See You In September

School in Tskaltsminda

What does the name of this village refer to?

Minda in Georgian means I want. Does this have meaning?

So having had my first week in this school my mind is agitated, just as it is by Georgia itself. I cannot know what too make of this place. Of course in my viewfinder I was altered by my worldview as an American, a teacher, a mom and a regular Don Quixote type. I had has spent her life slaying windmills. I shadowboxed with that which I could barely see, nor change. Still the dragon windmills stand.

Even as I try to force my lazy fingers, or overwhelmed thoughts onto this keyboard, on to this word document in spite of head phones the resounding wails of this land make themselves known.

Before I ever stepped into the school, the children made them selves known to me. I live three houses from the church, three houses from the school. In this village there is only church and school. They loom. School looms larger. It sits up on the hilltop. From the school room window the red roof can be seen down the hill.

They are building a bell tower at the church. It rises higher and higher each day. Will it be come the twin towers of this village, reaching to heaven daunting the school?

Will the bell ring more resoundingly than the ever-present bounce of the basketball it’s the clang as it hits the rim.

As I walk out my gate I can turn east to the church or west to the school.

In both places all dress for the occasion. Black. These happy warm people wear black. The bebbia’s wear black. The teachers seem to have gotten a directive from New York or from the Soviet years, “Wear black”. And the students, look like a cathedral choir. They are spit clean. Their olivish skin illumined by the white shirts.

School is highly valued by the villagers. Teachers highly regarded. I think on this. I always thought it was my job to earn respect. I think on the difference between respect and regard.

In the days where summer waned (School starts in Georgia) September 15^th (which I suspect is when much of the harvesting in this agricultural country is complete). In those swan song days, the cicadas do not screech like they do in Michigan. The village gets somehow quieter. The days shorten and the cows come home sooner.

The children seek me out. I am a novelty. I am the imagination game played when summer wanes. Let’s go look at the mas. (mastelieble is the word for teacher and all yell, “mas mas” when they want one’s attentions.)

They pass my iron gate the same way I pass the church. I am tempted to enter call out, but it seems so foreign.

The days churn forward.

I am confident. I have the swagger of a veteran. I was once a pioneers, being the in that first group of educators higher by the mandate of public law 94 142. I have taught in slum schools, with roaches. I began my career in a fall down buildings that were once the church for the Native Americans. It was the designated worship site to bring the heathens to God. I have taught in the family basement for entertainment, and even done teacher training for an urban the university.

I am versed in philosophy, skill and even committed to organizations whose goal are the redefining of educational systems.

So I have teacher “swagger” and skill.

I am glad to be here and have great plans for these students and this endeavor. I describe my call here as a holiday. Doing what I love in an exotic setting. I think I am Anna from the King and I. I think too much, I think.

The school is lovely as is the church. Only these places have new coats of paint, in the winter only they will gleam with hope.

And always the students gleam. With hope I think. They come the Tuscan seeming school on the hill with smiles. The village house seems far away. I think perhaps it here that they come to sleep, to dream.

The cows moo them greetings as they cavort down the road. They are a big family. A herd. They all know all.

The village has 800 residents. From always they have heard of each other’s birth, losses. They are bound, this community. The houses are built with sheets of steel. The huffing and puffing will not blow these houses down.

They come to school.

I come sleepless. I am always agitated before the start of school. I remember being five and dreaming of a place more engaging then the drudgery that I shared at home with my mother. All days cooking, ironing, and tending babies, to a soundtrack whose lyrics were “Que sera, que sera, what will be will be”.

I always wanted to go to school, with the big kids, I wanted the key to get inside a book where some hid and others dreamed, and some just got fired up.

And still I am this girl. Wanting away from the placid life of the cows and all.

School in Tsltminda

It seems a Chagall image. This Russian painter mixes up images, they seem random, and senseless always with a bit of the spiritual tossed in. If I were a painter and I were to paint this school world I would use his icons.