An African Adventure of Faith

Well, well, well, Christmas break is upon us. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but after juggling around a million different possibilities and travel dates, Marissa and I are leaving for Kampala tomorrow at 6:30 AM. This is either the coolest or stupidest thing I've ever done. Our preparation is severely lacking, and I am praying that our funds don't run out. But...I am confident that God will provide for us what we need, when we need it. I am praying that He will put the right people in our path to tell us things we need to know, and keep us from people that would do us harm. I'm going to take this opportunity to shamelessly solicit your prayers. Pray that we are safe in some of the more dicey areas we will be, pray that we will have places to stay (as hostel booking hasn't really happened), pray that we can figure out how to get home from Tanzania (getting there is a thousand times easier than getting back), pray that we have enough money. I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little stressed right now...but this will be a once in a lifetime adventure! I am hoping I can take this opportunity to just rely on God and see how He provides. And having your prayers behind us as we go would be incredibly comforting as well.

So. That's all for now...maybe for this year. If I don't have computer access, have a merry Christmas and happy New Year! blessings to all, and thank you for your prayers!

Parent Teacher Conferences

...are happening as we speak at Kigali International Community School.

I am meeting with parents all day and saying things like "He's an intelligent, courteous young man" and "I think it's more of a motivation problem than anything else."

How old am I?

Christmas Traditions

Every family has its own unique traditions that add to the magic and wonder of the holiday season.

My family is no different. Every year, shortly after Thanksgiving, we'd go to a special farm and purchase a conically shaped tree, around 6 feet tall. We would then place this tree in the corner of our living room. We would untangle a long string of small lights, and then wrap the lights around the tree. After that, we'd pull out a stash of small, colored spheres and hang them from the limbs of the tree.

Beneath the tree, we would place gifts that we bought for one another, wrapped in shiny paper and elaborate bows. On the mantle above the fireplace, we hung cloth receptacles shaped like enormous socks, each labeled with our names. On Christmas morning, these receptacles would be overflowing with the small gifts that were too difficult to wrap.

Christmas Eve was an exciting time. My sister, brother and I would be brimming with anticipation, anxiously tracking of the progress of the clock. As much as we wanted to stay up just a few more minutes, our parents kept reminding us that we needed to go to bed. Why, may you ask? Every Christmas Eve our house got a special visitor. He was said to be a portly man, elderly, sporting white hair and red suit. He allegedly came down through our chimney with a sack full of presents for the three of us, which he would then artfully arrange on our sofa and chairs. We liked to call him "Santa Claus." To thank him for his troubles, we children would always leave a glass of milk and a plate of cookies on the coffee table.

Christmas morning came, and we would be beside ourselves. My parents would always go down ahead of us to check out the spread that ole S.C. had left in his wake. With the three of us at the head of the stairs, my mother would call out, "I think we had a visitor last night!" and we would race down the stairs like they were on fire. We'd round the corner to our living room, and there they were: Santa's gifts. After we had thoroughly exhausted ourselves in opening de-boxing, assembling, and admiring the gifts from Santa, we'd then move on to the gifts under the tree. Furiously, we'd tear apart the wrapping, creating a veritable fortress of crumpled paper.

As noon time rolled around, we'd lie around the on the sofas, buttressed in by our bounty, watching "A Christmas Story" or whatever other Christmas movie happened to be on the television, basking in the afterglow of the morning.

I'll never forget those special Christmas times.

O Magnum Mysterium

Well, friends, it's been awhile. Forgive me. You'll notice I tend to follow a pattern in my blogging life: a month or so of dormancy, followed by a brief storm of creative energy and productivity, and then back to silence. A quick update: since the despondency of my last post, I have traveled to Uganda for Thanksgiving, rafted the Nile, had my very first car accident, become all too familiar with Rwanda's police force and bureaucratic, depressing insurance processes, had my passport stolen (along with all the other contents of my purse), and almost successfully completed my first semester of teaching. That brief outline will have to suffice--for those of you concerned about items 3 and 5, just know that I am fine, all is well, and I lost nothing that can't be replaced.

Anyways. This is a rather cheap return to blog form, but I thought of this song earlier today and had the urge to share it with everyone. It's always been one of my favorite choral songs, and getting the chance to sing it my senior year of college was one of the most transcendent musical experiences I've ever had. The loose translation of the song is this:

O great mystery and admirable [wonderful] sacrament
That animals see the Lord born
Lying in a manger.

Blessed virgin whose viscera [womb]
Were [was] worthy to bear Lord Christ.
Allelujah.

I thought it fitting, considering the season. If you have a beating heart, the minor chord at 2:58 should stop it, momentarily. Hope you enjoy.

Burnout.

I don't want to teach.

I just want to lie in bed, watch movies, and eat my weight in chocolate.

Is that too much to ask, really?

It's a small world after all.

I read this book fall semester of my junior year of college, as part of a young adult literature class. At the end of the semester, after unsuccessfully trying to sell it back to Harding's bookstore, I dropped it in some give-away box with the other undesirables, anxious to lighten my load.

Little did I know, the give-away box was intended for a small start-up school in Africa, desperate for books.

This morning, the headmaster of KICS returned Ghost Boy to its original owner. Barely able to contain himself, he hurried to my class before first period, opened to the inside page, and revealed my name.


I'm taking this as just one more little affirmation from the universe that I really am meant to be here.


(somehow, an ex-boyfriend's old textbook also ended up in my Rwandan classroom. i'm not quite sure what to do with that).

One More

One more party with all the familiar expat faces.

One more new arrival whose name I won't remember, working at some NGO.

One more time: I'm Jess. From the States--Atlanta. I'm a teacher. High school English. KICS, in Gaculiro. Been here about two and half months. Yes, I like it. Live in Kibagabaga--near Kimironko? Will be here at least through the school year in June.

Then on to repeat the litany to someone else, who doesn't care either.


what's the point, really?

Musings for the Void.

In terms of life changes, the year 2008 is going to be pretty hard to beat.

I survived student teaching, and subsequently, I graduated college.

I watched my best friend and sister become a wife.

I said goodbye to my family and friends and moved to Africa.

That last part bears repeating: I moved. to Africa.

Consequently, I have somewhat figured out how to live in Africa (no--I have learned to live in Kigali, Rwanda. I certainly don’t need to further the conceptualization of Africa as a massive, dark shape; I say “I moved to Africa” only to heighten the dramatic effect).

I began teaching. I am now known to 28 high schoolers as "Miss." I’ve conditioned myself to falling asleep before ten and waking up at ungodly hours of the morning, when most rational human beings have at least another two hours left.

I co-purchased a vehicle, and, by God’s good grace, I will soon drive a stick shift.

I’ve learned how to live without paper towels, microwaves, and season 5 of The Office.

I’ve made new friends from all over Africa, the United States, and world.


*************************************************************************************


So why am I still wondering if things will ever change?

Then you can start to make it better.

It’s amazing how quickly the weeks have filled up since I arrived here over two months ago; nearly every day has something going on. Tuesdays and Thursdays I tutor from 2:30-4. Usually one of those days contains a trip to Bourbon Café or Torero, the new café downtown. Wednesday nights are for the singing and prayer service at our headmaster’s house. Saturday mornings are for grading, and, more importantly, not setting my alarm; Saturday nights are typically reserved for something slightly less depressing. Sundays are church days, movie nights, and the inevitable Sunday night existential crisis about whether or not I can actually teach another week of school.

And then there’s Friday.

Fridays have no designated activity, excepting the institution of the Friday Song (and, more recently, upon the suggestion of a fellow teacher, Friday Chocolate). The Friday Song was designed to inject the drudgery of the workweek with a Springsteenian dose of grandeur and significance--a musical high-five, if you will. There is only one rule for the designated Friday Song: it may only be listened to on Friday, after the completion of another five days that, on Sunday, seemed impossible. Preferably, it should be a song with a slow build, gradually climaxing to a release of epic proportions. The song selection is crucial, since years later, the Friday Song will be synonymous in my mind with freedom and survival and that time that I was 22 and taught in Rwanda and felt anxious and so young and so old at the same time and didn‘t have a clue what I was doing but at least seemed bold and intrepid, right?

The last class exits my room around 2:25 pm. As the last student leaves, I hastily shut the door behind her, and hurry over to my laptop. On goes the Friday Song (currently: Hey Jude, though I’m thinking of doing a monthly rotation); off go the shoes. For the next seven minutes, after my chocolate is eaten, I will dance (actually, more like drunkenly sway) around my room like some deranged hippy. I am careful to avoid the window in my door, lest a passing student peek in and silently confirm that Ms. Merrill has a screw loose.
I can think of no better way to end the week than closing my eyes and losing myself in the euphoria of Paul McCartney’s chorus of nah-n-n-nah-nahs.

One more day.

Great Moments in Teaching, Pt. 1

My proudest accomplishments so far. . .

1) Finding an excuse to show a clip from "The Office" to 9th and 10th graders.

2) Using Joni Mitchell, Bruce Springsteen, Simon and Garfunkel, and Radiohead songs in three different lessons--all within the course of a day.

3) Using "Waiting for Guffman" to illustrate satire to the 10th graders.

4) Incorporating a "Heavyweights" quote into a test.

Just doing my part to empower the future of Rwanda.

Fifth Grade Follies

In addition to teaching all four levels of high school English, everyday I teach a creative writing class for the middle school 9 week rotation. Right now, and for the next three weeks, I have the fifth graders. In case you were wondering, that's five different classes. Every. day. In case you were wondering. . .that's a lot. Oh, and I also recently began tutoring someone for three hours a week. Brilliant.

In other words, I'm a busy woman. It's virtually impossible to stay on top of things--especially for someone like me, who's already prone to disorganization. Very often, I have to let a class fall through the cracks.

Typically it's the fifth graders. My stack of papers to grade for that class has grown embarrassingly large since the beginning of school.

Only last night, however, did I realize what a potential goldmine I am sitting on. I am only hurting myself by not reading gems like this one, a product of yesterday's assignment.

The Assignment: Describe a wedding from the perspective of a young kid and an older person.

I think someone got a little confused...

"An old person can think that there still young. You can make an old person admit that their old if you tell them they can get a free foot massage my mom own a sauna and she really loves foot massage." *

*grammar and spelling unaltered

Great advice from a fifth grader who shall remain anonymous (to you and me both--he/she forget to put a name on the paper. I wish I knew who to thank).

Proof that I am out of the loop.

According to imdb.com, the number one movie at the box office right now is. . .

Beverly Hills Chihuahua???



Dear Lord. What else am I missing?

Thank you, Jennifer.

This is a work of genius.

That's Miss Merrill to You.

For all of those who never believed I'd make it this far....

I am officially six days into my career as an English teacher.

When I was a student (umm, earlier this year), I always envisioned "school" as a place where the teachers enthusiastically worked together in little collaborative education dream teams, focused solely on the bettermen t of the people they serve, like doctors in a hospital run by nuns, or the White House (present administration excluded). Maybe they met for coffee on Saturdays to discuss education hot topics like differentiating curriculum, or traded classroom management tips over Sunday brunch.

Needless to say, my first week, uhhh...wasn't that. Last Monday was off to a great start, until a girl in first period question asked the telling question:

"So, what are we doing tomorrow?"

Crickets.

First of all, there's the sheer absurdity of calling my early twenty-something colleagues "Mr." and "Ms." (or "colleagues," for that matter). I've tried to focus on the small victories (semi-mastering a new copy machine) and ignore embarrassing defeats (completely forgetting the meaning of the word "predicate" in the middle of a grammar test, mutilating my right heel on the second day from wearing too-small shoes). I turn up my music every morning in an attempt to drown out the voice in my head that sweetly says I have no business teaching high schoolers, that I really don't know anything at all, and that I should probably just go find a job filing papers somewhere. (That, by the way, is the nice voice. The not-so-noice voice usually suggesets that I do something involving a running car engine and a hose).

And if first-time teaching doesn't make you insecure enough, teaching a class of almost entirely francophone seniors who rarely speak English to each other ought to do the trick.

Still, when I'm not succumbing to my insecurities, butchering my African students' names, or pulling my hair out trying to lesson plan, I look out the window, pinch myself, and usually, laugh.

My trip to school every morning consists of walking up a dirt road for about 10 minutes, until I hit the main road that takes me down our hill. It looks out to the valley and beyond, and takes me past dozens of children wearing blue uniforms who wave and smile and shout "Muzungu!" (but they're adorable so I don't mind so much).There are women in wild prints balancing huge bunches of bananas on their heads, women with sleeping babies tied to their backs, and a myriad of other things which scream "Africa" that I wonder if I'll ever get over. I walk until I can flag down some transportation, haggle over the price, then zoom through the valley, past the gas station, and up to school, all the while marveling that I actually live this life.

My trip home from school usually takes place in the dark. But getting there is lovely.

The Five Stages of Grief/Teaching

1) Denial.
Example: blogging/Facebooking/Minesweeper-ing instead of planning for five classes/grading.

2) Anger.

Example: "How much am I getting paid to do this?"

3) Bargaining.

Example: "If I plan for four days, can't I just show a movie on Friday?"

4) Depression.

Example: "Excuse me, good sir, could you direct me towards the nearest cliff?"

5) Acceptance.

Example: "Maybe I won't be the next Ron Clark, but at least I won't be Mary Kay Letourneau."

This is the view from classroom.

And, if you must know, it is the view I am looking at this very moment.

Well, that and the literary term posters on my back wall that absolutely refuse to hang in right angles.

The picture really doesn't do it justice. I could try to describe it, but I would end up sounding like some cheesy voice-over in a movie, read by an actress who thinks she knows how to do a Southern accent. So I'll leave it at this: it's lovely. At night, when the hills are covered in lights, it's stunning, even. Perfect for sitting in a lounge chair, sipping red wine or black coffee, and reading Wordsworth.

Unfortunately, I don't believe the aforementioned activities were written into my contract with the school. Instead, I seem to recall something about teaching high school--a job for which, to be honest, I feel completely inadequate. Which probably explains why I am blogging right now instead of planning to teach four levels of English.

Still, I am hoping for some kind of spiritual, organic communion with the hills and the sky outside my door, to energize my teaching efforts and (maybe) make 9th graders care about The Odyssey. Isn't there some scripture about looking to the hills for help?

Dear Lord, I sound more New Age-y everyday.

I guess it doesn't help that I just had a full-length tye-dye dress made for me.

...this kind of mind is not ideal for curriculum-planning.

Muraho!

"Muraho" is "hello" in Kinyarwandan. Wait, or is it "how are you?" Shoot, I can't remember. The one word I know for sure is "Muzungu"--white person. This word is hard to avoid--anytime we walk down the street we hear it in passing conversations, and the kids wave and call it out as we ride on the bus.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am in Africa. . .a fact that continues to amaze me. Really, I am most amazed with myself. I really never thought I was the girl that switched continents for a year-- just the girl who thought something like that would be really cool. Granted, I have friends here, but I didn't know they'd be with me with I signed on. And I know, it's not like I'm entrenched in Baghdad or anything. But still. If I'm allowed to say it...I am proud of myself.

The first few days have been an overwhelming jumble of first impressions, new friends, and new places. I couldn't possibly describe it all and be remotely interesting, so I will give you a few highlights:

1) Plane ride from Addis Ababa (Ethiopia) to Kigali: I sat next to a man with a gold and diamond watch bigger than my head who, in casual conversation, said that his "kingdom is bigger than Rwanda." He, unsurprisingly, does something with diamonds. And oil. He gave me his card at the end of the flight, and, I'm not joking, his email address is "princeofcongo@yahoo.fr." Don't email him; I'm sure he could have me killed.

2) On our second day, we were shown real estate by a man named Dudu--pronounced exactly like it looks. This has been the highlight of our house-hunting experience. (Read: it's not going too well. Prayers appreciated!)

3) The ladies in the marketplace call me "sees-tah." I love it. After years of feeling self-conscious about my utter lack of ethnicity in metro-Atlanta, I move to Africa and finally become a sister.

4) I know the concept of the "line" is predominantly a Western one--that the rest of the world, as I have found it, prefers to clump. But the mass of humanity at the cell phone store the other day tested the limits of what is acceptable for civilized beings. From looking at the Rwandese, you would have thought the fate of the world rested on their ability to be waited on first at the cell phone store. Or, at least, before the muzungus. The woman behind me got closer than anyone who doesn't put a ring on my finger should ever get, sandwiching me between the woman directly in front of me like a deli meat. (Is that too obvious a simile for the verb "sandwiched"? Oh well). But I got my cell phone, and a valuable cultural experience, so all in all it was a success.

5) Last night we ate at....drumroll please...a Mexican restaurant. African women speaking French in senorita shirts, with French Simon and Garfunkel covers playing on the radio. In other words, anything you could ever want in a Mexican restaurant. Oh, and Dora the Explorer was painted on the outside wall. Tres bien.

6) Yesterday we visited a workshop which brings in women from all over the country who have been widowed by the genocide. There, they learn to become master basket weavers, and their baskets are sold to Macy's. And Bono. He, apparently, is a patron. This is probably the closest I'll get to Bono while I'm in Africa. Or ever.

We got to visit with the ladies, take pictures, and take a stab at basket weaving before one of the ladies panicked and hastily retrieved her handiwork. Overall, a terrific day!

With that, I leave you with a totally cliche picture of muzungu + Africans. Enjoy!

Satisfied?

Show me!

Not to toot my own horn, but I receive a lot of positive feedback for my blogging enterprises. "Jessica, when are you going to update your blog"; "Jessica, your blog changed my life"; "Jessica, your blog is a ray of hope in an increasingly dark and terrifying world"--I could go on, but you get the idea. However, this positive feedback is almost exclusively verbal. And while I do enjoy replaying lavish praise in my head, occasionally I misplace a word or two, which tends to frustrate the process of retrieval. If only I had some type of visual affirmation--like, shall we say, in the form of more comments--I am certain that my blogging efforts would quadruple (or, erm, somewhat increase) in response to the encouragement. Or, it would just assuage my ego. Both desirable outcomes. Since I primarily exist off the positive feedback of others, comment on my blog and watch me salivate like Pavlov's dogs. We can use this entry as a test drive, if you like. You can even keep the image of me foaming at the mouth in your head as you do it...if you like.

So, I believe we all have what we want now. My readers got a new entry, and I got a desperate, groveling, borderline-despicable plea for more feedback. I have thrown myself at your, the discriminating reader's, mercy, sacrificing 94% (yes, 94) of my dignity in the process. If you don't comment now I'll really look like an idiot. And you wouldn't want that...right?

The Odyssey: Part Two

How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Greyhound

I chose to be a New Zealander for two reasons. One being that, after watching countless hours of Flight of the Conchords (okay, and Lord of the Rings special features), just about every accent I attempt comes out Kiwi anyways. Secondly, I figured that New Zealand was obscure enough that anyone suspicious of my actual origins would be too nervous to call my bluff.

Now, I've faked accents before--Jennifer and I find it a perfectly acceptable way to endure the agony of shopping--but always on the short-term. This was going to test my resolve. The question was: do I have the stamina, the wherewithal, if you will, to fake an accent for the entire ride?

The answer is yes, I do.

So, I prepared a little backstory. Jih-ssica was "on holiday in the States, visiting family." One of her "mates got married in Ahh-kin-sawr," so that's what she was doing there. She had tried to fly out of Little Rock on a buddy pass for the past two days, but after missing eight flights in a row, she had finally broken down and purchased a Greyhound bus ticket. (You'll notice I didn't deviate too much from my own narrative here; I didn't see any need to confuse myself). She was excited, though, as the Greyhound ride would give her a chance to "see America from the road" (though she found the scenery from Little Rock to Memphis "rather boring.")

I boarded the bus and looked around nervously for a free seat. The Greyhound gets scarier the closer you get to the back (take Exhibit A: Creepy Guy in Wifebeater with Tattoos on his Head), so I happily found a spot in the middle, next to a curly-headed guy who reeked of smoke but looked friendly enough.

After we got going, I asked a few friendly questions about Greyhound bus riding (questions I actually wanted to know the answers to, as I was a first-timer), until he finally took the bait: "If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?" I didn't mind, not at all. He asked if I knew Flight of the Conchords, and I expressed my appreciation to them for "putting us on the map." We carried on a bit, and I gave him my backstory. When we got to Memphis, I asked if you could see "the Elvis home" from the road (I started to tell him that my parents are just nuts about Elvis, that all New Zealanders are, that my father was an impersonator and my little sister was named Lisa Marie, but I thought this might be a little much). I sat on the edge of my seat and gave a rather convincing portrayal of a foreigner seeing Memphis for the first time--Steven (my new friend's name) kindly pointed out the Pyramid as we crossed the bridge.

When I boarded the bus, I had been past the point of exhaustion, after only getting four hours of sleep the night before, plus the emotional turmoil of the Standby Crisis. But the adrenaline rush of lying so outrageously revived me considerably, and this whole time I was inwardly buzzing. If I seem a little pleased with myself...I totally was.

Steven and I bid farewell when he got off at Memphis. I then had an hour to kill at the station while a crew cleaned the bus, so I started looking for new friends. It was there that I met Teddy, a sweet, surprisingly mature 15-year old traveling with her 10-year old sister. They were headed to Louisville ("that's where I'm from," she said, in as subtle attempt as she could manage to get me to reveal my homeland). Teddy "just love[d] [my] accent" ("Oh, I love yours!"), and in my naive-foreigner mode, I stuck close to her, depending on her American expertise. And yes, I did feel like somewhat of a dirtbag for duping this perfectly nice girl--but if not for my forged personality I probably wouldn't have met her in the first place....so. Teddy and I went our separate ways at Nashville around midnight, but not before I got a picture with my "new American mates." (I probably said "mates" too much).

My ride got decidedly quieter in the wee morning hours, and I had to keep reminding myself I was foreign as I got progressively sleepier. Nashville to Atlanta passed in an uncomfortable blur, as I found sleeping on the Greyhound virtually impossible. When I finally got to Atlanta, I decided the jig was up; I hadn't really talked to anyone lately anyways (which was probably a good thing; I think my accent got decidedly more British as the night wore on). But I will always remember fondly my time as a New Zealander on the Greyhound.

And if Steven or Teddy ever happen to come across this blog...I'm really sorry.

The Odyssey: A Story in Two Parts

Saturday at around 12:00 PM, I arrived at the Little Rock airport to catch a flight back to Atlanta.

Two days, eight missed flights, and one 14 and 1/2 Greyhound bus journey later, I finally made it home.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Odyssey.

Part One: Standby Me

Not too long ago, I proclaimed my gushing love for all things airport. Perhaps I should have qualified myself. Though I do love airports, I hate--nay loathe--flying standby.

For those of you who've never flown standby, let me describe it for you. When you fly standby, all confirmed passengers are your enemies. You nervously count heads and the gate, silently groaning with every new arrival. The passengers who come rushing up at the eleventh hour (or far worse, ambling up), after you've allowed yourself the smallest shred of hope to get on the plane, are the very spawn of Satan. Especially the grown woman who arrived inexplicably out of breath, crying, and--here's the kicker--holding her tennis shoes. (But I digress). You wait with your heart in your throat while zone after zone is called to board--Zone 1, Zone 2, Zone 3--while you remain firmly entrenched in the No Fly Zone.

Herein lies the problem of flying to Atlanta. No one in their right mind is actually going to Atlanta for pleasure, but everyone--everyone.--is flying through Atlanta to get somewhere else (ahh, the joys of living in a Delta hub). So every flight to Atlanta is packed like it's the last helicopter out of Vietnam. I can't even count the number of hours I've spent waiting standby at Gate 2 (always Gate 2) of the Little Rock airport, but undoubtedly, it gets the award for Gate at which Most Time has been Killed by Jessica Merrill. And in case you're wondering, the Little Rock airport is among the world's worst in which to kill time. Past security, there is one bookstore, one newsstand, a small food court, two coffee shops, and one bar (which, I'm sorry to say, became a temptation). I was better at amusing myself on Day 1 of waiting, but by Day 2 I would have almost paid someone to come and talk to me. I could tell my emotions were getting the better of me when the Starbucks barista told me my small coffee (small coffee!) would be two dollars, and I nearly burst into tears (I'm not kidding).

So, after about 249 despondent phone calls to my mother, eight flights packed solid that I was not on, and hopeless forecasts from the gate agent for the next and last two, it was decided that the best option in Operation: Get Jess Home was for me to take a Greyhound.

So I thought to myself, if you must take a Greyhound, you might as well make it interesting...right?

And that's how I became Jih-ssica, the friendly New Zealander tourist.

Here Comes the Divide

Today is the last day that all the Merrills live in the same house. Tomorrow, we drive to Searcy and prepare to give my sister away on Monday. And I don't feel the least bit ready.

The reality of it comes and goes. It came at me full force this morning around 5:30 am, as I lay in my bed and suddenly felt like I couldn't breathe.

What happened? Somewhere along the line, I feel like I've failed in some required twin individuation process. Sure, we have our differences--anyone who knows us knows how we hate being thought of as duplicates. Still, however unintentionally, our lives have basically followed the same trajectory until now. We went to the same college. We joined the same club. We sang in the same chorus. We eventually ended up with the same major. We lived in the same apartment for two years.

Of course, our paths started subtly diverging three years ago, when she went and fell in love and entered a world I know nothing about. I forestalled the inevitable conclusion for as long as I could, mentally willing her not to come back with an engagement ring every time she went out with her boyfriend.

But obviously, things change. They have to. And now I feel like the individuation is being forced on me in the most dramatic means possible: her last name is changing, and I'm moving to Africa. I don't know if this ripping-off-the-Band-aid separation is better than other ways of doing it or worse, and really, it's pointless to wonder, but I can't help myself. I feel foolish and melodramatic for bemoaning my loss when she'll still be just a phone call and eight time zones away, but it's a real loss and I wouldn't be doing it justice if I didn't mourn it, just for a little while.

Jennifer woke up when she heard me crying in bed this morning, and I pathetically asked her to come join me. So she did, and I cried, and then she cried, and we both got tired from crying. And then either she or I said something ridiculous, which made the other one laugh, and then we both kept on saying ridiculous things and dying with laughter. And after a couple of hours we decided we were hungry and went to Chick-Fil-A and got chicken biscuits.

And that's how things usually go with us. I'm just trying to see who's going to help me pick up my pieces when she's across the world from me, and not across the room.

We have seen better days

I need this in my life...

*Breathes into bag*

Must...not....explode....with...joy....

...and naturally, I'll be in Africa when he goes on tour.

perhaps there will be enough interest to justify a Kigali stop??? please??????

Ch-ch-ch-ch-chaaaaaan-ges

It's been awhile. So, faithful readers (be ye any?), I give you a brief update on my life.

1) I am recently back from a glorious week and a half in Ormond Beach, FL, where I devoted most of my time to perfecting my frisbee throw, reading a book a day, and getting browner than anyone who doesn't know me in the summertime would believe (that's the thing about my skin; it's surprisingly versatile). The rest of my time was spent trying to hush the guilt that such a long period of worthlessness inevitably brings. My primary line of defense was that surely I deserved this period of unadulterated chill after the black hole of joy that was, so often, my final collegiate semester. It worked. Some of the time.

2) I am a little over a month away from My Big Move to Rwanda. That means, in short, that I have got to get some serious stuff in gear. My preparation so far has consisted of reading several books about the country. Oh, and I made an Africa mix for my Ipod. Which is crucial, but it won't protect me from yellow fever, so I should probably do something about those shots soon.

*In a related note, National Geographic seems to be forecasting my travel plans. Weeks before I left for China, this showed up in our mail. Now, with Rwanda on this horizon, this month we get one with this on it, with the question "Who Murdered the Mountain Gorillas?" The article was mainly about Rwanda's neighbor, the Dem. Rep. of Congo, but Rwanda is also famous for it's mountain gorillas and was included in the article. Weird, no? They didn't predict my trip to Florida, but I guess they can be forgiven for that.

and, most (de?)pressingly...

3) I am officially less than two weeks away from being the sister of Mrs. Jennifer Locke.

I think this picture says it best.















(For anyone missing the parallel, I'm the one on the left).

Ridiculous.

Steve Perry got reincarnated. And he's not even dead.

This is not a metaphor.

My sister got a rolling pin.

Sunday afternoon, our church threw her a shower. Among her wife-ly bounty she got muffin trays, cookbooks, a cake tray that doubles as a punch bowl...and a rolling pin.

June Cleaver uses rolling pins, not my sister.


[It's funny how a rolling pin in a giftbag, casually lying on the dining room table, can make you feel more than a stack of invitations, a dress, and a veil do.]

Mmmmm Whatcha Say?

If you don't find this hilarious, we probably have nothing in common.

[Original posts coming soon, I promise.]

Juno, Interrupted

Forgive me, but

the guy who wrote this deserves a Pulitzer.

Sheer genius. All I wanted to say about "Juno" but didn't know how.

Regrets, I've had a few....

but then again,

let's leave the serious ones for another time, shall we?

Quasi-regret #1: I will never know what it was like to have "lived through the sixties."

Admit it, Baby Boomers. You relish your membership in this happenstance-of-birth club, and never tire of saying "you just had to be there." I cannot be the only member of my generation who feels somewhat inadequate about this.

Quasi-regret #2: Short legs are unlikely to ever be considered "desirable."

For that matter, clothing manufacturers seem unlikely to ever wise up to the fact that short-legged people exist.

Quasi-regret #3: Ever reading this article.

I was just contentedly reading my morning NPR last month, and this almost irrevocably spoiled my day. 22?!?! Are you kidding me?!?!

Quasi-regret #4: Being female, I am denied the distinctly masculine experience of growing a beard. At the risk of sounding Freudian, most people who know me sympathize with how cheated this often makes me feel.

Quasi-regret #5: I am not, nor am I likely ever to be, romantically involved with this man.

Okay, I'm going to go ahead and bump that last one up to full-fledged "regret." *sighhhhh*

It's the little things

I recommended this book to one of the students in my pre-AP class when she asked which book I thought she should read.

I'll admit--I was somewhat hesitant to suggest it. It's (sadly) way above grade level from what most of my students read, and furthermore, I love it dearly. And as every good reader knows, recommending a book you love is like offering a piece of your heart. The rejection can be crushing.

I've been cautious about asking how she likes it, to ward off the potentially devastating blow. Today, though, they had their book reports due. Moment of truth.

She turned to me during 7th period. "Ms. Merrill," she said. "That was the best book I've ever read in my life."

She read it, she loved it. Maybe she'll remember that I recommended it to her (though it doesn't matter all too much if she does). Maybe it will influence some part of how she thinks about the world. Maybe she'll tell others to read it, and it will stay with them, too. Maybe I'm just overanalyzing things once again--but maybe that's okay.

It's not much. It's not even teaching, really--just sharing. But it's something.

I can hear the bells....

I am drawing perilously near the end of my collegiate career. And here's a little something that should surprise no one: I have no clue what to do with myself after graduation.

Rather than coping with the natural reaction to this fact (i.e., hyperventilation and paralyzing fear), however, I can only rejoice as I endlessly chant this mantra to myself:

I am almost done with student teaching.

Let me say it again, for no one's benefit but my own:

I am almost. done. with student teaching.

I'll spare you all the laundry list of gripes I have with student teaching in general---99% of them relating to my indescribably lazy cooperating teacher, She Who Must Not Be Named. I'll spare you the thoughts that sleepless nights and endlessly whining students give birth to (among the more PG-rated: school-ditching daydreams such as If I called in a bomb threat, could anyone trace it? Can I willfully rupture my own appendix?) It's more than those things, though.

Never in my life have I felt as incompetent or isolated as I do in Room 18 of Riverview High School. And rarely ever would I succumb to and verbalize these feelings with such abandon. While at times I have the energy to put an optimistic, positive spin on things, I hope you'll forgive my present honesty--there's just such release, sometimes, in not trying to be cute or funny, and instead just admitting that there are so many days when my head's barely above water. But then again, there are days when it's clearly above the surface, and I can catch my breath. These days often follow each other, like a seesaw. I'm glad for that minute variety, I suppose--it's not much, though it does make the descent a little more manageable.

I'm afraid that I've become a negative person, and I'm not usually negative (at least, I hope not). Sometimes everyday feels like a head-on collision with the worst aspects of myself: my negativity, my pathetic fear of confrontation (even with 10th graders), my disorganization, my procrastination. An endless reminder of what I can't do; an endless frustration for why I can't seem to change. What scares me most is not knowing how much of my discontent stems from my situation, and how much is purely and simply my fault.

Does my unhappiness stem from inexperience, or inability? I'm not sure I want to know.

Nothing--especially school--is without its lessons, however. My student teaching has taught me two things. The first is simple and obvious: students who consistently do their work without complaining or presenting a thesis about why they don't have it done are precious, golden gifts from God. I have to restrain myself from falling on the ground and kissing their feet for the redemptive powers of their responsibilty.

The second is about bells. I have come to view bells as nothing less than sacred, much like Muslims view the daily calls to prayer. So many days each bell is a victory; audibal affirmation that I've survived another period, and that time is, in fact, passing. This is the most significant truth I've learned in the past 3 months: that even the longest, or the rowdiest, or the most frustrating periods eventually (and blissfully) end. Even the worst day has a bell at the end of it.

I'll spare you the obvious, cheesy real-life application. But I am thankful that it's there. And maybe not so cheesy at all--just true.

[thoughts on airports, and other things too]

I have always adored airports, truly, deeply. Possibly because everytime I step foot in one I am 74% convinced that I will see Conan O'Brien, or some lesser celebrity (so far, my best is Jerry Springer). I will forever be grateful to my mother for working at Delta for twentysomething years, allowing me the means to travel, and to Georgia, for--incongruously enough--having the world's busiest airport. It always proved the perfect playground for my highly melodramatic elementary-school mind. There is an energy and possibility amongst all those people and suitcases and destinations and colliding cultures that is intoxicating, and hard to match elsewhere.

Furthermore, everything feels more important in airports. Make eye contact with a stranger on the train to your gate and you will feel like you just had the most meaningful interaction of your life. Every glance may be filled with longing and ache and imbued with whatever significance you choose--the chance of our encounters on earth, the inability to genuinely connect with others in the fast-paced modern world, the things we barely catch, or miss--or something else equally true but pretentious. Stare blankly at the tunnel whizzing past your window, lock eyes furtively with a lonely-looking stranger, and feel like you both just communicated the meaning of the world.

Crank up The Kinks on your Ipod and pretend that you are in a Wes Anderson movie.
(Even if you don't admit that's what you're doing, because you can't completely admit to somewhat liking him).

[I recognize and accept that the above description could just be me being completely ridiculous.]

I love how airports give you license to feel like the most important person in the world--much like driving on the interstate gives you license to feel like the smartest person in the world. I find this to be especially true if a) you are traveling alone, and b) (ladies) if you are wearing heels. For gentlemen, a sportscoat will suffice. This somewhat levels the playing field between you and the businessmen no doubt swarming your gate, armed with laptops and ear-fastened, hands-free cell phones, who, it must be said, seem to actually think they are the most important people in the world. Walk purposefully down the terminal. Deliberately check your watch in a harried manner. Talk tersely into your cell phone (even if no one is on the other line). You, my friend, are going places!

My sister and I used to have a game we played when we were fortunate enough to land first-class on a plane, due to my mother's sway over the standby list, cemented by her years of employee-ship. We called it "Kingsley and Stoneman." Kingsley and Stoneman were cutthroat New York businessmen who routinely called all their employees by their last names and fired them over the airplane dinner. The script went a little something like this:

Kingsley or Stoneman: [the following said in the most convincing Yankee accent that 5th grade Georgian girls could manage]: "Hey, Leibovitz, how are yeh? Yeh enjoyin' yeh vacation? Well, here's an idea: why don't yeh go ahead and make it PERMANENT?!?! That's right--YEH FOY-EHD!"

[That's right; Kingsley and Stoneman extensively utilized "you're fired" long before Donald Trump made it a catchphrase. Take note].

I sometimes wonder if airport businessmen are just caught up in the thrill of pretending.

[Do you ever feel officially grown up? Or do you spend most of your grown up moments as a bewildered, delighted impostor?]

I am starting a blog.

...which, really goes without saying. But I feel that I must continue with all the "ooooh I"m starting a blog" preliminaries. Feel free to skip this post.

Why am I starting a blog?

Well, several reasons. First and foremost being that I am actually self-involved enough to believe that other people might be interested in what I have to say.

Secondly, I miss writing. And this is sortof writing.

Third(ly?), Harding blocks xanga, my previous blogspot. And my earth-shattering ideas shall not remain blogless for the little-over-a-month I have left until graduation. I've been silent long enough.

And lastly. Concerning the name...
My initials spell "jam", a fact that I have gladly capitalized on since the 6th grade. Nearly anything I have to do involving an internet nickname contains some form of "jam", hearkening back to my old Hotmail email account days at geminijam@hotmail.com. Dorkyjam, toastandjam, greeneggsandjam....actually, I've never used that one. And it's good...is it to late too rename this thing? Anyways. For now, Jamabajess! Like Jamba Juice, but combining my initials and my name...genius, no?

Okay. So not only am I self-involved to think that anyone is actually reading this in the first place...I take it one step further and assume people want to read a novel about how I came up with the blog name.

Clearly, my blogging career is off to a promising start.