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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.
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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. “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. 
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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.
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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. 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. 
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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. 
Introducing Alma and How She Got Her Name to a seventh-grade class
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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. I tried something new in the classroom: I shared a read-aloud on YouTube.
Read-alouds are one of my favorite activities to lead in classrooms. I love to observe students’ curiosity when they encounter a meaningful, engaging book. I love hearing students’ ideas, questions, and takeaways in post-reading discussions. But most of all, I love bonding with students over a shared admiration for illustrations and characters. However, I have only shared books in their physical form. While in Montevideo, I challenged myself to create an accessible guide on choosing and using children’s literature for Uruguayan English teachers. Many Uruguayan public schools do not have a school library in which teachers or students can borrow books to use in the classroom. There is limited access to physical books and literature resources. Therefore, I thought outside the box of strategies for sharing high-quality literature in Uruguayan schools. YouTube and audiobooks were the answer. Across all the schools I visited across Uruguay, most had access to a television, internet (with sometimes spotty connection), and computers (every student has access to one due to their one-child-one-computer policy). Therefore, teachers could project a YouTube video read aloud on the classroom television. Through this media, they could still practice read-aloud strategies and engage students in listening activities. To promote reading comprehension and English understanding, teachers could type the book’s transcript and share it with students on Crea, their online class platform. Although YouTube read-aloud sounded effective in theory, I wanted to observe one in practice. This idea led me to plan my first YouTube read-aloud of Alma and How She Got Her Name with my seventh-grade students in Maldonado. For context, the class had discussed family vocabulary for the past couple of weeks. This read-aloud quickly transformed into a class project. 
The school cafeteria in the primary school in La Pedrera, Uruguay
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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. The last week of August was my first “normal” week in Maldonado. The bright blue sky and newly familiar coastline welcomed me back after a long weekend in Montevideo. Glancing out the hazy bus window, the reflective waves of Punta Ballena winked under the glowing sun. “Keep your chin up, kid,” they whispered.
For the first time in months, I felt rejuvenated. The previous three evenings commemorated Noche de Nostalgia and a friend’s 24th birthday through festivities lasting late into the night. An 11:00 p.m. bowling match melded into a 1:00 a.m. pool tournament, in which I properly learned how to play. (My previous knowledge of the game stemmed from rudimentary solo pool matches in my uncle’s basement at annual Christmas parties. Hint: I did not use the pool cues). Evenings concluded at 3:00 a.m. for carpool karaoke or at 4:30 a.m. for a last-minute McDonald’s run. Although my sleep schedule took a brutal beating, I woke each day hungry for a 1:00 pm breakfast and more time with my chosen Montevideo family. After almost two months of living more out of a backpack than my closet, I found closure in celebrating convivencia —co-existence or togetherness— with my people. It did not matter whether we ate greasy pizza or lavender-vanilla-dulce-de-leche birthday cake with edible glitter. It did not matter whether we wore nostalgic costumes or every day sneakers. It did not matter whether we were crowded around a pool table, on bowling lane seat cushions, in the corner of a bustling neon dance floor, or in the backseat of Mono’s car. What mattered was that we were together. I found peace in our laughter; randomized YouTube playlists on a living room television; Río de la Plata card games (that expanded my Spanish vocabulary in multiple directions); and the secrets and makeup brushes passed on the floor in front of a portable heater. They lifted the cloud of exhaustion. They gave me space to exist in their embraces, so my words could finally be free. Thanks to them, I arrived in Maldonado ready to assemble the chaotic puzzle of August. 
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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. . . .A note for context: the first half of this post is sourced from an entry in my personal journal
It’s been ten days since I’ve written in my “daily” journal. Some days, I couldn’t pick up a pen and document the list of activities and emotions packed into twenty-four hours tighter than my winter clothes and travel backpack. Journaling — a dependable grounding practice — suddenly became a burden. Instead of welcoming the discomfort of reliving events and piecing together my complex reactions to life on the road, I left the puzzle pieces scattered in the box.
Whenever I attempted to visit my past, the storm cloud of exhaustion hovered over my subconscious. Our bodies viscerally remember the past and hold the power to recall and simulate the same aches, flutters in our chest, or shortness of breath we feel when our anxiety is triggered. In my first week transitioning (I use this word loosely because four days after this journal entry, I traveled to Rivera) back to Maldonado, I realized that I was repeatedly triggered by exhaustion. The words of resolution were trapped behind the cloud instead of liberated on a blank page. I could not access them. My brain and body were still recovering from the twelve-hour workdays, late-night and early-morning bus rides, and emotionally over-stimulating discussions. I recognized the signs: I was dysregulated. Until the storm cloud lifted, I could not reflect. The puzzle remained unsolved. 
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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. I procrastinated writing this post for days. Every time I circle back to the blank page, the task of revisiting the jam-packed days in Montevideo and Minas washes another wave of exhaustion over me like a rolling tide. However, the soothing balance between hot mango tea and Vashti Bunyan encourages me to give this reflection my best shot.
. . .“The past is history, the future is a mystery, and this moment is a gift. That is why it is called ‘the present.’”
Deepak Chopra 
Casa Pueblo in Punta del Este, Uruguay
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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. July passed in stark chapters distinguished by swaying emotions, celebratory milestones, and sorrowful struggles. I bid farewell to too many friends and community members in Montevideo. My parents visited for two weeks, and we strolled the streets and sights of Buenos Aires and Montevideo. I turned twenty-three while moving to a different province, starting over again, again. I cried in frustration after exhaustedly running through cycles of trial and error. I laughed in the sanctuary with new friends and mentors on the foggy coastline. I felt myself gain strength on long runs at sunset and problem-solving victories. And gradually, after relearning to ride the go-with-the-flow wave, I began to feel at home—again.
It is July 22nd when I write this introduction, and I am living the conclusion of the sixth chapter: starting all over again, again. In two days, I will return to Montevideo, again, to begin the seventh chapter. However, this post already takes up ten pages in my Google Doc draft document. To alleviate pressure to meet an imaginary, self-imposed deadline to publish a monthly reflection, this post serves as part one in a two-part July series reflection. As I write these reflections, I laugh at their ever-increasing length. My life story in Uruguay only becomes more saturated with experiences. There is always more to write about, reflect on, laugh about, cry about. Writing is my therapy, as I often relate to you all. But as the months pass, time grows more fleeting. I find myself more reluctant to attend regular therapy sessions on my soft living room couch. In the end, the fear of forgetting triumphed over apprehension. So, without further ado, I present July: the month of starting all over again, again. |
AuthorMeghan Hesterman (she/her) is an aspiring educator, storyteller, and traveler. Through regular posts and commentary, she candidly reflects on her evolution as an educator and young adult. Categories
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