Breaking Bad News

My heart is still beating fast. My palms are sweaty.  I think my hands are still shaking a little.

Sounds like how we describe someone in love... but no, this is the result of telling some parents that their daughter isn't passing third grade.

I just got home.  Today was a half day at school. We had our party, signed shirts, got some gifts.  Then all the kids went home and I stayed to clean up and deliver some bad news.  This is the first time as a teacher that I've ever had to retain a student, but what makes it even worse is that they assumed their daughter passed--and told her so yesterday. They thought that no news was good news.  In fact, no news meant no hope.  They didn't get a letter requiring their daughter to take a recuperation test (Honduras' system of allowing students to take a test covering the content of the quarter or the year they failed) because her average was low enough that it wouldn't have helped her.  The school told me to only send a letter home if she needed to take the test, but that, since she didn't, no letter was needed.
Well, that was apparently a mistake because they took it to mean that she passed.  I now see that the school is mistaken in that system. I think letters should be required to go home either way.  Maybe then I would have been spared this incredibly awkward and slightly abusive meeting with parents (well, one in particular) who believe that the first grade teacher ruined and damaged their daughter and it's entirely the school's fault that she can't read.  I wish the thought of repeating a year wasn't so repulsive to them...she would do so well and finally experience some success!  I think they're just going to move her to a school that accepts grades under 70%.

All the experiences that teaching gives me often make me wonder what kind of parent I'll be.  I ask myself, "Will I be like so-and-so's mom, or so-and-so's?"  Will I think that my daughter couldn't possibly be slow in reading, but instead it must certainly be due to the psychological damage she experienced as a child? Will I be the mom that shows up at the classroom door every single morning to take up the teacher's time to clarify or ask or request something for her child?   Will I be the cool mom who invites the teacher for dinner and gives good gifts?  Who knows... but I am grateful for the perspective that teaching has given me.  I don't have any parenting experience, but I do see good and bad examples every day.  Hopefully that will give me a jump start when the time comes. (Which, by the way, won't be for a while!)

Tomorrow is the official last day of school.  We had our party today because I wanted a calmer end to my year with my sweet kids.  Tomorrow I'll give them the owls I made for them!  I hope they like them!

All 19 of them...

Monday

18 days left with students.

Oh, how I love them. 

Oh, how I'll miss them. 

Oh, how I'm ready for the incessant talking to end!!! 

T.I.H. and Taxes

T.I.H., for the uniformed, stands for "This Is Honduras," an acronym which originated from some gringos needing a way to label events that would mostly likely only happen here.   My Honduran husband, it must be noted, has even picked up the phrase.  Take Monday, for example.  Our conversation went something like this:

Daniel arrives home after supposedly going to replace his drivers license.
Me: "So did you get your license?"
Daniel: "T.I.H....."
Me: "Oh no... what happened?"
Daniel: "I have to go back on Thursday just so they can tell me which day I have to go back again to get my license."

You see.  T.I.H. is quite handy and states so much in so few syllables.

Today at work, a pretty epic T.I.H. moment occurred.

We're reading Stone Fox, a classic book, in which Grandfather falls "ill" because he's lost the will to live. The reason, we just found out today, is because he owes $500 in taxes.
I stopped our reading to find out if/what my kids knew about taxes.
One girl raised her hand to share.  "It's like my aunt. She owns a store and she has to pay taxes to the bad men.  If she doesn't pay them the taxes they will go to her home and hurt her or take all of her store."

T.I.H.

My student understands taxes all right... only, what she understands is the war tax, paid to gangs so as to basically avoid their wrath.  Check out this post I wrote about the market fires and the war tax.

T.I.H., where students don't think twice about bidding their teacher farewell for a morning so she can go file a police report for her stolen goods.  T.I.H., where some kids understand the war tax better than a regular one.

May the Fourth

Some people are great listeners.  They really listen to you when you talk.  They are the kind of people that remember the details, even the ones you don't remember telling, and then think to ask you about them later.  I'm always pleasantly surprised when I meet, or discover that I already know, such a kindred spirit.

I'm realizing more and more that I'm not a great listener that most of the time.  Lots of us are good listeners when we really care, or when it really affects us, but not so much when we're preoccupied or uninterested.  I guess I'm more often in the latter category, unfortunately.
Sometimes I "listen," only to realize that I totally missed something important, and must embarrassingly cover my error before it's noticed.  That's no fun.

Lately, I'm terribly guilty of this with my students.  When a herd of nine-year-olds surrounds me at 7:20 in the morning with stories they desperately want to share, I find myself on autopilot... the Wow's and Oh No!'s and Really?'s pour out of my mouth without my really taking in much of what they're telling me.

Today, one of the brightest little boys I've ever known, let alone taught, persisted in asking me the same question.  "Have you seen Star Wars?" he asked a few times before taking off his backpack.  I mumbled a quick, "Umm, yea, kind of..." (or something like that) as I managed the 129 things being thrown at me.  He said something about the force being with me, and I gave him a fake laugh and continued whatever I was doing.
Later, he asked about Star Wars again and, once more, said something like, May the force be with you... and I think I responded with a weak connection to our recent science lesson about force.
Finally, as we all filed out of the room at the end of the day, he tried to bring up Star Wars another time.

For the first time, I actually listened.

"May the fourth be with you." 

THAT is what he'd been trying to tell me all along.  Today is May fourth.  May the fourth be with you.


So, my friends, may May the fourth ever be a reminder to you and to me--listen when people talk.

How it feels to be robbed.

1.  Scary.
Once you realize that the guys are not just walking down the street, but really heading your way with bad intentions, your body may start shaking and your feet might forget how to work, and your Spanish skills might swirl down the drain.

2.  Outrageous.
After the initial shock, you'll become offended and insulted at the injustice of someone thinking that they can try to point a gun at your husband and take what they want, when they want, where they want.

3. Frustrating.
You might want to scream at them because other time the robbers have been decent enough to give you back your ID cards, which they do not need and which cause a great hassle to replace.  Or your favorite purse that a man would, seemingly, not need or want to carry around.  But no... not this time.  When asked a final time to return the identification, the robbers just might reply, "Come and get it" as they run off.   Jerks.

4.  Lingering.
You might be paranoid afterwards, triple and quadruple checking the street before you go anywhere near the gate.  You might replay the scene in your head a hundred times, wondering how you could have gotten inside faster and avoided it.  Or congratulating yourself for stuffing your wedding rings in your underwear when they were distracted.

You might hate the fact that your friend had to be with you that night, had to be exposed to such a thing.

You might try your hardest not to let events such as these ruin your perception of Honduras itself as you finish out your last few months here.

You might thank God that it was only stuff, and that nothing serious happened, yet still wonder why it had to happen at all.

And you move on.  Because it's happened before, and it could very well happen again.  And there's a life to live out there... free of fear and doubt. 

You might want to throw some humor into it...

The Best Year Ever and The Year of Provision

When 2011 was on the horizon, Daniel and I had the mutual prediction that it was going to be "The Best Year Ever," and it was.

In February, I bought a car in Honduras. 

In March my mom came to visit and we threw Daniel a fun birthday party. 

In April, I got engaged on a beach in El Salvador.

In May my sister came to visit for a whole month!

That's Mal, back row, left side, at my
shower in Honduras.

In July I got married!

In August, Daniel and I moved into our first place.

(Hmm.. I need to find a picture of our house!)

At work in 2011, I finished a difficult teaching year and began an amazing one.

Overall, 2011 was amazing.  It earned the title, "Best Year Ever."

Now that we're in 2012 I've been trying to name it, too.
I've decided to call it, Year of Provision.
In 2012 I've been learning to stop worrying and let God truly have the control.

At the end of February I was almost robbed and then I wasn't.  God provided a way out. 

And the most recent act of provision was Daniel's visa!  Our final visa appointment was on Monday, and we were pretty nervous about it.  It was so difficult to get in touch with the embasssy, so many of my questions were unanswered before we went.  I wasn't sure our paperwork was all correct.  However, not only did things go smoothly with the appointment, but on the VERY DAY of our appointment they had changed the cost of the visa--about $170 less than what we had been told.   Considering the fact that we were basically broke at that moment (having just splurged on an incredible Semana Santa trip, in addition to taking out money for the visa and other visa requirements, the money was extremely helpful!
It wasn't until later that I really stopped to consider God's hand in all of it.
I had been reading and rereading and rereading the Beatitudes in Matthew in the days before our appointment, and had paid particular attention to the verse, "Do not worry about your life."  After Monday, I understand why that verse stuck with me.   And as we now try planning our move to Florida, I'm repeatedly struck with this anxious, nervous, "what if" feeling, and yet I know that I shouldn't be.  I know that the God who provides safety and Visas and unexpected cash will also provide jobs and a house and all the other stuff we'll need come summertime.

So bring it on, 2012, Year of Provision!  It's all going to work out.

Have you ever stopped to consider what you would title a current or past year?  If so, what year and what name?

Oh The Places You'll Go

Today I read, "Oh The Places You'll Go" to my class.  One of my students, recently back from a trip to Universal, bought it in Seussville and wanted to share it in honor of Dr. Seuss' birthday.  
It's been a while since I've read the book, and I really wasn't prepared for all the profundity it held for me.  

You see, today was the deadline to turn in contracts, or a letter stating your intent to not return.  It was a sad day amongst my closest Pinares friends and myself--those of us who, with heavy hearts, turned in letters, and not contracts. In two or three stiff, formal sentences it felt as if three of my most wonderful years came to an undramatic close. 
I'm sad. So sad to leave these children I've come to love so much, and these friends I can now call bests.  But even though I cry at the drop of a hat nowadays, thinking about leaving...I still don't see myself here next year.  I still feel like the decision to leave is right.  I feel peace.  Which is weird to say for someone who hides her tears from the bus kids almost every day (I don't know what it is--maybe the time it gives me to think--but I get choked up all the time on the bus lately; thinking about "my babies!")
I turned in my letter without any fuss... the secretary wasn't at her desk so I just dropped it off and left.  No questions, no talking... nada. I didn't think much about it after that, until Dr. Seuss had to barge in and spew profound nonsense at me.  At first, I did just fine as I read the last book Seuss published before he died. However, near the end it was hard not to cry as I thought of all the places my kiddoes are going and all that awaits them!


"You'll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You'll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life's
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)

KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!"

I want them to move mountains!  ( ... I'd like them to do it by having faith as small as a mustard seed (see Matthew 17:20).  I want them to succeed!  I DON'T wan't them to "mixed up with many strange birds" as they go!  I hope I've taught them, in some small way, how to "step with care and great tact."


And I hope I can keep it together when I start to tell them I'm not going to be here next year.  


You can read the whole "Oh the Places You'll Go" here.

Protection

"Yet no one seized him because his time had not yet come." (John 8:20...and 7:30 and 7:44)
The people who hated Jesus had a few opportunities to catch him but as this verse (and several others like it) says, it wasn't time yet.
I have been reading John lately and these verses stuck out to me in light of my not-so-pleasent (yet not too terrible)-event one month ago.

I'm not going to go into all the details. I wasn't even going to post it because I didn't really tell people from back home (lets just say there are some people who really do not need another reason to dislike Honduras.)

The essence of my story is this:  It was the morning of our 6 month anniversary and someone tried to rob me while I was waiting outside for my bus to come in the morning.  I had everything with me, and the guy could have gotten away with a lot.  He tried to pull me up the street, away from the direction I had been walking.  The whole time I was praying that my bus would come (or my student's bodyguard, whom I often see driving to work on the same street).  But no one came.
There was no one around... and yet, all of a sudden, he saw something and ran away.  I, of course, ran in the opposite direction... towards whatever it was that scared him off.  There was nothing there.  No car had passed and nobody was walking by.  God saved me... it's that simple.  My time had not yet come.

Spelling Bee Disorganization (or, Cancelled Weekend Plans)

This year I told my friend, Stacy, who is heading up the spelling bee at our school this year, that I would help coach the spellers.  In part, I signed up because I felt guilty about not doing Challenge Club this year, and I wanted to be helping out after school in some way.  

The way Spelling Bee works here is this: first, each grade level does an in-class spelling bee; then, all the class winners from each grade level compete and are narrowed down to the top-three spellers of each grade.  In theory, speller #1 competes at the first competition, speller #2 at the second, and #3 is the backup.  However, we were never given any word about the secondary competition this year, so it looks like spellers 2 and 3 are out of luck. 

I found this picture here in an article about Indian kids
being good spellers.  But don't they kind of resemble
my students a little bit?  :)

Anyways, we went to the Discovery School (a bilingual, not-Christian school here in Tegus.) yesterday to a meeting for coaches. The idea was to determine who would help out in which way (as a word caller, a scribe, a judge, etc.)  

It turned out that our middle-man from our school must have forgotten to return some paperwork, because Stacy, Dan (another coach), and I weren't in the bag of names being "raffled" for helping positions. Since they had enough helpers, many of whom had traveled from across the country to be there and needed to participate in order to validate their long trip, we three were left job-less.  And a little bit resentful of attending a meeting from 4:00-6:00 on a Friday afternoon that ended up not pertaining to us at all. (In addition to pulling names to assign helpers, the meeting consisted of the leaders of the school trying to make motions to change the rules of the game the day before the event.  T.I.H.  This is Honduras.)

So (not-all-that-unfortunately), it is now Saturday and, instead of being stuck inside a room watching kids spell, I'm about to leave and buy some of my favorite things:  craft supplies.  I think I am going to make these for my students for Valentine's Day: 

Happy Saturday!

The Foot on the Bus

I'm choosing to write about The Foot on the Bus.

Not about how many times I've tried to contact the U.S. Embassy without success.

Not about the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad (and yet slightly redeemed) week that I had when February began.

No. If I decided to give in and vent and rant and rave, I would release the seething rage I feel every time that snooty operator at the embassy answers the phone and gives me the her cold, curt replies.

I imagine she looks something like this.

Instead, I'm writing about something I've wanted to tell you about for a while now, and that is--there is a foot on my school bus.  Yea... a foot.

Believe me, the curiosity/suspense/confusion you're probably experiencing right now as you ask yourself, "what in the world is she talking about," is surely something like the feelings I felt during the several months I spent riding Bus 8 with Don Marcos (the driver) and Doña It's-been-too-long-for-me-to-ask-you-you're-name-now (the nanny) trying to imagine a reason or a purpose behind The Foot that sits in front of me every day.

Ever since the first day of school, there has been an artificial foot lying on the floor next to the driver's seat.  It's a left foot, and very realistic. Veins and all.  There's even a suspicious red coloration near the cut-off part that would be attached to the calf.  It's got a slight Morton's toe (which I used to call surfer toe, but I googled it and now know right terminology).  It's flesh colored... but more of of gringo color than that of a latino.

At first I didn't think much about The Foot.  It brought up images of those prank feet that you sometimes see hanging out of some jokester's trunk.  No one seemed to pay it any mind--not even the children (which is odd, don't you think?).
But then, I'm not sure when, I really started to believe that that Foot meant something.  I mean, why else would it ALWAYS be there, when other seemingly random items get tossed daily.  Could it be someone's prosthetic foot?

When that thought occurred to me, I tried a few times to get a good look at Don Marcos' left foot.  It wasn't easy from my seat behind the driver, so I'd try to stealthily turn around and sneak a peak while exiting the bus.  His foot seemed fine...  not like a fake-footless stump might look in a shoe.   Then there was one day when I saw him out of the bus, walking around the school, and that was when I was pretty convinced that his left foot was real.

So my suspicion rested, for one day, on the Doña.  Had I ever seen her feet?  I'd never paid attention.   Well, the next day she wore sandals, and two perfectly good feet stuck out of them. Wrong again.

And so, just last week, when I saw that the Doña was in a happier mood than usual, and Don Marcos wasn't paying attention, I just asked it; "Doña, do you know anything about that Foot?"

And after all the wondering and assuming, all the stories and possibilities that ran through my mind on my many tedious trips to and from school, the bus foot mystery came to a boring resolution--it was a gift from his father... a recuerdo.

Now I guess the mystery that remains is... why would his father give him a fake foot?

Here's the proof... I snuck a cellphone picture the other day while
pretending to listen to music.  WHY he chose to buckle up the foot
instead of his seatbelt that day is unknown... but it was a helpful
position to photograph.

Snooty Operator photo is from blogodidact.blogspot.com 

Chickenpox

Chicken Pox or Chickenpox?  I've seen it written both ways. Well...

Chickenpox are not so noticeable on darker-skinned kids, I now realize. 

3C has been attacked by a spreading case of the Chickenpox.  It began with a student who came back to school after a family trip, and realized a few days later that his cousin had given him Chickenpox.  No one realized that he had already exposed the class to the infection (probably because it is contagious before the spots show up), until yesterday, when a student's mother came by to let me know she was going to bring him to the school doctor (yep, our school has a real doctor, and some nurses too) to see if he had bug bites or ... something else.   It turned out not to be bug bites.  Today, two of my boys who commented about "bug bites" yesterday are also home with Chickenpox.  It appears that two fourth graders have it, too.

Anyone seen the movie Contagion yet?  I just saw it, and this situation keeps bringing to mind.

How old were you when you got the Chickenpox?  I think I was a baby.  Most people I know got it really young.  A few of my students say they've had the vaccine... but many have not had either the vaccine or the real infection.   I don't know... I just find it strange.  Maybe they're more sheltered than I was... but to have various third and fourth grade students who have yet to catch it seems odd.

Let me just say that the peace of having 4 students absent from an already not-too-big class is making for some calm days.  We are getting extra great behavior reports from special teachers, too.  I think I'll take some Chickenpox now and again...

My class rocks.

It's Friday and I love my class.  

That's all I have to share today.  

:)

Aren't they precious?

Rich and Poor

"Honduras, the second poorest country in Central America, suffers from extraordinarily unequal distribution of income, as well as high underemployment"
(from the CIA World Factbook; cia.gov)

I was looking up some information about Honduras this evening, trying to remember some of the startling poverty statistics I've heard and forgotten over my years here.  This site ,  or the CIA factbook,  might interest you. This list of countries by GNI was intriguing as well.

I learned that 60% of Hondurans live below the poverty line (and although I gave up the search before I could find out exactly what I was looking for, I've been told that most of that 60% is way, way below the line).  I learned that the GDP per capita in Honduras is $4,200 (compared to the $47,000 GDP of USA.)

What got me thinking about all of this was a conversation with a student's mom today.  This particular mom is quite fascinating.  In a country where 0.5% of the population have a Masters degree, she has two, and is in the middle of a PhD. at Harvard. We were mulling over the lives of the kids at our school; kids who come from that teensy-tiny percentage of elite citizens of Honduras; kids whose whole worlds include their home, their school, their church, their swimming lesson club, and maybe the mall.  These kids aren't allowed to walk around outside. They literally can't.go.outside. many times.  Our school playground is their outdoors.  Their trips to the U.S. or Europe are their chances to walk around on city streets because walking down a city sidewalk is something they have never done in their own country.  This particular mom was telling me that her son went to the Quincy market in Boston, and it was his first time in a market "because he would NEVER be allowed to go to a market here!"

All of this is just swimming around in my mind a lot lately.  How these kids who bring in things like iPods, iPhones, Toms shoes, and $300 headphones for show-and-tell are also kids who can't leave their houses and who don't know a single thing about the way life is in their country.  These kids, who are most likely the future of this country--the ones who will fill the professional and political jobs in 20 years--are the most sheltered from the way of life facing 90% of the population.  These kids who have so much more than most kids, and yet, in other ways, have less.

My heart just breaks for the kids in Honduras, both the richest of the rich and the poorest of the poor.  They are all missing out on so much.

(Now, I can't let you leave with a bad image of my students in your mind. Yeah, they are spoiled and, many, rich; but they are also the most precious, loving, and compassionate kids I know.  I adore them.  They still pray every day for the poor kids they served on a field trip in second grade. When they hear about problems like poverty or natural disasters or war, they brainstorm ways to help.  My prayer is that these kids really do fill up the important jobs in their country and, with the purity and innocence of third graders, find ways to change things.)

This is me--trying to squeeze something blogworthy out of my oh-so-normal-for-me life.

1. I have a student teacher arriving this week! Never would I think that I would be "learned from" and never so soon in my teaching career (year four)... but I guess that's how things roll when you work in latin america and in a school with such a young staff. I'm nervous, but also excited!

2. I have to plan a field trip for our grade level... to an orphanage that they went to one year and now no one can find the phone number for. That's stressing me out a little because once I actually get that number--that's when the real work begins.

3. I want to buy a car, and might have an option... but I don't exactly have money. So, this is an obvious problem. However, the potential option may also be really cheap or perhaps even come with a payment plan, which makes it harder to refuse. But the thought of how much life for me would change just by living here with a car versus without one is mind boggling.

4. I actually regularly attend and consider myself a part of a church now, where Daniel and I go together. I'm just trying to get over my aversion to speaking spanish and potentially making mistakes so that I can actually serve. I'm really frustrated with the way I'm so automatically timid. Why do some of us turn out that way?

5. My most amazing friend, Rachel, is getting married on March 12 and I get to be a bridesmaid! I'm SO excited to be there, to see her, to see my other darling friend, Jess's new addition as well!!

I hope you, whoever you are, are doing well.

Time is flying by. The season is changing. I've experienced a bit of the wet and cold weather that I've been warned about in the Tegucigalpa winter. I'm loving my class more and more each day. I have gone to the feeding center with Macayla a few times and have started helping her get the jewelry-making ministry going again (see the link for Semillas de Dios for more info.)
I have been meaning to write about one particularly memorable birthday party I attended last month. It was one of my first eye-openers to the class of students I'm teaching.
The birthday girl is the granddaughter of an important family. Grandpa is in charge of all of Honduras' police. The party was particularly posh--with basically any kind of party fixture you could have (bounce house, popcorn and cotton candy, clown, piñata, hot sub makers, cakes, waiters and tents, etc, etc, etc.) But what really made an impression was my ride home! I was told they would bring me back home, and I expected to get a ride with the family when it was all over. But, as the party was winding down, grandma told me to let her know when I was ready to leave and she would tell the driver. So, when I let her know I was ready she flagged over the driver, who led me to their big SUV along with the body guard. Both of them were armed!
On our way home, whenever we would hit a lot of traffic, he would just sound a siren to clear the way! I found out that this student rides with her driver and body guard to school every day, and there is always another car of security following them. When I met with her family during parent-teacher conferences, the body guard was standing outside the door where he could see us. Crazy! AND...there is even more that I don't feel comfortable publishing on a blog. But, if you can, pray for her and her family as elections draw near and instability is possible.
So... that is just a glimpse into the life of one of my students. I'm surprised more and more each day when I learn about the families that have kids at this school. I knew more or less what it would be like when I cam, but it is still quite impressive sometimes.

The Coup

For those who have been keeping up with the news, you may know about the removal of president Manual Zelaya from his position as president of Honduras this past June. Well, on Monday he snuck back into the country, where he has been hiding out in the Brazilian embassy here in Tegucigalpa, causing all kinds of demonstrations, violence, and excitement.
Monday was our first day back at school after our two-week swine flu vacation. During the schoolday we found out about Zelaya's return. Several parents came to pick up students early. Demonstrations had already begun. That night, as I was in a friends' apartment for a small group meeting, we saw buses just returning to the school at 7:00, 8:00 and 9:00 p.m., after leaving the school at 3:00!
School was canceled Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, due to the national curfew put in place in an attempt to control the marches and demonstrators. The curfew was lifted yesterday afternoon so people could get food and water, but from what I hear the stores and streets were mad houses!
The word is that school may resume tomorrow, but I doubt many kids will come.
Here is an article from the Wall Street Journal that does a good job of laying out the basics of this situation. Please pray for Honduras.


After nearly three months in exile, Manuel Zelaya, the deposed president of Honduras, made a stealth return to Tegucigalpa on Monday, taking sanctuary in the Brazilian embassy. He is now using this diplomatic sanctuary to demand reinstatement and stir up his supporters in the streets. This is a dangerous moment, and if violence breaks out the U.S. will bear no small part of the blame.

Mr. Zelaya was deposed and deported this summer after he agitated street protests to support a rewrite of the Honduran constitution so he could serve a second term. The constitution strictly prohibits a change in the term-limits provision. On multiple occasions he was warned to desist, and on June 28 the Supreme Court ordered his arrest.

Every major Honduran institution supported the move, even members in Congress of his own political party, the Catholic Church and the country's human rights ombudsman. To avoid violence the Honduran military escorted Mr. Zelaya out of the country. In other words, his removal from office was legal and constitutional, though his ejection from the country gave the false appearance of an old-fashioned Latin American coup.

The U.S. has since come down solidly on the side of—Mr. Zelaya. While it has supported negotiations and called for calm, President Obama and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton have both insisted that Honduras must ignore Mr. Zelaya's transgressions and their own legal processes and restore him as president. The U.S. has gone so far as to cut off aid, threaten Honduran assets in the U.S. and pull visas to enter the U.S. from the independent judiciary. The U.S. has even threatened not to recognize presidential elections previously scheduled for November unless Mr. Zelaya is first brought back to power—even though he couldn't run again.

This remarkable diplomatic pressure against a small Central American ally has only reinforced Mr. Zelaya's refusal to compromise short of a return to the presidency, with all of the instability and potential for violence that could involve. It also probably encouraged him to gamble on returning to Honduras on Monday, figuring even that provocation won't endanger U.S. support. And so far it hasn't.

Now that he is back, Mr. Zelaya and his allies aren't calling for calm. His supporters have flocked to Brazil's embassy with cinder blocks, sticks and Molotov cocktails. "The fatherland, restitution or death," he shouted to demonstrators outside the embassy. In anticipation of trouble and with concern for public safety, President Roberto Micheletti announced a curfew. But when police tried to enforce the curfew, the zelayistas resisted and there is now a Honduran standoff.

On Monday Mr. Zelaya said he owed his return and political survival to "the support of the international community." He's getting support from Nicaragua's Sandinista President Daniel Ortega, the former guerrilla group FMLN in El Salvador, and especially from Venezuelan President Hugo Chávez. But let's face it: None of that support would mean very much without the diplomatic and sanctions muscle of the U.S.

If the U.S. didn't know about Mr. Zelaya's stealth return, it ought to feel deceived and drop its support. Now that he's back in Honduras, the best solution to avoid violence would be for the U.S. to urge Mr. Zelaya to turn himself over to Honduran authorities for arrest and trial.

Exhausted but good...

I am 4 full-days and 3 half-days deep into the school year. I have been working my tail off trying to get things in order all week. Today was open house. The students left at 11:30 and Open House was from 2:00-5:00. I got to meet some of the Tegucigalpa elite and tell them how great their children are doing (which, after only a week, they really are). My class is sweet and young (in Mexico, my third graders had a year of pre-first before first grade, so they were actually fourth-grade ages). It is taking some getting used to just knowing what their ability levels and emotional levels are. Some of them are really just babies. :) In a good way, usually.

This place is such a mix of cultures and lifestyles. Last weekend I got to help out at the feeding center Macayla is involved with. It is through an organization called Manos Extendidas (check them out: http://www.mehonduras.org/). They have child-sponsorship programs and we participated in their bible lesson and food distribution (of an interesting rice-milk-mush). It was so humbling, and kind of crazy, to descend off of our mountain where some of the homes are mansions with full-time armed guards, into a part of town that only receives water once a week or so and has homes made of scrap materials and dirt floors.

I have visited a few churches so far and am trying to find a fit. Pray that I can get involved in a church here. That was something I never successfully did in Mexico.

August 8

I've always liked my birthday. No, not simply because it's my day to eat cake and open presents... I have actually always just loved that it is on the eighth day of the eighth month. It's a good time of the year.
Well, this year, my birthday is a big deal for three Important Reasons. First and foremost, I will turn 25 years old. Let's not dwell too much on that fact, it's pretty straightforward. The second Important Reason that this August 8th is great is that it is my graduation day! In just two days I will officially be finished with grad school and in possession of my M.Ed degree in Language Arts and Children's Literature. I won't be going to my graduation ceremony, however, because of the Important Reason #3: I am moving to Tegucigalpa, Honduras on the same day. That's where I'll be teaching next year, at Academia los Pinares.

So, this Saturday, when you may think it's neat to write 8/8/2009 if you happen to be writing the date somewhere... just remember that it's a huge day for lots of reasons--in my world, anyway.
As my mother would say, Peace Out.

Home stretch

This is my last break during grad school. After the next (mini) semester, I will have my M.Ed. and head off (on graduation day!) to Honduras to teach again. You know, I recently heard someone state that being a teacher is harder than being a brain surgeon--teachers have to know how to reach every student in whatever way will work for him or her, but a brain surgeon (according to this person) does mostly the same things over and over again.
Now, I'm not sure I'd go that far in an appraisal of the job of a teacher, but there is a good point in there somewhere. Man...teaching is hard! I know a lot of non-teachers who don't think it is, but my motto has generally been: If you think it's easy, you're probably doing something wrong. It's scary to think of the responsibility teachers have. It plays out something like this :
1. the teacher enters.
2. 25 or so students enter.
3. the teacher must be an authority, but also warm enough so that the kids care about what she has to say.
4. the teacher must learn everything she can about her students--their interests, abilities, home lives, and struggles.
5. the teacher must then design instruction that will somehow engage all 25 of the different little people in front of her.
6. Most importantly, and most difficultly, the teacher should somehow find a way to make kids want to explore, learn, discover, and enjoy the world, in and outside of the classroom and school year.

Boy. I have two years of experience and another degree and I still feel nearly as clueless as I did on day one.
I guess the great think about teaching is that, even though it's really hard, it's a good kind of hard. I think it's hard like mini golf. No one plays mini-golf perfectly, but since it is social and fun, you keep at it. In mini golf, have to focus to get it right, and you generally keep a record of what you've done, and after 18 different holes, you might only get one hole-in-one--but it's enough to pump you up for the next round!

Wow. All cheesy metaphors aside, I'm pretty excited to get back in the game!

I was told to share this...

For those who don't know, I'm getting my Master's degree in Language Arts and Children's Literature. This semester I am taking a class with the same name. It is focusing on writer's workshop and reader-response to quality literature. Anyways, we are instructed to write, edit, and polish pieces throughout the semester in the way we would conduct a writer's workshop in our classrooms. We recently turned in our first "published" piece, which could be anything we wanted (writing prompts are pretty disdained around here...). After we shared our pieces, my professor implored us all to share our pieces somewhere, with someone, "that's the whole point!", she said.
Therefore... here I am, and below is what I wrote for class. Aside from not wanting to just hand it over and say, "Read This!", to someone... I figured it kinda, sorta related to the nature of this blog. Here ya go:

Same Difference

I pushed through the bustling crowds, my quick strides appearing much more determined than the slow meander of your average extranjero in the street market. Colors danced all around me, but I didn’t let my eyes linger on anything—not yet. I was, in fact, quite as determined as my fast pace suggested—eager to distance myself as much as possible from the others. I’m sure you’re familiar with their type; those loud, overly-American tourists who draw everyone’s attention and give the locals a just reason to roll their eyes and scowl. Those people who think that, by yelling, their words will somehow translate and the Mayan women will understand that they want the same tablecloth in a different color. The kind of person who will order food at a restaurant and openly express her disgust at finding some unknown cut of meat or potentially amoebic salad.
The last thing I wanted was to be recognized as that kind of American, so I squeezed my way down the main strip, past the rows of shops and venders. I dodged groups of children calling, “Amiga! Compre algo de mi. Algo para tu familia. Si Amiga….”. Friend! Buy something from me. Something for your family. Yes, friend! I reminded myself not to buy from them; not to support families that keep their children out of school in order to make money from the soft-hearted gringos. Just beyond a man with a push-cart full of bananas I found my freedom in an alley full of locals selling fresh tortillas, cheap shoes, and pirated music.
Moseying away from the Americans with their dollars and their English and their cameras and their money pouches tucked into their neon-colored shirts, I tried to appear as separate as possible. Could they tell that I came to this country with them? Surely my manners, my Spanish, my appearance would spare me the automatic label given to my loud compañeros? I wondered what that label was. Rich? We buy seemingly everything in sight and stay at the nicest hotels. Rude? We snap a picture whenever we please. Arrogant? In everything we do, is there an implied superiority?
Marveling at the depth of my own observations, I found my way back to our beautiful hotel just in time for the three-course dinner served nightly. After stowing my bags of souvenirs, I took a couple choice pictures of the Marimba band playing in the courtyard before finding my seat at the table and promptly declined the steak dinner the waiter was serving.
“No, un plato vegeteriano por favor.” No, a vegetarian plate please.
Alas. Am I really any different?