Lorenzo

One of the greatest differences in living in Belize and living in the States is the obvious different in treatment from the surrounding people. In America, especially for a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl, it’s very easy to blend in to the crowds. And for any person, very little attention would be placed on your presence. In Belize, the complete opposite is true. My fair skin and light eyes have become quite the attraction with the neighbors, and they are not afraid to show it. Whistles, cat calls, honks, and other various greetings have become standard at any part of the day or any place in Belize. Initially you believe that this sudden attention has to do with your newness. Even in rural America if someone of a complete opposite race came in and moved next door, you would probably be intrigued. But it’s been seven months now, and I have yet to make a public appearance with out at least one comment from the Benqueneans, or Succotz people, or any Belizean that passes my way. Honks from truckers, kissy noises from passer-bys, and ‘hey baby’s’ from the random male have become as commonplace as the sound of dogs and roosters. I’m afraid my ego will deflate enormously from the lack of attention and ‘special-ness’ that my return to the States will bring.

There have been some specific episodes that have commented on this one major cultural difference. The men here are so forward. The things that have been said to me here may be thought in the States, but no one would ever dare to affront you about them. And this openness has been the cause of both humor and concern. To share an example of each….

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and I had high hopes of getting some of my Christmas shopping completed before I made my way home for the holidays. All the other volunteers were busy with their various affairs, and I planned on making the mile trek to Succotz Village to shop at the stands by myself. Though not suggested to make any treks alone, I felt that the sunshine, the highly populated roads leading to Succotz, and my own bull-headed self confidence and independent nature led me to take on the journey on my own. So I headed out of the house, and made my way to the Western Highway. No sooner had I left my house than I was called.

“Miss! Miss!”

I continue to walk, turning only slightly to make sure I wasn’t ignoring a student.

“Please, miss, I want to tell you something!”

I walk faster, and as he follows close behind, consider turning back. However, I recognized this character as a person who lived just across the street. He knows where I live. There was no escape. So, sensing that he had no harmful intentions, I continued to walk towards Succotz, hoping my naturally fast pace and determination would deter his efforts. But he persisted in relaying his message.

“Miss, I want to tell you that I love you, and I want to tell you that I loved you from the moment I saw you.”

I’m unaccustomed to such open flattery, but I had to keep a cool head.

“But you don’t even know me. How can you know that you love me?”

“I just do. I love you and I don’t care what you say.”

There was no arguing with the kid. And he was just a kid. I asked questions to try to get some information about my ‘suitor.’ His name he was Lorenzo, and he had once been a student at Mount Carmel, before he was expelled. And boy was he persistent. He stayed with me for at least a half a mile, spewing love-nothings in English and Spanish, talking about his Corazon and my beauty and all sorts of things. Suddenly he stopped, the sun and the heat finally hitting him, and claimed that if I didn’t stop he would just turn back. I took this opportunity to continue walking, and his figure slowly faded in the distance. At this point I thought I was scot-free and so I decided to continue my trek, laughing to myself about silly Belizeans and their ideas.

Minutes later I heard his voice calling behind me. A tap on the shoulder later he was with me again and insisting that I let him take a picture of me with his phone. This was the final straw. I had to get stern with this kid. So I turned my teacher voice on and told him to be gone before I found someone who could make him. I must be really convincing, or butch, or both, for he quickly moved away. And so I continued my day.

I’m writing this for humorous purposes, and not to bring attention to the fact that I shouldn’t be walking alone from village to village. So, family, and other concerned readers, don’t fret. I only walk with others since this instance—at least for any considerable distance. I feel safe in Benque. The creeps are creeps, but they’re familiar creeps. And Lorenzo still loves me, or at least claims to, but proclaims this from the safety of his front porch, which I pass at least 3 times a day.

The openness of the Belizeans’ infatuation with me has not always been a source of humor or just blatant frustration. And that was showcased in recent weeks at the school. High school, home of the Belizean adolescent; where hormones run high and the blond-hair, blue-eyed teacher just feeds into the fantasy.

I was fortunate enough to not be assigned any boy’s classes, and this became so apparent the other day. It was 7^th period, and I had been assigned a substitution for a first-form boys’ class. I was doomed from the start. Limited work, last period, appearing like a 15-year-old girl—the cards were stacked against me.

I make my way into the classroom, and try to settle the boys long enough to give them the assignment of math problems. But sugar from lunch, 7 hours sitting in the cramped wooden chairs, and the proximity to the end of the day made their level of hyper-ness through the roof. Sheep-herder, lion tamer; babysitter. In that moment I became everything but a teacher. Papers were being tossed about, students were talking, and a few gems were actually working on their homework and begging to be let outside to work where the noise was much less. As I walked around, I was summoned by a few of the boys from the back of the class.

“Miss, how old are you?”

“Take your best guess”

The chaos continues, and I yell, but my voice is stifled by the chatter. I lay desperate plans of punishment, but in the end, all I can do is sit and wait to be saved by the final bell.

And then there was one persistent boy. I didn’t know who he was at the time, but quickly learned. He had once told me about his desire to have ‘blue-eyed’ children before, and decided to make his intentions known again.

“Miss, would you wait for me to turn 18?”

I can keep my cool for these types of comments, and usually am able to ward off such inquiries with the response about being too short or too young. But he was persistent. It got to the point to where he was getting down on his knees and begging for my hand in marriage and claiming that “I will wait for you forever!”

This is not the situation you want to find yourself in the midst of trying to control a whole classroom of boys, mostly because they are just waiting for your reaction to exaggerate it to incredible proportions. There are three possible ways to deal with this.

1) You can laugh. This is a terribly dumb but instinctual reaction to such ridiculousness as a desperate proposal. The boys go with your reaction and amplify it with shrieks of their own prepubescent laughter. This reaction also symbolizes your acquiescence to the request. Not the message you want to send.

2) Telling the kid he’s lame. This sounds like the obvious choice. Embarrass the kid and put him in his place. Not so, in Belize. This is not the right way to go in a class of boys. Tell the kid he’s a loser and the other kids start shouting at the kid of his loser-ness. The class erupted in shouts and guffaws, so much so that teachers from other classrooms visited to make sure all was in order.

3) The correct response. Ignoring the comment and moving on. This is the best situation, but in a substitution when there is nothing to move on to, it is very difficult to move on to, well, anything. All I could do was the first two of these responses. And I utilized them both, to the worst of results. Shouting, laughter, chaos, and finally, me standing in the midst of it scarlet red and embarrassed. I had lost control.

What occurred after was a standoff between me and the class of 1H. The bell sounded for the end of day, but there we sat. I wanted 5 minutes of quiet and I wasn’t going to budge before I got it. The room was hot and sticky with hormones and stubborn wills, that finally ended with an intervention with the principal. Voices were raised, threats were made, and my humiliation was complete. Perhaps teaching adolescent males should be crossed off the list of possible vocations.

After my story of the multiple marriage proposals was shared with the administration, the one persistent student was given the final demerit necessary for his expulsion from the school. I begged for his sake, and refused to give the demerit myself, for I know the limits that come from lack of schooling both here and everywhere. But my forgiveness was not enough, and in the end he was asked to leave the school, with only my guilt to keep his memory at Mount Carmel.

Belize is a beautiful country, and part of its beauty is the openness of its people. If they have a thought, they share it. If they have an opinion, no matter how crass, they give it. I’ve never before thought of how wonderful it could be to blend in, and be completely ignored. I’ve never appreciated gentlemen so much, or my freedom of being able to be a young lady and not feel like a spectacle. But I suppose that’s part of the fun of my current adventure.

Teaching #3

I feel that as a blogger, I’m not very good at keeping this updated. We are now in the 6^th week of our semester, and I have not talked once about how school is going. I have to preface this one because it became more of a therapeutic rant about the troubles of teaching. So sorry...

To be quite honest, the past few weeks have been rough as far as school is concerned. I had really high hopes for this semester. I thought that teaching would be a breeze. I knew my students, they knew me, I knew what I wanted to teach, and I had a grasp on how things were run at the school. Boy was I wrong.

There are three problems that have run rampant in my classes. Laziness, attitude, and apathy. These have made my class and life full of frustrations. Allow me to elaborate.

Laziness is one of the most trying things for any teacher to deal with, but especially myself (I was a super overachiever in my youth.) There were 24 students in my English class and 28 in my Religion class, all with unique hopes and dreams, as well as unique personal struggles. In a country like Belize, it isn’t n any way required to attend high school, yet it is a huge opportunity if you want to more in your life than just drive a taxi or sell tacos on the side of the road. And I know that most of my girls want much more for their lives than just selling tacos. But they refuse to do the work. I will assign a simple assignment: Read two chapters of the book Matilda, and the next day I will come in and quiz them on those 15 pages, and it turns out none of them have read it—well, a majority have not. And to them its not much to fail. A 0% on a quiz is not of much consequence. Another example of this laziness is the quiz I warned them about for a week and spent the whole day before reviewing for it. The next morning I walk into class.

“Class, find your seats and clear your desk, its time for our quiz.”

“We have a quiz today? On what?”

“I told you this, capitalization and punctuation; we reviewed yesterday”

“Hay, miss, but I didn’t study!”

I wish I could say that was only one student. But it was several. And they just don’t care about homework, about any work, and about success in general. How do you teach a student to want to work, to want to succeed? The mindset here is to just pass. A 72% is good. But in my youth, there was nothing good under an 85%. These are the people to settle for just enough.

I pause to wonder why that is. I’m so used to America, where every person dreams of the “American Dream” and try to follow in the footsteps of Abe Lincoln and the hero of “The Pursuit of Happyness” and, who made themselves great from nothing. The people of Belize do not live under such delusion and with no such inspiration. I haven’t been in this country for too long, but it seems that the kids grow up with the impression that what their parents have will inevitably become their inheritance, no matter how much or how little. There is no climbing up the ladder of betterment and fulfillment; at least not to their knowledge. The boys will inherit their fathers’ taxis and the girls will become mothers and sell tortillas out of their houses.

It’s difficult for a person coming from a very goal-oriented environment, where one is always working towards the achievement of their dreams to have to fight just to get people to want something, anything for their selves. I want so much for my girls. I want them to graduate, I want them to become biochemists and teachers and fashion designers—anything they could ever dream of, and I just don’t know how to make them want it enough to try. It’s terribly frustrating.

My second struggle is with attitude. It seems with the three-week break my darling, sweet, innocent girls forgot how to be darling, sweet, and innocent. There are countless times that my girls have had to be corrected for talking back and giving ‘lip.’ At the moment it’s difficult to recount a specific attitude episode, but they have been trying as ever. Oh the joys of teenage girls. One minute they want to be your best friend, the next day they are cursing your name in Spanish under their breath.

Apathy. One of the most frustrating of all the diseases of this world, and this one runs rampant in Belize. Perhaps it is the lack or news infiltrating Benque streets, or that there is just too much to worry about in their own lives that its difficult to think of anyone else, but its here to stay, and I’ve now become determined to fix it. One of the examples I have to share is the showing of the movie “The Human Experience” It’s a documentary about 3 men who went out into the world and tried to discover what it means to be human and how we can make the world a smaller place. I was so excited to show this to my students and see how excited they could become about gong out into the world and make a difference. Boy was I disappointed. They were distracted, were more concerned with trying to sneak food and not get caught, and could have cared less that there were people in the world who suffered much more that they. (This is especially difficult considering that these kids have really rough lives themselves. I often wonder if its too much to ask them to be more worldly minded, when they have experiences in their lives that I have never had to have or ever want to have…) And when the class was over, and I asked “Doesn’t this make you want to go out and do something with your lives that’s so cool and so beneficial?” They just shrugged their shoulders.

For these issues I don’t know how to fix them. Is it just enough to show my passion, and hope that they can catch a little fire? Or can I simply accept that some people aren’t meant to feel passion, ambition, and a burning desire to make their lives great and worthwhile—at least not in high school?

Such is my teaching struggles. Not every student is lazy, and not every student spends all of their efforts to make my life more difficult than it needs to be. But, like in every situation, the whispers are drowned out by the shouts, and their voices get lost and forgotten….

Fear

One of the day trips we have taken this new semester was taking Elvira and little Joanna to the Belize Zoo. When we first walk into the zoo, the first animal we see is a rather large Boa Constrictor, just sunbathing on a tree trunk out in the open. There was nothing separating us. One of the zoo keepers came and picked up the snake like he was merely a rubber toy, and offered me the chance to hold it. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I readily accepted and before I knew it, a full-sized boa constrictor was sitting around my neck. I sat there, triumphant. Then, I felt the muscles of the snake tense up and felt that potentially harmful power around my neck. I suddenly realized that, well, I was kinda afraid of snakes.

“Katie, you’re shaking!” my friends proclaimed.

And sure enough, I was. Visibly trembling. And my heart was pounding out of my chest. I quickly returned the snake to his zookeeper with a nervous smile of gratitude and quickly made my way to the back of the group, far away from the snake. There’s a picture of me holding the snake, with a very nervous smile on my face, but it’s still proof that I held a giant snake.

This seems to be a pattern for me. In the moment I forget my fears, and then they come streaming back into my subconscious, paralyzing me. The first time I really experienced this was when I was rock-climbing in Colorado. I was so excited to climb up the mesa, that I scurried up the rock-face. About 40 feet up, I looked out into the great expanse. It was an amazing view, but so far down. I froze. I was 10 feet from the top and I couldn’t go any further. My hands were shaking, my legs were shaking, and the horrible reality of my fear of heights came streaming back to my mind. Looking back I wish I could have just finished the climb.

There are a lot of things that I am afraid of. I fear heights, snakes, spiders, and public speaking. But most of all I have a huge fear of failure. The first of these are easy to conquer, especially when I live in a tropical country where tarantulas run free, you can hold Boas at the zoo, and my present occupation is speaking in front of people everyday. But failure is one that sometimes can’t be avoided. No matter how much you want something, or work towards it, it might just never happen. And just thinking about that right now makes me worry.

One of the things I worry about failing at is teaching. There are so many things I want for my girls. I want them to be able to read and write as well as anyone. I want my religion students to learn to love their faith. But above all, I want them to want success. I want them to dream of a great life for themselves, and to want to work hard to make that happen.

I only have 3 months left with these girls, and I’m not sure if I’m going to succeed in my mission. It’s terrifying, but I know for this experience, I can’t just stop 10 feet from the top and leave always wishing I had just conquered the climb. The only difference is, teaching is a two way street, and there is only so much I can do. We shall see!

The River

As a girl from Louisville, KY, having a river in winding beside my town has never been anything special. I grew up assuming that rivers were a part of every major city. I have never lived far from one, and Belize is no exception. One of the first memories of Belize was seeing the Mopan River for the first time, and being told that we were ‘almost home.’

While in Louisville the river is a source of entertainment and is a pretty sight, the river in Benque holds a much greater significance in the life of the town. It is a rare day that I do not see river speckled with people on its banks. Laundry is dipped in and rubbed clean on the rocks by the mothers, while the children splash around close by. Men are bathing themselves or their taxis or their horses or dogs; rowdy young boys are swinging from limbs or braving the rapids. The river is the ultimate source of life and fun for these people, and we as short-time inhabitants have yet to fully engage in the river’s potential.

The river, besides being a source of cleansing and fun, plays another important role for this town. Since there is a significant lack of seasons here, the river is the only way to tell what time of year it is. When I first arrived in Benque, it was the rainy season. The rains had come and with them washed the muck from Guatemala, turning the river brown and raising it much higher than what is considered safe. It acted more as a barrier and an enemy, and at one point separated families from each other for weeks at a time.

But the rains settled, and with them the river. The color faded from brown to its natural green and it settled in temperament. It no longer separated, but invited people to enjoy it and cross it without fear. As the temperature increases, so does our affinity for the river and its comforts. Already we have come to the river to enjoy its cleansing power (after the hurricanes left us with no other bathing options), but now it is a source of entertainment. Just a few tubes, some rocks to sunbathe on, and plenty of sunshine is a source of entertainment and comfort for hours. Give us a canoe and some paddles and the river can be the source of one of the greatest adventures yet.

The Rutamaya is a 4 day canoe race spanning the whole of Belize by river. Since my first days here people have been talking about this event and their yearnings to be a part of it. I too wish to take part, but do not think that I will do so in the back of a canoe. Each team requires support, and while pitching tents for 4 days does not seem like it would be so much an adventure, sleeping in a different part of the country each night, meeting people from all over the world who come to take part in this race, and discovering the country by way of river does seem like the opportunity of a lifetime. Hopefully someone will let me be on their support team. That will be another story.

In the book Huck Finn, the river is the source of tranquility and escape from society and reality. I think that rivers will always hold that romantic notion. You could just get in and allow it to take you away from everything you know and lead you without you having any say. In Benque the river serves not as an escape, but rather lives in harmony with society. It is a part of the people and the people are a part of it. There could be no real existence without it, and I will never think of Benque without seeing the river in the back of my mind. It was my first greeting and will be my final farewell when I take my leave. It will wind through my mind as the backbone of my memories of Belize. And, years later, I hope it will still be here to greet me when I will inevitably make my return to this place.

“I am she who is the deep and the shallows

A thundering waterfall and a quiet tongue

In every drop of milk and blood and tear

You will find me in every thorn and flower, seed and fruit

There is no life without me

I am libation and baptismal pool

I am your sprinkle of holy water

I am older than man and light

I am of god, not god

But like god, I am also inside of every man….

~The River Speaks Frank X Walker

Benque or Bust

I had never imagined that, one day, I would be curling up on a metal bench in Mexico for an overnight bus wait. But there I was, with 80 pounds of luggage surrounding me, sleeping in a bus terminal in Chetumal, Mexico, just waiting for the borders to open and the bus to take me to Belize. I had been travelling all day, from Louisville to Cincinnati, from Cincinnati to North Carolina, from North Carolina from Cancun, and from Cancun to Chetumal. Never in my life had I felt so adventurous and so much like a world traveler. I have become an old pro and winding my way through security stations, airplane terminals, customs and the like, almost to the point where I could travel in my sleep. And my body has become numb to the shock of being boomeranged between climates and timezones. But Cancun was uncharted territory, and, as I left Louisville for the airport, I could definitely feel the nerves fluttering around and my imagination running away with thoughts of drug Cartels, kidnappings, and all the cliché horror stories people tell you about Mexico.

My first line of business, once I had made it through Mexican border control, was to find my travel buddy—one of the other volunteers in our group. My worst fear was to not find him and to have no choice but to make the trip alone. Not that it couldn’t be done but, let’s face it, misery loves company. And if you must be lost, its better to be lost together. His flight had arrived 2 hours before mine, and so, once I had passed through Mexican border control, I found him, sitting outside of the airport, on the ground, with his luggage surrounding him. It was such a relief to see the first familiar face in a sea of thousands and from that time on my nerves were calmed and I was ready to start the real adventure.

Cancun is a tourist’s dream, and nothing like I had expected. The resorts rose like mountains, blocking all possible views of the sea, and the streets were lined with pricey shopping and American restaurants. As our taxi driver gave us the scenic tour of the city on our way to the station, I was taken aback by how nice everything was. But my experiences in Latin America were limited to the less touristy/more impoverished areas. I was not used to so much grandeur outside of the States It all seemed rather fake, and I was excited to make my way through to the ‘real’ Latin America.

We made it to the bus station, and were quickly shoved onto a nice and highly air-conditioned bus. Four movies played, all in Spanish, and we dozed in and out of sleep while the bus rocked and Disney took on a new dynamic for us. 7 hours later, we found ourselves in a bus station, far too busy for 11 at night. The terminal was filled with the chattering of foreign tongues, and was constantly flowing with a current of people with lots of baggage flowing in and out. By the time we had gotten our bus tickets, it was almost midnight, and, as our bus left at 7 in the morning, it seemed almost pointless to try to go out and find a hotel. So we made the decision to just stay put. The crowds died down, and by 1am, we were ready to try our best to sleep. By 4 in the morning half of my limbs had fallen asleep, I was shivering from the cold, and I was wondering if it was at all worth it to save a few bucks. After 3 more, impatient hours we were on a tiny bus filled with European back-packers to Belize City. We were taken to the border, had to file through Mexican immigrations, then back on the bus, then back off at the Belize border control (this time with all of our luggage in tow for customs), then back on the bus and finally off to Belize City. By this time Benque was feeling more and more like the Promised Land. My eyes were aching for familiar landscapes and as I tried to catch some more sleep, I kept hoping that the next time I opened them I would be home.

We made it to Belize City, and never in my life had I been so excited to see the city and to board a crowded old school bus. It was the last lap of the journey, and by far the most comfortable of the trip. We were old pros at the Belize-to-Benque trek, which is such a difference from the previous months, where you would spend your time clutching your bags and looking around suspiciously at all those aboard the bus. This time around I just laid back, listened to my music, and enjoyed the warm sunshine and the cool breeze. Such a relief from the freezing cold air I had only just escaped.

In the last minutes of the journey, the bus winds past the Mopan river, which runs through Benque. I watched the women wash their clothes in the fresh, green water, while children splashed around and swung from ropes into the water. Finally, after 32 hours of travel, I had made it. And it was so good to be home, though world’s apart from the home I had just left behind.

Looking back on that experience after a long night’s rest and a hearty meal, I realized that though not really fun, it was quite the adventure. At least it’s something to tell my children about one day.

“Would you like to hear about the time I spent the night in a Mexican bus station?”

The End of Part 1

With a little over a week to go before I leave Benque for home for the holidays, I couldn’t be more of a mix of emotions. I’m excited to see my family and friends. I am excited to see the Christmas Season, for to admit it, it’s really difficult to get into the Christmas season when the temperature is still about 70 degrees and the flowers are still in bloom. And I am so proud of my progress here. My students have made real progress in their English. They know what a sentence fragment is; know the meaning of the word ‘crumple’ and can even write poetry. We discovered a joy for reading, creativity in writing, and confidence in speaking that I can only hope to foster in the next 5 months when I make my return. And to top it all off, I feel a tinge of sadness that I am leaving.

I am making my return in just 3 short weeks, and thus it seems silly to be having this feeling, I mean, am I not going to my real home? With my family, friends, hot showers, cheese, and Christmas cheer all waiting for me? It seems almost irrational to have this feeling. But I have it, and as I was walking home from school at the end of a long day of students, papers, and chalk dust, I began to understand why.

The town of Benque is a relatively small town, in comparison to my hometown of Louisville, KY, and I make the same paths everyday—from home to school, school to church, church to home. The streets have become familiar to me now, as have the people. We exchange greetings and smiles as we pass each other in the streets, and, when running into the occasional student, we exchange hugs. The students at school, the other teachers and volunteers, the SOLT community, and the many varied people in the town that I see, talk to, or play “trompos” with, have become a part of me, and I a part of them. I am no longer just a small gringo here to lap up a little culture and humility, but a teacher, a friend, and to some, a sister. Even when taking the public transit I will run into people that I know, whether it is through the school or through the Church. Belize is not my long term home, and probably will never be, but at this moment, it is home. For it is here that I truly feel a part of something, and in a very special way a part of the community. The people have accepted me as the norm in their lives and their hearts, and it is such a blessing to know that there will always be a place for me here.

As far as my own personal successes, there are so many that it would be difficult to recount them all here. I have done things that I never thought that I would be brave enough, or ever have the opportunity to do in my life. I held a shark, bathed in a river, exterminated a rat, and rode a motorcycle. I spoke in public about myself and about my faith (something I would have never done before), danced in front of an audience of screaming students, played street basketball, and ran a 5K. These might seem inconsequential to some, but to me, they are moments that I may never forget. I came here feeling as if Benque was the last place I would ever want to be in the world, but now that I have spent time here, and had so many varied experiences, it would be difficult for me to imagine my life without this opportunity.

But among all these things, the thing that has meant the most to me have been the people I have met. Nothing can bring my heart more pleasure than to hear a student come up to me and say, “Miss, I’m going to miss you when you are gone.” Or, “Miss, you are like a sister to me!” Just to get a hint that my presence here, with all of the struggles and speed bumps, has had an inkling of an impact, means that I have done something right.

I wanted to immerse myself. I wanted to form relationships. I wanted to make a difference. But most of all I wanted to lose myself to find myself. I must admit, these are not accomplished in full, but I’m not disappointed—its only the end of the first half, and there’s still so much more to be done.

Letter's Home

Often plans are made to be changed, and my plans for Belize were enhanced in a great way when I was invited back to the states for an interview for graduate school. The school’s reluctance to reschedule due to my circumstances gave me an excuse to make it home for one of the happiest and most amazing experiences of my life—the birth of my first nephew, Noah. It was a whirlwind of a weekend, and when I returned to Benque, it all seemed like I had lived a very vivid dream of baby’s being born and hot-water showers.

One of the most difficult things for me to do before I was able to make this short journey was to tell my students that I was leaving. It would be the first time I was to be gone, and I wanted to make certain that they would not think that I was simply abandoning them. I told them the whole story—the interview, the dreams of being a doctor, the very pregnant sister and my yearning to be with her. They were nothing but understanding and encouraging, but mostly they were excited about the possibility of free class periods.

The days before my departure quickly approached, and my anticipation and nerves were building exponentially, but at the same time I felt bothered at the thought of it. It felt like I was leaving right in the middle of some important business. I had Bible history to teach, Marian doctrine, Verb tenses, and reading comprehension. And I was just going to bolt for 2 days of class and miss out on all that opportunity. But alas, the trip was set, and I had to postpone my class projects for another week. I entrusted my class to capable substitutes with ample instructions, and bid my hasty farewells.

As I was about to leave my English class for the last time before my trip, two students approached me with letters.

“What are these?” I asked

“Just letters for your family, to tell them how you are doing here”

And of course I took them. By the end of the day there were three letters (and ample requests for “sweets” and “skinny jeans,” but those were just ignored), just waiting to be carted through planes and customs and eventually to the hands of my parents. They had been sealed by their authors, and I glanced at the home-made and decorated envelopes many times during my long day of travel, burning with curiousity about what the contents might be.

As soon as I was leaving the airport in Cincinnati, having been reunited with my family, I was asking them to open and read them, for I couldn’t contain it any longer. The letters were written to thank my family for having “shared your daughter with us.” “I like the way she explains things” they said about my teaching, as well as “She is very playful.” They talked about their own lives, their aspirations, and their own struggles. They opened themselves up to people they didn’t know in order to show their gratitude that was in no way asked for, and to share themselves with others to make this world one step smaller. To state the obvious, I was moved beyond description.

This was such a small act, but it is such a huge demonstration of the generosity of my students. I did not ask them to do this, and I hope that I would never make them feel required to feel gratitude for my being there. They simply did it as a gift for me, and it did nothing but encourage me that I must be doing something right in my teaching, and to give me every reason to make my hasty goodbyes to my family and warm showers and return to Benque before Monday classes began again.

The first day back was met with jetlag and many papers to grade; but the moment I stepped into that classroom and heard the excited chatter of students who were all a twitter to tell me about the days without me washed all worries away. I was home again, and where I am meant to be.