Happy Thanksgiving

This is my prayer of gratitude: Nearly my entire life I have had all of my physiological needs, safety needs, love needs, esteem needs, and even self-actualization needs met and oftentimes far-surpassed. A close friend recently shared with me that if you have a shelter, just a simple roof over your head, and $20 in your pocket – you are among the richest 25% of the world. To say that I am blessed and privileged would be a gross understatement. The magnitudes of the blessings which I enjoy daily are beyond my comprehension. All of the love and support which others have shown to Danny and I solidifies my conviction: I am so incredibly thankful.

A Sampling of Countries

The past week and a half has been like a small sampling platter of little-known countries from Central Europe for us to taste and savor. The first flavor we experienced was seeped in ancient beauty. A busload of students ventured to the village of Český Krumlov in the Czech Republic, where we found Professor Lanier’s description of the town as "a place that never left the 15th century," to be true. Amid the cobblestone streets was a castle and gardens perched upon a hill, a monastery brewing beer, a river meandering through the village, and bears guarding the palace entrance. Danny and I were intrigued by the stores full of marionettes and sweet cinnamon rolls.

The second flavor of the week was brief but luxurious in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On our 15 hour bus transfer from Austria to Croatia we spent the night in this capital city. I was charmed by the mix of old and new architecture, the snow-capped mountains, and new language. In a large group, we ate arguably the best meal on the trip so far, in a traditional Bosnian restaurant. The waitress brought out plate after plate of sumptuous dishes and we gorged ourselves with each course. I didn’t have any preexisting schema to anticipate what Bosnian food tastes like, and I still lack the vocabulary to do it justice, but it was amazing. Meat dishes, salad dishes, breads, it was truly a feast.

The next country we savored was a small village by the Adriatic Sea in Bosnia Herzegovina. We stopped for coffee, treats, and soaked up the sunshine, the first since arriving in Austria. Our journey through Bosnia was on a small two lane highway through curvaceous mountains that brought spectacular views with each twist.

A few more hours of driving and we encountered our final flavor of the summer school course: salty, tropical, and a little gritty; Croatia. We arrived at our hotel and were greeted by the blue clear water and skies of the Adriatic. We are staying in a small ocean village called Mlini, close to the gorgeous, walled city of Dubrovnik.

Our simplistic hotel is the site where less than twenty years prior, the Serbian rebel forces stayed while they bombed the surrounding area. To this day, there are the standing shells of former five star hotels sitting unused and lonely on the coast’s edge. Our lodgings are less accommodating than Danny had anticipated. I laughed at his antics and tried to point out the fact that our room was less than twenty feet from the ocean, but between the overwhelming smell of ant-killer, wiring coming out of the wall, flooding in the bathroom, a nonfunctioning room phone and air conditioner, and finally, a four inch centipede crawling onto the bed, Danny argued our way into a room change.

Since arriving we have indulged in the sand, sun, cold ocean water, boat cruises, island tours, parasailing, kayaking, cave exploring, and visits to Dubrovnik. It has been a delicious change from the cold and dreary days in Austria. Studying has been a near impossibility for all of the law students with the gleam of the sun and water shining in their eyes. Conversely, my biggest challenge and responsibility of the day has been preventing sunburn while I frolic on the beach. We are unquestionably “on vacation” now.

Danny is eager for the ferry ride to Italy, and I am excited to start traveling on our own. There is only one day left of class for Danny, and then a farewell dinner before the law program ends. It has been fantastic meeting and becoming friends with all of the law students from Missouri, Florida, and Atlanta. We share some amazing travel stories and experiences together that we won’t soon forget. We are hoping to take up a few of the offers, and visit our new friends in their respective states.

Until next time (when we will be in Rome!), Do videnja (Good bye in Croatian).

Mauthausen, Concentration Camp

Danny and I just returned from a concentration camp memorial in Mauthausen, Austria. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up just remembering what I saw there. Our group arrived at the memorial and I found the gray and dreary weather fitting for the tense nervousness I felt about entering such a place.

Going into the museum hall, I looked out at the green flowered fields and the walled fortress of the concentration camp and was surprised at its unobtrusiveness. Danny had the same thought and said to me, “If you didn’t know what the history of this building was, you might think it is actually kind of nice.”

We watched a video outlining the atrocities that took place at the concentration camp. The evil of man knows no bounds. Historians estimate that between 200,000 – 300,000 people were killed in this work camp through hard labor, starvation, gassing, or other forms of torture and murder. It was the last concentration camp to be liberated by the Allies.

The theater was dead silent as the film came to an end, and we wiped our tears and headed into the mist outside to see the physical structures that bore witness to the carnage. I have seen videos on the holocaust before, and I have felt the numbness that comes with the knowledge of man’s wickedness, but being there and actually touching, seeing, and breathing in the air of that place is a whole other experience.

Climbing up the hill and through the fortress doors I immediately felt a physical sense of repulsion. I felt the weight of all those souls who had perished here, and was overcome by a strong feeling of evil. The chills I felt up and down my spine and the sudden dryness of my throat were a physical reaction to the anguished and malevolent energy that clung to the buildings. Mauthausen is truly an evil place.

We entered the rooms where prisoners were kept, and it was impossible to not imagine the hundreds of people who died where I was standing. I felt as if the tired eyes of all those tortured spirits were watching my steps and considering my presence silently. I was not alone in that room.

Danny and I came upon the crematorium, a staircase descending into a dark basement below the prison cells, and I could feel swaths of hate pouring out from its underground lair. I did not want to go into this room, I was afraid of this room, but I told myself I should see it, to make it real.

It was real.

The ovens, the body dissecting table, the corpse storage room, all of it was horrendously real. Scrawled on the inside of one of the cells was this message from a prisoner, “If there is a God he will have to beg for my forgiveness.”

As we walked back to our bus, Danny and I both breathed deeply as if we had been holding our breath for the past three hours. I felt like there were eyes on our backs, and I just wanted to distance myself from that place as fast as possible.

Seeing the darkest scars of history raises more questions than gives answers. It makes you search your soul for a purpose behind such suffering. In all the potential for good that humankind has, how does something this depraved happen?

It makes me realize how grateful I am for the freedoms I have, for the life I live. It makes me want to fight against future injustices, and I believe that Danny and I are in a unique position to do just that; Danny through law, and myself through teaching. Hopefully we can make a small contribution towards shaping the world into a better, more tolerant and just place to ensure that these tragedies are not repeated.

Ahh, Venice

Ahh, Venice. Like a cool, refreshing breeze on warm sunny day. Enveloping you, refreshing your spirit, and awakening your mind. How do I describe the beauty and romanticism of this place? I guess I should begin with our journey there.

Driving through the Austrian Alps towards Italy was stunning. Again, we were privy to witness a place where the heavens come down to touch the earth. Clouds huddled toward the upper reaches of snowcapped rock, misting the earth. Once parted, they revealed a world below of intense colors; sharp blue skies and searing green valleys, an image that my eyes won’t soon forget. It felt as if the colors in this part of the world were painted in a vivid hue that awakened the mind.

As we drove, Danny and I both felt a certain domicile pride. We were traversing the land of our forefathers and mothers. We passed by signs for Udine, the town where my great-grand parents had lived, and crossed the border into Italy where signs suddenly shifted into Italian and Danny beamed.

As we approached closer to Venice the air became salty and gained the humidity of a sea town. Danny and I practiced out of our Italian phrase book with growing enthusiasm. When we finally arrived onto the island and stepped out of the train station, the stunning beauty of picturesque Venice, took me off guard. It was every bit as beautiful as photographs I had seen and then some. Pictures could never capture the sounds, smells, and motion of the town.

Everywhere we looked there were boats of all sizes zooming by with their engines humming merrily. Tourists moved through the streets with vendors selling their wares and calling out in Italian the day’s specials. Sea birds cried from the air above and swooped in to grab scraps of unwatched food. And everywhere we went were the soothing sounds of water lapping onto ancient city walls in the wake of all the gondolas, water taxis, and motor boats.

And the smells! As we slowly made our way through the tangled streets to our hotel, each corner effused a new delicious smell. Fresh baked cheese pizza, a sea food market, pasta with white sauce, garlic bread, and a sweets store. My mouth was watering as Danny declared, “I’m going to eat my way through this city!”

When we found our hotel, we were pleasantly surprised. Our expectations were outdone as we were led up to our room and the doorman threw back the blinds. From the fourth floor, our corner room had four windows looking out over San Marco’s square, the Basilica, and canals being traversed with gondolas.

Without a doubt, Venice is the most romantic place I have ever been. The air was thick with the languid warmth of love. Couples walked hand in hand, musicians played passionate melodies on every street corner, and lovers unexpectedly paired off to dance. It was if every couple had slipped into their own private space, glowing with the drunkenness of the honeymoon, tightly wrapped in a love cocoon.

Danny and I were immediately enveloped in the mood of the city, purposefully getting lost in the winding streets and alleys, only to find our way out again. We ate some of the best food of our lives. Pasta, seafood (I tried octopus, snails, and mussels!), pizza, and gelato. Oh! The gelato! Every corner had a stand, and I tried five different flavors – I was truly in heaven. Danny ate the best and worst pizza of his life all in the same day. We went on a gondola ride with friends, shopped, ate romantic meals, toured the palace, took in the sights, and attended Mass at the Basilica on Sunday.

Danny and I laughed hysterically as we watched the Italians “communicate” with each other. For example, two little boys were playing with toy cars, and launched them flying into the air off a banister while their mother and grandmother weren’t looking. Immediately both women launched into a rapid diatribe in Italian, scolding the boys for their poor manners and grandma reached to smack one on the head. Danny burst out laughing, fondly remembering similar stories about his grandmother. Another example, Danny and I were walking through a side street in a residential area and a man started screaming in Italian, in a tone that made Danny pick up the pace and look back concerned. Danny later explained that he might not understand the words, but that tone was unmistakable, it was the “I’m-so-mad-I’m-about-to-throw-something” tone. Hand movements and animated faces were present in every Italian conversation. Strangers’ faces in the street had uncanny resemblance to various branches of Danny’s family tree. And Danny felt completely at home, jokingly pointing out the various ways that his fatherland was superior to my own. (I will give him the concession that Italian food is far better than Austrian food.)

Three days in Venice was not enough time to truly appreciate and take in the city. Danny and I quickly decided that, of all the places we have been, Venice was the one we want to revisit in the future.

So, as I wrote at the beginning, to summarize my thoughts, I can do it in only one way…

Ahh, Venice (sigh).

The Hills Really Are Alive with the Sound of Music, Just Not in Budapest

So I wouldn’t call Hungary a third world country (my previous experiences make this label seem far too severe), but it is certainly a fallen country. Allow me to illustrate. As we arrived in "Buda," we were able to look out over the Danube River to the "Pest" side that comprises Budapest. From afar I was struck by the city’s beauty; shining castles, ancient buildings, the grandeur of the Parliament building, a sense of real history. But upon up close examination, things took on a far darker hue.

In our three day weekend adventure, Danny and I were witness to both the light and dark side of the capital city. We ate traditional Hungarian food as we were serenaded by a gypsy band. We went to see the Hungarian opera Xerxes in the exquisite Magyar Állami opera house (see photo below). We climbed to the top of the citadel overlooking the entire city and ate lunch. We continued our tradition of guided bus tours and I took hundreds of photos of the rich architecture, statues, and sights that saturated the city.

However, for the first time since arriving in Europe, we glimpsed the effects of poverty. Prostitutes were out on the streets openly soliciting men as they passed. Garbage, graffiti, revealing smells, and grime permeated all parts of the city. The Hungarian police were extremely vigorous, arresting or questioning people at least half a dozen times (that I saw) in our short stay. A drugged and homeless man came up and grabbed the hand of one of our friends, kissed it repeatedly, and then immediately tried to box him. All of this was mixed in with the remnants of palaces and buildings which echoed the former power and influence of the country.

The cause of this decline was detailed on our bus tour throughout Budapest. We learned about a king who was tied to his royal throne with his crown upon his head and burned to death, grand palaces that were blown up or destroyed during the communist era, another king who was placed in a barrel filled with nails and pushed down a steep hill into the river, witches who were hunted and killed until the 18th century, and the Jewish holocaust during the Nazi era, just to name a few of the bloody horrors that were included in this city’s history. Just your average happy little city tour, right? Clearly, Budapest’s tragic past accounted for the shabby, faded, and deteriorated state of its buildings, government, and even the depressed state of many of its people.

The final event that solidified my wary sentiments towards the city happened when a group of law students returned from a river cruise and explained what they had witnessed. While enjoying the views of the palaces lit up at night, someone noticed a man at the top of an extension bridge over the river. He had managed to climb to the very top and was riding an eagle sculpture which crowned the structure. Police, emergency crews, and a crane were below trying to get him down. As they watched, the man lit himself on fire, jumped off the eagle, and landed suddenly on the bridge’s pavement, not making it into the water. To say the least, this group of friends was stunned.

As we loaded the return bus, Danny and I were in agreement that, although we were glad to have experienced it the one time, we would not be visiting Budapest anytime again and that touring Austria would be a welcome departure.

And tour Austria we did.

This past week the class traveled to both Salzburg and Vienna for lectures on arbitration law by Austrian professors and judges. I’m not sure what Danny learned in his classes, but while we gallivanted around after class, I learned that Austria is a truly stunning and diverse country.

In Salzburg (the filming location for The Sound of Music) we used our free afternoon to visit ice caves in the Alps. It was incredible! It’s hard to speak to such beauty and do it justice, but I can try. Imagine yourself five thousand feet above a green valley with a winding river, Austrian village, and castle atop a hill. As you look out you are eyelevel with the distant clouds and snowcapped peaks. The wind is fresh and smells like pine as you breathe deeply. Crows play in the breeze, carrying themselves high and low in large, single swoops. Your god’s-eye-view above the world and the miniature size of the homes below makes you feel big and small at the same time. You are awed by the valley’s magnificence.

In order to get this view on top of the mountain we rode a bus, took a cable car up a sheer cliff face, and hiked for an hour. The final stretch of hiking was electrifying. Being so high and feeling the air pressure and temperature change, while the clouds misted on us was invigorating. Once we arrived at the mouth of the cave we put on our warm clothing gear (well I did, Danny and a few of our friends had to endure with flip-flops and no sweaters), blew out a warm steam of breath, and headed in.

The ice cave was like a winter paradise, I had no trouble imagining Santa’s elves sledding down the ice sculptures or yetis lurking in the shadows. We followed our guide with candle lanterns on a wooden path and climbed up, down, and through remarkable ice formations. The sheer size of the cave and the variety of ice formations; some delicate (as with the slender rows of icicles), and some powerful (as with wall of ice that devoured the wood planks to the point that they needed to be reconstructed) was humbling.

After we left the frozen wonderland we started our trek down the mountain in the warmer open air. The sky mercilessly held of raining until we returned to our bus, where we relaxed feeling sweaty and contented, and it began to downpour. The ride back down the mountain in the rain was again beautiful, but in a new blustery way. Being in nature rejuvenated us. With the remainder of our day we enjoyed the company of our new friends, eating food, and belly-laughing over stories (much like today, which we spent in Vienna at a street side coffee shop). Salzburg’s ice caves truly were the highlight for both of us so far… but this weekend we depart for Venice, Italy. A city which we have been told is the most romantic in the world.

Until our return, ciao!

Hallo Austria!

It is fine-time that I should revive this blog. And what better time to pay homage to the blog’s name than on a fantastic trip? At this point, I really do feel like I have the whole world in my hands.

One week has passed since we departed Phoenix for Linz. This is hard to believe because with all the business of traveling, getting settled, adjusting to the time change and jet lag, and being entirely unaccustomed to the continuous cloudy gloom hiding the sun, I have completely lost my sense of time. It feels like we just arrived. Or I have just woken up from a very deep sleep.

As I already mentioned, the weather has been less than idyllic, drizzling most days, with the blue sky gracing us with her presence only a few times through open patches in the cloud cover. However, this has given me plenty of time to rest indoors, and to write down an account of our adventures so far.

So here they are.

I should probably begin with our reasons for traveling across the globe with Austria as our destination. In early November, the idea of Danny studying law in a program abroad was placed on the table. He found a program through Georgia State University’s law program and we attended a seminar together. I, having the heart of a gypsy by nature, was instantly sold on the idea of a summer in Europe together and began making plans. My husband, Danny, having a more conservative and pragmatically-minded constitution, needed to think over the costs, benefits, his responsibilities and duties some more (thus he is the one in law school and not myself).

We debated back and forth about the pros and cons of being away for the summer, and after several tense conversations, high emotions on both sides, and invocation of the “happy wife, happy life” clause, we packed our bags.

We left for Austria on a Friday and after 26 hours of continuous travel by plane, train, or car, arrived late Saturday evening to Linz. We grabbed a taxi, and with our vast knowledge of over five German words or phrases, directed our cabbie to the hotel. The cabbie in turn took it upon himself to mock our “foreign” accents by repeating everything we said in English with an over-exaggerated nasally babble. Apparently, English sounds as funny and unattractive to Austrians as German sounds to us.

The hotel we are staying in is also a dormitory used by the nearby University, which means our room is furnished like a dorm for two college students. We have pushed together our two single beds and rearranged the desks, and all-in-all it is cozy. With a good sized closet, internet access, and a private bathroom I have no complaints. Our view from the 10th floor (see photo) looks out over Linz, and we get front row seats to the sunset (albeit cloudy) each day at about 9:00 pm.

Our first few days have revolved around exploring the town, meeting the students (about 40 from all over the U.S.), professors and getting settled. Here are a few highlights:

The airport in Munich, Germany was quite possibly the cleanest, most organized, and quietest airport in the world. The contrast with the American airports we were just in was astounding. The people were completely silent as they waited for their bags, and there was an air of efficiency that isn’t explainable. Even the line waiting for baggage was different in its calmness. No one was crowded at the front to get their bags first, in fact there was a good 15 feet before the first person was lined up waiting patiently. Danny immediately decided that this was evidence of my family being from Germany. He said that only a place like this could have produced the quiet, task-oriented, and efficient Streff family. Then we both burst into laughter, as we tried to imagine what the airport in Rome, where his people come from, would look like.

An hour after arriving we dragged our exhausted bodies to the welcome dinner at Yosef’s, where we ate a traditional Austrian food (think lots of meat and potatoes), Danny drank beer, and I learned quickly (after a long and surprising swig) that water comes in “still” and “gas” in Austria. We were introduced to the somehow not-seemingly-exhausted group of students (These people are professional revelers. So far, they have outdone the intensity of several fraternities and keep going strong). For dinner, we had blood sausage (delicious), along with various colored sausages and meats, and lots of the only vegetable provided: boiled cabbage. We excused ourselves early and stumbled to the street where we got on the city street-car. In our dazed state, we soon realized we had no idea what our hotel looked like, or how to find it at night. As we exited the tram, we located our hotel based off of one fact: Our room is on the 10th floor, so our hotel must be tall. Our logic proved true and we slumped into our beds defeated for 15 hours.

The next day we met a few students on their way to the city and did a sort of self-guided tour of the Hautplatz or city-center. We walked through the central square with its beautifully colored traditional buildings, churches, and fountains. We explored a neighborhood, visited a church built in 8th century, and took photos at the Schloss museum, formerly a castle. When I say took pictures, I mean took pictures. My love for photography has become a slight obsession, and Danny now threatens to hide my camera somewhere to make me walk faster. I am completely content to languish in the angles and colors, which I maintain make me see everything from a different, more observant, perspective.

While Danny is in class, I have been flexing the muscles of my wanderlust by exploring the city and surrounding area. I have found wonderful graffiti, green hidden pathways, garden gnomes, climbing walls that would make Johann green with envy, and that Austrians are completely at ease with staring for long periods of time, but not uber friendly. Again, Danny teasingly attributes this as proof of this being “my people.”

In Passau, Germany we attended a lecture and then bummed through the city hopping into churches, museums, and cafes to avoid the rain (Leave it to Phoenicians to not bring an umbrella). We had soup in a restaurant which was formerly a jail and execution room. We had hot chocolate in a café that was a fantastic tribute to Alice in Wonderland. And we trounced through floor upon floor of a glass museum. Danny ate weinerschnitzel with cranberry sauce and ordered beer (Nick, you will be happy to know that weinerschnitzel is scrumptious and is actually an inoffensive nick-name). Apparently, in Germany when you order a beer you don’t specify the type, because each restaurant only has one, the house beer. It came in a stein, and there was so much foam that Danny had a beer mustache. It was adorable. I was completely caught off guard, when I asked (in English) if I could throw away a plastic bottle in a grocery store, to have the teller take it, put it in a specially marked bin, print a receipt, and then give me 15 cents for recycling. I could get rich off this scheme!

Somehow, Danny is fitting all of his reading and studying into this hectic schedule, and dealing with the stress of being away from family, home, and all the political action of the upcoming primary season. Have I mentioned that I love this man? To be on a once-in-a-lifetime-trip like this with Danny, before we have kids, and with the full backing and support of our families is phenomenal. We are both truly blessed to have such an amazing opportunity and the love and encouragement of our families and friends. Danke familie! (Thank you family!) I need to start preparing for our weekend with the law program in Budapest, Hungary. So until next time: auf Wierdersehen!

Harmony

I am happy. Harmoniously, wholly, happy. I am so grateful for the blessings that have been bestowed upon me. I am healthy in mind, body, spirit. I am in love with my soul mate who elevates my consciousness and redefines caring and cherishment each day we are together. Together we have built a home that revitalizes and comforts my spirit. We have a family who supports, loves, and raises us up. I have a group of friends who tickle my soul once a week at our girls’ night gatherings. To top this off, I have the extraordinary fortune of calling the opening of children eyes to their own potential and beauty my vocation.
These are just the blessings that my finite mind is able to conjure and catalog at this moment. The multitudes of unseen events that have conspired throughout the ages to create my reality are beyond my ability to perceive or appreciate. I am humbled by life’s beauty. I’m not sure what I have done to deserve any of these blessings, but I am as grateful as humanely possible. I am happy and hopeful. I am ready to embrace whatever adventures and lessons await me tomorrow with open arms.

A Breakthrough

I feel like there has been a shift - a breakthrough – in my professional life. In the past few weeks I feel like I have really hit my stride in the classroom and that my students and I are working at a higher level. All week I have had so much energy in the classroom, and my students have been bouncing a same positive energy back at me. For the first time in a year and a half at the end of the day I feel like I have energy to do other things that I enjoy. The work day feels lighter and the halls of my school brighter. I finally feel like I can speak about the practice of teaching with a little bit of authority.
Most things in life come naturally to me, or if they don’t I am able to learn them quickly, and I swiftly feel sure of myself. Teaching was not one of those things. The first seven months of teaching, I felt unsure, unconfident, uncomfortable, and nervous about my abilities as a leader in the classroom. The awesome responsibility of holding thirty children’s lives in my hands for entire year, and my clear naivety was so pervasive and overpowering, that I didn’t fully feel human. I didn’t feel like me. It’s not often in my life that I have tried at something and failed over and over again. But that is what I did my first year as a teacher. I failed over and over again.
I am happy to report that after teaching for 1 year and seven months, I have finally found me again. I have found the confident, positive, and fun-loving version of me that was always there, but hiding under several layers of stress, frustration, and exhaustion. Let me tell you something – it feels good to be back!
This is not to say that I have suddenly attained teacher nirvana, where everything I touch turns to teaching genius – I still feel the pain of failure – but now I have acquired the skills necessary to not just survive, but to thrive in my profession. It feels so good to finally be successful at something again.
And this shift is starting to be recognized by people besides just myself. Most notably, by my most important critics: my students. When I found out that I would be looping with my students to the sixth grade, I was having lunch with a group of five girls in my classroom as a reward for winning the weekly raffle. I told them that I had just found out some exciting news, to which they all asked, “What?!” I told them that I would be their teacher for sixth grade and all five girls screeched like Chris Brown had just walked through the door. They started jumping up and down while they yelled in excitement. I told them to keep it a secret until after lunch when I would tell the rest of the class. When I made the announcement to the class they immediately broke into cheers and exclamations. One student enthusiastically asked, “Can you be our seventh grade teacher too?” The students’ reaction was a proud moment in my days as a teacher. There wasn’t a student in the class that wasn’t thrilled to hear they would have me again next year.
If that wasn’t enough validation, during parent-teacher conferences I had two separate parents tell me that they had planned on moving their child to another school for sixth grade, so that they could receive honors classes, but that once they found out that I would be their child’s teacher again, they decided to keep their child enrolled at our Elementary School. Another parent, whose daughter I had last year for fifth grade, was ecstatic that her son would have the opportunity to be in my classroom next year (as he is currently in another class).
What’s more, the school’s staff upon hearing that I am moving up a grade is upset! Our amazing secretary, the woman who runs the entire school and keeps everything organized, was upset, because she was planning on puttering her daughter in my fifth grade classroom. She actually pleaded with me, “Please don’t move up, I really want my daughter in your class. Where is she going to go now?” Another staff member at our school, a para-professional, who has a fourth grade daughter, was crushed to find out I won’t be teaching fifth grade next year. He said, “I wanted to make sure that she was in your class, now what do I do?” The final feather in my cap came from a fourth grade teacher whose opinion I greatly admire. He was the teacher who had my students the year before, and really worked them into a hard working class. He had told all of the parents at his conferences to request me as their child’s teacher for next year! That is such an incredible compliment to be coming from him. He actually came to my classroom and tried to persuade me to stay in the fifth grade. He asked, “What am I supposed to tell all those parents now?”
All of the praise really makes me understand that my hard work is valued by the students, parents, teachers, and staff, and I feel humbled. I guess all of those long hours of tireless work do get recognized eventually. It feels nice, but also makes me feel like I have a lot to live up to. I will always strive to become a more effective, more engaging, and more inspiring teacher.
I feel very confident in my decision to move up with my students. They are such an incredible group. We have grown so much as a class this year already – I cannot even imagine how much further we will be able to get with a whole other year. They will truly be ready for middle school, and hopefully, will continue to have teachers that drive them to stay focused on their goals. Two years of consistent pushing from me is going to be setting them up for the best fighting chance they will have. It will be up to them after that point.
I had one of my lowest performing, if not the most struggling student in my class write me a note today, asking if there are teachers who do their job for just money, and if I am one of those teachers. The directions on the note said circle one “yes” or “no” and return it before the end of the day.
I wrote down that yes there are some teachers who work for just money, and that yes I worked for money too, but I also teach because I believe that helping kids is one of the most important things in the world. When I returned the note to this student, he opened it up, smiled, and put the note in his desk. He has recently been showing huge improvements in class, and is actively curious in a way that wasn’t there in the beginning of the year. I am so looking forward to pushing him, and all of my studnets even further next year.

Life Lessons

Well, this week has certainly been action packed with enough drama to start my very own telenovela (soap-opera) entitled, “How Many Outrageous Things Can Happen in Seven Days?” My childhood dog of thirteen years, Daisy, died on Monday, I found out that one of my best friends is stranded, homeless, and penniless in Taiwan after a truly disturbing peeping-tom scandal happened at her not-even started-yet teaching position, two of my cousins were in the hospital with life threatening illnesses, and the roughest student in the fifth grade was switched into my classroom after making completely false claims of inappropriate sexual conduct from his old teacher. When it rains, it pours. These things refresh my consciousness with focus; focus on what things really matter in this life. The “big teacher” in the sky is sending us messages, and if we listen closely enough we might just discover the value in those lessons.

Loosing Daisy was really hard. She was a member of my family, and brought us all so much joy. Thinking about never being able to see her another time makes me tear up all over again. She truly was one of the last things that tied my newly empty-nester parents to my finally-freed college freshman brother and myself, “the-newlywed.” Loosing her was loosing someone, and something that we all shared together. It feels like Daisy took a piece of all of the memories that we made together as a family with her when she left. As my Dad put it, “From now on any dog your mom and I get will be our dog, not yours and Nick’s too.”
The focus I gained from this: Daisy made me remember the importance of love and joy in everyday. She always managed to bring so much joy into my life, in the short visits that I had with her, simply because she loved me so unconditionally, so completely, so fully. I can only wish to be as devoted as she was towards my friends and family.

My best friend began her adventure to teach in Taiwan almost two weeks ago now, and has gotten more than her share of surprises. It seems that the house in which she, as well as other foreign teaching staff, was living was being secretly videotaped by their peeping tom headmaster, who was in charge of running a school full of children! When does this sort of creepy bullshit end? How does a person do something like that? At my own school, it seems that the accused teacher actually did all of the disturbing things that she was accused of with the fourteen year old boy – she plead guilty to the charges and is prison. It seems that perverts in education are all around the world. How is that for a warm fuzzy?
The message I got from this: Be aware that not all people are good intentioned. My innocence and the innocence of others is worthy of protecting. After hearing from my friend how backward the foreign police and courts are in Taiwan, I am again grateful for the rights and protections that I am given in the United States. The privileges we experience as simple realities were not always so secure, and are not so secure in other places in the world today. I am grateful for a system of justice that puts away criminals.

Two of my cousins were in the hospital this week for life threatening situations brought on by serious illnesses. One was sick after a nurse decided to forgo the prescribed immune-booster shot she was supposed to give before administering chemo to my twice-breast-cancer-warrior-cousin. The other was rushed to the hospital after doctors realized that her attempts to self-medicate her diabetes through a restrictive diet had left her anemic to the point of near-death. Thankfully they will both be healthy enough to go home from the hospital soon. As for the cancer and diabetes – only God knows.
The focus from this: Thank god for health. Thank god for the time we are given.

As of today, I have a new student in my classroom. He didn’t come in as a new student to the school – he has been here from day one - and I have had my eye on for a while. He has been in another fifth grade teacher’s classroom, and he comes to my classroom after his grandmother wrote the longest complaint form in our school’s history, accusing his teacher of intimidating, humiliating, discussing religion, cursing, and finally “putting his private areas close to his face” on purpose. Holy God. The things that she is claiming in order to move her grandson into a new classroom are shocking! The other teacher is completely baffled at all of her claims and says that none of these things are true. He believes that the grandmother or the student made up all of these stories just to get their wish of switching into my classroom (I have this student’s younger brother in my classroom right now, and have had a very good rapport with Grandma. Apparently, this other teacher does not.) It is very scary either way. The things that they are claiming require an investigation! If I have learned anything this year, it is cover your ass – you cannot get your name or reputation back once it has been questioned, and some people will say anything to get their way. As a teacher all that you have to work with are the relationships and trust that you build with your students and their parents. Without that, there is no learning.
This new student I have in my class is just twelve years old but has already developed the life outlook, “I’ll get you, before you can get me.” It is written all over his every gesture and every smirk on his face. His personal history gives him every reason in the world to believe that this is the only way to survive in this world. In his young life he has been beaten by a drug addicted mother, witnessed her death, watched his father go to jail on a fifteen year sentence, and been shuffled from house to house, and state to state, as an unwanted burden to unstable relatives who were barely able to care for themselves, let alone him and his two younger brothers. Needless to say, being the oldest brother, he bore much of the burden of their tumultuous childhoods (which are still in progress – they are only ten and twelve!), and the effects are plain. I have seen two things in his eyes; an eager to learn little boy who distantly remembers hope and believing in himself, and an angry, weathered, and wild boy who has given up on the world and himself.
The message I see in this: I will accept him in my classroom as a challenge. If any of my students ever needed someone to believe in them, it is him. Whether or not I can convince him to believe in himself is not up to me, but I will do everything in my power to change the cruel hand that fate has dealt him.
More than anything all of this reaffirms my belief that life is about the little things in everyday. It is the precious impermanence of life, our mortality, the losses, challenges, and victories that make our little insignificant lives passionate and beautiful. Until next time, we’ll see what God has in his divine lesson plans. (How’s that for teacher-glorification? Ha-ha!)

Cumpleaños and Criminal Charges – Community at My School

I said I would start writing down the daily happenings of my life so that I would not loose the emotions and details of my days. And, well, just to prove that there is never a dull moment in the outrageous school and ridiculous district I work in, today was a doozey. But let’s back up and start with last Friday.
After working in my school for two years, I am proud to say that I feel like I am starting to understand and be accepted within the community I teach. It feels good to be accepted into the lives of my students, and their families, and I treasure this trust that has developed between us. One of the defining reasons why I decided to teach a third year at my crazy-ass school came from the mouth of Mr. Perez, a fourth grade teacher whom I respect greatly. He said to me, “Do what is best for you, when you make your decision about where to teach. But I want you to know that I have heard how the students and parents talk about you at our school. Everyone likes you and what you are doing. Students talk about wanting to be in your class next year. If I were you, I would stay at this school because you have made such a good impression with the community.”
Before I go any further I really should describe the school that I work in so you truly grasp what a big deal this sense of community is (This isn’t the type of elementary school where mommies are lined up to decorate bulletin boards and bring afternoon snacks.) First, I will give you the political/socioeconomic rhetoric that is associated with my school. I work in a Title 1 school, in arguably the worst district in my state (it’s not everyday that the State Department decides an entire district is incompetent and needs to be taken over), where 95% of the students get free or reduced breakfast and lunch due to poverty, and I stand out like a sore thumb in the halls of my school where 85% of the population is Hispanic, 14% African American and 1% encompasses all forms of “other.” With that said I will give you my own vernacular description based on my experiences:
I work in the ghetto.
I work where gangs kill the older siblings of my students in homes literally a stones-throw from the front door of our school, and where lock downs happen during dismissal because of random gun fire, or mid-day because a high-speed chase ends in gun shots, crashing vans, and twenty scattering illegal immigrants who run from the back of the van and into the neighborhood trying desperately to out run the police. I work where a student in my classroom is so traumatized by the robbers who looted her house while she, her grandmother, and siblings hid in the shower, that she doesn’t feel safe enough to use the school bathroom alone. I work in a school where brand new computer equipment is mauled by students who etch in the names of gangs into computer monitors, because by the seventh grade they have “chosen a side,” and claim their turf in the computer lab. While I seek to embrace, recognize, and celebrate the unique culture my students have - at times the realities and hardships of this ghetto weigh heavily on my mind and it is difficult to see the community caught amidst the chaos. Labels, political rhetoric and personal judgments aside, I will let you evaluate what (if any) amount of that bullshit really has to do with the students, families, and community that I serve.
The first year of teaching at my school, I really felt like an outcast within the building’s walls – families perceived me as a very young, very pretty, very white girl, who they didn’t really know how to interact with (I am not flattering myself when I say very pretty – I actually had a set of parents come in to a parent-teacher conference – after MONTHS of trying to meet with them - to talk about their sons failing grades, and when they met me they said in Spanish, “well no wonder you are failing, how can you focus on what la bonita is saying?” They laughed and sort of made this and a slew of other lame excuses for their son’s poor performance. He repeated the fifth grade this year.) I don’t think I will ever tire of the looks of astonishment I get from parents when they hear me speak Spanish for the first time or hear about my travels to Guatemala – it sort of gets me immediate street credit with the Mexican families, and my exploits in Tanzania earn me more than a few points with the African American families. And hey - I’ll take it.
That first year all of the teachers perceived me as another know-it-all Teach for America crony come to “save the children” for a few years and then skip town the first chance I got (to their credit – this stereotype is not baseless, many TFAers are as arrogant and self-righteous as they believe). My first day at my school, Mr. Widup, the eternally inhospitable curmudgeon of a teacher who made up the veteran portion of my grade level team, looked at both me and the other fresh faced TFA novice and said, “I doubt you two will make it through the year.” What a warm welcome. This prediction came right after he explained that he only needed to work 6 more years to reach retirement and then he was moving to Spain and opening a restaurant and never talking to a child ever again. Lo! How his passion for teaching truly guided and inspired me that first year. Ha!
He walks the halls to this day, scowl creased upon his face. Only now it’s more like 10 years of infecting-I-mean-shaping young minds because he lost all of his savings in the market. To put it in a nut shell, as with most things my first year, my relationship within and to my school was less than ideal. But I more than worked my ass off last year and students, teachers, and the administrators have begun to recognize this. This year I have been invited to student basketball and soccer games, traditional Mexican folklorica dance recitals, and this past Friday, I attended my first student birthday party.
At first, I was a little leery about going. Would my presence at an 11 year old girl’s birthday party be seen as awkward and inappropriate to her family and guests? I argued with myself that if the invitation was extended, then clearly the family approved of this decision. Finally, my mind was made up when (for only the second time in my two years of teaching) a student brought in birthday treats to share with the whole class. I told the older sister who brought in the Hannah Montana cupcakes, that I would see her later that night at the party.
After school I went home and decompressed from the week a bit. I knew I needed to buy a present (what sort of a present should a teacher bring? I had never given a gift as a teacher before.), and I figured I would just stop at a store along the way. A true tell as to how different this neighborhood is, not a single major department store, chain pharmacy, or grocery store existed between my house and the party venue. I had to backtrack through the stinky industrial junkyards and dilapidated neighborhoods until I found a CVS four miles out of the way. (Where do these people get their wares for god sakes?! Do they just not buy anything nearby? Do they take the bus every time they grocery shop? How is there no commerce in their neighborhood at all?) After I had successfully secured a “teacher-y” gift (notebook, journal, pretty pens), I worried that I would too embarrassing late to show up to the house.
Well, when I pulled up I realized this was not going to be like the sleep-over birthday parties that I had as a kid, because this eleventh birthday wasn’t at a home. It was a more than slightly rundown salón, or dance hall, however rough around the edges it was complete with fully set stage for a band, 50 tables, dance floor, DJ booth, and professional lighting. Apparently, my students family owns not only a sit down restaurant, but two rancheros (street side food vendors), and a dance hall. I walked in to a nearly deserted room (apparently starting a party three hours late is customary), but the tías y padres that were present turned and for stared for 30 seconds at me like I was lost. Then my student’s mother came out and greeted my in Spanish and introductions began. There wasn’t another uncomfortable moment all night.
As I waited for the guests and birthday girl to arrive I was treated to tostadas and ceviche which was superb. Family and church friends immediately welcomed me as we talked, laughed and danced (I was taught to dance like a Sinaloan by my students) for hours. It was the best eleventh birthday I have ever been to and the look on my student’s face when she came in and saw me there was unforgettable. She immediately came over to me first (before la familia) and gave me a big hug, saying, “I’m so glad you came!” I felt very honored to receive such recognition.
This was definitely a new high for me as teacher, and as member of Phoenix’s South Side community. Driving away from the festivities that night, I really felt like I had been apart of something very special. As a teacher (and Spanish speaker), I realized I was able to be apart of a community that previously never would have existed to me. I had left the party with invitations to attend worship services at La Sagrada Familia from an Auntie and to go dancing with some older cousins at a Salsa club. I had been adopted as a part of her family.
Having seen how hospitable and warm this community could be, today’s events at my school were even more upsetting than they would have been before. Thirty minutes before school let out, our Principal came over the loud speaker and instructed teachers to pass out an important letter to every student before they went home. I opened one up and read.
An 8th grade teacher at my school, who has devoted her life to this community and worked within my district for 28 years, was arrested yesterday on charges of sexual assault with a minor, she was absent today because she is still being held by the county. I cannot begin to speculate about the truth, but I do know this: whether the allegations the 8th grade boy made are true or not, either way a horrible thing has happened and our school and the community it serves is hurting.
As our principal and the superintendent of the school pulled us into an emergency staff meeting to advise us on what to do about the camera crews (lined up outside interviewing parents as they picked their children up), the teachers who were close to the accused teacher were crying and in disbelief. As our principal finished speaking to us about how to deal with student and parent questions and where to send students who needed counseling, he wiped tears from his eyes.
Immediately, all of the teachers began thinking the obvious: this could happen to me. The superintendent went over standard “CYA” procedures (Cover Your Ass) like; never be alone with a child in a room, never touch a child, etc., and it made me hope to God that the teenage boy made it all up and that this teacher’s life could be put back together. I quickly realized after seeing our school’s name and her mug shot splashed all over the news with the gory details of the “alleged sexual account” that a quick recovery from this would probably not be possible for her even if she was found innocent and cleared of all charges.
It makes me wonder about the world today – where are we going as a society? What kind of person molests a 14 year old boy? And what kind of child makes up a story like that? Why are we so mesmerized by this bullshit that the media shows up in hoards to spoon feed it into our minds?
I am worried for tomorrow. I am worried for the teachers who have lost a friend. I am worried for the student, and teacher involved in this. I am worried for our administrators, and for our school. I am worried about the questions I will get from my students and their parents. I am worried for the community I teach in.
After the mandatory meeting, the librarian stood up and said with tears in her eyes, “If you would like to stay and say some prayers, please do.” I stood in a circle of about 10 of my colleagues and as we held each other’s hands we prayed for the community. It needs all the prayers it can get.

She's Aliiiiive! ... and thriving (finally)!

Wow, how time flies. I just finished reading my last blog entry and couldn't help but snicker. I sounded so prepared for my next adventure. Ha! Little did I know that the next year and half would be a complete whirlwind of:
- moving in with random TFA roommates into the Phoenix ghetto (we are talking junkie-hookers-digging-through-trash-outside-my-bedroom-window kind of ghetto) after knowing them for a full hour so that I could be close to the neighborhood where I teach
-1 full year of complete teaching-hell with the gray hairs to prove it (each one lovingly named after the students who put them there: Rakim, Xaviar, Dejonique, Giovany, Humberto, Tanya, Martin, Juan, the list goes on...)
- being a full time (15 units) ASU Masters student, while working more than over time to try and survive my first year as a teacher (just so you fully understand the whine involved in this check on the list, that means: 7:30 AM until 10:00PM of work and then classes)
- a full year of Teach For America bullshit trainings and seminars eating up my nearly non-existent free time.
- getting engaged in December 2007 to my amazing Danny (more on this later...)
- planning a wedding (yeah, this line only takes up three words worth of space, but it could take up an entire blog - thanks to my incredible mother, I retained my sanity throughout this process)
- re-planning a wedding because the old venue shut its doors
- wondering if I can even teach a second year and still call myself sane?
- ending the school year and breathing a huge sigh of relief
- knowing the only reason I am going to teach a second year is because I made a commitment to teach two years with Teach for America, and I am to Type-A to break it, even for my own health.
- traveling to Canada and New York to visit kindred spirits. These trips were quite frankly the only social life I had in the 2007-2008 school year. I love you girls!
- studying for the GRE
- preparing myself mentally and organizationally for the upcoming school year
- remodeling Danny's condo completely from kitchen to bath to bedrooms to living room (this was a four month proce$$), but what better way for Danny and I to test our marriage capability right before the wedding - right?
- wedding details, details, details!
- not taking the GRE, because there is no way I could possibly be prepared for it with everything else going on
- starting a new school year, teaching a new class, and falling in love with them and with the profession of teaching.
- starting year 2 of my Masters classes and wondering when they will end...
- moving out of the ghetto and into the freshly completed condo (and not a minute too soon)
- marrying my soul mate and having, quite frankly, a wedding experience I will treasure for a lifetime; full of family, true friends, warm emotion, and love.
- continuing all of the Teach for America bullshit, but with a different attitude (it's like jumping through hoops at this point. Just jump through the next hoop and you are one step closer to being done with it.
- falling in love all over again, only this time with my husband. Being married is truly a blessing.
- being surprised with a birthday trip to Disneyland! Amazing surprise Danny!
- Becoming an auntie for the second time :)
- Honeymooning in Spain and Morocco. Incredible!
- Starting the second semester of my second year (is it really 2009?) of teaching and deciding that not only can I do this teaching thing, but that I like it, and maybe I am even good at it. Yesterday I even returned a letter of intent to my Principal stating that I will be teaching for a third year at my crazy school.

Looking back on it all now, it is amazing that all of this took place in 18 months. Honestly my first year of teaching was the most difficult thing I have experienced professionally, and I would NOT repeat it if I had the choice. However, I am on the other side of that first year, and I have learned so much from it, and I know I am a better teacher and more confident leader because of it (and in the future will be a much more prepared parent because of it). I guess, the one real regret I have is not recording it all down, and writing about life's little moments. In the past I have been diligent in my private journal writing, but this last year, I simply did not have the energy to muster critical reflection of my day. Not even once. I wish I would have taken the time to write about the incredibly ridiculous classroom moments that made me want to pull my hair out (there were so many that were horrendous to live through, but hilarious to talk about later), to the emotions I felt during our engagement and wedding, and the daily lessons I learned along the way, but - you can't go back. What I can do is write down the details of my life now, and when I find extra time (perhaps this summer) write a novel about all the ridiculous things that happened in that first year as a teacher.
Until that next entry (which should be much sooner than the last!)…
Kwa Heri (Swahili for Best Wishes),
Bonnie

Despues de Guatemala...

You may be wondering where in the world I have disappeared to. It has been a few months since my last entry and I apologize for not keeping this updated, so let me fill you in. After my last entry I:
- Flew from Guatemala to Edmonton, Canada for the wedding of my best friend from high school, Bridget. I stayed a week before the wedding, meeting the groom's family, helping get things organized, and just laughing it up with Bridget and her amazing husband-to-be. I saw the Aurora Borealis, experienced Canadian country-bar nightlife and danced the night away at the reception with Danny (who I got to see again after only two weeks!). I then flew BACK to Guatemala to prepare for the last two weeks of class and finals.
- After school was completed I collected my things, said goodbye to my CIRMA classmates and adios to Guatemala. I spent the next three weeks reacclimating myself to American culture (I am still amazed by grocery stores), relearning to drive, and reconnecting with my family and Danny. For some reason my usually very social demeanor went into recluse mode and I saw only a few friends. I worked a little, but mostly tried to organize and prepare myself for the next adventure I was about to start: Teach for America.
- Three weeks after returning home I left for Teach for America training, a program that trains recent graduates to become teachers and places them in low-income, high-demand, inner-city schools in order to close our nation's achievement gap. (Take the time to click on that link to educate yourself about the gross inequities in our educational system.) I am currently in Atlanta, Georgia with 400 other corps members training. What does training entail? Think: teacher boot camp where 4 years of education major classes are shoved into 6 weeks of hands-on training while you are teaching in an Atlanta public school trying to get your students to pass a high stakes test that determines whether or not they move on to the next grade. I haven't slept much. But it is already more rewarding than most of the work I did in college. I feel like this is where I need to be, and the more I learn about what this will entail, the more I feel like this is the challenge and issue I am should be working on.
- The next step? After training, I will be moving home to Phoenix (YAY!) and teaching 5th grade in the Roosevelt School District. I can't wait meet my students and start pushing them forward. Which is fine that I can't wait, because I will only have one week home before I start teaching.
I hope all is well with everyone and I hope to be able to talk soon (but probably not until I am back home in Phoenix). Best Wishes! Until my next adventure update, Bonnie

Semana Santa "Holy Week" in Guatemala

I can sum up the past four weeks in ten words: Danny visited(!), El Salvador, Tikal, Semana Santa processions, Iximche’, and Quetzaltenango. But of course you have no idea what any of that means, so I will give you one piece at a time.

Piece #1: Danny visited me for the holy week of Easter and it was truly magical. We visited El Salvador on a class trip, the Maya site of Tikal on our own and Antigua for the Semana Santa processions, and I want to thank him publicly for such a beautiful and breathtaking week. Here is a photograph that encapsulates the feelings of the week: discovery, enchantment and tenderness. (The photo is from atop Maya ruins at Tikal overlooking Temple IV, which is peeking out of the forest canopy between our feet.)

Piece #2: When we crossed the border into El Salvador, I found the differences with Guatemala striking. Driving through the green countryside, I first noted the well paved and maintained roads. Plainly the Salvadoran government had at one time spent a good deal of effort and money to develop and maintain clear passageways through the country (more so than the Guatemalan government). However, alongside these well managed highways and underneath large billboard advertisements championing capitalistic ideals were shanty towns of poor squatter communities with nothing more than plastic, wood and garbage for homes. The dichotomy and allocation of resources was arresting. This contradiction sent a clear message: even today, the El Salvadorian government is more interested in being able to manage and oversee its people (through the use of well paved roads allowing easy travel and close tabs on all areas of the country) than to house or feed them.

It was especially intriguing to note the dissenter psyche of the people persevering in the capital city of San Salvador. When our class visited the National University, I was immediately aware of the explosive feel of the campus because of a strike between workers and professors. The campus was littered with trash (as a form of protest by the workers); there was a burnt and painted shell of a car denouncing a particular professor as the culprit for the demonstration, and graffiti was everywhere: on buildings, fountains, monuments and the ground. It seemed that graffiti was an accepted form of expression and forum of opposition. I thought how this sort of student reactionary behavior to an administrative dispute would never take place within the sterile and sheltered universities of the United States. It was fascinating to see the students actively oppose a bureaucratic issue. I noted that this unrest and suspicion of authority is what unites and, in part, defines the young generation of Salvadorians; and rightfully so - they grew up during a bloody and savage civil war.

With our ex-guerilla fighter and marxist professor, we visited the Museo de la Voz y la Imagen, which is dedicated to maintaining the history of the civil war (with no help from the government which has no museum or dedication to the war). Seeing photos of the horrifying massacre in the pueblo of El Mozote was intensely haunting and compelling. Among such disheartening images and histories, I was impressed by the way in which the museum director spoke about the events. She presented the exhibition and repeated one theme over and over: the importance of remembering what happened so that it would not happen again. This hopeful understanding of her purpose within the museum and her duty to the future and past generations of Salvadorians was commanding and I admired her sense of purpose.

What impressed me most was a F.M.L.N. (the political party created from the revolutionary efforts of the 80's) legislative tribunal in the central square of San Salvador. With the National Cathedral looking down upon us, senators from the F.M.L.N. party summarized the past week’s governmental activities and led an open discussion, fielding public commentaries. The hundreds of people who had gathered in the square listened to the demands, approvals, and criticisms of the government, (all made by fellow ordinary citizens) and either applauded or hissed as they saw fit. To me, this was the most impactful experience of El Salvador, because I have never seen any example of representative government truly this direct and from the heart of the people. The senators stood there and listened to the desires of the people they represent without censuring or reviewing what was being said, and truly connected as all of it was broadcasted live on the radio. My feelings were intensified by the nearby presence of the steps of the National Cathedral, where, not twenty years ago, unarmed members of the very same party, the F.M.L.N. were massacred by the government during a peaceful demonstration.

Our final day in El Salvador we rode in the back of a pickup truck and trudged on foot through the rough Guazapa hills to visit the base camp and strong hold for the revolutionaries during the war. As we passed over rotten and weathered old boots, tin cans, and bullet shells – remnants of the fight there – we were guided by an ex-guerilla fighter named Orlando. He cautioned us to stay on the trail, because landmines are still present. Seeing how the fighters lived for the years of the war made me realize just what exactly these men and women gave up to be there. And how much they believed in their fight against the government, in order to make those sacrifices.

Our professor had this to say about our experience, “What you saw was a great achievement for El Salvador: a lot of people died for you to be able to see that F.M.L.N. meeting. A lot blood, tears and sacrifice was given for that meeting to be there. El Salvador isn’t in heaven, but change has happened. Our guide, Orlando, only left the Guazapa Hills once during the 10 year war; once to fight in the capital of San Salvador. He spent his entire life fighting in Suchitoto; he sacrificed his youth. Before, in his time, you never would have been able to go the places you have been, and see the things you have seen, and this in itself is progress.”

Piece #3: Last weekend’s travels included the Maya site of Iximche’ ruins and the second largest city in Guatemala; colonial Quetzaltenango. Photos do these experiences better justice:

What the World Wants Most

In the dining room of my home, with leftovers of dinner spread out over the flowered table cloth, laced doilies covering every visibly flat surface, and strange figurines peaking out from the silverware cabinet, Victoria and I sat talking about her childhood. Victoria told me that she was one of 12 children born to a very poor Guatemalan family. Her mother was always tired from working and her father was generally too drunk to have a steady job. She started working when she was seven years old, after only two years of school. In her home town of Quetzaltenango (very cold climate) she had slept on the ground with her brothers and sisters because the family didn’t own beds. She remembered receiving her first pair of shoes when she was 15 years old. She talked about not being educated and held up her calloused hands, saying that these were the reason that she was still alive. She has worked hard her entire life for the things she has. She looked around her dinning room, her kingdom, and added that she never would have dreamed that one day she would own a home. Not one like this.

Henry drove us through the foggy, curving hills surrounding Quetzaltenango and talked about how he had learned English, a story which I have heard over a dozen times. He worked in the U.S. for a couple of years doing “a little bit of everything.” He described this part of his life as terrible. Not because of living conditions (although they were pretty terrible too – sharing a single home with dozens of people, sleeping in shifts in order to save more money to send back home), but because he left his wife and 5 year old son behind. He said, “No one should have to live like that. Alone.” He told us that for the first two years he talked to his son on the phone every night; because he wanted his son to remember who he was. He was terrified of his son forgetting him. And his son was terrified of his father forgetting him – he would ask his father “Do you still love us Daddy? Do you have another wife there? Do you have other children?” This broke his heart. He said that most men do get remarried and start new families after two or more years, but he couldn’t do that to his family. So he came back. And now he is the center of his son’s universe. He said that his son never leaves his side. When I asked him where he would prefer to live, he said firmly, “With my family.” When I clarified and asked if he would prefer to live in the states or here in Guatemala, he thought for a second and then said: “In the U.S. you can work there for three months and save enough money to buy a car, but here you can work for 5 years and not make anything. Life is better there.”

I met my friend Vinicio through the magic of music. Every morning I woke up to reggaeton thumping through my bedroom wall and decided that I needed to meet the mystery neighbor behind the hip-hop beats. I was greeted by a genuine mustached smile, English gangster slang and South Side LA tattoos covering most of his body. As we swapped music, we swapped stories and I learned that he had been in jail for the past three years (his second time) and that he had been let out early. He told me his story with as much honesty and sincerity as one could imagine. He didn’t hide anything; the good or the bad. Vinicio was born in Guatemala, but moved to Los Angeles with his family when he was about five years old. He described himself as the black sheep of his family and said that he got involved with gangs when he was really young (his first time in jail was age 17). After he got out this second time, he knew that he could never really go back to L.A. because he would just be killed. One way or another, the gangs would suck him back in and he would end up dead. So without anything but the clothes on his back he took all of his money and bought a plane ticket to Guatemala. He talked about wanting to do better by his Lord and about how he loved his God and his Virgin Mary in a way that he just couldn’t understand when he was younger. He talked about wanting to turn it around and live right. Working two honest jobs here in Antigua and staying away from Guatemala City (where there is a twin gang for every gang in the U.S.) are his best bets at starting over. Vinicio talked about how hard life was in jail – “I learned respect in jail. You have to. Even something like moving the TV screen can get you stabbed if you don’t ask first. You have to respect everything and everyone or else you will end up dead.” And he described how hard it is adjusting to life outside of jail. Breaking habits like eating meals in silence and adjusting to sleeping in a room alone are the minor things. What is hardest for him is that he doesn’t really feel connected to anyone here. He is without any real friendship. His family back home doesn’t believe that he has started over (which he doesn’t blame them for, cause he hasn’t given them much to believe in), and his second family, his gang, the ones that he grew up with, the ones that would have died for him (and he clarified that no one ever wants to die, but you back your boys and fight for them) he must avoid and hide from. He is alone in a foreign homeland.

Everywhere that I have visited in the world, people are all saying the same thing: “We want a safe home, we want a loving family, we want true friends.”

Photo Recap of February and March

After four long weeks from my last entry, you can imagine how much has happened and how impossibly lengthy this entry would be if I summarized my experiences like I normally do. So instead of bombarding you with a short novel, I will give a photo recap of the past month, and you can see parts of it first hand:

My room. This is an important photo to show first because it is actually where I spent most of the past month. I’ve been sick for the past four weeks, longer than ever before in my life and I didn’t have the energy to keep up with the blogging (thus my hiatus). After two doctors, one radiologist, one wrong diagnosis and prescription, one CAT scan, one ear infection, one bout of pinkeye, and more sleepless nights than I care to count, I am glad to say that the bronchitis, allergies and nasal infection are starting to go away. I am more frustrated than anything else because I have spent three weekends idle and missed out on travel opportunities. However, as you will see, there was a ton to see and do in Antigua

Mariachi’s at a CIRMA celebration to welcome the stolen baby Jesus back to the nativity scene. This is apparently a tradition all over Guatemala, and the party was complete with tamales, cake, spiked punch, DJ and water balloons. The most hilarious part was when the woman who stole the baby Jesus revealed she was the secret thief (after weeks of speculation by everyone). And in front of 50 or more people she tried to make a serious speech about the importance of the tradition, and one of the kids present (about 4 years old) walked out into the middle of the grass, pulled down his pants and started peeing. Everyone started dying laughing, and the woman’s built up moment of glory was gone.

The yellow house that Laura and Kendal are sitting in front of is my home in Antigua















Check out the fireball in the sky next to the church. Behind those clouds is Volcano de Fuego which erupted the other night. You could see the lava and fire shooting out of the mouth from Antigua.

Dancer at cultural festival with beautiful smile.

Cultural dance festival on the steps of the Cathedral

That is a circus lion, leopard and jaguar being transported to the next fair grounds. It was raining and the lion was pacing back and forth while the truck blasted down the road at 70 MPH.



















With my own kind. He wanted to play with my water bottle and was surprisingly strong. After interacting I’ve decided that I really want a tail. Really.












The beach front hotel we stayed at in Chiapas, Mexico a few weekends ago. The woman who owned it was beautiful and truly kindhearted. Her son was a watercolor artist with impressive work hanging up all throughout the great hall.








The beach in Playa Linda, Chiapas, Mexico.













This is the river that separates Guatemala from Mexico, and those are illegal immigrants walking across the filthy border water. They probably aim to make it the U.S. and they have quite a way to go. The border town of Guatemala was packed with young men preparing to make the jump. One young man who I can’t shake from my mind looked completely terrified and truly helpless as he paced nervously back and forth near a bus station. In a non-Guatemalan accent he anxiously asked passerbyers for help and when he was given a half empty bottle of Gatorade he ferociously devoured it like he hadn’t had anything to drink in days. His fearful and lonely eyes were harrowing.

Laundry hanging in the garden at my home. In the background you can see the statue of Mary and Jesus with fruit and incense offerings.











Calle Chipilapa with families out in front of their homes creating carpets from fruit, leaves, pine needles, and colored sawdust for the processional to walk over. The weeks leading up to Easter are a huge celebration with processions winding through Antigua every Saturday. My Spanish teacher expressed her love and pride of this time of year when she said, “Semana Santa is by far my favorite and the most important holiday for Antigua.”











Luis, the grandson of my host family in front of the alfombra or carpet which I was able to help create.
























The procession passing by our house. The atmosphere of the crowd is comparable to a Fourth of July celebration in the states; complete with families, kids, vendors, sweets, balloons, popcorn and cotton candy.





My family: Luis (grandfather of little Luis), Victoria, and Maria Luisa, watching the festivities.










The processional bearers in costume.













The sheer mass of the processional is incredible. The men and women who carry it on their backs clench their teeth and fight to keep moving. Penitence doesn’t get more plain than carrying a thousand pound representation of your God on your back.






Cerro de la Cruz, on a hill over looking Antigua. Volcano de Agua in the background.













Just so you understand how big this cross is that is me at the base of the cross in the second picture.























Our second class trip to Maya ruins, this time in the capital city. The tin roofs to the bottom left are protecting the ruins, in the background the city. My fantastic archaeology professor Erick Ponciano is waving.












I’ve seriously thought about this tail thing. I want one. The beautiful painted Maya pottery in the Popul Vuh museum.






















The sunrise by canoe at the wildlife preserve in Monterrico, Guatemala on the Pacific coast..
























Marshlands




















White cranes and the sunrise.

Waves from passing boat.

Reflection of sunrise...

Fishermen in the perserve getting food for the day.

Last weekend hanging out at the black sand beach. The water was warm and current crazy strong.