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.