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. 

"It's been a while since the Police shut us down..."

I have never been the kind of woman who is good at hosting parties. I've never been crafty, or clever, or cute with decor or food. Unlike my awesome sister-in-law who has a business teaching people how to be cuter homemakers, or basically every other Mormon woman in the world, I can barely make my bed enough to have guests over. 

But when I moved to Pinneburg, Germany, into my own apartment, I had the random impulse to throw a house-warming party.  I bought candles, and a bunch of food, and was staring to feel a little too cocky about my party-throwing abilities until I looked at the food table spread: 

• Three frozen pizzas; one overcooked, two under-cooked. 
• A chunk of brie surrounded by the store-brand version of Ritz crackers. 
• A half-loaf of microwave garlic bread.
• A cheap party tray of salty, crispy, snacky things.
• A dry German bunt cake, cut up into uneven slices.
• and a handful of chocolate sticks, leftover from another grocery-store run.

It was a glorious sight to behold. 

My grandmother would have been so ashamed. 

 Luckily, the invitees were awesome, and no one cared, and everyone brought enough goodies to share, and it turned into a really lovely house-warming event. 

Then it took a bizarre, completely unforeseen turn. 

Among the housewarming party-goers were some friends, mostly co-workers, and my landlords, who live right above me. Due to an unfortunate series of mishaps where I accidentally broke the front gate multiple times, I felt obligated to invite them. And they seemed delighted at the invitation. 

They're a really funny couple. A very small, talkative, 50-year-old Philippine woman (who I can thank for the eclectic decor), and a grumpy, chatty, 60-year-old German man. I expected them to come for 20 minutes, and then go back upstairs. But they stayed the whole time. They brought 2 platters of food, extra candles, a giant bottle of vodka, and two juice cartons. 

Just as the party was dying down; maybe 6 people left, my landlord makes an announcement to a nearly-empty living room.

My transformed living room

"It's been a while since the Police shut us down. Let's let them know we're still alive" and turns on the sound system, blasting club music. He turns off the living room lamps and turns on two light boxes that set off a multi-colored light show. And of course, no party is complete without a smoke machine. 
I kid you not.

Everyone was pretty much very confused. 

Two of my coworkers. Confused. 

Though he would've danced with himself, I made everyone at the party dance with him. Awkwardly. Some of my coworkers are less uncomfortable with the whole scene than I, so they kept him decent company. Until about midnight, when I finally had to kick my landlord out. (!)

I think he was severely disappointed to find out his new young, American tenant is the least party-goer in all the US.


Sometimes I'll hear club music thumping and pounding through my ceiling in the middle of the day.

I guess I don't even need to know how to throw a good party. My 60-year-old German landlord's got it covered. 

It's not Imaginary--It's Invisible. There's a difference.

In my theater classes, I play with a magic box. I sit down with a series of printed directions, and wait until they are quiet, so everyone can read the instructions. I don't say a word as they ask questions, so they get the cue that this is a game we're all playing in silence.

I hold up a paper that says: 

"Sit in a Circle. 

In einem Kreis sitzen."

I wait for silent acknowledgement that they understand the system. The students who don't speak English or German I know will catch on shortly. Then flip to the next printed page:

"In front of me is a box.
Vor mir ist eine Box."

"It is a Magic box..."

"It is magic because it can hold anything in it.."

There are a few more pages of instructions: "Everyone will get a turn pulling something out of the box and showing it to the rest of the class if they'd like," "Do not talk or make noises," "I'll go first."

Then I hold the "box" in my hands. Pantomime the weight of a medium-sized wooden crate. Which I "open" and Mary Poppins style, pull out a tall floor lamp, or a very heavy piano, or an apple, depending on the class. Then after I turn on the 'lamp,' play the 'piano', or bite the 'apple', I put it back in the box and close the 'lid'.

One student is brave enough to go first. Raising a hand in confidence, and following my head-nod cue, they get up, walk across the circle to pick up the box from my hands. They cautiously open it, looking up at me for a signal they're playing the game correctly, and with an encouraging nod, they pull something out: A bike, a book, a bongo drum. Whatever it is, they're excited to show the class. Then at the end of their display, I remind them, by holding out expectant fingers, I would like the box returned to me. They dutifully pick up the box, walk it over, and place it back with me.

As the game goes on, they get clever getting it back to me. They'll "slide" it, or carefully "throw" it across the circle, but they don't ever forget to return the box.

About once every-other-class, I have a student who says in whiny protest, "This isn't real."  But the moment I offer the box with a silent question in my eyes, "Would you like a turn?" they always eagerly grab the box, happily "pull" something out of it, and gingerly return the box, in-tact, to me.

One class period, I overheard a whispered exchange that I'll never forget.
"I don't understand. It's Imaginary, right?"
Another child said back in reproach, "It's not imaginary. It's invisible. there's a difference."


What a profound statement: just because we cannot see it, does not mean it doesn't exist.
Right there in that classroom circle, we all acknowledged there was a box. It was there because we all agree it was. We agreed to play by the rules of the box. We interacted with it. We displayed its weight. We knew where it was at all times. We returned it to the teacher. We experienced the box. It was real to us. No one could tell us otherwise.

But how many things in life are so real, and also difficult to see? Sometimes invisible.

Love. Excitement.  A sense of Justice. Longing. Heartache. Grief. Hope. Worry. Fear. Charity. Freedom.

They can manifest themselves in ways that we can see: we show the box's dimensions by holding it's sides. We can see charity through actions, or heartache through tears. But the actual substance is impossible to see.

When we have faith in anything, it is an acknowledgement that something is real, albeit invisible.

The things I have learned from teaching these little people in Germany are far from imaginary: the patience I have gained, the perspective on what it means to have psychological safety at work, the affection for humans with whom I can't even communicate.

Invisible, yes. But Very Real to me.

What is invisible and also real to you?

7 Flights of Stairs

My apartment is really charming. It has white crown molding, large windows, lots of natural light, a newly redone bathroom, complete with an adorable red button that you pull to flush the toilet.

There's a charming balcony, overlooking a charming street, with a charming lack of parking spaces.

Everything about it is ... European.
 Including the fact that it's on the 5th floor, no elevator. Moving in, (ie moving up) was a bit of an ordeal.

Even going grocery shopping is an ordeal. Which is what happened today.

German grocery stores are awesome. High quality food at low costs. But because everything's so fresh, Germans don't go to the store once every two weeks, and stock up like Americans (or like this American)... They go frequently, and only check out a few items at a time. Which then leads them to unabashedly cast very annoyed glances when you have more than a few items at a time.

I didn't have a choice! No bread, cereal, milk, toilet paper--nothing. I needed a big grocery store trip. So after I ignored the scathing looks, and pulled the "clearly-I'm-not-from-here-and-I'm-sorry" card, I trekked home with my enormous bag of groceries.

Then I made the trek Up.  There are four floors of doors between the entrance and my flat, but I wanted to know how many flights of stairs. Carrying heavy or awkward objects up tend to make me try and quantify the pain.

Eins
Zwei
Drei
Vier
Funf
Sechs... 

Then I couldn't remember the German word for seven.

SEVEN flights of stairs. When I finally arrived, the toilet paper resting on top of the overflowing bag, got caught on the banister and went tumbling down, through the middle of those seven flights of stairs, then past, into the basement.

I cried out, like Luke when he discovered Vader was his father, "NooooooOOOoooOOooooOOOO!"

Back down the 7 flights, down into the basement. Picked up this little guy:

Then I made the journey back up. Didn't count the stairs this time. 

My Rear Window

Germany is north. Once we hit mid-September, the days here get rapidly shorter. I wake up very early to get to work, and I had 2 blissful weeks upon arrival where the sun was coming up on my way. Now I make the entire 70-minute-long commute in pre-dawn hours--completely in the dark. 

I look out my bedroom window. It has a full-glass pane door leading out to the balcony, facing the street. The whole street is like that. When it's dark outside, you can see into the other flats through their door windows--like watching a film through a glass screen.

5:55 am, pitch black sky, and I see one other window lit, straight across the road. Clear as a moving picture, I watch as a man, pushes a kitchen chair into the table, puts his keys in his pocket, and adjusts his belt. 

Without feeling a glint of shame for my voyeurism,  I wonder, what is he doing up at such a cruel, cold, dark hour. 

With me. 

Fumbling around his apartment, same as I, eyes trying to adjust to the dark of the morning. Just the two of us awake in our whole neighborhood. 

And I share this rather intimate, rather sweet moment with a total stranger.

Then I think, "Maybe I should close the curtains when I get changed."

Lies Your Teachers Told You

Growing up is a constant series of discovering all the things that you thought you knew but you really didn't. Like learning the actual lyrics to that one song, (R-E-S-P-E-C-T… take care of BLT!); or suddenly understanding the dirty jokes in a beloved childhood film (Grease, anyone?).

Being a first-year teacher, I’ve learned a great many misconceptions I had about the things teachers tell you. Flat-out lies they tell you: 

1.  Teachers always have a lesson they’re trying to get through, and you not being quiet is hindering the whole class’ experience.

This is not always the case. Sometimes the kids blow through what I’ve prepared in much less time than expected, and I’m secretly grateful for the opportunity to improvise a lesson about respect and classroom conduct.

        2.  Teachers don’t care about your opinion. Of their subject or themselves. 

This is also sometimes a lie.  Experienced math teachers have hardened their hearts, and understand that not every child is passionate about the beauty of Euler's Law, but most teachers really love what they teach, and want their students to love it too. Maybe this is a newbie teacher thing, and I’ll grow out of it. But when that cool girl in the 9^th grade says to me, her tone dripping with vitriol and boredom, “This is dumb. Do we have to do this?” A little piece of my soul dies. I moved across the world to share my passion for performing arts with a bunch of disinterested small humans. And apparently, I’m still a middle school girl inside, who secretly cares about the cool kid’s opinion of me.

        3. Teachers don’t have favorites.

This is most definitely, 100%, always a lie. There are students we like, students we really like, and students we really, really don’t. I can say sincerely, I care about every one of my students, but some of them have opened my eyes to the appeal of corporal punishment.

I want to tell you a story about one of my not-so-favorite students:  I have a crew of 7^th grade boys. That sentence alone should make your soul shutter with fear—but it gets worse. They’re waaay too cool for school, and they’re smart. This crew of besties hacked into all the 7^th grade lockers and changed everyone’s combinations. They sit together like a pack of wolves, and they speak very little English.

I know they understand me. Well, they understand some things: like when I tell them to stop grabbing each other, or stop talking, or stop touching the drums, but other than that, they’re totally checked out of the lessons.

The other day, they were causing their usual ruckus, disrupting the class, and finally, I sharply told one, we’ll call him Calvin, (the one that hates me the most) to move to the other side of the circle. He made his protestations, but I gave an insistent finger point (universal language of pointing--very effective), and he moved. I didn’t know what the rustle was, and I didn’t care, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw this tough guy with quiet tears streaming down his face. I was surprised, I thought he was totally apathetic.

A moment later, the one originally sitting next to Calvin, we’ll call him Peter, interrupted me, “Um… Miss…?” (he’s the one most shy about his English. Also the one that cares least about my class, as evidenced by the fact that he doesn’t know my name)...

 “Miss Corkin?” I threw him a bone. But then, admittedly annoyed at being interrupted by his antics again, I was a bit harsh with my tone, “What, Peter?”

“It…not… was Calvin.”

“What?” I didn't understand.

“I had…  took his pen. Fault not Calvin. My.” Painfully stumbling through finding the words, he was trying to tell me that his friend, who I’d banished to the other side of the circle, was not responsible for the trouble, that Calvin had been provoked, and shouldn’t be the one punished. This boy, who was totally uninterested in me or my class, was offering up himself in an honest attempt at taking responsibility. That’s why Calvin was crying, because he’d been wrongly blamed (even on a small scale, we can all relate to this utterly powerless, deeply disturbing feeling). 

But here, his friend Peter was trying to fix it. No matter the personal cost, including struggling through limited English in front of the whole class.  

How much I underestimated this young man because he annoyed me sometimes. How easily dismissive I was because of a language barrier. What character in that moment he proved to have. 

Impressed and humbled, I melted. Oh, my heart. 

“Thank you for telling me that, Peter. I really appreciate your honesty, and taking responsibility.”

I didn’t know how to convey how moved I was at his gesture, in a language we could both understand. So I just smiled warmly. The best I could do.

“I still don’t want you to sit next to each other though. So just stay there right now. Next time, you can move.”