<![CDATA[Journal of an Evolving Teacher

<![CDATA[Journal of an Evolving Teacher - Blog]]>Fri, 06 Mar 2026 19:21:36 -0800Weebly<![CDATA[The complex reality of my dream job]]>Sun, 04 Jan 2026 13:30:00 GMThttps://www.journalofanevolvingteacher.com/blog/the-complex-reality-of-my-dream-job

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It is New Year’s Day, 2026. This time of year is bookmarked in people’s calendars as a time to publish highlights, celebrations, radiant photos of dream destinations and life milestones. One year, 365 days of surviving becomes condensed into 20 images on an Instagram feed.

I admit: I am complicit in this tradition. I rush at any opportunity to reflect with a deadline. The New Year is a journal prompt that coaxes me back to the blank page with the promise of intermission. It provides a pause from the whirlwind year of travel and life transitions. However, I attempt to embed the reality behind the highlight reel. My caption removes the curtain from the grins and cherry blossoms to reveal the challenges of transitioning into two new teaching jobs, grieving a home I had left behind, and getting to know myself in an unfamiliar dream role.

In early June, I interviewed for and was offered a job as a third-grade dual-language Spanish teacher in my hometown. After applying to at least six different schools and ten different teaching jobs in the Twin Cities area, this position was the only one to offer me an in-person interview.

I was stunned when I received a call offering me the job when I got home from the interview – just fifteen minutes later! I was still riding the adrenaline rush of connecting with the team and realizing that their school’s values echo my own as I answered their questions regarding equity, anti-racist practices, and my teaching philosophy.

I felt seen in the company of professionals whose unique stories led them to the same purpose. I felt at home in the Argentinian accent of one of my interviewers (who turned out to be my future mentor). I felt honored and in awe when they invited me to join their diverse, bilingual team.

“We are a part of a revolution,” my mentor informed me a few months later during new hire training. We sat in my disassembled classroom, concept maps scribbled on the whiteboard.

“Bilingual, bicultural education,” she continued, “is a reinvention of the educational wheel in the U.S.” There are limited resources, teacher preparation programs, and effective curriculums for teaching the development of literacy and math competencies in Spanish. Dual-language Spanish programs exist in their own realm; they have their own culture.

It has been my dream to work in a Spanish immersion program since leaving Uruguay. I longed to build bridges between cultures and languages, belong in a bilingual community, and apply my developing skills as a human who teaches. In these early conversations with my mentor, I felt my passion ignite.

My dream job, the revolution, became a reality almost overnight. The scroll of infinite tasks unwound with the first step into my classroom in late July. The dream of decorating the vacant yellow walls transitioned into frustration over re-measuring bulletin board paper three times and unloading the car in 90-degree heat.

Simultaneously, however, the blank canvas invigorated me to scour TPT (Teachers Pay Teachers) and Amazon for Spanish resources and plant-themed decorations. Last-minute trips to Lakeshore with my mom after spending the morning stapling, cleaning, and organizing became an August tradition.

With each week, I felt myself settling into the hum of the building, but I could not fall into the ever-changing rhythm. Each week brought new meetings, responsibilities, and then suddenly, open house and the first day of school.

Nothing could have completely prepared me for what this first year of full-time teaching would bring. No, not even long-term subbing. However, the complex reality of teaching in a revolutionary program shares many of the same struggles and celebrations as those of a monolingual English school.

The past four months introduced me to the turbulent balance of daily administrative work, curriculum adaptation, behavior management, and lesson planning. Often, I have to teach myself the Spanish vocabulary of a lesson the morning that I teach it. (For example, I never anticipated being familiar with the skeletal and muscular systems in Spanish before this year!). Each day I coach myself through self-doubt and the exhaustion of carrying the diverse needs of eighteen energetic humans.

On the other hand, I find joy in the small shared moments: Monday greetings of warm hugs and giddy smiles after a weekend apart, shrieks of glee from sledding in a huddle during extra recess on Fridays, and proud declarations of “That’s not fair! ¡Es injusto!” in discussions centering social justice and activism. I celebrate the community our class has painstakingly built, the trust and bilingual relationships I’ve nurtured, and the students' maturing confidence, self-expression, social advocacy, and academic skills.

“You cannot take full credit for all your students’ failures or their successes.” This message from one of my mentor’s biweekly check-ins is one of my biggest take-a-ways from this first semester. As much as I aim to foster a calm classroom environment grounded in kindness, justice, and unity, I cannot control my students' actions. And that truth is both reassuring and frightening.

“Progress over perfection” is the community anchor in every meeting that provides me with peace of mind. Perfection is impossible when working with human beings. My students and I are progressing every day at our own pace. Progress is alchemic in nature, catalyzed by mistakes and lessons.

Lessons bloom from these struggles and celebrations. Some of the lessons are old, affirmed by experience in a different school culture and grade. Others are new, freshly realized in the two weeks of winter break decompression. Every one nurtures my evolution as a human who teaches.

1. I can't fix everything

2. I am becoming the teacher I want to be

3. Patience with myself, with time, and with others is essential to survival and sustainability

4. What I know right now is enough for my students

5. I have hope for a future of love and empathy

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]]><![CDATA[Riding the emotional Swells that travel brings]]>Wed, 30 Jul 2025 18:42:54 GMThttps://www.journalofanevolvingteacher.com/blog/riding-the-emotional-swells-that-travel-brings

Ketchikan, Alaska

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I am riding the swells of emotions that travel brings as if paddling through six-foot waves. When I reach each crest, I feel the ecstasy of the present. I can see everything and everyone around me and therefore soak up this clarity. The story I forecasted is being written in real time. My heart skips with bliss. I ride the high with intention because I know it is only temporary. The rise and fall of the waves is a predictable push and pull.

So when I fall into the troughs, I am caught in the quiet wavelength where what or who lies on the other side of the wave is now merely a memory or a daydream. When the wave finally crashes over me, I collide with the simultaneous feelings of nostalgia, anticipation, longing, and anxiety of facing the reality and responsibilities that the incoming tide of returning home brings.

The passage of time is both objective and subjective. No matter how much I want the joy to settle, it passes. When I want the sorrow to pass, it lingers. The past two months were marked by this rhythm of joy and sorrow. I had the privilege of traveling to Boston, Ireland, Duluth, and Alaska in that period. Sixty days bursting with once-in-a-lifetime, I-can’t-make-this-up, unbelievable experiences and encounters that are forever inscribed in my journal and memory.

I am coming into my identity as a hopeless romantic, not just within my personal life but also within my capacity to actualize my dreams. My emotions are my north star – my intuition is my compass. I take risky leaps but am caught (most of the time) by people who turn “What ifs” into “Let’s make it happen.” And so we write the stories and breathe in the landscapes of the Ring of Kerry and Misty Fjords together. That way, the memories will always live on, and we are thereby fused by the residual wonder.

Ireland

In the middle of May, I crossed off the trip that had settled at the top of my constantly shifting and expanding bucket list: Ireland. For several years, I dreamt of traversing its misty cliffs and winding narrow roads, which interrupt the otherwise serene landscape of wispy green pastures. I envisioned myself one day living in a thatched-roof cottage with a garden and nosy yet familial neighbors – perhaps due to my love of the Agatha Raisin TV series and other cozy murder mysteries.

One day last August, sitting alone and stir-crazy in my apartment in Maldonado, Uruguay, I started a document called “Ireland Trip.” I researched sample itineraries circling the country, experimented with flight prices and dates, and bookmarked websites advertising (you guessed it) cottage rentals. When a rough outline was complete, I called my mom to pose the idea.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” I began hesitantly. “What if I went to Ireland for a couple of weeks next May?”

I was aware of my parents’ shared interest in visiting Ireland and was open to the possibility of traveling together. That being said, I was willing to make it work on my own, which is why I originally pitched it as a solo trip.

My parents are now accustomed to my off-the-cuff pitches related to international travel. They also know my capacity and determination to transform a dream into an actionable plan. Regardless, my mom seemed unsure at first after I presented my draft itinerary to her. She might have even laughed in disbelief at my spontaneity. Nevertheless, a seed was planted.

Three months later, in November, I got a FaceTime call from my mom. Smiling through the glitchy wifi connection, she introduced the idea of a family trip through a curated itinerary – themed with shamrocks and pots of gold – that outlined a two-week road trip across the Southern and Western coasts. Six stops, beginning in Dublin and ending in Galway, with accommodations in three cottages and one castle. Yes, a castle!

What followed was two weeks filled with sunny adventures and stories brewed in conversations over Guinness. Ireland is a charming country of proud people (reminiscent of Uruguay) with a history marked by famine, conflict, literary genius, and resilience. It is a country of stories embedded in the 30,000 castles and 5 million citizens. I was lucky to collect a handful of them listening intently to tour guides, Airbnb hosts, a horse named Skittles, and cheery strangers.

Skittles, the 30-year-old pony

One way I create a rewarding travel experience is through a balance of structure and spontaneity. The structure, or itinerary, acts as a trajectory that I can rely on. Reserving accommodations; transportation (my parents rented a car); and a handful of activities, such as tours of popular attractions offers security without suffocation. Allowing flexibility gives time to breathe and make the trip my own.

In our itinerary, Mom typed question marks next to potential day trips; some were answered and others were not. I guess I’m saying that the best trips are not completely “by the book,” but instead are determined by a delicate balance between predicting the current and riding the wave.

Striking this balance was crucial to our impression of Ireland. Some factors could not be planned or predicted, such as the unexpectedly rare sunny weather that prompted every Irish person to say, “The weather is never like this!” Otherwise, I wouldn’t have met Skittles, a thirty-year-old pony that greeted us at our Airbnb in Limerick; held my breath as Dad maneuvered the narrow Irish country roads lined with stone walls and hedges; witnessed the Book of Kells in Dublin; greeted the lambs and ewes that I passed on a sunrise run outside our cottage in Killarney mountains; kissed the Blarney stone; strolled the expansive grounds of Kilkenny Castle; or sat in the front row at O’Connors, a traditional pub, for an intimate concert of Irish folk music in Killarney.

Traditional Irish music at O'Connors in Killarney, Ireland

Spontaneity, on the other hand, results in an original travel experience that, in my experience, welcomes the visitor to delve under the surface and become acquainted with the nuance and idiosyncrasies of culture. Without it, I would not have bought a landscape painting from an elderly gentleman along the Ring of Kerry; visited Waterford and toured its crystal factory; chatted with the spunky spiritual woman working in the smallest record shop in Ireland (who sold me her only Joni Mitchell album); explored Phoenix Park and (almost) summited a mountain on my solo early morning runs; and sang a Bob Dylan song with local musicians at a pub outside of Galway. Together, the balance between structure and spontaneity created a series of encounters and experiences that secured my endearment for Ireland.

Alaska

A second way I realize a rewarding trip is to visit (and if possible, stay with) friends who are locals. Not only is this approach sometimes more financially practical, but it also acts as a bridge for learning. While understanding more about the place I visit, I learn more about my friend. I become familiar with their community, live their routines, and over time, clarify the background context that was previously foggy. For example, I visited a friend living in Washington D.C. in March. In July, I visited another friend, Sarah, in Ketchikan, Alaska.

I was already familiar with Sarah’s story before she moved to Ketchikan in June. We met working as baristas in Duluth two years ago. A couple of months into our budding friendship, we discovered that we were neighbors, living just three houses apart on the same hill. On days neither of us worked, we took trips up the North Shore, showing the other our favorite hiking trails and viewpoints.

We bonded in the car over childhoods marked by Taylor Swift, softball tournaments, and frigid high-school Nordic skiing practices. During those car trips, Sarah introduced me to Noah Kahan, Mt. Joy, and Mark Ambor: artists that now have secured spots in my Favorites playlist on Spotify.

When Sarah told me she was moving to Alaska to work as a sea kayaking guide, I was overwhelmed with a mix of emotion: pride in her courage to follow her dream down a non-traditional path; empathy for the two-sided coin of loneliness and self-determination that comes with that decision; excitement over this new chapter of unknown adventures; and sorrow for the upcoming months apart. I was also determined to visit her once she was settled in. She gave me an open invitation, and I wanted to follow through with it.

I booked the flights for early July. I planned to stay with her for a week and embrace all Ketchikan and her kayaking company had to offer me.

Sarah in downtown Ketchikan, Alaska

Ketchikan hosts cruise ships and tourists every day in peak season, but the passengers only get a few hours to explore downtown, see the Misty Fjords, or attend a guided tour. They get a catered taste of the captivating beauty of Southeast Alaska before moving on to the next scheduled stop. I was lucky to live the organized chaos of a sea kayaking guide for one whole week. By the end of my trip, I was an unofficial guide and member of the extremely unserious, fiercely compassionate, and impressively skilled family at Southeast Exposure.

Sarah picked me up from the airport wearing a tropical-themed swimsuit, shorts, and a white linen button-up shirt. She looked like she had just come from the beach, despite the temperature only rising to 70 degrees. Indeed, she had come from the company’s dock, where the other guides jumped gleefully into the freezing waters home to sea lions and jellyfish! I knew I was in for an adventure and would follow Sarah wherever she went, chasing stories and thereby discovering (for myself) Ketchikan’s deep culture.

After a tearful embrace in front of the well-loved red company van, we embarked on the thirty-minute drive to the company lodging and headquarters. The winding drive on the city’s only main road revealed misty panoramic views of interwoven forest green and sea blue that were bordered by commanding cliffs.

“I can’t believe it!” I exhaled in awe, “You get to live here and work here!”

Sarah laughed in agreement, completely relaxed at the wheel. It was easy to see that she was home. Ketchikan was where she was meant to be.

Hike to Perseverance Lake in the Tongass National Forest

I become the best version of myself when traveling. I take more risks, try things I never previously considered, and relinquish control to serendipity. Therefore, in Ketchikan, I was a yes-woman, chasing after every invitation to learn from and engage in the guiding community. What resulted from that vulnerability were opportunities I never could have predicted.

In the seven days in Alaska, I participated in every tour offered by Sarah’s company. I went zip lining for the first time; assisted in the set up and take down of kayaks and gear on rocky island shores and damp docks; drove a Zodiak boat (with guidance from one of Sarah’s coworkers); pursued a humpback whale bubble feeding in a tandem kayak with Sarah on a spontaneous girls’ early morning paddle; spotted sea stars, urchins, and moon jellyfish during low tide; gazed in adoration at soaring bald eagles, bobbing sea lions, and curious harbor seals; and departed on the incredible Misty Fjords tour with Sarah. Each adventure pulled at my heartstrings. I not only established a spiritual connection to the land and sea, but I also got to see a close friend at work in her dream role. Those are two gifts with no price tag.

Girls and theys dinner in downtown Ketchikan!

I rested, celebrated, and bonded with Sarah and her coworkers in the hours I was not a tourist. Together, we jumped off the dock into the Pacific, hiked to Perseverance Lake in the Tongass National Forest; played Risk and Werewolf after rotating family dinners; traded stories over bowls of charred salmon and french fries at Fish House and girl breakfasts at the 24-hour diner downtown; and roared in encouragement at each team’s performance in the company’s talent show. Despite the exhaustion of paddling for hours, chatting with tourists, and managing unpredictable schedules, free time was joyous and rejuvenating.

I did not want to leave Alaska, Sarah, and my new friends. In just one week, I found another home away from home in the family at Southeast Exposure. However, I know that the hardest goodbyes are proof that I maximized my time.

. . .

My hopeless romantic side was nurtured through lessons learned and affirmed in Ireland and Alaska. I rode the swells of emotion of coming and going of once-in-a-lifetime, I-can’t-make-this-up, unbelievable stories that are now etched in the lines of my journal and memory. My pen is at rest for now. But soon, I will pick it up once again for a new kind of adventure: my first year of full-time teaching.

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]]><![CDATA[Lessons from a long-term substitute teacher]]>Mon, 28 Apr 2025 21:53:31 GMThttps://www.journalofanevolvingteacher.com/blog/lessons-from-a-long-term-substitute-teacher

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I am in limbo.

I finally found those words in Duluth, the week after I finished my temporary teaching contract. For days, they escaped me as I drifted through sequential hours of unstructured time. I was out of my rhythm due to an abrupt ending to my routine. In spite of the grueling nature of the past three and a half months, I grew dependent on the series of alarms on my phone and accustomed to the dynamic flow of the school day. The swift cut off from miscellaneous responsibilities and expectations felt like whiplash. I slammed the breaks after pushing my limits for so long. I can still feel the momentum pulsing through me.

Duluth is my charging station. I find peace in standing on the shore of Lake Superior and staring across the sparkling deep blue waves at the horizon. Here, I feel safe turning the page on another life transition. I understand the worth of standing still instead of constantly pursuing the next thing, next job, next chapter. It is time to regulate with friends, breathe in nature, and process the valuable lessons gained from another intense experience.

So, for a few days, it was ok to not see the other side. My priority was reconnecting with girlfriends who fill my cup through their bubbling laughter. I regained my words on couches with them and footing while collecting sea glass over large layered stones with them. I discovered how to describe my current liminal state, and with time, I strung words together to write out the following lessons.

Teaching brings out my best and worst

I am vulnerable when I teach. I put everything on the line in the challenging pursuit that my students feel safe, heard, and motivated to learn. I am one of those first-year teachers who put in the extra hours before and after school. I am still learning the curriculum when I teach it; there is not enough time to master everything when everything is novel. Teaching brings out the best in my dedication but the worst in perfectionism and self-blame.

There is a lot of pressure placed on teachers surrounding our students’ performance. We set weekly and daily objectives for our lessons, but what happens when many of our students do not meet them? Therefore, I naturally feel guilty when a student expresses frustration, boredom, or angst in reaction to a lesson. There is a limit on how far I can extend the enticing carrot of an engaging lesson. Ultimately, I cannot grovel in every mistake or failed lesson. The fluid schedule of a school day does not allow time to process what happened.

That’s why I often felt like I was hit by a truck after taking that first deep breath in the sanctuary of my Subaru. In that single silent moment, the weight of the emotions felt, behaviors de-escalated, and questions answered compound. When I finally stop, to return to being just Meghan, all that was put on the back burner came to the surface. Often, this would result in a smile melting from my face and a release of procrastinated disappointment and anger. Existing in a roaring storm of emotion, I was at my most vulnerable. I threatened to fall into rumination: a cycle of negative thinking.

I resumed therapy in March. Two months into my job, I recognized the dark path I was treading toward with my mental health. I became pessimistic and defeatist. I struggled to find the good in each day. On my lowest days, I lacked any energy to care for myself. I could not sleep due to penetrating anxiety. In therapy, however, I found a space where I was understood, not judged. I found a therapist who is cognizant of the education system’s influence on my rumination. I did not have to explain the intricacies of my job – she had lived them herself. Together, we built a foundation for healing.

I became a teacher to lead and learn from future generations. To teach, I must put my best foot forward with intention, positivity, and kindness to both myself and my students. However, I must cultivate boundaries and balance in life to know where to set my foot on the path forward to tomorrow. I am still a work in progress. That will never change. Now, however, I am a work in progress reconciling with my natural imperfections.

The only thing you can control as a teacher is your self-regulation

I had a healing conversation with my friend Katie this weekend. We block off one day every month for each other to talk, wander, knit, and drink coffee. Katie is a first-year teacher with wisdom and creativity beyond her years. She is unapologetic, matter-of-fact, and an exemplary leader. Every time we talk, I learn something new. I listen to how she reacts to similar situations I have lived in both in and outside the classroom. She is a center of calm in my life: the type of figure I hope to be for my students. In our most recent conversation, she advised, “The only thing you can control as a teacher is your self-regulation,” over her iced banana mocha.

Every day as a long-term substitute teacher, this statement proved to be more true. I noticed how my reactions and attitude affected the tone of the room. In tense situations, the first-graders often looked to my reaction to gauge their own. When I was internally agitated, exhausted, or dysregulated, I learned to remind myself to pause and take a deep breath. When I needed more, I led a class reset, where we all silently put our heads down for a few minutes, discussed what was happening and how we were feeling, or followed a calm-down GoNoodle video. I openly communicated my feelings and intentions to my students. Children appreciate honesty.

I am still learning how to hold space for emotions in the classroom – both my own and my students’. Cultivating a calm and safe classroom environment is always a work in progress, especially when I make 1,500 decisions every day. It is and will always be my priority. When I am calm, students are more likely to feel safe and vulnerable to explore both their ideas and emotions. Therefore, putting in the work and time to add to my self-regulation toolkit through therapy, friends’ and colleagues’ modeling, and self-care outside of work (e.g. running) are not only beneficial to my pedagogy but my long-term health and stamina.

Long-term substitute teaching is different than regular classroom teaching

I thought long-term subbing would act as an immersive practice before leading my own classroom. That is why I first applied. In my years of experience as a paraprofessional, student teacher, and English teaching assistant, I was on the sidelines. To learn to be a teacher, I just had to take the leap and just do it – like being a baby otter thrown into the stream for the first time. Despite my intuition, I did not learn to swim until I threw myself into the stream.

Long-term subbing differs widely from regular classroom teaching, but especially on the topic of preparation for the position. Classroom teachers receive training on the systems and curriculum they interact with before their position begins. There is a transition period during which they set up their classrooms, meet their colleagues, and familiarize themselves with materials.

As a long-term sub, on the other hand, I just started teaching. (To read more about the start of my contract, click HERE.) I received no training. Moreover, due to the unexpected early start of my contract, the planned lessons from the host teacher were, unfortunately, irrelevant. That was the nature of the job – picking up where the host teacher left off. It was intense to learn on the fly while planning lessons for large-group reading, writing, and math in a class I barely knew.

Suddenly, I was the leader and had to establish authority. The first few weeks were rocky. I heavily depended on co-workers for guidance and encouragement. They gave me a sense of direction and affirmed the abnormality of my position.

Another difference between classroom teaching and long-term subbing is the level of control the teacher has over the classroom. When my position began in January, routines and systems were already well established. Although I built my own classroom culture, I built on top of what already existed. The students followed routines and a set way of learning (any irregularities were immediately called to my attention).

There were many things that I wanted to change but could not due to my interim position. I often grappled with these restraints when a classroom system did not align with my style (e.g. placement of a small-group table). Nonetheless, I integrated my own systems where appropriate, including class rules, a calm-down corner, transition song, and attention getters.

Teach in community

Teaching fosters co-dependency among colleagues. I cannot be successful alone; I rely on a team of professionals for insight, guidance, input, and collaboration. I feel successful when I am learning from others and acting on a team working towards a collaborative goal. As a long-term substitute teacher, I taught in community from day one. Over time, I built trusting relationships with the interventionists across the hall and my next-door first-grade neighbors.

We fell into a rhythm of greeting one another. Shivering against the February wintry wind, we caught up on spring break plans at extra recess. During prep period, we poked our heads into each other’s workspaces to ask questions. On Wednesday mornings, we carried our desktops, coffee thermoses, and stacks of copies into weekly team meetings to review the curriculum for the following week.

I valued and depended on our regular communication to guide my lesson planning and gauge my performance. My colleagues invited me into their circle and recognized what I contributed to the space where I was a guest. They confided in me and in return, affirmed me and attentively listened. They humanized themselves with their vulnerability and honesty. By the end of my contract period, I not only met new role models but partnered with them. I trusted them to observe me and critique me because they respected me. I belonged with them.

In a profession dedicated to serving others, teachers are often not allowed to be human. Teaching in community is healing. It is a grounding, safe space to feel – to express frustration, confusion, and exhaustion when we are expected to smile through it all. It is a liberating platform to problem solve and admit, “I don’t know. I need help.” I find myself constantly circling back to my school community. They were the team that cheered me on as I grew into the teacher I now know I can become. I am forever grateful for their kindness, teachings, and encouragement.

I cannot discuss teaching in community without mentioning families. While a long-term substitute, I prioritized partnership with my students’ caregivers. From the beginning, I communicated regularly through texts, emails, and newsletters. I sent photos of the students from throughout the school day. And, eventually, I called families to report positive and negative behavior and collaboratively brainstorm management strategies. (I will admit, calling families was terrifying every time!).

“The family is the child’s first teacher” was a principle drilled into me in college. Although I didn’t know exactly how or what to communicate with families, my goal was clear: invite them in as a partner in their child’s education. My confidence strengthened over time until one day, communication was intuitive. From the beginning, many of the families reciprocated my invitation. I recognize that my relationships with this class’s families were uniquely positive and respectful. Therefore, I am even more grateful for the support, patience, kindness, and collaboration exemplified by the grownups I had the privilege of partnering with. I will miss the community we built together dearly.

. . .

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river, and he’s not the same man.” Heraclitus

Three weeks after returning from Duluth, I watched my best friend graduate from college. I listened intently to one of the commencement speakers, a wise professor and beekeeper, compare the journey of gaining and changing perspective to the superorganism of bees. “You are one, and you are many,” she preached softly over the crowd. Although her message was directed towards the graduates, I clung to every word. I remember the feeling of sitting in my robes on the hard folding chair viscerally – my heart pumping with adrenaline for the moment but fear for the future. It beat the same heavy rhythm as I gazed down at my Soph, my best friend, in the 7th row of black and maroon.

Something in Soph shifted as she crossed the stage – she crossed the bridge from student to alumni. She was not the same as the Soph that entered the University of Minnesota in the peak of COVID-19. She was one and she was many – an individual existing in the community she found on campus. Turning the tassel, she commenced an intimidating new chapter of infinite possibilities. I embraced her tightly after it was done, beaming with pride. We held onto each other as if it were for survival because now, we were both floating in limbo.

I am ready to look up and forward now. I regained my words in Duluth. I found my footing along the Black Sand Beach skipping rocks, disturbing the lake’s serene surface. Rest empowered the first steps to visualize the other side, the future. I applied for multiple jobs across the Twin Cities both in dual-language Spanish immersion and in public kindergarten centers. I hope these stones I threw will skip to the next steps: an interview, a new job. But until then, I will wait while commencing my summer adventures to Ireland, to my best friend’s wedding, and once more to the shore of Lake Superior to run my first half marathon.

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]]><![CDATA[You start today!]]>Tue, 18 Feb 2025 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.journalofanevolvingteacher.com/blog/you-start-today

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“You start today.”

The news came two weeks early. I stood in the middle of a classroom in constant motion, the eye of a hurricane swirling with the momentum of eighteen six-year-old bodies. I was only supposed to substitute for the morning. I didn’t bring lunch. Would I just not eat? What about tomorrow? I don’t know where anything is. I’m supposed to be a calm stoic figure, a leader, the one who knows what comes next. Those three words spun my path, my direction. Where do I step now?

The school’s secretary was the messenger. She delivered it with a hypnotizing repose, her bouncy gray-blonde wavy hair brushing against her cheekbones when she smiled. For just a moment, we stood together in the quiet. She reassured me without a single word exchanged: "Make it through today. We’ll take on tomorrow when today is done." And I did.

. . .

My heart is finally at rest for the first time in three days.

I’m sitting at a table for four at a coffee shop surrounded by Cedar trees in Two Harbors. Soph, one of my childhood best friends, sits across from me at the wooden table that accentuates the artisan vibe. Expressionist panoramas of birch wood and thematic portraits of Lake Superior hang behind her.

She chats away about her current art inspirations and the new fantasy book covers she wants to collect. I relinquish myself to her passionate rabbit hole about the updated Percy Jackson series covers. We scroll on Amazon, and she names V.E. Schwab and Ann Liang as her favorite authors. I make a mental note to look them up when I get home.

She requires my full attention. If I falter, I lose my place in the conversation’s underground labyrinth of invented worlds. I follow along the best I can. But I am so happy. I forget, now over a hundred miles away from home, about the weight on my shoulders, the tightness in my chest going to bed, the heaviness behind my eyes.

Whenever I have been left alone to my thoughts this week, they cycle back to what lies waiting in the classroom for me on Monday morning. It is a constant game of throwing boomerangs – one I don’t want to play, but every time I turn away, I get thwapped! on the head of another thing to add to my to-do list.

But there is something about the North Shore that makes me forget. The distance, the separation, the quiet, the tranquility of the lake. I told Soph on the car ride from Duluth that winter in the North entices me to rest, cozy up by the fireplace, and drink chamomile tea while talking about our dreams and upcoming European getaways.

My creativity flows with the silenced rush of a frozen waterfall. The motivation that was buried deep during the work week bursts open through an opening in the ice, flooding my mind with renewed energy and ideas I scribble down in my phone’s notes app before I forget.

Forgetting: that’s been a looming fear of mine recently. The threat of forgetting a task, my past, or my community in Uruguay taunts me to tears. After coming home from school on Wednesday, I started to cry standing in the kitchen, winter coat hanging off of one shoulder. My lock screen of white roses covered in notifications of audio messages from Flor triggered the guilt of not initiating the next exchange. Mom ran towards me holding her hands out in desperation. Stop!

“Meghan, you are not going to forget,” she advised, her tone firm, gaze unwavering. I nodded my head in agreement, slightly stunned and blinking away tears. But she’s right: I am not going to forget. How can I?

In the past three days, my life has taken a 180 degree turn. I went from sleeping in until 9:00 a.m. every day to waking up at 5:30 or 6:00 a.m. I pivoted from not living by a schedule, most weekday afternoons spent at coffee shops or friends’ houses to working full time and coming home as the sun set. I was angry, really angry, at the carpet being ripped from under me. I lost my footing but had to gracefully regain it along with the responsibility of teaching mid-school year.

But no, this was what I signed up for. Who am I if not an expert in overcoming the unexpected?
Living abroad for eight months was nothing but preparation for this moment. But this unexpected change was different because it occurred at home in Minnesota, my base for comfort and familiarity. I was not prepared for the unexpected this time. Regardless I took the reins of the bucking horse and held steady.

Thwap over the head. Thwap over the head. Thwap over the head. I ground myself with gratitude in the supportive team and secretary that caught me from spiraling down the cycle of anxiety. They softened the blows. Despite the intense fear and deafening thoughts on the unlimited checklist I couldn’t fully picture, I know the unexpected happened in the best place.

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]]><![CDATA[The bumpy road of after]]>Fri, 10 Jan 2025 19:30:00 GMThttps://www.journalofanevolvingteacher.com/blog/the-bumpy-road-of-after

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Disclaimer
This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions.

There is a painfully unique loneliness I felt when moving back home after leaving another. No one else can ever understand what and who I left behind and what and who I was missing when I was gone. The only people who come close to understanding my mourning for my past life and longing for our home in Minnesota are my cousins who moved to Florida and California. Standing outside a neighborhood coffee shop, snow dusting the parking lot, we filled our lungs with the First Kiss apple crisp winter air. It cleansed them momentarily of the exhausting humidity of coastal summers and suffocating LA traffic.

The cold in the North is just, well, different. It is dry. It nips, tickles, and sometimes bites, refusing to let you go. It is playful when teasing the first snow of the season. Sometimes it plays rough with the wind that slaps my already rosy cheeks and crystallizes my soaking wet hair after a hot shower. You have to feel it and breathe it to know it. Usually, I take refuge from it. But on soft days, it coaxes me out with bright sunshine and sparkling frost on spruce tips and my car windshield, which I reluctantly scrape off with the double-ended brush every Minnesotan stores in their trunk. On those days, it is a sanctuary that invites me to breathe deep and lose myself walking in circles around a frozen lake. I come home in the crisp cold.

Being home feels, well, weird. I told my friends that my body is here, in Minnesota, but my mind is in Uruguay. In my mind, it is only a matter of time until I return to walk the Rambla at sunset, share a meal with Flor and Andrés, and sing Bruno Mars carpool karaoke in Mono’s car. And that holds some truth. But the whole truth is that those reencuentros will happen in a matter of months or years, rather than days or weeks.

Time’s passing is marked in my parents’ new blue and green lined dinner plates, friends’ engagements and job announcements, and shiny apartment complexes sprouting on freeway exits. They finally opened a sporting goods store in the former Herberger’s lot that remained empty for years. I scrolled through the 300 options of bridesmaid dresses for my best friend’s June wedding. Things that have remained the same my whole life suddenly changed overnight.

. . .

I cried when my dad hung Christmas ornaments on our ceiling-high artificial tree. Sitting on our wooden living room floor, I delicately rifled through organized boxes of ceramic Disney princesses and a photo ornament of me as a shepherd in a church preschool play. I became so accustomed to sharing new traditions with Uruguayans that the familiar ones now feel foreign. I imagined my friends gathering around the tree. Naty, Sofie, Juan, Mono, and Josefina would open worn ornament boxes and laugh at my baby pictures. Flor would use the step ladder to reach the tallest branches. Other friends would hover on the couch, laughing and passing mate in a circle. Afterward, we would dunk green and pink spritz cookies in milk and trade stories about Christmas traditions. I shivered in the absence of their warm presence.

“There is a before, and there is an after,” Ryan wisely advised me on one merienda phone call. I recognize the cutting truth in her words. Nothing is the same as it was before. Now, the stories and lessons from Uruguay are etched into my mind’s synapses. My brain is different. My heart has changed. This is the bumpy road of after.

. . .

Seeing Wicked in theaters!

I saw Wicked six days after arriving home. I cried, unsurprisingly, at the wistful story of two good friends learning to see eye to eye. The Ozdust ballroom dance sequence, however, plucked at my metaphorical heartstrings. When Elphaba begins dancing in the circle of Shiz students, she dances as herself. She is strange, whipping her arms around her head and throwing her cloak in a free but calculated style. Yet her dancing reveals her strength. And her beauty. She refuses to conform to a society that is intimated by anything different. The students’ whispers and chastising laughter fuel her static movements until suddenly they overwhelm her. As a tear rolls down her downcast cheeks, Galinda steps out of the crowd. She lights up the floor in a fluorescent sunset-hued floral dress. Everyone in the ballroom and theater holds their breath. Galinda, meeting Elphaba’s gaze, gracefully begins to dance, stepping her feet out to Elphaba’s rhythm. Galinda repeats Elphaba’s strange sequence with grace and steady hands. Then, she pushes her hands out to Elphaba’s, and together, they dance as mirrors to one another.

I was both Elphaba and Galinda when building international friendships. I was both the strange one and the one who followed the lead of my Uruguayan friends. I was the strange one when I asked my friends to take off their shoes before entering my apartment. I stood out for being tall, blonde, and foreign. When I arrived, I moved to a different, legato rhythm; my movements were smooth and uninterrupted. Would anyone accept me or see the strength and beauty in my boisterous laugh, relentless curiosity, and type-A personality?

Uruguayans not only accepted me, but they celebrated me as an individual, not a stereotype. They cared for me during carpool karaoke to Bruno Mars and spent evenings eating pizza while gushing over The Goblet of Fire. They listened and, together, we danced around kitchen tables and club lights.

Every day I stepped out of the crowd and watched my Uruguayan friends dance in brimming awe. They dance to a slower rhythm than I do. And they sway together, unhurried, as families, as friends, as a country. They are proud of their slowness. Tranqui. Their tedious, protective method of preparing mate is a dance in itself. Sitting on the beach with a soft breeze, everything slows down – their breathing, their subtle movements as they pour boiling water into the gourd. At asados, I raised my hands to theirs and together, we danced on patios and under parrilleros.

Our opposing rhythms enhanced the other. They are harmonious and balanced. As they listened intently, the styles of the others became secondary. We became better dancers, better friends, and better people by meeting each other halfway. Now, as we each move forward on the bumpy road of life after, we will continue dancing through life -- together.

. . .

White Christmas at Chanhassen Dinner Theaters

One of my favorite Christmas songs is from the 1954 movie, White Christmas. It is a lullaby with a wise lesson: “When you’re worried and you can’t sleep, just count your blessings instead of sheep. And you’ll fall asleep counting your blessings.”

Coming home for the holidays comes with its own baggage of worries. But my blessings are plentiful. They live in every friend, mentor, student, and person whose life has touched mine. Together, the individual invisible strings create a web —a fierce international family fused by love and curiosity. So when I am worried and I can’t sleep, I count my blessings. Because every time I close my eyes, I see their smiling faces, and suddenly, nothing else matters. I am home again.

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]]><![CDATA[Playing with the gift of time in November]]>Mon, 30 Dec 2024 14:00:00 GMThttps://www.journalofanevolvingteacher.com/blog/playing-with-the-gift-of-time-in-november

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“Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back everything is different?”
C.S. Lewis

. . .

I chase after time as desperately as I chased the falling maple leaves in my backyard as a child. This tree began as a sapling that my great-grandfather planted in 1957. It grew into my home’s stoic shelter. Its winding branches slowly breached the barriers of my neighbors’ yards. For decades, it was the largest tree on the block. We, my grandparents and parents, never tapped sap from it. I don’t know why. However, the grand Maple selflessly offered other seasonal gifts. Its branches gifted shade in the summer for patio cookouts. Its trunk and roots served as first base in fourth-of-July wiffle ball tournaments. The fly balls my cousin and I hit into the Maple’s outstretched arms were always returned.

Every autumn, our strong and playful Maple tree released thousands of amber yellow leaves. They fell in bursts and trickles, swirling in the same formation as their helicopter-shaped seeds in the crisp wind. As a little girl, I accepted this invitation wearing a purple fleece jacket, jeans, and thick-toed Keen shoes. I sprinted from one side of the yard to the other. I circled the tree countless times, chasing the leaves as they spiraled down. I giggled in delight as I dove for my next amber gift. The leaves slipped through my fingers every time. It appeared the Maple would win the game.

But I tied the score when it was time to rake the leaves. Mom and Dad would divide and conquer the yard, piling the yellows into vibrant piles that burned like fire under a clear sky.

Then came my favorite part. My parents gestured me to the starting line across the yard. They put a stray stick down on the lawn in front of the aisle of arborvitae evergreen bushes that shaded pesky weeds Mom pulled every humid summer. I lined my feet up behind the stick and bent my knees as I had seen Olympic track runners do. I imagined the cartoon cloud of dust building up around me as I revved myself up for the sprint. The sun broke through the maple’s apertures and illuminated my path.

“Ready, set, go!” my parents announced. I skipped with glee on the first step before gaining my footing. I ran into the fire with a blazing smile on my face.

I flung my arms around the pile, squeezing the leaves close to smell the dirt and wet grass. The stems poked through the fleece that covered my arms. The pointed edges gently tickled my neck. Mom and Dad joined me, throwing up the leaves above my head, so I had another chance to catch them. I caught some leaves that time. Others got caught in my short platinum blond hair. The stems were braided together to form a crown. I felt like an autumn princess. I was the champion.

I am determined to capture one more amber leaf — one more memory. Each one has its storyline written out in the venation. The beginning, middle, and end are plotted in its patterned veins. So each reunion that falls through, each cancellation is a potential memory slipping through my fingers. It is a loss of something I never possessed. When I was little, I brushed off the loss of a leaf. But now, I mourn the loss of potential.

Playing with time is a game. Unlike leaves, time will never stop, drop, and pile at my feet. It is forever moving. Time offers a continuous chase. Well, that is until the time is up. I am worried that I will run in circles, chasing memories until it is too late.

However, time is a gift as well as a game. This November, time gifted me a crispy handful of spectacular memories. I cultivated my own leaf pile through photos and journal entries. I will enjoy the memories I can catch and forgive the ones I cannot.

The last candid photographs, stories, and memories are framed in maple leaf stencils. Grains of syrup sugar sparkle on their surface, giving the illusion that the stills are alive:

I see Flor covering her rainbow marshmallow-stained lips when she tried her first s’more. She stifles a laugh as the chocolate and honey graham crackers melt together on her tongue.
I stood proudly next to the U.S. ambassador on a blindingly humid Wednesday. To her, it was just another Wednesday.
Picture this: a table covered in waxy paper and golden homemade Uruguayan sweets: torta frita, espejitos, and ojitos with marachino cherry red jam. There is plenty of sugar and Coke—a sweet surprise sendoff orchestrated by my big-hearted seventh-grade students. Uruguayan and American flags crisscross on the whiteboard, sending the message, “We don’t believe in goodbyes. This is a see you later.”
I admire the decorative stands of my high school’s unusual job fair. They form a circle of bubble letters, construction paper, and quirky game prompts. It is a classic Uruguayan gathering: it is almost impossible to hear any individual voice in the roar of criss-crossing excitement. The seniors, dressed in runny eyeliner, face paint, and dress shirts, giddily gabble to their classmates who file into the hall. They are golf ball divers, mortuary cosmetologists, pet food testers, and professional huggers. They unify with purpose, joy, and relief that the project has ended. The cacophony of overlapping presentations overwhelms me, but still, I smile with pride. Hopefully, this is a memory, an English memory, none of us will forget.

The bountiful goodbyes are stacked into their distinct pile, sorted into three glittering categories:

First, the goodbyes to my Uruguayan family – my beautiful, funny, wise, and just, well, fun family – were painfully unique. I will never forget their names, but for the sake of longevity I will memorialize them here: Flor, Andrés, Agustina, Carina, Valentina, Simone, Noe, Naty, Nico, Ceci, Mirtha, Ceci, Mono, Juan, Sofie, Jose, Luciana, Nico, Carolina, Sol, Paloma, Alex, Mandy, Ryan, August, Denisha, Jacqueline, Sam, Brody, and Jack.

Second, the goodbye to independence. My first solo apartment with a balcony by the sea was an agonizing, sometimes lonesome, but altogether whimsical ride. Although going back to the things before, to my parents’ house, feels like a step backward, it is not. It is a sidestep, an opportunity to rest, reflect, and reset.

Finally, the goodbye to reality, to the home I had built and loved. Everything I worked for, every relationship nurtured, everything foreign transformed into second nature came to a sudden end. I fell in love with Uruguay, it’s true. Turning away from anything or anyone I love feels like a betrayal. Moving on feels as impossible as returning to the way things were before. But just like the end of any great love, I walk away with lessons, memories, and stories that fill two full journals pages. La Rambla, the incomparably breathtaking sunsets, steaming mate and its sacred preparation, the trademark kilogram tubs of dulce de leche in Andrés’s fridge now decorated with polaroid photos of our trio, the tranqui lifestyle, the rolling hills of Minas and Maldonado, and conversations that lasted until dawn are the main characters in a love story set in río de pajaros pintados: the river of painted birds.

In one month, my castle of familiarity slowly crumbled to the ground until all that was left was me in the center of the debris of scattered living memories. I was heartbroken, but I was never alone. Goodbyes, however painful, are never solitary. I boarded the plane home with pools of tears in my eyes. I let them fall in rivers of their own down to my chin. As I watched the cityscape disappear beneath the clouds, I was overcome with a comforting realization: I mourn now because, for eight spectacular months of chasing memories, I was happy. I was so happy.

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]]><![CDATA[A silly, sugar-crazed, sometimes scary day of togetherness]]>Tue, 19 Nov 2024 13:00:00 GMThttps://www.journalofanevolvingteacher.com/blog/a-silly-sugar-crazed-sometimes-scary-day-of-togetherness

Halloween costumes at the La Pedrera primary school! From left: My student, Freddy as Anxiety; my mentor, Noelia, as a witch; Agustina as Disgust; me as Linus from It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown; and Flor as Sadness.

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Minnesotan families added extra layers of snow pants and hats to their children’s Halloween costumes this year. It snowed once again – a haunting reminder of the 1999 Halloween blizzard. College kids and twenty-somethings dressed in fishnet stockings, sparkling eyeshadow, and comfortable walking shoes went bar-hopping on the bordering weekends. They nursed the next-day hangovers with Jack Skelington, Coraline, and the Hocus Pocus witches on living-room couches. Halloween was a silly, sugar-crazed, and sometimes scary day of togetherness.

Meanwhile, Mom and Dad prepared jack-o-lanterns and set goofy decorations on our front porch. The corny fortune-teller mirror surprised the jumpy neighborhood children with goofy predictions of chocolate in their near future. The disco-light ghost beckoned trick-or-treaters up our dark driveway. Dad rationed the Twix, M&Ms, Milky Way, Hershey’s, or Snickers candy Mom bought in a Target bag bundle. Two pieces for each of the 30 trick-or-treaters – a record high! Mom and Dad dressed up as referees for their friend’s Halloween party; they always coordinated costumes.

Halloween is an excuse to gather, play dress-up, and indulge in handfuls of your favorite childhood sweets. If I were home, I would sneak a package of M&Ms and a Hershey’s bar from our trick-or-treat bowl when Dad wasn’t watching. Spooky season foreshadows the end of fall and the beginning of the holiday season. (Don’t worry, I haven’t started listening to Christmas music yet.) By the end of October, the trees are bare of their fluorescent-colored leaves. Traditions pull people out of the glum gutter. Decorations and costumes transform an otherwise dull seasonal transition into a liberating evening of self-expression and screams. Yes, Halloween is consumerist, but it is also comforting. That’s why I chose to celebrate it even in Uruguay.

Unlike some folks back home, Uruguayans naturally gather. Togetherness is a tradition written into their cultural code. Convivencia — a term from the co-existence of religious groups in Spain – means “living together” and speaks to Uruguayans’ collectivism. Sundays are reserved for family. Mate is universally understood to taste better when shared with others. Love is expressed through spontaneous invitations to a night out that will persist past dawn. Therefore, the rarity of reunions and their associated traditions in the U.S. is lost on Uruguayans. Besides, they have their own bigger 40-day version of Halloween at the end of January: Carnaval.

Most Uruguayans, therefore, prefer not to celebrate Halloween. However, I aspired to share the comfort in a community at the end of every October. Halloween traditions are easily replicable thanks to globalization. Spooky decorations are now readily available in Uruguayan grocery stores. Imported candy brands line the supermarket shelves. So, I bought packets of KitKats, M&Ms, Snickers, and Twix to put in a plastic trick-or-treat basket. I picked up cheap cobweb decorations and an oversized t-shirt for my costume. Halloween transfigured into a sickly sweet avenue of cultural exchange in brick university classrooms and Flor’s living room.

A spectacular Halloween party is defined by overflowing bundles of candy, themed playlists of Halloween temazos (bops), corny and reusable decorations, and of course, costumes. On Halloween Eve, Flor and I hung the $1 “Happy Halloween” sign from her living-room curtain rods and the pull-apart cobwebs from the light fixtures. “Monster Mash” and “Ghostbusters” blasted through the Bluetooth speaker as our friend, Agustina, and her boyfriend, Andrés, took turns painting their faces at the kitchen table. We pushed aside the mountain of Argentinian gummies and chocolates to make room for makeup brushes. Loki, Flor’s white cat, floated in and out of the living room, curious like Casper, the friendly ghost.

Uruguayan Halloween traditions: candy swap, themed costumes, decorations to be re-used in the following years, charades, and a photoshoot!

It was Andrés’s idea to dress up as Intensamente (Inside Out) characters. I was Riley (obvio, obviously), Andrés was Anger, Flor was Sadness, and Agustina was Disgust. In It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown, a cinematic window into Halloween traditions, Lucy decrees, “A person must choose a costume that is in direct contrast with their personality.” Clearly, the Argentinians and Uruguayans understood the assignment. I, on the other hand, did not. Riley and I are strikingly similar: blonde, white, sometimes awkward Minnesotan girls with goofball islands in our emotional control center. My costume required minimal effort (besides struggling to hold a hockey stick correctly – I never liked the sport).

We created our own Halloween traditions in Flor’s living room: playing charades, enjoying Andrés’s homemade pizza, posing for a photo shoot by the motorcycle, and walking under the midnight starlit La Paloma sky. I showed my friends photos of my Simba and Mouse Halloween costumes from elementary school. I explained how my Mom encouraged sustainable habits during the consumerist holiday.

My U.S. Halloween traditions: jack-o-lanterns, "haunted" miniature tree, and homemade costumes

Looking at the photos, I remembered Mom sitting behind her white sewing machine at the kitchen table. She made most of my costumes by hand out of soft fleece. As my friends crowded around my phone, I recounted how Mom and Dad still reuse the same decorations, such as the “haunted” miniature tree we have placed on our kitchen table for as long as I can remember. Little s’more people dangle from its twisted black branches wearing Halloween costumes. Agustina and Flor chuckled at the stories of my youth. “In Uruguay and Argentina, we do whatever we can to not spend money.” That isanother reason Halloween may not appeal to families south of the equator: it is simply beyond their budget.

I failed to re-enact many Halloween traditions this year. I did not go trick-or-treating (and who says I’m too big for it, anyway?), I did not carve a jack-o-lantern with my Dad. I did not bake pumpkin seeds or pumpkin cream cheese muffins. However, I replicated the most important one: the tradition of togetherness. This tradition requires no federal holiday or excuse to dress up in costumes. It is, at least in Uruguay, effortlessly replicable. Mate at sunset, long car rides, soccer games, gossip over late afternoon coffee and alfajores, and walks along La Rambla are recommended additions. But undivided attention to loved ones is the only requirement. This Halloween taught me the bare necessities of convivencia – and that everything is still better with chocolate.

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El camino es la recompensa. The way is the reward.

]]><![CDATA[A serendipitous story under stage lights]]>Tue, 12 Nov 2024 13:00:00 GMThttps://www.journalofanevolvingteacher.com/blog/a-serendipitous-story-under-stage-lights

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Disclaimer

This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions.

Paul McCartney and I stood feet away under the cover of stars and stage lights. A chain of implausible coincidences led me to the second row of his sold-out show in Montevideo on October 1st. There was no time, however, to question this fantastical reality. So, I lived the serendipitous story as it was written. Now, a month later, I can finally tell it.

Valentina picked me up at 3:15 p.m. on the day of the concert. From the passenger seat of her car, I admired the countryside and montañitas de Pan de Azúcar. The spectacular view of rolling hills was more breathtaking when unobstructed by a bus windshield. Uruguay’s beauty continues to surprise me. Although I had traveled this path several times in the past, I was seeing it again with a new perspective. The Montevideo department border crossing was my platform 9 ¾ to an extraordinarily unforgettable evening.

Valentina ignored the map’s navigation and took an atajo (shortcut) along La Rambla. We drove parallel to the famous walking path, which stretched for 22 kilometers and was reminiscent of the tree-sheltered bike path in Stillwater, Minnesota. Rows of meadow-green trees shaded the first stretch of the path. There is no clear start to La Rambla. It simply appears as if it were a part of the land.

We blasted Paul McCartney and Beatles songs for the whole trip. I did not know most of them, but I tuned into the sing-a-long of “Hey Jude” and “Eleanor Rigby.” Valentina and I swayed in our seats as the car swayed through intercity traffic. Valentina knew all the words to almost every song. As we wrapped around La Rambla, she told me that she saved her quinceñera gift money to go to her first McCartney concert. This once-in-a-lifetime Tuesday-night opportunity grew more intimate with Valentina’s stories. She was a superfan well-versed in the magic of witnessing Paul McCartney in concert.

Uruguayans arrived uncharacteristically early to beat the lines around the Centenario Stadium. Valentina and I passed families in tour merchandise clutching their termos and slurping mate to keep warm in the cool night air. When we entered the stadium, I was overwhelmed by the view of the stage. Paul McCartney was a stoic star shimmering in the galactic magnifying screens. An impressive soundstage covered the campo (soccer field). I squealed, trying to soak up my first reactions to the stage in the iconic stadium. (Uruguay’s Centenario Stadium was the first to host the FIFA World Cup!). Each step further ignited my anticipation.

Valentina and I walked around the standing-room section of the venue. We were determined to find the best vantage point on the stage. After settling in the far left corner of the section, two people with nametags and dressed in black approached us. They revealed that Paul McCartney was surprising some young fans with courtesy seat upgrades. Valentina and I were two of those lucky fans! The news came as unexpectedly as a Taylor Swift bridge. We erupted with fangirling babble. “How can this be happening?!”

The representatives waved us through the security blockades until we reached the section of rows closest to the stage. The stage lights welcomed us into the VIP section in a navy blue haze. Valentina and I showed our new tickets to a young staff member who quickly escorted us to our seats in the second row. Yes, the second row! The fence that separated the audience from the stage was within arms reach. Everything —the stage, the opening Uruguayan musicians, the colorful hippie 60s-inspired backdrops— was crystal clear in my field of vision.

Looking forward, I almost forgot I stood among over 60,000 people. The first few rows existed in their fanatic world. We, a lucky couple of dozen, tasted aristocracy in the presence of Uruguayan pop stars and former Argentinian presidents. The intimate immediacy was palpable.

Thousands of recording phones greeted Paul when he came on stage. Valentina joined the crowd, grinning ear to ear. Paul McCartney’s realistic appearance confounded me. He is 82 years old, after all. But his stage presence was undeniably strong. He proved to be a timeless legend.

Paul greeted the audience, “Hola Uruguayos” purposefully pronouncing “Uruguashos” in the local accent. He spoke the audience’s language. I did not know most of the songs he performed, but he spoke my languages too: English and nostalgia. I was immediately charmed by this former heartthrob and his thick British accent, grandpa dance moves, and tributes to George Harrison and John Lennon.

I belted the lyrics to the songs I knew. I swayed to the soothing rhythm of “Hey Jude” with my phone flashlight held high. I turned around and saw a sea of constellatory flashlights on the horizon of a hazy night sky. I jumped -- along with the sensitive erupting crowd around me -- when the final fire display boomed. Valentina and I could feel the heat of the fire on our faces. Thank goodness I remembered my earplugs.

The concert concluded with a plume of smoke and confetti in the colors of the Uruguayan flag: blue, white, and yellow. I picked three pieces out of the air with the giddy thrill of catching snowflakes on my tongue. The confetti is a memento of an unforgettable night. I carry them in my Italian-countryside-themed phone case. The memory of stage lights and stars is always within reach. Every time I touch them, I remember when a British sensation lit up the night sky of my little corner of the world.

Thank you for the lights, Paul. Long may you shine.

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I spend at least three hours on every blog post, from writing the first draft to creating accompanying graphics for social media. Your small contribution will compensate for all the work that makes this blog possible. Thank you!

Venmo

@journalofanevolvingteacher

El camino es la recompensa. The way is the reward.

]]><![CDATA[My pop-up memory book of Fray Bentos]]>Wed, 06 Nov 2024 13:00:00 GMThttps://www.journalofanevolvingteacher.com/blog/my-pop-up-memory-book-of-fray-bentos

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I observe the rolling green countryside on a cross-country road trip to Fray Bentos: a small city on the western border near the Uruguay River. I notice the pumpkin-orange curtains hanging from the COT bus windows. The shadows that play in their folds become a Jack-o-lantern face. I see two large squares above a curved mouth when the steady October sun penetrates the cinched fabric. The face disappears all too soon with the shifting wind and road. Spring is in full swing.

I queue Taylor Swift’s Red, a quintessential autumnal album, as the bus passes manicured fields of dandelion yellow. The landscape reminds me of the sweet-corn yellow pastures back home. Memories of corn mazes, corn on the cob dripping with spray butter and pepper, and Dad spraying our dandelion-littered front lawn with weed killer every time he mowed the grass.

I write metaphorical bridges between the unfamiliar and nostalgia. However, I cannot build bridges for every unfamiliar thing I encounter. Novelty is beautifully incomparable by nature. And my visit to Fray Bentos was one-of-a-kind.

Ryan, a fellow ETA and Fulbrighter, moved to Fray Bentos just days before my move to Maldonado. We both moved to the “interior” of Uruguay. However, Ryan’s tranquil campo (rural) lifestyle by the river severely contrasted with my beachside lifestyle in a mini-metropolis. From the quiet refuge of my one-bedroom apartment, I listened to Ryan recount the latest updates about her five roommates living in a student residence. Belén, Selina, Lucas, and the two Vitos became important figures in our regular check-in video calls. They were the main characters featured in Ryan’s dramatic — and sometimes scandalous — stories of residence life.

I became more eager to visit with each video call. I wanted to meet Selina and see how fast she really speaks in Spanish. I hoped to observe Belén’s motherly presence in the kitchen where Selina set up a blind date for her dog, Bella. Moreover, I ached to visualize Ryan’s daily life in Fray Bentos in three dimensions. I wanted to understand her campo life so that on the next video call, I could open my memory like a pop-up book. I could trace my finger down the main 18 de Julio street to all the landmarks featured in our conversations. Ryan’s favorite panadería, her gym, and the el Dorado grocery store would materialize before my eyes.

The buzzing anticipation I felt on the bus ride to Fray Bentos was as invigorating as any homecoming. My heartbeat quickened as the quaint brick-and-mortar houses etched closer in the lime-green fields. Looking at the disassociated faces of sheep and cattle, I wondered if Ryan’s heart skipped too when she first entered the capital of Río Negro. I smiled at elderly people sitting in flimsy plastic chairs on their shaded front porches. I was charmed by the small-town welcome committee.

I saw Ryan’s trademark enchanting smile through the glass doors of the bus terminal. She had waited inside to surprise me with cinnamon rolls and a baguette from Panchetto, the panadería. I think I squealed in disbelief. Our reunion was a blur of emotions, really.

The kitchen table at her residence was a sacred gathering place. Across the table and in front of the windows, Belén and one of the Vitos sat in summer clothes. The hot spring sun jumped off the bright seafoam green cupboards, but the kitchen sheltered us from the worst. Bella sat at my feet under the wooden table, occasionally bopping my hand with her wet nose for a belly rub. Ryan started slicing the baguette and cinnamon roll on the plastic tablecloth patterned with coffee-brown, white, and dirty-blonde yellow.

Eventually, Lucas joined us for mango tea to accompany the salty-and-sweet merienda. The food and tea kept my hands busy. I listened attentively to the roommates spill their stories in their thick campo accents. Vitto moved to stand behind Belén to straighten her thick hair for a three-day birthday party out of town. The image of Vitto precisely separating Belén’s hair as Belén laughs at one of Lucas’s jokes materializes every time I recall my kitchen initiation. Our conversation continued until Belén’s hair was stick straight.

The pace picked up when the sun set. The roommates scrambled to organize their duffle bags, which were packed with an unnecessary number of outfit changes. When they left, Ryan and I contaminated the pure, humid air with English conversations.

Uruguayans clap in gratitude when the sun sets. Sunsets are, after all, the ideal setting for new memories. The sunset on the second day beckoned me, Ryan, and her mentors out of our kitchen-table sanctuaries. Ryan and I didn’t change out of our baggy t-shirt pajamas until the sky was tinted with cotton candy pinks and creamsicle oranges.

That afternoon, I learned how to have a lot of fun with very little. In Fray Bentos, external entertainment is scarce. The perfect campo outing is defined by a long directionless car ride followed by mate at sunset. Ryan’s mentors, Carla and Rossana, invited us to coast along the tranquil Uruguay River shoreline in Carla’s Volkswagen. We rolled down the windows and watched city landmarks pass by. Rossana shared passionate back-seat anecdotes about her hometown. The beautiful dilapidated UNESCO World Heritage meat packing plant loomed over the riverside walking path where Ryan and I strolled the night before, bottles of orange-peach Salus water cooling our warm hands.

Looking out the backseat window, I flipped the page on my pop-up book to make room for a new chapter of mental souvenirs. Purple flower-studded hills welcomed our group to Las Cañas. This white-sand beach locality is located eight kilometers out of the main city, over the bridge where the livestock and stream anglers coincide. Eventually, Carla parked the car and we settled on a cement bench that marked the divide between grass and sand. Casual magic sparkled everywhere.

The magic reflected off Rossana’s bombilla as she passed her mate around our makeshift circle. It smelled of fresh lemon grass — Rossana’s special touch. My martin fierro croissant from Panchetto oozed with an elixir of melted cheese and red jam. The golden sun broke through low-hanging tree branches on the beach's border. Ryan’s flyaway curls became a blazing halo in the fractured light.

Finally, the magic glowed in the curious eyes of a five-year-old girl playing on the beach. Ryan and I were instantly charmed by her laugh and mature storytelling about the origin of her name. We were swept up by sandcastles and imaginary play at twilight. When it grew too dark to play at the water’s edge, she introduced us to her family who were gathered up the beach on lawn chairs. She used her step-father’s photography light stick to tell scary stories and lead a cumbia dance party. She buried our feet in the sand to procrastinate the inevitable goodbyes.

Ryan was my bridge between the unfamiliarity and nostalgia in Fray Bentos. She was a steady presence as we flitted between old and new. I felt safe in the sanctuary of American breakfasts that burdened the kitchen table. Through mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and toast soaked in jam, we confessed fears and feelings of impending endings. As the coffee turned cold, we shared stories of roommates' past and daydreamed of future reunions in our respective hometowns.

People are my vessels to connect with unfamiliar destinations. An immediate intimacy is cultivated because I see strange streets through the eyes of a friend. Sharing a weekend in Ryan’s life was one of the greatest gifts and lessons I have received in my seven months in Uruguay. I practiced her traditions, I met her people, and I followed her go-with-the-flow routines. On that humid campo weekend, Ryan welcomed me home through the comfort of banana-pancake breakfasts. She held my hand through the novelty of quick-witted, fast-paced Spanish conversations with Vitto and Belén at the sacred kitchen table. On the bus ride home to Maldonado, I closed my eyes and flipped through my pop-up memory book of Fray Bentos.

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Venmo

El camino es la recompensa. The way is the reward.

]]><![CDATA[A series of September homecomings]]>Tue, 08 Oct 2024 12:30:00 GMThttps://www.journalofanevolvingteacher.com/blog/a-series-of-september-homecomings

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Disclaimer

This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions.

“When I stepped into your apartment in Maldonado, it felt like coming home from college. I could finally relax and be completely myself.”

Ryan’s hair is lightly dripping from a hot shower. Her computer sits on the TV stand in my living room, paused on the opening credits of a Ted Lasso season finale. The lamplight casts a warm glow on her smiling face. There is no tension in her smile lines that crinkle next to her eyes. Instead, her face is soft behind her tortoise shell glasses frames. She is relaxed, rejuvenated by the waterfall shower and the relief of speaking her native language with a good friend.

She leans back on the soft white cushions, legs extended. Her hands cuddle her tea cup. She closes her eyes, relishing the quiet of my apartment and the elegance of the marble countertops in my kitchen. I understand her bliss. Here, she can come home to English conversations, Ted Lasso episodes, and heavy breakfasts with addictive jam and curry hummus. Her barricade of self-expression is alleviated.

I invite her to optimize my apartment’s sanctuary. We take turns cooking breakfast, doing the dishes, and sipping coffee while gossiping about our busy social lives. On the first evening of our sleepover, Ryan and I snuggle on the couch with our hot apple-mango tea. We laugh effortlessly over Ted Lasso jokes and sigh in collective closure, “Ah, such a good episode!”

We decide to go to bed early because we can. Leaning against the pillows, we sit in silence for thirty minutes before turning off my nightstand light. The only noise is my pen scribbling against my journal paper. Next to me, Ryan fluidly types on her phone, occasionally stopping to tuck a strangling ringlet of her red curly hair behind her ear. She is more diligent at journaling than me. I miss my fair share of entries, but Ryan? She hasn’t missed a day since last November. After some time, she puts down her phone and lies on her side, facing away from me.

I lift my pen from the paper. I must pause to feel the peace of sharing space with Ryan. She doesn’t realize that I came home in her tight embrace in the Maldonado bus terminal. Her visit offered a sweet serving of mutual homecoming, with a cherry on top.

I am extremely privileged to receive and be given the gift of coming home in the presence of friends.
In September, I relived the sentiment of college homecomings in all three of my Uruguayan homes.

homecoming traditions between Minnesota and Uruguay

Left: apple orchard tradition with Alicia. Right: breakfast tradition with Flor in La Paloma

It’s hard to believe that the fall colors are reaching their peak back home in Minnesota. Meanwhile, I am starting to tan from all the time in the warm sun by the beach of summer vacationers’ dreams.

Shorts season is just beginning in Maldonado as Minnesotans pull their warmer layers out of storage. Spring flowers in bright whites, sunset oranges, and fluorescent pinks shimmer under an unwavering blue sky. They contrast the earthy tones of pumpkin oranges, Honeycrisp apple reds, cinnamon and cardamom browns that I associate with the change of Minnesota season and tradition. The transition from State Fair to apple picking. From Fourth-of-July potlucks and lake weekends to friend-group reunions carving pumpkins, baking butternut squash with maple syrup, decorating cookies, and setting up Halloween decorations. Sabrina Carpenter and Chappel Roan summer evolves into autumnal movies and TV shows: Over the Garden Wall, When Harry Met Sally, and Gilmore Girls.

Bean and Bear Lake in Beaver Bay, Minnesota

I miss home and its breathtaking bluff vistas more than ever. There will be no trick-or-treating this year, no hikes Bean and Bear Lake and Tettegouche State Park. There will not be an annual trek to Pine Tree Apple Orchard with Alicia where we choose the heaviest pumpkins in the patch to lug home in our Subarus. There will be no in-person birthday celebrations for my two found sisters: two more milestones I will sacrifice.

My life changed after my first asado, my first mate on the beach, my first Uruguayan night out until 6:00 am. I nurtured new traditions in Uruguay and within my dispersed communities. I cherish the tradition of Saturday night bowling and pool with my UTU friends. I ache to return to La Paloma on Wednesday evenings. Flor awaits me to continue our tradition of watching Gilmore Girls while eating frozen salchichón and Margherita pizza on my makeshift sofa bed. Valentina and I pounce on any excuse to return to la Curandería, a hippy vegetarian restaurant in Maldonado. We wonder which music group we’ll listen to next on their live music sound stage illuminated only by twinkle lights. It never disappoints – the food, the wine, or the music. We always share the sizzling provolone with sun-dried tomatoes and peanuts. It is our tradition. It is unbreakable. It is predictable.

Minnesota weather is reliably unpredictable. However, I know that autumn will return due to its cyclical schedule. Missing one season of predictable comforts for a season of unexpected new traditions is worth it. Each night out, night in, serving of mate, and breakfast conversation on my balcony is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. When in Minnesota, I never thought to document my traditions in my journal. They were always going to return to be experienced the next year. Here, however, I filled four pages in my journal each September day. I didn’t want to forget anything. I memorialized everything. Each repetition of a tradition could very well be the last one.

. . .

Sharing mate with Valentina in Punta del Este

I am still learning the delicate rules of mate: how to prepare it, how to serve it, how to pass it, how to receive it. Thankfully, I still have two months to learn the rules. Two more months to nurture traditions. When I return home, I will show my loved ones what I learned. I will show them the peace in coexistence that mate inspires. I will warn them against burning their lips against the hot metal bombilla. I will teach them the patience required at each step. I will demonstrate the gentle cradling of the yerba to create a little mountain, a montañita. I will share a tradition that was shared generously with me. Perhaps I’ll carry my packed matera on a hike? An offering of a mate is an invitation to tranquility. It is a bitter (and sometimes sweet with added sugar or orange peel) taste of Uruguay.

A Montevideo homecoming

Ryan and me in the Plaza de Independencia in front of Palacio Salvo

Ryan and I decided to stay in Uruguay for spring break. Yes, spring break occurs in September, not March (for the Minnesotans). Most teacher training centers get the week off while liceo (public high school) and primary gets only a few days off. Ultimately, we chose to reconnect with each other and our community. We chose to rest with our chosen family. For three days, we shared countless memories over stimulating food (recommended by Mandy, our local Montevideo expert) and music.

We made time for (almost) everyone in our ever expanding social circles. From Alex, a waiter at our favorite restaurant, Atorrante, to George, the Scottish bartender at an English theater-basement pub. I even met some new friends! The potential of serendipity is limitless.

Whenever I return to Montevideo, I slip back into routine. Therefore, I am home. I navigate the bus system, the menus of my favorite cafes, and the path to Palacio Salvo with muscle memory. The daily hum of people flowing to and from work energizes me like the buzzing glow of a neon “Open” sign. The birdsong in the Sycamore trees is the soundtrack of a new spring day.

The streets smell like rain, fried masa, and yes, garbage. I won’t sugarcoat Montevideo too much. Just a spoonful of sugar will do. It was my home for three months, after all. And it is dirty. Litter is as omnipresent as pigeons or the local reddish brown hornero birds that make their homes in street lights. The sidewalks are as cracked and overlapped as tectonic plates. But the aromas of fresh-baked empanadas, focaccia bread, homemade pesto pasta, merienda scones with jam, and scrambled eggs at brunch are the sensory siren songs that coax me back to the port.

September spring break in Montevideo was another homecoming. Familiarity greeted me with the smiles on my friends' faces. Time took its time, as it does in Uruguay. Instead of being measured in hours, it was measured in change of topic or location. I lost count of the number of times friends and I joked, “How did we get here?” in conversation. We got lost together in the intoxicating atmosphere of reunion. Don’t ask me how long the meals or meriendas lasted. I couldn’t tell you. I was too preoccupied with the topic of togetherness to check the time.

Cooking spritz Christmas cookies on a winter break trip home from college (2022)

When coming home while I was in college, I looked forward to being cared for by my parents. For a few blissful days, I was more careless about chores. My dad cooked steaming plates of fried eggs and pesto pasta for me. My mom and I snuggled on the coach to watch Gilmore Girls while dunking a shared package of graham crackers in milk as an afternoon snack. Precious traditions were practiced with delicate attention. Sometimes, we would quietly sit in the living room in our designated spots: Dad on the blue armchair across from the TV, Mom on the left of the white sofa, and me lying down next to her, my head on her thigh.

Dad would watch Jeopardy. Mom would work on another photo-book project. I would read my latest library book — a memoir or murder mystery, most likely. This quiet coexistence was an escape from the demanding course schedule and endless assignments that awaited me on the shore of Lake Superior.

When coming home in Montevideo, I looked forward to being cared for by my chosen family. For a few sunny, peaceful days, I abandoned my blue-bound planner. On Thursday night, Mandy (a friend from my Monteivdeo swing dance class) took the reins by ordering for the table: hummus and roasted potatoes appetizers and shared boñiato (sweet potato) and leek main dishes. Ryan and I trust Mandy’s judgment with our lives, especially when it comes to food.

Under the orange glow of the restaurant, the vegetarian dishes shimmered with olive oil and speckled with spices. Ryan used the last piece of homemade bread to clean the plates of leftover sauce. Every bit counted and had to be cherished.

Ryan loves her food as she loves her people: with a full heart that always circles back for seconds. That explains why she stayed in her old Parque Rodó apartment. Her former Airbnb host, Susie, is a character, simply put. No written description will do her justice. She is a chatty onion of knowledge, stories, and slang with infinite layers. There is always something Susie has to tell you, to teach you, to ask you.

Ryan’s vivacity is perfectly matched in Susie. Every evening I spend in Susie’s apartment is a comedic musical paired with the perfect Chilean red wine. The playlist of Saturday’s visit included James Taylor, Carole King, and Susie’s rock idols.

George of the Montevideo Players

Saturday evening was a storybook of my favorite Montevideo characters: Susie, George, and Raquel. You haven’t officially met George and Raquel, so I will provide the backstory as you do with new characters. This enchanting international couple resides in the basement bar of an English theater house. The Montevideo Players hosts three to four English annual plays with amateur actors worldwide. George is a born and bred Scotsman who met his Uruguayan wife, Raquel in Argentina. George, like Susie, is an equally charming onion with layers I peeled back on the reencuentro (re-encounter). Raquel, or “she who must be obeyed,” according to George, is the bar manager.

They are an unserious couple. George’s baritone Scottish accent and Raquel’s playful eye-roll are bewitching. They are natural comedians and storytellers. I turn down their frequent offers of a pint of beer or an alfajor, the bar’s two specials. George’s tales about his stint as an Antarctic shipping worker are my bedtime stories before ordering a taxi home at midnight.

Sunday was a partly sunny serendipitous series of encounters. In the morning, I strolled 18 de Julio, Montevideo’s shopping street, to rendezvous with Mirtha at Palacio Salvo. My friendship with Mirtha is honestly unbelievable. It is a precious rare pearl of coincidence. O sea, serendipity. To understand, I must tell our story.

A photo of Mirtha and I recognizing each other on our first reencuentro (re-encounter)

I met Mirtha in July on a private city tour of Montevideo with my parents. She was our guide, and over three hours, we glided together around, inside, and below touristy must-sees (e.g. Plaza de Independencia) and hidden gems (e.g. Palacio Taranco). She was captivating, elegant, poised. An invisible string was tied between our winter coat cuffs that day. And it would be tugged twice more.

The first time occurred three weeks later in Colonia. Mirtha was the guide on a walking tour with my high school Spanish teachers. Someone snapped a photo of our simultaneous recognition of the other. Six days later, we found each other in Montevideo during the Fulbright Regional Enhancement Seminar. Mirtha was one of two tour guides on a walking city tour. Simply unbelievable. Our surprise from these two reencuentros (re-encounters) became disbelief that we still laugh over today.

“Everything happens for a reason,” Mirtha shrugs in resignation. She takes a sip from her cortadito, no bigger than a shot of espresso. We are sitting across from each other at a table surrounded by people in business wear. Mirtha chose the Palacio Salvo café because the Uruguayan president sometimes eats there. (Or at least that’s why I think she chose it. She is another mystery onion.)

But on Sunday, I tugged the invisible string. I organized a reencuentro because indeed, everything happens for a reason. Mirtha was destined to be in my life, and me in hers. We are tied by curiosity, shared language, and a passion for discovery. “I want to discover something with you,” she hints after we finish licking medialuna sugar syrup from our fingers. Mirtha always has a twinkle in her eye. She always has a hidden agenda. When revealed, it becomes an unforgettable adventure.

But of course, there is never enough time to stay home before returning to reality.

. . .

(from left) Nico, Naty's husband; Juan Pablo; and Mono preparing the parrilla

An asado is a family affair. At the end of September, I hosted my first asado with my found Uruguayan family from Montevideo and Maldonado. My UTU friends and family; Naty, my former mentor in Montevideo; and Valentina, my Maldonado mentor came together to sing, dance, and cook under the parrillero roof. A neighborly opossum emerged from behind the chimney. It curiously observed me, Jose, and Luciana as we set one of the two long tables.

The men — Mono, Nico, and Juan — left to buy supplies. The other women and I brought plates, glasses, cutlery, and cutting boards from my apartment. We made several trips up and down the jumpy elevator. They graciously removed their shoes outside my door — a small yet significant sign of mutual cultural respect.

An asado is an invitation to convivencia. Together, family relaxes, releasing themselves in warm hugs, bottomless food pulled straight from the grill, and full glasses of Patricia beer or Tannat wine. Of course, there is always a termo and mate lying around. In an asado, everyone has a role. Typically, the men and host cook the food in the crackling fire in the parrilla, or grill. The women and children are the first to indulge in the fresh servings of chorizo, morrón relleno (stuffed red peppers with egg), provolone, and asado (different cuts of meat). They pop open the charged liter Coke-Cola bottles. The sizzling of caramel-colored carbonation on the first pour joins the hissing choir of potatoes and squash baking in aluminum foil.

An asado delicately weaves work and play together as beautifully as a handmade wicker basket. Worries from the classroom are whisked away in the chimney smoke. Any remaining anxiety or self-criticism over the Springlish conference and reflective writing presentation are abandoned. I leave the competing feeling of pride from my successful presentation on reflective writing on my doormat. The parrillero is a shelter. It is a sanctuary under which we focus on what is most important: nurturing ourselves and each other under the moonlight.

An asado is a homecoming. And that late September night, the homecoming came to me in Maldonado. Uruguayan and U.S. cultures intertwined through song under the parrillero. Taylor Swift, Pimpinela, ABBA, Los Enanitos Verdes, Carole King, la Pericon, and Britney Spears echoed across the courtyard of my apartment complex. Naty knew all the words to every song. And of course, she added her own choreography. She coaxed the men to dance the Pericon with her. The women laughed at their clumsiness.

Uruguayans know how to party through exhaustion. They live to aprovechar la convivencia (take advantage of togetherness). And they will always come running at the invitation of an asado. For the next two months, I will run into their arms for another embrace, another reencuentro. Because who knows when the last one will be?

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Venmo

Thanks for joining in the chaos!

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