from a hammock on a hill (subtitled: random meanderings)

i feel alive here. now. this moment, in the hammock. before the cicadas take an afternoon nap. listening to the singer who stabbed himself in the heart. when my only purpose is in the search for recuperation and self-knowledge.

the “x” in the equation is working. feeling judged and self-conscious at my job. guilt for my inability to attain some level of perfection. allowing others to define my self-worth and emotions. how do i regain the power of self-sufficiency? or is that another form of weakness?

would it help to tell myself that i can’t live up to the expectations i had for my teaching? that can’t transform them into self-knowing global citizens? that, if they are ready for the ideas, at best i can help them on the path? recognizing that no single person can do it all, even though hindsight attributes most awakenings to one moment. one person. we see our lives in the black and white tones of realization rather than the complex unfolding of gradual emancipation. do we sell out when we recognize the truth, stripped of idealism? or is the greatest lesson in humbleness to do the best we can without guilt?

there are two viable options among many choices. i can run, keeping in mind it did not become an option until someone else made the suggestion. fleeing is the hard decision. or i can learn how to create the feeling of the hammock in the classroom. in meetings. in the hallways. i can’t stay here without owning my emotions.

it’s easier for others to decide for me.

a single langur crept out onto a branch. eating leaves. three followed, bounding and from other trees. they simultaneously noticed the hammock sitter. we stared into each others’ eyes, their black faces gazing inquisitively from the leafy green tree. well, or they weren’t inquisitive and the human looking at them ignorantly anthropomorphized their emotions. that i am simply different, worth peering at. i decided they might enjoy “proudest monkey” and realized that i have lost my humbleness in the yearning to become something more special.

i’ve made two life-decisions (whatever that means) by flipping a rupee. in actuality, the decisions had already unfolded somewhere between a rooftop in udaipur and a crowded hospital corridor in mussoorie. the coin toss was just some formality that i needed to justify my indecision. the first was to stay in india. the second to go.

my most recent decision is one made after awakening in feverish confusion over a month, fists clenched in a constant worry inescapable by sleep. resolving to leave to recover from typhoid is something i am trying to fully embrace.

this is an easy place for judgment. when jenell struggled with leaving ghana i was the one to moralize about remaining, sticking it out. but we all reach our limits. can you still hear the indecision in me? the wavering confusion? but then there’s the necessity to make some decisions based on oneself. i spend this time justifying, even though i know it’s right.

sympathetic noose

so i’ve had typhoid for almost a month. and i’m tired of talking about it. and i am tired of people’s unsolicited advice and questions (specifically, if another person asks me what i’ve been eating, i will end my nonviolent streak). as the malady has been particularly persistent, i had to go back to lch (the hospital with no phone). on saturday, brian brought me back for the night. when he left, i lost my shit. it’s difficult to describe a moment of intense emotion in hindsight. i started sobbing, alone in my indian hospital room, feeling more alone than ever before. i felt like the kindergartener, dropped off at school for the first day. a place too foreign and an experience too new. and, i am not as powerless as a kindergartener. so, through the tears i decided to depart, though i was supposed to spend the night. it was 11:30 pm and i knew that if i didn’t leave the micro-situation that i would need to leave india. i walked with no real destination in mind, winding up the head-lamp-lit trails. i ended up at brian’s, playing connect four and speed and looking at shooting stars with him and laura until 4:30 am.

it’s bizarre to lose most of the things that define you. being energetic, passionate, adventuresome, etc. not teaching my full course load for weeks on end, staying in mussoorie instead of traveling. though i know there are a billion more serious situations in others’ lives, this has been a… i don’t even know what to call it. a challenge? it’s given me time (sometimes far too much) to reflect on myself, shown me how much (for good or bad) we rely on each other while simultaneously showing me how important it is to (try to) be enough in and of myself. i’m currently sprawled in a hammock looking at the snows (out for the first time in over a week) and listening to the cicadas. hopefully i’ll be able to go back to work soon. and when i do, i will probably long for the days of typhoid, sleeping in the sun and living a snail’s pace existence. the days of hammock-sitting selfishness when i fail to define myself as a teacher or a recent college graduate or a middle class woman or a foreigner.

group hugs and desk naps (subtitled: the beauty of freshmen)

the doctor told me today that i could return to work partially. he used the phrase “light work.” it adds up to teaching half days of only ap courses for a week. on wednesdays and fridays i have consecutive afternoon classes, ap u.s. history followed by ninth grade world history. totally drained, i gathered my papers as the ninth graders started trickling in. in october, when i started teaching ninth graders, i thought they were little giddy, anxious, barbarians. more recently, their bare emotions and excitement have been the fuel of my fire. three anecdotes follow.

imagine all of this happening simultaneously. groups of 3-5 kids swarming, putting their arms around you, enveloping you in hugs. “ms. humm! you’re back!” “how are you feeling?” “it’s so good to see you!” well, actually, guys, i’m going home right now. i still have typhoid, but i’ll for sure be back on monday. “no! how about this, we can push desks together and then you can sleep on them. we’ll be quiet. here, you can use my sweatshirt for a pillow. just stay here!” no, shubi. i am still going home. “alright, then ms. humm. let me carry that for you, then.” no, rachit, it’s okay. “okay, then. feel better soon so you can come back for good!”

when i departed my classroom after being diagnosed with typhoid a week and a half ago, package and backpack and in hand, i headed to the door. my students bombarded me. “where are you going?” “home.” their eyes grew large and incredulous. i looked down at all i carried and clarified, “home to mt. hermon, not home to the united states.” “ooohh, good.” “hey ms. humm, do you need a hug?” “sure, yeah.” “okay, group hug then,” hilary avowed as five of my girls embraced me in the hall. being sick seemed like a minor hiccup in an otherwise delightful day.

last week, one of my student’s called with some questions about his current events paper and presentation. “rachit, you won’t actually need to present tomorrow. i’m not coming back to school all week. you can present when you return from quarter break.” “well, ms. humm, then it won’t be current.” (incredibly cute comment #1). “oh, and ms. humm. is the article okay? some of the guys were saying my article isn’t good enough because it’s about bollywood. but it’s about poaching too and the guy getting arrested.” “well, that sounds okay then.” “yeah, ‘cause it’s more on the political front. (political front? incredibly cute comment #2) that’s what i was thinking, too. hey, ms. humm, what’s wrong that you can’t come back to school all week?” “i actually have typhoid.” “oh, god, ms. humm… hey, i will try to come and visit you over quarter break, if it’s okay.” “sure, rachit. just give me a call first.”

if you don’t think any of these children are cute, keep it to yourself. because that means you have no soul.

underlying humanness

today my u.s. history class had its long-awaited atomic bomb debate (long-awaited due to typhoid). one of my favorite teachng strategies is having students assume the role of varying groups in history, debating/ questioning one another about a controversial issue. an earlier discussion featured slaves, slave owners, freed/ former slaves and non-slaveholding farmers. this particular debate featured harry truman, u.s. military strategists, manhattan project scientists and the japanese survivors of the atomic bomb. during tina’s speech from the viewpoint of a young woman who survived the bomb, an exceptional feeling asserted itself in the form of a fist in my chest. simultaneously, my students reached a new level of concentration, taking in tina’s comments while staring into space. in my mind i did a small dance, pumping my fists in the air. they felt it.

“do you feel that?” i asked at the end of tina’s comments. their eyes turned back to me as a few students nodded, locking in on the shared experience of the moment that we truly became human. when tina was speaking we left the confines of the classroom. the limitations of time and space. the mental constraints of teenagers and a young adult who have never experienced tragedy on a mass scale. and we delicately embraced-empathized with-felt the tragedy of the past.

the first time it happened was during our unit on slavery. multiple times during the unit a new sort of silence came over the classroom. people simultaneously receded into themselves while melding together as one. “do you feel that? that (i made a fist near my heart) right there? (a lot of them nodded in response, with somewhat befuddled expressions). that’s what holds us together. that’s the feeling of being human. it’s a common humanness that is connecting us with people we never knew through the deepest, most underlying human emotions. THIS is why we study history. THIS is why i am a teacher.”

it amazes me that the historical events that overlook basic humanity—utilizing an atomic bomb on a civilian population, owning human beings—foster the most basic illustrations of underlying humanity retrospectively. at the end of the debate, i told them to close their eyes and i read a bit out of an interview with a survivor of the bomb in hiroshima.

“i left home with my daughter, masako. she was on her way to work. i was going to see a friend. an air-raid warning was issued. i told masako i was going home. she said, “i’m going to the office. i did chores and waited for the warning to be lifted. i folded the bedding. i rearranged the closet. i cleaned the windows with a wet rag. there was a flash. my first thought was that it was the flash from a camera. that sounds so ridiculous now. it pierced my eyes. my mind went blank. the glass from the windows was shattered all around me. it sounded like when my mother used to hush me quiet.

when i became conscious again, i realized i wasn’t standing. i had been thrown into a different room. the rag weas still in my hand, but it was no longer wet. my only thought was to find my daughter. i looked outside the window and saw one of my neighbors standing almost naked. his skin was peeling off all over his body. it was hanging from his fingertips. i asked him what had happened. he was too exhausted to reply. he was looking in every direction, i can only assume for his family. i thought, i must go, i must find masako.

i put my shoes on and took my air-raid hood with me. i made my way to the train station. so many people were marching toward me, away from the city. i smelled something similar to grilled squid. i must have been in shock, because the people looked like squid washing up on shore. i saw a young girl coming toward me. her skin was melting down her. it was like wax. she was muttering, “mother. water. mother. water.” i thought she might be masako. but she wasn’t. i didn’t give her any water. i am sorry that i didn’t. but i was trying to find masako…

…i was in nikitsu shrine when the black rain started falling from the sky. i wondered what it was… i waited for her in the house. i opened the windows, even though there was no glass. i stayed awake all night waiting. but she didn’t come back. about 6:30 the next morning, mr. ishido came around. his daughter was working at the same office as my daughter. he called out asking for masako’s house. i ran outside. i called, “it’s here, over here!” mr. ishido came up to me. he said, “quick! get some clothes on and go for her. she is at the bank of the ota river.”

i ran as fast as i could. faster than i was able to run. when i reached the tokiwa bridge, there were soldiers lying on the ground. around hiroshima station, i saw more people lying dead. there were more on the riverbank, i couldn’t tell who was who. i kept looking for masako. i heard someone crying, “mother!” i recognized her voice. i found her in horrible condition. and she still appears in my dreams that way. she said, “it took you so long.” i apologized to her. i told her, “i came as fast as i could.”

it was just the two of us. i didn’t know what to do. i was not a nurse. there were maggots in her wounds and a sticky yellow liquid. i tried to clean her up. but her skin was peeling off. the maggots were coming out all over. i couldn’t wipe them off, or i would wipe off her skin and muscle. i had to pick them out. she asked me what i was doing. i told her, “oh, masako, it’s nothing.” she nodded. nine hours later, she died…

…when i heard that your organization was recording testimonies, i knew i had to come. she died in my arms, saying, “i don’t want to die.” that is what death is like. it doesn’t matter what uniforms the soldiers are wearing. it doesn’t matter how good the weapons are. i thought if everyone could see what i saw, we would never have war anymore.”

(cited in EXTREMELY LOUD AND INCREDIBLY CLOSE, 187-189)

do you feel it too? it doesn’t happen that often. but when moments like this come along in the classroom, you can ride them forever.

what typhoid means to me

that should be read in the tone of one of those elementary school essay assignments, "what world peace means to me" or "what a mother is to me." i digress (and so early in the post!). well, if you can already tell, one thing typhoid means is being a little wingy. i am currently at school on the monday of quarter break. i guess i am doing a bit of a test run to see if i can come back to work tomorrow. thus far, i am not impressed with my mental faculties.

typhoid means spending a (surprisingly) blissful week at home reading amazing books (may i recommend the kite runner and the way of the peaceful warrior), watching movies and cooking delectable meals for one (for a lot of people, typhoid means a loss of appetite. that is one thing that no disease can rob from this self-proclaimed glutton). reveling in expensive international phonecalls while eating ice cream and oreos. playing the guitar. moving furniture outside to read in the sun.

at first i was somewhat devestated that i could not go to delhi with my friends for quarter break. but some time to just be (remember those annoying calvin klein ads from junior high for ck one?) ended up being wonderful. it just goes to show... (i don't really know what it goes to show, but definitely something).

running to stand still (subtitled: diary of a first year teacher)

“ms. humm, mr. johnston’s games were more educational than yours.” i hate my job. “ms. humm, thanks for the lesson!” i love my job. blank stares, but they won’t ask questions when I plead (really, beg) for any questions. i hate my job. “ms. humm, will you teach us next year? we learn and enjoy (enjoy = have fun in woodstock vernacular) in your class.” i love my job. i spent all of sunday learning about french government. and i am still confused. i hate my job. i spent all of sunday learning. i love my job. i made a powerpoint of renaissance paintings and we discussed art for a whole class. even the kids who never raise their hands. i love my job.

looking back, i was kind of an asshole in middle school. not to all teachers… just to a select few. i still remember our sixth grade music teacher, ms. gubberud, running out of the room in tears. i also recall some of us feeling some sort of pride. now i feel an extreme sense of karmic guilt (no one has ever made me cry, but i could imagine the sort of day such a thing could occur).

the dichotomy between love and hate for teaching is constant. and feeling generally unqualified to teach four relatively new subjects is a continual battle. are the kids learning anything? are they having fun (maybe not a question i should care about, but I do)? if i don’t understand, who can I ask? this is boring… how can i make it exciting, or at least interesting? what does a good multiple choice question look like? and the ever present, how can i make this better in the future? sometimes i want to scream, i have no idea! i read the same textbook as you! but that can’t be a daily crutch. it’s like treading water… and treading water… and treading water until you know it must be making you stronger. or at least you hope so. either that or i’m crazy to do this to myself.

ultimately, i have learned more about life than anything else. parker palmer always speaks about teaching who you are. beth sent this great quote from the courage to teach,

“i am a teacher at heart, and there are moments in the classroom when i can hardly hold the joy. when my students and i discover uncharted territory to explore, when the pathway out of a thicket opens up before us, when our experience is illuminated by the lightning-life of the mind—then teaching is the finest work i know.

but at other moments, the classroom is so lifeless or painful or confused—and i am so powerless to do anything about it—that my claim to be a teacher seems to be a transparent sham… teaching, like any truly human activity, emerges from one’s inwardness, for better or worse. as i teach, i project the condition of my soul onto my students, my subject, and our way or being together. the entanglements i experience in the classroom are often no more or less than the convolutions of my inner life. viewed from this angle, teaching holds a mirror to the soul. if i am willing to look in that mirror and not run from what i see, i have a chance to gain self-knowledge—and knowing myself is as crucial to good teaching as knowing my students and my subject.”

way to sum it up, parker.

typhoid mary (subtitled: overused stories #1 & 2)

“typhoid mary” is the first american who acquired typhoid in foreign country x (i don’t know many details here). upon her return to the united states, she changed her name and tried living in anonymity. however, as it was 1907 and the authorities, unsure of how the disease is transmitted, tracked her down and forced her into confinement. she died, in containment, 23 years later.

long story short, i have recently added to my list of afflictions acquired in india. following giardia, amoebic dysentery and good ole’ bacterial infection, typhoid fever is my newest in the list of “traveler’s illnesses” listed in the lp. (persistent illness: overused story #1) i really can't forsee anything else going wrong, at this point.

i haven’t been quarantined, persay. however, i also haven’t left the house in 6 days and feel as if my butt is beginning to meld with the couch. this afternoon, as i was napping, i awoke to monkeys. (monkey anecdotes: overused story #2) i looked outside and found the gigantic langurs had overtaken our yard. assessing the situation, i wandered from room to room, looking out the windows. monkeys were lined on fence and in the trees, playing in the yard, running on the roof (evidently). as i approached the sun room, i glanced a huge, silver body sitting on the edge of the couch.

i bolted the door to the sunroom, locking the monkey in and returned to my room. for a second i felt like i was in that 90’s movie about intruders infiltrating some woman’s home during which she was forced to hide in a panic room. i cased the situation from my bathroom window just in time to witness the monkey poking his head out of the broken window. when the monkey saw me, he bolted out of the window and into the yard.

so, there you have it. the sickness story, which has defined approximately 2 of the last 2½ months and the monkey story, which has colored much longer than the last 2 months. hopefully if i ever get better i can re-expand my life beyond movies, episodes of sex and the city and primates adventures at mt. hermon. here's a picture of the monkey as he jumped out of the house. and the monkey brigade hanging out in the yard.

jimminy christmas

i miss out on some fun phrases because i swear so habitually. i figured jimminy christmas was a more appropriate title than, "oh, (fill in the blank)."

i can't remember the last time a fortune cookie actually came true. all that la-laing about riches and rewards... ironically (or just unfortunately), the first fortune cookie that's hit home is the infamous birthday fortune. so, jimminy fricken' christmas.