Questions

How many years of life is enough?

When you are old and you die, how long is it okay for your loved ones to feel a heaviness deep in their bones?

Does everyone experience regret in their last moments?

How long will I remember the way his chuckle cascaded around the room? The way his whole body shook with light laughter, back ever so hunched, pitching forward?

Did he watch the Tigers in the championship game? Did he cuss out loud as we lost, even beside Jesus himself? Did Jesus laugh like I used to?

How will I explain to my daughter that my favorite memory of him also belongs to her; cuddled close in winter jammies, oxygen cord dangling between her legs and his, limbs wrapped up as he offers her ice cream from a spoon he carefully cradled in his tired, bruised hands?

Why do people believe the death of a grandparent is natural and therefore less painful?

How do the most inevitable and expected experiences still feel like a punch to the stomach – breath not quite escaping lungs that are paralyzed?

Why have a DNR if your ribs will be broken anyway? Who must answer for the mistake as the family members left at the bedside speak softly, reassuring him that we know what he has wanted all along?

“Stay still, don’t fight it, we know, we know. We hear you. We love you. We are so, so sorry.”

How can an entire medical system ignore a patient’s wishes? How do they go unchallenged?

Why are good people and good nurses overworked and underappreciated? Why do the folks in power above them not do a whole lot to help?

Why does no one tell you that watching your grandfather die is not like a movie. It is unimaginable. Your last words to him, whispered delicately into his ear, still echoing in the chamber of your mind: “you don’t have to be scared. It’s okay. You can go. No more pain, okay?”

Can you feel guilty for things you don’t know how to explain? Can you experience his life and death in your memory without the barbs of unpleasantness and grief?

If you are scared to forget and scared to remember, what do you write? Should you write it in the first place?

I still don’t know, so I settled on questions.

Five

Skylar,

On the eve of your birthday, I’m sitting in the only room in my house you ever touched. It seemed fitting for such a milestone. Five is a big age. If you were here, I wonder if you would hold up five fingers proudly when your mom asked you how old you were. Underneath my optimistic musings, I wonder if the action would have brought you pain or brought you joy. Maybe both?

Your mom and I painted the dresser in this room white and it took several layers. While we worked in our walk-out attic, you were laying in the floor of what would eventually become the guest bedroom. You were sleeping, I think. Sometimes I couldn’t tell if you were sleeping or trying to ignore your mom and I. Sometimes, as much as I hate to admit it, I just wasn’t sure at all. Of anything you were up to. And it scared me.

I wonder if the person that named big moments “milestones” understood what that term meant to people who dreaded them. The first milestone of you being gone, for me, was having a daughter of my own. I wanted her to look just like you – all Henkes – but was scared of that possible outcome as well. Would she be a constant reminder of all they had lost? Of what we ALL had lost in your passing? A mile of stones form all the way down to my core.

She does look a lot like you. She’s also sassy just like you were. She doesn’t like my singing either, in case you were wondering. I sing to her like I sang to you – hoping I would form a connection to a person that felt entirely unknown. The mystery of childhood, I think, is that the grown ups have no clue what’s going on and it’s scary and beautiful all at once.

I wonder if grief feels like silence to everyone. I feel your absence most in the quiet moments I consider a way forward to honor you. I think you’d like Mrs. Becky. I wish I had been able to be your teacher like I hoped I could be. Maybe your mom would have trusted you to me? I hope so, but I had just started speaking that idea out loud, right before you left. And in the months afterward, the words felt like concrete in my throat, so I stopped imagining that path. Grief felt silent and I think the concrete was too heavy. Like a mile of stones.

I wonder if there’s always guilt. The grief inside the guilt of not knowing you the way I hoped to. I feel anger at time and circumstance – how a year of masks turned into two and the paranoia meant I saw you only sometimes. It makes me sad and angry.

The dresser we painted on the only day you visited my house was once black. I remember being so proud of my ombre drawers – black to white. I wasn’t as proud of the dark paint once your mom and I tried to cover it with white. The black streaks kept peeking through. No matter how hard we worked, they wouldn’t go away. Even now, a close examination leaves no doubt of it’s prior color. I think like most things, this feels like a cliché metaphor.

I wonder if grief is whitewashed black paint. No matter how you try to cover it up, it keeps peeking through. Some days it feels like concrete. Some days it feels like joy. Some days it feels like silence. Some days you hardly notice the black streaks across your façade. Other days, it’s all you can focus on. Most days, I’m in awe of your mom and dad. What feels like black streaks to me must feel like an all-black room with no windows. I worry about them.

I’m still trying to figure out what your life and death were supposed to mean. But tonight I only wish there were five candles, a big birthday cake, and your hands smacking the icing as hard as you could. It seems so unfair, but I think sometimes…grief is just hope. A hope that your life leads to even more goodness.

Maybe the brightness you showed will be the brightness that leads us forward. Thank you, sweetie. For a million things.

Where did five years go? Happy (ALMOST) birthday.

Aunt Halie

Silence

I really should be doing my Analytics homework. In fact, the assignment is currently sitting on the second monitor, staring solemnly back in my direction. My eyes dart to the monitor anxiously, worried my professor is somehow watching me choose blogging over his assignment. But, so be it. I learned a long time ago there are some nights I have to write, and nothing else will help.

So, for the first time in a long time, I’d like to tell you a story. This story is about a bike ride.

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I walk through the house, Bonnie close to my heels. The “clop, clop, clop” of her nails on the hardwood floors is like a heartbeat, and it’s getting faster and faster. She thinks I’m going outside to play with her in the yard.

But I can’t play right now. I need to leave the computer. I need to go for a ride on my new bike. I strap my helmet onto my head, remind myself to tighten it later, and grab the bike. Bonnie looks at me with a sigh, her eyes giving away her disappointment. I’m sorry, baby. Mommy will be back soon.

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The interesting thing about our town is that we live on top of one of the several hills that hold neighborhoods. Ours is most prominent, though. Our hill is called Northwood. I’ve been told that the house diagonal from ours is the Judge’s house. When people from the NRV find out we live in Pulaski, they normally grimace. Once Nick and I reassure them that we live off of Prospect Avenue, they normally breathe a sigh of relief and remind us that we live near a judge, so we are safe from the problems that plague the “other side of the railroad track.”

On that Judge’s property, allegedly, is the old town well. One for white people and one for black people. An interesting fact I learned somewhere this past year. The well was divided, and though the same water flowed out into pails, one was better and one was less.

I think about this well sometimes. I think especially about the exhausting walk all the way up the hill to get the water. I wonder about the glares of white eyes as black hands reach for water. I wonder if their eyes met at all.

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The descent from the top is the best. I’m flying, and the sounds of the neighborhood become white noise in my ear. The drowning out I craved. My pullover is gently billowing, and I can feel the breath in my lungs, strong and steady. This cycling thing is a piece of cake. There’s no car coming up or down Jefferson, so I feel safe, also. A bonus I didn’t expect. I cross the railroad tracks, still thinking about the fun descent.

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At the stop sign across from the train station, things head south: there are cars coming and I have to put my feet down on the ground. For some, this wouldn’t be a big deal. I’m awkward and new to biking, though, so my full stop can’t possibly be gracious, and my restart is even worse. I fumble with the peddles, and finally heave myself forward through the intersection.

As is common, I scan the park in front of me. Kids, a few women walking on the shabby track, and a few co-ed adults near the parking lot. They all look at me with disinterest, so I keep peddling. I nod to the older woman watching her grandson ride his bike. I’m on the trail now. About 2 more miles and I’ll start the return trip.

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I passed a gravel parking lot, but slow down as movement catches my attention. I almost missed the flailing, flapping, dying bird. No animal or other bird nearby. No sign of a struggle. Just the end for that little bird. I keep peddling. Dogs bark at me as I pass, but I try to maintain a steady pace.

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I’m a firm believer in bad omens. I also tend to believe innocent animal deaths affect me most because they’re helpless. I’ve always been a helper. Maybe I made that bird’s death about me, but I knew something might happen on my ride because of that bird. I’m selfish, and I want to help, and I believe in bad signs. I have no other explanation for this string of thoughts. It’s all just very raw, and how I felt.

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I keep peddling.

Eventually, I make my way back toward the train station. There are still a few kids playing on the playground – all boys, I notice. I’m not sure why I notice things like that. Where are the little girls?

“Hey, baby! Heyyyy”

My insides convulse, and I fight the cognitive urge to look towards the sound. Out of the corner of my eyes I see a man. He might be 18, he might be 28. Who knows. Who cares?

“What’s up. Come here! Heyyyy!”

I’m wearing a bike helmet. Baggy pants. Mom socks. A large rain jacket. It doesn’t matter. It never matters.

The whole bike ride is ruined. I am angry and that doesn’t explain the avalanche of emotions that hit me as I leave the parking lot. I see two police cars to my left and far, far right. White faces.

I keep peddling, but faster than I was before. And then I hit the hill. The ascent causes an understandable slowness of peddling, but I’m still so angry.

Then a voice in my head: “it obviously could be so, so much worse. You’re lucky this is your burden.”

A breath out of my mouth, faster, faster.

I can’t breathe.

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I’m thinking of Ahmaud and George as I hear a car creep up behind me. I start feeling paranoid and panicked. I keep peddling. Was this the fear that Ahmaud felt. Did he look behind to see a truck creeping up on him? Was he totally ambushed? I’m not sure, because I refuse to watch that horrible video. I don’t need to see a video to believe a man was lynched in broad daylight in 2020. I hear how some people still talk. I remember and I can’t forget.

The car passes by. Two white women and a golden retriever. I’m safe. But would Tamir be safe? I glare at the “Neighborhood Watch” signs and keep struggling up the hill.

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I keep peddling.

I’m feeling a million emotions and none at all. I can’t breathe, but I have to breathe. In the distance, I hear a church tower, and I think with bitter sarcasm:

“Well, that’s the most I’ve heard from the Church in two weeks.”

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There’s a time for silence and there’s a time for speaking – screaming if you have to.

That guy at the railroad station? Your calls steal my joy. When I try to joke about the encounter with Nick later, my voice falters as he asks “Did you really get cat called?” His face is twisted with concern, and the concern initially makes me want to roll my eyes. Of course I got cat called. This is my reality and my existence. I don’t roll my eyes because I remember he’s good to his core. He just can’t comprehend an ugly truth: people who look like him don’t always act with his goodness and gentleness. I love him when he reminds me that not all men would make a woman feel uncomfortable.

I wonder why my white brothers and sisters can’t react like Nick did when they hear about being black in America. I wonder why they can’t be appalled. I wonder why they can’t acknowledge something is seriously broken. I wonder why we won’t fix it.

I hear more these days from my friends and family when voices are silent, than when they’re posting and tweeting and screaming. The masks I wear muffle my voice a little bit, but I still put that mask on. I’d rather do my part in making sure others are safe. The masks might also be an excellent tool of well-timed-silence: Will people listen quicker than they used to? The muffled speech is necessary as the white “we’s” learn to listen urgently, act in response to a need of a community, and condemn swiftly those who cannot decipher which is more important: breath in lungs or fake harmony in the name of comfort and privilege.

I am so tired, but to rest is to use my privilege. To delete Facebook is to use my privilege. This is not the world I want to bring children into. And so… I’ll keep peddling for by black brothers and sisters.  

Be safe and well,

Halie

Love

My favorite love stories have always been the kind that feel familiar, yet devastatingly unfamiliar. I don’t know how to explain them other than that, but I also recognize that the previous sentence leaves much to be desired in the way of details. Basically, I’ve always been intrigued by stories that seem to capture realistic beauty in relationships. So while Cinderella was a favorite of mine as a kid, now the story seems a bit far fetched and unrealistic. I mean, come on…she loses her shoe at a palace and then she’s royalty for life? BOGUS.

I always felt more compelled to believe war stories were more beautiful. You know the one: two people fall in love, get the news that the guy has to go off to war, they write love letters to each other for a year, then sometimes he comes home alive and all is well. Or he comes home in a casket and is mourned forever by the poor girl he left behind. At least with these stories you felt the pull of time and of tragedy…Cinderella was just too pretty, tied up in a bow with her perfect happy ending. I guess I always recognized life normally offered up more tragedy than happy endings when it came to love. Even the perfect couple – the happiest of marriages – has to end. Which is tragic when you think about it.

These past 10 months have totally challenged my notion of loving and being loved. These past 10 months have pushed and pulled me in all the best ways, and today as I drove home from a bad day at work, feeling bloated and fat and ugly, looking out the car window at another sunny spring day outside my window, I realized that I had been scared to share my own experiences with love. Basically, I feel like no words could ever do these past 10 months justice, and I also recognize that the amount of huge life changes I’ve experienced in such a short amount of time might seem drastic and shocking to the casual reader/outsider.

How do you put words to a real-life fairy tale you never saw coming?

As usual, the only way I can ever adequately express my current feelings are through hindsight reflection. Believe me when I say I had too much material to cover in one blog post, but I’m 100% sure you’ll hear way more about Nicholas in the months and years to come.

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December 26th, 2018

6 months after meeting Nick.

4 months after leaving the country with Peace Corps for a 2 year commitment. 

4 months after Nick asking me to be his “official” girlfriend. 

It was really dark, and though I hadn’t slept much at all, I felt a crazy adrenaline rush as I threw the covers back. “Nick! Wake up. We are buying a HOUSE today!” I received a mumble in response, as usual. He sat up relatively quickly, and gave me a sleepy smile. 

“Let’s go buy our house!”

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November 14th, 2018

When I walked in our future house, the first thing I noticed was the golden light in the main entrance. The second thing I noticed was how worn the floors looked. They were floors of a well loved home, and I imagined all the shoes and boxes and furniture that travelled those worn floors before I had stepped on them.

The third thing I noticed was how excited Nick was, and it was really cute. He was trying to be calm, but he gets this look in his eyes when he’s excited about something, and his masculine beard and steady jaw line can’t quite hide it. Of course, I knew he loved the house already because we had already called 3 banks about Mortgages -something he and I had literally zero experience in – before even seeing the house in person.

Our realtor was a free-spirit named Mary, who greeted us back in October in Halloween leggings. Her smile was warm, and her knowledge of real estate was exactly what we needed. She helped us by patiently educating us on a process that seemed so intimidating, and she never made us feel stupid.

As she walked through the living room of our future home, she commented on the charm of the built in bookcases. Little did she know: I had already picked out a color scheme for each row. She kept telling us that the price was a good deal for such an updated kitchen and “just look at that sink!” (A copper farm house sink that really has gotten a compliment from every person who steps into our house).

I remember I broke away from Nick and Mary for a second, and wandered into the library they had set up. There was a piano and so many books. I looked around and imagined a nice, cozy sitting room where Nick and I could catch up after a long day at work. Or maybe it would be a play room for kids eventually. Or maybe it would be the computer room. Or maybe it could be a mud room if we ever added on a garage. The point is, I saw so much potential while I stood there staring at the bookshelves. Not just in the house, either, but in Nick and I as well.

The future was ours for the taking.

I rushed back into the dining room with a look of what I imagine was fiery resolve: “Mary, what do we need to offer to get this house?”

And the rest, as they say, is history.

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January 27th, 2019

Fast forward almost exactly one month from the day we signed for our house.

We had been painting for what feels like years. What started out as a home that was “move in ready” actually turned out to be a little too loved for our taste. We wanted a blank slate, and so we dove head first into paint can after paint can. Our floors were going to be redone, so luckily we were free to pretty much paint at will. That didn’t really prevent the long days and nights busting our tails to get the place “as good as new” “as fast as humanly possible.”

[Luckily, my family and Nick’s mom (OMG my future mother-in-law is the best, y’all) really came through. They helped us paint almost every day during the break between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. They dealt with our commands and emotionally delirious requests, and didn’t expect anything in return. We literally would still not be moved in if it weren’t for them].

Nick and I were slowly and steadily “nesting,” and we spent the previous day getting some furniture at Ikea on a super spontaneous trip to Charlotte. It was a really good trip, and Brooke (Nick’s sister) goes to school in Charlotte. We got to treat her to some Cheesecake factory and catch up, and then we headed back to Pulaski. On the way home, I could tell something was on Nick’s mind, and so I checked in. After promising everything was fine, I finally relaxed a little back into my seat.

The truth of the matter was that there was always this small part of my brain, controlled by my anxiety, that worried he was going to decide this wasn’t what he wanted after all. Maybe he would begin to believe that we jumped too quickly into our life together? Maybe he hated that I wanted to buy those bookshelves in Ikea? Maybe I said something earlier that annoyed him? Was I obnoxious at the restaurant? Maybe I shouldn’t have even asked if he was okay? Maybe…? Maybe…?

And basically that’s what it’s like in my head.

Imagine my surprise when I saw Nick on one knee the following evening, trembling and saying words I honestly don’t quite remember while I said “What are you doing? Oh my GOD what are you doing?” over and over again like a parrot.

I cried. He didn’t cry, but he smiled a whole lot and his cheeks got really red (a tell-tale sign he’s happy and nervous). Then I called and texted…well… all of my people, and sent a picture of the gorgeous ring he picked out. The reactions? Pretty much all the same: teetering between “beyond happy” for us and a surprised “that was quick.”

They were right, of course. Most people don’t get engaged after only 7 months of knowing the other person existed. Nick and I aren’t most people, though, and I think that’s the boldest thing I’ve learned about love throughout this whole 10 month journey: love looks vastly different as it weaves it’s magical threads around each individual person and each couple. As the cliché goes, “when you know, you know!”

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Today, April 2nd, 2019

10 (ish) months since Nick and I met, and his brother predicted he and I would get married (before we even met, no less…I have a screenshot of a text message to prove it).

7 (ish) months since I returned home from a failed tour with Peace Corps to attend the funeral of my grandmother.

5 (ish) months since I first walked through the doorframe that would house my future with Nicholas.

2 (ish) months since I became a fiancé. 

How do you put words to a real-life fairy tale you never saw coming?

Nothing I’ve written even comes close to expressing just how beautiful all those numbers above have been for me. Though loving someone as deeply as I love Nick comes with its challenges and frustrations, I wouldn’t trade this new chapter we are writing for any amount of money. I can’t imagine just how patient Nick has had to be with me – his independent, free-spirited, anxious, left-wing, opinionated, overly-emotional, friend-collecting, cat-loving fiancé. As we navigate these uncharted waters, I really find so much joy in the fact that I’ve found my soul’s match, who is unafraid of my past, excitedly holding my hand in the present, and dreaming about our future.

I wish I could tell that 6 year-old-me that Cinderella isn’t all that, and that high heels are overrated. I wish I could tell that 18 year-old-me that love doesn’t have to look like a tragic Nicholas Sparks novel. I wish I could tell that 21 year-old-me that love doesn’t have to be selfish, toxic, and damning. I wish I could tell that 24 year-old-me that love doesn’t require a passport and an escape plan. Love finds each of us exactly where we have always been destined to meet it – even in a dirt track concession stand.

-Halie

Failure

I never even got to sit on a beach in the Dominican Republic.

The day the plane landed in Santo Domingo, 3 weeks ago Wednesday, seeing the teal patches of ocean was an exhilarating site that left me nearly breathless. The ceremonial “touchdown” of plane wheels to tarmac felt like a symbolic moment that sears its way into you long-term memory banks.

I looked out the window with such hope and optimism. Nothing could possibly be cooler than this view of an ocean that couldn’t possibly be real, this realization that a new adventure was officially beginning, and this belief that the work I was about to commit to was work that mattered a whole lot.

Wednesday I boarded a plane that took me back to the United States. I looked out on those crystal clear waters and felt a sudden stab of something – was it slight disappointment? – and then I left the DR behind. I arrived back home, greeted by my sister, and then we prepared for the funeral of my lovely grandmother. Though, as the story of “here and now” unfolds, I hope you’ll see that her funeral wasn’t the reason for my departure, but most certainly confirmation that timing is one of the most serious indicators of whether or not you belong in one place or another.

The crazy thing about life is the importance of timing. We blame everything on “bad timing” but praise those moments that seem to be proof of “the best timing ever.” What if both of these instances feel the same?

How did I get here, in this moment, with whispers of “failure” in my ear, and memories of a quickly fading teal-patched ocean?

Well, let me tell you the stories I haven’t told quite yet about possibly the shortest Peace Corps experience EVER.

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WEEK ONE

As my host mother led me around the house, speaking quick Spanish and making quick gestures, I felt the first pang of something I couldn’t name. Of course, the Aries in me named that pang “culture shock,” and I don’t think that was a misnomer.

I was shocked. Shocked by how little Spanish I understood. Shocked by how the walls didn’t reach the ceiling. Shocked by the huge tanks of water on the back porch. Shocked by the few words I understood – “Solo tenemos agua en Sabado y Martes.”

We only have water (AKA running water) on Saturday and Tuesday.

In my bedroom, as she attempted to convey some unknown sentiment, my eyes began to mist up. She stopped what she was saying and asked what was wrong. I already knew I was going to struggle, because even answering this tiny question felt like an insurmountable hurdle.

Her husband came in and placed a couple nails on the wall for my mosquito net, and then they left me to my own devices. I slowly unpacked, trying to make sense of this new reality. Their 2 year old son kept me company, and I gave him some coloring pencils to use. I was impressed with his ability to name colors in English, and it felt nice to understand someone…even if that someone was a 2 year old who kept yelling “mira” excitedly, with the hopes that I would look at an item I myself packed.

That night before going to bed, I gazed up at the tin roof above my head and noticed the shadows dance across, illuminated by the street lamp close to my window. The “bulloso” Dominican neighborhood wasn’t preparing for bed like I was. Their music was blaring, and men greeted each other warmly and loudly in the streets.

Although I was already feeling a decent amount of uncertainty…that was normal. I just moved from my home, to a place I’d never been, to do a job I didn’t quite understand. It would all feel better in the morning.

“Buenas Noches,” I yelled to my host parents, receiving a pleasant “Buen Noche, Helen,” as their Telenovela played on.

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WEEK TWO

You know what? Bucket bathing is not as bad as it sounds. I had these moments in the shower where I would compete with my previous shower. One day particularly, I only used HALF of the big bucket of water. (Granted, I didn’t wash my hair that day, but it still felt like a victory).

This week was an important week, as we got divided into our leveled Spanish classes. I was in the very lowest class, and while this fact did not surprise me, I couldn’t help but feel a little shame. I am used to being in upper level classes, and the fact that I was feeling like a tiny goldfish in the Pacific Ocean was something I was struggling with daily.

We had an exciting day in Santo Domingo, that started with a blaring sun and ended with a monsoon. We learned how to use “public transport” in the DR, and it was as loud and confusing as I imagined. I finally mastered the magic phrase: “Deja me aqui,” which guaranteed we would be dropped wherever the Guagua (AKA bus) was at that moment. The phrase didn’t guarantee anything other than being dropped. How people knew what monuments and buildings indicated was an absolute mystery to me. After being crammed onto a bus for over an hour meant the second I heard the magic words, I was sprinting off the Guagua into the blaring sun.

Zona Colonial was lovely, and the brick and cobblestone streets were beautiful to behold, though slightly more treacherous in the downpouring rain. We saw the oldest Cathedral in the Americas (though don’t quote me on anything you read here because, as we already established, my Spanish left much to be desired), an Amber Museum, and a few other historical sites around the old city.

As we returned to Pantoja on the Guagua, I felt excited to get back to my host family’s house – I brought them chocolate from the city. Since I still was very inadequate at basic communication, I was realizing food was a universal language I could use to my advantage. I was excited to give them the candy, and my friends helped me figure out what to say. (Although, when I said the rehearsed line, my friends apparently chose the wrong verb, because my sister corrected me anyways).

Everything was feeling better, and I had a feeling the next week would bring even more good things, as we were preparing for our first solo journey in country when we would meet a volunteer in the field. I knew I was only going about an hour away, and I couldn’t wait to experience the “campo” life, away from the crazy motoconchos and loud colmados. I was excited to experience the lush greenery the island had to offer, and was eager to see how volunteers actually lived post-training.

“Buena Noche,” I sang on my way to my room.

“Buen Noche, Helen,” came the musical response from mi familia.

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WEEK THREE

I asked 3 random women on the street where the bus station was. I also made the mistake of asking a young man the way, and immediately he thought that meant I wanted to marry him.

Really, though. It was a rookie mistake for this “rubia.”

Finally, a sweet woman literally escorted me to the bus stop, where I was directed to take the bus on the right side. I asked several people if it was going to “Las Mercedes,” and all eagerly nodded. I began praying I didn’t get lost, but then added a caveat onto my prayer that if I got lost, let it please be a white sand beach, Lord.

I didn’t get lost, and I didn’t end up on a white sand beach. To the dismay of the bus driver and the bus passengers, they dropped this gringa off in the most random little “town” on the side of the road. I then walked half an hour to meet up with my volunteer. She warmly greeted me, and I already knew we would get along. We were laughing like old friends by the time we made it to her house.

(A plug here about K. She is hilarious and friendly, and absolutely no part of her visit made me want to leave the DR. Just to clarify).

Her neighbors came over one by one to both greet her AND see what other Americana she had with her. As usual, I didn’t understand everything, but made an attempt to show people I was happy to meet them. After dinner, one neighbor in particular stands out in my mind – she had the kind of disposition people seek out when they need a spirit lift. She immediately asked about my family, and I then was struck with a conundrum: she asked how many grandparents I had.

I laughed, and then tried to figure out how to explain to this woman in incredibly broken Spanish that I was blessed with 6 grandparents. Her eyes widened, and after clumsily tripping over one and two word phrases, K. helped translate more. She understood and laughed loudly, her body rippling with the sudden excitement of understanding. She was speaking quickly, but somewhere mentioned that I was very lucky. I didn’t disagree, of course. (This single interaction with the neighbor had a huge impact on me, and although I’ll continue with the brief summary of my visit, something inside my head clicked into place this evening).

The next day we visited a market, a Texaco for yummy American treats, and her school where I witnessed high schoolers…well…being high schoolers. I’ll leave it at that. Saturday we hitchhiked with a nice French man, and we walked for 2 hours in nature to get to a nice pool. We met up with several other volunteers, and just took it easy. Later, we headed north to a town where we had some pizza (#blessed), and then dance bachata for several hours. I learned that night that I am many things, but I’m not a dancer. I am grateful to the three old Dominican men who tried to help, but I’m afraid it was a pretty extreme failure.

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THE DECISION

Speaking of failure…

After the fun weekend in Monte Plata, I came to the decision that I needed to resign. For those of you who have known me for any significant amount of time, that fact might have startled you.

I don’t quit, and I have a hard time saying “no” to anyone or anything. In fact, my first year of teaching was so hectic because the word “no” had become synonymous with a crime in my mind. If I said “no,” I was weak.

As a 22 and 23 and 24 year old, I believed failure was defined as goals or dreams not coming to fruition, Until this experience, I truly believed that admitting a job wasn’t the right fit made you less admirable, cowardly, and even sometimes, unlovable.

And then I moved with three huge ass bags to the Dominican Republic for a 27 month commitment that honestly didn’t make much sense once I began learning more about the job I would be doing.

Since I’ve been back (basically 48 hours), the most popular question is some form of “what happened?” The honest answer is “nothing.” Nothing bad happened. No part of the experience surprised me – it was just as sweaty, exciting, and nerve-wracking as I was expecting.

The conversation with the volunteer’s neighbor really made me think about the people I left at home – specifically my grandparents. I wasn’t crazy about the level of flexibility within my Peace Corps Role. I need 50 hours of work a week to feel helpful. Not 25. I wasn’t crazy about my role as a white person with very little Spanish abilities, teaching young children a language I didn’t know. I wasn’t crazy about feeling like my level of influence in the DR might not rationalize a two year stint away from home.

Home.

My theory of meaningful influence and positive change has definitely evolved since my 13 year old dream of Peace Corps work. I still believe in the work and importance of the organization, and still believe that humanitarian work shouldn’t stop at a country border. I think if we are truly human, we should try to reach out to help when we are asked – whether that be in our own backyard or in a very different place from home.

I believe the work I was privileged enough to do in Inez, and the work I plan to take on in the future, is where I find hope and meaning and purpose. If you had told 18 year-old-me that I didn’t have to move to a desert in Nigeria to find meaning, I would have laughed sarcastically. Tell the 25 year-old-me I can help at home and witness an exciting ripple of service and awareness outward from Appalachia, and I tend to agree, a soft smile on my face.

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This morning, the Pennsylvania mountains were enveloped in a fog that felt heavier than fog-draped mornings normally feel for me. My week started out with a decision that felt like failure, and ended with a funeral for my beautiful grandmother. When I told my Peace Corp director on Monday morning about my excitement to get home to my 6 living grandparents (remember that conversation with the sweet Dominican woman?), I had no idea the significance of that statement on that day. Not even 6 hours later, I only had 5 living grandparents to get home to, and hardly any breath in my lungs.

The crazy thing about life is the importance of timing. We blame everything on “bad timing” but praise those moments that seem to be proof of “the best timing ever.” What if both of these instances feel the same?

I needed to get home, and my grandmother’s sudden passing felt like the saddest sort of confirmation in my life. Her passing seemed to be one of those examples of “bad timing”…but also felt like “good timing.” I am lucky I made the decision when I did, or I might have missed the opportunity to say goodbye.

When I arrived in Pennsylvania, I was happy to learn she had heard of my decision to come home prior to her passing. I hope she was proud of me, and I hope those final moments were peaceful for her.

My grandmother was soft-spoken and kind. You might not know it by looking at her thin and frail frame, but put a couple of beers in front of her, and within the hour she would be cackling with my grandfather and swatting him away as he sang loudly to her, or tried to get her to dance. My fondest and earliest memory of her involves going through her jewelry box while she decorated my neck and hands and wrists with costume jewelry, laughing in her easy way. Her soft voice on the phone was always calming, and the way she would say “hi, honey,” made me feel warm in a way that only a grandmother can.

My only sadness stems from the fact that I realized on the plane home that I didn’t know her nearly as well as I would have liked to know her. I don’t know her favorite color, and I don’t know what her favorite hobby was when she was my age. I don’t know why she and her sisters used to fight, and I couldn’t tell you her favorite meal. I wonder why she fell in love with my grandpa, and I wonder why I never asked.

As I looked around the church, however, I felt a strange peace because I saw people who did know the answer to those questions and more. I heard my grandfather discuss their private conversations about their imminent deaths, and it didn’t seem to scare my grandmother at all. She was a faithful woman who I know is even now shyly avoiding the attention she never seemed to want too much of. She didn’t want a viewing, and that makes a lot of sense.

Today, as I took one last look at her white casket, I couldn’t help but feel happiness even in grief. She was the type of woman who could always put a positive spin on any situation. I imagined what she might tell me about the shortest Peace Corps story of all time, and it would probably go something like this:

There is a very specific kind of bravery involved in admitting when you shouldn’t be in the place you find yourself. You had to come home to find the true destiny God has for you, and this is just one of those stepping stones. You are going to be okay, sweetie, and I’m proud that you knew when to try something else. You didn’t fail. You’ll be okay, honey.

Rest easy, Mamaw. I’ll make sure Papaw still sings Karaoke every once in awhile, and anytime I drink ginger ale, I’ll think of you.

 

Legacy

In my second year of teaching, I fell in love with the musical “Hamilton.” For those of you who might be living under a rock, “Hamilton” explores the exciting life of our founding father, Alexander Hamilton. The awesome thing about the show, in my opinion, is that the writer wanted to highlight a diverse cast, so he utilized a Hip-Hop/R&B soundtrack. George Washington raps, Eliza Schuyler has an Alicia Keys meets Destiny’s Child meets Nicki Minaj vibe, and the entire soundtrack is full of beats that would make Jay-Z’s head spin.

Y’all get the point.

Lin-Manuel Miranda, the show’s creator, really did something different. He took a real risk and the public absolutely ate it up. So much so, tickets are still (years later) tough to come by.

There are a few lyrics from that show that really made me think. As I approached the end of my 3 year tenure in Inez, I found those same lines cross my mind several times a week, and by the end of the year they were all I could think about.

“Let me tell you what I wish I’d know/ when I was young and dreamed of glory. You have no control/who lives, who dies, who tells your story.”

“What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.”

Now, I know I technically wrote an Inez reflection already. I always knew that I would have to find a healthy-ish way to process the Peru trip, and a “real” final reflection that basically didn’t harp on the fact that I wasn’t going to be a teacher anymore.

Really, the depth of my emotions cannot be adequately conveyed if you think it has anything at all to do with the fact that I won’t be there tomorrow to see my first class of students begin their Senior year. The panic I feel doesn’t have a whole lot to do with a syllabus.

If you think I’m devastated because I just kind of “liked Inez,” you also haven’t completely glimpsed my heart. You haven’t read my words in this blog the way I intended them to be read.

My heart is breaking –  was shattering into pieces, sliding down my face, onto my shirt, making the drivers that passed me on the road yesterday feel probable concern.

I honestly don’t even remember the first half hour in the car, aside from the moment I looked in the rear view mirror, saw a beautiful Kentucky sunset, and heard something in my head that said “look ahead.”

Maybe that was God. Maybe He was reminding me to keep my eye on the road? Maybe it was a “Jesus Take the Wheel” moment, but whatever the intent of that phrase – “look ahead” – my resounding response was “how can I possibly do that? How do I look ahead when what’s behind me was so important? How?”

I’m struggling, and while a big part of my struggle includes the very people I won’t greet tomorrow, my bigger fears, I believe, lie at the heart of “Hamilton…” or at least mirror the very aspects that make the musical so important and relevant: the human condition relies on the inevitability of complex, and often conflicting, feelings and emotions.

Hamilton is low-key greedy, angry, passionate…all because he wants to make a name for himself. This guy is BFF with George Washington, marries the hottest girl in town, and has a bunch of great kids. AND YET: the dude can’t stop with his pride and his ego. He needs more, more, more. It ends up getting him shot and killed, actually (spoiler alert).

While I certainly hope my folly doesn’t lead me to the same sort of end (and honestly, I wouldn’t be the kind of person to duel…so hopefully I’m safe), I know without a doubt my desire to be in three different places at once is something I have to leave behind me. How can I possibly feel so agonized when I’m getting to do the thing I’ve always dreamed of? I feel guilty and should get some sort of hold on the overwhelming fear that the work I did in Inez meant nothing. What kind of legacy did I leave? Was it all for nothing?

“Let me tell you what I wish I’d know/ when I was young and dreamed of glory. You have no control/who lives, who dies, who tells your story.”

“What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.”

Imagine this: I’m having all of these thoughts yesterday driving home from Inez for “One Last Time” (you guessed it…that’s another “Hamilton” reference), and then I remember the freaking AMAZING students I just got to hang out with for 10 days in Peru. These heroes changed my life with their wit and optimism and perseverance. They wrote eloquently about our trip, and like any smart human would, I decided to share their words and thoughts rather than ramble on and on. I think they’ll paint a clearer picture of our trip than I ever could. These words also helped me feel more at peace with my departure.

Is this a legacy? Are these seeds in a garden I might never get to see? Either way, they make my heart soar with pride. Enjoy their insight.

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Day One

Today was hard. It’s hard to start the day with all of the beauty of Lima, to then go to the drastic reality. When I first signed up for the Cross-Cultural Service Club and this community service trip, I could never have imagined this. Not even two years of preparation was enough for what we saw today.

Visiting the community site today gave me a whole new outlook on poverty. Poverty is no longer not having the fancy clothes. Poverty is no longer not being able to buy that thing for $5.

Poverty is not finishing your house so you don’t have to pay the tax you can’t afford. Poverty is not having running water or electricity. Poverty is fighting every single day to survive. Seeing the area we will be working in this week made me realize just how much we take for granted. We students could never understand what it means to be in that poverty stricken situation until we actually are.

The amazing thing about these people was how welcoming they were. They weren’t embarrassed for us to see them. They were thankful and happy to meet us. That hit so close to home for me because my experience back home has showed me that people who really need help never get it because they are too embarrassed. Never, ever be afraid to get the help you need in any situation.

Honestly, I really can’t put into words just how eye opening this adventure has been – and it’s only the first day! I hope I always remember to be grateful for the opportunities I receive, and I never turn them down. Being a part of something like this is so enriching, and I know I will never forget my stay in Peru.

-Hannah (Senior, SCHS)

Day Two

I had an amazing day today! We all got up super early and had breakfast together, and then went to the community we are volunteering in for the week. Our task today was to put up the walls and windows of a community center.

When we got there, we had to unload all of the building materials, then we got started. The walls were already made and we had to put them together like a puzzle. The wood was a beautiful light brown. We put it together on a big concrete slab right beside of a soccer court. All of the walls got put up and most of the windows latched before we had to leave. Although it was hard work, it was definitely worth it to know how much the community will benefit from the community center.

Later on in the day, we got to go to a chocolate shop and make our own chocolates. It was better than any chocolate I’ve ever had in the United States. In addition to eating the chocolate, we were also taught about the whole chocolate-making process from the very beginning. Chocolate making has a much longer process than I could have ever imagined. It was all very interesting.

Overall, today was amazing and I can’t wait to see what tomorrow has in store for us!

-Austin (Graduate 2018, SCHS)

Day Three

Today felt slow and hectic at the same time, and I’m trying to figure out how that could be. We painted the building we assembled over the course of the last two days; it was half green and half yellow. We also put the windows up with hinges, deadbolts, and screws with rocks because there weren’t enough hammers and screwdrivers to go around.

In other news, I’m finally adjusted to the long drive to Portada del Sol, the community we are serving this week. I’ve got used to the sudden breaks, flooring of the gas from our driver, and horns blaring all around us everyday. The roads here are different than those at home. There are usually 2-3 lanes on each sides, with very little stop signs or speed limit signs; especially in the rural areas. People here also tend to change lanes suddenly, and I’m surprised I haven’t seen any car accidents since being here. They don’t wait for other people; they just step on the gas to get where they’re going and hope any cars on the other lanes stop for them. Also, a new experience for me was seeing people in the city get out of the passenger seat during a traffic jam and try to sell random items to other people on the road.

After lunch, we went to Callao, a different section of Lima. While there, I let my thoughts empty out of my mind, and realized my artistic/creative side through our graffiti class and tour of the art museum. It was here that my perspectives shifted from my initial beliefs about graffiti, art, and life in general to what they are now: I saw a man that committed murder and spent over 20 years in prison, turn his life around through his artistic expression. It made me realize that Martin County, and America in general, often focuses too much on microscopic problems like dress code or being late to class, instead of things such as selflessness and service.

Later that night, we also learned about education in Peru; specifically about a lake community to the south that first had to build an island out of lake vegetation before they could even build a school in the first place. It opened my eyes to their unique culture and made me view our own culture with more respect and humility, as we take many things for granted.

I know that Martin County has problems too, but I appreciate our living situation a million times more. If I bring anything back with me from Peru, I hope it’s a humble mindset.

-Brody (Graduate 2018, SCHS)

Day Four

This afternoon we worked in the community center with the kids. We had an anti-bullying workshop. This has been my favorite part of the trip. Even though I don’t know these kids very well, I feel like I’ve formed a special bond with them. For example, this little girl held onto me the entire time. All the kids were so fond of us, and the CCSC were excited to be there. I wish we had time to get to know them better.

I asked a few of them what their names were and how old they were. Today, I felt like I really impacted their lives. I felt like I was someone they could look up to. I hope our day tomorrow with the kids is just as great, if not better. These kids make me so happy!

I kicked this ball around with this boy who could not have been older than 4. Another time, while the kids were having a snack break, I sat down next to another little boy. He was trying to peel an orange while trying to throw the peel into his bag at the same time. I asked if he needed help, and his reply was “Si, por favor!”

I gladly helped him. I peeled the orange so fast that he looked at me in disbelief! He smiled. He ate his orange and when he had two slices left, he offered one of them to me. I thought this was the sweetest gesture ever. It melted my heart!

The saddest part of today was leaving the kids. They kept clinging to us, not wanting to let go. I thought one little girl was trying to come with us, but then I realized she was just going to the store.

I am looking forward to tomorrow.

I have decided this is what I want to do with my life – serve others.

-Sheena (Senior, SCHS)

Day Five

Before coming to Peru, I went to Florida with my family. When you’re on the beach, everything is about the sun. Sunscreen or suntan lotion is always a must, because people go to a beach to stay by the water. And sun can be unforgiving without protection. Winter in Lima, Peru occurs during our summer, in which sun is rarely an issue. In fact, today is my first experience with sun in Peru. I had had a horrible headache for the entirety of yesterday, and so I had slept through breakfast to try and keep my headache from returning. I decided to not go to the ruins with the rest of the group today, because I knew my headache would return if I went. Ms. Putorek stayed back as well, and as the group left we all realized the sun was out. After four days of being unable to see more than grey as I looked up, it was a wonderful surprise.
For the majority of the time as I waited for the rest of the group to get back, Ms. Putorek and I sat on the roof. She was typing the first four days’ journal entries to send in while I thought of how to type this one. As I laid in a very odd looking reclined rocking chair, soaking up the sun’s warmth, I ultimately knew I would have to write about the sun to start with. It’s something I didn’t think I would miss, but I did very much so. Nothing can beat the layer of warmth the sun wraps around you as you step outside.
Today was full of a lot of ups and downs. On the ride to Portada del Sol, I took one long last look at the streets and traffic because I knew it would be the last day I would ever see them again. I’m so glad I looked at the streets on the ride there, because as we drove back to Barranco I was crying too hard to notice anything. Leaving those kids is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do without question. I tried so hard to distance myself and stick to painting because I absolutely adore kids. I know that thought process may seem odd, but I knew if I got attached to any of those kids I would cry as we left. By the aforementioned statement of me crying, you can tell I wound up attached. It’s impossible not to. One little girl kept coming up to me, asking me all kinds of questions and being so adorable. I thought that would be the end of it once she was done asking me questions because she left soon after, but she returned with a paper she had written on in purple pen. It said “Los queremos mucho”. We love you a lot.

Without hesitation, I gave her my pink turtle bracelet. Bracelets represent moments and feelings for me that I want to remind myself of, so they mean a lot to me. I found that bracelet while volunteering for this very trip, and I wore it daily to remind myself what this trip is for and why I’ve worked as hard as I have. The best place I can think of if belonging is with that little girl, whose smile was enough to remind me of why this trip has been such an important puzzle piece in my life and in their lives.
As we left the community center, I told myself I wouldn’t cry. Austin was already in tears, but when those kids started chasing after us while we were in the van, the rest of us lost it. Tears were everywhere, from most all of us kids.
The evening consisted of new experiences. We had dinner out for the first time since our time in peru, and we all ceviche. Raw fish. I absolutely love sushi so I was excited to try it, but not everyone was. We all ended up trying it, but only a few liked it. I prefer sushi to ceviche, but I still think ceviche is good. I can’t liken it to anything, because it really has its own unique texture and taste. It’s just something you have to try.
The second new thing of the night was ice cream flavors. I tried a fruit flavor similar to passion fruit, and it was fantastic. I don’t like ice cream unless it’s fruity, so I went strictly for something new but still fruity. It was acidic like a pineapple, but had a similar taste to a mango. After ice cream we went over the plans for Cusco and then watched Peruvian breakdancers in the streets of Barranco. I’ve never seen breakdancing in real life, so it was a really cool thing to watch. There were so many doing it, and they all looked like they really enjoyed it. It was awesome. We tried to get Hunter to join them but he wouldn’t. Eventually he danced in our own little circle to his own music.
Tonight was full of laughter and memories I will never forget, just like this trip. When I first joined CCSC, I had worried about whether I truly deserved to be there and experience something like that because I hadn’t been a part of the fundraising the entire two and a half years. Now that I’m here and witnessing all of this, regardless of whether I deserve to be in my position, I am so thankful I was able to come here with the amazing thirteen people I’ve been surrounded by these last five days. We’ve bonded with so many people in such a short amount of time and bonded with each other in a way I could have never imagined. This is a trip of a lifetime, and today has been my favorite moment of it all. My only and biggest regret of today was not getting a picture with the girl from Portada del Sol who took my heart in only minutes.

-Trinity (Senior, SCHS)

Day Six

It was sad leaving Portada Del Sol, but I feel like we did what we came to do.

Today, we left for Cusco. It’s beautiful, but it has an altitude of about 11,000 feet, which means oxygen was sparse. When we landed, we could hardly breathe.

We met our new tour guide, Jimmy. He seems really great.

Not much happened today, so I’m going to get some rest.

Goodnight from Cusco!

-Hunter (Senior, SCHS)

Day Seven

After a busy week in the huge city of Lima (It has more population than NYC!), us small town folk were eager for a scene more similar to home. We woke up early as usual and set off for today’s adventures.

The amazing tour guide provided for us, Jimmy, had scheduled us for a tour of a place called Sacred Valley. We descended into the Valley on winding roads that made us all feel a little closer to home. We eventually made it down in the valley in a village called Pisac which held Incan temples and terraces. While we walked through the ancient ruins Jimmy told us of the hard work and dedication the Incans had to their mountains and the nature that surrounded them. We were all really amazed that they could create something so disciplined while not having any technology.

After we walked off of the hillside Jimmy took us to another village with Incan ruins, Ollantaytambo. But not before we stopped and ate a Peruvian delicacy, guinea pig. The flavor was smoky and most of us weren’t a fan because it tasted like a pet. As we drove through the narrow streets you could see that the waterways the Incans created were still running through the streets today. Jimmy told our group that the local people still use and drink this water today.

After we wrapped up our tours for the day we traveled by train to Aguas Calientes, a town below Machu Picchu. While on the train I couldn’t help but think about how blessed the 13 of us CCSC members were to be able to come and see the top wonder of the world, to open our eyes to a new culture, and open our minds to all the things we can do in this big wide world.

-Allison (Senior, SCHS)

Day Eight

Today we leave the beautiful country that I have fallen in love with. Looking back over this past week and everything we’ve done is bittersweet. From eating rice almost everyday, to getting in trouble for petting a dog that I named Hamburger, it’s been an amazing week full of firsts and lasts. I’ve adventured out of my comfort zone on this trip and done things I never would have without this opportunity. I’ve met new people and tried to immerse myself into the foreign, Peruvian culture. But the main aspect and highlight of this trip has been volunteering in the community of Portada del Sol.

Initially, I thought that these children and families lived in a sad, depressing environment, but that wasn’t the case at all. I was astonished at how friendly and loving the people of this community were; they laughed and had the time of their life, living like there was no tomorrow. This made me feel very fortunate and blessed to be able to experience something as great as this. Even with as little money, water, and overall living conditions the people have, they still live their life to the fullest with open arms, and that is beautiful to see. I wish everyone could experience what I did; I will forever remember this trip and the connections I made with the people in the community. I can go on and on about this trip for the rest of my life. I can wholeheartedly say that I have never felt something so magnificent, yet heartbreaking at the same time.

So, today as we depart to the airport in Cusco to finally go home, I’ve realized that providing service to a community, or even just one person can make all of the difference in the world. I hope to make more impacts in the future volunteer trips I take. Until next time Peru, goodbye. See ya soon Inez.

-Autumn (Senior, SCHS)

Day Nine

6 hours until I’m back in the US. I’m not sure if I miss the United States or the people or the commonality of it all, or if I even miss anything. My brain is full of thoughts as I set here writing. It still seems unreal that we’ve done all that we have, especially given the fact that we’ve only been here 10 days. I try to reflect on all the things that we’ve done, all the memories that we’ve made. All I can think about is the impact that we had. I ask myself, did we make a worthwhile contribution? Did we alter the course of the lives of the children we worked with?

I choose to believe that we made a significant difference. It’s funny, the things you realize people take for granted. We assembled a simple one room building with cracks in the corners, and yet the citizens of Portada Del Sol were thrilled. I am still struggling with the sense of entitlement that many Americans seem to have. I just keep telling myself that it will all be okay. I know the building will be used for a good cause that the citizens will benefit from. I think knowing that the kids live in the situations they do is what hurts the most. Knowing that there are kids who cannot be helped is a pain that everyone involved in this group will bear.

I miss the children more than I have before, I think because I know I won’t see them again and because I know that saying they have a hard life is an understatement. However, it’s not all sad. I know that in those days that we worked with the children, they enjoyed themselves. Knowing that I impacted even just one day of their life makes me feel accomplished. I think that seeing what the kids live through was the most humbling experience anyone could ever go through. We also got to do other things outside of volunteering work.

When we went to Cusco, we got to go to Machu Picchu. This for me in a lot of ways was a relieving experience. I feel like it was a huge stress relief to stand on the top of the mountain and look out. The mountains were steady and were steady and unmoving. It was calm and peaceful. It was a great way to come to peace with my thoughts and worries about Portada Del Sol. As I sit here typing this, flying over the Andes again, I look out the window at the mountains and feel that same sense of calm. Just like the steadiness of the mountains, my empathy and humble respect for the people of Portada Del Sol and all the other communities like it, will always remain.

I think I speak for the whole group when I say that I feel content with the work that we accomplished. I can only hope to get to experience something as humbling and amazing as this again. It’s truly been absolutely wonderful.

-Jaccob (Senior, SCHS)

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Wow, right?

What is a legacy? Will I ever really know?

Probably not, to be honest, but I’m trying really hard to be okay with it. Another lyric, that happens to be a real George Washington speech, makes me think a lot about the way I’m feeling. Consider it a modified letter of apology, and a promise to my students and my coworkers and friends.

“Though, in reviewing the incidents of my administration (CLASSROOM), I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors… I shall also carry with me the hope that my country (STUDENTS/FRIENDS) will… view them with indulgence; and that, after forty five (THREE LONG) years of my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as myself must soon be to the mansions of rest (PEACE CORPS CRAZINESS)… I anticipate with pleasing expectation that retreat in which I promise myself to realize… the sweet enjoyment of partaking, in the midst of my fellow-citizens, the benign influence of good laws under a free government, the ever-favorite object of my heart, and the happy reward, as I trust, of our mutual cares, labors, and dangers (AND HOPE THAT I WON’T LET YOU ALL DOWN IN THESE NEW PURSUITS. THANK YOU FOR FOREVER. I CAN’T EVER FORGET. UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN….)”

Wishing SCHS (and the people that make it so great) the best year it’s ever had. Special shout out to my first “babies.” #classof2019 #goodluckseniors

Paz,

Halie

Been

“Well I’ll be your rainy day lover, whenever the sunny days end…”

May 26th, 2018

The Blue Ridge Mounts are immense and sprawling, and the valleys of rolling hills in between are certainly not to be ignored, either.

Meredith’s wedding day began with the ominous promise of rain, rain, and more rain. As I headed toward the venue with a carload of bridesmaids, in a car separate from the bride, I couldn’t help but curse the downpour – I mean, ANY day but this day…

“Yeah, I know we knew this was probably going to happen, I just want it to be perfect for her, you know???”

Radar forewarned of a rain-filled day, and the drive to the orchard/vineyard where Meredith and Aaron would be married seemed only to confirm what we already knew: the clouds were misty and dark.

Once we all got settled in the adorable historic house, flash flood warnings blared through all of our phones. Bridesmaids nervously hushed their phones, trying to shrug off the alarm as “Princeton warnings,” laughing and reassuring the startlingly calm bride.

On this day of my sister’s wedding, the cacophony of clatter and chaos hardly muffled my mild panic. I gazed out at the fog-draped Blue Ridge and began contemplating the subtle art of moving from “being” to “been”

One moment, one phrase, or one decision holds the power of making the present tense suddenly past tense. How does one adjust to a new normal, and when are you able to finally acknowledge your past tense “you?”

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As a general note of explanation, Fall 2015 began what would become three of the most important, transformative, and emotionally exhausting years of my life. In 2015, I not only fell in love with a community and a profession, I fell in love with an album called “Brand New,” by Ben Rector. What follows are journal entries and memories associated with a song lyric from each track on this album. This album filled me, and still fills me, with joy and hope, and whenever I hear these songs, I am transported to a different time and place. That feeling is bittersweet, much like this closing reflection of my time in Inez. Disclaimer: the word count on this one is up there, people. You’ve been warned. 

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1. “Make Something Beautiful”

“Please let me make something beautiful, a thing that reminds us, there’s good in the world. A thing that reminds us there’s still something out there worth fighting for…”

February 18th, 2016

Mornings are seriously the worst. As a first year teacher in her second semester of teaching, I feel like I shouldn’t be stressed every single morning, and yet, the butterflies are here as usual. 

I feel like an imposter teacher nearly every day – even when the lesson goes really well, there’s always this nagging feeling. The voice in my head keeps reminding me “you were not trained enough for this kind of responsibility.”

Shaping young minds? Yeah, right. I mean, I really hope I am, but of course I worry I’m not helping them at all. Am I actually hurting them? 

They deserve better. They are good and capable and pure, for the most part, while I am just a mess. 

2. “Brand New”

“Like when I close my eyes, and don’t even care if anyone sees me dancing, like I can fly, and don’t even think of touching the ground…it’s the way that I feel when I’m with you…brand new.”

May 4th, 2016

I only have ten days left of my first year teaching, and I cannot help but feel a multitude of emotions. Sometimes I’m so exhausted I can’t be happy or sad, and other days leave me feeling all of my emotions at once…

I got to take my Honors group outside to read today. As I was looking around the group, at each of their faces, it hit me in that moment: I will miss them. I will miss this so much. All of them. Next year, even though I know I need to let that group move on and embrace a new freshman class, I will miss them.

10 more days with my first official classrooms, my first official students, and my first official job – a job that I love. I’m eternally grateful, and genuinely excited to watch them grow over the next few years.

Sometimes, these kids make me feel like a better version of an old me. I have love overflowing and abundant…

3. “Paris”

“I remember who we are, when we’re being young and dumb…”

October 6th, 2015

It is a relief to realize a world does exist outside of Inez, after working for a couple months now.

I was flying in an airplane yesterday evening, on my way to visit my grandparents in Florida, and I’m constantly in awe of the view from up above. Now, you have to understand I don’t actually enjoy flying. Every jolt of turbulence, no matter how minor, sends my mind spiraling to my inevitable death that is bound to occur.

Now I’m in Florida and I find myself watching movies with my grandparents. All the good parts of movies, I realize, normally involve the main character flying somewhere beautiful and exciting. For instance, right now, I’m watching “The Prince and Me,” and the main character is flying to Denmark to find her Prince. (If you haven’t seen it, go watch it. It’s a classic)!

A lot of the more memorable experiences of my life started and ended in a plane, so I am grateful that I have had to face my fear of flying many times.

With that being said, my flight to Florida resulted in many, many thoughts. Some were about the future, some were about the past, and some were about the present. My thoughts about the present revolved around the fact that I was totally unsure if it was possible for me to completely immerse myself in the here and now.

Even as I listen to my grandmother recount her “love story” – the story of how she and my grandfather started dating – I find myself caught between eras. There is the era of love she discusses, which is obviously many years ago. Though my grandparents are still very much married and in love, the love that she described is a type that one reminisces about. It is a fairy tale, of sorts, that took place in the past. Of course, we are all sitting in the living room together, in this same moment, talking about those days in the past, meaning we aren’t really in the present.

Then, as she talks about how she fell in love, I also look to the future. I see a future of love for myself, but I’m not sure how that love will start. My friends and I always wonder about these things: have we met our husbands? Will we get married in our twenties? Will we have 12 kids? Will we be financially stable? Oh, and HAVE I MET MY HUSBAND YET?

My roommate and I were talking about our plans “after Teach for America,” and I told him that sometimes I feel really uneasy. Planning for the “after” of something that just started seems both inevitable and unsettling. I feel very happy in my current role, surrounded by the people I find around me, and yet. I still plan for years from now. I want to be a Fulbright Scholar. I want to return to Tanzania to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. I want to join the Peace Corps. I want to get married. I don’t even know what I want, because I want so, so much.

These discussions in the “here and now” take me backwards and forwards, and I’m entirely convinced that we as humans live our entire lives in this LIMBO. We become convinced that things in life won’t play out quite like they did BEFORE, and never quite as good as they may in the AFTER, in the future. Present is never quite good enough, which is why I have always struggled to embrace the idea of living in the “present.” Our entire lives are made up of experiences and memories that color the current experiences we find ourselves in…

4. “The Men That Drive Me Places”

“Oh, isn’t that just the way it goes, you’re dealt a good hand, and you get celebrated…”

November 26th, 2017

I think guilt is one of the most terrifying weapons in life. 

I feel guilty because my parents are wonderful. I feel guilty when my mom and I fight. I feel guilty when we don’t fight. I feel guilty for leaving. I feel guilty for staying. I feel guilty about my inability to help or fix every single situation. I feel guilty because I overstepped – I shouldn’t have tried to fix it. 

I don’t think I am called to guilt. I think I am called to move and do and see and serve and love. Is that what this Peace Corps thing about? I hope so, because all of the people telling me how good and noble and selfless it is have no idea what I’m battling on the inside. And then I feel guilty about feeling guilty. What’s up with that?

5. “Fear”

“And I remembered who I was when I learned to dance with the fear that I’d been running from.”

March 2017

Courage isn’t a gun in your hand. I mean, it can be, but it’s not the only way someone is courageous (thanks for that reminder, Atticus). 

Courage is sending a student out of your class, knowing that it might be the only thing that allows them to take a deep breath.

Courage is having a conversation about RACISM with a student who hates all Muslims. 

Courage is challenging students who use the word “retarded” by asking them to choose a better, more descriptive, non-derogatory word. 

Courage is being able to meet with a parent who dislikes you. Courage is standing your ground and not lowering expectations to make said parent happy.

COURAGE is advocating for students who have been lost in the shuffle. Courage is trying to calm a student with Autism in the middle of a tantrum – even though he’s twice your size. 

Courage is allowing yourself room to keep growing. Courage is me.

6. “Note to Self”

“Don’t let yourself worry quite as much, it’ll end up fine enough it always has up until now. Something else, you should think of other people a little more. You shoulda thought of that before, ’cause of everything you’ve written down, this is the first note that you wrote for someone else. Note to self.”

October 26th, 2016

Here I sit, home from Asheville, working on my Vision. In that vision, I’m supposed to figure out what I want my class, and all it’s moving parts, to mean for my students – 5, 10, 15 years down the road. Imagine having 137 students to think about, care for, and worry about. I can’t imagine what I want my own life to look like 5 years down the road, much less each individual student’s life.

And yet.

I see one student, who is 100% positive school isn’t for him. He’s working as a mechanic in Inez. Work is steady, but not busy, because, unfortunately, the area has only continued to lose families due to mine closings. I see my student changing the oil on one car, and I see one man approach the garage, looking burdened and distracted.

“How can I help you,” says my student, clearly not having caught on to this man’s despair, staring into the belly of the car in front of him.

“Well…you see… I just found out I got laid off at the mines, and wouldn’t you know it, my back tire just blew out a little ways up the road. Listen, I know you don’t know me, but could you possibly come help me change the tire? If not, I get it, but I was just kinda hoping…”

In that moment, I imagine my student remembering my class. He doesn’t know why, but he remembers some quote about “walking in someone else’s skin,” and something about sympathy. Or was it empathy? He has an oil change to finish before his customer gets off work, but he finds himself nodding his head. He grabs the wrenches and the car jack, smiles lightly, and heads out of the garage.

“I’m sorry to hear about your job. Let’s do something about that tire.”

They both walk off, not really understanding why it is we do the things we do, as humans, to show each other kindness…

This snapshot moment I imagine for my student is worth all of these relentless questions of love and value and disgrace and honor. They are unanswerable – quite literally – but never seem to leave me alone. So, what is love? Love is finding the better parts of living, showing kindness and compassion, all the while realizing that some things in life aren’t going to be flawless, and you handle those things with grace, too. But what does that mean day to day? Who knows. My students and I don’t always love fully – it’s often messy, blurred with lines of fading and shifting complexities.

I am reminded tonight of another moment in “We Are Marshall.” It is the moment at the cemetery where Coach Lengyel is trying to remind the players of their purpose. He reminds them that technically, the score doesn’t matter at the end of the game. What matters, instead, is remembering those you play for. Honoring them, the players and family lost in the plane crash, is as simple as trying their very best.

Coach Lengyel says, “If you do that, if you play like that, we cannot lose. We may be behind on the scoreboard at the end of the game, but we cannot lose.”

I feel like I’m disgracing my students, sometimes, not knowing how to do this thing called love. Not knowing which ways I can help without hurting. Not knowing when I should be firm in my expectations, while still showing compassion. After a very exhausting first quarter, a weekend getaway, and some imagining, however, I am sure that I agree most with Coach Lengyel in his pre-game speech. I’ll walk into the classroom tomorrow, and I will try to be tough and effective, while still trying to love each student. I may be behind – on data submissions or email reminders – but if I try, and I love, then I cannot lose. If I remember whom I’m playing for, I won’t disgrace them. Hopefully, they’ll show others kindness, too, and in that, we cannot lose.

7. “Like the World is Gonna End”

“If we found out that the world was gonna end on Tuesday morning, what would everybody do? It’s funny how the thought of that can make some things real important, and a lot of things seem pretty worthless, too.”

June 5th, 2017

As I prepare to enter year 3 in the classroom, I have compiled a metaphorical piece of advice for new corps members entering the classroom. The advice is as follows:

“If you had told me two years ago that I’d make lifelong, best friends here, I wouldn’t have believed you. If you had told me two years ago that those friends would actually feel more like family, I would have laughed. If you had told me two years ago that the memories I made with those people would make tears run down my face and make my heart physically ache to laugh and remember, I wouldn’t have believed you. If you had told me two years ago that these students would teach me way more than I could ever teach them, I wouldn’t have believed you. If you had told me I’d be getting ready for year three, I would have laughed (especially after that first month). And yet. It’s all true. Believe me. Don’t sweat the small stuff. And really, in this crazy job, in this crazy world, most of it’s small stuff. Show up, get ready to love a whole lot more than you think you’re able to, and you’ll soon be the one imparting advice on the next crew to step into Appalachia.”

8. “Crazy”

“Last night was crazy, yeah we tore it up again. Kicked off our shoes and went to bed by 9 PM.”

March 2016

Since teaching, I go to bed as early as possible, and when I visit friends, like I just did this weekend, the fact that they want to drink and stay out late and wear clothes I, well, never did…it makes me feel super boring and super out of place.

Yikes…that was word vomit. 

But it was TRUE word vomit. I feel like I’m an old woman. I feel like this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes I feel like I’m just out of place.

9. “Almost Home”

“One million miles of fear and beauty, I could not explain it even if I tried.”

*Current thoughts about this whole big messy fun crazy important experience.*

10. “30,000 Feet”

“I’ve seen couple places I never thought I’d see. I’ve walked into harder times, I’ve walked out the other side. It seems like you end up getting what you need. Yeah, looking down from 30,000 feet, life’s been good to me.”

 11. “More Like Love”

“But the funny thing is anytime I’ve gotten what I want, it lets me down. Now I just wanna look more like love…This whole world is spinning crazy, and I can’t quite keep up. It’s the one thing around here that we don’t have quite enough of, so I just wanna look a little more like love.”

April 13th, 2017

Some days, teaching makes me feel more like myself than I ever have. Other days, however, I feel; like I”m very much the opposite of myself. Today, 5th period was being…well…5th period, so I started to get mad. Like, REALLY mad. They kept asking me “why are we doing this,” blah, blah, blah. When I tried to give the TFA-approved answers, explaining real world connections and all that, I was rewarded with sassy remarks and more questions (definitely posed to undermine whatever scrap of authority I have left this year).

“Ms. Putorek, I don’t want to do this…”

Well, unnamed child. Guess what?

I don’t care.

I don’t care that you don’t want to read out loud. 

I don’t care if you hate this book.

I don’t care if you hate me.

I don’t care if you hate English.

I don’t care if you don’t feel like this information matters to your life.

I just do not care…

And that’s because I literally care so damn much.

I’m still trying to learn how to love without lowering those expectations, but I’m really tired. How do I love these kids the way they need to be loved?

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May 26th, 2018

On this day of my sister’s wedding, the cacophony of clatter and chaos hardly muffled my mild panic. I gazed out at the fog-draped Blue Ridge and began contemplating the subtle art of moving from “being” to “been”

One moment, one phrase, or one decision holds the power of making the present tense suddenly past tense. How does one adjust to a new normal, and when are you able to finally acknowledge your past tense “you?”

Luckily, I was shaken from my musings by shouts of “it’s stopped raining – let’s get these pictures in quick!”

Meredith and Aaron opted for the “first look” moment, so Amanda and I walked her out to her groom, and then we ran back to the house so they could have their moment. When Aaron turned around, the world blurred for me, and I feel sure it blurred for him, also.

The pictures were taken, and the light drizzle of rain could hardly stop a ceremony that had been planned for a full year.

No one can prepare you for a moment you’ve imagined your whole entire life. As much as I swore I wouldn’t cry, anyone who knows me, knows I was an absolute wreck as my father walked up the porch steps, opened the door, and escorted Meredith out of that house, solemnly down toward her new self. A violin track played softly in the background, her dress was a vision I never could have dreamt up, and I swear in that moment I saw our shared past and her separate future. The “I Do’s” were said, a hymn sung, and the bridal party greeted with a much needed glass of wine at the end of the aisle, post-ceremony. (Praise the lord for wine. That’s all I’ll say here on this point).

Meredith and Aaron later shared their first dance (as a married couple) to a Ben Rector song off an earlier album. The song talks about loving in the sun and the rain, and it not only ironically became a literal representation of that day, but a metaphorical prediction for their life together, I would imagine.

As I was driving back to Inez for my last week in the classroom, wouldn’t you guess it: a NEW Ben Rector song started playing on my Spotify. (God Bless Ben Rector).

Windows rolled down, sun shining, daydreaming, these words spoke to my soul and reminded me of so many truths:

“No matter who I might become or who I’ve been before, I will always be yours.” 

Even as we move from “being” to “been,” we glimpse, at specific moments in life, the very most sacred parts of our selves that can’t ever change. This is true for MereMere and Aaron. This is true for my students. This is true for my parents. This is true for me.

I have been a teacher. I have been loved.

I will be okay in this new opportunity, and will more than likely be on the receiving end of new moments that make my heart ache in all the best ways.

Inez, you’ve been an absolute life-changer, and I am better because of you and all of the people that call you “home.”

And now… on to the next adventure.

Paz,

Halie

Beginning of year one.

End of year three.

Awareness

Things that change:

The length and color of my hair. Every single era of my life is marked by a change on top of my head. This fact is not unknown. In fact, it’s kind of a running joke: Halie cut her hair…again.

My musical preference. Every winter I need some folk music to rejuvenate my soul. Country and hip-hop during the hotter months. Fall is a time for mellow pop. And so on and so forth.

The type of jeans I like to wear. When I was in middle school, you had to have boot cut jeans that covered your Birkenstock slide-ons “just so.” High school was the era of skinny jeans with holes. Now? Well…still tight. No holes, though.

My opinions on various religious ideology. The more I read and listen and speak, the more I’m discovering about this religion that I never even feel like I got to choose. The more I contemplate and challenge, the more I grow.

The number of times I find myself realizing I’m turning into my mother. In case anyone was curious, the older I get, the MORE these events occur. Today: I looked at my sister, panicked that she didn’t like the cake I made. I said the same thing my mom says…

Things that don’t change:

The way the springtime always has a way of surprising me. The green leaves that are one-day-gone, and the next-day-here. The woods behind my house that get denser with every clock-tick.

The way the fall always has a way of surprising me. The green leaves that aren’t so green. Golds and hues of deep oranges and reds that make the world look like it’s on fire. My soul feels hotter, even as the world gets colder.

The way my family is annoyingly aware of every decision I am making. They are amazingly still supportive nevertheless. They still are slightly over-dramatic at times, but I literally wouldn’t trade them for anything.

The way my eyes still seemingly leak at the realization that change is an inevitable occurrence. The more you dread something, the faster it approaches. My eyes leak a lot these days.

The way I always feel conflicted. To stay or leave? To love or hate? To speak or listen? To stand or fall? To cry or laugh?

Is “both” an acceptable answer?

It’s going to have to be, because the other thing that never changes is my stubborn desire to stay rooted in my need to uproot.

Halie

 

Seventeen

 

“Ms. Putorek,” one student shouted as soon as they walked in my third period class. “Are you going to walk out too?”

“Walk out where?”

“You know…outside…for the shooting.”

Wait. What?

“Uhhh…what are you talking about?”

Those were the words that sent me down a black hole of emotions – dismay, anger, dread, fear, exasperation, exhaustion and absolute frustration. My kids left the class. All but two walked outside for…well…no one could really say why exactly they walked out. But as they walked down the halls, my stomach did somersaults and twists and I tried not to get in my head.  Nonetheless, I catapulted into my mind, where I was held hostage for about an hour.

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You see, I haven’t been sleeping well since last week. I’ve had at least 3 nightmares involving vivid and detailed school shootings, and I know for a FACT I’m not the only teacher who has had to plan exactly what they would do if a gunman entered their classroom.

I know what my students would do, where I would be, what objects I would use as a shield and as a weapon – these weapons are school supplies and decorations in my room: staplers, scissors, old milky-glass chemical bottles from the high school’s chemistry lab (at the original Sheldon Clark), chemical sprays, and the biggest text books I could grab.

My weapons of choice probably wouldn’t be much against a military-grade assault rifle…let’s be honest.

However, in second period when my students asked me if I would carry a gun to school if it became legal, my answer was a firm “no.”

…pay me more for putting up with my wild 2nd period….

“Why, Ms. Putorek??? It could save you! AND US!”

“Guys…if I wanted to carry a gun and try to save other human beings, I would have been a police officer or a military person. I didn’t want to have that kind of responsibility, to be honest. Yet, here I am, planning what I would do to save your lives.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, really! I know where you would crouch and everything. Firing a gun to keep you safe just was never part of the plan. So…no thanks. Oh, by the way. The government won’t buy y’all pencils. They won’t buy you technology that you need, and they won’t fix my smart board. They certainly won’t be purchasing my handgun anytime soon, even if I wanted them to. So.”

The students looked at me with looks of confusion. They glanced at me out of the side of their eyes, and I’m not really sure what they thought about the fact that I wasn’t all too happy about having to take on a role of “protector” that I never signed up for.

Here’s the thing: when people find out I’m a teacher, they say things like “thank you so much for what you do,” “that can’t be easy…especially with everything happening in our world today,” and “you’re way braver than me.”

I’m not brave. Teaching isn’t supposed to be brave. It is most certainly important, necessary, and terribly challenging work. But I didn’t get into teaching because I’m brave, and I am really pissed off that my profession is now something lauded as courageous.

Damn, y’all.

I just want to help kids write poems. I want to read “To Kill a Mockingbird” and discuss themes and metaphors and prejudice. I want to listen to them create conspiracy theories about Boo Radley, and I want to help them articulate a really strong argument in favor of school uniforms. I can even manage the daily/weekly chats about the importance of mental health awareness and self-love.

You know what I don’t want to do?

I don’t want to jump every time someone knocks on my door. I don’t want to genuinely yelp when I hear loud noises in the hallway. I don’t want to feel sick every morning I wake up, fearing for my life and the lives of my students. (Did you notice I said MY life first? See? I told you I wasn’t brave. I’m actually incredible selfish, and very much afraid of having to dive in front of a kid a love, saving him or her from another kid I love who is aiming a gun at us).

If you’re still reading, I hope you won’t think I’m trying to get political. To me, what happened today isn’t about gun control: it’s about a child’s desire and right to feel safe at school. It’s also about me: the teacher people either hate or idolize. The teacher who “gets paid for only 9 months of work, and still expects more!” It’s about the fact that these students shouldn’t have to think about whether or not the day will bring another shooting/bomb threat or worse.

Prayer in schools won’t help, because the people who come ready to light it up aren’t really thinking about Jesus’ great sacrifice. Someone in their life, long before they came packing, already screwed up religion for them.

Smarter gun laws also won’t solve the problem…at least not entirely (though it FOR SURE can’t hurt to make sure people who buy assault rifles are mentally sound, and have to pass some sort of test and background check…and maybe have to be in the MILITARY..since it’s literally a weapon designated for war).

Obviously, most people are assuming it is a “mental health issue.” And they’re RIGHT…but it’s not just a severe shortage of school counselors that is fully to blame for these atrocities that just.keep.happening.

This crisis we are facing in our country is very, very complex. I’m not smart enough to even dive into the various obstacles and stigmas we must overcome to fix this problem for students, teachers, and the parents that send their kids to school every single day. I’m not smart enough to even pretend to understand the various obstacles we must overcome to fix this problem.

However, I still have to show up to a job that I (for the most part) absolutely adore, with students I would do anything for. I don’t say that lightly, because I truly believe if it came down to it, I would do everything within my power to protect them.

BUT I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO DIE TO PROTECT THEM. Does that make sense?

I believe I would die to protect them, but I don’t want to live in a world where that is okay.

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My reflection was mostly a rant of frustration, specifically surrounding the walk-out today. I felt conflicted, because I know some students are genuinely terrified to be at school. I also know, however, that some students will use whatever excuse they can possibly come up with to get out of class – even if that excuse is 17 dead human beings who were massacred as they began to wrap up their school day.

“17 people are dead.

Even more if you count the school shootings already long forgotten. I remember the VT shooting – worrying about my cousin who went to school there at the time. I remember hearing about a Holocaust survivor who was killed while barricading the door of his classroom. He survived to move to America, HOME OF THE BRAVE, to teach at a prestigious engineering college, only to get slaughtered by a gunman. Home of the brave?

Now I’m a teacher, and I’m scared every single day for my students…for myself, for my coworkers, for my family. 

But I show up anyways.

And now, today, here’s this walk-out. Why? What do you stand for, kids? 

Because if you stand for time out of class or just for the fun of it, may I remind you that 17 people are dead?

If you want real change – fine. Walk out. Petition. Riot. Organize. 

But if you’re searching for drama or excitement or some sick form of entertainment, MAY I REMIND YOU THAT 17 PEOPLE ARE DEAD?

This. Is. Not. A. Joke. 

Action is fine – needed, even. But don’t you dare use these atrocities to justify your immature desire to skip 3rd period. Please. There’s too much at stake.”

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One of the best parts of my jobs is obviously all the GOOD I get to witness in my students.

What has become impossible to ignore, however, is the constant fear and stress and frustration I’ve begun to notice almost daily. I have students writing poems about a society that does nothing to empower and inspire them, or, even more shockingly, makes them feel unsafe. These students are humans who feel fear. They know what intolerance looks like, and they certainly know what it means to be scared. Take a look below – those are words from a kid I LOVE. How is this okay?

People joke about “safe zones,” but hearing the way children speak to one another, and recognizing the magnitude of the news stories and societal “norms” they have been exposed to, I totally understand the need for these areas of safety.

…And if you’re someone who thinks kids being and feeling safe and valued is political, then we are NOT cut from the same cloth. (I almost said another curse word there, but felt like my anger and sadness shouldn’t make me curse again in this blog post).

So here’s what you can do, if you’re reading this.

Arm the teachers around you with a few things:

Goodness. I’m tired and sad, and hopeful that one day soon, my students and I won’t have to discuss the various items around my room we will use as shields. I’m excited for the day a slamming door won’t make me jump out of my shoes. I’m hopeful that tonight I will dream of happy endings for my kiddos, and not our funerals.

What do you stand for?

Halie

P.S. This meme spoke to me on a spiritual level.

 

 

Water

“Now the earth was corrupt in God’s sight and was full of violence. God saw how corrupt the earth had become…so God said to Noah…’I am going to bring flood waters on the earth to destroy all life under the heavens…'”  [Genesis 6: 11-17]

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You have to be careful how you say the word “water” as of late. The community that I find myself living and working in, is one with a serious water problem.

Of course, the problem of the water is entirely dependent on which side you find yourself pressed against, and who you believe, like anything else in life. Is the water unclean, or is it just the overreaction of those “left-wing, nut-job media enthusiasts?” Have the citizens of this community been bamboozled year after year, questions unanswered, totally ignored…or did they even ask questions at all?

Will this water actually give me cancer? Will it make me sick, like the Mexican water did back in 07′? Are we on a boil water advisory? Is that even a real thing? I’m being told I can ignore it by some people, and others won’t touch a coffee pot percolating the unclean Martin County water. Flint had a real crisis – Mercury in their water. Is ours that bad?

Water is not a safe topic of conversation anymore.

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“And have you seen the water that you drink? Is it you who brought it down from the clouds, or is it We who bring it down? If We willed,
We could make it bitter, so why are you not grateful?” [Qur’an 56: 58-70]

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Water has always fascinated me on about a hundred different levels. Certainly, molecularly, water is fascinating. For fear of sounding idiotic, I’ll pretend I don’t want to bore you with “science,” (when really I just don’t remember much from my 11th grade Chemistry class)…but water can take the form of all three states of matter. We can breathe water into our lungs when it’s in the form of a gas, or we can drown in it, if it’s liquid…or we can slip and fall on it if it’s a solid.

Water has the ability to cleanse, right?

You all know those scenes in movies – something bad has happened – a death, a violation, an unwanted epiphany, a diagnosis – and the main character stands looking into the faucet as the water washes over their skin. Comfort pours out like rain.

I was baptized last summer in the water of the Jordan River, and I’ve never felt cleaner.

I was able to float in the Dead Sea last summer, too. The miracles of water!

Water can cleanse.

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“… I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.” [Sarah Kay, “If I Should Have a Daughter]

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Water can destroy.

I remember watching images of Hurricane Katrina. I remember seeing people on their roof tops, waiting to be rescued by those helicopters that hovered on my television screen. Never mind the fact that another helicopter hovered nearby – not to save anyone, though. Just to bare witness to the power of the water. A new and sick spectator sport – watching people who are suffering while sipping rosé in Malibu.

I saw my state ravaged by floods last summer.

I saw the Tug River begin filling the basins on Turkey Creek just two nights ago. The water was creeping into the roadway, fingertips reaching towards it’s other half – as if Mother Nature recognized that roadway as just another piece of land to reclaim and renew. I saw the trash from the Appalachian riverbanks making its way down to destinations unknown. The trash that littered the newly-cleaned banks of my home will only get pushed along to an unwilling trash collector. Disgusting.

I saw waterfalls, and I saw and felt roaring white water- look out for the cheese grater rocks, because the river water holds no bias. You can get sucked under just as easily as the person sitting next to you. Riptides. Waves that surprise and destroy. That tsunami in Asia way back when…news coverage that was unimaginable. A man standing on the beach, not bothering to run, looking straight ahead at his fate – an image seared into my brain, but one I always think about when my toes find the water of an ocean.

How can something so naturally cleansing become something so dangerous?

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“[iii.5] … the storm
… were yoked
Anzu rent the sky with his talons,
He … the land

[iii.10] and broke its clamor like a pot.
… the flood came forth.
Its power came upn the peoples like a battle,
one person did not see another,
they could not recognize each other in the catastrophe.

[iii.15] The deluge belowed like a bull,
The wind resounded like a screaming eagle.
The darkness was dense, the sun was gone,
… like flies.

[iii.20] the clamor of the deluge.” [Epic of Atra-hasis, Babylonian Flood Story]

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And now, back to this topic of water in Martin County.

I have been witnessing a division that seems almost comical, in a way, if I might be so bold. We don’t have water, so everyone is pointing fingers at everyone else. It’s everyone else’s fault because obviously it has to be a person’s fault. Or one single group’s fault. Obviously!

We have water, but it’s not clean enough, so everyone is pointing fingers at everyone else. We don’t have water, so everyone is pointing fingers at the sky. We have too much water, so everyone is pointing fingers…at the sky again?

I still can’t say the word “water” without starting a debate. I can’t have a gender reveal party (or whatever those things are called) without inciting violent threats and hate. I can’t reasonably point out the irony/potentially bad-timing of said “gender reveal party” without inciting violent threats and hate. I can’t say the word “w&%#@” anymore…it’s like a curse word… and that is terrifying…but can I drink it, or not?

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“The… land shattered like a… pot.
All day long the South Wind blew …,
blowing fast, submerging the mountain in water,
overwhelming the people like an attack.
No one could see his fellow,
they could not recognize each other in the torrent.
The gods were frightened by the Flood…”

[Epic of Gilgamesh, Mesopotamian flood legend]

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There’s a poem I like, that many of you may have heard. One line references the narrator’s frustration with being surrounded by ocean water: “water, water, every where, nor any drop to drink.” How interesting to realize that we as humans demand so much perfection and convenience, we can’t even look out to an infinite ocean horizon without being immediately frustrated by our inability to totally control it or utilize it at our whim.

We want control, but we don’t want to take responsibility. We want convenience, but don’t want to actually take steps to make necessities like water convenient and healthy. If there’s a problem, fix it…but if you’re not trying to fix the problem, don’t keep complaining.

“Be careful what you wish for” is an old adage that comes to mind when I think about the filth and hate I’ve witnessed as of late. Division even amongst people who cry out “unity!” Irony and hypocrisy flow as freely as the flood waters.

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“He waited seven days and again sent out the dove from the ark. When the dove returned to him in the evening, there in it’s beak was a freshly plucked olive leaf! Then Noah knew that the water had receded from the earth.” [Genesis 8: 10-11]

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I’m waiting for the promise of happier times and happier people and moments where an entire region doesn’t hate one another for reasons they can’t quite explain. I’m anxious for the olive branches of honest dialogue, with no more finger pointing.

…But I’m afraid that the dove might not be ready to return to the Ark, yet. The ground is still covered in water, and until people move away from computer screens in favor of real human interactions and looking each other in the eyes, the dove won’t find any sign of life among us at all. Just flood waters.

Be careful what you wish for.