February 23, 2009
You know those kinds of weeks that seem to blindside you? The kind of weeks that overwhelm you and sit like an eighteen-wheeler on your shoulders? The kind of weeks that you wonder if you’ll ever survive?
I had one of those. I didn’t write or sleep and I don’t recall breathing, although I suppose I did.
I’m on the other side of that wretched week now and honestly, I’m not sure how I got here, but I’m thankful that I did. The view back is far more than rewarding and today it seems worth it all.
We finished the musical and I fell head over feet for highschool kids. They were rockstars on the stage, workhorses behind the scenes, and absolutely charming in conversations. It was three up-til-after-midnight days that were more full of wonder than tired.
Wonder at how all those kids survive and all that they think about and all that they fear. Wonder at the way a sixteen year old can bring a full house to their feet by belting out a cookie cutter Disney song. Wonder at how hard they work and how insecure they are and the wonder of realizing that I used to be exactly where they are.
And although the time when I was there, sixteen and unaware, has long passed, I felt their uncertainity. And maybe it’s because I’m a teacher and that’s what I’m supposed to do or maybe because I felt compelled to, I hugged them. Every last one of them. I hugged them with two arms and I thanked them for their hard work. Some hugged back and some shed tears. Some shrugged me off and walked timidly away.
And one precious teenage boy kissed me on the cheek as Colombian children do and said, “Miss You, this was the best week of my school and I will miss you.”
I laughed at his honesty, hugged him fiercely, and yelled, “I have a name!” for the fifty second time. Then, I kissed him back told him he could call me Miss You as long as he wanted and said, “It was the best week of mine, too.”
I couldn’t possibly have meant it more.
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February 16, 2009
I’m not cool. I go to bed by 9:00. I wake up at 7:00 with no alarm clock. I consider jeans and a t-shirt formal wear.
And I don’t go out. Ever.
Except for Friday night when one of the women in my adult English class invited me over for dinner and I went even though she was confident I would “back out” (phrasal verb of the week).
I stayed until midnight.
And then there was Saturday when I actually left my apartment and went to a bar(ish) that has the best view in the city at 3:00 in the afternoon. The man behind the counter played Van Halen.
And “Right Then” (it was “Right Now” then thus making it “Right Then” now) I got so excited I nearly peed myself. “Right Then” (now) was followed by Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” to which I danced shamelessly. Just like Ada and I did in high school and I wanted to cry, but I didn’t.
I was home in my pjs by 6:30 and lovin’ life.
Until Jill called at 6:45 and wanted to go to dinner at the pizza place around the corner. I said “um, okay” because I love her that much. And the pizza’s awesome.
As I walked out the door, the nephew of the woman that invited me to the dinner on Friday that I didn’t back out of called.
“Um, yeah. Jill and I are going to Pizza y Pasta. Sure. Uh huh. Yeah. Okay. See you there.”
And he came and it was fun and we laughed a lot.
Then, I went with him to sit at a table in another bar (no “ish” it was SO a bar) where we talked and laughed and danced until 3:00. That’d be 3 o’clock in the A. frickin’ M. And I didn’t even hate it.
Until I woke up promptly at 7:00 (in the A. frickin’ M.) on Sunday, didn’t take a nap all day, went to bed at 11:00 (what the?) and woke up for a run at 5:00.
What the heck is wrong with me?! I like NOT having a life so much better.
And, no, to all of you ángelitos who worry about my future. I don’t like the boy. No, he’s not a prospect, and if he was I’d announce it here so that you could stand and applaud. I promise.
But he’s not. He’s just really, really funny.
And all I am is really, really sleepy.
Posted in friendcitos 6 Comments »
February 13, 2009
Valentine’s day is all hearts and mush and “I love you so much, pookie bear.”
Blah, blah, blah and so on and so forth and gag me with a fork.
No, I’m not some bitter, single, brooding woman. Honest. I just don’t buy into all the hokum. Never really have.
Now, to be fair, I don’t have a long string of boyfriends, much less boyfriends on Valentine’s Day. But even if my history was made up of roses and love songs and hand holding, I think I’d still loathe this holiday with the fire of one thousand suns.
Because I’m heartless like that.
I couldn’t count on the hands of every kid in my class how many times I’ve been called a heartbreaker or a man eater or a heart shredder. And heartless? Oh, heavens. The list of people that have called me heartless is the length of Route 66 or longer.
I’m used to it, I suppose, and have done well to earn the title. After all, I have an infallible two date rule: the first because I just can’t say “no,” the second for the “Hey, buddy. This is never going to work” speech.
Then, there’s the side of me that’s all “Aw, Mom, he’s just so nice. No, ma’am, he doesn’t like me. Yes, I’m sure, Mom. We’re just friends. Yes, ma’am, he knows that; I’ve told him like 752 times. Of course, he knows!”
Which is inevitably followed by the “I KNOW I should’ve been more clear, Mother. Yes, Mother, he cried and yes, I know better and yes, you were right and yes, I’m going to quit getting myself into this. YES, MOTHER. I get it.”
Heartless.
Blake and I were laughing at this relational history of mine about a year ago as he was encouraging me to start a blog. He gave me all of this mumbo jumbo about needing a domain name and a site name and all of these other things I didn’t understand.
“Witt, what do you want people to type to get to your site?”
“Blake, I have NO clue! You pick it! I. DON’T. KNOW!”
“Well, here’s my take,” he said. “You’re always talking about being heartless and all that nonsense and then you write these emails home about the heart you have for Colombia and your friends and people, right?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess.”
“It’s settled then.”
And so www.emilywithaheart.com is what people type to come and read these crazy stories of mine, but that doesn’t mean I have to like Valentine’s Day or all of the mushy nonsense that comes in red tin-foiled boxes.
Good thing, too, ’cause I’m determined to hate The Black Holiday forever.
Even if I do have a heart.
Posted in because 8 Comments »
February 10, 2009
After the longest day of my life, I drug a bowl out of the cabinet, poured some cereal for my dinner, and pulled my only box (yes, box) of milk from the fridge.
Then, I gracefully dropped said box of milk onto the floor.
I watched the thick, white liquid gurgle and spill and run like a lactose river across the tile.
And I sat right in the middle of it and cried.
Posted in my emotional state 9 Comments »
February 8, 2009
Sundays in Manizales are my favorite, I’ve decided.
I woke up early this morning and went for a wander along the Avenida just like everyone else in town. The street was closed for bicycles and joggers and roller blades and for a few short hours the screeching brakes of buses didn’t rip savagely through the day.
People smiled and waved as I jogged past offering words of encouragement, polite nods, and the occasional bag of water. And I didn’t feel like a stranger in this place.
I came home tired but revived and sat on the balcony of my loft apartment enjoying sweet mountain sunshine and salsa music from the street below as I waited on Jill to call.
Because that’s what she does on Sundays when the lunch hour rolls around.
We walked slowly to Milan and had fresh mango juice and bandeja paisa at a little restaurant on the side of the street where the waiter brings us everything “con todo gusto, mis amores.” We watched people walk by and talked about life in a far off place and how we wished people at home could understand why we love it so. Then, we payed the bill and strolled toward home.
We passed the woman and her three children that spend Sundays sitting on the sidewalk. The family that has nowhere else to go and too much dignity to beg. We passed them sitting there, we bought five empanadas at the tienda, then we turned around and walked back to them. The mother smiled, thanked God for warm food and undeserved kindess, and promised to pay back what she owed us.
And Jill and I swore we’d never just pass them by again.
I spent the rest of the afternoon curled up in my apartment reading and writing and loving everything about Sundays in Colombia. The quiet of the morning, the comfort of lunch with a friend, the gratitude on the face of a mother, the feeling of being exactly where I should be.
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February 4, 2009
I brought a bag of Indulgent Trail Mix back to Colombia with me and sat nibbling absentmindedly at a handful yesterday afternoon while I worked. As I made my way to a stopping point, I glanced up and giggled out loud. There above the papers I was marking, was a neat pile of almonds.
I met her on the first day of school in my first year of teaching. She shared that trailer we called mobile classrooms with me and came through the short hall to introduce herself. She wore a black tank top and a skirt that I imagined she’d saved from some time in the 70s, her earrings made a tinkling sound as she walked and her skin was the color of summer.
I loved her instantly. Maybe it was because she reminded me of Miss Edmunds in A Bridge to Terabithia.
Our relationship wasn’t one you’d find described in a bullet pointed list entitled “Common Characteristics of a Quality Friendship”. We never met for coffee or dinner and we didn’t share deep secrets, but every once in awhile when the day was long or kids were inexplicably wild, we’d meet in that short hall and say curse words or cry.
And every morning she’d shout from her room, “Mornin’, Witt” then wait on my “Hey, Mink” to follow. I wonder if she knows how much I miss that?
Yes, that Mink she’s something else. She’s graceful and tactful and she remains the most original woman I’ve ever met. She sat in staff meetings without being dragged into whining or complaining and retreated quickly to her room when they were done, smiling all the while.
She told me once, “Witt, don’t take that work home with you. It’ll sit by the door and you’ll think about it and dread it all weekend. Just leave it. Walk away.” I’ve never felt more liberated than I did for those two days.
Then there was the time that Lexie, my assistant and dearest friend, came in from the parking lot and said, “Mink was in the parking lot! And she met her husband! And HE KISSED HER! Right out there in front of everyone and it was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.” We laughed at that moment like junior high kids who envied the Cutest Couple of the senior class. I finally fessed up to Mink about it weeks later and she grinned at me and giggled like that’s exactly what they were.
Ah, and there were days that I’d come in from cold, dreary recess duty and find a steaming cup of tea on my desk. I’d drink that tea, letting it warm me through as I picked the almonds from my trail mix and saved them for that hippie lady next door. And with each one I set aside, I’d thank God that she was there. I’d thank Him for the way she never got angry and for the example that she set for me. I thanked him for her messy desk and for the sing song voice she used as she read A Little Princess to students who were anything but regal.
I still thank God for her.
I have no pictures of us and that makes me sad, but I have an email or two (love you still. meet you in the hall. miss you.) hidden away and there at the corner of my desk is a small mound of almonds.
I’m saving them for Mink.
Posted in friendcitos 6 Comments »
February 2, 2009
Hello. My name is Emily and I’m an over committer.
The sad proof:
Monday-Friday 7:30-3:30 Fifth grade hormone management, crowd control, and teacher clothes
Monday 3:30-7:30
- Musical practice (with equally hormonal high school children who are less afraid of me)
Tuesday
- 3:30-4:30 staff meeting
- 4:30-6:00 tutor Spanish speaking sophomore on the beauty of the Southern drawl in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbing Bird
Wednesday
- 3:30-4:30 Destination Imagination (creative kid think tank where creative kids breed chaos)
- 4:30-6:00 English class for two adults
- 6:00-until Dinner with a friend
Thursday
- 3:30-4:30 tutor aforementioned sophmore on why it is helpful to do your homework and why it isn’t helpful to say, “But, Miss, the English teacher is boring and estupido.”
- 6:00-8:00 teach English to 15 members of the PTA (give away stickers and dodge questions like “Is ‘sh** happens’ an idiom?)
Friday
- 3:30-4:30 English class to three colleagues for less money than it takes for me to catch a cab
- 4:30-until Pick up basketball with staff (Spanish speaking staff who think I actually understand the instructions that they’re yelling at me)
- Until-until even later Pizza y Pasta with the same crowd, if I’m lucky
Saturday:
- early morning: Promise myself that one day I’ll be able to shamelessly utter the word “no”.
Posted in Uncategorized 5 Comments »
February 1, 2009
After almost two years, I think I realized that this is my life.
All it took was a house full of my Colombian friends, some live music, and not feeling the least little bit weird about it.
Yes, that’s a man with a saxophone in my house and lawdy, could he play.
And here’s the guitar guy. He could play, too, but unfortunately gave off the macho Latino I-want-to-touch-your-blond-hair vibe and he sweated a lot. I’m just sayin’.
Love you, Ames, and wish you were here.
Posted in Uncategorized 4 Comments »
January 29, 2009
The muddy shore is home to things
like turtles, frogs, and such.
But reeds that sway their cat-like tails
impress me twice as much.
They bow and dance as the wind goes by;
sometimes you can hear them purr.
The quiet hum of river kings
and raft-bound conquerors.
And in their songs I see the face
of my handsome newborn child.
As he sleeps and dreams of unknown lands
and taming the rivers wild.
Posted in Uncategorized 4 Comments »
January 28, 2009
Her face was a deep scarlet and her shoulders heaved up and down as the tears soaked her face. Her black, collared shirt looked pressed and put together and her shoes clicked as she walked, but her sobs overshadowed it all.
I let her cry and did my best to comfort her without crumbling myself.
She’s a first year teacher and barely 22 years old. She’s away from home and speaks no Spanish and she teaches middle school. Science! I cannot for a second fathom what life for her must be like, but by her tears I know that today was hard for her and tomorrow will be as well.
My first year of teaching was filled to bursting with days like that and at the time I wondered why I ever chose education as my profession. Now I know that I didn’t choose it at all. Education chose me. Kids chose me.
And my friend Jill is lucky because kids chose her, too.
She’s meant for this job even if she doesn’t think so today. She’s warm and approachable and middle school girls imitate the way she walks and the way she fixes her hair and the boys stare at her as though she were the blondest of all heaven’s angels sent to Manizales just so they could gaze upon her beauty.
And they do. They stare at her all googly-eyed and then act like they despise her so that their cool guy reputations stay in tact and that’s the only part she feels.
Tomorrow has the potential to be more of the same, but one thousand tomorrows from now she’ll look back on today. She’ll look back on the tears she shed and realize that she cried them because she wanted so desperately for those prepubescent teens to understand the importance of her presence.
To understand that she knows more than them and that she wants the very best out of all that they possess. To understand that she can open up a world bigger than any they’ve ever seen or hoped to see.
That’s what she can do and she wants them to know it.
And they will. Even if it isn’t today.
Posted in teaching 5 Comments »
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