The Residency Process: Part There've-Been-So-Many-I've-Forgotten

March 1st is one of my favorite days of the year. It begins my favorite succession of months (ending in September), and I love to celebrate its arrival even if there are eight inches of snow on the ground. Because there's something about flipping that calendar page, about seeing April and May tagging so closely behind, that lets my soul breathe again. Although there might be blizzards a-brewin' on March 1st, in my heart it is already spring.

But can it seriously be March already? I remember this day last year: I was living in a bed and breakfast, coloring a sign to celebrate March's arrival. I was answering countless questions about when I'd be leaving for Spain, and I was getting really anxious about the fact that I still needed paperwork, that my stupid FBI check would be nearly expired again by the time I brought it to Chicago.

Last March, the long-awaited paper finally arrived. My parents made a special trip to deliver it into my hands, and I spent the better part of an hour with the church copy machine, churning out triplicate and fourthlicate forms so I could make the first trip to the sufficiently underwhelming consulate.

Last March, we got an actual snow day--declared a day ahead of time. On the day the snow was whipping so hard we could barely see into the parking lot, we stayed in school until 1:00. My little guy was huddled near a heater, and his sister mentioned that they wouldn't be back next year; my heart cracked in two. Last March, middle schoolers in Spain felt light years away. All I knew was that I'd spent all year preparing to say goodbye to one seventh grade boy, and now he was going to be the one to leave me behind.

Last March, I drove home from the half-day and cried--because I hate driving on ice and because my student was leaving. The following day, the preemptive snow day, was a balmy 50-something degrees, which everyone spent outside, in shorts, shoveling the last snow off their melting driveways.

Last March, I moved for the third time in a twelve-month period. I got rid of extra clothing. I stacked more junk in my old bedroom at my parents' house. I spent my lunch breaks in the library of a middle school that no longer exists (it collapsed beneath the floodwaters in June).

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This March enters on the tail of a beautiful week, starting with the slight sunburn I received on my Sunday-afternoon walk. The fields across from the school are alive with green; the pungent pig fertilizer stench has finally stopped wafting down the hill. I am jogging (which never happens) in shorts (which never happens in March), and everything seems bright and full again because I am outdoors (which never happens before March). In this I am my mother's daughter: I was made for open spaces; I was made for long walks and the wide outside. Everyone at home is posting facebook statuses about snow days, and I feel completely disconnected from that wintry world. (I don't say this to inspire envy but to let you know that I may escape southwest for subsequent American winters.)

This March, I am an official Spanish resident with an official plastic card. (Picked it up yesterday! Just in time to start the renewal process! Oh, Spain.) This March, I understand that this is just how Spanish bureaucracy is, that I need to take deep breaths and flow with it. This March, I'm shocked every time I realize that my memories of last year happened in Spain.

This March, it is hitting me: the wide-eyed joy of having survived nearly a full school year, and the silent sadness that it's almost over. Last March, I knew nothing about these kids except for their names, and next March, I know I'm going to be treading the edges of emotion as I step closer to saying goodbyes. But this March, my heart becomes Spanish-sun warm when they stop by my room to talk, share their last mini chocolate cake, wish me a good weekend. The snow and paperwork crap and sleeping on air mattresses were worth every second of last March--because this March, I am full to bursting.

Matchmakers

In first grade, the year I would not speak up in class except to answer questions (speaking quietly even then so no one could hear if I got them wrong), we found a Post-It note on the teacher's desk. It said simply, "Little Richard." They'd been talking about his recent release from jail at the staff meeting, she'd explained, so she'd doodled the name on a paper.

Romantics that we were, our little posse plucked handfuls of dandelion bouquets at recess. We presented them to her in Dixie cups full of water, giggling about how much she must love Little Richard, how they'd probably get married the next day. We clumped together at the end of the day, making lists of wedding details, and she took it all in stride. What's the harm in letting six-year-olds dream?

Little Shar was not just a dreamer; she was a doer. While the other kids forgot about the impending Little Richard wedding on their bus rides home, I was busy thinking of all the things I needed to get ready. (Have I ever mentioned the time two sixth graders decided to get "married" at recess? How I was going to be one of the bridesmaids if another girl was sick--but that she showed up at school in perfect health and I was demoted to the role of bouncer? How that mainly meant keeping a jealous sixth-grade guy--who also had a crush on the bride--away from the ceremony? Let's be honest: I was terrified. I missed most of the wedding so I could keep my wary eyes trained on him as he paced at the other end of the gym. If he'd plowed us down like I imagined he might, I would have forsaken it all and run. Thankfully, they got "married" peacefully, and the "preacher" ended up bringing his own Bible, so we didn't have to use the one I'd tucked into my backpack the night before--just in case. Anyway, point is, spur-of-the-moment weddings were kind of my thing in elementary school.)

I put my Bible in my backpack. I created colored-pencil flowers on cardboard, painstakingly cut them out. I even drew what was meant to be a life-size portrait of Little Richard. (The cardboard pieces were only 12 inches tall, so I had to improvise. I had no clue what the real Little Richard looked like: my version had a red bow tie and yellow skin.)

I carried it all to school, eagerly awaiting the moment when we'd surprise the teacher with our marvelous wedding preparations. I waited. I waited and waited and waited, and it became clear that the others weren't going to participate. So, in the middle of the morning, as my teacher leaned over Josh's desk to help him with homework, I snaked my hand down into the backpack and retrieved the flowers. I remember a burst of uncharacteristic spontaneity. I remember flinging paper daisies into the air. I remember crying, "Happy wedding day!"

She stopped, looked at me. "What did you say?"

"It's your wedding day! Pick up your flowers!"

That night, my parents got a phone call. It was their first--and last--discipline-related phone call from school.

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I told this story to my eighth graders today (it related to grammar somehow). They thought the flower-flinging was hilarious. We laughed together, and then they classified parts of speech.

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There is one single male at our school. One. In a sea of families and single female teachers, there is one guy. And I feel a little sorry for him, because wherever there are single people, there are people trying to help them become less single. (I suspect it happens slightly less here, with so many of us in the same phase of life, but still. It happens.) If you're the lone wolf in an ocean of wolfesses, people say things. People nudge one another. People make suggestions. I've had the suggestion made at least once because, after all, we have three things in common: we both love Jesus, we are both human beings, and we are both single.

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So Leprechaun is standing near the bookshelf in my classroom, making a big show of peeking at my computer screen and pretending to be shocked at what he finds. (This is an old game. The most shocking thing I have open on the internet is amazon.com.) He leans over the monitor and puts a hand to his mouth. "What? What do I have open this time?" I ask.

"Nothing. Just your email." Then--insert impish grin--he leans over again. "Wait, what? Mr. Single Teacher?!"

"First of all, Leprechaun, sit down and do your homework. Second of all, I don't think Mr. Single Teacher has emailed me all year."

But this is the joy of having single teachers. You want them to be blissfully happy. You want them to fall in love and be adorable and, most of all, invite you to the wedding. I knew that feeling when I was six years old, shading in the cardboard profile of Little Richard. And I know that, even as Leprechaun is quietly labeling nouns and prepositions at his desk, he can't help grinning as he pretends to toss flowers in the air and mouths, "Happy wedding!"

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It doesn't help that the other teacher and I have lunch duty together this week. He poked his head into my room to ask which of us should circulate the building first, which should eat. I said I'd walk around; I followed him out of the room; I glanced over to see an eighth grade boy with glinting eyes giving me a silent smile, invisible flowers being strewn all across the lunch table.

Equinox Nearing

Sometimes I leave my classroom while it's still bright out, and I think to myself, "Wow! I finished early today! Look at all that sun!" Then I realize that I'm not going home sooner; it's just that the sun is staying awake longer.

Heartbreakers

I spent several days writing, editing, rewriting a thought that expanded into a billion thoughts, took over twenty paragraphs to say, and it was all about how I like Valentine's Day even when others expect me to hate Valentine's Day because I'm single and we're all supposed to hate romance. Then it became Valentine's Day and I realized that no matter how much I want to say it, I'm tired of saying it, so I'm going to say this instead:

Two of my boys are leaving for the States on Monday. They'll be back in six months, but goodbye is still hard. The 6th grader spent all week reminding me not to make his going-away party too sad: "You can't make a slideshow or anything, okay? It can't be too sad. You're not going to make it sad, are you?" I think we did a pretty good job of keeping it not sad today; the boys stuffed themselves with Ritz crackers and danced the Cha-Cha Slide. Tomorrow is the party for his brother, an 8th grader. I already know it's going to be a late night, since we're jumping the train after school tomorrow and I still have to pack. So it's likely that I'm going to have to wait to say the word "goodbye" until he's halfway out the door. Even if I were to get enough sleep, I know there'll still be tears bubbling up as we let him go for a little while.

I am 27 years old, and I spend more time crying over middle school boys than I do over men my own age. And I guess the main thing I wanted to say is that I'm really okay with that.

Hi, Sarah!

(Sarah requested that I write something, but I've been saving all my energy for Valentine's Day, and so I have kinda ignored my blog for a few days. Here are some highlights: It's really, really windy in Camarma right now. I went for a walk/run around the hill loop this morning and saw snow atop the distant mountains. I don't miss snow at all, but I have to admit, it was kinda pretty. This week will be a short one, due to winter break, and a sad one, as two of my kiddos are heading back to the States for six months. But next weekend, we'll be in sunny Sevilla! My house is freezing right now because of the wind; however, I refuse to ever again pay as much as we did in heating bills this month, so I'm gonna wrap myself up in a fleece blanket, a frozen chrysalis, and fall into a catatonic state for a few hours.)

Fun Facts about Spain

1. Spain is not Mexico.
2. Spain is not a third-world country.
3. No one's gonna bag your groceries for you.
4. God loves Spain, too.

Overheard in the hallway

Loud, exaggerated 8th grade voice: "We have so much homework tonight! I'm going to die!"

Leprechaun: "I know! There is just so much. Especially grammar! And the vocab book!"

Me, calling back from my empty classroom: "I really love the vocab book. It's what I read at night to help me fall asleep!"

First voice: "We're going to die from all this homework!"

Leprechaun: "We are spirits! We are the spirits of students who had too much homework!"

Me: "I don't understand! Why are the spirits lingering outside my classroom instead of in heaven?"

Both: (Sudden high-pitched, ethereal singing, followed by snickers and shoes scuffing the floor as they run away to recruit other middle schoolers, who will randomly poke their heads in the door and say, "Hallelujah?")

(Later, Leprechaun will enter the room, hand on his chest, and fake a heart attack before collapsing to the floor.)

(By the way: I'd assigned them no homework that night.)