The Cure for Long-Distance Heartache

When I feel sad that we're apart
for months at a time,
I type in "poetry long distance relationship"
and read of hearts rent
long before mine:

The moon above distant lovers,
the same moon, the very same.
The seas between two hearts;
carrying the whisper of her first name. Or her surname.
Or whatever.

Oh, dear...
The minutes disappear
when I read of their despair.
My loneliness subsides in tears
of laughter.

Alternate Language Proposed for the CDC Budget

According to the Washington Post, Trump and his... who? Minions? have given a list of forbidden words to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Below are the words not allowed to appear in the budget proposal, and my suggestions for alternate language. I've included alternates in a sentence, to get a feel for the new language, which can seem clunky at first.

1. Forbidden: Diversity
Alternate language: not-just-whiteness; difference; heterogeneity; where people exhibit clear differences between each other. 

As in, "In areas of not-just-whiteness, the median income is often half of that of just-whiteness neighborhoods."

2. Forbidden: Entitlement
Alternate language: due by law; owed by law. 

As in, "Despite the 70-year-old's being due by law a healthcare benefit, per his military service, he was denied any care at all due to his pre-existing condition."

3./4. Forbidden: Evidence-based/Science-based
Alternate language: factual.

As in, "Climate change is factual, and of course each country must do its part to eliminate carbon emissions."

5. Forbidden: Fetus
Alternate language: foetus; unborn children. 

As in, "The unborn child should not be hurt in any way, because this is the one issue that has moral credibility, and there is no way we are losing traction with the one-issue voters. No way in hell."


6. Forbidden: Transgender
Alternate language: individuals who are confusing in their ambiguity; scapegoat.

As in, "How can Americans become better at treating individuals who are confusing in their ambiguity with respect instead of beating them up in public restrooms?" 


7. Forbidden: Vulnerable
Alternate language: threatened, endangered; poor; sick. 

As in, "This administration preys on the poorest people who are already threatened by big businesses."

---

The White House budget will be a reflection of what this administration holds dear. Just as important as what it spends money on is the recognition of what is missing from the budget. They've clearly outlined that bit for us: facts, transgender people, vulnerable people, diversity, and what Americans are entitled to by our own laws.

And here's a freebie, for the kids. 

Trump
Alternate language: No Justice for the Poor.

November Dedications

Wednesday, 1 
Today is dedicated to having enough.

Thursday, 2
Today is dedicated to Thor and the refugee Asgardians.

Friday, 3
Today is dedicated to that group of women who prays for me and laughs at my jokes. I thank my God every time I remember you.

Saturday, 4
Today is dedicated to the Enneagram.

Sunday, 5
Today is dedicated to Hay Hassani's thrift clothes. You are so reasonably priced. Thank you.

Monday, 6
Today is dedicated to Monica, who sees the Kingdom of God.

Tuesday, 7
Today is dedicated to the Apostle Paul, who preserved the Gospel from extra conditions.

Wednesday, 8
Today is dedicated to every bank everywhere that actually does their job. So, that would exclude my bank in Morocco, just to be clear.

Thursday, 9
Today is dedicated to Tyler, who sympathized with me at odd hours while I was grading instead of sleeping.

Friday, 10
Today is dedicated to "The Crucible" movie, which saved me from actually teaching.

Saturday, 11
Today is dedicated to the book Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson

Sunday, 12
Today is dedicated to the taxi driver who spoke beautiful French, and encouraged me to keep learning.

Monday, 13
Today is dedicated to this carpet next to me. It witnessed my attempts to create two unit plans in one hour, and it remained beautiful.

Tuesday, 14
Today is dedicated to the parents of my students. Thank you for trusting me so much.

Wednesday, 15
Today is dedicated to the English department. During high-grading weeks, I sometimes feel like we go through war together... separately.

Thursday, 16
Today is dedicated to the "Time Until" app. Five days.

Friday, 17
Today is dedicated to naps. Naps on the way to work. Naps on buses. Naps on couches. Naps that save first my life, and others by extension.

Saturday, 18
Today is dedicated to Amicitia American School, Fes, who knows how to host graciously.

Sunday, 19 
Today is dedicated to Luke D., who made me laugh until I cried.

Monday, 20
Today is dedicated to the substitute who will have the joy or sorrow of my classes tomorrow.

Tuesday, 21
Today is dedicated to Tyler, who flew across an ocean to hang out for a few days.

Wednesday, 22 
Today is dedicated to couches, windows, and sunshine, and anywhere the three meet.

Thursday, 23 
Today is dedicated to you, Lord, who graciously gives us good things.

Friday, 24
Today is dedicated to a pair of cat earrings; to my brother and sister-in-law; to Tyler; and to the little girl selling tissues next to the train station.

Saturday, 25
Today is dedicated to "Stranger Things" and leftovers.

Sunday, 26
Today is dedicated to comings and goings; may God watch over them all.

Monday, 27
Today is dedicated to the working printers.

Tuesday, 28
Today is dedicated to sentence diagramming; I wish I had known how fun you were when I was in seventh grade, myself!

Wednesday, 29
Today is dedicated to G period. I look older because of you. But I love you, and will keep forgiving you right before class, at 1:40 PM every weekday, and right after class, at 2:30 PM every weekday.

Thursday, 30
Today is dedicated to Shanti and Nissa, who listened without judgment, and kept my phone through the night.

Thoughts on the End of a Quarter

Teaching for me is making a bunch of decisions while maintaining a steady stream of interaction on a certain topic. It's creating problems in the moment to be solved when the students leave the room.

Here's an example of this problem-making/problem-solving cycle. While grading papers, I realize that my students have serious issues with certain homophones. I decide to do a quick warm-up with homophones the next morning.

They ask if they should take notes.

I say, "Yeah... if you want to make sense in your writing." Oh no, here it comes...

"Will there be a test?" they ask.

I pause. Here's what's happening in my brain: Well, crap. Then I have to make a test, don't I? And do a review beforehand? Or maybe I assess them in some other way. One more column in their writing rubrics? Or maybe they make posters. There is literally no more room for posters on my walls. Or maybe I need to think of some new means of assessing that I've never thought of before. Time to research. Why didn't I think of assessment before I thought of this activity? Oh, right. Because I was grading their papers. Does every, little tiny minutia have to have a grade? Why isn't knowing the right thing enough of a gift? Why the grades why all the grades forever?

Here is what comes out. "I will tell you tomorrow how you'll be graded. But today, take notes."

The more you think ahead of time, the less stressful that moment has to be. But I can't plan ahead all the time. When? If I'm in a heavy grading cycle, then anything the students get to learn in class while I am spending evenings grading essays is a freebie. Learn it or don't. I can't grade everything.

That is problematic in my current setting, though, because if things aren't attached to a grade, students very often feel that they do not need to be attentive or even civil in class.

So what's the solution? What do you do when you can't grade everything?

Here's what I do: I lie about it.

Okay, it's not exactly a lie. It might be on the test. But it might not be. I might grade it after I collect it. But I just as easily might get to the end of the quarter and throw it away.

This week, my trash can was *full* of stacks of ungraded papers every afternoon.

Casablanca Garden

The garden sits vacant all during the sunny parts of the day, save a pair of little, roaming turtles. I get home from work, and stop in to smell the roses quite often, but then I repair to my house, hungry, sleepy, needy for I don't know what.

The garden deserves so much better. The gardener and the landlady keep it in perfect condition. It's a trophy wife, always perfectly dressed; on the shelf.

Singer/Soldier

Today in church, the worship leader led some new anthem. It was beautiful, declaring our newness in Christ, our deaths to our old lives. The rest of the worship team followed the leader like a well-trained platoon. That's what our worship team often reminds me of: an army. 

Perhaps it's strange to think of singers as being equal to trained soldiers. Soldiers are so tough and so cool. Singers so often earn their keep by ingratiating and entertaining. But sometimes we sing to God; sometimes we sing declarations to our circumstances. In my church here, the singers lead us into battle, reminding me of Jehoshaphat's army the time it was led by musicians and singers. *

---------

A gigantic army is facing Jehoshaphat and the Israelites. He calls all of Judah together to fast and pray and call on God. "God, you gave us this land because you wanted to. We've built you a temple where we can assemble when we're in dire need; we'll wait on you here, asking for help, and you can save us.

"Oh, great God! You told us to spare these enemies long ago, but here they are, massed against us, and there's no way we can defeat them. We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you."

All the frightened families of Judah were there, waiting. 

It's Jahaziel, distant grandson of the famed poet Asaph who speaks up, prophesying, "Listen up, everyone! The Lord says that we will not have to fight this enemy. We must go down to meet them tomorrow and take up our positions, but God will deliver us himself. Do not be afraid! Do not be discouraged! Go out to face them tomorrow, and the Lord will be with you."

The other singers in the Tribe of Levi start to praise God. It gets loud with the many voices, every other child has found a percussive instrument. Jehoshaphat falls down on his face, praising and worshiping the God of his deliverance. I bet they're up all night, praising God, believing and trying to believe in the words of Jahaziel; that is their one and only hope of surviving this encounter.

The next morning, instead of appointing snipers or scouts to surveil the area ahead of their army, Jehoshaphat puts the worship team at the front. The people of Judah sing and drum their way to the site of their enemies, thanking God, lifting up his name with great sound. While they do this, God is ambushing their enemies. God HIMSELF is AMBUSHING their enemies. How? Like, how? With great balls of fire? With fear so that they turn on themselves? How? I don't know. But GOD AMBUSHES all these other armies so that when Jehoshaphat and the worshipers of God crest the hill on the path that leads down into the desert gorge, there's nothing left to do but pick up the plunder of their enemies.

---------

*paraphrase of 2 Chronicles 20

Anxiety, Headache, Prayer

Two weeks ago, I had a persistent sinus headache. 

The worst thing about not feeling well is that it seems you have to face your pain while facing your anxiety about the future. Fear of the next few days, even the next few years, can plague me, hitting me when I'm down. On Thursday, as I was walking in sunlight that felt too bright for my sensitive eyes, I started to cry out to God in my inner whine. It slowly began to match my walking rhythm. It became this mantra. 

Thank you for this moment.

Thank you for my pounding head.

Thank you for the Beauty.

Thank you for what happens next.

I will not waste this moment by wishing it away just because I have a headache. There is beauty somewhere in it. And whatever happens next, God is still God there, too. 

"Mustapha at the Bat"

Let's talk about D period seventh grade. 

Try getting these kids to all be quiet at the same moment! I spend about 20 out of our 50 minutes together quieting them. But in the remaining 30 minutes, we somehow manage to cover more ground than any other class. I just finished inputting preparation grades, and these kids are statistically an absolute mess. Fifteen out of 22 kids forgot some essential piece of their supplies this week. 

I have never had to strain my voice to be heard as I have done with them. But I have also never seen such unexpected cooperation as I saw today. 

Youssef is the jewel of the class. The dragon and the jewel. He has an extraordinary aptitude for most things, and a lack of self-control that is just as extraordinary. I told him before we began today that we would be reviewing a story from last week. When that started, he was welcome to find an alternative activity: drawing or reading. 

"Here's the book you can read, here's the paper you can use; stay within this area."

I noticed him getting paper occasionally, as I began our review of "Casey at the Bat." They had read it last week, but their comprehension was still low. As I set the scene, I found that we were more than re-telling the story; we were re-reading. So I embraced the moment. I asked for a student to be Casey at the bat. 

"Hold your arms like this," I explained to Mustapha as I held an imaginary bat. Haytham insisted on being the pitcher. Mohamed insisted on being the catcher. Three umpires were suddenly named. We had an outstanding out-fielding complement. The audience, like all of Mudville, was riveted.

The pitcher found a wad of paper that at first I rejected as unnecessary until Youssef the Off-Task brought over a long, rolled paper bat he had been improvising since the beginning of class and handed it to our much-obliged Casey. Youssef somehow anticipated that we would be acting out the whole story. He had made a bat for the occasion. He had also nearly memorized the entire poem, and was able to fill in all the blanks I left. He became my dramatic reading partner. 

Every second I feared this thing turning into a gruesome riot. And every second this nutso seventh grade group surprised me. 

They acted out the entire poem in cooperation, then put away the bat and ball, retired their imaginary gloves, and sat down to answer all the forthcoming questions with perfect comprehension.

Later, maybe Youssef stole someone's phone. And maybe he didn't do that. I cannot say. But I can say that our class today was such fun.

Casa Loud and Casa Quiet

Yesterday was the big, big holiday, Eid al-Adha, the holiest feast of the Islamic calendar. I've written about it here before, too. Kind of like Americans obsess over turkeys on Thanksgiving, sheep are the distracting center of this holy day. Yesterday was all loud prayer and sheep slaughter in the morning, and all quiet fires and cooking throughout the afternoon.

Margaret and I stole around the block looking for a few sheep scenes. As we walked, we avoided the swinging machetes of men whose function all day was butchery. If the machetes weren't enough to identify them, their clothes were covered in drying sheep's blood (we assume), and they wore huge, satisfied smiles.

We also found merry gentlemen on the street corners, burning the skin off of sheep heads, cooking the cheeks and brains for later. All this is done with a similar ease as I recall the men in my family going out to fix something on a car after the Thanksgiving meal. Most sit or stand while one or two does something useful to the task. The difference in Morocco is that no one is holding a beer. But here are those men.

Cool guys burning sheep heads.

Later in the day, I was visiting a neighborhood outside the city, and I don't know how common this is, but some children had dressed up in the fresh sheep skins, and were dancing and singing for tips. It looked and smelled so strange. This photo makes it look like The End has come, but in person they were not the least bit intimidating.

Weirdo neighborhood kids after the Eid feast.

The feast having lasted all day and late into last night, Casablanca was a sleeping child at 8:30 this morning. As I walked home from breakfast with Margaret I realized I had never walked more peacefully through the streets. I opened the gate to our villa, and the sun was just beginning to shine on the roses in Habiba's garden. It smelled like heaven come down. The wind whipped up some dried bougainvillea petals on the walkway, and I heard a child laughing on the rooftop apartment of the mosque overhead. It was the sweet kind of laugh where you just know someone is tickling him.

Habiba is my landlady, and she keeps the most beautiful, healthy roses.

My heart is extra light knowing that the poor of the city are eating well this week, because families who can afford it buy not one but two sheep to slaughter, and give up to half the meat to the needy. Beggars are invited inside. The Kingdom come.

In other news...

• Margaret leaves for Jordan today; and what a wonderful time it was to laugh and chat freely while keeping her from accomplishing her schoolwork. Maggie is a friend from Lancaster, visiting Morocco between semesters in Jordan. And this is us holding Mexican flags at an American-style burger joint. 

Now you are a bit of two of my homes, Maggie!, Lancaster and Casablanca!

• With the holiday behind us, my students will be coming back to the city in time for the second week of school, making this Wednesday the de facto first day of classes.

Song 43

v1
God, would you clear my name?
These people! What the HELL?!
They weigh me down with their tricks and their cruelty.

v2
You are God, and I count on you to be there for me.
It feels like you've abandoned me.
It feels like you've consigned me to walk around with
my heart on my sleeve, despite the danger around me.

v3
Send out a guide to find me here in this mess.
Bring me close to you.

v4
I want to come to your very feet.
I will praise you there, in the only ways I know:
with dancing and singing, O God!
I will write you a song.

v5
Why am I freaking out?
Why am I so sad?
Oh, Soul, trust in God.
Look forward to the time when you will praise him!
Oh, you will!

Reset Button

What did it take me to get here, in Casablanca? 

The flight was less than seven hours, a red-eye from DC to Casablanca. I even had the great honor of being able to sprawl across three seats because by luck my row had not sold out. That afforded me three hours of low-quality sleep. Three hours of sleep provides you with just enough energy to stand in passport control for over an hour, but not quite enough energy to remember how to get to the train station from baggage claim. Missed that first train. Whatever. 

What did it take me to get here, in front of a computer with thoughts?

It took me some crying, a good video chat, dinner with friends, time in prayer, twelve hours of sleep, two cups of coffee, a load of laundry, two episodes of something on Netflix, and a banana. 

It was good to be in the United States.

It is good to be back in Morocco.

Favorite Spot

I have to practice letting worries roll off me. The more I can do to signal to my worries that that is my intention, the better off I am.

I sit in the blue chair in the dining room at Plum Street, and the worries know it's time to clear out.

Summer Intermission

Right now, this summer is in six or seven drafts I've only begun with a title or a line or an image. The past month has been so full. Since school ended on June 21, I have seen so much of Morocco, Ireland, Northern Ireland, my own heart, my family. I don't have a mechanism to process all of what I've seen. I like to stare at things long, be in a room for a long time, have long conversations. In this deluge of sensation, where the plan is no more than a few nights in any given place for two months, I worry I will forget.

I do not want to forget a single bit of it, not even the stuffy and smelly queue Rachel and I waited in at the Fes train station: not even that memory.

I do not want to forget the smell of the market around the bus stop between Chefchaouen and Casablanca; dry dirt kicked up by vehicles, tanned leather, and bathrooms...

The relief of my friend's listening ear; my cousin's belief in me even when it seemed I had lost my mind; my aunt's joy in picking out dates and saffron in the market...

The sound of the endless ocean on the cliffs of Castlerock...

The translucent jellyfish on that beach, what the ocean must sneeze out when it's sick with jellyfish...

The sweet and sweaty heat of Washington DC when we came out of the airport and I stepped on my homeland's pavement.

Caesura

After the senior class graduated on Saturday, June 3, I finally turned my attention to my languishing ninth grade class. They were languishing in part because it was the curriculum I developed the least, and in part because they are fasting from water and food during daylight for Ramadan.

For the last two months, I have felt as though I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to creativity. Though my stores of energy were bolstered by my love for my students and an obscene amount of caffeine, the year gets harder; that's all there is to it.

Today in the teacher's lounge, after the morning's finals, I found myself with two of my closest high school teachers, all of us grading. We commiserated a bit, but we all sensed that it wasn't helping anyone, and we were too tired to be angry or frustrated. Slowly, the conversation shifted, and that's why I'm telling you this. The complaints and the small talk were all the slow introduction to this miraculous moment where we started to talk about what we were going to change for next year.

We hadn't even finished grading our finals, and we were already on to the next batch of classes. We shared ways we would change our systems. We had new phrases, new activities, and new focuses. "That is just the very best part about teaching, guys," said Marie. "We get to change what doesn't work for the next year." (She teaches science, so I guess she knows all about variables and affecting outcomes.)

I know I would not have felt so hopeful if a few months' rest were not ahead of me. But when June 21 comes, and I close my classroom, full of boxes and empty walls, I'll know it's just temporary. Summer is not a full stop to my job, but a caesura. (I teach literature, so I know that caesuras are breaths in poetry; pregnant pauses between two phrases; time for the musician to arrange his lyre and form the next phrase; ... time to see his family and friends, and eat pork products, and sleep for days on end.)

Seven Years in September

Dear Ken,

It's been a while. Seven years in September. I thought you'd like the update on a few of the pieces of the world you and I had in common. Like, I can't update you on comics, or at least not well... I'll save those things for B. and Zack and John, and probably some other dudes. And S., who knows more than she ever lets on about comics. I can't update you on your favorite living theologians or even the weather in Pennsylvania.

B. is still the kindest and most generous person in our group, maybe in the world. He just moved this year, living in Virginia and working at a job that's important, but that I don't understand.

K. is making art that makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time, and not because it's bad, because it's good. Her cat features in it a lot lately, and I think that's what makes me laugh. As kids she drew dogs, dogs, dogs. She laughed at my fondness for cats, always declaring herself "more of a dog person." Well, time changes people, sir. And shut up. Cats and dogs are both great, so stop being all "Evie is the best dog," because it's not a contest.

S. and P. are still sweet and adorable with each other, as best I can tell. They will travel this summer with little E., and come back tanner, wiser, and sleepier. But they're making a family work. It's so ****ing amazing, I know you'd be totally proud of them. Their parents have been heroes all along the way, too.

Man, your parents. I miss them, too. They've been in Alabama for the last few years, looking for a change. Missing you. Starting over. But we never start over.

Everything I can tell you sounds so hollow when you're so far away.

You'd be glad to know I'm doing what I said I would do. I'm teaching high school English in Morocco. I don't know, Ken. Some days I don't think much about how it is part of my life's vision fulfilled. Some days it's just living, but with more dirt and fewer trees; more Arabic and less English; more strangers, more traffic; more bougainvillea on everyone's fences, and a mourning dove right outside my window, with a mosque just beyond my gate. We can do no great things, though. And, believe me, I am not. But I am trying to do small things with great love. So in all things it is God who will receive the glory.

I decided to draw a tree for every day I teach. I thought you might like that. I will begin the school year with a blank piece of paper, and at the end of each day I'll draw a tree, slowly making a forest. And each year I'll add a new piece of paper, and maybe laminate it at the end of the year? Or let it age? I don't know. But time keeps moving, building something and dying. I miss you.

Love,
Carolyn

So Angry

If I were you, there's no reason I would read this. We get enough complaining without searching for it.

This week, here's what makes me angry.

1. People defining themselves by traveling. Collecting friends like souvenirs. I see my hypocrisy. It will take years to remedy.

2. Dudes hollering at me on the street. Yesterday, as I was walking past Beausejour on a main road, I had just passed two young men when I heard that kissy noise every woman knows. I turned around, walked the few steps back to them, and shouted in English, "DON'T DO THAT. DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!" I was livid. Jaw set hard, lips pinched, eyes wide and fixed; I curled my upper lip in disgust. They don't speak English, but the words didn't matter. They nodded, ashamed and uncomfortable.

I have been told to not make any eye contact, to keep my eyes down so as not to draw attention to myself in any way. It doesn't seem to matter. Men here (and in Pennsylvania, and lots of places) think a woman walking on the street is an easy target for their libidinous guffaws. Usually, I walk on for my own safety. But yesterday I had it in my head that I really could, and would, fight. 

3. Students who put forth an extraordinary effort in making excuses and arguing while their work remains incomplete or not begun. In the same category, a senior who shows up at their final and doesn't have a pen.  

I've Been Almost This Lonely Before

I remember the last time I was this lonely. It was my first year of teaching and being a dorm adviser at LMH.

• I never had enough sleep.
• I didn't hang out with people regularly.
• I always had grading hanging over my head. 
• I was responsible in part for the well-being of so many kids, and the job just never seemed to end. 
• I had no idea where to make boundaries. Of course I had to move all those boundaries over the next two years. 

It was all a bear of a task. What I remember, though, was feeling so lonely. I remember kneeling in child's pose that winter, crying out to God about how damn uncertain and tiring the whole thing was. Was I in the right place? Was I doing this right? How would I know if I was doing it right? Why do I feel so alone, God?It was the loneliest I had been up to that point.

This is a harder life in so many ways, but the fact that I have that experience as part of me makes this one easier. It's a lot of the same, but at least I've done some of it before:

• I never have enough sleep.
• I don't hang out with people regularly.
• I always have grading hanging over my head.
• I'm responsible for my own well-being, and I don't know what that looks like.
• I have no idea where to make boundaries.

Why not just solve one problem, and at least hang out with people more regularly?

It's partly because I need to make new friends to hang out with, and that is a slow process. Deep friendships take time, and shallow ones take energy.

I'm afraid of hanging out with only Americans, because, as I've already seen, they come and go so quickly. I've only been here for nine months, and already I've seen people leave who came here with me. That leaves local friends: Moroccan and other African friends who are likely to stick around. But there's the problem of the language barrier. And there's the problem of my disillusionment with Morocco stemming from the students I teach. It's not been a conscious decision, but if all Moroccans are like my students, how can I ever trust anyone? They lie to me like it's their job.

So, I'm lonely. But I'm not ashamed of it. It's like Jessica and the Reverend Mother, talking together in Dune... 

"I've been so lonely."
"It should be one of the tests," said the old woman. "Humans are almost always lonely."

Troubled Sleep

Remind me what you say about peace

and all will be well.

Remind me what you say about fear

and all will be well.

Remind me what you say about never leaving

and all will be well.

Give rest to those you love. 

There's this sweet sea breeze over the hill that pastures simpler beasts. 

Today I found myself wishing I could join them there. 

Give rest to those you love.

It would be trudging on if not for love.

It would be entirely will that trained my course, 

but it's yours.

Give rest to those you love.

Ah, it's these sweet smiles of discovery. 

Ah, it's those broken hearts that have begun to know too much. 

Give rest to those you love.

An Unusual Easter Morning

This morning, thoughts of work came like a flood. We arrived back in Casa at 10 PM, and it took me some time to fall asleep. The exact length of two episodes of The Great British Baking Show, as a matter of fact.

I have so much to think about from the desert, so much joy from the dunes of the Sahara to the lakes of the Atlas. But this morning, we couldn't go to church for stomach troubles. I made a bad decision, and traded my sense of well-being for the anxiety a second cup of coffee offered me. The day isn't over yet, but I am mired in preparations for this week. Ah, to be back in the desert.

Everyday Lesson Planning With Miss McKalips

7:15 AM

I walk into the classroom. Chairs are on desks; the cleaning lady has been through, and the room is ready. She has faith that what we do in here is important, and she works to make our space worth learning in every day.

I know we have to learn something today, but we need to start a new unit. What was our last unit about? Short stories. The test was yesterday. I stayed up late grading them, and I went to bed telling myself I would figure something out in the morning. Here I am. It is morning. What do I teach?

I go to the curriculum map. I'm not ready for any of these units. Okay, I'm good at teaching writing: I'll teach a paper. Whooaaaaa... Am I ready to grade 53 seventh-grade papers when it's so close to the end of the quarter? When is it ever convenient to teach writing?

I open up a book by one of my favorite (one of my only) writing pedagogy authors. I look at where he begins, and how much work he pours into every paper, every lesson. What? Every time he teaches Polonius' speech in Hamlet, he does this incredible amount of studying. At night. After he's left school, he reads the act again, reads his research again, listens to the play on his way to work. I want to kill him. I will never be able to do that. I can't do this.

7:40 AM.

What am I going to teach today?

7:45 AM.

Hall duty. Good thing I have first period planning to think through this.

8:05 AM.

What am I going to teach today? It's a really good thing I haven't been called to cover anyone's class.

8:10 AM.

Forget teaching writing today. Take that book home and read it, and do it all perfectly the first time; but the first time won't be today. Actually, no, just throw that book into one of these drawers with other people's perfect ideas.

8:20 AM.

Open the textbook and figure out what is next. Poetry. Oh my gosh. I love poetry.

8:30 AM.

We can't just read poems on day one! How are we going to read them!? What will this unit even be about?

8:40 AM.

The students come in ten minutes! FIGURE THIS OUT RIGHT NOW.

8:45 AM.

Okay. I'm going to make a decision. Decision made. We'll make a chart on the board of different kinds of art. And then we'll choose one kind of art, and talk about what the different tools are that that artist uses. I'm only barely qualified to talk about the art of painting... good enough: we'll talk about the tools a painter uses. Then we'll talk about how a poet is an artist, and list off the tools a poet can use. We'll create a vocabulary list that way, and we'll be sure to include rhythm, rhyme, allusion, form, stanza, assonance, alliteration...

8:50 AM. [Bell]

Guess that'll work. [Open the door. Kids come in.]

How to Dress Like a Teacher

1. Find a dress that has no discernible sexiness about it. It should be cut pretty high up the neck, and pretty low down the legs. If it's just one color, cool. Don't want to distract the kids with multiple colors.

2. Add a belt if you must. But nothing showy. Try black.

3. Let me guess, that dress has no sleeves? Wear a cardigan. A cardigan and leggings will make your summer dress suitable for the winter. You should have seven cardigans, all varying in their intensity of boredom.

4. Don't forget your ID badge. There you go.

A Check-Up for My Goals

I wrote down the reasons why I left Lancaster, with my kind housemates, my growing church, my endless opportunities for involvement in society, and my interesting job. The check-up is in italics beneath each reason for why I came here.

To learn to teach.
This is happening. 

To live near the desert.
This is true, but I haven't seen much of the desert just yet. When I came here in August, I wasn't sure this city wasn't a desert: dry, dusty, without a sliver of green. If the ocean hadn't been a half hour's jog away, I would have felt bereft. 

To live near the ocean.
I live near it, but see it so little. The sand sticks to your feet, and a few young boys walk around with their thirsty donkeys, offering rides along the water's edge. Men show off and proposition you and yell English phrases at you. 

Still, it's the ocean, and I will be going there tomorrow for an hour or so. I won't even bring a book, the waves are such good company. 

To escape the crush of scheduling (for which I took full responsibility).
This has temporarily, no doubt, solved itself. I spend my time teaching, grading, planning, and making food. It's a simple kind of busy, with far fewer deep relationships. 

To ask God how to stop being so angry.
I'm still pretty angry. I get the most angry about how women have such a raw deal the world over. I'm more impatient with so-called "women's issues" than I have ever been. Women's issues are men's issues, just like men's issues will always be women's issues. Regardless, anger is so often an outcropping of fear in my life, so I wonder what I'm afraid of.

To produce nothing, be known for nothing, be right about nothing, defend nothing.
This one was about me not building my own little comfortable kingdom. This is here to remind me that I am God's child, and that is enough. I don't need to see fruit to know that he loves me. 

To confront my loneliness, and befriend it.
I have found my loneliness. I have begun to look it in the eyes. We are not friends yet, merely occasional walking companions.

To be out of the country during the 2016 presidential election.
That happened, but it was painful on this side of the ocean, too. God, bless America. And Morocco. And...

To know Muslims.

Relationships take time and, for me, language. I love the conversations between Christians and Muslims: we have so much to talk about.

I have zero interest in meeting Muslim men, who frankly scare me; but I have lots of interest in meeting Muslim women. The Moroccans I know (though just a little bit) are my co-workers. I am mostly letting work take up that relational space for this year. You don't do everything at once. 

My Moroccan co-workers are understandably guarded in getting to know American teachers. Turnover is as high as you'd expect among young, American, traveler-teachers. For perspective, I'm far less a traveler than most of the Americans I work with. 

Lovelocks of Paris

Locks are prolific in Paris. You buy one at any corner tobacco shop, and attach it to some bridge, or indeed any public metal fixture in a picturesque area, and it represents your committed love. 

I really liked this concept, and I treated it like a treasure hunt all around the city. 

In a park behind Notre Dame Cathedral, where I had no clue
how to focus my lens.

Locks on a tunnel hook along the Seine

On the Eiffel Tower, people worry a lot about structural failure.

The Pont Des Arts, probably the most famous place in Paris
to spot locks

I felt like this lock was mine, because it already had one of
my monikers, and its love was Paris. 

With All Due Respect to Billy Collins

This poem is a response to Billy Collins' "Introduction to Poetry." 

---

I know a poem has died when I have to dissect it
to show my students how it used to work.

Gently I make my incision,
pull the skin apart,
reveal the muscle and tissue.

The class is somewhat horrified
as I remove each organ for their inspection,
lining these up like conquered chess pieces.

They fall back to sleep as I try to explain
that once, not very long ago in the language,
this creature was alive.

I replace each part and posit a theory on
how the complete organism may have functioned,
even how it may have interacted with others
in its day.

It is no use, by then.
Their phones are in their hands
or on their minds.

Oh hell, so is mine.

We all reach for our pockets
a minute before we should,
eager to know if anyone loves us.

Love is Like Clothes

One event in a speech meet is the impromptu speech. A student chooses one of three random topics, and has seven minutes to think through and perform on the topic. They can divide the preparation with the speaking however they choose, but they are advised to stay on topic, be organized, and say something meaningful.

Mohammed was a roly-poly, bespectacled sixth-grader from another school. I can't even remember which topic he chose, because he prepared for all of 30 seconds, then spoke for 30 more seconds, somehow managing to find time to chew on the edge of a folder in his hand and stare at me uncomfortably for several seconds. When he was finished, my mouth was agape with his disregard for convention and his absolute failure to say anything of value.

Later in the day I conferred with another judge who had also had a round of impromptu that included little Mohammed. His topic was "love." I wasn't even there to see this sub-par performance. The presiding judge told me about it, and I could just imagine the rest.

Mohammed prepared for perhaps a minute or less, then got up with his wide eyes behind his wide glasses and said, "Love is... like clothes. You put it on... it keeps you warm."

He may have said a few other lines before his reserves were exhausted, his eyes grew fearful, and he quietly ended with, "that's all. That's it," and made a quick exit.

The impromptu speakers were notable, many of them, but this little guy... he was the only one to say something truly worth remembering. Love is like clothes. Love is like clothes. Love is like clothes.

Love is like... clothes.

Russian Reader

In my stats, I have noticed a faithful Russian readership, and it appears to be human readership, not just crawling. And maybe it's a proxy, although what situation you must be in to choose Russia as your proxy, I don't care to guess.

I sound like I know what I'm talking about when it comes to the mysteries of the internet, and I assuredly do not. All this to say that I appreciate you, Russian friend(s). Thanks for reading for the past six years.

His Last Supper

The room is low near the entrance, and the enclosed space makes me dizzy, so I move to the furthest corner of the room, near a window with no light. Darkness fell hours ago as we made our cut-rate preparations, and all that was left was to endure the meal, our last. That is, our last if I go through with it.

I have had enough of this charade, and I feel eager to do something. He's powerful, but he's not the Messiah. I haven't seen one prisoner set free. Not one. God isn't a pansy-ass, hymn-singing, destitute weirdo. He's strong. He's going to set us free from the Romans so we can be His People again. Fa! I'm actually sick of this.

He overturned those tables today like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. His contempt for businessmen shames me: they have families, you know. They find a way to get ahead, and he comes by, forcing them out. What are they going to do now?

In a few days, this nonsense will be over, and I'll at least be rich. Okay, I'll be set up to get rich. I'll buy the land near my father's field. With his oxen I'll start to cut out a corner of the farmland and build houses to rent. Then, with skilled increases, the land nearby will eventually benefit from the renters' work, and I'll take my cut.

It's not hard to become rich and have a place to stay and food to eat that you aren't handed like beggars. Thirteen able-bodied men living on handouts. It's embarrassing. It's not responsible, and I won't keep it up.

No. We have to pay for what we get, and nothing comes cheap. Except this bread. It was pretty cheap. The leftover money I took, my fee for finding a bargain.

...

We all eat the bargain bread, and I notice that I am finished first. What else is there to do here? I want to find an inn, wash up, and sleep past dawn. In the morning, maybe I will send the guards.

The Rabbi is the oddest man I have ever known. That much I might miss... He never ceases embarrassing himself, and it shames us, to have our rabbi doing strange and unclean things. The others usually just watch, hiding their shame, but I can't get over it: like he was raised in a cave with animals.

Now is no exception: he has taken off his robe, and begun to wash our feet like a slave. I watch him do it—is he shaming us for not having thought to hire another servant for this night? Well, I won't be ashamed: servants are expensive, and we don't need clean feet to eat a meal.

A Few More Moments of Grace

It feels like the world as I knew it in the United States, especially, is coming to an end. There are so many emergencies right now... with the promise of more trouble: patriots from Iraq are detained; a white supremacist will now be allowed to assassinate people with impunity. And it's only just begun.

The only peace I can find is in Jesus. Oh, he is precious, and he does not lean left or right: he never changes. We cry out to you, God, let justice roll like mighty waters. 

---

I have been asking God to show me the grace he's provided for the moment. Is it tangible, Lord? Can I feel it and see it, please? Because things look so hopeless.

Here are a few moments from last week that touched my heart:

1. Casablanca cold is different from Pennsylvanian cold. I prefer Casablanca cold, but hear me out. Though the weather bottoms out at 1*C, 34*F, the buildings aren't built to hold heat in. So it's hard to get warm when you do come inside. It's hard to explain how demoralizing that can become. There's no refuge. But we do get this spectacular rainbow over the ocean!

I'm wearing a knit cap beneath my hood, three or four layers on top, and two layers of slacks.
But look at the rainbow!

2. A new friend gave me a gift toward my upcoming vacation to France.

3. At the end of a seventh grade class on Friday, as the students prepared to leave, I thanked them for their attention, as I always do. Two of the girls came over to me and said sincerely, in practiced unison, "thank you for teaching us!" I regret not hugging them!

When All You Actually Want is a Cinnamon Roll

Today was one of those mornings when you're teaching seventh grade about imagery. You're introducing a bit of homework that isn't due for a few days and the thing you really have to do is a lot of end-of-semester grading. A lot. We're talking 80 essays due Sunday night, 46 more due Tuesday night, and a thousand little things you've put off grading until the end... and it's sneaking up on you, and you're pushing it away so you can teach class... but all you really want is a cinnamon roll with raisins. You know? What every teacher really needs is their* vice principal to show up with a cinnamon roll, and be like, "Here you go! Take a break, and I'll cover this class time. Enjoy that cinnamon roll, now!"

I mean, these cinnamon rolls. Everyone talks about them. It's inappropriate how often everyone talks about them. The problem has been that I'm teaching during the time when the cafeteria is selling them. Because of my split schedule, half middle, half high school, I teach through the break time when the rolls are for sale. In yesterday's meeting about a low-performing student, I even told this to the administration, because a whole day had gone by since I had complained about something.

You know that fantasy where someone comes into the room and trades you your class time for a cinnamon roll? That totally happened today. And it was both of my assistant principals who came into class, one to present the cinnamon roll, the other to whip everyone into shape after the oohing and ahhhing had subsided. I'm telling you, I left that room so fast, with my Kindle and my warm, sticky cinnamon roll.

Did I mention that my school is hiring?




*I'm using the form as a third person singular neuter on purpose, so would you cool it, already?

What I Use Language For

A few weeks ago, I called a gas delivery company to get a refill for our portable, gas heater. I know enough French to express that I don't know French, and was soon connected with someone who speaks English. The delivery guy would be here within the hour.

That hour passed rather nervously for me, and it's because a man I don't know was going to come to my house, and I was going to have to be present while saying almost nothing because I don't know enough words.

When he arrived, he disengaged the empty tank with his wrench, and installed the new tank while I stood around doing nothing, saying nothing. Those are trying times for me, because if we spoke the same language, a few lines of small talk would have filled in that gap very tidily. I would have woven words around myself, covered myself up with them: a dreamy, big scarf.

As it was, I stood, completely present—a person and present—whether or not I wanted to be. I felt both ridiculous and real. So I've thought about it, and I find I have a few main uses for words:

1. I can hide using words. One day, a long time ago, when I first started to hate my body (it's been a love-hate relationship ever since), I began to think that if I just kept talking, no one would see me. I can make a joke, and suddenly it's not that I'm beautiful, but that you see something other than sweatpants-uncombed-Saturday-morning me.

2. I can make peace using words. Because of my high anxiety about Trump being president, I find myself talking about morals rather more often than usual. I find myself answering long messages on Facebook and on WhatsApp from equally anxious people, but anxious from another perspective. (And the perspectives I trust admit to being complicated.) So far, we've disengaged while remaining friends.

3. I can teach you how to use words using words. But only to a point. Teaching is hard, but it's getting better and better.

Praying on Vacation

Me 1: There's a lot of work to do. Time to get started!

Me 2: But right now, I said I would pray.

Me 1: You're terrible at praying. Leave that to the spiritual people. You're good at working. Come on.

Me 2: Thanks, you really think I'm good at something?

Me 1: If it means I can start doing something productive already! It's almost 9:30 AM, and I've done nothing!

Me 2: No. I'm staying. It's a vacation day; no one is expecting me; all I need to do right now is keep trying to listen to God. [Concentrates again on scripture.]

Me 1: You are so lazy.

Me 2: (to Me 1) Stop it. (to Jesus) Hi, Jesus. I had some trouble getting here today. Me 1 won't leave me alone. I have a lot to do, I guess. And if I don't do it right now, I don't know... maybe Me 1 will hate me. Or  maybe other people will hate me. You know how I don't want to be hated.

[Jesus looks at Me 1. Me 1 shrinks under the weight of the silence.]

Me 1: (nervously) Well, Jesus, tell her she has to get something done! Vacation isn't all about her, and being quiet, and sleeping... [She trails off, hearing herself, and seeing that vacation is actually about all those things.]

Me 1: I mean... sure, do all those things, and do all the other things.

Me 2: I just can't. I just can't. I don't feel safe if I'm always thinking of what I should be doing. And what will I lose if I am lazy? What will happen if all I do is sit here with my Bible open, trying to pray? What will happen, Jesus?

Jesus: (with feeling, to Me 1 and Me 2) Stay. Stay and try to talk with me. I look forward to your vacation, too. I have so much I want you to see and know, and the first is that you are welcome here. And you, you must be weary, too. Won't you rest?

[Me 1 melts into Me 2, disappearing, becoming whole.]

Lighthearted Reflections on 2016

New Year's Eve 2016 found me with people I hadn't known the year before, so of course, we didn't have a shared ritual or even a basic knowledge of each other's lives beyond the scope of the past few months. So we created a ritual that I hope to take up again and again. We asked questions and told stories! Here is an abbreviation of what I shared.

Where were you on NYE 2016?
-My living room, Casablanca

Who were you with on NYE 2016?
-Janine, Stacey, Bria

What was the hardest you laughed in 2016?
-Possibly, some conversation with Stacey and Caty Mac on the bus
-Or, possibly Abby falling onto an occupied air mattress while attempting to capsize it

What was the best moment of 2016?
-Crying in front of a Rothko with Kelly in Chicago

What was an embarrassing moment of 2016?
-when the H & H delivery guy called me "Claire" in front of my co-worker after flirting with me for a few minutes

What day in 2016 would you live over and over?
-one of any Sunday that included the following elements: WEMF, House of Pizza, hiking, friends

What was your favorite song of 2016?
-"Sorry" by Bieber (I'm conflicted as to whether or not to apologize for this being true. The irony.)

What was your favorite movie/show of 2016?
-"The West Wing" show
-"Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them" movie

Most memorable trip of 2016?
-Chicago with Krystle, Rachel, and Kelly
-Fez and Casa with Bethany, Janine, Sarah, and Derek

What was your biggest lesson of 2016?
-I have value as a person without doing anything more.

Who was the most influential person in your year?
-Betty

What was the bravest thing you did in 2016?
-Dating and breaking up

What was the kindest thing you did in 2016?
-... it's good to think on that one, but maybe not publish an answer, you know?

What was the best advice you gave, or the best conversation you had in 2016?
-SO MANY good conversations!
-I advised my seniors not to go straight to college. I'm waiting for parent emails to come in.