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."