Many positive happenings have taken place in the last month, and tonight after my quick workout at the gym, I felt compelled to write an update as to what has transpired since November.
For one, I've begun the process of applying to The Trinity Fellowship at Marquette University, which is a fellowship that encourages graduate students to work for Milwaukee-area nonprofits throughout their two years of study for a Masters degree. The night I stumbled upon the offering, I had already been looking in vain for schools that have a relationship with Americorps. I was hoping to come across a few schools that would do more than just match the $5,000 education award that I'm expecting to receive at the termination of my year with Americorps. I also wanted to search for a humanities or a general sciences program that stayed clear of politics and public administration. Yet, after fifty-five schools and nearly two hours of researching programs, I began to feel a sense of resignation in the fact that I probably wouldn't find a school that will give me money to study, and if they did, they sure as hell probably wouldn't be offering a Masters of Linguistics, History or Geography. Thank god I didn't log off the website before I took a gander at school number 60: I found Marquette third from the last
Marquette is the United State's largest Jesuit school and is located in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, which is NOT the Upper Peninsula of Michigan--the oft-cited location. It's a well-known school that is respected, and best of all, they give out money to former PeaceCorps of Americorps members--a whole $64,000 worth. Doing the calculations on my fingers, I was pretty sure that two dived by 64 equaled 32, which meant that they would be paying ME, Jeremy Ault, $32,000 to study History and to work in a nonprofit. Not bad, huh? I didn't think so either, so I began the application process by writing my four essays, requesting for my recommendation letters, and--the monster of them all--registering to take the GRE.
The month of November saw my days turn into work/study periods: I would work from 8:30 am to 5:00pm, only to come home and then study esoteric vocabulary that I knew I would never speak in real life; therefore, I began to pick up one of the many history books I had laying around the house. I pilfered the book for "GREesque" words. I seemed to be most successful reading the gargantuan, brick-sized works of British historians; they just use such a robust vocabulary that can't, sadly, be found on facebook. I saw the word lugubrious used not once, but TWICE. Yeah, I was gonna stick the GRE verbal. However, my math skills were a different story.
The night I came across the word 'obtuse' my mind reminded me that obtuse is not only a characteristic of people, but is an angle. Uh oh, maybe I focused a little too much on the verbal aspect of the test. I couldn't remember how to do algebra. I forgot what the Pythagorean theorem actually theorizes. I didn't know how to find the area of a cylinder, nor did I really care. I forgot FOIL and 'Pardon My Dear Aunt Sally." I was pretty much floundering. I answered 20 questions in about 45 minutes and finished in the 7th percentile; meaning, that nearly everyone could and DID better than me on the test. Consequently, for the next two weeks I sat in my recliner and basked in the light of my lamp. I reread two GRE math books, and began going to the library to practice my arithmetic skills.
I tried not to let myself get too nervous about the test, as I find the GRE to be a fairly silly way of gauging the potential of students, as the test really only is an accurate indicator of the prior educational circumstance of students-- a circumstance which is often not chosen by the students themselves--and of how long one has studied for the specific test itself: It has no measure on how to gauge one's drive, talent, passion or inquisitive nature. Anyways, I had resigned myself to a confident "the-test-doesn't-define-me attitude" until, however, the night before the test date came. I couldn't sleep. My mind was a jumbled mess of nerves. I kept on having recurring images of me slamming my head off of the desk in pure anger and despair that my FUTURE, MY DEAR FUTURE, HAD BEEN....lost. I guess I didn't handle the pressure as well as I would have liked to admit...
I slunk out of bed the next morning, ate a 'brain breakfast' of organe juice, cheerios and peanut butter toast and made my way down the snow-covered streets of Erie to the testing building. Upon entering, I was informed that I had to empty out all of my pockets and place my belongings in a locker at the front of the building. I then proceeded to fill out the paperwork that was mandatory for all test takers, which unbeknownst to me, required me to actually write in cursive--something I have not done in ten years. Everyone around me seemed to be on edge. Would they pass? or, would they have to find a new profession? Ugh.
The test got underway at 8:30 am, as I was placed into my minute cubicle and told that I would not be able to leave--even to pee--for the next four hours. If I needed to go, I had to raise my handd and then be given permission from a rather rotund woman sitting behind a glass wall. I felt like an elementary school child in the principles hall.
I began the test by writing two essays, which got my confidence in gear. I then jumped to the verbal section of the test. Once I saw that my questions had become literally impossible to answer, I postulated that I was scoring highly on the verbal, so I left that section feeling encouraged. Then came my dreaded bride, the math. I jumped right into the section and didn't blink. I made motions as if I was jotting down notes and formulas, but it was all a mirage. I had no idea how much time I had, but I knew that I was moving too slowly for the first five questions, which initiated a grave decision on my part: I started to guess. My unwritten rule for the rest of the test was that if I didn't instantly recognize an answer (which was a majority), I would spend no more than one minute guessing. And, I found the most mathematically apt equation for the situation to be of much help many times over: Ini-mini-myni-mo. And, at the end when my scores were revealed, I shook with joy, as I had answered more than half of the math questions correctly. As for my verbal, it was a decent score. I left pleased and happy, yet a little embarrassed that I let the test get to me so badly. I now felt ready to continue on in the graduate school process, which is where I stand right now: I have two weeks until deadline. I will wait patiently as to see what will happen....
In other news, I was informed this past week that my article about my trip to Slovakia will be published in the Erie Times as a two-week Saturday special to be published on Dec. 18th and--of all times--on Christmas. I was pleased, and I hope that the people in Erie will enjoy the story.
Well, that's it for now. I'm off to read and write some letters.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
sorry I'm such a bore.
I haven't posted anything of 'substance' in a long time--aside from a few small 'reflective' posts here and there. I could sit back and claim that my reluctance to post has been due to the fact that I've been struggling with bouts of laziness. However, that would be quite far from the truth. There have been days, even weeks, where I felt as if I WANTED to write, but I've never sat down and picked up the pen to do it. It's like I feel as if I have nothing to say. The past two years of my life played out as if I was in a perpetual forest of new discoveries: dark, mysterious paths weaved in and out of towering trees that would almost inevitably lead me to a meadow of cultural awakening, language acquisition, or lively nights at the pub.
I have to break away from that. The Czech Republic for me--at least the immediate life--is over. Erie, Pennsylvania is my new abode, and the people I see daily on my bike rides to work are my current neighbors. So, where am I to go to now? The enigmatic forest has turned into something of a bore. The cultural meadow has morphed into nothing but a vast, hollow desert: nothing to see, nothing to do.
You see, even my thoughts have been jumbled, and feel as if I'm writing with a pen that doesn't write in black or red ink, but in white or gray, colors like the paper: My writing blends in, offers nothing new, easily disappearing between the blue lines and the red verticle margin.
I wish I had an interesting story to tell....
I have to break away from that. The Czech Republic for me--at least the immediate life--is over. Erie, Pennsylvania is my new abode, and the people I see daily on my bike rides to work are my current neighbors. So, where am I to go to now? The enigmatic forest has turned into something of a bore. The cultural meadow has morphed into nothing but a vast, hollow desert: nothing to see, nothing to do.
You see, even my thoughts have been jumbled, and feel as if I'm writing with a pen that doesn't write in black or red ink, but in white or gray, colors like the paper: My writing blends in, offers nothing new, easily disappearing between the blue lines and the red verticle margin.
I wish I had an interesting story to tell....
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Election Day Reflection
Today during the election, my boss, Gary Horton, was a man on a mission to motivate the masses. He organized vans to take those, without the means of transportation, to the polling station, where they would be able to cast a vote. He canvased and recruited teenagers from the local 'projects' to hand out 'Elect Kathy Dahlkemper' placards--our much-aligned congressional representative who has been lambasted in the news--and by 'tea partiers'--for her suggestion that Americans should ride their bikes more often. He entertained guests who meandered into the nonprofit where I work. And chummed up to some volunteers and potential political allies.
Isn't it fun during election time?
At one point during the afternoon, Gary was in the midst of a 'ra-ra' moment, when he turned to a group of about five teenagers that were part of his canvasing crew. A few of them had recently started to lament the uncomfortable cold conditions that they were fored to work in, and were showing a waning enthusiasm for the job. Gary jumped on the issue at hand, and sprang into a lecture of how blacks had gotten the right to vote. "They were lynched and burned," he said in a voice rising to an apex like that of a baptist preacher. "Blood spilled, people were whipped, and white people suppressed." I felt awkward, REALLY awkward. I felt the glances of some of the younger teenagers on my skin, and I dropped my gaze to the ground. Why did I carry this shame? Why did I, at that moment, feel as if I was the only one guilty for the problems of this nation's past? And why, does Gary always have to emphasis the 'white' when speaking about the 'others'? Is it justified on his part? Or, is my shame just another twisted version of the White Man's Burden....
No one likes being judged solely by the physical manifestation of genetics and melatonin.
Isn't it fun during election time?
At one point during the afternoon, Gary was in the midst of a 'ra-ra' moment, when he turned to a group of about five teenagers that were part of his canvasing crew. A few of them had recently started to lament the uncomfortable cold conditions that they were fored to work in, and were showing a waning enthusiasm for the job. Gary jumped on the issue at hand, and sprang into a lecture of how blacks had gotten the right to vote. "They were lynched and burned," he said in a voice rising to an apex like that of a baptist preacher. "Blood spilled, people were whipped, and white people suppressed." I felt awkward, REALLY awkward. I felt the glances of some of the younger teenagers on my skin, and I dropped my gaze to the ground. Why did I carry this shame? Why did I, at that moment, feel as if I was the only one guilty for the problems of this nation's past? And why, does Gary always have to emphasis the 'white' when speaking about the 'others'? Is it justified on his part? Or, is my shame just another twisted version of the White Man's Burden....
No one likes being judged solely by the physical manifestation of genetics and melatonin.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
reflections
Our house is built in the shape of a rectangle. The living room is a boxy space that stretches out into a cube-like kitchen, complete with four-sided cupboards and an oven made of 95 degree angles. Rooms jut off the side of the living room, at adjacent angles, giving the entire house a very symmetrical feel.
I ride my bike every morning across blocks and intersections. The topography of the Lake Erie Piedmont has convinced the City to expand out into very rational, row-like patterns, where one would be hard-pressed to be confused (except one's first month of life here).
There is a political map on the wall where I work that breaks the city down into sections by painting certain 'blocks' in different shades of red and purple. I find myself amazed at how easy it is to look at the map and pin-point exactly where the 'poor folks' live, where the businesses have maintained a hold, where the most Democrats are likely to reside, where not to ride my bike in the night and where a fun Thursday night could be had: could life be any more simpler and easier
to compartmentalize? Maybe in Erie, we tend to do it too often...
At work I often run into frustrating situations, where in an attempt to 'collaborate' with other non-profits, I am often rebuffed with multifarious excuses as to why it just won't work: "You'll be taking OUR kids." "Well, we don't want to let you play with our toys in the sandbox." "This side of town is our domain." In the end, we as non-profits break ourselves up into 'gangs' of influence who rule over certain turf; making decisions and having the only real right to SERVE the poor.
Race and social class are cleanly sliced into squares as if it was as easy as taking a knife to a freshly-baked tray of corn bread. Once you get passed Parade St., the houses take on a more dilapidated view, and the streets (for some unknown reason) become wide and virtually empty of cars--aside from those cars (generally large, luxury sudans with enormous rims) parked out front and along the sidewalk. It's the 'dark' part of the neighborhood; Parade St. is the second State St. of Erie, as it is the main strip through the immigrant and black section of the city. I've rarely, in all my life in Pennsylvania, seen such a clear boundary line drawn. To most of the middle-class, unassuming, hard-working, privileged, all-knowing whites who I've on the western side of State St., the "East Side' would be the prime kind of physical hell that stirs up haunting images of young, aggressive black men with hoods over their shaved skulls coming at their window with a bat; hoping to smash their window, take their money and shoot them in the stomach. Or, imagery of rows and rows of crack houses form in the consciousness, with young children dressed only in diapers on the front porch playing in an oblivious stupor as to how shitty and hopeless their life already is, while 'moma' stuffs another dirty-needle full of heroin into her thick vein. "Blacks don't know how to work." "Gosh, if only they'd get a job." " I don't want to sound racist, but I'd never let my daughter marry into this...."
Yeah, that's the one side of how Parade Street is portrayed, but on my morning bike rides, I never feel threatened; to the contrary, I'm often amazed at how much livier the place is in comparison to the lily-white, suburban west-side of the city: men and ladies talk and chat on front porches, children ride bicycles along cracked sidewalk, while others play football between old Victorian-style homes that look as though the wood is in thirst for another coat of paint. Women walk to do laundry in a communal 'mat'; carrying clothes and feeding children ice cream all in one motion. I hear the laugh of people, the bass of music and the sound of grills being turned on in the evening. And, as I ride home back to 'my' safe, more 'comfortable' part of the city, I'm struck by how quickly the corner-store bar and restaurant turns into the corner law firm, and how rapidly the chatter of voices on a the front porch, is changed into the flickering reflection of televisions turned on and the technical sound of a broadcasted voice speaking to shut-in people who only come out to take out the trash.
I ride my bike every morning across blocks and intersections. The topography of the Lake Erie Piedmont has convinced the City to expand out into very rational, row-like patterns, where one would be hard-pressed to be confused (except one's first month of life here).
There is a political map on the wall where I work that breaks the city down into sections by painting certain 'blocks' in different shades of red and purple. I find myself amazed at how easy it is to look at the map and pin-point exactly where the 'poor folks' live, where the businesses have maintained a hold, where the most Democrats are likely to reside, where not to ride my bike in the night and where a fun Thursday night could be had: could life be any more simpler and easier
to compartmentalize? Maybe in Erie, we tend to do it too often...
At work I often run into frustrating situations, where in an attempt to 'collaborate' with other non-profits, I am often rebuffed with multifarious excuses as to why it just won't work: "You'll be taking OUR kids." "Well, we don't want to let you play with our toys in the sandbox." "This side of town is our domain." In the end, we as non-profits break ourselves up into 'gangs' of influence who rule over certain turf; making decisions and having the only real right to SERVE the poor.
Race and social class are cleanly sliced into squares as if it was as easy as taking a knife to a freshly-baked tray of corn bread. Once you get passed Parade St., the houses take on a more dilapidated view, and the streets (for some unknown reason) become wide and virtually empty of cars--aside from those cars (generally large, luxury sudans with enormous rims) parked out front and along the sidewalk. It's the 'dark' part of the neighborhood; Parade St. is the second State St. of Erie, as it is the main strip through the immigrant and black section of the city. I've rarely, in all my life in Pennsylvania, seen such a clear boundary line drawn. To most of the middle-class, unassuming, hard-working, privileged, all-knowing whites who I've on the western side of State St., the "East Side' would be the prime kind of physical hell that stirs up haunting images of young, aggressive black men with hoods over their shaved skulls coming at their window with a bat; hoping to smash their window, take their money and shoot them in the stomach. Or, imagery of rows and rows of crack houses form in the consciousness, with young children dressed only in diapers on the front porch playing in an oblivious stupor as to how shitty and hopeless their life already is, while 'moma' stuffs another dirty-needle full of heroin into her thick vein. "Blacks don't know how to work." "Gosh, if only they'd get a job." " I don't want to sound racist, but I'd never let my daughter marry into this...."
Yeah, that's the one side of how Parade Street is portrayed, but on my morning bike rides, I never feel threatened; to the contrary, I'm often amazed at how much livier the place is in comparison to the lily-white, suburban west-side of the city: men and ladies talk and chat on front porches, children ride bicycles along cracked sidewalk, while others play football between old Victorian-style homes that look as though the wood is in thirst for another coat of paint. Women walk to do laundry in a communal 'mat'; carrying clothes and feeding children ice cream all in one motion. I hear the laugh of people, the bass of music and the sound of grills being turned on in the evening. And, as I ride home back to 'my' safe, more 'comfortable' part of the city, I'm struck by how quickly the corner-store bar and restaurant turns into the corner law firm, and how rapidly the chatter of voices on a the front porch, is changed into the flickering reflection of televisions turned on and the technical sound of a broadcasted voice speaking to shut-in people who only come out to take out the trash.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Erie thoughts
My desk has a sterile and cold feel to it. It’s not made of wood that is of a smooth grain and varnished to a comforting, almost glass-like sheen; it’s steel and hard, thin and sharp around the edges. When I grab a drawer I feel a stinging pressure, as the metal creases into my skin. My work place is nothing but a cheap, imitation top that is “plasticky” and swings between phases of cold restrictedness where papers slide as if they’re on ice, to sticky, full-blooded warmth that makes one feel stuffy and uncomfortable like after a humid rain that makes hands ‘clamy.’
My hands on the first day of work were perpetually cold, which made me conscious around the big, robust black women with large smiles, thick lips and white teeth. They all seemed so full of breast-driven womanliness and human passion, that it seemed their veins were as thick as a concrete tunnels traversing their way though the belly of a stubborn mountain. And here I am with my thin, restricted blue-like veins of seedy, white-man coldness being placed into their fatty palms. “Hi, I’m Jeremy. I’ll be working in the place of Brooke.” I said. “I’m open to talk, so come in and ask me a question when you want.” Ha! Like that will happen; I’m sure the entire time I had their hand gripped, they were wondering about whether my miniscule heart was pumping enough blood to my freezing-cold finger tips. What life could I bring into such a vibrant place with a heart beat (literally) not strong enough to get my phalanges ‘veiny’ and hot.
I don’t know Erie well. The preposterous amount of stop lights pisses me off as I am continually being impeded on my way to work. Drive five feet. Stop. Breathe in exhaust. Trucks are larger than Corollas. Listen to the blast of the combustion of the engine as they speed away. “Aha, five minutes closer to work!” I think to myself. Stop. Red light. A change is now proceeding in cascade-like formation towards the horizons, as freedom-loving greens change to frustrating-as-hell reds. Will I ever make it to work!?
Jamie grew up outside the city, so she doesn’t seem to have a good handle on where 12th street lines up with Buffalo, and where Fairview intersects with the Bayfront. What’s on 6th and 8th, you say? A bar? A Dollar General? A Health Clinic, behind a bus stop, where derelicts and obese people congregate and mix genes? What about Upper Peach? No. I’m on East 19th, but my apartment is on East 2nd. No, not west, EAST! You’re thinking of 6th and where it crosses over with 10th. I went down to the diner today on 24th and 12th, but it was on the WEST side of town. Where are you talking about? Oh, YOU DON’T KNOW THE GOD DAMN NUMBERS!?
When I cross the traffic bridge and drive past the dilapidated Erie Mill Co. and ‘round the bend across from the Orthodox Church, I plunge myself into a world of black men on bikes with rusted chains, and houses with big-wheel strewn front yards. Where are these men going? I’m sure none of them want jobs. Why don’t they clean their gutters, and ‘spray wash’ the grime from the peak of the house, where the siding meets the lip of the roof? Maybe they’re immigrants? Essentially, these people are on the wrong side of the tracks. They’re on the East Side—the bad side—"the black side." I don’t know Erie aside from the wilds around G.E., and the neatly-trimmed public houses of John Moran. After all, it’s about people sir, not I.
Each morning I hear languages ringing in my ears—some buzz, while others clang and are sharp. Some mumble and are spoken on tones and rhythms. While my own, my own language, has found new ways to amaze me in its ability to confound my ear. How is it that the English language can continually change and encompass the culture of those who speak it? Too many times I hear people claim they are ‘their language’, but the bastardized, beautiful, warped, dirtied, laughed-at and exquisite tool that is ‘English’, is not its people; its people make it: Each utterance, roll of the tongue, slur of an accent, and disregard for grammar is awash in humanity and in personality. ‘Wat’cha want? I been had that done, is jus’ you is like me.”
My hands on the first day of work were perpetually cold, which made me conscious around the big, robust black women with large smiles, thick lips and white teeth. They all seemed so full of breast-driven womanliness and human passion, that it seemed their veins were as thick as a concrete tunnels traversing their way though the belly of a stubborn mountain. And here I am with my thin, restricted blue-like veins of seedy, white-man coldness being placed into their fatty palms. “Hi, I’m Jeremy. I’ll be working in the place of Brooke.” I said. “I’m open to talk, so come in and ask me a question when you want.” Ha! Like that will happen; I’m sure the entire time I had their hand gripped, they were wondering about whether my miniscule heart was pumping enough blood to my freezing-cold finger tips. What life could I bring into such a vibrant place with a heart beat (literally) not strong enough to get my phalanges ‘veiny’ and hot.
I don’t know Erie well. The preposterous amount of stop lights pisses me off as I am continually being impeded on my way to work. Drive five feet. Stop. Breathe in exhaust. Trucks are larger than Corollas. Listen to the blast of the combustion of the engine as they speed away. “Aha, five minutes closer to work!” I think to myself. Stop. Red light. A change is now proceeding in cascade-like formation towards the horizons, as freedom-loving greens change to frustrating-as-hell reds. Will I ever make it to work!?
Jamie grew up outside the city, so she doesn’t seem to have a good handle on where 12th street lines up with Buffalo, and where Fairview intersects with the Bayfront. What’s on 6th and 8th, you say? A bar? A Dollar General? A Health Clinic, behind a bus stop, where derelicts and obese people congregate and mix genes? What about Upper Peach? No. I’m on East 19th, but my apartment is on East 2nd. No, not west, EAST! You’re thinking of 6th and where it crosses over with 10th. I went down to the diner today on 24th and 12th, but it was on the WEST side of town. Where are you talking about? Oh, YOU DON’T KNOW THE GOD DAMN NUMBERS!?
When I cross the traffic bridge and drive past the dilapidated Erie Mill Co. and ‘round the bend across from the Orthodox Church, I plunge myself into a world of black men on bikes with rusted chains, and houses with big-wheel strewn front yards. Where are these men going? I’m sure none of them want jobs. Why don’t they clean their gutters, and ‘spray wash’ the grime from the peak of the house, where the siding meets the lip of the roof? Maybe they’re immigrants? Essentially, these people are on the wrong side of the tracks. They’re on the East Side—the bad side—"the black side." I don’t know Erie aside from the wilds around G.E., and the neatly-trimmed public houses of John Moran. After all, it’s about people sir, not I.
Each morning I hear languages ringing in my ears—some buzz, while others clang and are sharp. Some mumble and are spoken on tones and rhythms. While my own, my own language, has found new ways to amaze me in its ability to confound my ear. How is it that the English language can continually change and encompass the culture of those who speak it? Too many times I hear people claim they are ‘their language’, but the bastardized, beautiful, warped, dirtied, laughed-at and exquisite tool that is ‘English’, is not its people; its people make it: Each utterance, roll of the tongue, slur of an accent, and disregard for grammar is awash in humanity and in personality. ‘Wat’cha want? I been had that done, is jus’ you is like me.”
Friday, August 27, 2010
Sorry I didn't write sooner
So I haven’t posted since the English Camp…I’m sorry. There are a many changes happening in our lives and I haven’t forgot about all the people who check our blog to see what’s going on in our lives, I just haven’t sat down and written anything.
It a little weird to think that we have only been back in Pennsylvania for thirty-eight days (somehow it seems longer….). Upon returning we were bombarded with paperwork and trainings for a new Americorps VISTA positions, therefore everything else has been squeezed in around our job preparation. However we have done A LOT of stuff. We got to spend a week with Jeremy’s parents in their new home in Tennessee, which was great. We got to see our good friend from camp get married (Bunny looked SO cute!). We went camping with a bunch of our Beaver County friends. We bought our first bed and we have an apartment what we will be moving into on the 6th. For the time being we have been living with my parents, who have been patient with our stuff sitting in the living room and the different habits we have formed (such as only using one glass during the day and leaving it sit next to the sink rather than putting it in the dishwasher and getting a new one every time.), however there are some habits that have been harder, such as making sure the toilet lid is put down after we go to the bathroom. As much as I appreciate all that my parents have done for use since we have moved in with them - feeding us, letting us wash our cloths, giving us a place to store all our stuff – I am really looking forward to moving into our apartment and having our own space and also being much closer to where we both work.
One thing that has been really challenging is balancing the amount of Czech language in our lives. Jeremy is of course tries to speak as much as he can, write in his Czech journal, listen to Czech radio programs online and read a Czech newspaper online, where I am much lazier and only want to speak for an hour a day. I think this also has to do with our level of the language, as Jeremy is at a MUCH higher level than I am (do to my frustrations and laziness with the language while living in Policka), so he can do more with it. But I’m happy that he continues to write to our friends and set up Skype dates, because I get to communicate with them as well.
This weekend we’ll be going down to Waynesburg, PA to see some friends and give a presentation about our last year in Policka at the church we attended in college. I have looked forward to seeing our Waynesburg friends since returning to Pennsylvania and I’m glad that we finally have a chance to see them.
Oh, and I finally got some more paint I can start painting again :)
It a little weird to think that we have only been back in Pennsylvania for thirty-eight days (somehow it seems longer….). Upon returning we were bombarded with paperwork and trainings for a new Americorps VISTA positions, therefore everything else has been squeezed in around our job preparation. However we have done A LOT of stuff. We got to spend a week with Jeremy’s parents in their new home in Tennessee, which was great. We got to see our good friend from camp get married (Bunny looked SO cute!). We went camping with a bunch of our Beaver County friends. We bought our first bed and we have an apartment what we will be moving into on the 6th. For the time being we have been living with my parents, who have been patient with our stuff sitting in the living room and the different habits we have formed (such as only using one glass during the day and leaving it sit next to the sink rather than putting it in the dishwasher and getting a new one every time.), however there are some habits that have been harder, such as making sure the toilet lid is put down after we go to the bathroom. As much as I appreciate all that my parents have done for use since we have moved in with them - feeding us, letting us wash our cloths, giving us a place to store all our stuff – I am really looking forward to moving into our apartment and having our own space and also being much closer to where we both work.
One thing that has been really challenging is balancing the amount of Czech language in our lives. Jeremy is of course tries to speak as much as he can, write in his Czech journal, listen to Czech radio programs online and read a Czech newspaper online, where I am much lazier and only want to speak for an hour a day. I think this also has to do with our level of the language, as Jeremy is at a MUCH higher level than I am (do to my frustrations and laziness with the language while living in Policka), so he can do more with it. But I’m happy that he continues to write to our friends and set up Skype dates, because I get to communicate with them as well.
This weekend we’ll be going down to Waynesburg, PA to see some friends and give a presentation about our last year in Policka at the church we attended in college. I have looked forward to seeing our Waynesburg friends since returning to Pennsylvania and I’m glad that we finally have a chance to see them.
Oh, and I finally got some more paint I can start painting again :)
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Updates from America
I went into my new place of work two days ago and was shocked by the lack of organization that I saw: papers were strewn about the place in stacks as if they were building obelisks; each room seemed to have a purpose that it could be serving, but was currently preoccupied as 'storage'; the computer lab has about 15 'portable' laptops that could be used by the children if they were able to actually take them home, which is greatly inhibited by the fact that almost all of the power cords are missing; and my boss didn't seem to have the time of day to speak with me for more than five minutes. It was, to put it lightly, a very discouraging experience. But, I guess I can't judge it too harshly; people there seemed to be pretty underwhelmed by myself: when I walked in the door the manager's first words were, "Well, I'd expected you to be a bit taller." And when I was introduced to the children who are in the program, all of them took a disinterested/disappointed glance my way and wistfully, almost sad fully, mumbled, 'HE is the one who is going to be here next year?" Yeah, awesome start....
After two weeks of being back in America, I can honestly say that the party has ended: we're both currently living out of Jamie's house and all of our possessions are haphazardly stacked in their living room, pressing into the carpet and spilling onto the couch. I can't find any of my possessions both from the Czech Republic and years previous, and my back is beginning to twitch because the mattress-on-the-floor comfort is just not kicking it anymore. I feel stranded by the fact that I can't walk where I want and when I want, and I'm really sad that I can't leave my peanut butter toast plate on the counter, so I don't have to continually waste water washing it repeatedly when I know that in just another two hours I'm gonna grab for the JIF again. Ugh....the pains of in-law living....
On a brighter note, Jamie and I took a jaunt over to our apartment today (well, our apartment as of August 28th...I hope), and I found it to be really refreshing to know that in less than four weeks I'll be calling that old, clapboard house home. It's wonderfully situated less than a block away from three institutions in my life: the library, the church, and the bar (it's a slight joke ;) ). I plan on regularly making my way to them. We're located about three city blocks up from the bay of Lake Erie, which means we're also in walking distance of a park with benches that over look the steely-gray waters. One night, I'm sure Jamie and I will talk about the future while watching the lights of yachts and sail boats float quietly by. I look forward to that.
This weekend Jamie and I have planned a camping trip in the Allegheny National Forest with about nine of friends coming to partake in the campfires, hiking and fishing that is to be had. I've never really spent anytime near the national forest, so I'm anticipating the hikes through some of the world's richest and densest black-cherry wood forest, and seeing the twisted hulks of contorted oaks left over from the tornadoes of 1985. Pennsylvania, I'm home!
After two weeks of being back in America, I can honestly say that the party has ended: we're both currently living out of Jamie's house and all of our possessions are haphazardly stacked in their living room, pressing into the carpet and spilling onto the couch. I can't find any of my possessions both from the Czech Republic and years previous, and my back is beginning to twitch because the mattress-on-the-floor comfort is just not kicking it anymore. I feel stranded by the fact that I can't walk where I want and when I want, and I'm really sad that I can't leave my peanut butter toast plate on the counter, so I don't have to continually waste water washing it repeatedly when I know that in just another two hours I'm gonna grab for the JIF again. Ugh....the pains of in-law living....
On a brighter note, Jamie and I took a jaunt over to our apartment today (well, our apartment as of August 28th...I hope), and I found it to be really refreshing to know that in less than four weeks I'll be calling that old, clapboard house home. It's wonderfully situated less than a block away from three institutions in my life: the library, the church, and the bar (it's a slight joke ;) ). I plan on regularly making my way to them. We're located about three city blocks up from the bay of Lake Erie, which means we're also in walking distance of a park with benches that over look the steely-gray waters. One night, I'm sure Jamie and I will talk about the future while watching the lights of yachts and sail boats float quietly by. I look forward to that.
This weekend Jamie and I have planned a camping trip in the Allegheny National Forest with about nine of friends coming to partake in the campfires, hiking and fishing that is to be had. I've never really spent anytime near the national forest, so I'm anticipating the hikes through some of the world's richest and densest black-cherry wood forest, and seeing the twisted hulks of contorted oaks left over from the tornadoes of 1985. Pennsylvania, I'm home!
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