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.