A Few of My Favorite Things

Remember those teachers you had in high school and middle school (and maybe even elementary school) who shaped you as a person. The ones whose names you can still remember and sometimes you feel yourself transported back to their classroom when someone says "What was that conversion factor?" or "How do you spell that word?" Perhaps I'm stretching the nostalgia a bit too far, but there are teachers that helped you become who you are today. Maybe they nudged you into working a little bit harder so that they could show you just how good you could be. Maybe they encouraged the pants off of you and acted like you were a super-star in the classroom, even though you felt like a loser outside of it. Maybe they just did their job and it was really your desire, passion, and skill that made them so influential. You still remember them though.

Then there were the teachers who made you feel quite insufficient. You just couldn't do good enough. You talked to much, or too little. Maybe they never noticed you, or only noticed you to hand out a punishment or critique. Maybe instead of encouraging you to work harder they told you that "You'd never get any better, so why try?" Maybe they didn't do anything particular and you just sucked at that subject, and they knew it and you knew it. Maybe they were just a bad teacher who couldn't explain anything sufficiently. Their names are forgotten, but their tactics remain.

There are all kinds in every school, all kinds in every child's education. For me the first group, the great teachers, were mostly made up of my Math and Science teachers. After 7th grade I think I could tell you all my Math teachers' names and many of my Science teachers', but I won't bore you with that. Not all of them were extraordinary, but many were. Most of my favorites were non-traditionalists. Mrs. Williams (the only English teacher in the bunch) let us have paper ball fights if we were good; she'd even join in. Mr. Paar would use fishing analogies to teach Algebra. Miss Genie would get so excited about Math she would start jumping up and down, one time she even climbed on top of a desk. Now that I think about it they were all pretty nuts. At the time, sitting in their classrooms, we (the students) would just look around at each other and say "Wow! They're soooo weird." But we loved it. They were passionate about their jobs and they were passionate about helping us learn. We'd have never admitted it back then, but those were our favorite classes. Those are the teachers I want to emulate, not just their crazy behavior but their zeal.
The second group of teachers included most of my English teachers, thus the incessant use of spell check and dictionary.com now-a-days. To ALL my English teachers (and it was pretty much all of them) who said, "You need to work on your writing. It's not very good. Your spelling is atrocious, and there are comma splices every where. Now look at Katie's paper, that's what you should be writing." I am teaching your subject now! How do you feel about that? *Also I would like to take this time to note: my mom thinks I write very well, and has complimented my blog writing skills numerous times. I assure you she is a very unbiased source.* Now I know most of you are thinking (or should be thinking), "What in the world are you doing teaching English if your least favorite subject was English and you still use spell check without default?" And also the question begs to be asked, "Why did you get a degree in 'The English of Tech' when you were at an engineering school in the first place, obviously suck at English, and enjoy Math?" The answer is: Through many random events and strange happenings, but really God only knows. But I loved my major, I'm glad I'm teaching, and I'm ok with the fact that my students catch my spelling mistakes. I was never very good in those English classes because I felt that all they wanted you to do was copy another man's style and pass it off as your own. And for the most part that is exactly what they wanted, and exactly what I refused to do. Thus the conflict, and my inability to get an A in English. These teachers, the ones that stifle and come down hard on you, are the ones I hope I am for no student.

Now comes the idealism, if you haven't already felt it. As a teacher now, looking back on my experiences as a student is hard. The roles are reversed. I see how challenging each day is for the Teacher. I feel the propelling desire to make the biggest difference I can in each student's life. I know the difficulty of meeting challenges with patience and quick solutions, however many it takes to find the right one. I come home in the afternoon with a headache and a hounding question, "Did I make a difference?" I hope that at some point, while I am a teacher, I can answer that question with an unequivocal "Yes." But for now, all I can tell you unequivocally is that the students make a difference in my life every day, my fellow teachers make a difference in my life every day. That for me is enough right now. That for me is everything I need to know. No matter how much I give it will never be enough to return what I have received. One day though, I'll be able to answer my question with a "Yes" and on that day I'll be jumping up and down in the streets (or maybe I'll just climb on top of a desk).

Baby It's Cold Outside

It's cold outside. I know this because 30 seconds after stepping out the door my eyes start to water. Two minutes into my fifteen minute walk home from Dani's my throat starts to itch. Four minutes later my nose is running and my eyes now itch as well, all orifices function as water spikettes. Three minutes from my front door I start to cough, with no apparent benefit. As I walk in the door I notice my chin is numb, but that is the least of my worries. I gulp down a glass of water, wipe my eyes, blow my nose, and breath in the clean air of my apartment. Winter is here. They did warn me.

Most families use a wood (among other things) burning stove to heat their houses in Bulgaria. At first I thought this was "nice" and "cute," to have a fire burning to heat you. Now I know otherwise. Every night, and sometimes day, the air fills with smoke from these household warming devices. Everything is burned in them: plastic shopping bags, diapers, food scraps, papers, wood, books (ok, so no one is really burning books...), any other trash that might need to be disposed of. It really cuts down on the garbage. My predecessors did tell me, "Just wait for winter, when the fires start burning. The air will barely be breathable." Did I believe them? Maybe. But how was I to know just what they meant by this; I had never experienced a Balkan winter. Now I know. The Bulgarians feel it too. As much as we all love the warmth we hate the smoke. But there is a trade off for all things and this one is just more visible and immediate than most.

Coming to Bulgaria there were many trade offs. Some I haven't yet experienced, some I'll be experiencing my whole time here. I left my family. I have a large family, most of whom read this on a semi-regular basis (thanks!). At least one grandmother, two parents, two brothers, one sister, two nephews, two nieces, four aunts, four uncles, nine cousins, and assorted other relatives I don't see on a yearly basis were at home celebrating Thanksgiving the other week. I missed that. But I did get my trade off: a Bulgarian-American Thanksgiving Extravaganza! Two Bulgarian Teachers, six American Fulbrights, two Bulgarian Boyfriends, seven American Peace Corps Volunteers, two turkeys, four kilos of mashed potatoes, two kilos of glazed carrots, two kinds of stuffing, numerous amounts of other food, and a guitar all fit into the confines of Roz's two-bedroom Vratza apartment. It was wonderful! There is no day designated for giving thanks in Bulgaria, but the concept is not foreign here. We cooked and talked, ate and drank, and then we sang. We sang, or rather, I should say one of the Fulbrights studying traditional Bulgarian music sang a few traditional Bulgarian songs for us. Roz sang a couple songs in Hebrew from Isreal for us. Then we all joined in for traditional American folk songs and Christmas carols. It's funny just how few people actually know the words to the carols. After hearing the same songs for years and years you'd think we'd be better. Second verses were the most challenging and "Do songs even have third verses?" was the response after a few mind boggling rounds of the same verse of Silent Night and Joy to the World. But we all stumbled through together and had more fun for it.

I guess this is the easiest trade off to tell you about, especially since it's so recent and confined to one day. But there are so many others that may be more complex, but are all the more beautiful. Too bad words don't go far enough.