Año Viejo

My Christmas Tree

I have some complaints about the way Ecuador celebrates my holidays. Let's take Christmas. Look people, Christmas is the 25th day of December. It has been since some Priests declared that was the date Jesus was born, thus making it a holy day of consumerism, Jesus, and Chinese food (for people not interested in the second). But Ecuadorians celebrate, eat turkey, and open gifts on the night of the 24th, largely making the 25th just another Sunday at Grandma's house.

Because it's a last-minute culture, everyone rushes around on Christmas Eve buying gifts. This means that your boyfriend is potentially trapped in mall crowds at 8pm on December 24th and you potentially end up running to Christmas Eve service 20 minutes after it has started and have to potentially stand outside the cathedral asking the lady selling fire crackers about her merchandise instead of focusing on the coming Christ child. It also means there is nothing under the tree until 5 minutes before gift time, which really cuts away at the build-up factor we really value at the Lewis house.

New Years 2000

I can appreciate the way Ecuadorians celebrate Carnival (week of dancing + alcohol), birthdays (night of dancing + alcohol), independence days (weeks of dancing + alcohol) and the like. And yes, Christmas is ultimately about love and family. But if you've ever celebrated a personal holiday in a non-personal way, you understand the temporary loss of your traditions is not ideal. However, Ecuador does do one holiday really, really well: New Years Eve. This is coming from a person whose family celebrated New Years Eve by holding elaborate dress-up mystery parties and toilet-flushing ceremonies-- in other words, in style-- while growing up. So it means something.

Widow

There are two centerpieces to an Ecuadorian New Years Eve. The first consists of young men dressing in drag (they're supposed to be widows) and blocking streets. The widows require that every passing car, bus, or pedestrian give them spare change in exchange for passage. You also get the occasional dance/strip tease, which I've found are much better from professional drag queens (most popular people in Ecuador for one night a year) than amateurs. Almost all Ecuadorian men have banned with friends to dress as a widow at one point in their life-- usually during high school-- and brag about how much money they made that night. I've heard anywhere between $5-$50. Ecuadorians, of course, deny any linkages of the widow tradition to homosexuality or "real drag", although the anthropologist in me can't help but see thousands of heterosexual men dressed as women dancing with each other in the street as some sort of... something. Needless to say, the blockage of every single roadway with widows makes travel less than ideal on New Years Eve, and it can take 2-3 hours to just leave the city.

Typical Año Viejo, probably directed towards a drunk relative

The second centerpiece on New Years Eve consists of constructing an effagy/dummy that represents the past year (an "año viejo") and throwing it into the street to light on fire and burn to ashes. Seriously though. Get out the lighter fluid, it's going to be a happy new year! Who, upon reflection, hasn't wanted to burn a piece of the past year, whether it comes from a resolution to improve, hope for better fortune, or a desire for it to just disappear? It's really a genius tradition, not that American police would be happy about it coming to the States.

I should mention that the neighbors who live on the first floor of my house DESPISE me. The primary reasons seem to be that I'm a young single woman *gasp* surviving independently from parents or a husband and *scandal* every once in awhile I have the time/energy to invite my 3 friends over for a glass of wine. Anyway, for their año viejo they have constructed-- no joke-- a house. Kind of looks like... our house. People build año viejos for a variety of reasons-- discontent (the President is always a popular one), pop culture (I've seen 8 million smurfs this year), or to wish a certain person good fortune in the next year. However, I have received confirmation from Ecuadorians that my neighbor's house año viejo is not to wish me good fortune, but a slight at people living here (i.e. me). Ladies and gentlemen, I give you year 2 of cultural exchange: the Fulbright fallout.

A crucial part of the año viejo tradition is the accompanying note, which exists to enumerate regrets of the past and requests for the future. So an año viejo of the President will have a letter to Rafael Correa about his political failings, flops, and changes the person suggests for the future. They're usually satiric and quite funny. I'm going to the beach to celebrate New Years Eve, and although I don't yet have an año viejo to burn, I do have a short note:

Fall Scrapbook

Chimborazo: extinct volcano, highest point in Ecuador, and (due to its position along the equator) the farthest point on the Earth's surface from its center. Taken from the University.

 Me and my advisees (first-year language students).

My neighborhood/ the park outside of my house.

Robert and I picnicking at Parque de la Familia, above Ambato.

 The city of Ambato (in the valley) and most of Tungurahua province, after an extremely difficult hike.

That's right... 12 months here and I finally got a TV. Or rather, a friend got a new TV, and I got his 5-channel clunker.  Amazing.

Stairs from the main avenue leading up to my neighborhood.

Woman vs. Wild

The "safety briefing" at the US Embassy in Quito is an important rite of passage for anyone who lands in Ecuador with the help of government money. This one-hour conference, which is given by a beefy loud-talking foreign service officer who scares puppies in his free time, is designed to destroy any positive expectations you might have for your stay in Ecuador. It is characterized by hyperbolic stories about armed robberies gone wrong, unsolved kidnappings, and jungle diseases that eat away at your brain before you have time to register any symptoms. You leave the Embassy relatively sure you will be stabbed on your taxi ride home.

However, there is a bright side. At the end of the safety briefing, puppy-scaring man distributes a laminated card of emergency Embassy contact numbers. He assures you that if (/when) you're about to die in Ecuador, they will do their best to send a helicopter to rescue you. I've toted around my laminated card for a whole year. Last weekend was the first time I seriously considered dialing that emergency switchboard number.

My boyfriend Roberto invited me to go camping with several of his friends. I like camping, and haven't done anything fun since classes started, so I agreed. Our group of 8 headed out on Saturday-- a sunny, flawless afternoon. During the second pickup truck ride up steep mountain roads, a cold, thick, fog moved in. At that point, I suspected we were in for disaster. All doubt was removed when we got dropped at our "campsite": the deserted side of a mountain in the heart of the Northern Andean Páramo. The pickup truck drove away. Apparently overlymachoadventurerman (my nickname for a friend of a friend) knew the person who owned that face of the mountain.

After a year of living in the mountains, I think I understand why countless cultures have revered them to the point of worship. In the Ecuadorian Andes, the mountain can explode or shift or just stand there motionless, but either way it will kick your ass. You should fear the mountain. Saturday started out sunny, but it rained hard on the mountain. It kept raining, and it got dark. We made a campfire huddling under a plastic tarp that probably should have been used to protect the two shoddy tents we had as shelter.

In typical Ecuadorian fashion, no one else seemed quite as worried about what I registered as an actual survival situation. As you can see from the picture at left (8pm), Robert looks mildly uncomfortable but still optimistic about the state of the evening, and I look like I want to curl up in a ball and die. At 9 pm someone woke up and announced that the Rio Amazonas was running through our tent. Everything was soaked, and we huddled in the single dry spot in the tent, like sad polar bears floating on a chunk of warming ice. I was trying to recall what the first signs of hypothermia were from girl scout camp. 

At 11pm I wandered into the freezing blackness to find a cell phone signal. Around 1130pm I announced intentions to call the  Embassy, physically shaking from the cold. We debated whether the helicopter would rescue all of us, or only me--the American citizen. We decided the latter. Around midnight, overlymachoadventurerman finally called his aunt/uncle down the mountain to come rescue us (an indigenous couple who looked like they could spend days on the mountain without flinching). We spent an additional 45 minutes using machetes and our 3 flashlights to wander back to the "road," literally chopping down spiky bushes and screaming so our rescue team could hear us.

On Sunday, I woke up with a bronchial infection wearing dry clothes borrowed from a 4'10" pregnant lady (cousin of overlymachoadventurerman?). An indigenous woman rubbed leaves all over my chest and stuffed my shirt with hot newspaper. I thought it was probably anthropologically interesting, but was too exhausted and sick to take notes. As we sat by a fire waiting for our clothes to dry, I informed Robert that next time we were going to the beach.

Maeby

This is Maeby (Mae), the mild-mannered, increasingly playful stray who wandered into my front gate last Friday-- freezing and starving. I'll maybe keep her. She is sweet and seems to love me since I fill her bowl every day. I want a medical check-up, I'm skeptical of her smell, and we need to have a serious discussion about the bed (she wants on). Sounds like my other relationships?

Sunbathing Maeby

Sleepy Maeby

Maeby chewing on approved chewing device.

"Fresh" Start

From the air, Quito looks like a spilled a bucket of legos on crinkled slabs of grass, bumpy and artificial like the kind they have at putt-putt courses. Over time those legos got squished and sun-washed and chewed on by the dog. At night, a heavy fog sits in the city's narrow valley. You try not to imagine the robbers out that evening plotting in foggy corners. You try not to remember the cold, acrid air on the other side of the airport's glass sliding doors. Those are ground concerns. Since Quito is mostly-- perhaps only-- beautiful by air, you must let it have its moment.

Lewis Family Reunion 2011

I spent my vacation in the States. It was perfect. I live in (and am mostly preoccupied with) places where other people come from, so I was almost surprised to remember there is a place I come from. Yes, home is complicated and usually involves borrowing a car. It's a mix of family, dogs, friend's couches, the beach and long, long stretches of cornfields. But there are people I love regardless of where I wander home to. Thanks to everyone who put me up, called, or shared a table with me in July/August. It was extremely fun-- also necessary to be reminded of the support network I have in the States.

I'm here in Ambato again. The immigration officer stamped my passport with 12-VIII cultural exchange visa, even though that was last year (I'm now under a 12-VII volunteer visa). I still occupy a dusty grey, mostly empty apartment with dishes always in the sink. Ambato's three seasons are still cold, cold with rainy, and cold with sunburn, and they still usually occur in the same day. And faculty meetings and getting my contract at the University have been, frankly, disastrous undertakings. So perhaps this hasn't been the freshest of "fresh starts." But I'm moving along my bumpy way, and things are certainly changing.

Pailon del Diablo, Banos, Ecuador

For instance: I moved my plastic table to the other side of the living room, and bought new wine glasses. I'm now a real teacher, with real power to do things like give grades and yell. I am housing the new Fulbright ETA in Ambato, Paige, until she finds a place to call her own. I think my Spanish has improved (all it needed was a month's rest). And though I'm not sure why, I'm sporting this new "no one can push me around" attitude I feel like I will need in the coming year.

Today is the first day of classes!

Grief and Bigness

I'm still amazed and confused about the dizzying hugeness of grief. A well-meaning person once concluded that grief has 5 stages, but I suspect that person probably scanned their eyes across the murky city sky one evening and concluded that the sky has 5 stars. For people like me, who tend to lay down and look up during vacant nights on the countryside, it's clear we'll spend our whole life discovering new facets of grief and still wonder why it's so big.

Catie was big to me too, almost mythically large in the way only a big sister of 4 sisters can be. This might explain why the space she left when we lost her, or she lost herself, seemed to have black-hole-esque proportions. The picture at left might begin to describe what it's like to be very small and have a big sister (that's me watching, in the far right corner). I spent my adolescence wondering if I'd ever be big enough to fit into her clothes, big enough to have friends like hers, big enough to drive away in my convertible when things got rough. But now, when I take the few items of clothing we kept of hers out of storage and hold them up to me, I realize how little she was. Quite little, actually.

Wading around in grief, you stumble across questions depending on the season. Other people are wading around in it too, but their questions are different, so you hope for people to have compassion for that unique question that only you are living through. Like there was that day I turned 18 years and 356 days old. Since my older sister only lived to be 18 years and 355 days old, I wondered if that made me older than her. This might seem irrelevant to some people, but I assure you the question of whether I was officially older than my only older sister really shook some walls inside. I also waded through a period where, despite a lifetime of being told I resembled my sister, I actually saw her features when I looked in the mirror. I questioned whether resentment or joy was the primary emotion I felt towards the mirror. Even though I'm largely past that question, I still see her when my mascara smudges underneath my eyes like hers always did.

Fortunately--particularly for those of us who've experienced an unusually big or confusing loss-- I don't think we're ever even allowed to know the full scope of a loss at any one point. In Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez writes that "the heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and (...) thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past." I think this is true, since I mostly remember the way my sister sounded when she laughed, not the way she sounded when she cried. Perhaps we're also spared the burden of the future. After all, if we knew the exact number sleepless nights that loss would eventually provoke, we probably would be too paralyzed to continue. Bigness is generally taken down to what we can handle, so we can keep walking and making coffee and calling the cable company, because that's what people do.

Catie's kindergarten poem about herself

Sometimes in grief, it becomes "strong" to say the loss was small and had no power over us and "weak" to call it what it might well have been-- pretty freaking gigantic. It becomes "strong" to be steadily optimistic and "weak" to admit you occasionally believe horrible things about the universe because that person is gone, even though the most wise people in history have thought those thoughts as well. I've never particularly bought into these falsities. Like I am smart and fulfilled and generally thankful for how fabulous my life is, but I'm not going to conclude that it was therefore ok that my sister died at a crucial point in my identity formation. Pretending big grief is small, or actually joy in disguise, makes everyone around more comfortable, but can also leave the person wading through their loss feeling like a failure on top of everything else.

Catie's kindergarten poem about me

I also think making grief seem small can dilute the true joy and peace that comes before, during and after loss. Because those exist too, and they're even more huge than the loss itself. I feel joyful that I like to swim in the big waves and dance and sing in the shower and drink coffee with huge amounts of cream and sugar, since these are things I learned directly or indirectly from her. I also feel joyful that I have things like Catie's kindergarten poem book, which makes me laugh hysterically every time. Today would have been Catie's 26th birthday, and that makes me joyful, too.

Staying

I meet a lot of foreigners down here. I meet retired expats who sit amongst themselves in the shadows of their mountainside homes, drinking flaxseed smoothies in the same corner cafe morning after morning. I meet teams of bright-eyed young missionaries in matching t-shirts, eager to feed the children or spread the gospel or kick-start their personal revival. I meet vegan Western European backpackers drinking and couch-surfing their way around South America, huge Eastern European men-- who generally prefer being pants-less it might be noted-- on their way to summit a few volcanoes, New Yorkers visiting their Ecuadorian relatives, students studying abroad, German teenagers doing their year of volunteer service, crazy-haired sociologists, Peace Corps volunteers, marines, foreign service employees, and recent divorcees who were somehow financially fortunate enough to live their mid-life crisis Eat Pray Love style. 

I've fit several roles and probably their accompanying stereotypes during my time in Ecuador. Like most study abroad students I misplaced my dignity in Quito's Plaza Foch, and like most Fulbrighters I enjoyed being a "grantee" (not a "volunteer") by choosing private cars over public buses on leisurely weekend getaways. Now that I've decided to stay here without any real outside affiliation (a program, a grant), it's getting increasingly difficult to pin me down. Which brings me to my next point: I'm staying.

It became clear I would be staying when I realized I wasn't leaving. I don't mean "leaving" as in departing on an airplane, I mean "leaving" like that gradual tearing away, hopeful anxiety-filled period that usually occurs when you're transitioning into goodbye. I've done the "leaving" many times-- it occurs to me I'm actually more skilled at leaving than I am at staying. But I just haven't been leaving over the past few months. I tried to jump-start the process several times, mostly by taking people aside and telling them I was, in fact, returning to the States for good in August. I didn't read their eyes as saying "I will miss you," I read them as saying, "we both know that's not true." So I had a long time to be leaving, and I just kept staying, and here I am... staying. 

But before I can stay I need to leave for a bit. I miss my family and Resees peanut butter cups and the way the wind smells in coastal Virginia. I fly soon-- July 24. This is 11 days before the end of my grant period, but I figure I need that 11 days feeling what it feels like to be home more than I need 11 days of my grant money. I'll be Stateside for almost a month, in which time I'll definitely see my cousin get married and probably construct a haphazard road-trip with my Ecuadorian brother Marco, who is probably coming with me and everyone will probably assume is the reason I'm staying in Ecuador. You are all welcome to assume what you will. 

I've accepted a teaching contract at my current University-- Universidad Tecnica de Ambato-- for the next two semesters (September 2011-August 2012). I've been assigned real classes to teach, as well as research hours. To earn extra money, I'll also spend some time private tutoring, giving a swim lesson or two, and my friends want me to turn my kitchen into a for-profit bakery (this last one being slightly less likely). I won't speculate on details, since this is still Ecuador. But that is, strange as it may be, the "plan."

Teaching English

Thanks Amanda McDonald for these awesome phrasal verb handouts.

I didn't know what a "phrasal verb" was 9 months ago (a verb that carries a preposition/adverb, often has an idiomatic meaning). I didn't know that some phrasal verbs can be separated with another word (turn the radio down!) and some phrasal verbs cannot be separated (everyone needs to simmer down!). I didn't know how to explain the difference between "in" and "at," or what a schwa is and how it haunts the pronunciation lives of native Spanish-speakers.

meet schwa, the neutral vowel sound  from hell.

Now that my Fulbright year is nearly over, it occurs to me that I've become moderately bearable at teaching English as a foreign language. Maybe one day I'll take a course or read an actual book about how it is supposed to be done. In the meantime, I've been mostly learning through embarrassing moments, deafening silences, and notes in my agenda that say "NEVER AGAIN." I bring my computer to office hours so I can google my student's grammar questions as they ask them. At the university, people are generally horrified to find out that I only have a vague idea of the "communicative method of language teaching" and don't know basic things like the phonetic alphabet (except schwa-- got that one).

Junior English majors at the Social Sciences/Education open house

In any educational setting, new teachers are asked to position themselves among a pre-established community of  students and faculty. Even though faculty at the same university (and especially within the same department) like to think of themselves as completely unique, the reality is that they tend to share similar teaching styles, classroom cultures, and agree on things like evaluation. Students become accustomed to these norms. New teachers must decide-- often with little guidance-- when they'll adopt common practices and when they'll challenge them, all while being held to a higher standard (proving themselves worthy) and not stepping on too many toes (hey adjunct faculty!).

Maria presents research + policy proposal on secondary school sex education

During my two semesters at the UTA, these questions of position and precedent have been extremely confusing. In addition to my kind-of-faculty role, teaching kind-of-classes, and being kind-of-qualified... I'm a 22 female living alone in South America. And yes, this last item is a teaching issue-- I can't even put my contact information on the syllabus because I get drunken confessions of love at 3 am on Saturday. I have a magical authority as the only native speaker in the department, but also no authority at all, since I don't know the basic underpinnings of the system (apparently the grading scale is 1-10?). Despite these oddities, I think I've established somewhat of a philosophy for doing my job. You probably don't care what that philosophy is, but I'm going to tell you anyway.

I speak almost entirely in English within University walls, even with beginner-level classes. Students complain, and they don't understand everything. Luckily, I don't care. I make sure most people understand most things, and proceed with the lesson. I don't want to meet them halfway-- I'd rather drag them kicking and screaming to my level. This is especially crucial because I am the only native accent most of my students will hear on a regular basis (Fulbright doesn't place us in Quito because students there already have access to native speakers in their universities). I also don't feel compelled to adapt my teaching style to match my coworkers or the Ecuadorian education system as a whole. English language teaching in Ecuador is overwhelmingly focused on grammar, giving very little attention to the fact that language actually occurs in a cultural/historical context. The focus is accuracy, not fluency; exams, not essays; pretty writing, not good ideas.

So there are about 25 faculty members in my department who can spell a word in English phonetically, and 1 who cannot. I'm OK with being that 1. For technical grammar questions, I'll keep using google and referring students to teachers who are more qualified to answer. I'll keep being the liberal arts black sheep in a vocationally-oriented "technical" university. Maybe my students will begin to understand that language is more than a means to financial security and social mobility-- even English, which tends to be exclusively framed in such terms. I'll keep talking about culture and exposing them to a style of learning that makes them thoroughly uncomfortable. After all, they could learn every language in the world perfectly, but it wouldn't matter if they have nothing important to say.

Nice Things About My Dad

Dad, Jenny, and I, circa 1993

I remember the day the new boy who had moved in next door showed up at the bus stop. I thought he was pretty cute, but a little bit dorky and more than a little bit of what we would now call "hyperactive." As we progressed through that school year though, we got to know each other better. I would always get off the bus laughing, and would be disappointed if he didn't show up for school. Soon we were spending time together in the evenings and on weekends, going to each others house to hang out. Neither of us could drive, much less date, but he would catch while I practiced pitching, and we both had dogs we would play with. I don't think either of our parents gave much thought to "that boy next door" or "the girl who calls all the time." Then summer happened, and we both went our separate ways and didn't see each other much. He spent quite a bit of time traveling with his family and hanging out with old friends from before he moved, and I was busy with softball and my friends. 

Jim + Marcia, early 1980's

When school started again, however, I realized how much I had missed him.  I don't think he realized how much he had missed me because he was more interested in playing geeky role-playing games with his friends. Back then you actually had to be in the same room with someone to play games with them and those people were never girls.  Lucky for me (and our children, who wouldn't exist otherwise) it was not too difficult to convince him that spending his weekends playing Dungeons and Dragons was not the way he wanted to spend his high school years. (Marcia, wife)

When I was about 18, Jim was home alone (11?) and I came back to my parent's house to check on him. He was fine, playing at his friend David Jewels' house, so I left to go home. 5 minutes down the road, I heard there was a tornado coming right at us. I turned around and drove to his friend's house. He and David were standing in the yard watching a twister come right at them! I made them go to the basement. Then of course, there was the job he had in high school that he got fired from - worked at a doughnut shop. A very large lady came in and asked for 3 dozen doughnuts and he asked her, with a straight face: were they to go or would she eat them there? (Karen, sister)

Spirit Animal

One word: llamas. (Anna, daughter)

Before I met Mr. Lewis, I was really nervous/scared because of the boyfriend and father-of-girlfriend relationship stereotype-- with the dad being mean and overprotective.  Actually meeting him was completely the opposite. Mr. Lewis (and Mrs. Lewis) have been very welcoming to me, which means a lot. I enjoy reading his facebook statuses and his blog; he is one of the more funny people I know. I'm looking forward to being roommates with him at the hotel in Illinois. (Mitch D., daughter #3's boyfriend and future roommate)

Favorite Uncle Jim Memories (by the Getz family)
- Salute to Cheese dinner- we left Jim and Mike in charge of dinner and they decided to have a theme dinner consisting of mac and cheese (from a blue box), cottage cheese and cheetos.
- 'Aren't you glad you got to see me'- the Getz kids would spend hours trying to think of a way to be able to say this to Jim before he said it to them.

- Jim and Uncle Bruce teaming up as the nerd character in the New Years Eve mystery party game.
- Garden tours (Kate is especially fond of these). 
- Cleveland art museum scavenger hunt (the wedgies vs the nose pickers) - especially trying to find a picture that most looked like Jim.
 - Going to Hawken to see a student production of Jim's play, Twyla's Secret.

Sample entry into the "Most Looks like Uncle Jim" art hunt

Jim used to amuse my brother & I with his double-jointed fingers when we were little. We were fascinated. (Vicki, cousin) 

Definitely one of the best, and certainly the most entertaining teacher I've ever had!  I count myself incredibly lucky to have been at Hawken at the same time as Jim.  I walked away from your class with a better notion as to who I was, not only as a student, but as a person. I loved babysitting for you guys, I loved doing Oliver! with you, having the BEST advisory group with you, and I absolutely loved taking Cultural History as a sophomore with a bunch of juniors with you. Which leads me to my all-time favorite Jimbo memory! The time you flicked-off (quite emphatically, I might add) my dad as he walked past our classroom window, because you thought it was Dr. Barter  You went off, and nearly charged the window doing a whole-body thrust just to get that middle finger up there as high as you could get it. When you realized, a.) that it was not Dr. Barter, you collapsed a bit, then b.) when you realized it was my dad, you were both embarrassed and amused as hell, all at once. I of course thought it was hilarious, as did my parents, fortunately for you! Clearly you are a man who enjoys life and has touched many people with not only your skill as a teacher, but as a comedian extraordinaire. Happy Father's Day Jim, I hope I brought a smile to your face, and maybe even made you laugh. (Betsy Tietjen aka Little Bare, Hawken School)

I don't even know.

When I think of Jim I laugh. His wit, his humor, his blog, his way with words. He just makes me laugh! What a great quality to have, and when he and Marcia are together and she adds to his conversation, you just have to sit back and listen and take note. What a grand relationship they seem to have. (Karen R., Columbia SC)

So Jim (formerly known as The Man) and I haven't hiked Everest together (yet), but truth be told, if he offered, I would probably say yes. Being Kim's Dad and all, I got to know him in a way not many other students did and I really came to respect him, both as an educator and as a person. Jim is never afraid to speak his mind, even (or rather, particularly) when his opinion may not be the most popular one in the room. He stood by my side as a friend and ally when I came out at HRA and even though we didn't spend all that much time together, I always knew I could count on him to defend me when I needed it and call me on my shit when I was full of it. He may not be my dad, but he's someone I still look up to as a role model for someone I might hope to become one day and someone I am glad is out there shaping the world alongside me and my friends. All of this is true. And no, Kim - I'm not drunk. (Ben C., Hampton Roads Academy '06)

Dad outside, barefoot, during a hurricane. Not atypical.

Best squidward impression. (Chrissy Borne, Canterbury School '06)

If I could only choose one word to describe Jim Lewis, it would be trusting. He is trusting of others. Jim thinks that if you trust someone, they will rise to the occasion. I know that there are those that let him down and let themselves down, but others grew into that trust. Trusting is a risky business, but it can lead individuals to discover what they are capable of accomplishing. (R. Deeley, Hampton Roads Academy)

Dad being Mr. Lewis, High School administrator

Well where would I be without Mr. Lewis? I'm not certain, although I would probably not have graduated high school on time. Instead of expelling me my senior year for not showing up for an in school suspension, he helped me. I'll never forget what you've done for me, and I hope your father's day is full of joy and satisfaction knowing that sometimes parenting goes beyond one's own children. You parented me when my parents couldn't reach me, and you saved my ass quite frankly. I hope someday I can properly thank you for that, and by the way, I didn't even mention that you are one of the funniest instructors I've ever had! (Brandon Smits, Canterbury School '02)

Dad + Mom in different hemispheres

Things I love about Dad (by Jenny, daughter)
-his sense of humor... he makes me laugh more than anyone
- his optimism/ positivity
- he has an innate desire to make everyone happy
- hes a supportive/encouraging person in general... but particularly when it comes to his daughters
- he's very talented... but still possesses a humility that I admire


Happy Father's Day from everyone who appreciates you in your many different roles.
Love,
Kim

Stuff, Ch. 2: USA vs. Ecuador

A sexier version of Rocinante

Around Christmas of 2008, my parents decided that the clunker I was driving had transitioned from "unreliable piece of crap" to "explosion risk." Fortunately, we had a backup chatarra they let me drive to college instead, and a new vehicle-human relationship was born. The first 2 weeks with my new car were magical. It's a beautiful feeling to have transportation in central Ohio winter, because even though you probably won't, you know you always have the option of driving away to somewhere less hellish. 

Don Quixote and Rocinante

But my car and I's honeymoon phase came to an abrupt end one frigid night in early February. I was awoken around 3am by loud knocks on my dorm room door and shouts of "SECURITY!" Now, my usual encounters with University Security were to serve as a mediator between them and my drunken idiots friends, so I was fairly certain I was about to be questioned about a public urination incident or something. Imagine my surprise:

"Sorry to wake you, but do you own a green Oldsmobile Intrigue?" At this moment I knew my car and I's relationship would never be the same. "Your car alarm has been honking non-stop for about 45 minutes. We've received complaints from several people trying to sleep on the east side of the building. Could please put some pants on and come turn it off?"

Which was odd, since I didn't have a car alarm. I've since decided (thanks Car Talk!) that the leather constricted across the steering wheel due to the sudden cold, pushing the horn.

My birthday is August 26

I had countless other incidents with the car over the next two years, some expensive and some flat-out ridiculous. My best friend Laura named the car "Rocinante" shortly after the phantom alarm night, understanding that it needed a name that was ironic and could be pronounced with a Spanish accent. The literary reference was a plus. Rocinante was Don Quixote's horse, described in this article as, "[Having] few of the expected attributes of prize literary horses. He does not possess the qualities bestiaries list as desirable in terms of figure, beauty, merit and color. Cervantes skirts the issue of Rocinante’s aesthetic worth by stating that Rocinante was a rocin, a work horse, rather than some noble steed (...) If [Rocinante] often fails tests of grace and speed, it is unimportant. Grander qualities of soul set him apart for posterity."

This is worth a whopping $45 if I am mugged.

Today I live in central Ecuador, not central Ohio, and I don't have Rocinante. In fact, I don't even have a car waiting for me in the USA, because someone actually offered money to purchase Rocinante (suckers!). I do have a prepaid Nokia 1800 cell phone, shown at right. My Ecuaphone has two dangling charms from it-- since people do that here-- and two fabulous features: 1. you can talk on it verbally to other people, and 2. you can type and send visual messages to other people (each letter of the alphabet has a corresponding number!). I also own a sharp kitchen knife, a handmade Jenga set I bought from an artisan in Colombia, and the reliably good laptop I am typing on right now.

I don't want to get too self-righteous about what stuff I do and don't have. The only thing more annoying than people who rub it in your face that they have more/cooler stuff are people who rub it in your face that they have less/humbler stuff than you. I will say that having significantly less and completely different stuff over the past 8 months has taught me a few things.

First-- you don't desire things you don't know exist, don't remember existing, or have adequate replacements for. I don't miss Rocinante because I live in a place where cheap and widely-available public transportation is considered a basic right. I'm not sad over 8 months of TV shows I've never seen, or losing sleep over my non-existent Blackberry when my Nokia 1800 does exactly what I want it to. But I just stumbled across this photo of my closet 14 months ago, and even though I have more than enough clothing (plus a mall 7 minutes away), I suddenly feel deprived of that pink dress which is in a box in South Carolina. I wish I'd never seen it.

Again... August 26

Second, there's some stuff I do desire from the United States which I don't have access to. Like my soft bed and Reesees peanut butter cups and Dunkin Donuts coffee and good beer. I also feel naked without my books. These aren't necessary, but I would like them.

Third, there's some stuff which appears to be unnecessary in any context-- Ecua, American, or otherwise. With this kind of stuff, it becomes important to ask whether our needs are real or manufactured by someone who will profit from that need:

Taken from the Huffington Post, which probably took it from another news source.