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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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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. 
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Whenever I travel, I intentionally avoid tourist traps. And I am not just talking about the tacky souvenir shops overflowing with snow globes and other plastic knick knacks with the bold “Made in China” label lazily plastered on the bottom.
Most of the items purchased in these exhibitionist stores will either be thrown away, gather dust on a shelf next to a family photo, or be packed up in a box for the holidays. (The only really worthwhile items to purchase at tourist traps are postcards –a category of the lost art of letter writing, or free art to nail above a bedroom mirror– or a magnet, which will lay on your fridge until the end of time.) As I roam the cobblestone or concrete streets of a new city, I filter out inauthenticity or a strategic sales pitch – anything that aims at settling rose-colored glasses on the bridge of my freckled nose. Tour guides, brochures, or a shimmering paper weight that shove something beautiful in your face to distract you from the complex, dark, and haunting reality of an advertised “historical” city. Travel is a privilege, just as access to diverse perspectives, storytelling, and historical sources is a privilege (although, thanks to social media, intersectional voices are more readily available within a simple swipe). It is an action of intentional displacement, of exploration. Travel is a choice; how, where, when, and what of the itinerary is also a choice. Specifically, how you travel matters. 
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The Substitute Chronicles
This series features the reflections after each of my shifts as a substitute teacher. I candidly disclose my complex emotions, reactions, and experiences in a job that changes every day. Follow along as I process the absence of routine and the ups and downs of working as a guest teacher! It is hard to believe the dramatic change in weather and the foreshadowing of snowflakes that fell at sunrise. As the maple trees commenced their yearly metamorphosis to produce luscious maroons, clementine orange, and daffodil yellow leaves, I floated among schools, grade levels, and districts. In one month, I traversed through preschool, kindergarten, and third grade, assisting as a paraprofessional and leading as a teacher. I returned to my former second-grade classroom, bridging connections with a different generation. In the hours dedicated to facilitation and on-the-fly simultaneous decisions, I spun through routines and around unfamiliar rooms, like a lost leaf in the wind.
After each shift, each milestone, I sat on my soft leather couch and wrote everything down. Every story, every frustration, every question, every lesson. So that ten years from now, when I stand in my own classroom with established rules and community, I can reflect on these few months of disorder and enlightenment. Substitute teaching presents the challenge of overcoming insecurity and foraging confidence when I am the most out of place. This job is a provider of second chances and a platform to practice, strategize, and most importantly, learn. Follow Journal of a Future Teacher on social media!
At a recent union meeting I attended (a perk of student teaching with a cooperating teacher with many hats), the conversation between early childhood representatives concluded with observation, "It sounds like you are acting more on defense than as advocates."
"That explains it!", I thought. This differentiation between defense and advocacy validates my exhaustion from struggling for simple recognition. 
That's right folks! The school year is officially less than one month away. Usually, this time of summer signals me to start preparing for my next field experience and a semester of classes. However, this year is a little different because I am student teaching!
I always feel nervous before the start of a new school year. Another year of college as an education major means putting up barriers to self-doubt, practicing mindfulness and self-compassion, and establishing a new schedule. "Am I good enough?" begins to creep back into my head. I've always found the first day in the field to be the scariest. Honestly, field experience can be kind of lonely too. I step into the classroom --representing myself as a future teacher and guest-- with vulnerability, humility, and anxiety. Each field experience taught me much about teaching, pedagogy, and the education system. Throughout the last three years, I have become an active observer of my growth, resilience, failures, mistakes, and accomplishments. So before student teaching begins, I would like to share some of my main takeaways from the past three years of volunteering in the early childhood education field. 
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What does being an “educator” look like? To me, being an educator extends beyond a classroom. It starts with building a community with other teachers, teacher candidates, students, professors, and professionals. This community, just like knowledge, continuously expands with more experience and time.
Being an educator takes initiative, perseverance, and confidence. Placing myself in new, uncomfortable positions is a part of the learning process. Seeking out resources and listening to others' perspectives keep me grounded and alert. "Fake it until you make it" is my daily mantra. I recognize the spaces for growth within the education system, research, and my practice. I learned to question what "effective practice" looks like. Experience in a classroom confirms or denies what is taught in my textbooks and curriculum. I am an agent of change. I am creative, adaptable, and capable. I push the boundaries of what it means to be an "educator" through my everyday actions. However, being an “educator” looks different for each teacher and teacher candidate. There is no one right way to be or become an educator. Throughout the past year, I researched the changing perception of effective early childhood practice I understand that it takes an anti-racist, critical lens --constantly questioning myself and providing curricula-- to progress my field and classroom. I can contribute to systemic change through my everyday actions, decisions, conversations, and read-alouds. My research project --“Stories, Values and Children's Books: Portraits of Three White Preschool Teachers Committed to Anti-Racist Pedagogy”-- is just the beginning of a lifetime of learning, growing, and acting as an agent of change. Although my formal research is (almost) complete, I am just getting started. Come along with me as I take you through the tumultuous journey of my undergraduate capstone research project! 
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This summer, I began to research antiracist teaching practices and strategies for my junior capstone project. While working on my literature review and browsing through social media, I stumbled across articles and posts addressing "Critical Race Theory," or CRT.
Since my research centers on current teaching practices that address race and racism, I was intrigued by this practice. Does it apply to early childhood education? Is it a newly founded strategy? And, most of all, why is it getting so much backlash? The pushback against CRT and other antiracist practices in schools starts an important conversation. Why are families, school districts, and politicians (who are unsurprisingly majority white) uncomfortable with teachers actively choosing curriculum that addresses the truths about racism? Let's talk about it. 
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Welcome back, education enthusiasts!
In this post, I will be sharing five tips for leading effective, meaningful read alouds. These tips are for everyone! There are several ideas surrounding read alouds. So, to clear the air, I have provided a definition of "read aloud" (from my course readings). Read aloud: a shared, out loud reading of a book to one child or a group of students Read alouds are an essential activity to include in early childhood classrooms because they provide several benefits for children's literacy development, including. . .
A read aloud can be a magical learning experience for young children. However, you cannot simply read a book aloud to lead a meaningful read aloud. To ensure you create a rich, enjoyable reading experience, explore the tips below! 
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Welcome back to the blog, education enthusiasts!
For those of you who are new. . . My name is Meghan, and I am a sophomore at the University of Minnesota Duluth studying early childhood education and Spanish. I created Journal of a Future Teacher in May, 2020 to share content on important educational topics and my journey in becoming a teacher! To learn more, visit the About page. In this post, I discuss “writing on the job” from the perspectives of two early childhood teachers! Although it is not often discussed, you will need strong communication and writing skills to be a successful teacher. Read on to learn about the information I gathered from the interviews and other outside resources! |
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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