Just a few more bends
in the road now. Nate left a couple weeks ago. Steve left this morning to visit
home before returning and finishing up the year here in November. It feels a
little bit like the breaking of the fellowship in the Lord of the Rings, the
team parting ways. I will miss the company of those two. I always ended up in
the middle of our pictures, between the two-meter pillars; Nate, the more
reserved viajero I could always count on to have valid opinions about anything
from politics to music to religion, Steve, the happy go lucky athlete who
wasn’t afraid to get into any situation. We worked well as a trio since we
shared enough in common to be able to travel and live together, but different
enough that, if necessary, time in twos could be just as valuable, such as my
weekend trip to San Gil with Nate where we bungee jumped, or all the time spent
in the gym or on the basketball court with Steve.
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| On our recent trip to the Tatacoa Desert. |
As
we pointed out that this was foreseeably our last time here, I realized that I
was now counting my lasts instead of my firsts. Arriving in a new country,
everything is new and exciting, places waiting to be explored, people to be
met. Bask in the good and learn from the bad. Do things right, and even when
you’ve managed to weave yourself into the community, the original excitement never really
wears off. But acknowledging inevitable departure, you unconsciously savor
every moment, knowing that it might be the last time riding this sweaty
eight-hour bus, drinking a beer with that coworker, or dancing until sunrise
with those friends. I recognized that it was time to tell my students, because
one of us leaving made it real that I soon would be, too.
The reaction in
each class was what you’d expect. General cries of “Noo maestro!” and sniffles
from some coupled nicely with the silent indifference of those who had received
either a bad grade or a good chewing out somewhere throughout our time
together. The last two weeks of the semester involved going away parties in
most of my classes, notes and candy from countless students come out of the
woodwork to show appreciation, and arriving late to classes as I waded through
mobs of elbow-height youngsters. I’ll get into my appreciation for them and
school later, but what was a struggle for me was when Colombians would ask,
“Por qué te vas?”
Why am I leaving?
I didn’t like the question. A pro athlete leaves one team for another to win or
get paid more. An animal leaves one area for another it believes to have more
food or better chances of survival. For most, me leaving meant that I saw
something better somewhere else. And just like Nicolas from 6B was hurt when
Natalia left him for Juan in 6C, most kids were naturally a little put out that
I seemed to be calling it quits. So I changed the question, which prompted a
story: “Why did I stay?” I told them about the BVC, how the assignment is
typically one year, how I decided to stay another semester, and then another,
how I loved exploring this country, meeting new people, living in this city and
teaching at this school with these kids.
That seemed to
satisfy most kids. But unless you’ve never met a child or were born Benjamin
Button-style, chances are you know that children are never satisfied with just
one answer. To be fair, I felt I needed to rationalize to myself the prospect of
leaving. After all, life’s good here. I have virtually no responsibilities at
home as I don’t do my own laundry, cook my own meals or wash my own dishes. In
return for going to prayer once a day and keeping the odors from my room at
least contained therein, I get free room and board. Since we live in a
different building than the monks, there is also really no curfew. Never will a
gig be as good, folks. On top of that, we’re a novelty in a school within a
community not wealthy enough to attract foreigners to live or work within. So
why the hell would I leave such a good situation??
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| With my homeroom group, 8A. They wore my new national jersey. |
For starters, I
was not lying to my students when I told them I originally stayed because I was
asked by the administration of that time (Principal Father Nick and Vice
Viviana) to teach a full year. The school got a native speaker for an English
teacher on the cheap and I got more time in Colombia. Win-win. When the end of
last school year drew near, I was asked about my future with the school. Since
I was hesitant, the school assumed I would move on. They scheduled interviews
with and put me on the interviewing committee for my own replacement. I
eventually decided to stay another semester and call it good. Two years just
sounded better than one and a half, I wasn’t done exploring this country, I
wanted to put what I had learned in the classroom to use in a fresh start, winter
is coming, Trump is president. You know, normal, wanting to stay out of the
U.S. reasoning. All of these little reasons I have since labeled empty
rationalizations. I just wasn’t ready to return home yet.
The dominoes had
already started to lean, however. I was asked to be in my friends Nick and Maria’s
wedding in October later that year, sort of solidifying that I would be done at
Tibatí after this semester.
Soon into our
school year, shit hit the fan at school in a flurry of administrative change
that sent Fr. Nick to a different monastery. In return we got a loathsome new
director who has made changes to the academic calendar and school proceedings
almost weekly and has been generally disrespectful and patronizing to staff and
students. More information on that can be found in earlier posts, but suffice
it to say that all the changes have made every teacher who had spent time working
under Father Nicolas contemplate leaving, creating an overall stressful
environment at times.
Despite all this, the relationship
between the teachers was still better than any other large work environment
I’ve been a part or heard of in the states. But as the semester wore on, some
of the relationships got too good. The teachers started to couple up. Before, a
sizeable crowd of around ten would go out to drink and dance almost every
Friday. That number began to decrease as couples would break off and organize
their own plans. Soon it was either a slim crowd or one where there were more
private conversations than big group ribbing, part of what makes Colombian
parties so much fun. While I was happy that coworkers and friends were finding
love, I did sometimes long for the nights where everybody drank everything and
danced with everybody else.
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| The three stooges, Esteban, Gerson, Luis Gonzalo. |
Even in the monastery a new chapter was
beginning. I wasn’t spending as much time with the monks; at first I didn’t
want to impede on the new volunteers’ chance to get to know the community.
Then, I got caught up in work and all my other responsibilities at the school
that I never really got back into the mix. Movie night on Friday had been
replaced with teachers, and most weeknights I was too exhausted from Preicfes,
staff meetings, or basketball practices to want to participate in the monks’
social hour after dinner. Personnel had changed. Father Nicolas, a crucial
component to what I felt made the monastery tick, had left. Father Philip had
decided to step down as prior, and taking his place would be Father Manuel. A
great guy all around, to be sure, but I wasn’t nearly as close with him as with
the former two. Overall, while the mutual appreciation has not waned for either
party (to be elaborated in a future post), two years in a monastery is a
long time for someone who doesn’t see themself wearing black afterwards. To
totally misquote my father, who also spent time in a monastery before
ultimately deciding to start a family, “You either habit up or get the @#$%
out.”
So to be sure,
current events have made it easier to leave now. But again, all of these little
reasons I have since labeled empty rationalizations. I am simply ready for the
next experience because I feel I’ve done what I came to do.
I wanted to travel and I’ve done plenty of it.
I’ve managed to get to four countries outside of Colombia (about to add two
more, stay tuned!) and Colombians joke that I’ve seen more of the city and
country than they have.
I wanted to speak
Spanish. Language is culture, and culture is embedded in language. I was
fortunate enough to have the background in Spanish that I did, because my time
here would not be half as rewarding or fun if I didn’t understand what was
going on. Lessons learned from reading books, listening to music or radio news,
or talking with other gringos in Spanish are things that not only made me an
example in my classroom (if I can learn another language, you can, too!) it
also let me share more with people I met and spent time with. If, according to
Christopher McCandless, happiness is real when shared, then I’m glad I was able
to share more with a joke or untranslatable innuendo.
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| Showing off that shooting form for coach. |
I wanted to make
something of myself other than the weight my name carried. My family’s been
around Collegeville a long time. Walk around St. John’s or St. Joe and you
might find someone who knows my parents. “I love your mom!” or “I just met your
dad, super cool guy!” are what college friends would often say. Let’s be clear,
I don’t want to sound salty here. I love the fact that my grandparents, parents
and older siblings leave positive memorable impressions on people. It’s a
testament to how we were raised and how we treat others and work hard. And if
we’re being honest, it’s also helped when trying to get into a class or land a
job, the latter of which I’m sure hasn’t ceased to produce fruits. But if
anything besides travelling or speaking Spanish has given me more confidence it
is knowing that I can make something of myself out of nothing. The monks had
never met my family, and the school hadn’t the foggiest about my work history.
But over time, through much feedback from coworkers and students, I was able to
recognize my very own impact. Sure I was the gringo. But I was also the teacher
that would meet deadlines and get grades and feedback to students as quick as
possible, the volunteer that would help a struggling student during their
office hours, the coach that would push a team on the court but have a heart to
heart with someone who was struggling off of it. For most of my life, I’ve
thought of myself as just above average. Maybe more people in the world need
that perspective to keep them motivated. But getting out of the Roske bubble in
Collegeville helped me learn that maybe I wasn’t as much coasting on my
family’s reputation has much as adding to it myself.
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| Getting attacked in my last class with 6A. |
I wanted to
scratch the teaching itch and either embrace it or ignore it. I remember in
high school when my sister, Michaela, would bring home Spanish quizzes to
correct or crafts to cut out, and thinking, man, do I not want to do this.
Being the youngest child and almost youngest sibling, I had had next to no
experience with kids. Teaching was not even on my radar. Even after volunteering
at an elementary school in Viña del Mar, Chile while studying abroad, I wasn’t
convinced. Then, during my last year at SJU I was a Spanish Teaching Assistant
for Roy Ketchum and also a volunteer helping educate kids groups through the
Arboretum. Shit, I thought at the time, am I really going down this path?
Better dive into it headfirst. Let’s go to Colombia and teach. Sink or swim. If
I fell in love with teaching, does that mean I sank or swam? A good friend
from college, Ari, whom I appreciate, among other reasons, for keeping my feet on the
ground, would claim that it’s just because I like to hear myself talk and that
working with twelve year olds makes me feel smart. Truth be told, it’s much
more the latter. Either way, working with students has been a blast and a half.
It is indeed a lot of work. And maybe being single has helped me give more time
and attention to my students and the material. But working with kids, being
able to see and listen to their improvement over time periods both long and short,
as well as have them recognize it in themselves, has been an epiphany I will
always thank Fr. Nicolas, this school, and this country for.
Why am I leaving?
I ultimately tried to explain to 6th graders that life is full of
experiences, and that no single one is more or less important than any other as
long as you learn from them all. I am also constantly trying to explain that to
myself. It wouldn’t be the first thing in our classroom that confuses both teacher
and student. You could claim I’m only as smart as the students I teach. But
I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m in front of a
room of geniuses every day. The experience knowing that is something I don’t want to give up soon. I feel
the time to begin a new experience has arrived. But I’m not done with you quite
yet, Colombia. A few more bends in the road.
Spanish word of the day: guayabo is hangover and enguayabado means to be hung over. I
recently went to my good friend Eliana’s house outside of Bogota for a barbecue
and dancing that lasted until 5am. I’ll let you do the math on how my day after
that went.
Song in my head lately:
For those interested in some Spanish music, a close runner up has been Procura, a song
I heard a couple Friday nights ago. It’s part of the
plethora of music I will be sure to return to again and again. But if we’re
going with what I’ve been listening to most, it’s still gotta be Dispatch’s new
album. Pick a song, chances are it’s really good. This week’s leader has been
Begin Again. Fitting.
Ari --- AKA ----BRRRRRr
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