yesterday was golden.

The morning felt disjointed. I read this blog and cried until my eyes were puffy and a toilet paper roll ran shriveled beside be. I never knew Natasha Meyer-Turner, but she left a beautiful legacy for her daughter.

And then I found myself out in the hot Honduran sun, waiting for the ride who arrived nearly an hour after the designated time. I passed the minutes by flipping through my dictionary and pretending I was not reading a dictionary whenever anyone passed by. I learned that there must be 30 families living in the house next to my apartment (slight exaggeration) and that I am really, really bad at speaking Spanish (evidenced by attempting to tell a distraught little boy that his mom was across the street).

Finally my student arrived, and we were off!

Not quite. We went back to her house twice, picked up her older brother "Ohh! Miss Whyte!" and cousin, picked up and dropped off food, met more relatives and I was invited to a birthday party.

THEN we were off. To the caves!

The cave smelled like clay and was lit by floodlights. As you can see, a walkway directed our path throughout the public access areas--- but just in case, we also had a guide. The guide pointed out interesting things, like the fact that it takes 50-100 years for the stalactites to grow one centimeter. 

He also pointed out some not-so interesting things, like formations resembling a dog and the map of Honduras... I felt like I was cloud-gazing. Never did "see" the dog, but then again I can never find Waldo either. 

The tour finished up at a museum where a reconstruction of the skulls that had been taken out was on display. I have no problems with the concept of reconstruction... but in this case, to imitate the iridescence of the cave, someone had the brilliant idea of painting the skulls with glitter glue! It looked like a really cheesy Halloween prop. 

The vessels in the museum were original and rather fascinating-- dating from (supposedly) 500-40 years B.C. 

Next we ate at a nearby restaurant. My students' mom ordered a hamburger and fries for me and a plate of typical food for the rest of the table. The hamburger was the last thing I wanted to eat and was more than a little relieved when we agreed to share it. (And by "share" I mean I had a few fries!)

The drive home was probably my favorite part. Against his sister's protest, my other student blared mariachi music and we visited his father's farm as the sun was drenching the countryside in gold. It was absolutely beautiful. The windows were down, the mountains were surrounding us and cherry blossoms arched over our pathway. Ok--maybe they weren't cherry blossoms-- but they were beautiful, whatever they were! It was so wonderful. I wanted him to drive slower so that I could take it all in-- it was all rushing by so fast. (Incidentally, his mother also wanted him to drive slower! :P)

They dropped me off and I promptly headed out to satisfy my sugar fix. It was getting really dark but I really wanted to try a new pastry shop I'd heard about across town. So off I sped, passing Hondurans left and right... I might as well have been running. The entire trip I kept having the devastating thought that maybe the shop had already closed-- but I was not to worry. Desserts were purchased and I was returning-- only to have a car pull up beside me and slow down. CREEPY! Except then the windows rolled down and I heard, "Hannah! What are you doing?!?" And then I only had to lift my bag to show off the desserts and Elba died laughing. She says I am getting drunk/ addicted off of these desserts. It may be true.

They drove me home and I capped off my night with delicious desserts. 

And now I need to start my Productivity Day!

(LONG blog!!! Sorry, I've had way too much verbal diarrhea lately!)

for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand

A friend's facebook status led me to this poem by W. B. Yeats:

The Stolen Child

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

And I wondered what the author intended the poem to be about. So a few internet searches later, I learned that Yeats was fascinated by Irish folklore, and thus this poem is supposedly based on the idea of faeries stealing children.

Which I suppose is rather obvious given the title and the content.

Yet I didn't think it was about faeries at all. To me, it has death written all over it.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. 

How true these lines ring.

Xiomara told me about young children who dig around in the trash looking for things to recycle so they can earn a little money. Only these children often get cut, and their cuts get infected. Medical care is neither extensive nor all-encompassing, so instead they are given injection after injection, trying to combat the countless infections.

Little children who can't afford to go to school.

I see them selling fruit outside of the fence and my heart aches. They stand there, a stoic look on their face, while their peers kick soccer balls and whine about grammar class being boring.


For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. 

The mother of one of my students had me in tears yesterday. Her son is in seventh grade and the sweetest little boy you've ever met. His mega-watt smile never ceases to compel a mirror reaction. Focusing isn't a strength of his, and he can often be found constructing little side-projects on his desk (like taping together bottle caps to a pencil to make a car) instead of working on the exercises I've assigned. Yet one reminder from me and he is back on track (only to inevitably drift off a few minutes later... :P) For some inexplicable reason, the other students don't like him. And not only do they dislike him, the attempt to avoid and shun him at every opportunity. I've seen it in the classroom, but it apparently isn't limited to that environment. His mom told me that one day he was supposed to meet with his classmates to play together, but they never showed up. He stayed over an hour and was in tears when he returned home. We both despaired over this gentle soul being treated so cruelly-- and how we never wanted his beautiful nature to be lost but worried that life would inevitably toughen him.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. 

I think about the eight young men who were shot dead playing soccer a few weeks after I came. And one of my favorite students' sisters, who was killed by her husband while living in the States. And my own sister and father. And hundreds of other similar stories of lives ripped out and the people left in their wake, trying to piece together the missing holes.


For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. 

I used to think I was unique in suffering. The older I get, the more I realize how truly everyone experiences heartaches-- more than one and at multiple levels. I am nowhere near unique. I can only stretch out my arms and say that I am here, for now.

evading my students

"So, what did you do this weekend?"

I blank.

What did I do this weekend?

I know there was a lot of Facebook involved.

I read a book. But it was a trashy romance novel, so I won't be bragging about it.

I must have cooked food at some point because I know I ate.

And I evaded my student...


Standing out as the most vivid memory of the weekend, I think it says something about my experience here. I'll let you read into it as you will.

I had ventured out of my apartment to visit the large grocery store in town-- about a ten minute walk from my house. On the return trip, a familiar car passed by. And slowed down. Oh, dear...

I knew this car quite well. It was always being driven recklessly. And it had driven me recklessly home one night.

I never finished off that story about hanging out with my students... well, here's the ending: I caught a ride home with one of them. A 10th grader. The cheshire-cat-always-trying-to-hug-me one.

And that's who I expected to see when the car slowed down, stopped, and pulled in reverse.

"Heeeeey, Mees!"

Only it wasn't Cheshire Cat, but his older brother-- who I don't have a clever nickname for yet.

"Mees! Where are you going? To your house? Where do you live, Mees?"

I couldn't think of a way to evade his first question before he'd already asked the other two. Although I was surprised that he didn't already know (given that his brother dropped me off!) I certainly was not going to be the one to provide the information. "Just... for a walk!" I smiled cheerfully and hoped he bought it.

I'm not sure if he verbally acknowledged that he was going to follow me or I just intuitively knew it, but I watched as he drove forward again, honked so that all the pedestrians in our vicinity turned back to stare at me, and pulled into the next side street to await my arrival.

HA! Fat chance of that.

As soon as he turned into the side street, I ran back the way I had come, dodging bushes and dogs and people in my path. I was NOT going to fall into his trap.

Instead I ran headlong into another of my 12th graders ("Heey... Mees...") and plowed on until victory.

And there you have it. That is what I did this weekend.

checking out on life

In case you weren’t aware… few of my last posts have been about Honduras.

I’ve been checking out a bit… desperate to return home and eager to forgo my responsibilities here. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but I found myself much more interested in anything but my present life.

I’m hoping this is a phase that will pass soon.

For some seemingly inexplicable reason, teaching is easier this semester than last. My students are far from angels. I despise any form of planning. And all I want to do in the mornings is to call in sick. This is hardly a picture of “improvement”.

And yet… today in class, Alexa raised her hand AND volunteered the correct answer! This floored me. I almost wanted to hug her, and considering how many more times I’ve wanted to slap her, that is saying something.

In 11^th grade, two girls who I’d long ago given up hope trying to impress were cracking up at the corny things I was saying. They stayed an entire lunch period by me. Free will.

Then at the end of the day, Simon went to give me a high-five! (Unfortunately I deflected to tease him.) This is the kid who frequently seethes with rage and has even showed me pictures of his guns… something I viewed as a not-so-veiled threat.

And finally… having short hair has awarded me much less attention from the Honduran men. But by the same token, two girls have said they want to cut their (absolutely beautiful!) hair like mine.

And to think I wanted to stay home this morning!


(I still do, tomorrow.)  

you know you live in honduras when...

you use hand sanitizer after washing your hands (because the water is brown again).

teacher fail #21

Retold Anne Frank's story to my students. --"Miss, is that real?!"
"Yes, that really happened. You can read her diary if you'd like."
"Miss, have you been to Forks? It's in Twilight."

Should I laugh or cry?

some reading material for you

I write this blog quite selfishly-- not with an audience in mind, but more of what I would want to read / know about.

When I was deciding to come here, I voraciously tore through blog after blog, trying to get answers to all of my questions-- and figure out which questions to ask.

With that explanation, if you are reading this in the future and considering Honduras (or just are curious about life in Honduras in general), let me paint you a picture through the words of others--


1. The drama of the Peace Corp pulling out

2. 20 Things You Probably Didn't Know You Didn't Know About Honduras



(will add more later)

byeeeeeee!

What I Want Out of Life

I'm in the midst of what purports to be a life-long crisis: what is the next step, and what is my end goal?

I don't know the answers to these questions but I think a bit of introspection is always a good thing. I may not know what job or school I want on my resume (as if I can make it so merely by desire) but I do have certain things I want out of life.


I want to travel to England to visit my cousin and a few other friends. On this trip I also want to go back to France.

At some point in my life I would also like to visit Italy, Greece and the rest of the Mediterranean-- in my fairytale world, this would  be a honeymoon trip.

Many other countries-- in fact, there is not a country I would say "no" to. I'd love to go the Middle East as I have a firm belief that there is much more to the story. I even want to go to Antartica (wearing my $700 Canada Goose parka, of course).

I also want to learn more languages. I want to perfect French, improve Spanish and begin German. In my perfect world I would learn them all-- but in my realistic perfect world I would also work on Korean and Italian. 

By the way, I've changed my mind. I would wear my $1,500+ Parajumpers parka to Antartica:

Because that is completely practical. 

I want to get married and I want to have two kids of my own and then adopt several.

I want to have a golden retriever named Rowdy.

I want to have a moderate-sized house that is always overflowing with neighbors, family and friends-- and strangers that are soon to fall in one of those categories.

I want to have a part-time job while my kids are young, so that I stay sane, employed, but not overworked.

I want to read libraries full of books.

I want to bike as my primary mode of transportation.

I want to see some of my favorite artists in concert. (Namely Josh Ritter at the moment.)

I want to live close to my grandparents in Cape Breton. I want my family to know how much they mean to me.

I would like to learn to play the guitar, mandolin, drums and re-learn the piano.

I would like to learn to knit wool socks.

I would like to have a fancy camera that always takes Hallmark-worthy photos regardless of user ineptitude.

I want to publish something other than a blog post.



The reality is that I will likely never accomplish more than two or three of these things (I'm hoping knitting wool socks will be one of them). I realize my dreams are big and my funding is low. And none of these fantasies are concrete enough to tell me what I should do come July.

the preacher's daughter

I worked at a flower shop for six years. I dreaded about 70% of my work experience.

I found myself desperately seeking out menial tasks-- windexing, feeding the fish (which died a few months into my employment and were never replaced), color-coding candles and stripping roses-- all of which provided diversion from the actual job of dealing with cranky customers and unpredictable bosses.

One of my self-appointed duties was to ensure the coffee, hot cider and cookies were always stocked. The cider was switched out with lemonade when seasonally appropriate and the cookies were snitched by me, which was never appropriate but often needed.

Some people turn to harder substances for coping mechanisms.

Once, an older man came in with his wife and two grown daughters. I immediately directed him to the refreshment table. Given that it was such a highlight in my day, I figured I would share a little love.

Then I went back to my business of organizing the stapler drawer. A few moments later he vaporized in front of the counter. "This cider is too hot!" he wheezed. His voice was so small and unmatched to his physical appearance that I sympathetically responded to his complaint by... laughing.

Actually, I thought he was referencing Goldilocks. Clearly my brain does not follow a linear pattern.

Laughter was apparently not the reaction he desired. Not finding the humor in the situation, he prepared to pull out all the stops. And with a line I'll never forget--

"My daughter is a lawyer, and she could sue!"

Yes. Sue us for a complimentary service we provide, with a warning label "Careful: Cider is VERY hot!" in penmanship scrawled by yours truly.

He was understandably angry. He hated burning his tongue perhaps even more than I hate getting superglue on my fingertips. But that moment has stuck with me.

I don't remember what I said after I stashed the smile and apologized profusely.

I thought about this when I was about to recount another (more positive) experience of working at this flower shop. It's interesting, because I can vividly recall this man's face, and I'm sure I'd be able to pick him out in a line. There are few other customers I remember in such detail-- even of our regulars-- and I don't think I ever saw him again.

But he stuck with me. Not just for his odd voice or my embarrassing reaction, but because of his assumption that he was owed something.
And if you'l allow me an Aesop's moment--

I think I am the same way. I expect that if I work hard, good things will come my way. If I spread around enough kindness karma, surely I'll receive a few opened doors and saved seats.

But neither of us are right.

Cooking Challenges

Cooking has become rather difficult.

I've suffered from a not-so-pretty medical condition called GERD (you can google it for the lovely details) for as long as I can remember. It's not a serious problem in the least, which is why I went undiagnosed for so long. But it can lead to other stuff (in the most extreme case, cancer-- yikes) so I've been trying to take it seriously and make it stop.

Easier said than done, especially since no one really knows what causes it.

A few studies have linked it to gluten and dairy sensitivities, however, and found that a gluten and dairy-free diet alleviated symptoms. And another study found that when people reduced their BMI to around 20 or below, their symptoms decreased.

Until now, I've found it very difficult to achieve either of these goals. I love cheese! And eating!

But they say a new environment is the best place in which to achieve goals... so here I am in Honduras, (Cheese Lovers Unanimous) attempting to achieve all three at once.


Ha ha ha

...

No, seriously.

It's been three days, and so far I'm doing ok!

But it is quite challenging.

1. Supplies: I have only one electric plug-in burner to use. (I used to have two but the other one quit working.) No microwave, oven or toaster. Until last week, I didn't even have a can opener.

2. There are very limited options in the grocery store. No quinoa, brown rice or gluten-free pasta to be had. Not that this is unexpected, it just makes it all the more challenging.

3. Long days at school, and TEMPTATION...

4. I'm already bored with cooking for myself. I don't mind once in a while... but man, it's so tedious to cook everything, then wash dishes and countertops and silverware only to turn around a few hours later and repeat. I would make a terrible house elf.


Ok, I know this was rather boring/ pointless to you, poor reader... I am actively attempting to avoid lesson planning AT ALL COSTS and so this has sufficed as yet another tool to escape responsibility. Real life is hard.

Pssst! Your Voice is Creaking

Stood behind a long line of young American women in the airport and wondered to myself about this... so promptly turned to google. And came across an interesting podcast.

Have you noticed this "creaky voice" phenomenon before? I think unique patterns of speech are wonderful-- but that's the thing! This seems to be a widespread affectation that is imitated, not innate.

to summarize central american packing necessities:

This site sums it up best!

Incredible!

And so is the story behind this song. He suffered a heart attack mid-way through preforming it and stayed in a coma for the next ten years. He never spoke again, thus his last words were, "my heart is crying, crying".


His estate had gone bankrupt so he was laid to rest in an unmarked grave-- until he gained attention again after MJ dedicated his "Thriller" album to him and someone finally put up a headstone over his grave in Detroit.





Going to Honduras tomorrow. Dreading it.