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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. Books presentation, part 1Three hundred students held my gaze expectantly, waiting for the cue as the twinkling 1980s tune trickled in on a humid Thursday morning. The repeating electronic arpeggios rang throughout the concrete walls of school twenty-four. My mentor, Naty, and I held our breath as the downbeat crept closer.
The beat dropped. We breathed out, conducting an exaggerated cue to our half of the student choir, with our hands excitedly thrusting forward. The students began to sing, clear as bells, swaying back and forth slightly in their limited bubbles. There comes a time, When we heed a certain call When the world must come together as one . . . This slow introduction continued for a minute. The students swayed like reeds on a prairie in the wind, waiting for the next cue. And the truth, you know, love is all we need . . . The next beat dropped. Immediately, the student choir lit up with wide smiles and reawakened with a triumphant energy. Together, they boldly swung their hands over their heads and shouted the chorus they knew by heart. We are the world We are the children We are the ones who make a better day So let’s start giving . . . Me dejó de cara. It took my breath away. On this anticipatory last day in May, Naty and I co-facilitated a performance of “We are the World” in celebration of the distribution of the #LovingUruguay English textbook series—the first of its kind in the country’s history. Therefore, this historical event was marked by the presence of government authorities in education and the national press. For weeks before the event, Naty and I circled every classroom in the school, repeatedly rehearsing the song’s lyrics and encouraging big smiles and proud, bright voices. So understandably, we felt just as jittery as our 300 students. All eyes were on us, but we were prepared to give our best performance. Together, Naty, the student choir, and I belted the chorus three times, exaggeratedly swinging our arms. I felt the eye of the camera on my back as my messy ponytail whipped against my white tunic. We formed a wave of white and blue, rhythmically swaying back and forth until the second chorus ended. That’s when the background audio ceased and was replaced by clapping and the students’ spirited singing voices. The group’s mastery of the lyrics was evident. Our choir concluded the performance triumphantly rocking our hips to the beat of our claps, projecting our voices to fill the open concrete courtyard. Yes, we’ll make a better day, Just you and me. Synchronously, Naty and I dropped our hands in a shared relief. We did it! proclaimed our smiles. Naty opened up her maternal arms to me, and I ran into them without hesitation. We embraced in adulation—with pride our students’ performance and each others’ facilitation of the spacious choir. Gesturing with a tilt of her head, Naty guided me off stage to prepare for the next portion of our performance. I quickly wiped the sweat off my upper lip and slipped into the crowd gathering around our destination: the first-floor sixth-grade classroom. Naty flitted in and out of the room like a hummingbird from flower to flower. It was impossible to track her. I felt the blush flood my cheeks, growing more flustered with each breath. The authorities began to trickle in, then my mentors, then my friends, Ryan and August. I glanced back and forth between the materials laid out on the Spanish teacher’s desk and the familiar faces that filled the aisles of the already packed room. My friends, bless them, lit up with pure pride, signaling encouragement with cheesy thumbs up and goofy grins. I turned my back to organize the printed photos of various ingredients and food vocabulary on the dust-covered blackboard. Feeling their presence in the tense air gifted a steadiness to my clammy hands. They pushed me to be strong, to stand a little taller, and to speak with confidence. When Naty whisked back into the room, her aura of calm neutralized the intensity of suspense. She flashed a smile my way, lifting the baton on the second act of our performance. On her cue, I gestured to the blackboard to introduce the agenda. From then on, the sixth graders, Naty, and I went through the motions, tuning out the pairs of expecting eyes that studied our every utterance. Our class leaned on each other, communicating reassurance through a wink or subtle smile. While exhibiting the routine choreography to the Beatles’ “Hello, Goodbye” song, my gaze drifted to my friends, whose eyes were wide with wonder and delight. They showed up for the show, alright! Over the years of pressurized visits from supervisors in college classroom observations, I’ve learned to trust in my abilities, skills, and competency. Without that poise, I am a cookie on the cusp of crumbling. So, for those thirty minutes of pressurized, inquisitive stares, I persisted by presenting my most authentic, boisterous, sure-spoken persona. Afterward, Naty and I embraced in a proud release of We did it, again! before opening up a circle of congratulations. When my eyes found August and Ryan, I gasped with joy. Our faces featured unfaltering beams for smiles, and I knew they saw what I felt: self-assurance. Although the praise from others was alleviating, I congratulated myself for walking through uncharted waters with steady steps. Books presentation, Part 2My blue-and-white striped blazer is my security blanket when I face daunting professional self-presentations. I stand a little straighter in it, the soft fabric soothing my pulsing nerves. It stifles my imposter syndrome, so I begin to believe I truly belong in rooms I never imagined myself in. I pair it with a pair of dainty white bulb earrings with traces of blue flowers. They were a gift from Katie, a friend from Minnesota, and therefore, serve as a piece of home to ground me in overwhelming new realities.
On a cloudy chilly Tuesday morning, I summoned courage from the security blanket draped over my shoulders—already weighed down from my backpack filled with books—and sauntered into the reserved event space. “Good morning!” I said in a warm greeting to Nico and Ceci, offering the routine Uruguayan kisses on cheeks and an additional familial hug. My two mentors had invited me to present as part of their professional development workshop in front of 70 primary English teachers from different regions of Montevideo. The workshop would be divided into two days. On Tuesday, all of my mentors would be in attendance, watching with expectant, curious eyes. “Meghan, how are you feeling?” Nico asked with a steady twinkling glance, his hand rested on my padded shoulder. “I am pretty nervous, but as the time gets closer, I am growing more excited,” I admitted, mentally reviewing my speaking notes I had scribbled in my purple notebook. There went my mind again, running in constant circles of “What if?” But today, I could not, would not second guess. I had to trust in myself and recognize what I could control: my expertise in the presentation content and my attitude. You belong here. You belong here. You belong here. I whispered to myself in thought, diverting my gaze to Nico and Ceci who surrounded me in a protective circle. With them, I always felt safe, secure, sure of myself. There was no need to panic. Even though I would be alone on the stage in a matter of hours, I knew they would be right by my side, ready to catch me if I fell. . . .And then, two hours later, it was time for me to take the stage. Nico cued the other presenters to usher in the teachers from the break room across the hall. The “fifteen-minute” break was really twenty-five—time takes its time in Uruguay. Slowly, with encouragement, the teachers streamed back into the white, white room, still deep in conversation, their mouths stuffed with chocolate-covered cookies. With an amusing smile, Nico gestured for me to join him on “stage,” or better put, the space in front of a white slab table and projector screen, further limited by the delicately temperamental microphone cord.
I took my place to his right. My body began to respond to the anxious signals that coursed through my nervous system: my hands grew cold and clammy, my chest tightened, my cheeks filled with rosy warmth. Me sentía que estaba en el horno. I felt that I was dying of anxiety. As Nico generously introduced me to the crowd, I practiced what I preach in the classroom. I took deep breaths. Breathe in, one, two, three. Breathe out, one, two, three. I felt the tangle in my chest loosen and my hands steady, so I continued, offering self-affirmations in between each breath. Breathe in, one, two, three. You are prepared. Breathe out, one, two, three. You are capable. Breathe in, one, two, three. You are ready. Breathe out, one, two, three. You belong. “Meghan, the floor is yours,” Nico cued, passing the microphone, careful to not trip over its coiled, cunning cord. And then the floor was all mine. . . .I’ve been crafting my mask of confidence since my freshman year of college, when I began to routinely enter new classrooms. I would become the teacher - the one in command. My words, tone, and attitude mattered because they were what I could control. When I embodied positivity and confidence, despite the rotating “What if?” hamster wheel in my head, the course of the day was steady. All clear. When I did not, the room fell into disarray; the students scrambled to pick up the pieces of the broken steering wheel, taking command. Teaching taught me to enter every new classroom with my best foot forward — anchored in courage and optimism.
Public speaking is a similar course. The audience is my students; I am the teacher. Therefore, when self-doubt creeps into my consciousness, I silence it with fun. Lighten the mood, lighten the pressure. Standing before the 70 anticipating, slightly zoned-out faces, I channeled my anxiety into an inviting smile. I gifted a silent affirmation to myself before I finally spoke: the next thirty minutes will be nerve-wracking, but they will also be exhilarating. You know what to do: let’s go have some fun. Breathe in, one, two, three. Breathe out, one, two, three. Then, I launched into my attention-getter, leaning slightly over my feet. “Hello, everyone! My name is Meghan, and for the next thirty minutes, I will be your guide into the magical, mystical, marvelous world of CHILDREN’S BOOKS!” I swerved my body to face the dimmed presentation screen, raising my eyebrows in expectant wonder. The teachers accepted my invitation and giggled in response. We were just getting started. The next fifteen minutes were a blur, but I remembered every speaking note. I felt the warmth enter my cheeks as I flipped through the slides, but I pushed on. I kept my voice as steady as I could, fighting threatening anxiety with enthusiasm. When I reached the small-group portion of the presentation, I transferred the control over to the audience to let them practice driving on their own. It was just like teaching after all. In four groups, the English teachers explored one children’s book from my home collection, which each featured a storyline about Minnesota or the United States. One teacher took the initiative and opened up her book, Fry Bread, to the rest of the group as a practice read-aloud. My heart swelled with pride — pride in the teacher for absorbing the presentation’s content with wondrous open-mindedness and then running with her own ideas. Furthermore, pride myself on being courageous; putting a firm, fun foot forward; and delivering an engaging presentation. Time was up too soon. I walked up and down the lengthy hallway that separated the two sides of the room to collect the books. To conclude, I shared additional resources for further investigation and thanked the teachers for their time. El camino fue la recompensa. The way was the reward. I was growing into a competent professional, regardless of whether or not I wore my blue-striped blazer. As I walked off the stage, Nico and Ceci welcomed me into a proud embrace, finally catching me after I flew. SaltoSalto’s landscape was marked by glowing sunrises and sunsets over countryside highways, familiar faces, curious yet imposing stares from strangers on roaring motorcycles (“Are you from Greece?”, someone on the street inquired in passing), grand plazas, fried food, presentations, and at last, lots of cows.
For three days, I traveled to this northern province bordering Argentina with Nico and Ceci. We departed Montevideo at 6:30 a.m. Uruguayan time (meaning almost 7:00 a.m.). I greeted them with an encouraging smile, intending to kick off the six-hour drive with a positive attitude. I hoped the travel snacks and croissants I brought for the four of us (including our charismatic chauffeur) would lift their weary spirits. But then the sun rose over the misty pastures with grazing cattle, sheep, and horses. The deliciously muted creamsicle sky kindled the bold green and mossy brown grass. I immediately felt wide awake, capturing the welcoming mandarin-orange sun as Joni Mitchell flooded my mind with tranquility. When the sun rested temporarily at its peak over the twisted highway, we greeted the roundabout Salto sign. Unfortunately, the hours stiffly sitting in a van caught up to me. My body sent me shocking, breathtaking signals that I could not persist through the scheduled afternoon school visits. After communicating my state with my mentors, they graciously dropped me off at the hotel to check in early. When my mind ignores the flashing warning signs to slow down, my body hits the emergency brake. So, instead, I spent the afternoon napping, reading on the back patio, and working on website development in the sunlit room. That evening, my mentors invited me to join them at the hotel’s termas, or hot tubs. Along with its mouth-watering mandarin oranges, Salto is renowned for its termas. Honestly, this was a bit of a culture shock because hot tubs or springs are available in almost every U.S. hotel. However, I relished my mentors’ enthusiasm after an exhausting travel day. Relaxing our taut shoulder and back muscles in the steaming water, we caught up on the school visits and admitted our disavowment to the hard goodbyes ahead. This month, I am working on maintaining my balance on the go-with-the-flow wave. By 8:00 p.m., my stomach was rumbling and my head yearned to crash on my room's stacked moss-green pillows. Instead, Nico, Ceci, Rita (another teacher trainer), and I only had only begun the tediously ascent to our rooms for a shower. Dinner was at 9:00 p.m., so I put off relinquishing my heavy head to peaceful deep sleep. For dinner, we walked across the street to a local parrilla that boasted its admiration for cheesy, repetitive American 2010 pop music — think Bruno Mars and Maroon 5. Following the cultural theme, time takes its time in Uruguay, so I invested in cracking jokes and ignoring the ham that arrived on my advertised vegetarian gramajo: a plate of fried potatoes, scrambled egg, and vegetables. At midnight, I finally fell into my layers of pillows and blankets, tolerating the mosquitoes and gnats that made themselves at home. The next day, after six hours of sleep, I awoke once again to a pitch-black sky. I felt hungover despite drinking only hot tea with dinner, my head throbbing and my arms unwilling to hoist myself out of bed. But I put on my favorite green patterned cotton dress, covered my eye bags with light concealer and mascara, and practiced a smile with a toothbrush in between my teeth. Two cups of mint tea at breakfast revived me. A shared plate of golden brown wheat toast with shimmering butter and peach jam brought color to my face. I conjured a motivational wish as the van drove around the welcoming roundabout into the sunrise. I put all my cards on the table, investing in my confidence to enthusiastically deliver my presentation while sleep-deprived. The workshop was predictable to me now, following the same sequence of events as the week before: first Nico and Ceci, then me, then Rita. I smiled proudly as Nico and Ceci maneuvered their way through the crowd of thirty-or-so teachers; Nico cracked his dark jokes to lighten the dense mood of discussing learning standards and Ceci shimmered with her familiar warm brilliance. They were experts at picking themselves back up and putting their best foot forward out of necessity. When it was my turn to present, my hands were steady, not clammy and shaking. I practiced crossing the limited space in front of the slideshow, connecting with each of the three small groups of teachers. I modeled read-aloud strategies instead of talking about them, enriching my condensed 15-minute presentation with engaging content until it almost burst. My step was strong as I circled the groups of teachers as they scanned the pages of my precious picture books from home. At the end of my presentation, I smiled proudly, my cheeks warm with satisfaction, not nerves. I witnessed my own growth, my own commandment of the stage. An hour later, I lifted my backpack, weighted down by books, onto my tight shoulders. Although my back was heavy, my feet were light with anticipation. I kissed goodbye to all the teachers before ambling towards a restaurant nine minutes away. I seated myself at a table for two, foot tapping with excited impatience. When she walked in, I leaped from the table and enveloped her in a hug, swaying with glee. Denisha —excuse me, Dr. Denisha Campbell— took her seat across from me, waving at one of the waiters. Denisha is another Fulbright ETA who was placed in Salto for the first portion of our program. Coincidentally, my mentors’ teacher training workshop aligned with her placement. So, of course, we carved out an afternoon to catch up in her neck of the woods. Over heaping plates of arroz primavera, salmon, and chicken, we traded feelings and reflections about the past, present, and future. Mixing the generously seasoned salmon (what a surprise!) with the yellow rice, we elaborated on our mixed feelings about planning for our big move in a few weeks: Denisha to Montevideo, and me to Maldonado and Rocha. With both our stomachs and hearts replenished, we strolled the main street, Uruguay, and crossed through the Trenta y Tres Plaza to Denisha’s university placement. I recognized the campus from the photo Denisha sent to our group chat from when the river flooded up to the front staircase. Together we entered her afternoon class of just four students, who were each studying to become secondary English teachers. For the next hour, Denisha, the students, their professor, and I exchanged questions about life in Salto and the United States. We traded perspectives on politics, book bans, favorite ice cream shops, and our respective countries' education systems. I looked over my left shoulder to watch Denisha lead a correction exercise of a midterm review. She was confident, moving through the activity with expertise. Denisha is unapologetic; she knows herself better than most people, and gives herself compliments in a strong humorous voice—one I fervently admire. The rest of the afternoon was a blur of repose: reading on my moss-green comforter, calling my mom, and submitting my family Letterloop newsletter. At 9:00 p.m., once again, my mentors and I regrouped in the lobby for dinner. This time, we dined inside the hotel restaurant— to avoid mosquitoes. There is something about a steaming bowl of four-cheese vegetable ravioli that melts away bodily tension. Or, perhaps it was the warm company that transitioned me into a deeper state of inner peace. Whatever the cause, the two-hour dimly lit dinner by the stone fireplace made me forget my weariness from the past three-week sprint. Ravioli, red wine, and a dessert of an apple pancake with ice cream (a common dessert from Salto) later, I brimmed with gratification. On Friday, I awoke after sleeping under six hours to reluctantly stuff my travel backpack with my belongings for check-out. Two more cups of mint tea and one too many oatmeal-raisin biscuits later, we were on the road again. This time, I accompanied Nico and then Ceci to two primary schools. With limited time until our 11:00 a.m. departure for Montevideo, we fast-forwarded our visit to a short observation and brief interview with the two teachers. I was impressed, to say the least, by the first school Nico and I visited. Located off the side of a dusty, gravel road decorated with muted-colored modest homes sat a modern, pale green school building. Its updated facilities and layout reminded me of the upscale International Baccalaureate school in Zagreb, Croatia. Better yet, the English teacher was a true rockstar (passion for American heavy metal bands aside). Over the forty-five-minute lesson, he partnered with the Spanish teacher—who spoke conversational English, a rare quality—to deliver a stellar lesson that enticed me to stay past my welcome. When I accompany Nico or Ceci to primary schools, I am a teacher and a learner, always taking mental notes of strategies or activities to apply in my future classroom. This teacher was my teacher. He proved what worked in supporting children’s English language learning: his own classroom; labeled visuals posted around the classroom; an integration of song, movement, and media; and an engaging personality. The students pranced around the room to the heavy metal rhythm which played during a spin-the-wheel bingo activity. I left that class, and as a result, Salto felt more energized than when I arrived. Un cuadro ganador no se tocaI have picked up many Rio de la Plata Spanish slang phrases and words while in Montevideo, some more colloquial than others. (Did you catch them scattered throughout this post?).
Although the last dicho has roots in football or soccer for fellow American readers, Uruguayans apply it to any close-knit team of individuals that grows stronger when they come together. My four mentors and I are, indeed, un cuadro ganador no se toca. As individuals, we carry ourselves with adept capability. Aware of both our strengths and areas of growth, we support one another, picking up where the other left off. In a single glance or nod, we communicate a need for intervention or assistance. Trust and honesty operate as the scaffolding to our secure team. In my three months in Montevideo, I found my community through membership in different groups across ages and demographics. This community celebrates my strengths and nurtures my areas of growth. I marvel at their distinct lifestyles of balance, tranquil determination, communal caregiving of both loved ones and foreigners, and open-minded wonder about my story in the land of 10,000 lakes and March blizzards. I listen deeply not only to their words but their actions. I observe how they greet each person in a room with a kiss on the cheek, subtly acknowledging each individual’s humanity and contributing presence. I bit my tongue at their indifference to punctuality and tendency to overlap conversations in large groups. However, over 90 days, I learned to go with the flow, make spontaneous plans, and stay up until 4:00 a.m. because I didn’t want the conversation to end. Why must it end? On Mondays, I nurtured the relationships that bestow routine serenity. The anxious perfectionist in my head was tranquilized with laughter, relinquishment of control, and the alchemic combination of hot chocolate and jelly alfajores. No more what if? only so what? Monday merienda is a cherished tradition I share with Ryan. Another Fulbright ETA (English Teaching Assistant), Ryan and I meet halfway every week over oily tartas and decaf lattes under the stringed vintage light bulbs in Las Cabras café. We meet up two, sometimes two-and-a-half hours before our 7:30 p.m. swing class at this cramped corner coffee shop. (Honestly, we are lucky we get a table every time). We automatically relax in each other’s company. Gabbing on and on in our mother tongue, we take turns reflecting on the past, present, and future of our chaotic lives as two expats. This shared time with my friend is precious because often it is the only period in which we pause our snow-globe lives. Ryan and I share the same childish astonishment at the giant steaming cups of hot chocolate we order almost every Monday. We sip them slowly, not rushing. Meanwhile, we slowly scaffold our friendship through storytelling, affirmation of challenges, and congratulations on milestones. She is a teammate I will always prioritize and protect. Merienda is monumentally memorable because of Paloma, a waitress at Las Cabras and, therefore, an integral third team member in this Monday tradition. She is a welcoming presence who swoops Ryan and me in for a hug and, of course, a kiss on the cheek before seating us at our usual table in front of the bakery case. «Amores, diganme. ¿Cómo podría ayudarles hoy?» (My loves, tell me. How can I help you today?). She always looks out for Ryan and me, advising us of options without nuts (for Ryan) and without meat (for me). She knows our preference for decaf lattes at 5:30 pm and our soft spot for hot chocolate and alfajores after emotional days at school. It is comforting to be a regular someplace — to be greeted and cared for by someone who understands your needs, preferences, and sweet tooth. Paloma’s friendly face and contagious smile offer a refreshing break from the pressuring atmosphere of unfamiliarity. In Las Cabras, I don’t need to have everything figured out. I can just sip my hot chocolate in a simple, blissful existence. After hugging Paloma goodbye, Ryan and I amble to our next destination to join another weekly team meeting, or should I say practice. The door to the swing dance studio is cracked open, inviting us to ascend the staircase into the warm, dimly lit space. Ryan and I are usually among the first to arrive at 7:25, but slowly the other members trickle in. Carolina, Mandy, her boyfriend, Martín, Luís, Alfonso, Mateo (or Mate), Ana, Suraia, Santiago and his wife, and finally our teachers, Eugenia and Marcos enter the music-score-decorated doors. They strip off their scarves, hats, warm coats, and extra layers, laying them on the wooden chairs bordering the wooden dance floor. Eugenia’s confident entrance signals the start of class, and we all find our places in a circle on the floor. On this swing dance team, I feel safe and carefree. This sentiment is mutual; I observe the release of personality in Luis’s spazzing taps as he practices the paso básico de ocho (basic step in eight). I chuckle under my breath when Alfonso asks another question after we break from partner practice — he always wants to improve. Santiago and I share a laugh as we stumble over each other’s feet attempting the new círculo sequence. He is always a good listener, finding the beat when I cannot. And finally, Eugenia and Marcos prioritize connection over perfection. They teach us that giving in to the music is just as important as listening to it. When they dance together to model a new sequence, they freely float across the room as one unit — one team. When I dance with the other members, I communicate through gestures, slight smiles, and attentive inner ears as their hands guide me through turns and rhythmic steps. I feel I know them intimately despite never exchanging a deep-spoken conversation with the majority. Their mutual respect and curiosity were evident from the first practice when they welcomed me and Ryan with open arms. To be a part of the team, we just had to show up, ready to liberally laugh and dance. In my last class, each member wished a heartfelt farewell, pairing the predictable kiss with individual warm embraces. I am the newest member of team UTU (Universidad de Trabajo del Uruguay): Juan, Sofie, and Mono. We met at an asado hosted at the trade school’s campus. One of my mentors, Naty, works as a part-time professor in the evenings and invited me to join — the American representative. On a moonlit concrete patio with a built-in stone fireplace, I met Juan, Sophie, and Mono. Juan, or Jhon — his bowling alter ego — is the caretaker of the group. Sophie is the planner, bubbling over with ideas for future activities and gatherings; and Monoco (or Mono, his loving nickname) is the karaoke player (appreciates all the best hits from the 2010s), goofball, and glue that holds the team together. At the asado and a bowling night, I observed their fierce bond, their affinity to protect one another but also roll their eyes at their individual peculiarities. One Saturday night, when we reunited (sadly without Mono), I decided to follow their lead. I leaned into their carefree nature, relinquishing control of any previous preconceptions of the evening’s plans. Starting at 8:00, we played pool, bowled, ate pizza with the texture of bubblegum (Juan’s words, not mine), and then strolled the streets of Ciudad Vieja. Every hour, we checked in with each other about whether we were tired or wanted to continue. I felt determined to make the most out of our shared time and to aprovechar my blossoming membership to this loving team. So, we hopped to a bar and then walked to Juan’s house, where we played conga — a Uruguayan card game — until 4:00 a.m., with Adele serenading on his living room television. Why did it have to end? why must it end?So, if we all operate as untouchable groups whose open communication bolsters each member, why must they end? As the dicho warns, don’t break up something good. June has forced us all to confront the expiration date of my regular membership. Most of their lives will inevitably continue as they did before me while I venture to a different part of the country to forge new relationships, join different teams, augment my cultural sensitivity, and refine my identity as a global citizen. When one door closes, another one opens. So I must make peace with my departure: from Montevideo and from all the beautiful, hospitable, goofy, persevering, and curious people that established the Uruguayan capital as a home I will dearly miss.
However, it is not truly “goodbye.” I will return to Montevideo sporadically in the next five months for conferences, personal visits, and summative presentations. Each team member holds a key to unlock the closed door, so it may always be accessible — to international kinship. Did you enjoy this post?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 serve as compensation for all the work that makes this blog possible. Thank you!
Venmo: @journalofanevolvingteacher
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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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