Furloughs and frustrations

So yesterday I found out I was being furloughed.

Like a lot of people, I'm navigating the failures of our unemployment system for the first time. I'm dealing with uncertainty, frustration, and so many other emotions.

I cried for a good solid twenty minutes after finding out yesterday. I also ate a pint of Ben & Jerry's. And Chipotle. Because everything is better with ice cream and burrito bowls.

But the thing I've been thinking about the most is my coworkers. My work family. The amazing humans who day-in, day-out make serving the public their number one priority. They forgo vacations to make sure they are in the branch on the right days. They do extra things to give our customers a leg up on the world, or just to make them smile.

I've been lucky in several of the jobs I've had to have wonderful people I work with every day. But nothing compares to my library family. We make each other laugh, we pray for each other in times of distress, and we send cute pictures of our animals to a GroupMe because who doesn't want those?

In truth I'm still processing everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours. I'm grieving the loss of so many things both personal and professional.

But I've also been deeply encouraged by so many wonderful things.

I got to pretend to be Dolly Parton and record a song on video for the first time (was my hair high enough to get closer to God?).

I got to (virtually) attend a Seder meal for the first time, hosted by one of my best friends in the world.

I started using TikTok and have followed some beautifully creative people who are just trying to make the world smile in a time of uncertainty and fear.

I got to hear my Bishop preach from the pulpit in the church I have attended since I was six years old.

I've reconnected with people I haven't spoken to in a long time.

I met all of my coworkers' pets!

In this time of uncertainty, fear, frustration, I'm trying my hardest to be joyful. It's not always easy, but it's worth it.

This ish is bananas...b-a-n-a-n-a-s.

COVID-19 has been sweeping the world, and it's all anyone can seem to talk about, so I'm going to be that person and add to the noise for a bit. I hope it's not totally noisy, just a little raucous, but c'est la vie if it is. I haven't been able to lead storytime at the library in a few weeks, so I'll start by telling you a story.

I was sitting in the front row of my junior year theology class getting ready to have a discussion on this book Silence by Shusaku Endo. It's a pretty life-changing read if you haven't had the chance, but the main crux of the book is its exploration of martyrdom and what suffering means. 

Okay. Back to the story.

Every day in class I sat in the same seat in the front row. I always felt like I wanted to absorb the professor's insights as immediately as possible (and also because its where I sat on the first day and that means it was my seat FOREVER AND EVER AMEN). That class was many things to me: a delving deep into the identity and personal theology of Catholics on campus, a frustrating feeling of not-enough-ness being Protestant, a room where I hung out with a future priest who baked fudge. But it was also a place where I fully encountered suffering.

I don't mean I personally suffered in class (although I'd argue that being United Methodist and having to read deLubac's Catholicism is slightly torturous). I mean that I thought about suffering in a way I hadn't before. During the lecture portion of our class that day, our professor said, "Suffering is not a contest," and "suffering is not measured against another person's" (or something to that effect--he's much more eloquent than my memory ever could be). I was thrown back into my seat in a way I hadn't yet been in college.

Wait...suffering isn't measured? But then how do you know who's in the most pain? How do you compare events and figure out who's had it the worst? Do you just...not? That's bullshit. No way. A person who was in the concentration camps definitely had it worse than I did when I had to study for a test at 3am*.

And yet.

I wouldn't fully understand this until two years later, but feelings of hopelessness and helplessness are not on a scale or a zero sum game. They aren't feelings that you can brush off. When you're having a panic attack due to depression and anxiety? That is no joke. Doesn't matter what caused it. Doesn't matter how many times it has happened before. Trauma is not measurable in the way that grades or flour for baking or beats in a measure are. It's real, it's lasting, it's damaging, and it takes time to heal.

I've seen a lot of people posting memes that say things like, "We had to spend our senior year in Vietnam...at least you have the internet...stop complaining." But that's not what it feels like. It feels like a teenager's entire life is spiraling out of control and they don't know what to do. And no adult can tell them what to do. No one knows how to act in a global pandemic in the age of the internet. And you don't know what kind of environment that teen or person or whoever you're trying to demonize through your meme is going home to. You don't know if they're not going to be able to eat anymore because they ate two meals a day at school. You don't know if they have access to the internet or TV to keep updated on all the ways in which our lives are changing. You. Don't. Know.

We are all involved in an international moment of trauma. We are all suffering in our own ways. I'm not seeing the children and teens who I would give my life for on a daily basis. I don't know if they're eating, if they're well, or if they're feeling the effects of depression for the first time as they don't see their friends. I can't sing with people outside my home which is one of my deepest and most important coping mechanisms for my depression and anxiety. I'm terrified that the leader of our country is absolutely going to make things worse for the most vulnerable in a bid to...I don't even know what is going on in his head.

And yet.

I've rediscovered knitting as a calming way to keep my hands busy and my mind calm while I watch Disney movies and Marvel movies. I moved into a new place and am not failing at doing the dishes. I play the piano for dance parties in the living room. I built a bed and a dresser and reorganized my bookshelves. I pray in gratitude for the calm, decisive, and compassionate leadership in my state by Dr. Acton and Gov. DeWine.

These moments of gratitude are ways to turn this moment of collective suffering into something I can fathom. It's hard. It's a journey every day. But suffering has an end. I don't know what that end date or event or moment will be. But I'm looking forward to how the world will be better as we all move through this time #alonetogether.

*I understand that this is a bit of an exaggerated example. I do not mean to minimize the suffering and generational trauma of those who suffered in the Holocaust, but it is a realistic metaphor for how I felt at 20 years old.

Endings and Beginnings

Oh boy. It's been a hilariously long time since I wrote anything at all, let alone a blog post. I've been feeling the urge to write about what's going on in my life career-wise, and, well...here it goes!

Since November 2016 I have begun a journey toward a possible career in public libraries. I have been a Youth Services Specialist at a branch of the Columbus Metropolitan Libraries and have loved absolutely every second of it. From my fantastic and supportive colleagues to my children--yes, they are mine even though they aren't--I have had an amazing seven months. I cannot believe I'm saying this, but I've been promoted!! I'm going to become an Information Services Specialist, which sounds waaaaaay more boring than it is. I'm going to be working more closely with kiddos on the younger end of the spectrum, doing story times and building my knowledge of pre-K literacy. Up until now, the majority of my customer interactions have been with older children of school age. While I'm going to miss my babies, I am so excited to meet a bunch of new nuggets to love and support as they grow into little humans.

What does this mean for me? Staying in Columbus is becoming a much more long-term deal. If you had told me a year or two ago that I would be contemplating staying in Columbus for more than a summer I would have smacked you upside the head and said, "What world do you live in?!" But now? I feel amazing being here. I love my church community (Linworth United Methodist Church, check us out!) and I love what I do. It also means adding a little something extra to get some (gasp!) SAVINGS going. Whenever I say this, I feel like a real, IRL, totally adulting adult. Like, for realz. Whoa. I mean, I knew I was an adult when I started paying into retirement, but this is going a bit far, right?

That something extra? A retail position at a great company. I'm lucky to be working for a fantastic manager who I worked with during my time at The Limited. She is the BOMB.COM for sure and I can't wait to have her try and convert me into a cat person (dogs are more my thing). While I'm not announcing the specific company on social media until all the i's are crossed and the t's are dotted (or, wait...huh?) I'll be happy to tell anyone in person where I'll be working because, let's face it, I need to build up that clientele, yo! A hint? It's going to be a brand that works with girls of all shapes and sizes to show them that they are beautiful!

All this being said, I am so thankful and grateful for the amazing support of my church family, my work family, my ND family, and my mom and dad. I cannot wait to get started on Monday with my new job!

Want updates on more of my life? Comment below and let me know! Maybe I'll actually get into this blogging thing if enough people are interested.

On Wandering Home

As I sit down to write this post, I feel as though I'm at a crossroads. Do I tell people what's been going on, or do I continue to live my social media life of: "Everything's great! Look at the skyline!" Pictures and posts, likes and shares: they continually seem to make everyone's life seem like it's going well.

Well, mine's not.

I started out in the fall at Northwestern University planning on spending the next eighteen months blasting through a Master's in Education program to prepare me to teach high school history. I felt absolutely ready to live outside the "Notre Dame bubble" and start my life as a real, grown-up adult who was adulting all over the place. I was ready to take on the responsibility of observation hours, lesson planning, and learning about words like "differentiation" and "tracking". I was pumped and excited to engage in this new community and be part of something different.

In short, I was in for a wake-up call.

I absolutely adored (and still adore) my students in CPS*, had a wonderful mentor teacher, and had a fantastic staff supporting me back at NU. However, there was a lot that was not happening. I was not involved with many other people in my program. I really only made a couple of friends. This was something that I couldn't really fathom after coming from the instant 200 family members of my dorm at ND, my Chorale Family, and my many friends made through various organizations and classes. I could not participate in extra-curricular activities like a choir because all of my classes were in the evenings.

While all of these social issues were occurring, I also was having a hard time keeping up with my work. I managed to have a good final push at the end of the quarter to finish strong, but the majority of the quarter was filled with stress and apathy in equal measure.

All of this compounded to lead to a lot of anxiety and panic about my place at Northwestern, and whether or not I was in the "right place". Thanks to my adviser Peg and my professor Rebekah--along with a lot of outside encouragement from my mom--I was able to make the difficult, but necessary, decision to take the next two quarters off from the program to get myself in order and re-evaluate my place there.

So, basically, I'm back in Columbus, OH until June when I'll make my decisions. Until then, I'll be working in after school child care in one of the local school districts (let me know if you're interested: they still need people!) five days a week, and will be singing with Capriccio Columbus, the community choir headed by my high school choir director, Larry Griffin.

Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers, as well as my family, and those who I came to know through Northwestern. I continue to pray for my students and teachers, and hope that anyone reading this will do the same.

Peace,
Carmen

*I have omitted the name of the CPS school in which I student taught for the privacy of my mentor teacher and that of my students.

Chicago: Midwest Hospitality on Steroids

So...I moved to Chicago? That's a thing that happened on Tuesday. I technically haven't really "moved in" (my lovely parents are bringing the pots and pans and all the clothes, etc. tomorrow) but I'm living in my apartment, so that's moved in, right?

My first three days have been pretty great, and very eventful! My first day consisted of a long cab ride and a nap, followed by some basic exploring of downtown Evanston. Yesterday, though, was the big day.

After grabbing breakfast at Panera, I walked to the local grocery store (Jewel-Osco). I definitely underestimated the distance. It was about a half-mile walk from my building, and walking back even with only a few groceries was a chore (especially in the humidity). After getting my groceries, I went out to lunch at the Chili's that's a block away from my building, and I unwittingly forgot my wallet back in my room. Luckily, I had the most wonderful waiter in the world, and he was willing to let me leave the restaurant, without leaving anything behind (I gladly would have left my phone, etc.) while I ran back to my apartment and grabbed my wallet. This is just one, of the many, amazing instances of hospitality that I've felt since being in Chicago. It's just been so wonderful.

After that adventure, I had my big "in the city adventure" of going to meet my student teaching mentor at JCP on the South Loop. It was such an amazing experience, and I now have three textbooks as reading material for the next few days. I got to read the names of my future students (SO MANY) and talk about personal philosophy, teaching styles, methodology, and so many other things with my wonderful mentor.

Three hours later, I was taking the Blue Line to meet my best friend Meg at U of I who I haven't seen since graduation weekend. It was such a blessed evening. We shared a meal in Little Italy, and talked for hours until I had to return to the north side of the city before it got too late. All in all, I managed to walk nine and a half miles (WHOA).

Today was a much more relaxed day. The cleaning staff came in to my room to clean the (very small) common areas (which was lovely) and I practiced my Spanish with the loveliest lady. I understood almost everything she said, but my answers were hilarious to her. I went to campus and walked around, got my WildCARD (student ID), and just hung around. It's been a pretty relaxed day.

Tomorrow will be another long day, as I'm going to go and meet my mentor for part of the day, and then will be unloading all my things when my parents arrive. I cannot believe that grown up life is starting. On Tuesday, I'll be introducing myself as Ms. Casillas for the first time (sorry, Andrew, "Supreme Ruler Carmen, Baroness of Books and Wielder of the Chalk of Knowledge, long may she reign" is much too long).

I hope to post about my student teaching and graduate school adventures throughout the rest of the year, but don't be surprised if there are no more posts for a long while :) Pictures will also be coming (I hope!).

Elementary Nostalgia

So…I’m not in Ireland and I haven’t posted anything on here since I was there, but I felt compelled to write this and it wouldn't fit in a Facebook post so…here it goes!

My neighbor Angie* has two daughters Ellie* (9) and Maddie* (almost 7) and we were chatting today about their teachers for Fourth and First grade, and it made me incredibly nostalgic. Only one of my primary classroom teachers is still teaching in the same grade as when I attended Granby, and only a small fraction of the teachers who I felt instrumental to my experience are still teaching at Granby at all. It got me thinking about my favorite memories from each teacher and from each year, and as I am going to be leaving for my senior year in college in a little less than a week, I think it’s appropriate to look back to the beginning of my educational career.

First Grade: Ms. Clement

The thing I most clearly remember from this year is reading group. We were split into different reading groups and, I don’t mean to brag, but I was in the highest level, which meant I got to read a series of books and then write my own story. Ms. Clement encouraged us to be as creative as possible in our stories. Once we had written them, we got to go to the office—which was a HUGE deal—and have them bound. We got to choose three symbols from the die-cut machine, and we picked wallpaper to put around the cardboard cover for our books. I still have mine (somewhere…I think…) and I can’t wait to have the rush of memories come back again when I re-find it.

Second Grade: Mrs. Minor

Mrs. Minor introduced me to poetry for the first time. She had us memorize a poem every week, and then once we knew it we had to recite it in front of the class. She taught me that I had to face my fears of getting up in front of a big group and talking. There was a big difference between being a know-it-all from your seat and a perfect performer of a poem. I still remember the first poem we had to memorize:

                Fuzzy wuzzy was a bear

                Fuzzy wuzzy had no hair

                Fuzzy wuzzy wasn’t very fuzzy, was he?

Third Grade: Mr. Frederick

My first male teacher. It was scary as an eight year old who’d never had one before! He was one of my favorites. He brought me to Roald Dahl and my classmates that year became some of my best friends in elementary school. He taught me how to play chess and that the news was important, even for kids. But most importantly, he gave me my “no tolerance” attitude on bullying, but with kindness behind it. You see, I had to get glasses that year and one of the boys in my class decided that it would be okay to call me “four-eyes” which devastated me. I was teary-eyed when Mr. Frederick asked what had happened and he took the boy aside and explained to him calmly, but firmly, why what he said was wrong and had him apologize to me.

Fourth Grade: Mrs. Dickie

Mrs. Dickie was the most no-nonsense teacher I had. She didn’t allow students to get away with things in class, and it was such an awesome experience. Fourth grade was the first year where we “switched classes” so I had Mr. Korn and Ms. Paris too, but I loved Mrs. Dickie. She was such a great lover of all knowledge: she taught Math—God bless her—and made it fun; and she got me to read one of my favorite books, Holes, that I never would have read without her prompting.

Fifth Grade: Mrs. Sartor

Mrs. Sartor, or Old Lady Sartor as she called herself, gave me so much. I will never be taller than her—despite the fact that my height eclipsed hers by halfway through the year—and she gave me my favorite number: eleventy-six. I will always remember how she encouraged me, challenged me, and laughed with me throughout the year. Fifth grade was my favorite year not just because of her, but because of our class. I ended up seated next to three boys—Josh, Daniel, and Jedi—and I thought, “Oh no, I’m the only girl, they’re going to tease me SO MUCH.” How wrong I was. I loved sitting next to them because I could talk to them about Lord of the Rings and Pirates of the Caribbean and Harry Potter and they didn’t think I was weird. It was awesome. But the most poignant memory I have of that year was our valentines. On February 14, instead of doing Valentine’s Day boxes and buying cardboard valentines, Mrs. Sartor made 20-something giant hearts, and gave us each enough sticky notes to write a message to each person in the class which couldn’t be “you’re nice” or “you’re cool”. They had to be genuine compliments. Then we read them out loud. It was beautiful.

Sixth Grade: Mrs. Watson

Let me just start by saying that Mrs. Watson had a reading couch in her room. A COUCH. Everyone initially wanted to be in her class just for that, but as soon as you had her, you realized how much you’d lucked out. She didn’t allow the EPP kids to have any breaks: we did all the work that the other students did, and we were never treated any differently because she believed in fairness. I remember specifically having to be paired with a girl I didn’t like for a science experiment and I complained to her about it. She wasn’t mean, but she explained to me that people are people and we have to learn to work with them, no matter what. She taught me that everyone deserves your kindness and your respect, no matter how they treat you.

EPP: Mrs. Beyer

Mrs. Beyer was the most formative teacher I had at Granby. She taught me in what’s called “EPP” or the Extended Projects Program, a gifted program at my elementary school, for five years. She taught me how to write, how to think outside the box, and how to program a robot. She awakened a love for the human stories of history that I would never have found without her, and she encouraged my love of fantasy literature. I will never be able to thank her for the confidence in my intelligence that she gave me, and the joy that I came to in her class. Mrs. Beyer showed me that the cool kids were the smart kids, and that I didn't have to be ashamed of being smart.

These are just moments in time that I happen to recall, and I encourage everyone to think back to that time in their lives. It’s an amazing time. I keep remembering more and more, but this post is already a little long!

*Names changed to protect privacy as I didn't ask their mother before writing and posting this!

A Post Script...But Not an Ending

So. I know that this blog was kind of...sparse, to say the least. But, for me, it did serve to allow me to chronicle some of the most amazing experiences I've had over the past four months in Ireland and other countries abroad.

I've been home now for about a week and a half, and I still can't believe that my semester with "The Dubs" is over. We became a family, which I never would have imagined could really happen, and I would count each and every one of those men and women as my true friends. We are a crazy awesome bunch, if I do say so myself, and I had an amazing semester. I also learned SO MUCH about myself and about what it means to be a representative of your country abroad. Here is a list of the things I learned:

1. Irish is confusing, but beautiful. And I still can't say Táin Bó Cúailnge correctly, no matter how hard my friend Connor tried to teach me!

2. Traveling with someone who speaks the language of the place you're going is incredibly helpful. Not having someone who can speak the language is infinitely more fun.

3. I want to live in Rome.

4. I want to live in London.

5. Can I just go back to Ireland now please?--will be a catch phrase of the next semester whenever I want to have more time to do an assignment.

6. Exams can be taken with 2000+ people in the equivalent of a barn, and still turn out okay.

7. Talking to strangers is so helpful it's unreal. But only do this in Ireland; beware in other cities!

8. Traveling with other students is wonderful. Traveling with your parents is wonderful. Traveling on your own is wonderful. Essentially, I really just learned that I love to travel.

9. A mattress pad is God's gift to my back and I am so glad to have it back.

10. Hugging each other at mass during the sign of peace is a privilege, not a right.

11. People, in general, are awesome until proven otherwise. In Ireland, they're pretty much just awesome.


All of these wonders aside, I was pretty homesick and "Dome-sick" at the end of the semester. I was anxious to get back to my family, friends, and "Home Under the Dome" of Notre Dame. I missed my best friends, my choir, and my ISI family terribly, and I am so excited to be able to see them all soon. I can't wait to be on a choir bus for a week meeting all the new Choralians and singing in my hometown (St. Agatha Church, 7:30pm, Saturday 11 January 2014--shameless plug). I can't wait to sing God's praises at Iron Sharpens Iron and hear one of my peers inspire me with a talk. I can't wait to move in with my new roommate in the hottest dorm on campus, Pasquerilla East, and to see all the amazing Pyros that brighten up my day. I can't wait to walk around campus in the snow, to see the Golden Dome glisten in the sunlight, to sit down in new classes,with new faces, and new friends. I can't wait to explore Notre Dame with fresh eyes, and to add my new experiences to the long list of why I am among the luckiest of the lucky, for I attend the greatest of all universities with the greatest of all student bodies which believes in the greatest God of all things: The University of Notre Dame. And that is the most important thing I've realized since being abroad. That I am privileged, and lucky. I guess, in a sense, it's the Luck of the Irish.




P.S.: This will not be my last blog post here. Wayfaring isn't something that just happens overseas; I think it happens everywhere. So this blog will now chronicle my life in whatever words come to me, be they rants, prose, praise, or anything else. Please consider joining me!