Back in Baltimore

A wise person said to me the other day, “Have you thought about blogging again?” And, admittedly, I explained that blogging these days is more like another task on my list of things to do – Hopkins work, portfolio work, lesson planning, graduation planning (one for myself and one for my students), trip planning, moving planning, and oh yea, blogging. Forget laundry, cleaning or eating. My days these days leave me in a daze. Somewhere, sometime, somehow along the way I have forgotten to (and perhaps forgotten how to) write – the sole activity that derives me pleasure.

Like the pit in your stomach you get when you realize you have a long, overdue catch-up phone call with a friend, the daunting task to reenter the “blog-o-sphere” left me uneasy and uncertain. Too busy, too preoccupied, too nervous and far too far removed - the excuses I once found solace in about my infrequent writing began to seem like lame responses, even to me. And so I found myself, on the ere of returning to school for the final eight-week push after a well-deserved spring break, in that age-old, comfortable position in front of my neon-pink laptop. The keys feel like a carnival, the oil from my skin seeps deeper into my white casing, and I feel like I am home.

Rather selfishly, I miss telling my story and documenting my life. Instead of playing catch-up, I’d rather play catch-on, where from here on out I fill you in on what you deserve to know. My adventures through my 20-somethings, like wine, are only getting better with age. Enjoy the ride… I can already tell I am.

Key Kids

My students hold the immensity of the world - and they hold it in their keys. They wear them around their wrists, hanging from their necks, tucked away in their pockets and hidden in secret hiding spots at the bottoms of their shoes - for losing these sacred front-door keys is apocalyptic. My students' hands - only 10-years-old - hold their little brothers' and sisters' down the hill and around the bend to open empty houses and cupboards. They unlock doors with keys of all shapes and sizes to no one. They let themselves in and they keep themselves safe. Key Kids, I call them. And all of them are key kids.

Growing up in suburban South Florida, I distinctly remember my school days. My mom, or our carpool, would drop me off at school, and I would chat with friends while reviewing previous days' notes. At the end of the day, I would make my way to daycare and wait for my mom to arrive at 5:30 p.m. or so to drive me home safely and feed me a filling feast. I'd think of answers to questions like "What did you learn today?" and "What's your next big project?" so that I'd be ready to share at our nightly dinner table conversations and games. Childish, yet very real worries of how to divide 25 by 4 or how to possibly read 5 chapters in a night plagued my mind, but work always waited until after dinner.

My key kids don't have time to worry about chapters or arithmetic, and "after dinner" could mean 10 or 11 at night. They are worrying about finding food for dinner, getting clean, staying warm once the sun goes down and drowning out the sounds of sirens - worries that I shouldn't even have at my age.

Though they'll never know that their kid counterparts in suburban communities around the country do not withstand even an eighth of the weight they carry, my key kids are showing up to school, homework gripped as tightly as their keys, maintaining as much sanity and heart as possible. It's no wonder my students act out - they play the role of child, student, adult and parent all at once without guidance or support. I tip my hats to them for their courage and strength, hoping that perhaps the cycle will break, and parents will hold the keys for kids who deserve to use toy keys to open pretend cars instead of real keys to open the very real doors of the burdensome responsibilities of life.

The oil that fuels my miracle.

Today is December 1^st and winter, in all its chilling glory, has finally arrived in Baltimore. Department stores have begun to put out their festive winter displays. Radio stations have switched exclusively to Christmas and snow tunes. Streets are lined with tinsel, even in the projects. Christmas lights abound in front of porches. And ABC Family has begun its ever-so-anticipated 25 Days ‘Til Christmas.

Somewhere between all the Christmas hoopla that stores grasp their greedy hands to, it has somehow become Hanukkah – this year, shafted by its unfortunate timing and my overly chaotic life.

After lesson planning and PowerPoint-making, I lit the shamash candle using my temperamental gas stove as a lighter and then sang in a mousy-sort-of voice to myself to celebrate an anti-climatic Hanukkah. I watched my candles burn, flames dancing in the chill, and let my busy mind wander to thinking about the true miracle it must have been to have oil last for eight days.

The candles make me long for days in which my mother would gift me bottles of shampoo and packs of underwear, disguised in wrapping as million-dollar presents. My father would make brisket with beer. I miss homemade sweet potato latkes and my most favorite Hanukkah song, “I’m a little latke,” toe-tap and all. Then I realize I am a young, working professional who can’t get gifts and gelt every night of the holiday and who doesn’t have time to cook brisket for one.

As I wallow in self-pity, staring at the two sole candles, I realize I have found the new meaning of the holiday within the past three months. This year, the oil that keeps me burning is my students. My job is hard. Really hard. But little Thanksgiving notes that say “Ms. Packer, you are my favorite teacher because you care about me,” and comments like “Ms. Packer, don’t take this the wrong way but I love you” and “Hey! She’s my teacher not yours” are the few small drops of oil that I need to keep burning bright for at least 9 months of school. This year, I am the miracle that continues to give every day making sure that 68 minds are growing and learning. On the few days, like today, where students love to learn, I am filled with enough oil to last, and I have every Hanukkah gift I could ever need.

One giant mug of hot cocoa, cracking lips, a sweatshirt four-sizes too big (just the way I like it) and I have found our way into bed way past our bedtime. I sleep with not one, not two, but three blankets to simulate my native Florida hibernation conditions.

In honor of the holiday, this poor teacher has mustered up the courage to give herself a gift – finally, writing a blog, even on a night when she should be far too busy worrying about her 68 children to be enjoying getting lost in words and verbose analogies. Happy Hanukkah, Ms. Packer…keep burning, it’s worth it.

Lesson One: Being a teacher is hard work.

My name is Ms. Packer and I'll be your 5th grade language arts teacher...that's right folks! Yours truly was hired by Bay Brook Elementary/Middle in Baltimore City (Bmore), Maryland, to be the sole 5th grade language arts teacher. I couldn't have picked a better placement for myself if I selected it (truth be told: they asked me what I wanted and by some trick short of a miracle, the school had an opening to meet my exact wants!). I will now officially be carrying on the legacy of all the English-teaching greats, even attempting to match those as fabulous as Mrs. Winrow and Mrs. Morris. Quite a feat!

At this point, I AM Teach For America. As one of 180, 2010 corps members in Baltimore, I have taken a vow - one to education, one to teaching, and one to pushing myself to my max, giving 100 percent of myself, 100 percent of the time to 100 percent of my students. I will make a difference.

Last week, in the blistering heat that apparently envelops Baltimore mid-summer, I lugged my business attire, teaching supplies and snacks to my 4th floor dorm room at Johns Hopkins University for a week of Induction. Hundreds motivational speeches, way too many informational sessions and a few too many soggy turkey sandwiches later, I have made great new friends who challenge me daily and even seek to compete with my organizational skills. I have acquired even more motivation to be the best first-year teacher I can be.

Somehow, in the midst of running to and from sessions booked back-to-back, I found an adorable, completely charming row home in Canton (young, fun part of town), and have solidified two other roommates (TFAers) to keep me sane. I went out twice, to encourage "camaraderie," and sang my heart out at a dueling pianos bar. Demanding sessions offset by a blossoming social life mean that I am keeping it together.

And good thing because my feet are not. Heels suck. Yes, I am an English teacher and yes, I said it...high heels suck!! The blisters on my feet ooze and sap at the most awful times and I have to walk barefoot across campus before re-shoeing my poor toe-sies. But I am not alone in my struggles, every other female looks as though they just begun dancing on point - with bandages stuck tightly to their raw skin and gel insets to cushion their aching arches. I have a whole new appreciation for blister Band-aids.

I passed health screenings and fingerprintings and was accepted officially to Johns Hopkins before making my way to Philly for my five-week INTENSIVE institute.

Today was my first day. I woke at 5 a.m. Had breakfast at 5:45 and loaded my bus to an elementary school in Philly by 6:30 a.m. At the school, I am giving my crash-course in lesson plan writing and teaching. For the summer, I will teach 6th grade math in a 90 minute session all by myself, but under the direction of a mentor teacher. Though the grade and subject don't directly correlate to my placement in Baltimore, I am anticipating strong transferable skills that will make me a fabulous, well-respected teacher.

Every moment of mine is practically booked solid, but I will provide e-mail updates as often as possible. I miss you all and must keep you all in the loop.

For the time being, I am reminding myself to "B' More," no matter what it takes...I'm betting on pots of coffee!

Dear College, thanks for the memories

College – the highly coveted four years that most every middle/upper class kid experiences. Attending is not a possibility, but a requirement to make proud parents prouder and to prove the level of one’s education. Sure, school choice matters – Harvard and Yale, or the University of Florida and Florida State. But we all continue our education for the same reasons: the college years provide the perfect canvas for the transition to maturation – four years (or maybe more) away from home, an excuse to procrastinate a real-life job, a time for self-discovery, and perhaps, a place to acquire a more concentrated skill set.

People always refer to their college years as “the times of their lives.” They warn you to enjoy every moment, promising that the four years will fly by. They urge you to stay summers and get involved. They tell stories from their hay day, which must be missing the essential details that make the stories funny in the first place. They can’t help but reminisce. Is it because of the great educational experiences they encountered? No. It’s because of the friendships they created, the places they went, the bad choices they made, the independence they gained, the tailgates and football they watched.

Everyone seems to know, but no one really seems to care that college life is more about self-discovery than it is about higher education. Memories of sorority functions and weekend away trips to football games fill the spaces in our brains where statistics and comparative politics knowledge should be. Still, we leave our university, diploma in hand, only slightly smarter than we’ve ever been, but with more confidence, self-esteem and stories than we knew possible.

I sucked the life out of orange and blue. My time at UF can been categorized as anything but dull. Summer B, I took advantage of meeting new people, ordering pizza and pokey sticks for late night snacks and adding a second major (political science) after thoroughly enjoying my first international relations class. By the time fall semester arrived and rushing a sorority took priority over classes, I was well acquainted with the campus.

My journalism major made it acceptable for me to be curious about every hidden nook and cranny in Gainesville. I traveled to High Springs, Starke and Alachua looking for stories to write and people to meet. The only “A” in my entire collegiate career that I didn’t receive was, ironically, in Intro to Journalism (B+). I learned never to skip extra credit assignments, no matter how solid I thought my grade was.

Odd jobs defined my time not in class – a Texas Roadhouse hostess for two days before I quit (who likes to clean bathrooms?); a door girl to collect money on Thursdays at a downtown Gainesville club, where I’d watch bloody brawls take place; a beer tub girl at Gator City, where the lower my top meant the greater my tips; a tutor for Advanced Learning Centers, in which I tutored a first-grader twice a week in reading; a freelance food and restaurant critic for Examiner.com that allowed me to try each and every Gainesville restaurant my heart desires; and an ice-cream seller at the Gator football games in the alumni section, with weekly regulars. Attending games meant selling ice-cream, not watching.

I studied abroad – twice – with a greater emphasis on the “abroad” than on the “studying.” On my journey spring semester of junior year, I ended up on a fourth-floor “piso,” or apartment, in Barcelona, Spain, for four months. I lived with a host mother who spoke Spanish a-mile-a-minute – the most apropos breeding ground for misunderstandings. Dinners consisted of my broken chit-chat and offensive slurs. I would say accidentally that I was pregnant instead of embarrassed, or talk about my anus instead of my age. Despite my inevitable flaws, I practiced, and my trip became an on-the-go education. Spanish class took place in cabs and small boutiques. Home economics occurred mid-afternoon as I watched a woman scale fish in an open market, and my new Spanish friends taught linguistics – more aptly Profanity 101 – as we enjoyed tapas. By the time I shared my final meal with my Senora, Spain had become my home, and my educational experience became part of my life lexicon. I traveled to Paris, the south of France, Italy, Amsterdam and all around Spain on weekends, learning there’s more to life than school. I returned from gallivanting halfway around the world to realize that the love of my life was my best guy friend, and we would begin a relationship that makes others envious.

My second journey, 10 days in Icapuí, Brazil, with Pulitzer-Prize-winning photojournalist and professor John Kaplan for the coveted, invite-only Florida FlyIns class taught me the wonders of international journalism. I combined my love for travel and writing while producing a story on a Brazilian fisherwoman and getting class credit.

Internships, the mantra of UF faculty, became my goal. Us Weekly, Universal Republic Records, the Guardian Ad Litem program, Vertical Textiles, The Gainesville Sun, a stringer for The Independent Florida Alligator, and a freelancer for Tea Time magazine each became bullet points on my ever-growing resume.

The rest of my college experiences were a potpourri of this and that that I somehow found the time to accomplish/do. I was president of my sorority, a member of the prestigious Freshmen Leadership Council, a campus diplomat. I won an AT&T scholarship for three years. I was named the John Paul Jones, Jr. award winner for excellence in writing, as nominated and voted on by the journalism faculty and administration. I became an Anderson Scholar for the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences because of my stellar GPA. I graduated Summa Cum Laude (highest honors) and paid $45 just to wear the three cords at graduation. One of my professors dubbed me "a human highlighter." I created my first two blogs: KP in the City and Fork First Spoon Later. I went on a road trip to South Carolina for a Gator game. I spring breaked in Coast Rica. I “dated” my TA.

Only once I’ve cleared my head of each life-changing experience that has already become my college story, can I remember the classes – classes like food politics, in which I wrote and published my first book, "The Taste of Culture," and MMC2100 (Writing for Mass Communication) with an instructor who, to this day, remains one of my most valued mentors. I can think back fondly on once-dreaded papers and projects that have made me expand my personal boundaries while helping me to discover myself.

With a tear in one eye and a wink in the other, I pop the college bubble that I’ve been living in and prepare to tackle real life – Teach For America in Baltimore - where waking up at a normal hour is socially acceptable, working anywhere other than a bar or a club is smiled upon and going out nearly every night of the week is impossible. I leave feeling scared, yet ready to face those challenges ahead. Nostalgia for years past sets in and I long to relive it all over again. I wish I could go back to college.

“Now the world’s gonna wake and see, Baltimore and me!”

It’s almost surreal.

I knew Teach For America decisions would be e-mailed on January 21, 2010. I knew they said the decisions would be posted at 8 p.m. But still, I couldn’t help myself from clicking the refresh button on my e-mail at least once every five minutes starting at 8:30 a.m. A night of tossing and turning, dreams of children in my classroom and waking up practically every other hour didn’t help to keep my naturally anxious self from relaxing.

Going to class was painful. My thoughts of lessons and lectures were interrupted by notions of decision letters – good and bad. By the end of each class period, I had thoroughly convinced myself that I wasn’t gonna be offered a spot.

“Well my interview went well, but the one-on-one had some silent moments.”

“Perhaps you came across too strong in the group interview, Katie. I’m sure they don’t like that.”

“Why would they pick you, Katie? There are 35,000 other amazingly qualified applicants.”

Every thought, every self-realization of doubt had decided to flood my brain during my two-hour ethics of journalism class. My pen tapped; my legs bounced; my breakfast went uneaten. Texts were sent to my boyfriend begging for support.

By some miracle, I had managed to calm myself down on my drive home from class. Knowing that it was only 4 p.m. allowed me to persuade myself that there was no use in worrying for the next four hours. Menial tasks on my computer while talking to Andrew on the phone lead me to check my e-mail.

And there it was.

“Congratulations! We are pleased to invite you to join the 2010 Teach For America corps and are excited to assign you to teach elementary school in Baltimore.”

Woah, hold your horses, it’s only 4:30 p.m. Was I just accepted? I then proceeded to read and re-read and re-read again.

Nearly one minute after those congratulatory words embedded themselves into my mind, I had to alert my new best friends, Facebook and Twitter - they’re such gossips that I knew I could count on them to get the word out.

About five minutes later, one of my best childhood friends, Jamie Goldstein, a senior at Vanderbilt University, called me. Between tears of joy and childlike, giddy screaming, we realized that we would both be teaching in Baltimore as 2010 TFA corps member – a total fortunate fluke.

Jamie and I were elementary school buds to the 10^th degree. Sitting together on field trip buses, sharing lunch food (Lunchable pizzas!) and participating in color group activities didn’t even begin to scratch the surface.

My most fond memories of grade school all seem to involve Jamie. My very first day of Kindergarten in Ms. Cowan’s Scooters class introduced me to her. From there, she helped me practice and audition for the oh-so-prestigious Sunsations, our elementary school choir. We sang duets (“In the meadow we can build a snowman…”) and practiced our mini-show, “It’s Saturday.”

We cheated together on in-class spelling tests, and we roomed together on overnight trips. Our parent-child book club, beginning in fifth grade, brought us even closer. WU-TV, our school’s own news program, and Dear Sunny, our school’s student-to-student help club, were a scream.

Outside of class, Jamie and I celebrated every single birthday together – pull-apart sunflower cakes and all. Brownies camp-outs and meetings filled our days. Sleepovers and flat-ironing hair filled our nights. Multiple group projects and partner projects were completed at her or my house.

Funny how life works, isn’t it. The happiness of my elementary school years will be joining me as I tackle primary school all over again. I can’t wait to see what’s in store.

As a Teach For America teacher, I will be making a difference. I will make direct impact on students. I will serve as the bit of hope and encouragement that many students have never had. I will teach not only knowledge, but life smarts, and I will instill my love of learning to all within my reach.

So KP in the City will, from here on out, more aptly be KP in the Classroom….'cause that’s where you’ll find me. Baltimore and me!

Turkey day

Turkey day (or in my case, turkey days) sucked all life out of me. Stuffed even fatter than each turkey I engulfed and woosy from celebratory “I’m thankful for…” toasts, writing and blogging was far from my mind. Food comas ensued, parades were watched and catch-up sleep was a must.

Of course, like everyone else, I said thanks for my family (adopted and real), my friends, my health and my happiness, but I also added a few new “thanks” this year. I attended not one, not two, not three, but FOUR Thanksgiving meals, making me realize just how thankful I am for all the love in my life – love for one another and love for food.

Everyone wanted to host and celebrate the day grounded in gobble-gobble goodness. I gladly obliged and reaped the benefits.

Thanksgiving meal #1: Cuban Thanksgiving meal, Aventura, Wednesday night Though I arrived late, even by Latin standards, to meet up with my boyfriend and his family, I nibbled on a few scraps of pulled pork and moist pumpkin muffins, the latter made by my boyfriend’s sister. I washed down my glass of red with café con leche, a bite of birthday cake and flute of champagne for dessert.

Thanksgiving meal #2: Mom’s Thanksgiving feast- half Italian, half American, Plantation, Thursday afternoon My mom and stepdad have friends who live to cook. They enjoy preparing dishes that guests go ga-ga over – the tried-and-true crowd pleasers. Appetizers began at 1 p.m. Spinach dip, artichoke dip, sliced meats and veggie trays competed with “sausage bread,” a take on my stepdad’s special pepperoni-and-cheese pinwheels. Certainly no lack of food.

Usuals – the turkey, the stuffing, the green bean casserole, the cranberry sauce – made their appearances. My plate, however, was taken over by the sweet potato concoction that makes me salivate even six months before Thanksgiving. Like dessert for dinner, the sweet potato mush is cooked with butter, brown sugar and candied nuts on top. Nothing else on the table is worth eating. But just to add some variety to my meal, I opted for a heaping portion of my mom's delicious salad with chopped apples and Gorgonzola cheese. Italian-style stuffed artichokes and green peppers were also too good to pass up.

Thanksgiving meal #3: Boyfriend’s family’s intimate dinner – the non-thanksgiving Thanksgiving, Plantation, Thursday night Andrew’s sister, a chef extraordinaire in her own right, doesn’t do the whole “you gotta have turkey on Thanksgiving.” Instead, she prepares a medium-rare rib roast with a perfectly seared outside. Cranberry sauce is spruced with oranges and apples; mashed potatoes are chunky and with the skin, just like I like. While I was too full to take anything more than one bite of each, I was able to enjoy a taste. Andrew, his parents, his sister, her boyfriend and I laughed as even the cat begged for snack.

Thanksgiving meal #4: Daddy’s Thanksgiving extravaganza – Jewish-style, Cooper City, Friday Let me put this out there – my dad is an awesome cook. I called him frantically the week before turkey day begging and pleading for a free-range turkey (I am on a new kick, adamantly supporting free-range and organic items because artificial drugs, pesticides and plumpers disgust me). Without so much as a complaint, he ordered my special turkey from Whole Foods.

Turns out, my turkey prepared by my stepmom was the most moist I have ever eaten. Even its gravy was juicy. In true Jewish tradition, food abounded. As if an entire turkey weren’t enough, sweet spiral ham was served. Full trays of green bean casserole, stuffing, sweet potato casserole and cucumber salad filled the serving table. My dad’s moist pumpkin bread and my grammey’s chocolate-covered, crunchy Chinese noodles had me fingering the dessert tier before dessert was even served.

My immediate family is notorious for too much food. Left-overs were boxed and sent home with guests, and that that couldn’t find a home was frozen for later enjoyment.

Spending time with family (especially my baby brother, home on leave from the Coast Guard Academy) and friends at all my meals made this November even more special. I did, however, somehow manage to miss the pumpkin pie at all my meals.

It’s funny – normally, I hate Thanksgiving, but not this year. Though my family didn’t set aside differences like the pilgrims and the Native Americans did, I was able to celebrate with all those whom I care about. There’s always enough of me to go around…too bad I can’t say the same about all the sweet potatoes I devoured.