La gata está mala, and other realities (or: Look, Mom! I'm finally updating!)

I am writing this from a lovely little café, complete with three-tier indoor rippling water foundation, in the second-biggest city in the country, Quetzaltenango (also called Xela, pronounced "SHAY-luh.") I needed to get away, and came before because a) I'd never been before, and why not; and 2) because they have a Walmart, and I needed to get supplies I couldn't get on the lake. So today I took a little urban expedition, and took a taxi (which are also non-existent in Pana) to the giant mall, where I bought, among other things, cat litter, cat food, a fleece, and a cheese grater (to use later this week.)

First, some good news: after some petitioning from disgruntled (read: tired and homesick) teachers, the administration buckled and we now have Thanksgiving off. So I will be celebrating Thanksgiving and the first night of Chanukah in a country in which no one has heard of either. My friend is coming in from Guatemala City, and will be joining the cadre of AMA teachers at a Thanksgiving dinner, hosted by a woman who's involved with our school. My friend and I will be making latkes (with potatoes, onions, and eggs bought, of course, from Mayan women at the local market) and using a menorah which the very confused janitor made for me out of a stick he found in the yard (using a drawing I made for him as a model) and candles— 60 for 78¢— I bought at the candle store (which are typically used for saints' vigils, but no harm no foul, right?) (Have I mentioned how the stores in Pana are hilariously specific? I bought the candles at the candle store, and, a few weeks earlier, a comforter at the comforter store...) I am very excited for the day off, as, at this point in the year, I desperately need it.

School is going well, for the most part— I feel that I've found a groove; I no longer have daily panics that my students won't make any progress by the end of the year (though I continue to worry that they won't learn as much as they could.) I remain very frustrated by the lack of resources, but I feel that I've struck a good balance between doing what I can with what I have at my disposal and not worrying too much over things that aren't entirely in my control. My students are making progress-- they now speak primarily in Spanglish ("Puedo ir al bathroom?") or funny English ("Me go bathroom?")-- and occasionally make very funny mistakes, which I do my best to respond to accordingly (that is, not by busting out laughing): A few weeks ago, one student, apropos of nothing, exclaimed, "GO BITCH!!" After some questioning (in Spanish), I determined that he was trying to tell me that he had a strong yen to go to the beach... It is sometimes hard to determine when, when students seem to hit snags, how much of that is related to the fact that they are predominantly learning in a language they have yet to master, which is difficult. (I have one student, for instance, who has extreme trouble with simple addition and subtraction, which is due to the fact that he can't consistently count to 20-- though he counts better in Spanish than in English. I try to strike a balance between teaching him strategies in Spanish while also bolstering English skills... this is very difficult.)

Here's an interesting story from school:
During the Halloween party (which many families did not attend, on account of them being "true Christians" who do not worship the devil), one of my students' fathers (who is very wealthy and intimidating, and who travels around town in an armored SUV with several bodyguard— he supposedly owns a series of farms, but many are curious as to what is actually grown on these farms) approached another one of my students, who comes from an extremely poor family (when his mother gave a presentation— on infant care and sandwich making— to my class during our "people in our community" unit, she prefaced it with a 20-minute lecture— to 5-year-olds, remember!— on how she was there to ensure that none of the students wound up like her, with only a 4th-grade education and no job prospects who doesn't like herself or her life.) The father was upset that the boy had been telling his daughter that she was his girlfriend, and so acted as any father of a kindergartener would: he threatened to strangle him if it happened again. The parents of the boy were terrified (especially as the wealthy family, with their coterie of bodyguards, passes their home every day on the way to school, and thus know where they live), as they believe that this man would follow up on his promise (and, given the political climate here, would not only have the police on his side, but would have the authorities' support in causing harm to whomever they wanted.)

The situation was "resolved," according to the school administration.


Another thing that has been happening is that Tabitha has been very, very sick. When I first brought her into the vet, because she'd been lethargic and just not her usual crazy self, they did a number of tests, they called me during school to say that she had kidney and liver failure, and had a 35% chance of survival. I sobbed all afternoon before going back to the vet, and having them clarify that this was only the case if she had leukemia— which it turns out it did not. (Cultural differences are everywhere-- would this ever happen at a vet in the U.S.? Not in my experience...) I have been stuck in Pana for the past 6 weeks, because I have had to give her medication (which involves holding her by the scruff of the neck and literally shaking her until her eyes pop out) every 8 hours. She seems to be getting better— she is no longer anemic or jaundiced, and her kidney is once again functioning properly— but her liver is still not in great shape (though it is better than it was a few weeks ago), and she now weighs 6.2 pounds (she weighed 11 when we lived in Boston.) Those who know how attached I am to my Bunny can imagine how difficult this has been for me, but both of us are managing, and I am hoping that continuing to smother her with love (combined with the prayers offered by my very supportive, very Catholic local colleagues) will help her to get better. As the school's assistant director, with whom I have become friends, said, "She has to get better— she has no choice. Que Dios le bendiga.")

And so, for the past six weeks, I have stayed in Pana, which has both been extraordinarily claustrophobic (I am realizing more and more that though I enjoy the charms of small-town living, I really am a city person) and a very good opportunity to better get to know the (few people) I know in Pana. I am extremely grateful for a handful of wonderful people here; moving to a small town in a foreign country, things could have really turned out quite differently. I am also finding that I am becoming more introverted than I have been in the past— perhaps it is the context, perhaps growing older, perhaps some combination of the two; regardless, though, I am becoming more and more independent, it seems, and finding increasing satisfaction in my own company.

On that note, off to a solo meal at the dim sum restaurant in Xela. Hasta pronto.

various

This past weekend, I went on a solo adventure to Jaibalito and Santa Cruz, two very small towns on Lake Atitlán. It was very nice to spend some time by myself (and with some very eccentric ex-pat transplants who frequent the hostel I stayed at), and I feel reinvigorated this week.

This is not the promised post on cultural differences— that is coming soon. In the meantime, here are a few photos from what we've been doing in my classroom:

Here is what our "We are friends!" wall looks like now— now with 16 students:

And here are a few pictures from when parents came in to give presentations about their jobs, as part of our "People in our Community" unit:

And here are two of my students using the iPads you all worked so hard to raise. Thank-you cards are on their way!

Fin de semana: Guate style

Friday we had no school— the town feria, a very loud, firecracker-filled fair in honor of Pana's patron saint, Francis of Assisi, started Wednesday and continued through Sunday night— and so I took the opportunity to skip town and four hours by shuttle to Guatemala City. Though living here has many charms, I do miss many aspects of living in a city. Friends I've made who live there very kindly arranged to satisfy two particular cravings I've had since moving here: going to a movie and having Indian food. And so Friday night, after dropping off my things at my friend's apartment in Zone 14, we endured the worst traffic I've ever encountered (and I've endured my share of steering wheel-pounding traffic on I-90 throughout New England...) to see a French movie in a cineplex in an honest-to-God sprawling commercial mall (which was the most technologically advanced I'd ever seen, complete with stoplights in the parking garage and assigned seats in the movie theater...!). I got orange soda and nachos with no-natural-ingredients nacho cheese just because I could. The movie was in French with Spanish subtitles, and had a few lines of heavily-accented Australian English, and so was a considerable linguistic workout (though I was very proud of myself for understanding everything, save an occasional reference to particular French cuisine); I felt I earned my dinner, which was at a lovely Italian restaurant on the ground floor, surrounded by a truly random smattering of (semi-)familiar chains (Tommy Hilfiger, United Colors of Benetton, Naturalizer...) 

The next day, I met up with a woman who I haven't seen since 2009, when we were both living in New Orleans. She has been a missionary in Guatemala City since 2010, and hearing about her experiences— both Guatemala-specific ones, and ones more related to being a missionary (whose living expenses and teaching salary are funded entirely by Christians in the U.S.)— were fascinating. We then took (cover your ears, Mom!!) her motorcycle to Zone 16, where I met up with two friends and went on a truly spectacular hike through a very lush, very un-urban spot right in the middle of the all the urban sprawl. That night, we had Indian food, which was... unlike any Indian food I've had ever, but it satisfied a craving two months in the making, and then returned to my host's house and played bilingual Bananagrams.

Sunday I had lunch with friends, spent more time in a mall (a different, but equally technologically advanced, mall), and then came back to Pana. And here I am, having survived yet another day in school. Today one of my students spilled his entire lunch in his backpack; while investigating this, I found several days' worth of missing homework, balled up at the bottom, now covered in mayonnaise.

Oy.

Watch out for the next post, on cultural differences, misunderstandings, and things about this place that are just plain weird.

Very long-delayed update!

First things first: I've updated my photos! Click here to see photos from travels to San Marcos, Santiago Atitlán, Antigua, and Earthlodge (a hippie-style lodge in El Hato, near Antigua).


I am so sorry that I have not updated this blog in far too long. Now that I have gotten over the not-writing-because-I-have-so-much-to-catch-up-on hump, I will be much better from here on out. Blogs are an interesting format; because this is semi-public (though I certainly don't flatter myself into thinking that many people read this; I just need to be aware of the fact that anyone could), I feel like I need to filter certain— mostly negative— aspects of my experience. This is— like teaching, like living in a foreign (sometimes very foreign) country, like life— a work in progress, and I am figuring it out as I go. But I promise that I will update more regularly once more.

Tomorrow will be the 24th day of school; I know this because every morning we fill out our "How Many Days Have We Been In School?" chart (with alternating colors and patterns— at this point the kids know that even days are written in orange and odd in yellow; this week we started a triangle-triangle-circle pattern around the numbers as well.) School is getting easier (for me, at least; I hope it's getting harder— academically, not in other ways— for the kids!), though there are aspects of school life that make me pine for aspects of the American school system I never thought I'd miss. I currently have 15 students, with one more joining after the Guatemalan school year ends this month, in a space that's not nearly big enough to accommodate them. Their English— non-existent at the beginning of the year— is improving (they now say things like "Tengo que ir al bathroom"), but I feel like the core of the first-grade curriculum— learning to read and write via recognition— remains inaccessible, at least for now.

I've learned how to work hard without overdoing it; I have late evenings and weekends to myself, free of work, which keeps me sane. I'm gone on lots of weekend trips, and am establishing a social network in Guatemala City, which makes life feel far less claustrophobic than it might in this very small, very interconnected town.

I will update soon; until then, peruse the photos!

Rosh Jashaná

School is in full swing, and it is overwhelming, some in good ways and some in some not-so-good ways. I am spending 10-11 hours a day at school, and still feel like I'm not nearly as prepared each day as I could be. But my students are absolutely wonderful, and teaching feels Right in a very energizing and profound way.

Last week I left school mid-day on Wednesday to travel four hours by public shuttle to Guatemala City, where I celebrated Rosh Hashanah  with a group of Guatemalans who converted to Reform Judaism. Converting to Judaism in any locale is a feat of perseverence, but it is especially so in a country which is .0064% Jewish, and in which there are no role models of non-ultra Orthodox/Lubavitcher Jews. For the majority of congregants of this congregation, the path to Judaism was solitary, difficult, and paved with layers upon layers of rejection from (the few other) Guatemalan Jews and sketchy-at-best behavior by opportunistic American rabbis. But after years of study and dedication, these individuals found each other, formed a community, and continue to deepen their connection to Judaism and to each other.

The community was one of warmest— and most informed, Jewishly— I have ever met. (One man taught himself Hebrew entirely by studying the one siddur he could get ahold of.) This year, a rabbi came from Los Angeles to lead services; this is the second time since the congregation's founding in 2000 that they have had a rabbi for the High Holidays. And oh, how enthusiastic all of the praying, singing, and reflection was! And seeing the Torah cover, made of traditional Mayan huipil fabric, was such a poignant symbol of the amalgam of cultures, histories, and affiliations embodied by the congregation.

First Day of School!

It's wonderful so far. My students' English is extremely limited, so much of the day involved me talking at them and them just kind of nodding, but they are lovely and adorable and inquisitive and hilarious. I have one kindergartener who only knows one English word, and who uses it extremely liberally: "Are you ready to go to morning meeting?" "YAS!" "What book do you want to read?" "YAS!" "What center do you want to go to now?" "YAS!"

I will write more about school in a few days, when I have a few moments of spare time—


Stay tuned for the next post, which will be about my journey to Guatemala City to attend Rosh Hashanah services with a community of Mayan converts...

Act I

If my first three weeks here were the prologue to the story of My Time in Guatemala— this story with as-yet-unknown length and plot, motif and themes— then I feel as if I am entering Act I.

My roommate arrived, and this naive newbie became tour guide, a relative expert. ("Oh, sure, you can get tomatoes here," I say, "but they come in shrink wrap. And the bright-pink, spiky fruit of comparable size you can only buy from Kaqchikel-speaking vendors at certain times of day and in certain spots by the docks and on the main street are so much better, and far more filling...")

It's exciting, but this transition into routine has brought with it some accompanying weariness, and new negatives. I crave things I won't be able to access until I visit the States— movie theaters and Indian food chief among them— and my yearnings are perhaps magnified by the certainty of prolonged deprivation. I miss things I thought I wouldn't: neuroticism, timeliness, being able to walk down the street anonymously. As I set up my classroom and prepare for the school year, I miss many things I thought I might, things that need to exist—but not, perhaps, in their current American manifestations: curricular mandates, governmental oversight, Child Protective Services, diagnostics and resources for learning disabilities. Perhaps most poignantly, I miss things— geographical grounding, having exactly the vocabulary I need to say whatever I want— whose absence and inverse gives me joy. And I miss most fervently the aspects of my old life I knew I would: my friends and my family foremost, and then, a rung belong, cultural know-how, disposable income, books. I miss a sense of situatedness. And clumping cat litter.

And I had my first truly frightening experience: with a tuk tuk driver whose advances were insistent and aggressive. (He ultimately accepted my firm NO before anything terrible happened, and I am fine now, but my strolls throughout town are now considerably less carefree, and less naive— which, at my more glass-half-full moments, I realize may be ultimately antidotal.)

In other news, all the teachers are now here, the school had an open house, and school starts one week from today!

I am beginning to set up my classroom, which consists of two very small, connected rooms. The process is exhausting, but so very exciting.

 Here is the book nook, where we'll do all of our reading and literacy activities:

And here's the other room. The kids' portraits will go under this sign.

(View from the back:)

This is a view of the elementary yard:

I'm particularly proud of this guy:

To those of you who have donated for iPads for my classroom, thank you so, so very much. I am so touched by your generosity.


Also, it has still not stopped raining, but my roommate and I took a boat across the lake anyway.

Onward! More soon.


*       *       *

And: photos have been updated.

I took a boat to a small Tz'utujil village

It's been raining like crazy. This type of rain doesn't happen in Boston, or in California. I've experienced rain like this in the South, but— thanks, American building codes!— I've never had the rain and the thunder shake the house like it does here.

So when it was sunny yesterday morning, I took the opportunity to flee across the lake. I went to the docks, tried (and failed) to haggle down the price of a trip, and took off— 

—45mph across the lake in a tiny blue motor boat. There are five towns scattered around the perimeter of the lake, which can be seen from the water.

I chose to go to San Juan La Laguna, a tiny village which is 95% Tz'utujil-speaking Mayan.

The town is stunning.

*To see the full album of pictures of my afternoon in San Juan La Laguna, click here.

As I was leaving, a villager, who had never used a camera before, took my picture.

Setting Up; Settling In

At this point, living here seems more and more like living and less and less like an exotic adventure at every turn.

...Though there are, of course, daily adventures:

• Going to the hardware store to buy paint, and finding that in order to buy anything, one must sit down at a desk and have an extensive conversation with an employee, who then brings out each item one by one from the back for you to inspect. At the end of this conversation, one must go to several different check-out stations to buy each item individually.

You know how when you're learning about different cultures you're always told, "It's not good, it's not bad, it's not weird— it's just different"? Well, yeah. Sometimes things are weird. And make no sense.

• The ongoing linguistic adventures. I often find myself straining to think of words, some of which I just forget in the moment ("It's like clothing... but for your hands!" "Gloves?"), some of which I miraculously remember just when I need it (the word for "pet" when I'm asking a random person on the street where to find the pet store), and some of which I never knew in the first place. (This process reminds me of the brilliant series, Lernen to Talk, which chronicles one man's efforts to learn German.) I find that my everyday life is more of an intellectual workout; I have to perceive and then describe the same phenomenon in a number of different ways so that I can be understood. My high school English teacher once noted that non-native speakers often speak more poetically than native speakers, because they may not know the most direct way to say something, so have to reach for the long way around, the quirkily descriptive, the metaphorical. I know I sound in turn awkward, poetic, and just plain stilted when I try to describe certain things here. It's tiring but it's kind of fun, too.

• Taking it all in stride, such as the fireworks that went off above my roof from 9pm to 1am the other night. In another context, I would have thought they were gunshots. Here, though, it was just an enthusiastic celebration of The Assumption of Mary, a Catholic holiday I had never heard of before Thursday, when I suddenly learned all about, very loudly.

• The slow process of boiling down my American life to its bare necessities, and adjusting to a totally different context. Every morning I delete dozens of e-mails that were relevant to my life in the States, but are totally meaningless here: e-mails proclaiming the the Gap is having a sale, or that my college alumni group is hosting an event in Boston, or that I could save 50% on a weekend trip with Orbitz, or 60% on a magazine subscription!

• Re-configuring, financially: I make one-fifth the amount of money teaching here than I did at my last job in the States. Though things locally cost far less— this morning I treated myself to a full breakfast at a restaurant (I needed to get out after being shut in by the rain!), and spent a little under $2— I have had to recalibrate items that are on an American scale. I have to go to Guatemala City twice in September (more on that when it happens), and am trying to figure out a way to get there without paying a $30 shuttle fare (which caters to American tourists) each way— because this is, realistically, out of my reach. I just renewed my digital subscription to the New Yorker, which tucks me into bed every night, which was a huge expenditure by Guatemalan standards. (I've decided it's the one thing I'll splurge on, because it makes me so very happy.) There are so, so many earrings sold on the street here, which are so beautiful and interesting and inexpensive— they'd be $60 a pair in the States, and sell for $2 here!— but I have to be very careful about how much I spend. Suddenly the "but it's $2!" proclamation carries a lot more weight than it did before.

All is to say: I'm settling in, getting acquainted with life— and my life— here. Every day this week I've been going to the school to help set up. This past week, I painted the entrance.

I am trying to raise money for iPads for my classroom — please consider donating! Any little bit helps!

I have started a fundraising campaign to try to raise $3,000 for iPads (and cases, headphones, and educational apps) for my students. Thanks to the extreme generosity of many, we have already raised $1,781! (To those who have already donated, thank you so, so very much.)

The donation site can be found here:

http://www.gofundme.com/ipadsforK1

I am raising money because, as I set up my combined kindergarten/first grade classroom at the Atitlán Multicultural Academy, I realize how severely constrained by a lack of materials and resources we are. There is a small library for the school, but extremely few books that will be appropriate for my very young students. Most of the students are Mayan— and many are sponsored by Americans who pay 100% of their tuition, meal, and travel costs— and travel long distances from the mountains to receive an English-language education that will enable them to escape the cycle of poverty and lack of education that have plagued their families for many generations.

I am realizing that if my students had access to iPads, their worlds would be expanded immeasurably— they would not only have access to texts appropriate for their individual levels, they would have access to educational software that would address their reading and math levels, creating individualized instruction for each student. The possibilities afforded by this technology would truly be immeasurable. This is the case in any school, but it is especially true here, where students don't have access to books or libraries with the educational materials they need to learn and write.

Please let me know if you have any questions, or want to let me know anything.

Again, the site can be found here:

http://www.gofundme.com/ipadsforK1

Any little bit you can spare helps! Each donor will receive a personalized, hand-written thank you card made by a very grateful kiddo! (The cards will be sent as soon as a teacher from the school goes back to the States so they can be sent— there is no mail here!)

Please consider donating any amount you can— $10 is $10 closer to the goal! Thank you so very much! 

Here is a picture of some of my students. (You can tell that they are all thinking about how excited they are to learn to read and write!) How could anyone resist those faces?

Spotted: Tall Blond Mayans with Impossible Proportions

Yesterday I came across these Barbies wearing traje típico Maya— typical Mayan dress— being sold on the street by a Mayan woman who was dressed (as almost all Mayan women here are) just like these dolls.

This sight struck me deeply. It seems to speak to so much— race; globalization; gender; cultural identity and appropriation...

I won't even attempt the 1,000+ words. I'll just put it here.

Snow! and: Volcanoes!

First things first: 

I've updated my photo album! Click here to see some pictures of the lake and the volcano.

And: please note that if you get the e-mail blast about updates to this blog (and if you don't, but you'd like to, let me know!), it only comes on Monday mornings, regardless of how many posts I've posted during the week. I didn't want to annoy people with e-mails every time I update. So check back frequently!


                                                                        *       *       *

Everything here is pretty darn great, except for one thing: I am lucky enough to have an infestation of what my landlord calls "house terorrists." These terroristas are spiders the size of my hand. And this is awfully ironic, since spiders (and large, multi-legged creatures in general) were an acute fear about moving here in general. So far, I haven't gotten (more than slightly) sick, and I feel very safe walking around, and, thanks to the friendly people I've met and my books and my trusty internet stick, I haven't been lonely. But this lifelong arachnophobe's worst fear has come true: huge, disgusting spiders everywhere in the house. It's gotten to the point where I am constantly nervous whenever I am home. (But, people ask: surely the cat— this animal that eons of evolution have supposedly developed into a fierce stalker of small prey— helps? No. No, she does not.)

As I try to explain the situation— and the severity of my anxiety— to my landlord in Spanish, I realize that situations like these are the ones that stretch my linguistic abilities to the limit. It doesn't help, of course, that while I'm desperately searching my brain for the translation of "caulk" I'm fighting off tears borne of frustration and fear.

So: my landlord has been trying to fix the problem by sealing off all the various entrances of the house with foam, which makes the place look like the set of a Christmas pageant designed by people who have some removed familiarity, but certainly not firsthand experience, with snow.

(When we were watching the process of sealing off the windows in my bedroom, my landlord's ten-year-old son asked me: "Is that really what snow looks like?" I said, yes, kind of, and then my landlord pointed to the litter box and remarked, "Wow, your cat really needs a lot of food!" I explained that that is the cat's bathroom, at which point both my landlord and his son looked at each other in amazement. The landlord then explained to me that he had assumed that the cat would just do her business all around the house, to which I responded that I was extremely grateful that he let me sign the lease, considering this was his assumption...)

*       *       *

In other news, yesterday I went wandering and I discovered a way to get to Lake Atitlán. (I was looking for el mercado, where Mayan women come from all over the region to sell textiles and food, so I can finally buy some fruits and vegetables— I've been eating out for every meal because I am afraid of my kitchen, both because of the spiders [where my landlord thinks he discovered two nests] and because I don't trust myself to properly disinfect the water or fruits and vegetables), but wound up stumbling upon the lake. I crossed the Guatemala-Korea Friendship Bridge (!), and found myself on a very long stretch of river and beach, on which there were many components of the juxtaposition of wealth and extreme poverty that characterizes this region.

I walked perhaps a mile or so toward the lake, and then wandered through winding streets lined with people selling ice cream, licuados (sweet, pulpy fruit juices), and textiles, and came upon an area catering to tourists, filled mostly with hotels and restaurants with stunning views.

I sat on the edge of the cement stairway leading to this restaurant for a while and drank from the liter of water I now know to bring with me everywhere. Then I meandered back into the main part of town, where, sweating profusely, I sat on a ledge for some time, drinking my water. I got out my book (Ann Patchett's State of Wonder, a fascinating novel about a woman who travels to Latin America alone and has some misadventures... I might have to put it down for a while until the point where navigating the everyday here ceases to feel like a grand and challenging adventure), and, within seconds, an older white woman wearing a ridiculously large hat and round purple sunglasses came up to me, paused, looked me right in the eye inches from my face, and yelled, "ENGLISH!?" I answered that, yes, I speak English, and asked her if she needed help. "Oh my goodness gracious, God has answered my prayers!" she exclaimed, her accent heavily Southern. She then explained that she was trying to get to San Marcos, and asked me how to get there; I said that unfortunately I didn't know, but I could talk to a tuk-tuk driver (here is a tuk-tuk, a little red three-wheeled vehicle, one of the hundreds of which roam around the town, and which cost five quetzales per person, regardless of distance traveled)

on her behalf. "Oh my Lord Jesus," she sighed, "my prayers have been answered." We went to talk to a tuk-tuk driver, and not much was clarified— he didn't know what ferry she was talking about— but she seemed hugely relieved nonetheless. As she got in and zoomed away, she yelled back at me, "Goodbye! Enjoy your life!"

First impressions of Panajachel

Yesterday I spent the day roaming the streets of Panajachel, and I have taken pictures for you all! Some are included below, and then I've posted a link to a whole album at the bottom.

The house is absolutely beautiful. It has maize-colored walls and a patio with a hammock and coffee, avocado, and mango trees. It feels straight out of a fairy tale, or a Lorca story. 

(The house also has giant spiders, though, which, as some of you know, was one of my primary fears about coming here, so... yes. Some sleep has been lost after a few scuttled out of view and I spent hours worrying I was going to wake up with one on my face. But: facing fears! This is a theme of this year! So... check!) There was a small earthquake (which didn't wake me up) the night that I arrived, and the running water went out the following morning, but after my (extremely affable and competent) landlord, Rodrigo, spent about eight hours working on the problem over two days, I have running water again. (The water can't be drunk— I have oodles of bottles of water to drink and cook and clean plates and brush my teeth with— but it is nice being able to take showers and use the toilets!) 

The house is very safe— in fact, the whole town is incredibly safe— and the part of town I'm living in is relatively quiet. (There is some sort of outdoor church revival group next door, though, which is extremely loud, but the singing is so alluring that I don't really mind.) To get to the main part of town, I just walk five minutes down a few winding cobblestone roads, past a few small shops and invariably groups of children, stray dogs (there are so many here!), and families, and then I'm on the main road. 

The town is full of tourists— I hear English or German spoken by, say, one in fifteen people on the street— and the local economy seems to be based entirely on tourism. The streets are lined with restaurants and food and niche stores— but predominantly by Mayan artisans selling their wares. I have bought a few things— woven bracelets, chinitas (woven loafers I'm using to protect my feet against my house's cement floors), and a backpack— and I know I've been swindled because I am bad at haggling (but mostly because I'm as white as they come), but I'm okay with that. Though some of the artisans only speak Kaqchikel, the majority speak Spanish, and so I've had conversations with several of them— many of whom remember my name ("AY-mee-lee") when I pass them again.

Quite a few of the stores are manned by small children. Children here roam the streets by themselves, and many go up to people eating in restaurants to ask for money, try to sell items or shine shoes, or simply stare. This is the aspect of life that I've had the hardest time with so far, and though people who have lived here for a while are used to it and don't find it as emotionally upsetting, I still do not know how I am going to be able to process this during my time here. The enormity of the gap between many of these artisans— many of whom open their stores early in the morning and haul their wares home at eleven at night—and the people who buy their products seems to be unconscionable. This is a topic I know that I will be thinking a lot about during my time here.

Overall, though I am perpetually exhausted (caused, I think, both by novelty and by the accumulation of sleep deprivation over several weeks, which I haven't yet been able to remediate here), I am feeling very optimistic. I am catching up on some much-needed rest and alone time, and feel that I am recharging for the coming adventures. I have met several staff, parents, and students from the school at which I will be teaching, and all are extraordinarily kind, generous, and interesting. I really can't complain— I can only gush.

You can see the whole set of photos by clicking here.

¡Llegada!

I'm here! Finally! After a very stressful week of farewells and sales and shipping and packing and planning (which I could not have gotten through without the help of some truly saintly friends), Tabitha the Cat and I flew to and stayed in Atlanta last night, where I had a lovely farewell dinner with three friends, and then I flew to Guatemala City this morning! I was picked up by the airport by a school-arranged driver who helped me navigate Guatemala City's Walmart (where I bought the first days essentials: kibble, kitty litter, toilet paper and bottled water) and then drove the three-ish hours to Panajachel. We spoke in Spanish the entire time, which was both thrilling and exhausting, and though I was informed that I have some "problemas con los verbos," I was relieved to find that I can get by with my pre-existing language skills talking about topics ranging from our respective favorite colors (his opening gambit) to reasons why I shouldn't be afraid of the large men holding rifles at most big intersections. He dropped me off at my new house, which is so charming the word "charming" doesn't even begin to describe it. (Pictures tomorrow!) I then strolled through town, met some very nice folks (including the extremely sketchy Wisconsonian pharmacist), bought an internet stick (which I am using at this very moment) and two giant pupusas for dinner (for the equivalent of $2.30), and got a bit lost on my way back to my new home but managed to not freak out too much (or get run over by any of the ridiculous-looking three-wheeled red taxi things which speed down every tiny street!). And now I am here, and I'm going to eat my pupusas and go to sleep.

More tomorrow— including pictures— when I'm just a little less fatigada.

Well

Today I shipped 716 pounds of stuff to California.

More soon! Off to ATL tomorrow and then Guatemala on Monday! Gaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh

T minus one week

I used to measure time in terms of "lasts"— this is my last ice cream before school starts, this is the last time I'll get to stay up this late on a weekday, the last time I'll wear a jacket this winter, the last this and the last that.
This is my last Monday in the United States for quite a while: I leave for Atlanta on Sunday, and then fly to Guatemala City on Monday morning. Very soon I'll be measuring out my life in firsts.

And thank goodness now all I have to do is twiddle my thumbs and update this blog!

No. Today I spent seven hours— seven hours when I was not packing, or, you know, freaking out in various ways— on the phone with various bureaucrats, doing everything from forwarding my mail to making sure my electric bill and my car insurance and my internet and my magazine subscription get cancelled to bargaining with the USDA so that the cat can finally get her ridiculously complicated Guatemalan visa (I don't need one, but she does!) to registering with the State Department to arranging for my boxes to ship home (on Amtrak! that's a thing!) to helping AirTran figure out why they didn't have me in their system even though I bought my ticket months ago (turns out some overly imaginative agent had recorded my name in the system as one "E. Captain")—

Ay.

And in the next few days: packing, and then more packing, and then shipping, and then more packing, and then hauling furniture, and then more packing. And then more packing. Oh, and packing.

It's all so overwhelming that I haven't really had time to process that, come this time next week, I will be living in a small town in Guatemala. Which is, I think, both a positive and a negative— I don't have time to dwell, but I also don't have time to dwell.

The other day, my friend asked me if, at this point, I am more excited or more nervous. I am much calmer than I would expect I would be, and I think that that is because I am excited— but in a calmer way than I typically am excited. I am not excited about particular things, because I don't really know what's in store; I am excited about the experience in general, because I have a gut feeling that this— whatever this may be— is the right thing for me to be doing at this particular time. (Another friend asked if I'd be sad to leave Boston, and, having thought about this for the past few months, I immediately replied that I don't really know, because Boston has ceased, in some ways, to seem like its own thing: after being here for so long, Boston has become my default, my normal. And when I said that, my friend looked very concerned. "You know," he said, pursing his lips, "If Boston seems normal to you, then it is definitely time to move.")

Most of these end-chores seem stressful, but, in a more cosmic sense, easy: you cancel Comcast, and then you don't ever have to think about Comcast ever again. (A girl can dream, okay!?) But some things pack a gut punch. Some of these gut-punchers are universal, predictable (saying goodbye to good friends; walking through beloved neighborhoods for what I know will be the last time for quite a while), and some of which are less so (selling my car; the bizarre sunshowers we've had today; finding a lonely holey sock at the bottom of my dresser.)

Mulling these over— why am I having such a hard time selling my car? It's a car, after all!— I realize that a lot of things that I've been finding unexpectedly hard are general things that have become, over time, very specific, and very meaningful. My car is not just a car; it is— she is— my car. The car— her name is Emmylou— has been my constant companion for 30,878 miles, through all types of terrain and all types of weather, literal and figurative, and I've imbued her with personality. She is the basis for countless associations, and she has become a vehicle (it's late, okay!? I get punny) for my nostalgia. These streets that were once so bland and so anonymous have become my streets— my bland and anonymous streets. This geography is a palimpsest of my experiences; I walk along the Red Line and think back to who lived here and who lived here and here and when, when I went to dinner here with this person, when this happened, who I was at this point and this point and that. I cannot separate my lived experiences from where I lived them.

I remember, as a high school senior, visiting for the first time what would become my college campus: it seemed terrifyingly huge and urban and complicated. And I remember, a year later, walking the same route, easily, knowing exactly where I was going: and then having a sudden recollection of how it had seemed just a year before. The campus had become familiar, mine: it had become a setting, and not the experience itself.

And so it has been with everywhere I've lived; the foreground becomes background, the terrifying ordered, the exotic normalized. And in many, fortunate instances, too, the unfamiliar— while staying externally, objectively the same— becomes not just familiar, but comforting, and even loved: like looking at someone you now know, and realizing they are beautiful.

Coming back to my apartment after being away for a week, I was struck, when I first walked in the door, at its low ceilings, its heat and smallness. It was, of course, because I'd just returned from a large, cool place with high ceilings; my perceptions of the world are apparently that simplistic and comparative. But, after only a few days back, it has become, once again, my default; and, now that I'm leaving, its idiosyncrasies, its uniqueness and its lovability, stand out more and more. I will miss this place; I will miss Boston; I will miss, most of all, the people I've come to find beautiful. But I also know, in some peaceful, heart-of-hearts place, that it is time to go somewhere new— to experience the onslaught of novelty that will come to be my background, my normal, mine.

Until then, though: ohmygodohmygod packing.


(And a special hi to Catherine B., cheerleader extraordinaire!)

In case you were wondering what I hope this blog represents...

...this is pretty much the opposite.

Getting My North American Ya-Yas Out: An Attitude Adjustment and a Bi-coastal Tour

Since making the decision, in June, to take this job in Guatemala, I've lived a little bit differently. While I was hunting for a job, not knowing where I'd be come August— hoping, above all, that I'd have a place to work and a place to live— the summer seemed to stretch out like some log, hot swath of stress, filled with things to do and variables to work out, plans and needs and contingencies to align while trying to squeeze in some wet and/or air-conditioned fun. Ever since I accepted this job, though, the uncertainty-caused stress I lived with evaporated (which was eased, of course, by the recent heat wave, during which I discovered Bunny's new favorite game: chasing a melting ice cube across a sticky wooden floor!), and has been replaced by a new, somehow less stressful variety of stress (items to sell! items to ship! health insurance to consider! vaccinations!), and a different approach to life in these last few weeks in the States. Ever since accepting this job, and realizing that my days as a pre-expat (a pat?) are numbered (now quickly approaching the single digits!), I've had— and perhaps been?— a lot more fun.

I'm getting my North American ya-yas out, one bucket list item at a time. I went to Montreal for a weekend, figuring now or never. I went farming, supervised by forty alpacas, and then swam in the ocean, a scary distance from shore (the theme of my life these days, perhaps.) I went to see Barenaked Ladies live (a friend of my concert companion inquired: "So how much did you pay for that time machine?") and went to all the restaurants I've been wanting to try but just, well, haven't. I've been making my way through a giant stack of books I'm going to have to get rid of so I might as well read. (I adored The Interestings, but I think Never Let Me Go is overrated.) Now I'm in the Bay Area, seeing my family and my California coterie, and one friend promised (it's written for the world to see now, J.!) to take me beer tasting on a mini golf course because, well, I'm moving to Central America, and also why the hell not?

Most strikingly, though, at least to me, is that I've done and said things I might not have a month ago. For better or for worse, the stakes seem at once so much lower and so much higher: in two weeks, I'm going to be living in Guatemala, and— at least this is how my theory goes now— I'll have just enough time and energy to dwell on the good memories, but not quite enough to dwell on the bad. I'm valuing relationships and experiences in ways I always have, but I'm acting with concentrated, deadline-induced vigor. 

Perhaps it would be possible to inject this type of urgency into living all the time; perhaps, if the rug were ripped out from under me tomorrow, and it turns out I'd be staying stateside after all, I could continue living this way indefinitely— but I'm not sure that I'd want to, because, for all its thrill, it's also exhausting. And perhaps this energy is induced by a sense that I need to practice my Traveler's Attitude, that I must refine at once both my extroversion and my independence in preparation for the coming year. Or perhaps— and this would be a first, truly!— I am overthinking things, and I am simply having fun because it's hot as F and it's July and I feel free.

A cartoon man and his robot friend are here to teach us about Mayan history!

I'm working on a unit plan on Mayan history, and thought that a few of you might enjoy this short video from an elementary school standby, BrainPop*:

Tim and Moby teach us about Mayan history!

"The Maya were the only Native American society with a complete system of writing— in other words, one that could fully represent a spoken language."

"Since there was no central authority, the Maya civilization didn't fall suddenly, like the Aztecs or the Inca. Instead, the Spanish slowly conquered individual city-states one by one. By the end of the seventeenth century, the major centers of power had all fallen. But the Mayan people didn't go anywhere— they still occupy the same area of land they've lived in for thousands of years."


*a special shout-out to Ms. W.!

On Fear

When I respond to people's questions about my plans for this coming year, they usually say something along the lines of "Wow!" or "That's so exciting!" or, after a pause, "...huh." And I smile, and look back at their sometimes excited, sometimes quizzical, sometimes unreadable faces. And then, after a beat or two, most people will say, a bit more softly, "Are you scared?"

Yes, I say, I'm scared. In fact, I think to myself, I'm terrified. I've read the State Department warnings (according to one travel company, it "wouldn't be a bad idea" for Americans— especially young, single women— to carry a machete at all times), and I've heard the horror stories: rape, violent crime, theft, unsafe transportation, horrible diseases with unpronouncable names (and horrifying colloquial translations, like Bone Break Fever.) Don't travel alone, they say. Don't wear jewelry, don't look like you might have money: don't make yourself a target. Don't eat street food. Don't drink the water. Don't take local transportation, don't get involved in any sort of political demonstration, don't do anything without a plan, a back-up, and an emergency escape route. Don't trust too easily, or perhaps don't trust at all.

These warnings are all based in experience and practicality, a desire to protect. My brother, in a sweet attempt to dissuade me from going to Guatemala after reading about the alarmingly high rate of kidnappings there, told me that he refuses to pay a ransom. My family kept proposing alternate plans ("but you could practice your Spanish in California! Or travel to Central America on an organized tour sometime!") and directing me to various websites, some more official than others, pointing out some truly alarming statistics. After a while, though, as it became clear to them that I was going to go— and I would follow all practical advice to keep myself safe, and I wasn't going to go to Guatemala City, and I have no plans to join any drug rings (though I can't make any promises, for who knows, really, what the future may bring!)— their nerves began to subside, which made me calm down too.

The truth is, anything can happen. But the town I am going to live in in Guatemala is far safer than the neighborhoods I teach in in Boston, and— and this is truly what this is about, above all— you can't live your life in fear. You can take reasonable precautions, and you can do things like not wander around Guatemala City alone at night, wearing gold jewelry and sipping from a carafe of water drawn right from the local lake, but ultimately you must adopt a mindset that you will be fine. Because if you don't, you won't be— for even if the content of your anxieties doesn't bear into reality, the anxiety itself will turn the experience into a different kind of hell.

I have a friend who studied abroad in South Africa. "The rate of sexual assault— the rate of men who have admitted to sexual assault, that is— is one in four," she told me. "And that is astounding. While I was there, I knew that that could happen to me at any time, but I couldn't live in fear."

And I truly believe that she did not walk around each day, worrying if and when she would be attacked (which she ultimately was not). I do not think that I possess this degree of inner strength, but I know that moving to Guatemala will be a test and an on-the-ground lesson in this type of courage. In my experience, routine (or, perhaps, repeat exposure) lessens perceived danger, and I hope that the longer I live there without incident — or, perhaps, the longer I live there, and get through things that at this vantage point seem terrifying and potentially unendurable— the more secure I will feel. (This is why, too, reading the "USA Travel Advice" on the UK.gov website provides poignant perspective: "Violent crime, including gun crime, is not limited to the border areas," the site says. "Incidents rarely involve tourists, but you should take care when travelling in unfamiliar areas. Research your destination before travelling and seek local advice about areas with high levels of criminal activity." The site continues, "There is a general threat from terrorism. Attacks could be indiscriminate, including in places frequented by foreigners. You should monitor media reports and remain vigilant at all times. On 15 April 2013 two explosions took place close to the finishing line of the Boston Marathon, killing 3 people and injuring over 200...")

To me, these statements (aside from that about the marathon bombings, which—both while its events were happening, and while reading about them on the British advisory now— underscores just how unpredictable and scary life is everywhere, all the time) highlight the apperception that the familiar becomes normalized, and its dangers cease to stand out. It is the unknown, even if the unknown is relatively safe, that terrifies. 

When I was a kid, I traveled with my family to Jerusalem. One day, we stopped in a little jeweler's shop  (where I bought the חי ring I wore for many years as a type of big girl security blanket, which I would twist around my finger when I felt anxious) and the man working there, clued in to our obvious foreignness, asked us where we were from. We replied "San Francisco," and a look of deep anxiety crossed his face. He looked at us for a moment, concerned, and then leaned in to whisper, "But it is so dangerous there!" We stared at him; this man lived in Jerusalem. He shook his head, and then confided, "I am always so scared about the earthquakes."

Ultimately, it is not about danger; it is about fear. When I think about my fears about living in Guatemala, I realize that what I am truly afraid of is not being attacked, as scary as that is; I am most afraid of being afraid that I will be attacked. Bad things will happen, or they won't. Most of our lives are out of our control, but what we can (at least try to) determine are our reactions— preemptively, during, and after-the-fact— to the uncontrollable events in our lives.

The summer before I went away to college, I went to see "Garden State" with a few friends at the local movie theater in my hometown. Twenty minutes into the movie, the ceiling collapsed. If we had sat in the seats one of my friends had originally wanted—we had to sit closer to the screen because I had forgotten my glasses— we would have been crushed by a table-sized chunk of cement.

I am not a carefree person; if someone had someone asked me that summer what I worried about, I would have been able, at a millisecond's notice, to spout off a long-considered list of daily anxieties, the degree of which ranged from successfully tempered to acute, the content from the existential to the mundane. Being killed by a falling piece of cement during a Monday matinee of a middling Zach Braff movie, however, was not one of them. What we fear seldom corresponds to played-out reality; I try, though almost always fail, to keep this in mind when confronted with a situation which scares me.

For better or for worse, danger and fear will be a part of this journey, and I hope that I can embrace them in a productive and emboldening way. I suspect that my thoughts on this topic will evolve over the course of my time in Guatemala— and, indeed, throughout my life— and that I grow stronger, even as I aim to remain sensitive to and aware of the world (as more and more of it becomes increasingly familiar, and thus— I hope, less scary, and more interesting.)


Though, as with everything I think, say, and write in these last few weeks before my departure, this could all prove naive, a totally unrealistic or inappropriate paradigm for my ever-closer lifestyle and environment. And so I say all this clutching a hunk of salt— which I gnaw away on, anxiously.

Bunny was thrilled to get all her foreign travel shots at the vet!

(Here she is, outgoing and excited about new experiences, per usual.)

Frequently Asked Questions

But... why?

Beginning around January, I began to consider teaching abroad after graduating from my master's program. I have wanted to live abroad for years, but have been held back by concerns about employment, finances, and community; however, the longer the thought lingered— I could actually make this happen! And soon!— I began to realize that next year might be the time to act on this long-held bucket list item. There have been a few things going in my personal life in the past year which have made me feel increasingly antsy for a change of scenery and an adventure, and the more I pursued job opportunities both in the U.S. and in selected countries abroad, the stronger I began to suspect that if I could find a situation that worked for me in another country, I should take it. 

When I researched this position in Guatemala, I realized that the situation fit certain criteria on which I wasn't willing to budge— the country is Spanish-speaking; I will be a lead teacher in an English-speaking elementary classroom, and thus (I hope!) will not be at a significant disadvantage when looking for lead teaching positions in the States upon returning; the school serves primarily low-income students from the local community; the community is reasonably safe— and Guatemala, though not a destination I'd specifically had on my eye on, has always seemed interesting to me. 

Ultimately, I made the decision to go after letting the idea marinate for a while. I can't explain the totality of this logic, some of which is relatable, explicit, and thought-out, and some of which is rooted only in vaguely identifiable facets of experience and self-knowledge, which I can't chalk up to anything more external or universal than a gut sense. It seemed like the right thing to do, and now— at a time in my life when I feel at once less rooted and more qualified, personally and professionally, for this journey than ever— is the right time to do it.


So do you speak Spanish?

Yes, I speak Spanish decently, though not fluently. (Due to my time living with a host family in western Argentina, though, I speak an Argentine— not Guatemalan— dialect of the language.) I aim to be completely fluent (in Guatemalan Spanish) by this time next year.


...and Kaqchikel, the predominant indigenous language spoken in the Lake Atitlán region?

No, but that is a remarkably informed question. (I do hope I learn at least a little of this language, though.)


What will your students be like?

As far as I know, the school serves mostly economically disadvantaged local children, most of whom will enter my classroom speaking and understanding only indigenous Mayan languages. My understanding is that a handful of my students will speak other languages (mostly Spanish and English) at home. The Spanish speakers will largely be children of Spanish-speaking Guatemalans (many of whom will identify as Guatemalan of Spanish, not Mayan, descent); the English speakers will likely be the children of Americans and Europeans living in the town. As with everything concerning my notions of the school, the town, and the likely outlines of my life there, however, these preconceptions may prove to be totally incorrect.


So, will you be living in a dorm or what?

I will be living in an apartment building with other American teachers from the school.


Have you been to Guatemala before?

Nope! Aside from a bizarre evening spent in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico in 2004, I've never been to Central America before. 


I assume you're bringing Cipro with you.

Am I ever!


Are you excited?

Absolutely!


Are you scared?

Absolutely!*


(*Note: My next blog post, on traveling, danger, and fear, will go into this in much greater detail.)  

The Inaugural Post!: Introduction

On August 5th, I will be moving from Boston to a small town on the shores of Lake Atitlán, in Sololá, Guatemala. I plan on being there for at least a year, and on keeping this blog to record my experiences.


Here is my plan: Starting in September, I will be teaching kindergarten in a small, English-speaking private school. In this blog, I plan to write about all of my experiences, both in the classroom and outside of it. I don't yet know what I will be doing when I am not teaching (and not writing), but I hope to find interesting experiences, get to know interesting people, and, of course—and this should go without saying!— develop profound, wide-ranging insight to share with you all. I hope you will follow my adventures on this blog. I also hope that you will let me know your thoughts, via e-mail (learningtwiceblog [at] gmail.com) or in the comments section.

I decided to call this blog "Learning Twice," because I believe that this idea, broadly conceived, applies to three primary aspects of my future life abroad: as a teacher, as a writer, and as a person living in a culture that will be—at least at first—quite foreign. 

Or, in the words of three authors more articulate than I:


"To teach is to learn twice." – Joseph Joubert, Pensées, 1842

"I have to write to discover what I am doing... I don't know so well what I think until I see what I say." –Flannery O'Connor, letter to a literary agent, 1942

"To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted." –Bill Bryson, introduction to The Best American Travel Writing, 2000

I hope to "learn twice," as it were, by gaining a deeper understanding of subject matter by teaching; by deepening my experiences (and my understanding of them) by writing; and by navigating in a foreign culture what is supposedly familiar in my own.

I am excited to share these journeys with you, and I very much hope to hear from you along the way.