Is Anybody Waving Back at Me?

Until this school year, getting out of bed has always been a struggle (I mean, it's still a struggle actually removing the warm covers from my sleepy body, but the metaphorical struggle of not having ample purpose to get out of bed in the morning is solved!).

I've never felt this kind of support, encouragement, community, excitement, and love at work. 

A week into the school year, the ladies on staff threw me a surprise bridal shower. Full on balloons, and temporary tattoos, and cupcakes, and a three-trips-to-the-car-and-back pile of presents to give me. And they barely knew me. 

Me & my bestie Steve.

On top of that, I have an amazing, competent administration that genuinely cares about the best education possible for these kids, and also the best PD and resources for the teachers (like sitting in on rehearsals run by Steven Schwartz).

Plus I get to immerse myself in musical theater. Like, THAT IS MY JOB. I teach about the history and the impact of the history. I teach directing, and I get to direct. We explore, we workshop, we choreograph, we build as classes. I teach a group of 160 self-selected demographic of talented students, excited about the subject, and willing to try and grow (when does that happen in high school??) 

I feel like I went from last year's episode of living in The Twilight Zone, to running the whole darn television network. I feel so lucky and so grateful. Dream job. 

...

Today, one of my best singers, we'll call her Amy, came to me and asked if she could chat.

"Mrs. Corkin, I'm sorry to waste your time..."

"You're not wasting my time! What's on your mind?"

"My mom thinks whatever I do is great, so I can't ask her," she said chuckling, but her eyes brimming with tears, "I... kind of panicked... cause I just... don't think I'm good enough, and I... need to know if I should be.. you know... doing something else? Am I wasting my time?"

At her audition, she sang a song called "Waving Through a Window" from the musical Dear Evan Hansen. A teenager seeking for belonging, belts the phrase, "Is anybody waving back at me?" An emotion paralleled in her watery eyes right then.

It was this funny moment--realizing the impact I could have in this job. What I said might very well be remembered by that girl for the rest of her life.

Because I remember that exact fear. I was Amy.

I had that gripping panic at 15-years-old, then again at 16, then about twice a year for the next decade (still do, sometimes. who doesn't?).

I remember that desperation for an authority to tell me I had a talent worth pursuing.

I walked into my college voice teacher's office and asked her if I should bother continuing. Internally begging her to tell me I wasn't good enough so I could move on, live in the world that wasn't make-believe. Or to tell me I had the perfect potential and the world would be at a loss without me on the stage.

But she didn't tell me either. She basically said, "I don't really know."

When I realized I wasn't going to be on Broadway (at 15), I constantly thought I should've been spending my time doing other things. Should I have learned to be a computer coder instead? Maybe. Should I have become fluent in a second language? Mastered the Piano? Understood/cared about football? Maybe.*

But I can't think all that time doing theater was a waste. I honestly can't think any of that time was a waste. The musical theater world is a place where we collaborate, we create, we connect. I wouldn't take back any of those experiences.

"Amy." I chose my words cautiously, looking at her face reflecting that feeling 'Is anybody waving back at me?'
"Objectively, you were one of the best auditions for the company. That's why you made it on. You have talent." I watched her face and waited for that to sink in. "But even if you don't do this professionally in the end, do you think it's a waste of your time?"

She paused, thoughtful. Then she responded quietly, but strong. Looking me straight in the eyes, "No. I don't."

I smiled, "Me neither."

I hope we're right. But I've never felt more peaceful that I was doing the right thing than I am right now.

*as a dear friend once told me, "Don't 'should' on yourself."

Spoiler: I said Yes.

When I moved to Germany for a year to teach music at an international school, I didn’t think I was going to have a robust dating life. Who was I going to date in the little village of Pinneburg, Germany? My family teased me about a fictitious “Hans,” my future German lover, I acknowledged my single fate, and I moved to Germany anyway.

A month in, my job was nothing like I expected, I had no friends, other than some co-workers, my German was coming along as slowly and painfully as my classroom management skills, the speed of both like watching a plastic spoon decompose.

My British friend convinced me to go to a YSA conference in Copenhagen. So after a 5-hour train ride from Hamburg, 1:00 am, sweatpants-clad, hair disheveled, my voice completely lost, I pull into the conference. I sounded like a tired toad. And felt like a tired toad. And standing in a room next to ridiculously good-looking Swedish women, I looked like one too. 

"Averill, this is the German friend I wanted you to meet, Johannes."-My British buddy, introducing me to someone I was sure he’d never mentioned.

"Hi.” I said as cordially as my scratchy throat could squeak out, “Hey, I'm super thirsty, do you know where I can get some water?"

This sweet, cute young boy, smiled and reappeared with a bottle of water in hand.

The next morning, I found him, he being the only other person I “knew” at the conference, and asked for another bottle.

I couldn't remember his name for the life of me, but he kind of kept following me around. I chuckled to myself, even texted my brother, saying, "I'm getting too old. The only guys here are babies, freshly returned missionaries, who still have that naive, optimistic sparkle. The dating world hasn't crushed them into jaded cynics like the rest of us.”

No matter what I did, this guy followed me. I was giving him all the signals to get lost—I looked over his shoulder, clearly scoping the room, I answered his questions with minimal effort, and didn’t return any inquiries about his siblings, I talked about ex-boyfriends. My altruistic release of him to the younger, blonder, European bombshells at the conference, could not have been clearer.  But he didn’t seem to notice, and he stayed by my side like a really attractive puppy.

This boy kept surprising me with his confidence.  At the dance, when a song ended, he simply didn’t break our hold, continuing our conversation through the next song, and the next. He bragged about how good of dancers Germans are. (This becomes funnier later in our relationship, when we took ballroom dance classes, and we learned this is not true.) At the time I was mostly impressed by how bold he was. He tactfully teased me for being the youngest child. He laughed at my pronunciation of the few German words I knew. At one point, I think I said, “Do you know how old I am?” Surely, if he knew, he would no longer be interested in talking to this ancient thing. I think he said, “So… what… exactly?”

I was also impressed when I broke our dance hold to get some water, he came with me, poured and offered me a glass before getting one for himself. His ease at chivalry signaled to me a deep character trait, not just a set of societal expectations he was taught.  (My suspicion that he had deep-seated chivalry would prove true over and over again in a million little things—he always offered me the last bite of a shared pizza, he always helped his mother clean the kitchen, he always asked, genuinely, how he could serve. And the fact that it’s genuine is one of the most attractive things about him).

The people at this conference were from all over Europe. The next closest person to my home in Germany was 5 hours away.  The chances of me meeting someone in DENMARK, who happens to live in the same remote part of the same remote city in GERMANY, is, in retrospect, crazy.

His name is Johannes. (A common nickname for which is, Hans, for those of you following along, my family’s seemingly ridiculous prophecy). I call him Johannes.

He claims that I asked him out the first four times. While historians are still debating this, I do remember wanting to see him again.

After one of our first dates, from my balcony window, I watched him wriggle into his double-parked car from the passenger seat door (because the other side was blocked off). I laughed at his verve for living, and noted how much I wanted to remember that moment because I knew he was going to be important in my life. I still distinctly remember the image—even though it was dark outside, the car was in the middle of a construction site, I was in a haze of exhaustion from work, he was wearing a grey coat climbing into a silver car—it’s as clear as a polaroid in front of my face. This is someone important.

In October, he came with me to look for a new apartment. He picked me up from a particularly awful work event late at night. He read/translated my mail. He helped set up my online bank account. My quality of life in Germany increased 100 proof with him. And he made me smile. He had this optimistic spirit in a place that I had a lot of trouble feeing optimism.  He was very quickly my dearest friend.

When I got home from fall break—2 weeks separated—he helped me move apartments. Recognizing the improbability of us actually getting married, we tried to be “just friends.” But when his long silver car was packed to the brim with boxes, topped with a mattress pad (I’d lovingly placed on a pull-out couch and called it my bed for the previous 3 months), waiting outside my now old apartment. For his huge help in packing and cleaning, I hugged him in gratitude.

He kissed me.

I said, “I missed you.”

We tried to break up that night, but it was more miserable a thought than any miserable thought I could think.

That next morning he messaged me, informing me there was a surprise outside my new apartment. I rose to unlock the front door, expecting a bowl of oranges, and he was standing outside. The handsomest sight I’d ever seen. With his sparkling grin so warm it could melt the icecaps. It was the best surprise ever.

Even though I was older, it was clear that he was leagues more mature in many ways. Over the course of the next few months, he took care of me all the time—He took me to the doctor, the dermatologist, the grocery store, the pharmacy. He cleaned my kitchen repeatedly and made me eat when I would forget, read important German documents, and walked me through important German documents stuff. He talked on the phone for hours with my health insurance company—then later my car insurance company.

Johannes drawing a diagram of the accident for the 5th time.
doesn't it melt your heart??

One time, I got into a small fender bender with a 97-year-old German gentleman named Erwin. We needed his signature and insurance number. Johannes patiently sat down with this fellow, had to repeat himself five times, all without a hint of annoyance in his voice. He was endlessly respectful and kind to this old, confused lad. (Perhaps the hour I fell in love, watching his sweet patience with this old man).

 Johannes sifted through mountains of emails and phone calls to make sure I got my insurance coverage on an accident that may-or-may-not have been my fault.

He saw me sick, and very sick. Made me countless warm cups of tea, masking the icky taste of vitamin C powder he snuck in with honey, assuring I would drink it. When I was over-tired, I’d walk in to a clean-made bed with a candle lit. I was often very very grumpy. And he loved me anyway, always.

Always listening to my bad days, my irrational fears, my concerns, my dilemmas, my child-like tantrums.  He always encouraged me to dream, to have goals, to search for and reach for things I want. He always supported my endeavors, whether it was ballroom dancing, learning German, or making home-made play dough for my classroom children, he was right there with me.

I don’t think I mentioned yet that he’s sexy as hell. Objectively the most attractive human on the planet. Ok, maybe not that objective. But--I mean--just look at him.

stud. engineering a grill in nature. 

 

winning all the old ladies' hearts with his charm.

 This one time, he snuck into my apartment, covered it in roses and rose petals, lit a hundred candles, and when I turned around, he asked me to marry him.

I am so lucky to have this man, this thoughtful, kind, patient, present, generous, loving, smart, funny, hopeful, caring, serviceable, sexy man in my life for the rest of it. And more. He is my lieblings mench, my sunshine in darkness, mein Shatzi, mein Zuckerschnauzen, and I have the amazing opportunity to call him my husband. 

Some Days

Some days are hard.

• When you sit alone at the teacher table because your colleagues are tired of trying to include you in a language they're less comfortable.
• Or when every word you type is red underlined as a misspelled because you're not typing on an English keyboard.  And every meeting is conducted in a language you don't speak.
• Or when your lesson completely flops because you didn't translate enough vocabulary in advance.

Some days are hell.

• When a child is crying and you can't help because you can't understand what the problem is.
• Or when you can't talk down two students who are hitting each other because they don't understand you. 
• Or when your have to hide under your desk in your office to cry, because there is no one you can talk to at work.

But some days.. are not miserable.

• Like when one of your students sees that your sitting alone, and moves her and her friends to join you. (Even though they can't speak English really either). 
• Or when you pantomime sucessfully enough that a child understands you, and laughs at your joke. 
• Or when you overhear a child ask why she can't have YOU as a teacher (and you understood it in German!).
• 
  

Some days are even Schön (beautiful).

• Like when you're planning a music lesson and play a 1st grade "Learning English" song about feeling happy and wiggling fingers, and your intimidatingly-tough Russian colleagues join in a dance party in the office. 

• Or when the lesson you had to change/invent on the spot went really well.

• Or when your students swarm you with hugs when you approach so you can't get into the classroom.

• Or when little messages and notes appear, and who knows if they are sincere or just sucking up, but either way, they make you feel great. 

Lies I was told before I moved to Germany:

-Everyone in Germany speaks English

-Your students speak English

-Your co-workers speak English

-Google translate is easy and accurate

-You've never taught before? Zero formal training? You'll be fine. Teaching is not that hard.

...

IT TAKES TIME.

It takes time with your students to build trust, to build friendships, to understand one another, regardless of what language either of you speaks. It takes time for collegues to realize you're hilarious.

It takes time to learn how to manage squiggly, ridiculous, (mostly) well-meaning, little humans. And it takes time to figure out how to teach them something on top of that.

I'm so grateful for the squiggly humans that have allowed me to learn by teaching them. I'm grateful for their patience, their forgiveness, their resilience, their humor, and their love.

The takeaway is to be patient. In any new situation, it takes time to not be new. Be patient with yourself, be patient with the new characters in this new chapter, with your skill-set, and your ability to adapt.

I feel like I'm finally getting the hang of this all. Just as I'm about to leave. 
Perfect.

German Gentlemen:True Chivalry.

"Chivalry. I've never heard that word. What is it?" My German boyfriend asked me. 

I stumbled over the definition in response. "It's like a code of conduct from knights or something.... the expectation for how men should treat women. Like, you know holding doors open and paying for dinner and stuff." 

"So it's like the opposite of feminism?"

... I hope not. 

I don't want to write a complicated social debate, but I'm musing about the topic. As many of us have, I've experienced oppressive kinds of chivalry. 

One blatant example: I dated a guy who went through great lengths to be a "gentleman." He considered himself a regency-era chap, born in the wrong time because he was so chivalrous. He opened every door, insisted on paying for every expense. But frequently dismissed my opinions, referred to my decisions as "cluelessly emotional," and thought it was cute to kiss me to get me to stop talking. When he wouldn't stop physical advances after multiple requests, I think he felt entitled somehow because he'd "bought" me with his chivalry,  He cared a great deal about being a gentleman, but he didn't care about women. 

But last week, I experienced what I think the original Chivalry was made for, and I think I'm a fan. 

Let me tell you the story:

My 50-year-old  co-worker, Markus, used to be a ballroom dancer. I took a few ballroom classes in college, so I casually asked if he'd want to go out dancing sometime.

A charming and kind individual, he's my only grown-up friend at work. (Some kids frequently remind me we're best friends). His English isn't perfect, and we often misunderstand each other. And sometimes it's painful because we want to have a deep or complicated conversation, and we can't quite. But it's ok, because for some reason, he likes me anyway. And he is is a true gentleman. Like a real true gentleman. Happily married for 25 years, there have never been ulterior motives to his kindness.

Our scheduled dancing night, he arrived exactly on time at my doorstep. I expected him to call when he was outside, so I forgot to tell him I lived in the basement apartment behind the house. He met my landlord neighbors first in an effort to pick me up from the door.  

He opened the door for me-- when I got out of the car. 

He paused every time we went through a door frame, to let me go through first.

When I awkwardly struggled putting on my coat, without hesitation he held up the other sleeve. 

He was the epitome of class and elegance. It wasn't an act, or a role he was playing. It was part of him.

When arrived at the dance hall, he was clearly a celebrity. Every other person came up to him with excitement, welcoming him back, thrilled he was there. He graciously introduced me to every single one of his friends and fans. I would not have been offended if he chose not to; I was an outsider in that setting, both in language and dance abilities. I would have been happy slinking into a corner and disappearing, waiting until he was ready to dance. But he wouldn't let me disappear. The fact that he did take the (sometimes awkward) time to introduce me made me feel not only included, but valued.  He wanted me there. I wasn't an accessory, I was his partner for the evening.  

I felt like a princess. Whisked onto the dance floor, twirling among former world-class dancers. I can follow a lead, but I'd never done some of these dances at all, and I was amazed with his leading, my feet just knew where to go. Quickstep, Foxtrot, Viennese Waltz--I had no idea what I was doing, but in his capable arms I never missed a step. It was an odd experience. Like studying Spanish 101 then suddenly speaking fluently.  

I knew he was a good dancer, which is why I asked him to go in the first place, but it turns out, he is a really good dancer. At one point, #11 in Germany. He toured around the world, competed with his wife in over 300 competitions, he coached some of the most expensive events, and at one point he was the vice president of the dance club where we were. (which I found out later is the most famous in Hamburg).

He never needed a break from dancing, but I did a few times. He sat down with me while I rested. The club was full of his former partners and competitors. I said,  "You can dance with someone else if you'd like! I'm happy to watch, don't worry about me."

He dismissed the idea immediately, "No, no. You're my date, and my guest. I want to dance with you." He didn't even entertain the thought of leaving me alone in this uncomfortable setting. I didn't even realize how relieved I was; how much I wanted him to stay with me, until after he said he would. 

We watched the other dancers on the floor for a minute. "Do you know him?"

"Of course."

"He's good!"

"No."

"No?" I was surprised, "He's not good?" I thought he had so much energy and was moving with sharpness.

"He is obviously trying so hard. You can tell a real dancer, because it looks..." he looked up, searching for the word in English, "Effortless. It is ... a part of them. They don't have to show it off."

I looked again, and Markus was right. Then he showed me what he meant: I was swept into his frame on the dance floor, and experienced truly professional dancing.

 He was grounded. Calm. Completely in control. Effortless. This comes with age and experience, I recognize. But there is a difference between someone showing off the fact that they know how to do something, and someone just doing it. 

On the dance floor I looked over at another couple. "What about them? They look good."

"You are better than she." (I was flattered)

"What about him?" again, he looked like he had a lot of energy. 

"No. He's dancing for himself, not with her. My job as the lead is to make sure my woman is always dancing." I realized he'd been demonstrating this principle all night. He could have been doing 100x more complicated movements, but he stayed within the (probably small) range of what would make me look and feel comfortable. 

The other man was dancing to be looked at, Markus was dancing with and for me. (and looked much better doing it.) He was a prince.

A true gentleman. it's in his bones. Like with dancing, he didn't have to show off his chivalry, it was just a part of him. And I felt like a princess. and a partner. I felt taken care of, but also respected.  He wanted to pay for our tickets, and he wanted to hear my opinions. He wanted to make sure I was taken care of because he cared about me, and he's a gentleman. 

You don't have to be a world-class ballroom dancer to be chivalrous. 

You can help take out the trash. You can listen. You can hold your partner if she cries. You can reserve judgement on decisions based on emotions or gut feelings.  You can offer the last bite.



Since I told my Boyfriend this story, I noticed, he never lets me get in the car without opening the door for me. He didn't say anything. He didn't ask me if I picked up on this change of behavior. He interpreted from my story that I appreciated that kind of gesture, and now it's a part of him. What a gentleman, right?

I can't speak for all women, so I'll just speak for myself. I don't need someone to open a door for me, or to pay for dinner. But it's a gesture that indicates respect. I do need someone who cares about me. in whatever form that comes.