I am warned well before Heaven arrives.
“Repeat,” another English teacher nods. I am headed to obligatory pre-teacher training, as though anyone could take sixty minutes to prepare me for one hundred forty days covering another’s classes. “Julie had her. It was a hard year.”
“Troubled home life,” announces our guidance counselor at the first team meeting. “She spent most of last year in the halls, when she wasn’t in detention.”
I file this away with other tidbits – students with learning disabilities, students with older siblings, students with long hair or green eyes or one leg longer than the other – whatever turns this list of eighty names into individual people. So that I may know them; teach them, guide them, fret on them, and three months later, give them back.
Heaven walks in as I announce that yes, I am covering Mrs. Rivers’ classes for the first semester. I send her to the office for a late pass, internally cringing in expectation of the angry outburst to come. But Heaven only blinks, shrugs, and walks back out. I am all the more relieved when she returns, purple slip in her outstretched hand.
I want to tell her, “I had to let you know I will be an adult in your life who keeps to the rules.” I want to tell her, “Actually, I don’t care if you are late to homeroom.” I want to tell her, “This will be a safe space for you.” But I nod, and take the note. She shrugs and takes her seat.
In the questionnaire I make them complete (“What name do you prefer?” “What language(s) is/are spoken in your home?” “Name one person you respect.”) Heaven writes:
Two years ago on May 28th, 2008 my brother John Arthur Nunez died. He was only a little older than me. It was the worst day of my life and I really, really miss him every day. So, I guess that’s something you should know.
This explains the tee shirt, a young man’s silhouette and the letters R.I.P. partially obscured by her dark braided hair. This explains the dreams I overhear her describing to her friends, dreams where “Johnny is there, but he just stands and says nothing.” This explains why last year she might have been focused on something other than her English grade.
In October I sit with my department head, discussing students with problems and my responsive pedagogical maneuverings. “No, no counseling,” she says, to the question of Heaven. “Her parents wouldn’t allow.” She pauses, then asks, “Well, how is she doing, for you?”
I want to tell her, “She gets a lot of work done in detention; it’s quiet, and she feels safe.” I want to tell her, “She spends more time helping struggling students than doing her work.” I want to tell her, “She’s nice to the teachers she respects.” But I am new, and young. So I just nod. “She always participates in class,” I say, “the days when she shows up.”
As winter approaches our team counselor warns us that Heaven’s family has moved to another temporary home. “On the upside,” she adds as the bell signals an end to our prep period and reminds us of the students waiting outside our doors, as eager at this point in the semester to see us as we are to see them, “her mom was given some money to buy jackets.”
Friday we are in the library, ostensibly doing research. I circle, reminding students that a blog is not necessarily a factual source, that their brainstorms are due at the end of the period, that solitaire is not an appropriate use of their time. Over Heaven’s shoulder I see an article on new regulations hindering local fishermen. Her father works on a boat, she told me once. I notice that her arms are pulled through her sweatshirt sleeves.
“Is that new?” I ask.
“Yeah. Feel it, Ms. Gettlin!” She turns, one arm proudly outstretched. “It’s so soft!”
I touch it, nod. She grins again.
“But Heaven,” I add, “It’s awfully thin. Aren’t you cold?”
She shrugs, grin faded, and turns back to her computer, arms tightly recrossed against her chest.
In December I warn the students that Mrs. Rivera is coming back. They want to know if she will make them do all those self-reflections – probably not. They want to know if she is nice – if you do your homework. They want to know where I am going – Alaska. They want to know why – I have friends there, and I can find more work. They want to know if it is cold, if I will see bears, if I will have to shoot a gun. Yes, probably, and I hope not but imagine so.
The team throws a party for me and lures the students to the cafeteria with the promise of cake. I want to tell them, “I have tried to prepare you for the inequalities of life.” I want to tell them, “I have tried to teach you to seize your education for yourself.” I want to tell them, “I have to give you back now, but I will carry you with me always.”
Instead I mention each by name and the things they have taught me. Then we eat cake. As I circle, I notice Heaven’s tears. I nod to her, put my hand on her shoulder. She does not shrug me off.
That weekend I go shopping. Monday morning I swing by before the buses arrive, not wanting to ruin the seal of separation that our good-bye cake-eating has forged.
I wanted to tell her, “Life shouldn’t have been this hard for you.” I wanted to tell her, “There are others who can help you, if you let them.” I wanted to tell her, “I can’t go to Alaska and know you’re cold back home.”
This is for you, I write instead. Stay warm this winter.
“Heaven left this in my classroom last week,” I lie to the secretary in the main office. “Can you make sure she gets it?” She nods. I shrug, tuck my scribbled note into the bag, and leave the school.
December 31, 2011
August 20, 2011
Monastery-Gram #3 - the hermitage
Dear all,
Here is the answer to the question, "Ok, but what exactly does a hermitage look like, anyway?"
(Short answer: it's a cabin.)
It's so basic a small cottage - bedroom, common area, kitchenette, bathroom - that photos of the over-all room came out kind of boring. Really, I use the hermitage for sleeping, showering, and reading (or whatever else it is you do when the midday heat just makes it too impossible to be out in the garden).
And as for my sister's follow-up question, "Ok, but why do you call it a hermitage, then?" I can only answer that localized terminology isn't unique to the religious life. Why is a kitchen on a ship not a kitchen but a galley, a scored point is a run in baseball but a goal in hockey, and the job I'll be starting next week is called "8th grade teacher" instead of "surrogate-parent-and-counselor"?
Much love,
Here is the answer to the question, "Ok, but what exactly does a hermitage look like, anyway?"
(Short answer: it's a cabin.)
It's so basic a small cottage - bedroom, common area, kitchenette, bathroom - that photos of the over-all room came out kind of boring. Really, I use the hermitage for sleeping, showering, and reading (or whatever else it is you do when the midday heat just makes it too impossible to be out in the garden).
And as for my sister's follow-up question, "Ok, but why do you call it a hermitage, then?" I can only answer that localized terminology isn't unique to the religious life. Why is a kitchen on a ship not a kitchen but a galley, a scored point is a run in baseball but a goal in hockey, and the job I'll be starting next week is called "8th grade teacher" instead of "surrogate-parent-and-counselor"?
Much love,
August 19, 2011
Monastery-Gram #2 - the work
Dear all,
Sorry. I meant to get these up earlier, but ... (*see previous post, "there is a lot of work to do on a farm.")
It's something of a fallow year for the farm, but even the minimal rows are a never-ending mobius strip of weeding, watering, and weeding (again).
Oh, and chasing the turkeys out of the rows. That happens a lot too.
Lots of harvesting, sometimes even at the right time.
Who says zucchinis don't grow on trees?
The porch off the chapel has become the default spot for hanging things to dry. Oregano, tarragon, thyme, mint, and shallots, plus a lot of garlic (in close proximity to a lot of crosses and holy water = perfect place to ride out any imminent vampire attacks).
The house flower gardens need their share of love and attention. (Which, quite frankly, they don't always get. You know how I am about flowers.)
The ladies get checked a few times a day - water, feed, and eggs. (And sometimes I feed them the contents of the beetle trap. Which is probably the most exciting thing that's happened to them, ever. Each and every time.)
The babies are starting to figure this laying-thing out!
Though some of the details remain to be worked out. Three hens to a box might be a bit much, ladies.
What I don't have pictures of include helping to cook meals for 18 people (3-5 brothers, 1-2 interns, and assorted guests), doing basic upkeep of grounds and buildings, dodging the garter snakes that live in the main house gardens, moving irrigation hoses around, stripping poison ivy off rock walls (carefully, but unfortunately not carefully enough), mowing and weed-whacking, and spraying rows with biological pest-control to remove the leaf-miners, hornworms, potato bugs, lily beetles, and all kinds of other non-approved garden guests. Oh, and bees! (Those are approved guests.) I don't have any pictures of that because today's my first day helping with the bees. And let's be honest, I think I'm going to be a little bit too preoccupied with staying calm to take any pictures of it. But never fear, there are photos of other fascinating events to come ...
Stay tuned for next installment in the run-away-hit grams-blog play series: "How to Harvest a Rooster: A Play in Three Acts."
Much love,
Sorry. I meant to get these up earlier, but ... (*see previous post, "there is a lot of work to do on a farm.")
It's something of a fallow year for the farm, but even the minimal rows are a never-ending mobius strip of weeding, watering, and weeding (again).
Oh, and chasing the turkeys out of the rows. That happens a lot too.
Lots of harvesting, sometimes even at the right time.
Who says zucchinis don't grow on trees?
The porch off the chapel has become the default spot for hanging things to dry. Oregano, tarragon, thyme, mint, and shallots, plus a lot of garlic (in close proximity to a lot of crosses and holy water = perfect place to ride out any imminent vampire attacks).
The house flower gardens need their share of love and attention. (Which, quite frankly, they don't always get. You know how I am about flowers.)
The ladies get checked a few times a day - water, feed, and eggs. (And sometimes I feed them the contents of the beetle trap. Which is probably the most exciting thing that's happened to them, ever. Each and every time.)
The babies are starting to figure this laying-thing out!
Though some of the details remain to be worked out. Three hens to a box might be a bit much, ladies.
What I don't have pictures of include helping to cook meals for 18 people (3-5 brothers, 1-2 interns, and assorted guests), doing basic upkeep of grounds and buildings, dodging the garter snakes that live in the main house gardens, moving irrigation hoses around, stripping poison ivy off rock walls (carefully, but unfortunately not carefully enough), mowing and weed-whacking, and spraying rows with biological pest-control to remove the leaf-miners, hornworms, potato bugs, lily beetles, and all kinds of other non-approved garden guests. Oh, and bees! (Those are approved guests.) I don't have any pictures of that because today's my first day helping with the bees. And let's be honest, I think I'm going to be a little bit too preoccupied with staying calm to take any pictures of it. But never fear, there are photos of other fascinating events to come ...
Stay tuned for next installment in the run-away-hit grams-blog play series: "How to Harvest a Rooster: A Play in Three Acts."
Much love,
August 4, 2011
Monastery-Gram #1 - the morning
Dear all,
Considering that:
a) there has been some interest, and much confusion, as to what exactly I'm doing as an intern at a monastic farm, and
b) I have not been visiting people much, owing more to the "intern" part than the "monastic" part, and
c) many of my friends and family do not have the ability to tease me - I mean, question me -- via facebook,
momentarily resurrecting the grams-blog seemed like a good idea. Some of these photos were taken in June, some in July, and a few in these early weeks of August. Except for the growth-and-development of the farm's flora and fauna, it doesn't really matter which photo was taken when. I've just sort of pieced it all together to look like one typical day on which I carried my camera around and never actually gotten any work done.**
Which would have been a bad idea because -- and if no one has ever told you this, let me be the first to explicitly state -- there is a lot of work. to do. on a farm.
(**Actually, there were so many photos that I split it up into a couple of posts. So here you have the morning: 5am-9am.)
The view out the front door of the hermitage, first thing in the morning.
Actually, this is really the first thing I see in the morning - our flock of wild turkeys, over 40 strong (7 adults and 30+ babies) pecking, rustling, and coo-ing their way past my windows. What do you call the noise a turkey makes? Cooing? Cackling? Clucking? Whatever. It's annoying, is what it is. (At 5 o'clock in the morning.)
The best commute I will ever enjoy.
Good morning, St. Francis.
Good morning, Duke.
Good morning, coffee.
I often bake in the mornings, but not usually bread for the Eucharist. That was just this once. (And I accidentally doubled the salt, so I probably won't get asked to bake it again.)
We have breakfast on our own, then do dinner (noontime) and supper (evening) together.
When guests are here, chapel services are 4 times a day. When guests are not here, we have chapel three times a day ... um, usually. (Sometimes only twice.)
After morning prayer and breakfast, the brothers have their chapter office, and then I join them for "rounds," to discuss the day's activities.
And then the work begins ...
Except that it doesn't really feel like "work." (Except for maybe the part where it takes me about twenty pulls to get the mower going.) At the end of the day I feel tired, yes, but also calm, and content, and sated. And very, very lucky to have this time, with this community, and in this place.
Much love, and more soon -
Considering that:
a) there has been some interest, and much confusion, as to what exactly I'm doing as an intern at a monastic farm, and
b) I have not been visiting people much, owing more to the "intern" part than the "monastic" part, and
c) many of my friends and family do not have the ability to tease me - I mean, question me -- via facebook,
momentarily resurrecting the grams-blog seemed like a good idea. Some of these photos were taken in June, some in July, and a few in these early weeks of August. Except for the growth-and-development of the farm's flora and fauna, it doesn't really matter which photo was taken when. I've just sort of pieced it all together to look like one typical day on which I carried my camera around and never actually gotten any work done.**
Which would have been a bad idea because -- and if no one has ever told you this, let me be the first to explicitly state -- there is a lot of work. to do. on a farm.
(**Actually, there were so many photos that I split it up into a couple of posts. So here you have the morning: 5am-9am.)
Except that it doesn't really feel like "work." (Except for maybe the part where it takes me about twenty pulls to get the mower going.) At the end of the day I feel tired, yes, but also calm, and content, and sated. And very, very lucky to have this time, with this community, and in this place.
Much love, and more soon -
May 30, 2011
Day 150
Dear all,
As a last-day goodbye, I've made a list of the ten most Alaskan things I've learned in my few months here. In order of preference (1 being my most favorite, and 10 being by far my least), they are:
1. how to chop wood
2. how to camp in the backcountry
3. how to brew beer
4. how to hike a glacier
5. how to run a plowtruck
6. how to use a chainsaw
[never got a photo of this one ... sorry]
7. how to go ice fishing
8. how to exist without daylight
9. how to exist without darkness
10. how to shoot a gun
Much love,
As a last-day goodbye, I've made a list of the ten most Alaskan things I've learned in my few months here. In order of preference (1 being my most favorite, and 10 being by far my least), they are:
6. how to use a chainsaw
[never got a photo of this one ... sorry]
8. how to exist without daylight
9. how to exist without darkness
Much love,
April 18, 2011
Day 108
Dear all,
It’s amazing how warm 40 degrees can feel. We’ve had a beautiful weekend: sun shining, snow (mostly) melted, soft wind blowing, bears (mostly) unseen.
A friend was preaching at a nearby (1 hour drive) church this weekend, so together with some friends we spent Sunday morning there. No liturgy, no Eucharist, no ordained minister – it was certainly unlike any church service I had as yet attended. But the families were friendly, if somewhat populous, and the sermon was impressive in the ease and familiarity of its delivery. I may have had some (ok, many) disagreements about the content, but the service itself was good to observe, and wonderful to share with friends.
After church we climbed back into the truck and ate some leftover homemade pizza as we drove to the shooting range, from whence will arrive the forthcoming “How to Shoot a Gun: A Play in Three Acts.” Suffice it to say, for now, that I did in fact learn how to shoot a .12 gauge shotgun and a .45 pistol. My skills are enough that if we’re hiking in the woods and something happens to the primary gun carrier, I will be able to load and shoot at the oncoming bear or whathaveyou -- assuming it wasn’t approaching at a dead run. I probably won’t hit it with any kind of accuracy, but I could scare it away. The point, anyway, is that I’m more comfortable around a gun than I was before.
After the shooting range, the boys stayed outside to clean the guns and we headed inside to begin prepping for today’s Seder. After so much unfamiliarity it was a welcome comfort to take a pile of apples, a handful of nuts, and a dash of red wine and produce a charoset just like the kind I’ve always known. Some friends have been kind enough to host the meal, and I’ve put together a Hagaddah and all the symbolic elements, so tonight we will be one Jew and 12 Christians around the Passover table -- the numeric symbolism of which is both unplanned, and hilarious.
It remains to be seen just how tonight will go, but it was good this weekend to find a balance between the new and the age-old, the unknown and the familiar. Paradoxical sentiments are, at least in part, what tonight’s celebration is about: freedom and slavery, journey and arrival, old and new. Ours is meant to be a living faith: rooted in the past and thus able to embrace the present. Chag sameach – happy Passover!
Much love,
It’s amazing how warm 40 degrees can feel. We’ve had a beautiful weekend: sun shining, snow (mostly) melted, soft wind blowing, bears (mostly) unseen.
A friend was preaching at a nearby (1 hour drive) church this weekend, so together with some friends we spent Sunday morning there. No liturgy, no Eucharist, no ordained minister – it was certainly unlike any church service I had as yet attended. But the families were friendly, if somewhat populous, and the sermon was impressive in the ease and familiarity of its delivery. I may have had some (ok, many) disagreements about the content, but the service itself was good to observe, and wonderful to share with friends.
After church we climbed back into the truck and ate some leftover homemade pizza as we drove to the shooting range, from whence will arrive the forthcoming “How to Shoot a Gun: A Play in Three Acts.” Suffice it to say, for now, that I did in fact learn how to shoot a .12 gauge shotgun and a .45 pistol. My skills are enough that if we’re hiking in the woods and something happens to the primary gun carrier, I will be able to load and shoot at the oncoming bear or whathaveyou -- assuming it wasn’t approaching at a dead run. I probably won’t hit it with any kind of accuracy, but I could scare it away. The point, anyway, is that I’m more comfortable around a gun than I was before.
After the shooting range, the boys stayed outside to clean the guns and we headed inside to begin prepping for today’s Seder. After so much unfamiliarity it was a welcome comfort to take a pile of apples, a handful of nuts, and a dash of red wine and produce a charoset just like the kind I’ve always known. Some friends have been kind enough to host the meal, and I’ve put together a Hagaddah and all the symbolic elements, so tonight we will be one Jew and 12 Christians around the Passover table -- the numeric symbolism of which is both unplanned, and hilarious.
It remains to be seen just how tonight will go, but it was good this weekend to find a balance between the new and the age-old, the unknown and the familiar. Paradoxical sentiments are, at least in part, what tonight’s celebration is about: freedom and slavery, journey and arrival, old and new. Ours is meant to be a living faith: rooted in the past and thus able to embrace the present. Chag sameach – happy Passover!
Much love,
April 6, 2011
Day 96
Dear all,
"Break-up" is Alaskan for what other people call "spring" (and New Englanders call "mud season"). I call it the “I can’t get to sleep anymore because the sun doesn’t even start to go down until 9pm and where the heck did all this daylight even come from anyway” season. The snow is still falling lightly, the boyfriend remains clean-shaven, and the (pre-Pevensie) Narnian layer of snow and ice covering everything is starting to break-up. New features of the landscape begin to emerge: people's yards, lines telling you where the road actually starts, bears ...
We think the bears are awake because a few dogs have gone missing from the neighborhood (sorry, but it’s true). If/when I actually see them, I want to know how to shoot a gun. I don’t plan on carrying it – that’s the boyfriend’s job – but I do want to know how to use it. You know, just in case the bear gets to him first. So for the moment, all outdoors adventuring has been put on hold until I can bring to you the second part of the Alaska-grams Playwriting Series, this one to be titled: “How to Shoot a Gun: A Play in (hopefully no more than) Three Acts.” In the meantime, we’ve been playing a lot of Monopoly. And while it will come as no surprise to anyone that I make a horrible capitalist, I was pleased to discover that I do sort of enjoy playing the game.
In keeping with my “A” series (Austen and Achebe already under the belt), I’m reading Jane Addams’ “Twenty Years at Hull House.” I picked it up because the blurb on the back bore a strong resemblance to “The Long Loneliness,” an autobiography by Dorothy Day that I have read many, many times. I haven’t actually gotten to the part yet where she moves to Chicago, founds Hull House, and changes the pattern of American engagement with the working class, but I have been struck by her discussion of the “snare of preparation” that Tolstoy claimed both engaged and ruined our young adulthood. In the very years when we are best suited to go out and actually do, we find ourselves caught instead in “curious inactivity.” (And let’s not pretend that playing Monopoly counts, either.)
Last weekend we did go out – way out – to the northern end of the peninsula where friends’ family has a homestead, and a sauna. This was not a “sahna,” fyi. That’s the sissy kind of steam bath. This was the Finnish word, which I can’t reproduce for you here because I honestly wasn’t too preoccupied with pronunciation while I was sitting in the 200 degree temperature. The family chose and settled on this homestead a long while ago – long for Alaska being anytime fifty years ago, of course – and now much of the family has portioned off land and built their own houses around the lake. The main road out holds their last name – for privacy’s sake, let’s call it “Doe Trail.” The smaller roads carry first names: Sue’s Lane, Jack’s Drive. So Mary Doe lives, basically, at the intersection of Mary and Doe. There’s only one sauna, though – and that’s where everyone congregated at noon on Sunday, to sit and sweat and catch up. Being half-naked and sweaty is the best way to really bond with your family, I think. And it was fun, even if I skipped the part where you emerge from the sauna, skin steaming and face red, and walk through the snow down to the lake where a garden hose neatly transfers water through a hole in the ice and onto you. I opted for the slightly less abrupt “sit outside in your bathing suit and slowly lose all your body heat until you are cold and want to go back into the sauna.” Maybe next time.
In the meantime, I continue to search for a job that doesn’t involve making other people coffee, to contemplate both the strength of the familial unit and the snare of preparation, and to look around -- very carefully -- before I walk out of the house.
Much love to you all,
"Break-up" is Alaskan for what other people call "spring" (and New Englanders call "mud season"). I call it the “I can’t get to sleep anymore because the sun doesn’t even start to go down until 9pm and where the heck did all this daylight even come from anyway” season. The snow is still falling lightly, the boyfriend remains clean-shaven, and the (pre-Pevensie) Narnian layer of snow and ice covering everything is starting to break-up. New features of the landscape begin to emerge: people's yards, lines telling you where the road actually starts, bears ...
We think the bears are awake because a few dogs have gone missing from the neighborhood (sorry, but it’s true). If/when I actually see them, I want to know how to shoot a gun. I don’t plan on carrying it – that’s the boyfriend’s job – but I do want to know how to use it. You know, just in case the bear gets to him first. So for the moment, all outdoors adventuring has been put on hold until I can bring to you the second part of the Alaska-grams Playwriting Series, this one to be titled: “How to Shoot a Gun: A Play in (hopefully no more than) Three Acts.” In the meantime, we’ve been playing a lot of Monopoly. And while it will come as no surprise to anyone that I make a horrible capitalist, I was pleased to discover that I do sort of enjoy playing the game.
In keeping with my “A” series (Austen and Achebe already under the belt), I’m reading Jane Addams’ “Twenty Years at Hull House.” I picked it up because the blurb on the back bore a strong resemblance to “The Long Loneliness,” an autobiography by Dorothy Day that I have read many, many times. I haven’t actually gotten to the part yet where she moves to Chicago, founds Hull House, and changes the pattern of American engagement with the working class, but I have been struck by her discussion of the “snare of preparation” that Tolstoy claimed both engaged and ruined our young adulthood. In the very years when we are best suited to go out and actually do, we find ourselves caught instead in “curious inactivity.” (And let’s not pretend that playing Monopoly counts, either.)
Last weekend we did go out – way out – to the northern end of the peninsula where friends’ family has a homestead, and a sauna. This was not a “sahna,” fyi. That’s the sissy kind of steam bath. This was the Finnish word, which I can’t reproduce for you here because I honestly wasn’t too preoccupied with pronunciation while I was sitting in the 200 degree temperature. The family chose and settled on this homestead a long while ago – long for Alaska being anytime fifty years ago, of course – and now much of the family has portioned off land and built their own houses around the lake. The main road out holds their last name – for privacy’s sake, let’s call it “Doe Trail.” The smaller roads carry first names: Sue’s Lane, Jack’s Drive. So Mary Doe lives, basically, at the intersection of Mary and Doe. There’s only one sauna, though – and that’s where everyone congregated at noon on Sunday, to sit and sweat and catch up. Being half-naked and sweaty is the best way to really bond with your family, I think. And it was fun, even if I skipped the part where you emerge from the sauna, skin steaming and face red, and walk through the snow down to the lake where a garden hose neatly transfers water through a hole in the ice and onto you. I opted for the slightly less abrupt “sit outside in your bathing suit and slowly lose all your body heat until you are cold and want to go back into the sauna.” Maybe next time.
In the meantime, I continue to search for a job that doesn’t involve making other people coffee, to contemplate both the strength of the familial unit and the snare of preparation, and to look around -- very carefully -- before I walk out of the house.
Much love to you all,
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