What I like about kids

What I like about kids is how much their emotions are on the surface. Like at Ben's soccer game - the boys were pushing a lot, and at one point one boy said,

"Stop pushing me!" To which the other responded,

"Stop elbowing me!" The play continued and in the next tangle, the one was pushing, the other was elbowing.

I covered a couple of 3rd grade teacher's at a city-school near my home. The kids were needy, but the school building was impressive. Within its walls was a YMCA, a job center, family center, center for most types of needs (including winter coats!) a clinic, and financial education center. The teachers I subbed for were excellent and had so many things in place in their room. Each grade level has its difficulties, but I am always most impressed by elementary school teachers. So many details need to be thought of in order to encourage learning with the students - the details are exhausting in its importance to focus on such minute procedures as how to sit in a desk, put a book away, sharpen a pencil - and so on, simply to avoid chaos and confusion while allowing for the clumsy energy of so many small bodies.

The teachers that I was subbing for were not even absent, but using the time to test student's reading levels individually. In the meantime, I went through the day with simple lessons while trying to figure out procedures and student quirks of two classes. As much work as elementary kids are, they are fun and break my heart at the same time. They break my heart because they are so needy but I am unable to fill all their needs - needs that boil down to one-on-one time.

And so occasionally, I'll take one to the side. One boy, I was standing next to him near the door. He'd been unable to stay focused without a teacher's aid nearby. He hadn't started his next task, but sat on his feet, looking around the room. He got up, in one of his wanderings to ask for a band-aid. I found one and put it on his scraped knuckle (a wound he told me was because his cousin stuck his hand in the fan). He wandered over to me later to show me that his finger had turned gray - having played with the band-aid and putting it on to tightly his formerly black skin was now gray. I readjusted his band-aid, and he began pestering me about the bathroom. We were standing near where his teacher was testing, looking in, waiting to speak with her - and to boy absently picked up my hand and put my hand on his head.

I don't know why, but I understood the feeling.

Thinking about it now, I can imagine the feeling - support, protection, covering, caring, contact comfort. I get it, because I need it too. When I'm stressed, but can't really express all the reasons why. When I'm somewhat powerless to resist all the environmental, circumstantial and historical factors around me - I need a hand on my head too.

Misfit

I had poetry on my mind the other day. I wish I had pulled over and wrote it down because I am rarely moved to poetry, but in the moment - it seemed to be the only form of expression. I hope it comes back. Was it about things changing in an instant? Was it about the bear? Was it about money? (probably).

A bear is roaming these parts.

Misdirected.

Afraid.

The people and the bear.

Where are our Superheroes?

Those with the strength of steel.

That can leap buildings in a single bound.

A family of Incredibles?

I dreamed once of a hero

Who looked very very weak.

And no one realized

He was very very

strong.

He carried no weapon.

He was not very fast.

He didn't even stop evil in the nig

ht.

He was part of a band of misfits, as heros usually go.

...to be continued.

Hope true

There was a bear in North St. Paul today. Not figuratively. Not the ugly white plaster polar bear. An actual black bear. I was teaching and informed to not let students out of the classroom. I heard later that an administrator was called by a frantic parent that had heard there was a bear in school.

Sweet.

It was most likely my last day with the ESL class - at the end of the day, Fernando has a long piece of hair in his hand (supposedly one of mine).

"Ms., I read your air."

"My what?"

"You air. I read your air. You've been cheated on? You're boyfriend cheat on you?"

blink. blink.

"Actually, I have been cheated on. Big time. My husband and I have been cheated out of some money."

"You see Ms. I could tell. Your hair is straight, but near the end it goes around like this--" Fernando proceeds to swirl his finger in a downward spiral.

Yes, that is my hair fraying from stress - nothing mystical there.

Tolga and I continue to struggle to sort issues out. I find myself feeling hope when I get an email, or read about the perfect job prospect, etc. I was driving home today, marveling at how excited I felt that our property management was promising, once again, to make a payment by a certain date. Hope gave me so much energy and courage.

Is hope fickle? Is hope like adolescent hormones?

Is hope true?

Blood Stone

I tried to apply for a new credit card to transfer our balances for lower interests rates and the creditor - one that has been sending me mail offers for years - was less eager to do so. After long session of the details of our income and expenses, the creditor concluded (with some regret) that our expenses exceeded our income.

Well I knew that, that's why we are applying for a credit card with a lower balance.

Our property manager, who took our tenant's rent money but did not forward this money to us, finally responded in an email to me today stating that he knew I was frustrated but calling him eight times a day will not change anything because "You can't get blood from a stone."

Wow.

He's a poet.

Tolga said, "I have some poetry for him too."

Looking for a New Dream

I enjoy teaching, but I still fear the future and feel a bit haunted by the past. What are we investing ourselves in? Our lives? Where am I going? It's maybe strange to be asking these questions now that I am "home" with an education and a career, near family and with my husband and new hopes.

I've always wanted to impact lives - whether nannying, teaching, or writing. To impact the tide. When I worked at AF, we were starting something incredible - but the flip side was that our impact was being watched, discussed, evaluated, copied, or critiqued. I did not thrive under a spotlight. It was no one's fault, yet I still cringe when I think about it. The logical business model is strategic - pinpointing these weaknesses in order to provide help. But with my weaknesses pinpointed, I became frozen, stuck, and self-defeating. The harder I tried, the deeper I became stuck. I finally gave up. I became that teacher I couldn't really imagine before, the one that stopped trying. In the seemingly most ideal environment - a dynamic-tide-changing-achievement-gap-closing school, I began bitterly going through the motions of eating, commuting, teaching, and returning home.

I invested my hopes into this ground-breaking school and utterly failed. I guess I was investing in the wrong things: education, AF, living in Harlem, New York.

Tamam

I taught at North High School, just down the street, today. An ESL class - so they were small class sizes with very low level students. One boys name was Tamam - he was Ethiopian, but I informed him that his name meant "Okay" in Turkish. He informed me in mumbling High School/English-as-a-Second-Language-type speech that he'd lived here for quite some time. I said, "tamam, tamam", finding myself very funny while he, did not.

I came home to my husband, brother and father all working on the roof. They are re-shingling the garage first. Tolga and Aaron were working together, my dad was rooting around the backside of the roof. I ca

n only imagine their work day. My dad said, "You must be feeling proud of your husband" which I think was a

not-so-subtle reference to our lack of Scandinavian-Protestant work ethic. Which when, I think about it, makes sense considering Tolga's Mediterranean-Muslim background. But that's another topic. What I was really feeling, more specifically, was pride in seeing my family work together. This has always brought me pride.

I headed over to Sherah's later to test-drive her new sewing machine.

Sherah and I both have pants whose hems have fallen out, and so I brought a couple of pants to sew. We struggled through the setting up and threading of the machine - learning about bobbins, foot presses, and dog teeth. We've both sewed in 7th grade Home Ec - I remember it quite clearly because I made a really cool pillow of a light bulb . . . but that was a while ago. I've more recently sewed my Anne (Tolga's mom) but that lesson was all in Turkish and I mostly watched and said, "Tamam." Today, I worked on my first hem - black pants - and I forgot to put the foot press down so the first few inches are quite bunched up. Then I remember to put the foot press down and it looks pretty great . . . except I was on such a roll I got careless and sewed part of the pant leg together.

The second pair of pant were gray, and I used the same black thread which I thought would be inconsequential. I also seemed to conclude it was okay to experiment with the stitch type/size switches while sewing.

Is there an Un-Sew machine?

Keep Spirits Up

It's hard to keep your spirits up. It's work. Maybe it's a choice, but I'm not sure how great of choice when choosing to keep your spirit high, a positive outlook, a belief that things will work out . . . when it seems to lend itself to disappointment(s).

I was disappointed today when I paid $15 for postage. Disappointed is an understatement. Why am I disappointed over $15 when we are facing foreclosure? I don't know . . . I guess I'm trying to recover something, build something back up for Tolga and I, and it is discouraging because life happens and charges you fifteen dollars for postage.

We need to keep our hopes up. We must. We are glad to be here with family. We look forward to the days when we can be with Tolga's family again. We look forward to creating and building our own home.

We just want to contribute something, and subbing isn't quite cutting it. But I'm grateful for this at least. And we are continuing to pray that the Lord's will be done. And we are continuing to try to submit to this.

Iyi Bayramlar

The phrase is a greeting Turks give to each other during holidays (this weekend being the end of Ramadan) - it means "good days" or in effect - Wishing you many good days.

We called Tolga's family and his aunt, wishing all iyi bayramlar. And they wished us the same.

I'm thinking about good days, and I suppose everyday is a good day, depending on perspective.

Today was a good day because:

It was a cool morning.

Meredith stopped over (with ice cream!)

Iyi Bayram

Vitamin D

I subbed at Central High the other day - the police came and I felt like I was right at home. What's a day in school without the po-po? I like the school and their minutemen and their Asian Culture club that you-don't-have-to-be-Asian to join. The grades were 9-12 and I had each grade: the 12th graders were cool, the 9th graders had a few that were still acting like obnoxious middle-schoolers - the difference here is they won't last long here. In middle school, being obnoxious is cool, in high school, its just plain lame.

Tolga and I went to the doctor after that - he has had some sort of infections in his scalp that have been coming and going and leaving numerous spots on his head. Our doctor was an odd character whose mouth and eyes kept twitching. He spent approximately 20 seconds diagnosing possible problems with Tolga's scalp, and 15 minutes talking about other cultures, languages, Vitamin D, and tied the whole odd experience up by reciting Chinese tongue twisters. He prescribed Tolga a 2-week dose of antibiotic, so we'll see if it helps.

I came home, exhausted from my days, and slept 14 more hours - I am thankful I have this.

Tolga made sure I took my vitamins.

Give it to God

Without a doubt, we are stressed. Surprisingly, I think the signs of stress have been relatively low - but lately, maybe a little higher. Tolga seems to get hair infections when he is stressed and its currently out-of-control in the tender spots all over his head. I had full sinuses last week, either some allergy or cold that has drained into my lungs and chest congestion. But most of all, we are both tired. Really tired. I'm tired just writing how tired I am. We shouldn't be tired - its not like we are doing strenuous work everyday, or staying up late. But sleep is interrupted, and during the day - it seems all "down time" is just taken up by stressful items. I think the onslaught of stress is just plain tiring.

I started to write out the minute details but realized there are few people in this world that really care about these details besides the one involved - and me being one of those persons was already feeling bored of the tiresome details.

So what do we do with our stress? Ignore it? Go for a run? Give it to God? I'm not sure how this is supposed to work because no matter what, we still have to deal with it, daily - the minute details of many ordeals going on. I still have to make the phone calls, write the emails, connect with people, search for solutions. It isn't as if any of this will be gone with a snap of the fingers or a magic phone call - -- so what are we really praying for when we "give it to God"?

10 million dollars?

That would help.

Direction?

Preferably a highlighted route with mile markers from point to point.

Peace? Wisdom?

I'll take it.

So what's left?

My fear.

My anxiety.

The unknown.

Self-doubt.

Am I doing all I can? Am I missing something? Have I let go enough? Did I let go too easily?

Exciting so far

Maybe I'll start my own critical review of the schools like the magazines do of the top schools - but I'll set my own criteria. Instead of test scores and graduation rates and checked boxes, I'll be looking for the more practical pieces: supplies (books, overheads, markers, lesson plans, etc.), programs that meet community needs, clear communicating adults that don't wear jeans and chew gum, and any reference to our Indian cultural heritage (because according to the licensing supervisor at the MNDOE, that is the essence of all human relations and the reason I my own experiences with diversity are not qualified).

I was at Arlington High School today - very diverse! (But no Indians). It has been a failing school for several years now, and a victim of restructuring. Apparently about thirty teachers were laid off this past spring. I was substituting with another substitute who was retired from Mounds View and was trying to "give back" to the community (but it feels a little bit like taking when I look at the limited amount of jobs out there). She asked if I'd substituted here before, I said no. She asked if this was my first day, I said yes. She asked if I just graduated college, I said no.

Sigh.

I enjoyed teaching even on the weak lesson plans, and at the end of the day talked some with two teachers who were licensed from out-of-state. One was older and had come from Pennsylvania, the other was young and had gone from Cornell, to Hawiaii as a TFA (Teach for America), and the Slovakia before returning back to Minnesota. Both didn't seem to have to much trouble transferring their licenses (which I resented) and they suggested I have my license evaluated by another University (which I will, except that all the other universities are private and $$$). Anyhow the young Cornell grad said, after hearing some of my story, "Wow! You did like what every person from Minnesota could only dream of - New York then Turkey! What an exciting life so far." I'm not sure why she said that, considering what she has done and considering our own temporary stagnation . . . she made me laugh, almost.

Part-time on call work

I took my first sub job for the year last night, and went down the road to Battle Creek Jr. High School. As I started my day at school I was thinking about how much more I enjoy public schools (than private), how I enjoy a bit of the anonymity, I enjoy how diverse the school is (ahem . . . culturally that is, for anyone who might be confused by what I mean by diverse (see future blog about aggressive Minneapolis school principal)). I even enjoy the beauracracy and unions that ensure I get a regular paycheck with increases, health insurance and benefits. I was feeling less and less sure (in spite of our desperation) whether I wanted the Somalian night school teaching job. My day at Battle Creek just reinforced the idea that middle school is my area. The school used many of the techniques we used in the NYCDOE - including making the large school into smaller academies. The academies were segregated by sex, and all students were required to wear uniforms (which most were). They seemed to have a strong, visible staff. When I commented on the lack of windows, the janitor explained to me that the school used to literally be and "open school" back in the 70s when it was built. That worked for approximately two seconds before they came in and added walls.

Later in the day, I received a phone call from the Somalian night school - it was job phone call rejection number 8 (which is loads higher than an email/letter rejection or no response at all).

Making It

Yesterday was a late post because I was stressing (surprise surprise).

Lots of times I don't want to write anymore, but what good is any story if you're just reading/writing about and such an uneventful life? The events in my life, maybe I will enjoy more tomorrow, but today I am really really tired.

I had my second interview at the Somalian night school. It went fine, I guess. I was nervous, but it was more nervous energy from what is going on with our finances than the job interview. So, in that sense, I was able to enjoy teaching a little bit more - it was a bit of a break from my real life. I didn't really even mind that five people were observing me - they were all pretty nice people. I taught the high schoolers a middle school level lesson. I can't help it. I researched a lot of fun ELL lessons, but I decided to stick with what I knew. My students were pretty unresponsive. I couldn't read whether they were uninterested, annoyed, or just depressed. I went ahead and pushed a few to respond, and most did - semi-positively - but it was like pulling teeth. I tried the wait technique . . . where you simply wait as a teacher until its so uncomfortable that a student, out of embarrassment, feels they have to say something. It doesn't always work, in fact, it can work in the reverse - but I'm pretty patient. In the end, I just picked up student papers and read different lines from their papers, or pushed someone to share what he or she read. Maybe I was too brazen, but I didn't want to do all the thinking up front.

I'm not sure what my observer's response was - I hardly even glanced at them other than to give each copies of worksheets I was handing out. In my summary, when I was checking for understanding, I'm not convinced the students learned a thing . . .

The lesson I was teaching was about how visualization encourages reading comprehension, and we were practicing identifying sensory detail - words that invoked sight, smell, taste, touch, or sound. I read the short story "Eleven" by Sandra Cisneros - a great heartbreaking short story about a girl on her eleventh birthday who doesn't really feel eleven, but feels sometimes three and sometimes five. She is in school and humiliated by teacher and wishes she was "one hundred and two" . . . the imagery is powerful, but I'm not sure the students were impressed - we'll see what the faculty says. They'll tell me tomorrow.

In the mean time, I'm substituting tomorrow.

And, in the mean time, the Coop decided to not vote on my request for an extension on the sub-leasing of my unit because the by-laws only allowed for one year - thus their vote was to not vote - their intention meaning that I cannot continue to sub-lease our apartment. They wouldn't even entertain my petition as the group was busy arguing about charging extra fees for this and that.

Tolga and I have some decisions to make, but right now I have a stomach ache and I'm really really tired.

I look forward to the day we can look back on this and say, "wow, that was hard, but we made it."

Three Hours!

Saturday morning Owen and Asher came over. I was already up, having gone out for a walk and set up a treasure hunt for the boys. Owen hopped out of the truck with a transformer in his hand and I announced, "I'm staying here for three hours!" Asher was lifted out of the truck and had on yellow eye glasses and a Nerf gun . . . ready for war.

Tolga and I brought the boys to a nearby park. I like seeing Owen read and his bright eyes light up when he "gets" something.

(However, lately, he's been shy - trying to stifle a proud smile when he figures something out).

We trekked through the woods, and I had tossed plastic Easter eggs filled with M&Ms into the field at the end for them to find :)

It's one way to keep 'em busy.

Three hours later, we had to bring them home.

Job and Job

I don't really want to talk about my day today because it involved tears and headaches and people's woes are never interesting to read. Why is that? Are we inherently selfish, and while we like to support people in spurts - why do we recoil from decaying spirits.


I don't want to be a decaying spirit or the person that recoils from woe.


I hate the story of Job (does anybody like it?). It has been on my mind for the last few days, maybe simply because its homonym has been on my mind as well. I was thinking to myself this morning how through all his sufferings he never once cursed God - which is pretty amazing, and I concluded this morning that Job must have been emotionally shut down, or a robot.


Not because he didn't curse God, but because he didn't freak out, on anybody or anything. Which I must conclude that he didn't allow himself to feel anything too deeply, understanding from the beginning or along the way that life can be fickle and things taken from you in blink. But what kind of life is that when you don't risk feeling anything? Then again, who can continue to find hope through so many trials?


That's why I'm not talking about my day.




Instead, I will give a brief introduction to the game of tavla. That's the game of Backgammon in Turkish. It is Turkey's "national sport" as Tolga says. On the streets you will often come across men sitting on stools around a table, drinking cay, with spectators looking over their shoulders as the game is being played.



When Tolga is home, is father and him will dance around the game - challenging each other, while the other will claim to be "too tired" or "not now." Eventually, after a few days, Tolga will bring out the board, and his father - who is normally slow moving and unresponsive - will suddenly be up, on the edge of his seat, looking sharply down through his eye glasses at the tiny die, scooping them up before I have even had a chance to read the die. They move the pieces without counting, and the next one is already rolling. The room is soon filled with the clatter of dice and the clack of playing pieces. Intermitently one will call out disgustedly, "Ay da bay" or "cok chance!" The whole family seems to enjoy their banter, and with the Tosuns, there's no time for tea.



Since coming here, I've got up-to-speed on tavla. Tolga no longer has to move the pieces for me or wait (as much) as I painfully count out the moves.





Now, my dad plays as well. Definitely not as sharp. It takes a few reads of the die before he gets the number right, and even then, its a 50/50 chance he'll moved the piece to the right spire.

As you can see . . .

Even so, it has become a nightly practice . . . and a connection between families.



And maybe there is some hope in this.

Tomatoes Can Kill

This morning I was running late, but I didn't forget the squirrel.

We caught a small red squirrel in our animal-friendly trap yesterday. We had put next our garden where some animal had been stubbornly struggling with pulling a ripe tomato through the wire fence. The tomato had been left wedged between the wires with the incriminating tooth marks so we tossed a couple of tomatoes in the trap-door cage, and sure enough - we caught a small red squirrel. It pranced and scurried and struggled with the ceiling of the cage. We discussed marking its tail, then relocating the squirrel at least 5 miles away - none of us were heading out, and I said I'd do it this morning.

This morning, the little red squirrel was laying in a still little curled up position. It died! Poor evil little animal, we were going to let it free but it didn't make it, and I felt bad for not releasing the night before. I'm not sure how it died, but here are my guesses: 1) cold 2) heart attack or 3) tomato overdose (it ate BOTH tomatoes in the cage).

Today I:

Interviewed as an Adjunct online English instructor after taking a Microsoft Office Skills test.

Was called back to do a demo lesson with the Somalian night school.

Met with the U of M person, straying from my well-prepared notes and receiving some relief to the number of classes required.

Visited Sherah at her bank, ran into the director of another school I had interviewed with a couple of weeks ago - they had never gotten back to me because (as he informed me today) they put a freeze on the position.

Waited a very long time for Sherah to which my banking question was answered but the "answer" isn't working.

Got my St. Paul schools ID badge.

Drove Sherah home.

Watched middle-school kids in after school program.

It seems I have my pots on a lot of stoves right now . . .

hire education

I have been looking through a lot of paperwork today for the University of Minnesota. I have a meeting tomorrow with the Associate Director of Graduate & Professional Support Programs. What a title.

I've already obtained three degrees, including a Master's in Teaching from a program approved by the National Council of Teacher of English. Is it not a conflict of interest for the U of M to evaluate my coursework in order to "recommend" courses that I am required to take through the U of M in order to obtain a teaching license (that I already have. ..)?

I've searched, and written, and called the MN Department of Education (DOE) and I cannot get a definitive list of what the requirement is - or more to the point, why/how my current degree, NY State license, and teaching experience don't qualify as equivalent standards. My understanding of the situation is that the DOE defers course requirements to universities in Minnesota to determine whether an applicant's out-of-state coursework meets the standards set by the Minnesota Board of Teaching. While each university's course title and description may be different, even within Minnesota, the assumption is that the universities in MN have adhered to all the standards set.

Plan B - Career change.

I like school, I really do - and I would love to go back to school - to wear the paraphernalia, have academic discussions, join clubs that have matching uniforms . . . But I hate seeing a movie twice.

Heels

Today I:

Called our property manager, spoke to our property manager (finally), received more promises of payments and promises to not make promises any more.

Wrote a letter to the Coop requesting permission to extend the lease with our tenant.

Sat in the Roseville district office to get my substitute badge while four persons in front of me tied up the machine.

Stopped at the library to pick up "Microsoft Office 2007 for Dummies" in hopes that it will give me an edge for my interview on Thursday as an adjunct online part-time instructor.

Wore my black heels to my interview at Volunteers of America.

I know I am supposed to dress up for an interview, and I usually do. I'm very conscious of my outfits and the impressions they give. My consciousness of this has more often led me to dress down because I hate to stand out. I don't know where I got that feeling from, but in general I make choices like tying my hair back, no hair band, dull necklaces, black pants, flat shoes, etc., because these things inadvertently cause people to draw immediate conclusions about you: glasses = academic, hair band = hippie, and so on. For this reason, I don't usually where heels either. People notice heels. You are tall and possibly intimidating. Your feet click with determination and power. Heels are not gentle. Heels with a suit strikes me as shrewd. Heels remind me of my younger sister.

Today I needed heels.

VOA's "Opportunity High School" is ninety percent Somalian student population, and geared for English Language Learners. I could better prepare for the interview by anticipating some of the questions (like: how will you differentiate work for ELL students? How do you teach or compensate for culture in the classroom?), but while I'm interested in learning about new schools - I'm hesitant to invest myself so fully into an interview because all need to ask "Why did you choose our school?" and my answer at this point is the same, "I need a job."

The director led me through the school. I caught my escort continually glancing at my shoes and I felt immediately self-conscious. We stopped in a classroom of five students and the teacher sitting casually on top of a desk. As soon as I crossed the threshold I smelled bad body odor - my immediate cultural reminder.

We continued down the hallway into the meeting room, and the interviewing staff of four seemed very "present" in their questions. The staff was familiar with my New York City Teaching Fellows program actually having had a former staff member who had been a Fellow and was from Stillwater. Weird. The director was also familiar with Achievement First's different models, and had said they were putting their techniques into use for professional development for starters. Really weird. They were the first group to glean from me that I wasn't hundred percent sure our long term plans would keep us in Minnesota, but I tried to assure the group that these were our plans for now -- to which all of them scribbled a note at the same time.

What can I say, its hard to commit fully when asked directly - we are with family and are happy, but our long term plans right now we are basing on Tolga's job placement.

In any case - they knew where I was coming from and where I was going in a way, and that's the kind of environment I needed.

Upon my exit, another man got out of his seat and opened the door for me as I exited the building.

It's the heels.

Hogsbreath to Trees

Farm Grandma used to remind me that I needed to cut myself some slack. She wouldn't actually say it, but she would chuckle, or murmer, and punctuate my endless stories with "God is good." Or "We are so fortunate to have Him to handle all our cares."

My feelings seem to be often nearing hysteria, but with Farm Grandma I felt the freedom to be a trusting child - and I would leave the visit comforted (and desperate not to lose that feeling of security).

I guess this is on my mind because these days are just so bizarre and full and I want not to feel everything so extremely, but distance myself a little to chuckle and murmer and punctuate the day with faith, hope, and love.

I can timeline Sunday by three dogs.

First, I drove over to Aaron's house to feed Tia, their chocolate lab. Chocolate labs are hyper by nature, and Tia is no exception. She came to me with her deliriously happy grin, quivering and dancing around my legs - crouching in a quasi-sit look after I hissed at her for ripping up my toes with her sharp scrambling paws. After petting her, she went in the house and sat by her dog dish looking expectantly at me. I fed her then kicked her ball to her ten times (Owen's morning chore), and refilled her water dish. Tia drank, paced, dropped the ball in the dish, drank, paced, dropped the ball in the dish (the water turning more and more muddy from dropping the slobbery tennis ball in repeatedly). I was standing on their deck looking out at the lawn - it is a well-used lawn. I looked at the neighbors' lawns north and south of them, their lawns had grass. I looked back at Tia who had dropped the ball at my feet again.

I decided to stay and keep her company. I sat on the deck and finished reading my book.

I needed to grocery shopping as well, but on the way home I noticed a restaurant in a shabby lot with a brand new deck built out back. I spotted the sign "Hogsbreath Bar & Grill", and instantly pictured the advertisement I had read in the newspaper a couple of weeks ago - "Servers wanted. Apply in-person." And so I did. I walked in, the three customers at the bar, the bartender, and the server all stopped, turned and watched me, and so I said, "Hi! Are you still hiring?" The guys at the bar looked half amused, half embarrassed (I knew how they felt), and the bartender responded,

"We're always hiring." And the waitress said,

"Most of the time, not always."

I filled out the application and my hand was shaking. I don't know why. I felt like I was fourteen years old again, applying for my first job at the Pine Tree Apple Orchard. The owner and manager would be in on Monday or Tuesday, the bartender told me, I gave him the completed form, shook his hand and left. The Hogsbreath waitress said, "Bye Sweetheart."

I think she was fifteen.

After shopping, I stopped by Seth's house. I pulled up and their was a bike in the street, the car parked away from the garage, the garage door open (but no one playing anywhere in sight), and a ladder laying in the front lawn next to a lot of brush. It looked liked an accident had just happened, I was thinking while shaking my head at the chaos. And it had. Ben was indoors with ice packs, sweating, and periodically screaming that the pain was too much. He had taken a handlebar to the gut, Seth was holding him, Abigail, and Lynn - Libby's mom who had just arrived from out-of-town - were all hovering around him.

Candy had been sleeping on the floor and came over to me playfully growling for attention. She is a sweet natured golden retriever who responds to my arrival because I'll often take her out for a walk. I wrestled a ball from her mouth whilst learning the details of the accident to which it was still trying to be determined if Ben was seriously hurt or not. Fortunately he was okay, and I returned a bit later with Tolga, mom, and dad for a barbeque and basketball game. Ben's getting to the age where he can compete and is learning fast what it means to play Peterson basketball - a game that's more about teasing than winning, and most everything is fair play - balls being redirected, out-of-turns, and even the dog getting a tooth on the ball just adds some variety.

That evening we also stopped by dog number three, Whipper the Red Lab. That's Sherah's dog. Sherah had invited us over for a bonfire, but had no wood. We came inside and Mike restrained the dog as she ran-in-place anyhow in stubborn persistence to greet us fully. We stayed and played games late into the night.

The next day, Tolga and I were wakened by sirens. It seems that all emergency vehicles make a special trip down our streets, but this morning it was one after another and I was sure it was fire. I even imagined that I smelled it as I realized the vehicles were heading to the apartments behind us. Later I heard a helicopter hovering in the area which meant whatever had happened had become newsworthy. But it wasn't a fire. This morning in responding to a domestic dispute, a local police officer was killed, along with the suspect and another officer being shot in the wrist.

I worked and lived in ghettos of New York and already I've witnessed a robbery and slept a few hundred yards from a murder. Triple D's "barber shop" is looking more and more friendly to me these days.

Later in the day, Tolga and I decided a barbeque in Minnepolis with Aaron and Bethany would be more relaxing. I eventually found the park, but it was an hour-and-a-half later before we found them and a cold grill. Aaron knows that it simply takes two boys to smooth anything over with us. We found them in this tree:

I had to zoom in so you could see Owen . . . at the top:

And so, these are our days. Days where at the end, I need to sigh and murmer and nod towards the heavens our trust in God.

Eat Fair

Tolga and I tried to get jobs at the State Fair a few weeks ago.

We wouldn't have minded working the Minnekabob stand . . . Minnesota meets Turkey . . . on-a-stick

And it would be fun to work the milk stand. All you can drink milk for a buck?

As you can see, EVERYBODY goes to the fair.

So we went too. We ate and drank: root beer, pronto pups, root beer floats, french fries, cheese curds, and lefse.

That's what we do here in Minnesoh-tah.

what these times bring

Hard times come to everybody, and hopefully, out of hard times we learn to forgive quicker, be more generous, appreciate others more, focus more on what matters.

Tolga and I were talking about this today - we both felt emotionally exhausted from the slew of financial issues and we talked about what our life would be like if last year we had both kept our high paying jobs: our life would be mostly work.

For some reason, in the midst of this, there is a surprising feeling of gratefulness growing between us - grateful to have each other to turn to, grateful that we are experiencing these things together. Grateful that in our desperation, we have also found a deeper relationship, even greater love.

I've always admired city kids more than suburban because of their grittiness. City kids are forced to face harsh realities, and there isn't many places to hide - so I will forever be rooting for them to overcome. A kid who is better off financially can hide behind a game boy and rote answers.

If we had money, it would have been easier to live these first years superficially, without challenge. And after the challenges I had faced in New York, I no longer wanted challenges - I was burnt out on challenges. At the thought of living hard times with Tolga, I panic and cry and scramble for solutions or ways to control the situation. I want things to be easier, but for the first time today - both Tolga and I agreed that these times that threaten tear us apart, have only humbled us.

I am still afraid. We watched a movie tonight that referenced the valley of Elah, the place between Saul's army and the Philistines, where Goliath had charged down for 40 days straight challenging anyone brave enough to face him. The man telling the story said, "Before David killed the giant, he stepped out - closing the gap between him the monster who could crush him in a couple more steps. He planted his feet and looked the monster in the eye in order to take aim . . . he had to face his fears before he faced the monster."

Tolga said,

"That's what we have to do."

Letter to a Tenant

This is the letter I sent to our tenant today, comments in brackets I added after the fact:

Tenant,

I hope you are well and the week has not become too busy.

[He went to a good college and now seems to have a really good job that he was too busy to talk over the phone this week so we agreed to email the details of the apartment.]

I called on Sunday to find out your intentions for the coming year, and let you know ours. We are still expecting to have to relocate for Tolga’s job, and our relocation most likely will not be in New York City. At this point in time we have decided we must put the apartment on the real estate market.

[Because we don't have jobs nor have we had jobs for a very long time and we have bled out all of our savings and some other people's savings in order to keep something that seems to hold little benefit for us . . .Besides that, when we do get jobs, we both have a feeling it will be in Texas.]

Our hope is to continue renting the place as we expect the sale to be slow. This of course would require the realtor to have access to the apartment.

[Actually, we hope that we are able to sell it period. Being able to continue renting the place will help avoid foreclosure for now if we are somehow able to come up with the additional $800 that rent doesn't cover. We also expect to lose our entire investment to real estate fees, a flip-tax, or a short-sale. At this point, foreclosure is even appealing because it seems nothing short of a miracle will allow us to come out "even."]

In addition, the Cooperative will need to vote on your continued stay at the Sept. 12^th business meeting. My apartment is the first to be rented, and I am hearing rumblings about conditions and additional fees the Cooperative would like to put in place for rental units.

[A lot of people seem to get fired up on rumors and gossip - and the rumors coming to me are: 1) everyone's against me cause I'm white 2) People think I'm making money on the deal, thus the Coop would like to make money off of me - namely a $220 month additional fee for renting 3) the tenants are loud and took up the rugs in my apartment thus the creation of a two page list of new "house rules for tenants" . . . and so on.]

What will come of this meeting I cannot say – for my part I am placing my proxy and petition for simply an extension of permission to rent (up to one year) while the unit goes on the market to sell. I will need to send this letter by Tuesday (Sept. 9^th).

[I am trying my best not to get sucked into unfounded irrational/nonsensical/hysterical ravings, instead listening for facts and truth while keeping my eyes on what is good.]

Regardless of what the Coop decides, it is our decision first, and so we need to know if you are open to continuing as a tenant while we put the apartment on the market. Along similar lines, other options we are offering for you to consider are: a) rent-to-buy option (where if you were interested in the place, a predetermined percent of the rent could go towards the purchase price); or b) listing the place independently and offering a “finder’s fee” for you (in place of a realtor).

[Regardless of what you or the Coop decides, we are trying to decide what is best for us: should we ignore the rules of the COOP? Should we continue with a renter anyhow and risk legal issues with the Coop? Should we simply give up on the place and let it foreclose? Should we fight for the place? Should we wait the market out? There are a lot of big questions we are facing that we have deleted from this letter to the tenant trying to expose him to only what is necessary . . . I'm not sure we have . . . ]

Please think it over and let us know,

[Preferably soon with a positive answer or a really good idea.]

Planning

One year ago we were living in Ankara, Turkey. Tolga was working the last week of his job - unbeknownst to the both of us. Two years ago I was single, starting my first week at a new dynamic charter school whilst living in my apartment in Harlem. Three years ago I was starting my last year in New York City's public schools and commuting from Jersey.

This (school) year we are jobless and living with the support of my parents.

I wonder what next year will bring.

We are trying to plan for it. Working on finding jobs and paying bills and managing mortgages far away. Our renter would like to stay. Our Coop would like to charge us and add some more rules. We would like to sell. What will come of all these things?

I could look at this as exciting times, because now more than ever we are being made aware of God's hand in all things - in the beginning, middle, and end the Lord's will will be done and He is all we are able to look to for hope. Our prosperity is in whatever the Lord's will be - I just hope we living in submission to this because it is all we will ever have.

Passion's Risk

I've been mulling over Paul Peixoto's blog in regards to finding your passion and creating goals around this passion. We've had many conversations about this, and it's on my mind again because amidst everything, I do recognize both Tolga and I (and many others) could take this opportunity to go in a completely different career direction. It makes sense that your career must align with your passion because our end goal in work isn't simply money or advancement. We are constantly looking for ways to exercise our creativity as extensions of ourselves, and this is fulfilling. It is fulfilling to contribute into other people's lives with what you are good at, and the relationships resulting from shared visions are fulfilling as well.

But . . .

Passion is a strong word and seems like it takes a lot of energy as well. I'm not so sure I feel passionate any longer, or even if I want to. I enjoyed teaching. I would often be a bit reserved with my emotions, not often revealing much of how I was feeling, but I did enjoy giving it my best and helping student's grow. When I switched to a more elite school, my new team was filled with people passionate about their jobs. I joined right in, and I was passionate about students achieving all the lofty goals we set for them.

I am afraid that allowing myself to be passionate simply burned me out in the end, and I am worse off for it.

Maybe I'm misunderstanding the meaning of passion.

Maybe I wasn't ever passionate for education.

Maybe I wasn't passionate enough.

School is starting in these parts and I fine myself without any desire to participate in other teacher's enthusiasm. I enjoy the kid's enthusiasm, and I share their desire to learn, create, and interact - but I no longer want to answer to people or systems that diminish something I used to love.

Now how to I create an income out of that one?

Values

Tomorrow was sort of my D-day. Payments were not adding up and we were going to have to make choices for the month of September. Mortgage, maintenance, credit cards, miscellaneous debts? Which do you pay? When the money keeps bleeding out, where do you apply the tourniquet?

But, Unemployment Benefits came through - a month's worth of payments were finally transferred to my account and are pending. Our renter in NY has also indicated that he will stay - income seems to be coming.

I guess the question still remains, where to make the cut - and it maybe comes down to "what are our goals". Or in one friend's blog, he asked, "What is your passion?" A seemingly irrelevant question in the face of these kind of pressures; and yet, maybe its more relevant then ever. My goal in life isn't simply a good credit score . . . and I suppose it isn't simply to "get a job" . . . but then, what is it?

Our doorbell rang mid-day, and Tolga went to check it out. He told me it was cargo being delivered, I asked if he had signed for it, he said yes, and around the bend came bright beady eyes. So the rest of our day was spent wrestling and playing out the various skits we always play with Zip and Zap. I had to head out mid-afternoon for my first day on my very-part-time job: after-school care for middle school aged kids. We played basketball until 4:30 - when all the kids were picked up, and I went on home to make hamburgers and hashbrowns for the kids, and banana cream pudding with chocolate chips for dessert. It was still hot and so the kids both had ice packs beneath their cups impatiently waiting for the pudding to cool.

Tolga fell asleep in the cubby with Asher, and Owen kept me up telling stories, singing, and telling more stories in spite of his heavy eye lids.

They are both sleeping now: there's nothing like having precious cargo in the house.