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.

“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!