experience. I know that when I finish enduring this, I will be able to endure any future career. Graduate school will never be the emotional ride that teaching special education has been nor will teaching in a university. At the same time, every future career will be influenced by this experience.

            Meanwhile, I find myself “escaping” as often as possible. Sometimes I use the television, other times sleep. I realize how dysfunctional it is, but I see the stack of papers that need to be graded, think of all the parents I should probably call, and imagine the goals for upcoming IEPs that I should start writing, and I simply feel incapable, therefore I avoid.

            There are those really sweet moments, like when a child tells me he loves me, or when another child tells me he wants to become a writer because of me, or amusingly when all the students become convinced that I’m sisters with the Asian sixth grade math teacher at school, or even when the regular education kids beg me to take them to my class. I don’t want to ever forget those moments, because they keep me going… and, slowly, I do get around to the grading, the paperwork, and the phone calls. It’s just I’m not doing anything at my best, and there are always so many backwards steps. I wish there was a less painful way to make a difference in the academic lives (and overall lives) of these children. I wish they knew how much I am fighting for them and how much I hope for the best for them. I pray for them, and I love them. I’m scared for them, and I hope for them. I know they can do well; I just hope they realize this too, which is why I continue teaching them.

            So pray for me, because this is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, and I am scared of failing, because, for the first time ever, my failure will not be my own. My failure will equally and unfairly become my kids’ failure.

 

Love,

Miss Kara

My heart sank when I saw handcuffs around the small wrists of one of my boys today. He's such a good kid... with some major issues. I care more deeply for him, however, than I ever thought possible. My heart soars when I see him making good choices and enjoying learning, and my heart sinks when I watch him make a bad choice. I don't even begin to know how to pray, but all my prayers are that I will watch him flourish this year. That would be amazing.

It's taken me a while to start writing about teaching, because it's taken me a while to even begin to process the world I have immersed myself in. Truthfully, it's extraordinarily rough. One of Sharona's friends made some comment about what I am doing now being really "cool." Actually, I can positively say that "cool" is the one word I would not use to describe what I am doing. I would not want to be anywhere else (at least I recognize this sentiment right now), but it's not cool. Young boys trying to be big, bad boys telling me to get out of their face as their morning greeting is not cool. Young boys about to lose it and already swinging their fists back to hit me is not cool. Young boys going up to young girls to molest them is not cool. Young boys who are *sooo* sweet but have not learned to what to do with their anger (and, truthfully, they have a lot to be legitimately angry about) is not cool. Young girls more concerned with flirting with the boy next to them than the opportunities that an education will provide is not cool. Young girls trying to impress the boy next to them by showing blatant disrespect is not cool. Being legally unable to discuss sex with my young girls or young boys is not cool.

What's frustrating is that I know so many of you will read the list I just wrote and still you will romanticize it. It's not romantic, and it's not cool. There are some very sweet "teacher" moments, but a lot of what I do feels more like surviving. I love my students, and I want the absolute best for them, and I think about them non-stop. But I haven't always figured out how to provide an excellent education. The only thing I know is that I won't give up. Maybe if there are just enough of us in their lives acting as these cheerleaders, they'll make it alright. Yet, sometimes, I'm terrified. I can't let my kids know it, but I don't always feel like I'm in control of my classroom at all. When a young boy throws a table across the room, I feel positively out of control. Yet, each day I find it less likely that yesterday's misbehavior will repeat itself. Maybe that's really what classroom management looks like--just learning to lessen yesterday's problems until there have been enough "yesterdays" to actually push learning ahead.

So tomorrow begins another week, and I hope and pray it's better than this last week. I need and appreciate all of your prayers. I am doing the positively most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. I just want my kids to learn.

I am sooooooo proud of my Kindergarteners... correction: my first graders! Today they graduated from the Kindergarten summer school, and next week they enter the first grade!

Our reading goal was to move up 6 points on the DRA, and on average we met 197% of our goal. Every student at the very least met their goal; one even tripled it.

Our math goal was to increase 70%, and we met 88% of that goal. Nonetheless, our students soared! They know far more than they ever did before, and they learned what hard work can bring!

My greatest fear is that I will never learn anything else about the class that first taught me how to be a teacher. They were my teachers, too, after all, though I could not tell them that. I will never forget Andrew falling on the floor wailing, because he was in the group that was "less than" the other side... failed attempt at teaching greater and less than. Nor will I ever forget watching Andrew begin reading or my deep disappointment when he stopped showing up to summer school. Nor will I ever forget that moment when Marquis fluently read a Level H book and gave me the biggest grin and a high five! Nor will I forget when Aziyah counted blocks one at a time! Nor will I forget when Christian apologized for using mean words! Nor will I ever forget when my students taught my mentor teacher how to stand "hip and lip"! Nor will I ever forget when Zaquariae began to participate in class, sometimes bursting with the answers! Nor will I ever forget when shy little Ju'Maree transformed into the class clown! I will never forget these beautiful faces. They will be with me forever.

Teaching continues to transform my life. I wonder what two years will do to me.