Student-as-Teacher: Crossing the Border

September is here, and fall is in the air. This time of the year has always been magical for me because with it comes the start of a new school year. I can almost smell the fresh Crayola crayons, the pencil shavings, the dust of the chalkboard. New beginnings come with the fall, chances for new achievements, for mastering new content through reading, writing, studying.

I am a student at heart, and I think I always will be. Long before boys, or sports, or a good white wine, school was my first true love. I know this because looking back on my behavior leading up to the first day of classes, there is no denying I was preparing for a big date. I would organize, re-organize, and organize again my fresh new school supplies in my bookbag, agonize over which lunchbox was just the right size, and lay out that first day outfit weeks in advance (which is saying something, because this behavior occurred even during 8 years of uniform-wearing private school). I would not sleep the night before, but instead stay up late writing my name in all my new notebooks, thinking about what the school year would bring.


In an oft chaotic and tumultuous childhood, school became a refuge, a place where I knew there were always answers. If I studied hard, I would get good grades. If I did all of my homework, read every book I could get my hands on, the solutions were there. Like a treasure hunt, the school year for me was a tantalizing opportunity to discover, question, and confirm.

Of course, it becomes clear somewhere around middle school that maybe all of the answers aren't there, that maybe the answer is there is no one right answer, but that did not stop me from trying.

Though tempered with anxiety about "grown-up stuff," I am still that first-day jitters, pig-tailed, notebook-labeling little girl when it comes to the start of the semester. I can't wait to dive into fresh textbooks and ponder new ideas. But, this school year is different than all the others in one very distinct way. This year I am a student, but I am also a teacher.

Tomorrow I begin a semester-long voyage into unfamiliar territory, co-instructing an undergraduate course in leadership. For the first time, I will see what school is like from the other side of the desk, the view from the chalkboard (which is now more likely a high-tech whiteboard). And though I have taught students before in other settings, tomorrow will be different.

Much of the summer was spent preparing for this moment, this transition from student to teacher. Teaching this semester has the potential to change my perspective on education, learning, and possibly even my career. I hope that crossing the border will help me figure out where I stand, and in particular, in what direction I'll move come graduation in May.

Senses in the City

New Orleans is delicious. I've spent weeks and weeks trying to think of neat, simple ways to describe my feelings about this place, and discovered a few nights ago that this one word- delicious - encompasses all that is this town I've grown to love. 

New Orleans is a literal and figurative feast for the senses.

From the unrelenting heat and humidity, to the 

pounding rains of summer thunderstorms, the weather of a New Orleans summer begs and pleads for acknowledgement. You cannot deny it, and should you try, it will laugh at you as you frantically try to wipe the sweat from your eyes, your neck, your back, and any other conceivable place with a sweat gland or pore. It was hellish at first, but I have come to find the heat of New Orleans endearing; it literally is like nothing else. Maybe I'm deranged from it, but I think I kinda like it! (70 degrees in Michigan in a few weeks is going to feel like the dead of winter...uh oh) 

New Orleans is an olfactory, visceral, visual, and above all delicious adventure. You cannot walk down a street in this town and not have some spectacularly powerful sight/sound/smell/taste caress (or punch) your senses. And I am not just talking good or bad things here friends, NOLA's got it all- the full spectrum. At one end is the unmistakable, undeniable wretchedness that is Bourbon Street on a sunny, sweltering weekend afternoon. Around 11 a.m., bars are hosed out, and the remnants of revels from the night before trickle into the gutters of the streets. And, the trash gets taken out, placed not so gently on the sidewalks. This sounds horrible, and it is meant to, because it is. But it must be known in order to understand the depth of the spectrum, and cross over to the promised land. 

That land is a bit more difficult to pinpoint because it is found across the city: at the crowded counters of Camellia Grill in Carrollton biting into a syrup and butter-smothered pecan waffle , or at a tiny metal table covered in powdered sugar at Cafe du Monde as the smells of freshly brewed chicory coffee and beignets in the deep fryer waft through the air; the way the summer

 breeze swipes sweaty hair from the foreheads of passengers sitting near the front of the St. 

Charles Streetcar or causes the Spanish moss on the live oaks to sway overhead in Audubon Park; watching threatening black clouds roll in from the Mississippi bringing an afternoon storm, or the sun setting over the river from its tranquil, grassy shores; stomping feet along with the 15-piece street jazz band that plays by the Foot Locker on Canal and Bourbon as people of all ages dance in the streets, sitting on a rough wooden bench in Preservation Hall, under ancient ceiling fans and orange lights as the band plays When the Saints Go Marchin' In and invites the audience to sing along, or the gospel music rolling out into the streets from every church and cathedral on Sunday mornings. I could go on. I will go on long after I leave here. 

New Orleans is by no means perfect. As I said the spectrum is wide, and the senses are assaulted with regular doses of the good and the bad that make up this city. But it really is like no other place in the world. I've never been anywhere so alive with color, music, food, and soul, a whole lotta soul. This is why, after the most horrendous storm in decades, people came back here. Because dodging a post-weekend puddle of gross on Bourbon Street seems a small price to pay for the deliciousness the city can offer, and does offer if you're willing to reach out and take it all in.