As a substitute teacher, I hear it all. I sub for kindergarten through high school, so the topic of conversations I have with students vary from pet stories to break ups. No matter what age, I'm bound to hear something interesting.
I hear about bathroom trouble:
After returning from the bathroom, "I forgot to poop!" (Kindergartner)
"My mom had a baby five days ago. She pooped it out." (1st grader)
7th grade boy muttering to himself, "I have to fart, but I don't know which way to lean..."
I get a lot of questions about my age:
"How old are you?"
"Are you sixteen?"
"Do you have kids?"
2nd grader, "Are you in high school?"
Me, "No, I already went to college."
2nd grader, "Yeah right!"
Even high schoolers themselves, "Are you a new teacher or something? You look kinda young."
Sometimes, I practically laugh in their faces:
"Miss Fish, Zach is coloring on his face in red marker!" Yes he is, and his arms are covered too.
"Miss Fish, I told Ann Marie to take a chill pill, and she said I was calling her a drug addict." (4th grader)
But, I know they adore me ;)
2nd grade girl, "Oh, we get my favorite teacher today!"
5th grade boy, "Hey Sub."
10th grade girl says to me, "Hi Miss Fish," and to her friend, "I like that teacher."
Best of all, some senior boys asked another substitute teacher, "Who is that? Is she a new girl? I'm gonna ask her out!" I'm pretty sure high school boys did not talk about me like that when I was actually a high schooler (if they did, I was unaware) Better late than never? Not so sure that applies here...
Invariably, some kids are adorable, some kids are little devils, and some kids are just plain weird.
December 27, 2011
November 9, 2011
Urge for Going
No one describes days like today better than Joni Mitchell:
"I awoke today to find the frost perched on the town.
It hovered in a frozen sky and gobbled summer down.
When the sun turns traitor cold and all the trees stand shivering in a naked row,
I get the urge for going, but I never seem to go.
"I get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown,
summertime is falling down, and winter is closing in.
"I had me man in summertime; he had summer-colored skin,
and not another girl in town, my darling's heart could win.
But when the leaves fell trembling down,
and bully winds did rub their faces in the snow,
he got the urge for going, and I had to let him go.
"He got the urge for going when the meadow grass was turning brown,
summertime was falling down, and winter was closing in.
"The warriors of winter they give a cold, triumphant shout.
All the stays is dying; all the lives is getting out.
See the geese in chevron flight, flapping and a-racing on before the snow.
They got the urge for going, and they had the wings so they could go.
"They get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown,
summertime is falling down, and winter is closing in.
"I'll ply the fire with kindling and pull the blankets up to my chin.
I'll lock the vagrant winter out and bind my wandering in.
I'd like to call back summertime and have her stay for just another month or so,
but she's got the urge for going, and I guess she'll have to go.
"She gets the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown,
and all her empire's falling down, and winter is closing in."
"I awoke today to find the frost perched on the town.
It hovered in a frozen sky and gobbled summer down.
When the sun turns traitor cold and all the trees stand shivering in a naked row,
I get the urge for going, but I never seem to go.
"I get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown,
summertime is falling down, and winter is closing in.
"I had me man in summertime; he had summer-colored skin,
and not another girl in town, my darling's heart could win.
But when the leaves fell trembling down,
and bully winds did rub their faces in the snow,
he got the urge for going, and I had to let him go.
"He got the urge for going when the meadow grass was turning brown,
summertime was falling down, and winter was closing in.
"The warriors of winter they give a cold, triumphant shout.
All the stays is dying; all the lives is getting out.
See the geese in chevron flight, flapping and a-racing on before the snow.
They got the urge for going, and they had the wings so they could go.
"They get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown,
summertime is falling down, and winter is closing in.
"I'll ply the fire with kindling and pull the blankets up to my chin.
I'll lock the vagrant winter out and bind my wandering in.
I'd like to call back summertime and have her stay for just another month or so,
but she's got the urge for going, and I guess she'll have to go.
"She gets the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown,
and all her empire's falling down, and winter is closing in."
November 5, 2011
Meeting Meat
Since I've been living with my parents, I've begun to cook a lot. Most days, I don't work and they do, so I cook dinner for them. I enjoy cooking and experimenting with new recipes. Cooking for other people has been a good lesson for me because when I cook for just myself, I often end up throwing things together and calling it a meal. Cooking for others has also pushed me into new areas. Not every one wants to eat lentils and goat cheese for dinner -- though add some red onions and cilantro and people might reconsider. Occasionally, I have to let my own personal preferences go in consideration of other diners. Thus, I have been shoved into cooking a food group I've been leaving out: meat.
I keep a mostly vegetarian diet, a "flexitarian" diet. There's a book about it. Look it up. When I cook for myself, I never buy or cook meat of any kind, even fish. If other people cook meat for me, I feel bad refusing their hospitality, so I eat it. When I cook for other people, I often cook vegetarian meals. Many people don't miss the meat for one meal. After tricking my parents into eating vegetarian for over a week straight, my mom admitted she hadn't missed the meat at all. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that my dad missed his meat. He never said so, but I suspect it.
On top of that, there was a feature in Real Simple Magazine in October that was a month of easy dinners. I wanted to try it. I followed the first week: salmon, pork chops, roast beef paninis, and chicken included. I ate the salmon, and cooked other options for myself for the rest. Sometimes the meat tempts me, mostly out of curiosity -- did I make something good? However, the process of cooking meat... not so tantalizing. In fact, it makes me gag. Although I've (mostly) overcome the bloody sight of meat, the drippage and the stink of meat still disgusts me. I'm paranoid of getting raw meat juice on the counter or in the sink and spreading fleshy bacteria all over. While the completely cooked meat smells okay, there's a certain point mid-cooking that smells rank to me. Bluck.
Even though I don't really like cooking meat, I think it's good life skill. I might need to know how to cook meat someday. For instance, if I were stranded in the wilderness and got lucky enough to hunt an animal, I would need to cook it for survival. Plus, what if I fall in love with a meat eater someday? I hear compromise is important for marriage and making "meat eater" a deal breaker severely limits the selection of eligible bachelors (which already seems rather small).
There are plenty of ethical and health reasons to go vegetarian, all of which influenced my decision to reduce my consumption of meat in the first place. But, sometimes serving meat is the best way to serve people, so I'll make it... occasionally... when other people pay... if I can tell they really, really want it.
I keep a mostly vegetarian diet, a "flexitarian" diet. There's a book about it. Look it up. When I cook for myself, I never buy or cook meat of any kind, even fish. If other people cook meat for me, I feel bad refusing their hospitality, so I eat it. When I cook for other people, I often cook vegetarian meals. Many people don't miss the meat for one meal. After tricking my parents into eating vegetarian for over a week straight, my mom admitted she hadn't missed the meat at all. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that my dad missed his meat. He never said so, but I suspect it.
On top of that, there was a feature in Real Simple Magazine in October that was a month of easy dinners. I wanted to try it. I followed the first week: salmon, pork chops, roast beef paninis, and chicken included. I ate the salmon, and cooked other options for myself for the rest. Sometimes the meat tempts me, mostly out of curiosity -- did I make something good? However, the process of cooking meat... not so tantalizing. In fact, it makes me gag. Although I've (mostly) overcome the bloody sight of meat, the drippage and the stink of meat still disgusts me. I'm paranoid of getting raw meat juice on the counter or in the sink and spreading fleshy bacteria all over. While the completely cooked meat smells okay, there's a certain point mid-cooking that smells rank to me. Bluck.
Even though I don't really like cooking meat, I think it's good life skill. I might need to know how to cook meat someday. For instance, if I were stranded in the wilderness and got lucky enough to hunt an animal, I would need to cook it for survival. Plus, what if I fall in love with a meat eater someday? I hear compromise is important for marriage and making "meat eater" a deal breaker severely limits the selection of eligible bachelors (which already seems rather small).
There are plenty of ethical and health reasons to go vegetarian, all of which influenced my decision to reduce my consumption of meat in the first place. But, sometimes serving meat is the best way to serve people, so I'll make it... occasionally... when other people pay... if I can tell they really, really want it.
October 6, 2011
Fall in Love with Fall
There is no better time in the U.P. than early fall. The weather is mild, not too hot, not too cold (all you need is a light jacket!). The colors of the changing leaves are fantastically bright -- red, orange, yellow, set against the dark green conifers. And the dusty yet fresh smell of crunchy leaves permeates the area. I have fully embraced fall.
Although I have yet to rake leaves and jump in them this season, I have entertained myself with a few high quality fall activities. I went for a bike ride to admire the colors on a sunny day. I walked through the woods on a warm day. My mom and I went to Cranberry Fest in Eagle River, WI, where we bought honey, mittens, and hair feathers (for me, as a consolation for having to remove my tragus piercing). But my best activity yet: my very own Backyard Apple Festival.
An apple tree grows on our property a little ways down the dirt road (yes, people, I live on a DIRT road). This year, the tree is laden with apples. The branches bend down toward the ground groaning with the weight of the ripe, red fruit. What is the only way to relieve the Tree of its autumnal burden? Pick the apples, of course.
I feel a moral obligation to pick and consume as many apples as possible from the Apple Tree. At first I just reached up and pulled a branch down to pluck a few from the underside of the branches. Then, my dad and I stood on the truck bed of the Gator to reach higher. A few days later, I carried the ladder out, and my mom steadied it as I reached up even higher. The problem is that all the very biggest and bestest apples grow at the tippy top of the tree -- we can't even reach them on the ladder.
With the dozens and dozens of apples we have harvested, I've mostly made apple sauce. It doesn't sound that exciting, but homemade apple sauce is sensational. Our wild apples are very tart, so cooking them with a little water, sugar, and a cinnamon stick makes a wonderfully flavorful apple sauce. It's the culmination of tangy, sweet, and warm spice -- the ultimate fall flavor. After eating this apple sauce, I wonder why anyone ever buys mass produced applesauce -- pale and tasteless -- instead of making it at home. I leave the skins on for more nutrients and flavor (and it's easier), so it's nice and chunky, or if I puree it, it turns a lovely pink color from the red pigment in the skins. Mmm... I want some right now.
I've been making big batches of apple sauce and eating it warm as dessert or using it to substitute oil in zucchini bread or occasionally giving it away. We've used the apples to make tart apple crisp, which is also yummy. Fall is delicious in every way -- sight, taste, smell, sound, feel. Of all the seasons to be home, I'm glad to be here now when it feels homiest.
September 22, 2011
Reverse Culture Shock
During college, I did a decent amount of traveling abroad. I studied in Mexico for two months, spent spring break in India, did missions in Ecuador and Peru. Whenever I traveled with groups, we were always warned of culture shock. I own two copies of From Foreign to Familiar, which makes broad generalizations about "warm climate" and "cold climate" cultures with surprising accuracy (I recommend it for anyone traveling abroad -- you can even have one of mine). As disorienting as being dropped into a new land can be, returning to my own country is always more agitating. Learning a new culture is intriguing. The mantra of cultural acceptance "not better, not worse, just different" is a no-brainer to me. While I'm widely open to different foods, languages, and customs of other people, adjusting back to my own culture peeves me to no end. Living in Iron River again is much like reverse culture shock.
In 2010, I spent 10 weeks serving with Inca Link International in Peru. As an intern, I lead and hosted teams from the U.S. and Canada in different ministry sites. Every day, we would "debrief" and talk about our experiences that day, lessons we were learning from the people. With every team, we interns would teach about the "5 Stages" of transition back to life at home after seeing poverty and other hardship in a different part of the world. The Five Stages can happen in any order and can consist of brief moments or months of struggle:
Fun -- enjoying the things you missed while you were away.
Flee -- yearning to go back to the place you were visiting.
Fight -- anger and aggression towards home culture
Fit In -- assimilating to home culture
Bear Fruit! -- working within home culture and daily life to promote change
Every time we taught, we dreaded the day we, too, would say good-bye to Peru and go back home.
When I first returned to the US after being in Peru, the five stages hit hard. It was fun to see my friends and family, but in my mind, I was constantly fleeing back to Peru. All I could talk about was Peru. "Well, in Peru they..." "When I was in Peru..." "My friend from Inca Link says..." "I just talked to my friend from Peru and..." Word vomit: Peru. It just kept coming up and spilling out. Yet no amount of talk could comprehensively describe my experience.
Meanwhile, I moved in and out of fight, especially concerning issues of waste. Seeing wasted food in the trash turned me livid, and whoever threw it out must have been rich and ignorant. There are people in Peru who would eat that, you know. Once, I almost cried at the sight of a perfectly good pancake resting in the garbage can, on top of coffee grounds and discarded napkins. While my reaction may have been exaggerated by the fact that I absolutely love pancakes and would have eaten it myself, I couldn't tolerate the mentality of tossing something just because you don't want it anymore when there are people in the world who don't even get what they need.
Despite my resistance, eventually, I had to fit in. Surprisingly, people don't really respond well when you tell them the money they just spent on dinner could support a needy child in Peru for a month, maybe two. People don't really like being jabbed with spears of guilt for living life the way they know how. Curious. Though I hope lessons of resourcefulness and frugality will continue to pervade my life, slipping back into old habits in the same, comfy environment is as easy as breathing. A person can only fight so long. It's tiring. It requires effort. After awhile my life's purpose becomes fighting instead of living fully.
Now, I continue to fight the small town life in Iron River. At first, I baulked at the price of avocados. "A dollar-99 each! I paid 99 cents for two at Andy's Fruit Ranch!" Then, bitter tears brimmed in my eyes when I bought them anyway. The cost of my monthly avocado consumption could almost sponsor a child at the Inca Link Daycare.
But, like I adjusted back to the consumer culture of the US, I'll have to fit in here, too. I'll have to embrace the good things about country living. Perhaps my first task will be to find them...
The challenge is to bear fruit -- to find purpose. If I only bring back pictures and a scar from a tragus piercing gone wrong, my experience in Peru is belittled. If I only carry with me honor chords and old text books, my education at North Park will get me nowhere. Using these lessons is key to living a "life of significance." But, how do I achieve that? How do I incorporate what I've learned around the world to serve the people in my life here, now?
In 2010, I spent 10 weeks serving with Inca Link International in Peru. As an intern, I lead and hosted teams from the U.S. and Canada in different ministry sites. Every day, we would "debrief" and talk about our experiences that day, lessons we were learning from the people. With every team, we interns would teach about the "5 Stages" of transition back to life at home after seeing poverty and other hardship in a different part of the world. The Five Stages can happen in any order and can consist of brief moments or months of struggle:
Fun -- enjoying the things you missed while you were away.
Flee -- yearning to go back to the place you were visiting.
Fight -- anger and aggression towards home culture
Fit In -- assimilating to home culture
Bear Fruit! -- working within home culture and daily life to promote change
Every time we taught, we dreaded the day we, too, would say good-bye to Peru and go back home.
When I first returned to the US after being in Peru, the five stages hit hard. It was fun to see my friends and family, but in my mind, I was constantly fleeing back to Peru. All I could talk about was Peru. "Well, in Peru they..." "When I was in Peru..." "My friend from Inca Link says..." "I just talked to my friend from Peru and..." Word vomit: Peru. It just kept coming up and spilling out. Yet no amount of talk could comprehensively describe my experience.
Meanwhile, I moved in and out of fight, especially concerning issues of waste. Seeing wasted food in the trash turned me livid, and whoever threw it out must have been rich and ignorant. There are people in Peru who would eat that, you know. Once, I almost cried at the sight of a perfectly good pancake resting in the garbage can, on top of coffee grounds and discarded napkins. While my reaction may have been exaggerated by the fact that I absolutely love pancakes and would have eaten it myself, I couldn't tolerate the mentality of tossing something just because you don't want it anymore when there are people in the world who don't even get what they need.
Despite my resistance, eventually, I had to fit in. Surprisingly, people don't really respond well when you tell them the money they just spent on dinner could support a needy child in Peru for a month, maybe two. People don't really like being jabbed with spears of guilt for living life the way they know how. Curious. Though I hope lessons of resourcefulness and frugality will continue to pervade my life, slipping back into old habits in the same, comfy environment is as easy as breathing. A person can only fight so long. It's tiring. It requires effort. After awhile my life's purpose becomes fighting instead of living fully.
Now, I continue to fight the small town life in Iron River. At first, I baulked at the price of avocados. "A dollar-99 each! I paid 99 cents for two at Andy's Fruit Ranch!" Then, bitter tears brimmed in my eyes when I bought them anyway. The cost of my monthly avocado consumption could almost sponsor a child at the Inca Link Daycare.
But, like I adjusted back to the consumer culture of the US, I'll have to fit in here, too. I'll have to embrace the good things about country living. Perhaps my first task will be to find them...
The challenge is to bear fruit -- to find purpose. If I only bring back pictures and a scar from a tragus piercing gone wrong, my experience in Peru is belittled. If I only carry with me honor chords and old text books, my education at North Park will get me nowhere. Using these lessons is key to living a "life of significance." But, how do I achieve that? How do I incorporate what I've learned around the world to serve the people in my life here, now?
September 20, 2011
Gone and Back Again
When I first moved to Chicago, my parents were thrilled with how easily I adjusted to the new environment. Raised in a small town, the constant motion of city life felt foreign to me -- foreign and exhilarating. Although I was teary when my parents left me in my first dorm room at North Park University, I quickly adapted to the college and the city. After my first week of classes, I took the bus to Foster beach with my new friends. Later that day, we rode the Brown Line downtown to the Jazz Festival at Grant Park, and proceeded to walk to Navy Pier just in time to catch the Labor Day Weekend firework show. That night, we took the last train back to North Park at two in the morning. My transformation from country bumpkin to urbanite was swift and almost effortless.
In May, I graduated from college. During the last semester, I decided the best move for my life in the long run was to swallow my pride and go back home. I'm living with my parents in the tiny town I grew up in, but things could be a lot worse. I could be homeless or living in a whorehouse. I could be working three waitress jobs just to pay rent. I could have years of student loans so far ahead of me that I couldn't see the end. Actually, living with my parents is not bad at all. They pay for my food, my utilities. There's no rent. Everything I make goes into my checking or savings account. I get my own room (full of high school dreams) and my own bathroom. It's way nicer than the sub-standard Chicago flat I lived in at school. Plus, I know that the hair in the shower drain belonged to me and not to some skuzzy girl who shares the community bathroom on the dorm floor.
Plus, I really like my parents.
However, there are drawbacks. My parents' house is beautiful and comfortably situated on a picturesque lake, but the town is less than interesting. After four years of living in Chicago -- and a lifetime of dreaming of the day I could get the heck out of this nowhere place -- moving back to Upper Michigan is like poor Lisa Douglas being dragged from Manhattan to Green Acres. I went from loving my life in the most diverse neighborhood in the city of Chicago to a rural ghetto where the most "ethnic" restaurant is Italian.
Everything seems to have emptied while I was away. There are fewer cars in parking lots. Abandoned houses hunch heavily, forlorn and deflated without life inside. The middle school is closed -- kindergarten through 12th grade is all on one campus now. Next to Riverside Pizzeria, the charred remains of the old bowling alley lie, waiting to be buried and for the rest of the town meet its fate.
A quaint, country town is not what I find when I examine the area. I see broken down houses, and my mother, a teacher, tells me stories of neglected children whose parents survive on unemployment, Welfare, or booze. Not that all people who are unemployed or need assistance are negligent or lazy -- I do not intend to perpetuate that stereotype. However, the reality of small town living is not all sunshine and daisies. There are problems, too.
Growing up, most of my dissatisfaction stemmed from boredom. Although I played in the woods plenty, I never embraced the small town life. My family was transplanted here, not naturally "Yoopers." We didn't hunt or have relatives around town like everyone else. We didn’t own an ATV. Though we did live miles away from town. As a little girl, I sung Belle’s words “There must be more than this provincial life!” with conviction. I dreamt of attending a high school with a swim team and a theater program (even a choir would do). I definitely never thought I'd come back for more than a visit. But, here I am, reintroduced to the surroundings I haunted not so long ago, and rediscovering my hometown with a worldly eye.
In May, I graduated from college. During the last semester, I decided the best move for my life in the long run was to swallow my pride and go back home. I'm living with my parents in the tiny town I grew up in, but things could be a lot worse. I could be homeless or living in a whorehouse. I could be working three waitress jobs just to pay rent. I could have years of student loans so far ahead of me that I couldn't see the end. Actually, living with my parents is not bad at all. They pay for my food, my utilities. There's no rent. Everything I make goes into my checking or savings account. I get my own room (full of high school dreams) and my own bathroom. It's way nicer than the sub-standard Chicago flat I lived in at school. Plus, I know that the hair in the shower drain belonged to me and not to some skuzzy girl who shares the community bathroom on the dorm floor.
Plus, I really like my parents.
However, there are drawbacks. My parents' house is beautiful and comfortably situated on a picturesque lake, but the town is less than interesting. After four years of living in Chicago -- and a lifetime of dreaming of the day I could get the heck out of this nowhere place -- moving back to Upper Michigan is like poor Lisa Douglas being dragged from Manhattan to Green Acres. I went from loving my life in the most diverse neighborhood in the city of Chicago to a rural ghetto where the most "ethnic" restaurant is Italian.
Everything seems to have emptied while I was away. There are fewer cars in parking lots. Abandoned houses hunch heavily, forlorn and deflated without life inside. The middle school is closed -- kindergarten through 12th grade is all on one campus now. Next to Riverside Pizzeria, the charred remains of the old bowling alley lie, waiting to be buried and for the rest of the town meet its fate.
A quaint, country town is not what I find when I examine the area. I see broken down houses, and my mother, a teacher, tells me stories of neglected children whose parents survive on unemployment, Welfare, or booze. Not that all people who are unemployed or need assistance are negligent or lazy -- I do not intend to perpetuate that stereotype. However, the reality of small town living is not all sunshine and daisies. There are problems, too.
Growing up, most of my dissatisfaction stemmed from boredom. Although I played in the woods plenty, I never embraced the small town life. My family was transplanted here, not naturally "Yoopers." We didn't hunt or have relatives around town like everyone else. We didn’t own an ATV. Though we did live miles away from town. As a little girl, I sung Belle’s words “There must be more than this provincial life!” with conviction. I dreamt of attending a high school with a swim team and a theater program (even a choir would do). I definitely never thought I'd come back for more than a visit. But, here I am, reintroduced to the surroundings I haunted not so long ago, and rediscovering my hometown with a worldly eye.
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