In like a lamb

Whales have thick layers of blubber to keep them from freezing in the fathoms below. Polar bears have hollow hair that somehow insulates them during their forays into icy waters. North Dakotans, well, they are protected from blizzards by both thick skin and thick skulls. These are just a few of the many useful traits handed down by Scandinavian ancestors who decided that the best place to settle in the New World was a treeless prairie with at least six months' worth of free outdoor refrigeration. (Other notable traits include a propensity for leaving doors unlocked and a bland palate requiring every food on the table to come in matching shades of white.)

Once North Dakota winter really sets in, we fall back into our preprogrammed habits: waking up ten minutes earlier to get the car running, keeping an ice scraper in the passenger's seat, groaning at the weatherman when he predicts more snow. Owning a snowblower and/or an automatic car starter is becoming a given, almost as expected as having a computer or a microwave. Every year, we feel it creeping into our bones as the all-too-brief autumn frosts over and crumbles away. We complain about how we're sick of winter, sick of shoveling, sick of watching the forecast, and we question whether great-great grandpa really found this a better alternative to fjords and mountains.

One winter, our driveway was so jammed with snow that my car got hung up between the road and the curb. However, the curb was a 6-foot-wide snow drift, so it didn't really matter that my car was essentially sticking halfway into the street. A few years ago, there was a blizzard that rendered our family unable to be with the aunts and uncles on Christmas day. I can't name a high schooler who hasn't experienced a North Dakotan driving initiation: sliding off an icy road into a snowy ditch. And so I have become a winter hater, one of those grumbling, frozen masses. (It didn't help that the girls and I spent a few years in a rental house with no insulation. Every time friends came to visit, we handed them a fleece blanket and a hot drink to ensure their survival.)

Why don't North Dakotans just move elsewhere? Because we have good people. Because we have jobs. Because every North Dakotan is inherently connected both to the land and to one another by a long, invisible taproot that winds itself through the prairies and tangles our hearts and homes and histories up with one another in such a way that it's nearly impossible to undo. Or to want to undo. Because somehow, all of that outweighs the drudgery of a dark, windy winter.

That is why, if anyone outside makes a comment about our winters, the ice in our veins turns to fire! Living through negative temperatures flames up this odd sort of pride--like the kid who can't stop crowing about winning the national aware for the world's smelliest feet or something. No one wants the prize; no one cares that we're winning the unspoken competition for who can survive the longest in the most awful environmental conditions! But we care. I care. And while you're all shaking your heads and wondering what kind of crazy people choose to live in a tundra half the year, we are often wondering the same thing...but will never admit it to you. If you are from the South, we secretly envy that 60 degrees marks the start of your winter, but we will counter our envy by remembering our grandparents' stories about walking uphill both ways on ice to deliver babies in the middle of December in nothing but a flannel jacket! Somehow, that is inherently more enviable.

Before I moved here, I received several warnings about the cold winters, about how windy it gets in Camarma and how I'll want a thicker jacket. With two suitcases approaching the 50-pound limit, I had no desire to stuff in any sort of jacket thicker than my little peacoat make of sweatshirt-esque material. Because I'm North Dakotan, for crying out loud! On 32-degree days in April, North Dakotans pull out their shorts and walk their dogs. When the icicles are dripping beneath a pallid spring sun, we're celebrating by exchanging our coats for sweatshirts. I heard that Spain turns chilly in January, perhaps even hitting 30 degrees, and I secretly balked at all the warnings.

Autumn arrived last week and has been slowly unpacking its bag. And now I've come to a quandary! It still lingers in the 60s and 70s by day, then plunges to the 50s at night. It's chilly, particularly after our drawn-out summer. I have to swallow my pride like a bite of lumpy potatoes and remember that, even in North Dakota, I'd be shivering on a 50-degree hayride and moaning about the winter to come. I admit it, Spain friends: I'm chilly. I'm sitting up in my classroom with all the windows closed, and I'm chilly!

But I also think about how I will not have to wear a Columbia coat to go outside this winter, nor wake up early to scrape the half-inch of ice from my windshield, nor stress every time I meet a red light while driving uphill for fear that I'll start sliding backward. That will make this the best winter of my entire lifetime! It doesn't seem right to complain! Snowless, iceless, 30-degree winter, I'm not afraid of you! I embrace you! For the first time in my life, I have wished summer to an end; I've actually hoped for cardigan weather. Granted, I still don't like you, but if you're going to come in like a lamb, then I won't hate you.

(The Norwegian ancestors probably also passed on to me their own breed of crazy.)

All that said...I could really go for a cup of hot chocolate right now.

(This is a picture of last year's fall--to counteract all the awful winter images I have just conjured up. We do have grass in North Dakota! And trees! And sunny skies!)

Bonus quote of the day:

Each quarter, I give the kids a certain number of passes to leave my room (for locker runs, bathroom use, or drinks of water).  They earn extra credit if they don't use up any of the passes. Yesterday started the new quarter, and I wanted to remind them...

Me: "What do you get if you don't use your bathroom pass all quarter?"
Boy: "Bladder infection!"

Good, Better, Best...and Awkwardest.

Good thing: Handing the brand-new copy of Rick Riordan's latest book to the 8th grade boy who would have died without it. (Only 12 euros at bookdepository.com, remember?!) He held it against his face as though he was caressing a baby, then cried, "It smells so good!" and smashed his head in between the pages.

Another good thing: Watching the 8th graders rap about the coordinating conjunctions. "For for / what what / and and / what what / nor nor / what what?" By the second rap, one of them had pulled out the electric guitar, and the other was using a broom as a microphone. I'm pretty sure I almost peed my pants.

Another good thing: Having the entire second quarter mapped out by topic on a calendar. I feel so much better about the world.

A random awkward thing: Ordering foods with English titles from Spanish restaurants. For instance, Burger King's version of the McFlurry: BK Fusion. During my first BK visit back in June, I was nervous and a bit perplexed. Do I say the English words the way I'd say them in the States? Do I use a Spanish accent? Do I try to translate? I tried the accent at first, asking for a "Bay Kay foo-syohn," and the man gave me crazy eyes. I tried again, this time dropping the accent.

"Oh, yes, BK Fusion?" he repeated in perfect American-sounding English.

So I attempted to acknowledge my Americanism during the next BK visit, and I got the crazy eyes again. When I backpedaled--"Uh, Bay Kay Foo-syohn"--she knew exactly what I meant.

Which brings me to the next question: Why are "chicken fingers" in English on the menu? Why don't we order "dedos de pollo"? And why are "frutas del bosque" (forest fruits) listed as one topping for the ice cream balls (or "ees creem bayuls," if you will)--but the chocolate one is simply "crunchy chocolate"?

Finally: Thursday is going to be all-reading, all-day long in all of my classes. But I will not be there to enjoy it because I'll be in Barcelona. Darn. :)

Coming soon to a teacher near you!

The Day of Productivity, otherwise known as Saturday: the day I will hold myself captive in my own house (which is getting easier and easier to do these days, thanks to the jamming bolt lock) until I have finished making extensive plans for the entire second quarter.

This will be painful--but not as heart-crushing as, say, hoping to leave school at 5:00, only to realize that you have three hours' worth of grading in the mound on your desk. At 8:30, I walked out of my room and was nearly hit in the head by a swooping bat/bird thing, which then proceeded to swoop ahead to meet me on both the second and first floors, too. And that is how I knew it was time to go home.

Thank you, Don Cristóbal, for your contribution to my sanity

When I was six, our music teacher taught us the lyrics to "You're a Grand Old Flag." You know, you're a grand old flag / you're a high-flyin' flag / and forever in peace may you wave! I really was proud to be an American and live amidst the amber waves of grain. In the throes of youthful patriotism, I composed an addition to the song--a bridge, if you will. It fit snugly between the original lyrics:

Every heart beats true for the red, white, and blue / where there's never a boast or brag
So should auld acquaintance be forgot / keep your eye on the grand old flag!

May we help the grand old flag / the children ask the president
May we help the grand old flag / the children ask George Bush

Oh, you're a grand old flag / you're a high-flyin' flag...

I bet you can't guess which ones are the real words and which ones were mine, they're so intricately interwoven and, uh, tastefully chosen. I don't understand why my version never caught on...

In that spirit of patriotism, I'd like to say thank you to Señor Columbus for searching for the New World, opening Europe's eyes to awareness of another whole continent, beginning the mislabeling of an entire race of native people, and being the inspiration for hundreds of those catchy educational songs about the Nina and the Pinta and the Mighty Santa Maria. But mostly for the big parade downtown with the King and the Queen and all the things that will close down, including our school, so that I can sleep all morning long.

P.S. Quote of the day
(from 8th grade, of course)

Me: "Do you guys know what I mean when I say 'potluck'?"
Boy: "It's where leprechauns go!"

On hating surrender

If there's anything I know about myself, it's that any worthwhile thought I have is really only something I borrowed from someone else. I think it's why I love books so much: they are my teachers. You don't have to sit through class or pay for credits or turn in homework. You just read and absorb and slide inside someone else's skin and brain and then slide out with every fiber stretched beyond its original dimensions--never to regain its old shape. (This also allows me to justify the inordinate amount of time I've spent browsing amazon.es since it opened last month.)

Jon Acuff (of Stuff Christians Like fame) has recently become one of my favorite writer/teachers. And this is as much of a prelude as I'll give; I just need to get out of the way already and share his article with you.

Why I Hate Surrender

One of Satan’s most brilliant lies is that if you surrender something to God, you’ll receive something less beautiful in return.

If you empty your hands, God will place something less amazing in them.

You’ll surrender gold and, in return, receive dirt.

This is one of the lies of pornography: That when you let go of that secret it will be replaced with humdrum, boring, vanilla, sex with your spouse.

This is the lie of chasing your dream: That when you let go of your plans and trust God’s, he will call you into a mission that you will hate.

This is the lie of holding on to hurts. That when you let go of your wounds, they’ll be reopened, not healed and redeemed.

Adam and Eve believed this lie when they traded Eden for an apple. Letting go of the things we think are wonderful will force us to receive the mundane, the boring, the safe, from a God who always trades down with us, never up.
 
The rich young ruler who was afraid to give up his riches believed this when he walked away from Christ crestfallen. He had too much good to trade in for so much average from Christ.

But it’s a lie.

It’s a perfect lie.

What father would give us a snake when we asked for a fish?

What father would throw a party when punishment was due?

What father would leave the flock to find the single lost sheep?

When you start to grasp this, a second lie will come and it will tell you, “I shouldn’t come to God just because I’m expecting good things from him.”

He’s no cosmic ATM, I agree. But the danger of this lie is that it quickly morphs into a joyless experience with God. Did the woman at the well say, “No thank you. I don’t want this living water you speak of. I don’t want to come to you just because I’m expecting good things”? Did the cripple who danced away healed say, “Leave me lame. I don’t want to come to you just because I’m expecting good things”? Did anyone in the Bible refuse a gift from the gracious father because they wanted to make sure their motives were pure before they accepted it?

No. They came with open hands and expectant hearts. They knew that the gift of his presence, the gift of his grace, would ultimately overwhelm anything and everything they let go of.

Surrender is not a sexy word, in part because we think it means letting go of something amazing in exchange for something average. But we’re wrong. It’s a lie.

Surrender is not the end of a beautiful life. It is the beginning.

Twelve Euros Away (A week in review)

While completing a grammar exercise

British girl: "We spell this word differently. Is it okay if I spell it the way I normally do?"

Me: "Sure."

(A few minutes later)

Girl: "I spell colour with a u. Is it okay if I keep the u in?"

Me: "Sure."

(A few minutes later)

Girl: (with a bit of a grin) "This sentence says 'my backyard,' but we wouldn't call it a backyard; it's a 'back garden.' Can I write that?"

Me: "You know what's it talking about, so just copy it the way it is."

(And another few minutes later)

Girl: "This says 'we're going on vacation'; can I change it to 'holidays'?"

Me: "Well, it is an American textbook. I know you'd say it differently at home, but just so we're all writing the same thing, please keep it the same."

Boy: "Why do you need to write it differently, anyway?"

Girl: "I just hate American English!"

-----

There is a small shelf of books in my classroom. While the school library is pretty great, I'm always recommending books to the kids, then finding out that our library doesn't have them. If I keep books in my room and introduce the titles during class, they're more apt to check them out and read them. All of that led to all of this:

Boy: "Ms. C, can we donate books to your library?"

Me: "Yes! That'd be awesome!"

The next day, the boy brings his copy of The Last Hero and proudly finds it a place on the shelf.

Boy: "Ms. C? The next book just came out. My mom was looking online, and at bookdepository.com, you can get it for only 12 euros!"

Me: "Okay, thanks. I'll check it out after class."

(Several minutes later, in the middle of a class activity)

Boy: (raises hand)

Me: "Do you have a question?"

Boy: "No, um, I just wanted to make sure that you knew that if you order that book soon, it's only 12 euros at bookdepository.com."

Me: "Right. I will check that out."


(As he walks out the door after class)

Boy: "Ms. C! That book--don't forget--12 euros at bookdepository.com."


BAHAHAHA! He has no idea that while he was doing his homework, I ordered the book from amazon.es (for only 11,32).

-----

My yearbook graphics man (the one who believes in Russian Santa) almost didn't sign up for yearbook this year; he was talked into it because he needed extra credits. However, he now takes his role very seriously. When I divided our massive yearbook club into two groups and said they could alternate weeks, he told me, quite resolutely, "I am the designer. I need to be here." Who can argue with that?!

So here was the conversation at the beginning of this week's club:

Boy: "Who are the other designers?"

Me: "Anna and Luisa.*"

Boy: "Okay. Today I am going to teach them what to do!"

(Ten seconds later, one of the girls enters the room)

Boy: "Luisa, sit down! Today I am going to teach you how to do everything!"

*Names have been substituted to ensure student privacy. All rights reserved.

-----

Finally, remember when our water went crazy and leaked under the house and the water company sent us a 438,00€ bill? And remember when I said I'd be interested in seeing how people fix water leaks underneath cement houses?

My curiosity was satisfied that day. Here's how they fix it.

The outside wall in the front, beneath my bedroom window:

Bathroom: 

Back hallway:

Kitchen:

Back patio:

There's no tile missing here, but I thought you'd like to see the column that came with the house.

Either Spaniards really like to smash things apart (see also: The Great Toilet Smashing of Summer 2011), or I haven't been hanging around with enough construction workers.

Anyway, the water is fixed, and I must be going. I'm off to a delightful rotic date with Sarah (yes, rotic; that's "romantic" without the "man"), followed by picking up my packages of 12-euro books and lesson planning for more of that dreadful American English.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

...who fluctuates the most of all? The English teacher.

From now on, I should probably not answer people when they ask, "How are you doing?" There will be a new answer every day, possibly every hour. Last week, I felt as though I were actually getting into some sort of rhythm. But then the weekend came, a storm cloud, and accusatory thoughts pelted me like angry rain: you're not organized enough; you don't have the right skills; the kids are going to suffer because you're not doing it right. Oh, look, my old friend perfectionism invited itself to dinner!

On Monday night, I left the building for an after-school siesta. By the time I woke up, the sky was getting dark. I trudged up to my classroom, a rag doll only loosely sewn together, stuffing spilling out, seams frayed and ripping. I worked in the classroom until 11:30, when tears finally pressed their way out. I cried at my desk for a few minutes, walked back home to cry in my shower and then in my bed. It took ages to fall asleep, my mind dragging itself over each piece: curriculum, building relationships, making rubrics, copying worksheets. It's clumsy work, trying to fit a zillion puzzle pieces together with oversized fingers and undersized confidence.

And yet.

On Tuesday morning, I woke up and wasn't tired. One of my seventh graders wrote in his journal that he's never enjoyed reading so much in his life. A ninth grade girl told someone that English was one of her favorite classes. We had a great discussion about Harrison Bergeron, and today, the kids actually applauded the three videos I showed in class (I like to think it means they were touched--though they applauded even louder for my little "there's no homework tonight" speech. That's how you can really strike an emotional chord with a high schooler.). My ninth graders--my rowdy, squealing, intimidating ninth graders--have surprised me lately with their depth of insight, and now that we've started discussing character and motivation and what really matters about a person, I'm excited to see what they're going to toss my way. Oh, and we had a middle school spa night for the girls, which started out quiet and ended with a bunch of nail-polished, face-masked, pedicured, hand-scrubbed happiness. I'd say that's progress.

It's just hard, you know? If I could catch the snatches of success and keep them in a jar, there'd be a handful or two. The kids are so, so wonderful. It's me who can't quite get it together. Some days, I feel like I'm dropping pieces of myself left and right, and then chunks of my brain go flying out my mouth. (Middle schoolers really love that, by the way, so it's not a total loss.) I have kids who are going to miss a few days' worth of class. I'm stoked when they are proactive enough to ask for the homework days ahead of time, yet I also want to say, "Friday? Are you kidding me? I can't tell you what we're doing on Friday because I don't even know what we're doing on Friday. Why are you so studious, kid?!"

All this to say that sometimes I leave encouraged, and sometimes I leave frustrated. Another teacher mentioned today that it takes about three years to get into the swing of teaching, to feel mostly comfortable and confident. She's an amazing teacher, so it's nice to know that everyone bursts into tears at some point or another. We cry because we care. Right? Maybe I'll get that printed on a nameplate for my desk! Teachers: We cry because we care.

My first Spanish mascota experience

Sarah bought a betta fish for her classroom tonight. I have never seen a cashier put a glass fish bowl--full of water and one fish--inside a plastic shopping bag before.

I have also never seen someone trying to purchase baby turtles--and receive a mild reprimand for wanting to take them home in a plastic fish tank.

I have also never before gone into a mall bathroom and watched a friend transfer the turtles into said fish tank, nor have I stood in such a bathroom and held the water bottle so my friend could pour her fish into it. And I don't think I've ever seen a mall cleaning lady smile at me so curiously before.

I'm also pretty sure I've never watched anyone leave a fish and turtles in a storage locker so they'd have free hands for grocery shopping. Seriously. Why wasn't all this great stuff mentioned in a brochure or something?!

Low Spot

They say that adjusting cross-culturally looks like this:

The whole living here thing has been fine. But my adjustment to teaching 4.5 preps is starting to hit the low part of that curve. I feel like I am going to break apart.

We interrupt your normally scheduled programming

...for something completely awesome.

Usually, if I'm tired, I become wide awake while teaching, then resume tiredness during my quiet study hall. Today, though, I was so zonked that I kept referring to a story about robots in front of my sixth graders, even though the story they'd read was about hitchhikers. It's like my brain fell asleep in second hour, then woke up during fifth hour, not realizing it was in the wrong class. After wiping the drool from its cerebellum, my poor, shriveled brain figured out that the answers were right but the timing wasn't, so it blushed and shuffled awkwardly to the door, hoping we could all forget this and try again tomorrow. It's a good thing my sixth graders are so sweet; they will forgive anything if it means they don't have homework. :)

Okay, but that's not the awesome thing. This is just the preface to the awesome thing, wherein I mention that I cried the entire time I watched this. It may be a little bit due to my zoning robot hitchhiker brain, but mostly, the tears are just because it's beautiful.

This guy, Chris Medina, was on American Idol last season. I was, for the first time in ages, not watching it with Kelly because I was waiting for the consulate to legitimize me, so I heard all this buzz about Chris but didn't look into it. I have no idea how I ended up watching these videos tonight, except that I was supposed to be doing something else, so of course that didn't get done and this did. Why am I still talking? You don't want to read about me; you want to watch this guy!

Here's the audition, in which Chris explains his fiancee's story:



And here's his music video, What Are Words, which has the potential to be totally sappy but, I think, ended up just right.



There you have it: today's lesson in love.