Getting ready to teach....

This past week I have felt posessed.

I have been extremely busy trying to prepare the classroom with Griselda and Guadalupe and any obsessive tendencies I may have are getting channeled into school shopping and making materials for the 23 incoming students. I'm up until god-awful hours into the early morning obsessively thinking about what we need, what I can make, what books I need to buy, how we don't have enough places for all of the children to sit, how we will need to teach the children two different alphabets (the Argentine handwriting is different, so they will be learning 4 sets of handwriting, print and cursive in both alphabets, and up to now, most have only learned all capital letters), who's shopping for recess equipment, how will we blend the classroom that will predominantly have children coming in from tradtional schools, how will I teach when we are missing material or when I'm not elementary-trained? Did someone buy a guillotina yet so I'll be able to cut paper to the right size? Is there a prepared first-aid kit for the room or am I supposed to do that? I sit up at night going through these questions and imagine each scenario being resolved, only to dissolve and present the next mess. And I can't stop thinking about the portion of empty shelves in the classroom, it looks so barren, incomplete. The language presentations will need to be presented in Spanish first and then English, meaning that there will need to be two sets of everything, one for each language. I will need to teach Griselda how to give these presentations since I will only be speaking in English to the children. When will we be able to do this, since she leaves at noon for her other teaching job?

These things have been preoccupying me lately and are pushing me to push myself beyond my limits, because even if this seems semi-impossible, I want to do it, and I want to do a good job, the best I am able, otherwise what's the point in doing it at all?

And although I've been working in Montessori schools for the past four years or so, I only had my own classroom for one year. This was three years ago. I suppose it says something that I only had my own room for one year. It was, at the time, a year of hell. To have such an enormous amount of responsibility for the first time in my life, these bright young children absorbing everything like sponges (and with parents that oftentimes demanded more from me than their children) along with a challenging boss, some children that were terrors, biting, spitting in people's faces (mine included), and stabbing people with needles and scissors, was just too much, and I began to unravel.

I am now having a flashback of an ultimate low point: the six-year-old boys running around the room playing Star Wars, papers flying everywhere, someone's clogged the toilet again with paper towels, in comes the janitor with his mop and plunger for the fifth time that week, a boy having another self-induced bloody nose, a girl doing cartwheels, another boy using a small work table as a pommel horse, and my assistant trying to keep one of the terrors occupied with a book so that he doesn't attack anyone; and me? I just remember standing there thinking, oh my god. Maybe this doesn't sound all that bad, you might say they're just being kids - but at this school, kids were not allowed to just be kids. My boss told one of my student's mothers that her daughter needed new shoes, her shoes made too much noise when she walked; another time she told a parent she needed to take out her gum, as, well, you know! it sets a bad example for the children.

I made it through the year, but when I was done thought, forget it, I'm never doing this again! So I walked it off in Ireland and went back home to Minnesota to finish my master's in literature.

Now I look back on that year as the year I had to grow up, and it was painful. Everything in my life felt easy in comparison to that year. So while I thought this job was ruining my life, I actually look back and see it as an antitode to my laziness.

While at school in Lujan, besides getting the room in order and making lists of what we need to buy, to make, and to do, I've been working on the lesson plan for the first week with Griselda, explaining my ideas in what I imagine is impossible to understand Spanish, broken up with fast sentences of English and gestures along with my struggling to grasp onto anything to help me explain what I am trying to say. She often laughs and says she won't be at school Monday (she has said this more than a few times now). I keep telling her it will get much easier as the year goes on, which is met with a look of skepticism.

We had a meet-the-parents night on Thursday, where I said a few sentences to introduce myself in Spanish and spent the rest of the time listening. The parents were a little concerned with the language factor - how will Griselda and I communicate? How will their children learn Spanish and English grammar and writing? When will they be able to get out? Of course this all set off a series of thoughts that didn't end until 4am. But I suppose this is good and my obsessiveness will pay off as long as I don't forget to enjoy what I'm doing. I don't want to be so caught up in the details that I forget what Montessori is all about: the child; and if I'm wrapped up in my head, I will not be serving the child to his or her benefit. I just keep hearing that old boss of mine, pointing out the dust and crumbs on the floor around the shelves, telling me my classroom is filthy, a pigsty! stressing the importance of math facts and beautiful handwriting, suggesting I see a therapist, and telling me that my students will be fine next year, when they have a good teacher.

But at the Montessori school in Lujan, I am relieved to know that I won't be dealing with parents who worry whether their four-year-old will be accepted to an Ivy League school in 13 years or a head of school that has a vision of Montessori that focuses on academics, only a fraction of the whole. But once again, that experience led my here. And when my new boss suggested I read a book written by my old boss to learn more about the Montessori elementary program, I could only smile.

This work thing is kicking my butt

Forget culture shock, I am now experiencing work shock. While there's a part of me that needs and desires to contribute and be a part of the community through hard work and service, there's also a battling side that just wants to be lazy and spend endless hours at outdoor cafes writing in my journal. And although I was almost beginning to loathe all of my free time and finding it to be a tad bit destructive, the second I knew it was gone was when I just wanted more than anything to continue doing nothing.

I went more or less from doing nothing to now trying to put together an empty elementary Montessori classroom that is still under construction in a school that is over an hour's commute away by shuttle where I will be co-teaching with a local traditional schoolteacher who does not speak any English. Mix in my extreme jet-lag and my gimpy foot, and well, I've been under a bit of stress.

But Grisella (the co-teacher) and I are bit by bit putting the classroom together as I try to explain the Montessori method in Spanglish before we begin class on Monday. We have a lot of math materials, brand new, that one would normally find in a primary classroom (3 to 6-year-olds), but as the student body of 24 children is all six-years-old, and more than half are coming from traditional schools, a few from Waldorf, these materials will serve us well for many months.

Maybe you're wondering how I was placed in elementary when I don't have the training? (I did the AMI Montessori training for primary.) The teacher that was supposed to be in the room bailed on the director, Guadalupe, three weeks ago due to personal reasons. Guadalupe was desperate and while Montessori is practically unheard of here along with anyone having any sort of training (at the school, Guadalupe is the only one trained on the staff, besides me), I was the next best thing around. I was supposed to be teaching in a primary classroom. In July, an Argentine elementary teacher who is now in Germany, will take my place, and I will move to primary. I will also be having ESL workshops with the elementary children in the afternoons; I plan to start with poetry and then move on to drama.

While I was home in Minnesota, I spent a lot of time speaking with my Montessori friends and received many positive words of encouragement. I was able to observe and work with some elementary children at the same school my sisters and I went to, Lake Country. I will be in regular contact with an elementary teacher there for advice and guidance and I hope throughout the year the students can exchange photos, letters, and stories. Two of the girls in his room showed me their salt map of South America that was labeled with flags, one signifying Buenos Aires. As soon as they pointed out this was where I would be, another girl turned around and said she was supposed to go there for Christmas but then didn't because there'd been too many taxicab kidnappings.

This morning as I was running to catch my bus, in a daze, trying not to slip on the newly washed sidewalks and dodging taxis as I crossed the street, I had to tell myself, it's all material. This honestly helps me get a handle on an overwhelming situation, I detach and look at it objectively. And when I arrived at the bus, the busdriver, finishing his cigarette, welcomed me aboard the interior of the shuttle, which reeked of its now famliar odor of toxic cleaner fumes. Trying not to inhale the fumes too deeply, dozing on and off and looking out the window, we were approaching Lujan before I knew it, signaled to me by the handful of horses roaming around and grazing right up against the highway guardrail.

In addition to teaching children, I've also started teaching ESL to adults. So far I have two students and it looks like a third coming soon, all of whom an Argentine friend of mine connected me with. Yesterday I had my first lesson with the two at their office, at a university branch that's only four blocks from my place, quite convenient. It's fun and they're nice, but I forgot how much time it takes getting materials ready. The students are quite fluent and know the ins and outs of English grammar better than me, but I try not to let on to this; we'll just have to focus on the conversational part.

Well, as I've been up since 4am today, I can barely keep my eyes open. I feel like there's still so much I need to do, but will have to leave it for manana.

Hasta luego!

arrgghhh....

If anyone is sensing a mood of hostility and frustration in my blog entries, then I'm probably getting my emotions across successfully. I have been back for less than a week, and while I consider myself a patient person, I suppose I have the least patience when it comes to me. I've been really struggling with the time zone difference of four hours and have found myself up til 2am, trying to sleep, knowing I have to wake up before 7am on a regular basis for work. And not being able to exercise has really created a feeling of restlessness - I ask my foot each night to please heal, I promise I will take better care. I no longer walk with my super obvious limp and have much less pain than even a few days ago, but I need to be able to run as fast as I want and feel free and be able to completely exhaust myself or the stress starts to build. A friend of mine did leave me his bike while away on business, but do I dare brave the city streets on my own? I'm thinking about it.

I'm also feeling a bit stressed that my luxurious mornings spent at outdoor cafes writing in my journal followed by strolls around town, reading in the park, striking up conversations with whomever, are coming to an end, and it is time to start (yikes!) work. Of course, there is no way I'd be able to stay here doing nothing, financially or for fear of completely losing my sense of worth in the world, feeling a need to help others, contribute, and be connected to a community. So while it's all good and positive, and I am so thankful that I have these projects before me that seemed to manifest themselves out of nowhere (I count myself as very lucky and very fortunate to have had circumstances arise at the right time), I can't help but have that feeling that one has before they take a leap off a cliff, or something similar. I have taken many leaps in the past months, and so far have consistently landed on my feet, so I have that to go on and quell my fears - it all seems to work out. It goes contrary to what one might usually think feels "right," stay safe and secure, stay where you feel comfortable, where you are protected. It seems that when I try to do that, everything goes wrong and I find myself painted into a corner. When I am out in the world, teetering on the edge, often feeling completely strung out, going through a full range of emotions on a regular basis - while this is uncomfortable, to me, it's worth it. I feel alive. I am growing and expanding and this can be painful. But what's even more painful is watching yourself wither away from decay and lack of growth.

Why I'm compatriot weary

I went out last night for my Dutch friend's birthday at a Dutch bar called Cafe van Koning in the Las Canitas neighborhood (an up and coming part of town with lots of trendy restaurants and bars). This is perhaps the only Dutch bar in all of Buenos Aires, a Disney-esque replication of an Amsterdam tavern with faux-wood cavernous walls made from plaster decorated with Rembrandt posters and a life-sized seated Van Gogh, propped up to paint. I felt a bit like I was back in Rippongi Tokyo, where themed bars and restaurants abound, and where I once had dinner in a jail cell at the prison-themed "Alcatraz" (a meal which was often interrupted with frequent "jail breaks" and arrests).

Around 11pm, the normal time things get started here, people began to arrive at the bar: a couple of French girls (one with her tango dancer boyfriend hanging off her torso), a handful of very friendly and normal Argentine men . . . and then came an American guy I had invited who a few of us had previously met at a superbowl party; he was on vacation in BA for the year after making a crapload of money on movie script rewrites and apparently has hung out with Francis Ford Coppola on numerous occasions (and perhaps his "hanging out" with said celeb could be comparable to my time spent with Philip Seymour Hoffman, when I saw him on Broadway, just rows from the stage, where we shared an annoyance with the same buzzing insects). Anyway, I thought he'd be interesting to get to know and add to the international mix of the group.

It turned out that this guy and his friends were exactly the kind of people I have made an effort to avoid socializing with and in between conversations about how much superbowl friend loves the drugs in BA, refilling my wine glass with wine he'd brought from home, his strange Canadian friend telling me he was a stripper, me believing him, followed by chuckles, "it's only a joke!" (funny Canadians are apparently freak accidents) and then superbowl friend going on and on to the Argentines about how cheap everything here is (he can't believe it!), I just kept thinking: leave! Please. And when I said that everything is actually quite expensive when you are making pesos (hint, hint: shut up!) his response was, but I'm spending US dollars, it's great! This is all true of course, it is much cheaper, but to go on and on about it? well? god help these idiots.

Settling in BA (again!)

I’ve just returned to Buenos Aires from a ten-day visit to the Midwest to see friends and family and gather my things together for what looks like will be at least a year's stay in Argentina. Along with continuing to learn Spanish and absorb Argentine culture, I will be teaching Elementary students at a Montessori school and ESL to adults, privately. My visit home was great, but too short, and I knew the first day I was in Minneapolis that my trip could be dangerously comfortable: constantly surrounded by loved ones, home-cooked meals, quiet long walks in nature with clean air, no language barrier . . . .

Since my return yesterday, I’ve been trying to do everything I can to dissolve the dark pit in my stomach that developed as soon as I was settled back into my apartment. Today I visited my favorite tourist-trap cafe, wrote in my journal while drinking coffee and listening to the accordion player’s “La Vie en Rose” compete with the construction workers’ boom-box blasting a techno remix of “My Milkshake,” and tried not to itch a rash that has developed on my limbs caused by who knows what (I’ve never been allergic to anything except for piles of used hay on the sheep ranch, but I think that can kill you). I went to my favorite nearby park with the huge metal flower to read a bit and spent some time admiring how the scorched grass has been transformed into a vibrant green due to a newly installed sprinkler system.

While at home, I was able to go through my storage bins of clothes I left stacked in my parents’ attic. I’ve been getting by here for the past months wearing the few things I packed in my small suitcase and backpack. But needing more to wear besides skirts and tank tops as the seasons change, I dug everything out, took what I wanted for Argentina, and left the rest for my sisters (hand-me- downs is still a valued practice in my family). I could not believe the clothing collection I had going – I could’ve opened a store. The excess disgusted me and I decided I must’ve developed some sort of compulsive shopping problem over the years without even knowing it. How did I even afford all this stuff? My approach to clothes has completely changed while traveling. But even now, with the things I did bring, standing in stacks around my apartment (as I’ve been too lazy to put everything away), I cannot believe the excess.

More excess: eating out at home; shockingly expensive. The amount of money spent on a nice dinner in Minneapolis rivals what I pay a month in groceries here. There is amazing and addictively delicious food to be found at home. Here, I’ve grown accustomed to cooking very simply for myself, taking advantage of all the fresh produce, just eating and appreciating what I have. But then I went out for sushi with my family in Minneapolis and I found that the food had some sort of power over me, it tasted sooo good! I was drugged and couldn’t get enough. Here, that doesn’t happen. Ever. (Except maybe with some dulce de leche sweets.) I also discovered that my peanut butter cravings are no longer. It tasted so-so and I found myself missing my Lebanese tahini. Going to Whole Foods was fun, and I got my fill of organic produce and kombucha drinks, but the variety and choices were overwhelming! Here at the grocery, I can choose between red or green apples – no organic Braeburn, so get used to it. And I have. I appreciate just being able to have food, especially when I see someone outside of my apartment eating an old pizza crust out of the garbage.

Among my personal discoveries, I've also unfortunately returned with a limp caused by a combination of an alternative jogging gait to try and allow a broken toe to heal and walking in flip-flops for ten months. Anyone that has walked anywhere with me knows I like to walk a lot and walk fast. Now my gringa badge seems to shine a bit too brightly as I no longer walk with the quick confidence letting all know I am fully aware of where I am headed and was approached by strangers today a few more times than I’m comfortable with. This is a city for walking and while I complained about having to drive everywhere at home and how much time it seemed to waste just to get somewhere, I also can appreciate how driving is a bit more conducive to letting a hurt foot heal, or any other body part that would need to move in a non-sedentary setting.

So here I am, sedentarily typing away on my computer, still in limbo, but working my way out of it, ready to integrate on a deeper level, and getting ready for my first day of work!

Thanks for reading!

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