June 2, 2009 I talk about kid quotes a lot, but today I’ve been reflecting on something a wise old teacher told me at the end of a long day in May.
“One of these days, I’m gone be skinny and good lookin’ and get me a husband that pays for me to get my nails done every week and I’m gone quit this place.”
Can I get an “amen,” y’all?
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June 1, 2009 Airports.
You’d think I’d be used to them by now. I’ve rushed through more than I can name and couldn’t possibly add up all the hours I’ve spent waiting on floors or sleeping in uncomfortable chairs. I walk down concourses with no sense of panic and can take off my shoes and clear security before most people finish packing their gels and liquids into a Ziploc bag.
And still airports amaze me. The steady rush of people. The smell of overpriced, undercooked food. The bookstores and magazines that no one can pass by. The faces of businessmen, stern and focused. The tears of homecoming. The tears of leaving a life behind. Yes, airports amaze me.
I guess it’s the state of limbo, the waiting to let go of the people that have seen me off in order to embrace the people that are waiting for me in the next place that’s on my list.
There’s the sense of independence, too, I suppose. The knowing that I’m alone and capable and that if everything in the world goes wrong- the flight is cancelled or overbooked, my money runs out, my luggage is lost, my itinerary is a day off- whatever the case may be, that I can handle it, even if I cry sometimes.
Airports.
They give birth to confidence, provide a segue and an escape, and they personify my life in transition. But this time as I wandered through Atlanta’s 563 concourses, I realized that I’m finally ready to stay home for awhile.
Or maybe just take someone with me for a change.
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May 25, 2009 Spending eight days with six Colombian children in the good ole US of A was more than an adventure.
It was a reminder that not everyone has eaten a biscuit and not everyone has to love them. It was a chance to make driving a fifteen passenger van look luxurious. It was a time when Spanish became a language we used like secret agents in elevators. It was late night snack sessions and lots of hugs. Jokes about different names for love handles, bodily functions, and brain freeze. Giggles and roller coasters and the chance to live in counselor mode again. Braids and sunscreen and hot dogs with mustard.
It was a time to burst with pride when I heard pleases, thank yous, ma’ams and sirs all flavored with precious Spanish accents. It was being grateful when a stranger held open a door for me and hearing my boys say, “I thought you were kidding, Mees, but they REALLY do do that!” It was watching as they all stood patiently in long lines using the time to look around wide-eyed at a completely different world.
It was watching them walk like grown ups down a concourse, leaving me behind and realizing that leaving Colombia’s children might just be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
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May 23, 2009 FACT: If a child drinks three containers of chocolate milk at lunch, there shall be vomit.
FACT: All gaseous type expulsions cease to be funny after midnight on the fifth day of travel.
FACT: Morning people are weirdos that should be locked up for life.
FACT: Wal-mart is a breeding ground for animalistic behavior.
FACT: Patience is a virtue that takes a hike during long lunch lines in the noonday heat.
FACT: Teachers have an innate ability to invoke fear in the young. Or not.
FACT: The nursing profession is highly underrated.
FACT: But this job rocks.
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May 21, 2009 I’m not cut out for this.
I TEACH kids. I don’t raise them.
But this week, I’m in Knoxville, TN (Go Vols!) with six Colombian kids that forget to brush their hair (and teeth) and need to be tucked in and be reminded to eat lunch and told how much farther it is and to buckle up and to please (FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY AND CHOCOLATE!) flush the toilet.
And this schedule is wearing me slap out!
I love it.
Check us out on the Destination Imagination website. Global Finals 2009. We’re rockin’ it.
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May 15, 2009 Dear loyal and early morning Readers,
(ahem: Sum, Lou, Mama V, Annie, Deanna)
I have not forgotten you. I promise. I’m just too busy to breathe.
Send back up. Or lots of chocolate.
Love,
Emily
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May 11, 2009 There are things about Colombia that have had to grow on me and things that I’m only just figuring out and things that I have a feeling will haunt me forever and I’m grateful for them all.
Something in particular that seems to inhabit all of the above listed categories are phrases that I hear repeated over and over again here. They’re a different way of saying things and they strike me as beautiful every time I hear them. How could I not share?
“A la orden.”
It’s a simple saying used in supermarkets, department stores, taxis and occassionally by friends or students with an affectionate smirk. It means “at your service” and may be used in different contexts. For example, “I love your shoes, Maria.” “A la orden, Mees.”
“Te mando un besito.”
At the end of phone conversations, people don’t say goodbye. They send you a kiss and usually make the muah sound, too. Now, how cute is that? I think I just might try it out when I get home.
“Con mucho gusto.”
Before I came to Colombia, the only way I’d ever heard of to say “you’re welcome” in Spanish was de nada. Here, we never use that phrase. We say “con mucho gusto” and though it’s used the same way situationally, the literal translation is “with much pleasure” and that just makes me smile.
“Mi Dios le pague.”
I think this might be my favorite. I’d heard it said scores of times before I actually caught the phrase in its entirety and understood it completely. When you do something kind for someone, especially an unexpected or unearned kindness, the person rarely says thank you. They say, “Mi Dios le page.” My God shall pay you.
And so, friends, es con mucho gusto that I write this little blog for you and should you ever need a Spanish translator, of course, es a la orden. But, I must warn you, my Spanish still has some significant holes in it. Still, should you choose this imperfect me, I assure you that mi Dios le page. Until then, te mando muchos besitos! MUAH!
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May 8, 2009 I’ve had lots of hard days in Colombia. I’m woman enough to admit that.
There was the Virus o’ Death and the time I made a scene in an airport. There was the apartment flood and the day my computer crashed. Oh, and that one particular ride home from the valley when I nearly tossed my cookies. And then, there was today.
Parents’ Day in Colombia.
And well, the thing is, I miss my parents. ‘Cause they’re pretty much rockstars. Okay, that’s a stretch. Daddy’s a redneck bread man and Momma’s a banker with the sweetest Southern drawl in three states, but they’re rockstars to me and I miss them.
My students were asked by the administration to make cards to give to their parents at a school wide assembly this morning. I wanted the ones we did to be extra special and something that moms and dads would hold onto for a while. I even promised blow pops to kids that made their parents cry with their words. Trashy excuse for bribery, I know.
For good measure, I made one of my own to use as an example. My parents haven’t seen it, so I guess they didn’t cry and I didn’t shed a tear making it. Not even one. Because why would I? I mean, I’m an adult for cryin’ out loud. And I’m not emotional at all. Really.
MOM: my friend. biscuit cooker. banker. sneezer. late night giggler. house decorator. bargain shopper. hardest worker. go out to eater. my Momma.
DAD: my hero. strong. brave. loving. kind. worker. dancer. baseball thrower. pool fixer. hugger. breakfast buyer. laugher. my Daddy.
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May 7, 2009 Nicknames are a big deal in Colombia. It’s a cultural phenomenon that I don’t particularly understand, but I’ve learned to embrace it.
Husbands call their wives gorda and no one gets slapped and wives call their husbands viejo and no one’s ego is bruised. Kids call each other by all sorts of monikers on the playground and the very thought of using someone’s full name is virtually unheard of around here, if not downright offensive.
Thus, we shorten names or change them altogether and life goes on in this Andes utopia of mine.
I live in this world now, too, and when Colombian friends call me anything other than mona I wonder what I’ve done to get them up in arms at me. Did I say something wrong? Did I miss a dinner date? Did I fudge my Spanish again?
So, I understood completely yesterday when sweet Juan Camilo came into my room after recess.
He was evidently in quite a tizzy and his normal charming, gentle temperament had morphed into little-devil-child from Union county. (No offense, Anna.) I let the class get settled into some independent work and then took him outside for a cool down chat.
“What’s the deal, big guy?”
“Nada,” he answered me in his native and strictly prohibited Spanish.
Uh-oh. This must be serious, I thought, because when kids use Spanish to explain something to me, it’s a BIG deal; it sure better be.
“Come on, Juanca. Out with it.”
“Well… well…” he stuttered and stammered as he tried to gain some momentum. “It’s that… it’s that,” and the rest rushed out in a flurry of fifth grade, unrequited flirting anxiety, “It’s that Maria doesn’t love me, Mees! I mean, she doesn’t even call me Juanca anymore. She calls me Juan Ca-MILO!”
Oh, the woes of fifth grade love.
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May 4, 2009
The finca where we stayed. With four Colombian families. That speak zero English. Until they step into a frigid shower. When the word s**t becomes universal.
Standing next to a waterfall. That we had to walk past a bear’s cave to find. In the rain. Through shin deep mud. With a temperature of approximately 40 degrees. Holy cow. Or bear. Whatever.
Sitting on a bench. At the top of a mountain. That was across six log bridges. That were laying over one mean looking, rain-swelled river. Where we drank sugar cane water and ate chunks of cheese. For a thrifty 3.000 pesos. Supply and demand. Sheesh.
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