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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. 
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. 
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. Follow Journal of an Evolving Teacher on social media!
Disclaimers
This post features my observations of Uruguayan people and culture as a guest, foreigner, and outsider. I am sharing only one individual's limited perspective of Uruguay and Uruguayans. It should not be received as a generalization of culture or people. (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.) In Montevideo, Uruguayans live for the weekdays.
At Monday night swing-dance classes, they animatedly arrive between 7:20 and 8:00 p.m., slickly sliding into the jazz choreography in their work or athleisure clothes. After the class ends, they quickly walk or Uber to a bar down the road for elongated dinner and drinks. If you were to stroll La Rambla on a random sunny Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon, you would have to plot your path through the maze of strollers, couples holding hands, and groups of teenagers who nonchalantly traverse the bike path. Everyone has the same idea to picnic at sunset on the coastline grass with their materas, the steam softly billowing from their termo as they pour their next serving of mate. On Thursdays, they depart their homes in the darkness to their weekly book clubs; at 10:00 p.m., they arrive just in time for dinner. And on Fridays, Uruguayans truly come out to play. Restaurants are packed from 6:00 p.m. until 1:00 a.m., from merienda to post-dinner cocktails and desserts. They are experts at indulgence, nurturing their sweet tooth with the same tenderness with which they cradle their mate and termo over unpredictably bumpy bus rides. They live a philosophy of antes muerta que sencilla: dead before simple. I have observed that Uruguayans perceive days as their own 24-hour entities. A weekday is divided into diligent contract hours and mellow afternoons that transition into boisterous evenings at the dinner table with family. Sleep is often sacrificed to foster precious connections. Mondays and Saturdays are weighted equally in opportunity. Instead of idly waiting for a reservation to revive on the weekend, Uruguayans live each day to the fullest. And so, in June, I accepted that magnetic invitation of vitality. June is the coda: the concluding section of the final movement of my story in Montevideo. Therefore, my weekdays at school sites vibrated with emotion, grand performances, and cumulative presentations. I fought with myself to pause, reset, and process through the deafening whirlwind of opportunities. Me sobrecargaba. I overworked myself. But unlike the allegro orchestral pieces I grappled with in high school, I could not practice resetting my bow on my rosin-stained cello strings. I just had to push through and pray my hands would remain steady. Most of my most momentous memories materialized on Mondays—well, and on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. The sections below feature various euphoric career milestones and associated reflections that I now have the privilege of time to write. 
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(This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and that 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.)
On Tuesday, one of the other grantees texted our group chat with the thought provoking prompt: “How was day 2 (with a song?)”. Usually, I struggle to connect my reflections to obscure references, but this time, a song immediately jumped through my head. The chipper, encouraging Cheers TV show theme, “You wanna go where everybody knows your name” seamlessly floated into my train of thought. Let me explain.
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This blog, post, all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and that 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.
. . .Welcome, Fulbright applicants! You are about to embark on an extensive application process that (hopefully) will lead you on your next international adventure! The deadline is approaching in a few short months (October 10th, 2023)!
(I forgot to mention: it is free to apply to Fulbright. . .yippee!). I hope this post provides reassurance and guidance throughout the turbulent next few months of preparation, submission, and anticipation. I am a grantee/finalist for a Fulbright ETA scholarship to Uruguay. To view a timeline of my application process, scroll down to the end of this post. Please note, I am sharing this guide from an ETA (English Teaching Assistantship) perspective; therefore, the recommendations on essays and application requirements are geared towards an ETA grant. |
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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