Baffling Trends: Engagement Photos

You're getting married, not modeling for Marc Jacobs.


What's with this?

Limbo.

"I have become a name; for always roaming with a hungry heart..."




I have now been back in the States a little over one week, after a near ten-month absence. A number of things have changed while I was away: a black man became president, the economy went down the proverbial toilet, Twitter became an obnoxiously ubiquitous force in popular culture, and, most notably, my beloved Conan moved west to L.A. and an hour up into television primetime.

Also, my sister has been married nearly a year. This isn't a change so much as a cold hard indicator of time that makes me sweat a little, and sad a little.

Overall, I don't feel quite like the alien I imagined myself being in the transition from Africa to Suburbia. I'm not sure if I should be comforted by that, or disgusted. Occasionally, an incredibly-mundane-yet-forgotten element of American life will catch me off guard, and I'll shout out nouns like interjections--"Paper TOWELS!" "Water Fountains!" "FAT People!" American/summertime life in general, though, has lazily resumed its pace from August 2008--a morning run, followed by black coffee, followed by nothing-in-particular, really.

As for my future plans--well, that is the topic over which I am simultaneously internally-obsessing and cerebrally-avoiding. To make a long, strange story short: I won't be returning to KICS next year, nor will virtually any of the 08-09 staff. However, nearly all of my colleagues/friends WILL be returning to Rwanda, via a new school that is opening in September. Due to low enrollment in the secondary program, however, this new school does not have a position to offer me. Without sounding too melodramatic, it feels a bit like being dumped by my life--my most current life, anyways--one that I had fallen in love with. Or that I didn't get an invite to some hip new secret club. It's no one's fault, and I don't want to sound like a child, or overly bitter. I'm almost through feeling sorry for myself now, but I'm not too proud to admit that I spent many of my last days in Rwanda feeling adrift, and irrelevant, and more than a little heartbroken.

So. The future. There's a chance that enrollment will increase, and I'll have a job, but it's kind of a pipe dream, and nothing to bank on. I could theoretically return to Rwanda and find a lesser-paying job somewhere else, but part of me wonders if this is the universe's way of nudging me elsewhere--no, not nudging; slamming a door. Which makes me more than a little peeved at the universe, or God, or whatever it was that brought me to Rwanda in the first place. (Pardon my passive voice construction. I'm fully aware that I need to evaluate my locus-of-control). I know I gained more than I can now realize from the past year, and I'll cherish the friendships I've made forever, but with "the next step" so indistinct there is the nagging question of "what it all meant." I'm terrified of losing it, of forgetting; of the past year fading like the dream it so often felt like. I feel a bit like a character in some sci-fi movie, who enters some weird parallel universe, undergoes some life-altering reality, then returns years later to his previous existence to discover that he's only been gone a few hours. Or like Ulysses in Tennyson's poem. After years of pining for Ithaca and Penelope, battling gods and monsters, sailing the world with his men, and feeling utterly exhausted but alive, he finally returns home, only to find himself. . .well, older and bored. An "idle king," administering law to a "savage race, that hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me." Only, I never wanted to go home that badly in the first place.

It's strange--this summer is in so many ways identical to last summer that at times I feel like the last year didn't happen at all. Which terrifies me. I'm certainly not the exotic, tanned, toned, benevolent orphan-cradling "back-from-Africa" Jess that I imagined at one time I'd probably be (should be?) by now (but then again, when have I ever transformed into my expectations?) If possible, now I only feel even more confused and anxious about the future.

Oh, and now I can drive a stick shift.

A Mighty Fortress

Last Saturday, during umuganda (the monthly requisite community service day for Rwandans; the monthly sleep-in-and-do-nothing day for mzungus), my roommates and I were languidly enjoying a morning of no responsibility and horrible television when I mused aloud:

"We should build a fort."

Now, I tend to think of myself as something of an "idea person"--I'm good at conceiving, but not so much at birthing my brainchildren into existence. Fortunately, I live with some practical midwives who know how to get things done.


Minutes later, Fort Chunately was erected.



Fort Chunately (get it? say it out loud) is stocked with amenities to relieve the overworked teacher--mattresses, pillows, blankets, books, candles, and--the pièce de résistance--four cans of Play-doh. My roommate Shannon magnanimously volunteered her mattress to the cause of the fort, and has taken up temporary residence within its billowy walls. I've joined her for all but three nights since the fort's materialization.

Perpetuating the existence of Chunately is not the most practical of endeavors, as she usurps all of our furniture and makes dining at a table impossible. However, we are happily obliged to simply dine inside the fort, as we did with two friends we had over for dinner last night. In fact, we're happily obliged to do everything inside the fort, and rue the inevitable date when practicality will outweigh sentimentality, and Chunately will stand no more.

In the meantime, however, we are celebrating her one-week birthday tomorrow night (or Fort-night, as we've dubbed it).

Long live Fort Chunately.

You got any better ideas?

Exhausted from trying to make important decisions about my future, I’ve decided to do what any good leader/educator does best: delegate.

My students’ next assignment: a persuasive essay entitled “What Should Ms. Merrill Do With Her Life?”

All good writers consider their audience when writing. For this assignment, the audience is incredibly simple and specific--me. For each proposed life path, students will have to determine the short term benefits and long term effects. Basically, they will engineer my five year plan. Those wishing to go above and beyond may research 401K’s and Roth IRA’s for my paltry sum of cash, ensuring that I won’t, one day, die broke. I’d rather leave number-crunching and finance-dissecting to the math types, anyway.

Sure, I expect a large number of puerile responses--”join the circus,” or “breed golden retriever/poodle hybrids” or “never set foot in a classroom again,” or what have you. But when it gets right down to it, I’m starting to suspect that thirty-six 13 to 18 year olds have as good an idea as I do (or better) about the direction my life should take.

The best essay will receive a 348% and my undying gratitude. Plus, bragging rights and a rare sense of fulfillment--it’s not often that a student gets to choose the trajectory of an “adult’s” life.

The Six Word Memoir

According to literary legend, Ernest Hemingway was once given the challenge to write a whole story in six words. His response? For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

The six-word format has taken on new life in the past few years. In 2006, Smith magazine, an online publication, posed the challenge to their readers: how would you sum up your life in six words? The response was so overwhelming that the magazine editors compiled a book of the best responses:Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure.

I recently posed this same challenge to all the high school students. Each student was to write a six word memoir and decorate a blank piece of paper to illustrate their words. The 11th graders, who were wrapping up a Hemingway study, were put in charge of compiling all the responses into a book for the school (appropriately enough, there are six of them).

Here are a few of my favorite responses:

I dried my tears and smiled.

Don't make sense, just be sensational!

Can I draw a picture instead?

What are we supposed to do? (you have to know the student.)

I gained everything by surrendering everything.

Find yourself once, then life changes.

Naturally, I went with something music related for mine (searching for the appropriate song lyric). Never thought I'd end up here was a close second.

What are your six words?

"Counter-cultural" does not equal "good."

This editorial is written in response to this article.

Preface: Before you ask, yes I have read The Culturally Savvy Christian.

Disclaimer: This post contains several. . .disclaimers. And questions.

Last month in San Antonio, conservative Christians gathered to honor the best films of the year--that is, the best Christian films. Among the categories honored at the San Antonio Independent Christian Film Festival: best musical score, best biblical family, best anti-abortion film, and best explanation of biblical creation.

Only one of the previously mentioned categories is a joke.

As a side note, the 18-member Arkansan Duggar family performed their own version of “Edelweiss” at the festival. Naturally.

Do I sound cynical? Is the unease I felt listening to this story engendered by my own lack of conviction? My subscription to the worldly values propagated by pagan Hollywood studio executives?

Or am I just fed up with the “counter-cultural phenomenon” of evangelicals disguising bad art with the banner of “Christian”?

Granted, I haven’t seen any of the films honored at the SAICFF (but I have seen these clips of two of the big winners. I don’t think my admittedly premature conclusions are too far from the mark). And who’s to blame conservative Christians for creating an alternative media outlet which accurately reflects their values? Certainly, such initiative should be applauded.

And it should be--if the art being created is good.

I hope I don’t seem unjustly harsh. I guess my resentment for the whole subgenre of Christian marketing stems from the questions it often raises amongst the Jesus-interested-but-intellectually-wary general public:

Does being a Christian mean buying into the Christian industry? Do I have to like these films? These poorly written allegories?* This music? Because, to be perfectly honest--I find most Christian music to be bland, needlessly repetitive, and -- I’m just gonna say it -- depressing.**

Can I be a Christian and still have discerning tastes? Or further still: can I be a Christian and still be...smart?

This NPR story reignited a deeper internal debate I’ve been having with myself recently. Can faith and intellectualism coexist in equal proportions? Does the sharpening of one weaken the other?

Does my inability to find meaning in the 409th repeated refrain of a praise song stem from a lack of pure faith on my part, or just an annoyance with praise songs? (I don’t hate all praise songs. Just...a lot of them).

I hope I’m not alone in fearing that being avowedly “Christian” will somehow neuter the other facets of what I am--a fairly intelligent girl (woman?) with a sometimes (often) wildly inappropriate sense of humor. How to be Christian without losing your “edge”? Is Christianity some factory which produces glass-eyed asexual droids with shaky Southern-pastor voices who actually like Kirk Cameron movies?

Of course not. But letting “Christian” become synonymous with “formulaic,” “cheesy,” or just plain “bad” is only perpetuating that message.

*There are some brilliant, thoughtful Christian thinkers and writers out there. Christian fiction as a whole, however...

**I am no connoisseur of Christian music. I speak from my limited experience with the genre. If anyone has any recommendations for me, I'd be happy to take them.

Perks of Being a "Grown-Up", #1

Calling my fellow teachers by their first names within earshot of students makes me feel like I'm in some secret, exclusive club.