Heartbreak and happiness

I'm posting this at 2:30 a.m. No, I'm not writing it right now. But, yes, I am awake. I'm catching a 3 a.m. bus, chaperoning a group of kids on their way to Delhi, to the airport, back home. It's Going Down Day, the end of yet another semester, and yet another chance to reflect on what teaching's all about.

Yesterday, just before Final Assembly, one of my favorite students rushed up to me. "I didn't get it," she said.

"What?" I asked, even though I knew what. One of her friends had already told me.

"I didn't get into Columbia!"

And what could I say? Several seniors had applied for early decision at top schools around the world. And the first schools were responding. Of course this girl was heartbroken. Columbia was her first choice. And to make matters worse, another student had been accepted.

"For what it's worth," I said, "I think you are better qualified than he is."

"Really? Thank you," she said.

"But what I think doesn't matter. Who knows why schools make the decisions they do. It's almost like a lottery." I told her how friends at my high school with lower test scores and GPAs had been accepted at schools that rejected me. This kind of thing happens, and you just have to make the most of the opportunities that do come your way.

One of her friends was more bummed out about the fact that our promised dinner hadn't happened. Things are forgotten during finals week. "We'll definitely do it in February," I said.

February. School's out until February. No more students, no papers, exams, concerns, reports, worries. Just relaxation, a chance to travel, to forget the problems of this semester, to start fresh. One of my mentors back at Senn High School in Chicago used to say: "Teaching is the only profession where you can start fresh every year. No matter how bad a year you have, the next one can be better."

Of course there are things I don't want to forget about this semester.

Like after the Final Assembly, for example, the student who had been accepted to Columbia tracked me down.

"Hey, I heard the news," I said. "Congratulations."

He stuck out his hand. "I just really wanted to thank you," he said.

"Thank me? I don't think I did that much."

"You did more than anyone else. So, thanks."

I couldn't really remember what I had done, other than sit around with him and talk about application essays from time to time. But, hey, to get a thank you in the middle of a school year, that's a rare thing. So I'll take it. And it will probably keep me going for a few more months.

Yeah, there are positives to this job. The pay sucks. The hours are torture, until winter and summer break rolls around, of course. Now's a chance to recuperate. But I also have to remember that, next semester, I'll have to work doubly hard if I want to hear another word of appreciation.

Give him a hand

It's finals week, so I've spent a number of hours marking exams and writing student report comments. But still, I have been accused of frivolously wasting my time. Why? Because we are playing Angels and Mortals, which is basically Secret Santa. My "mortal" is a French teacher, and I've spent the week pestering him with crossword puzzles about "real" French culture and cuisine (French ticklers and toast) and articles from the Onion. Today I sent him the picture below, which makes sense if you know anything about hand-washing campaigns and the French national soccer team, which made it into next year's World Cup because their star player used his hand to help his team score the winning goal against Ireland. Anyway, thought I'd share, just to show that I am not ignoring my blogging duties.

Click to enlarge

Village people

Someone remind me to print and deliver these pictures:

From the distance, the village looks colorfully quaint.

A herd of goats approaches.

The goat herders pose.
They were disappointed that they would never see this picture.
And amused that I wanted to take pictures of their goats.

Their village, up close.

The village is a 45-minute ride from Mussoorie,
but it seems that centuries separate us.

Corn drying. More impressive is the intricate, ancient architecture.

More corn, chilies, and something else.

Three little tour guides.
Very shy about having their pictures taken.

OK, so the satellite dish proves that the village
isn't stuck in the ancient past.

Still, the way the people live is traditional, old-fashioned, simple.

Chopin's heart

This one goes out to some twelfth graders:


As I was heading out of the high school yesterday, I saw a girl sitting in front of the principal's office. I asked what I always ask when I see a student on that bench: "You in trouble?"

"No," she said, "just waiting for my roommate."

"Then why are you sitting with your back to the window? You're missing the sunset!"

"Oh, I already saw it," she said.

"What do you mean you saw it? You looked for a split second and turned around? How can you ignore such a thing? I'm going out there and taking some pictures. Maybe I'll send you one of them."


A few minutes later I saw the girl with her roommate. I asked the roommate if she could believe that someone could ignore such a sunset. "It's pretty," the roommate agreed, "but there was a better one two days ago."

"So you're going to ignore this one, too?" I kept snapping pictures, and a few minutes later one of the librarians walked past and commented on how beautiful the sunset was. "Yeah," I said, "but we're ignoring it. There was a better one two days ago."


Two other twelfth graders joined us, a boyfriend and girlfriend.

"Maybe you guys will appreciate this," I said, pointing. They just shrugged. "This is why you don't understand poetry," I said.

"How is this poetic?" the girlfriend said.

"What do you mean, how? It's the end of the day. That's it. But before the sun fades away it makes one last stab at life."

"Why are you always talking about death?" the boyfriend asked.

"It's because he's almost 40," his girlfriend responded.

"There's nothing wrong with 40," I said. "I heard it was the best decade of one's life."

"How?" boyfriend asked.

"Because you're old enough to know better, but still young enough not to care. Or something like that."

"I guess that makes sense."


A few more minutes, a few more people walked past, totally ignoring the death of yet another day. I asked the four seniors if they wanted to come over for dinner after finals were over but before they headed off for home.

"Yeah," the boyfriend said. "But this time can we cook? And can we finish watching that one thing on Chopin?"

"Absolutely," I said. I turned to the roommates. "Can you believe Chopin's body is buried in France, but his heart is in Poland?"

"Who's Chopin?" one of them said.

"No wonder you don't like sunsets," I said.

"I can't believe I saw his grave in Paris, but his heart wasn't there," the girlfriend said.

"Oh, you've been to the cemetery?" I asked.

"Yeah, and I saw Jim Morrison's grave. And Oscar Wilde's."

"Anyway, it's six o'clock," the girl who didn't know Chopin said.

"That's right," I said. "You're all going to be late for check-in. Get out of here. Let me enjoy this."

Plugged in

In some countries--Canada, for instance--people plug in their cars on winter nights so that their engine blocks don't freeze. Here in Mussoorie, it's much, much colder:

Sunset and moonrise

These are from two different days, two different locations, just to show what I do to get away from the mountains of marking I have to do: Sunset from the Chakkar; moonrise from Camel's Back Road. And, no, there's nothing I can do in Photoshop to fix these images.

Streaks and swirls

Things are looking up