Gotta Run!

Sorry. I know I promised to do a picture blog soon, but that just isn't going to work out. See, I'm leaving for Estonia today.

True story.

It's our ten day vacation with ILP. I'm going with a group of girls down to Estonia, then over to Sweden. I should be back by November 7th. It's going to be fantastic, but I don't expect to have access to a computer with any reliable frequency. Thus, you should probably expect not to hear from me for a week and a half.

Happy Halloween! I'll get back to you as soon as I can!

Return of the Pictures

Good news! We have pictures again! (Thanks are due to my sister, Sam, for her helpful suggestion that I save my pictures in the Video file on my phone.) Now, I don't have time to do a post right now - I've got to go teach in 15 minutes and my hair is still wet - so I'm just going to put some random pictures up here as evidence.  Enjoy, and know that many more are coming soon!

Novgorod

Novgorod

Novgorod

Hermitage

Me at the Hermitage

Hermitage

My bedroom desk

The impromptu costume my class made for me.
Happy Halloween!

Some Technical Difficulties

You may have noticed that there have been no recent pictures from St. Petersburg. There is a very simple explanation for that . . . I'm sure . . . probably . . . but I don't know what it is.

See, I've always just taken the pictures on my phone, plugged my phone into the computer, gone to the "Pictures -> Camera Album" folder, and uploaded them all easy as pie. But a few days ago, that folder turned up completely empty. What?


Naturally, I was afraid that all the photos had been mysteriously deleted. However, I checked my phone and they're all there. I just can't find them on the computer.

I can find everything else, though. Older pictures that were in a different folder, videos and music, etc. I even tried taking some new pictures, giving it some time, and trying again. Still empty. No photos for you. (Which is really too bad, because I took an awesome picture of an ancient fortress that I'm dying to share with somebody.)

Alas. I don't understand it. It's so weird and selective. Anybody know what's wrong? Because if I can't get this figured out, you're going to have to live with much duller blog posts from now on. (And I was just starting to be interesting . . . .)

Homesick

Do you know what happens when you leave?

Other people stay.

And they keep doing things.

Like having birthdays, going on dates, going to college, injuring themselves, and having fun.

All of this continues to go on, even though you're not there.

The leaves still change color. The first snow of the season still delights. The mountains still guard the valley.

Without you.

But, you tell yourself, I'm doing things, too. Over here.


I'm having an adventure, just like I always wanted.

And you're glad about that. You're smart enough to know it won't last forever,

And you will remember this time with fondness and gratitude.

So you try to be happy about being here.

And usually, you are.

But then it's your brother's birthday.

And Halloween is right around the corner.

And then it'll be November, and you'll be missing Thanksgiving, Pie Night, and your own birthday.

(How can you miss your own birthday?)

You swallow. You don't cry

But suddenly you are melancholy. A subtle misery weighs on your shoulders like a cloak.

You can't stop thinking about home.

Your best friend will be gone when you get back, you know.

Your other best friend has already left school. You'll be alone there.

Your brother will be driving. Your sisters will all be older, changed.

Everything will be different.

Everything.

You want to go home. You want to get back before you're too far behind.

But mostly, you're just selfish. You want to be back where things are familiar. Easier.

Where your family and friends are.

You think about it, dream about it, look forward to it desperately.

Then realize, with a jolt, that it's still eight weeks away.

You're only at the halfway point.

What?!

You grab the calendar off the wall and shake it, angrily, like a broken clock.

You've been here forever. How can there still be more you've got to do?

What is taking so long?

Finally, you stop shaking the calendar, throwing it across the room instead.

Then you clamber into bed and hide under the thick blankets.

And, in your melancholy stupor, you think of home.

You think about it harder than you've ever thought before, trying to make it real.

And it almost is.

You can see your family in the living room, watching a scary movie.

You can hear them laughing and making fun of each other.

You can even see the cat chasing the dog around the corner.

But, you aren't there. Even in your imaginings.

You are pressed up with your nose against the front window,

Watching your family. Missing your family.

But you can't go inside.

Not for eight more weeks.

Jessica Grosland and the Beggarwoman

I have seen beggars here. Dozens of them. Beggars are the natural consequence of big cities. As I have lived in a small town for most of my life, though, I am unaccustomed to them, and they catch my attention wherever we go.

Here in St. Petersburg they are always old people, often deformed in one way or another. They are pitiful; but the advice I've gereally been given is to offer them no more than my pity. I understand the reasons why: the money I give them could go to supporting a drug addiction; many "beggars" really are just playing off tourists' sympathies to get some extra cash; and I simply don't have enough money to give some away to every beggar I meet. So yeah, I get the idea. I'm supposed to just keep walking.

But they get to me. It always yanks at my heartstrings to see a fellow human being in such obvious distress. I pray for them, but my prayers feel weak and hypocritical. Sometimes, when I have some change in my pockets, I have stopped and dropped a bit of money into their cups. I can't help it. It drives me crazy to walk past them, knowing full well of their suffering and doing nothing about it.

Today, as I left my last Russian Language class, I wrapped my arms tightly around myself for warmth. I was alone, since the other girls had to go buy tickets and plan for their trip coming up next week. I walked quickly, grimacing against the sharp wind. It was bitterly cold. I hurried toward the Metro station, thinking of the nice warm apartment building that awaited me. I was in a hurry; I was distracted; but somehow I still noticed the old woman immediately.

There wasn't much of her to see. She was curled up in a wheelchair, bent over herself, the chair pushed back against the grimy wall. Her body was obscured beneath many layers of clothing - hat, scarves, coat - but even still I could see that she was frighteningly thin. She looked frail, just a wrinkly bag of bones. She wasn't petitioning passersby; she didn't have a cardboard sign; she never even glanced up at the traffic that rushed before her. Her chin was tucked to her chest, her entire being focused on one thing only: her hands.

I couldn't really see her hands; they were wrapped in some ratty gray wool. They drew my attention, regardless. They were the only bit of her that was moving. She was rubbing her hands together in a futile attempt to get warm. Her heart didn't really seem into it.

When I saw her, my heart cried out.. Why had I ever complained of cold? Here was a woman who had been abandoned to the streets, where she probably would not last the winter. Just looking at her pathetic little hands made me swell with emotion.

I didn't even slow down. I kept walking.

But then, I turned back. Wasn't there something I could do? I mentally checked my purse, hoping to find some some bills. No such luck. All I had on me was a few coins (not worth the effort) and some newly withdrawn 1,000 ruble bills (far too much money - I have no income over here, after all).

So I kept walking.

But my heart wailed at me and my mind would not be still. I was thinking about that 1,000 rubles. (1,000 rubles is a little more than $30, by the way.) To me, that was a lot of money. I've tried to be frugal here, but I still worry every day whether I'll have enough to get me through the semester. As I thought about it, though, I wondered what that money would be spent towards: snacks for our trip? An opera? A cool hat? I didn't need any of those things, not really. But if that amount of money was valuable to me, how much more valuable would it be to this beggarwoman?

I could spare the money. I would not starve - or, likely, even suffer - without it. But it would be a significant gift to this old woman.

I pulled the bill out of my pocket, determined, then turned around and walked back to the old woman. She still did not look up; people passsed her every moment without caring to notice her, why should she notice them? I looked at her a moment, bursting with a desperate desire to help. But what could I say to her? I don't speak Russian.

Finally, I approached her. I gently touched her arm. "Zdrastvitye," I said quietly, crouching down before her. Wordlessly, and with no feeling, she opening her hands. I firmly placed the 1,000 ruble bill in her hands.

After a moment, she seemed to realize exactly what it was she was holding. (I'm not sure, but I'm willing to bet that it was more than she's accustomed to getting from young women off the street.) Finally, she was awakened from her stupor. She slowly raised her head to look at me. I remained where I was, kneeling before her, a gentle hand on her arm. As she looked at me, and I at her, my heart suddenly overflowed with compassion. Great tears welled in my eyes. I had no words to tell her that God loves her - that I love her - so I did my best to let it show in my teary smile.

Something happened. Something was communicated in that endless moment I spent kneeling before the beggarwoman. She finally opened her mouth in whispered thanks. I nodded, still smiling. Then I slowly stood, turning and continuing on my way. It was hard to see through my tears, but I spared no thought for the cold anymore.

How could I have ever thought that 1,000 rubles was too much?! I wanted to do more than feed this woman; I wanted to get her a warm place to stay, a comfortable bed, new clothes, and a sense of security. My 1,000 rubles now seemed a pitance against the troubles this woman faced. Sorrow welled up inside of me as I thought about it. "That woman will probably die before the winter is out," I thought, "and I can't do anything to help her!"

But a scripture came to my mind and spoke peace to my soul. It was the voice of the Savior, promising, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

I knew that I had done the right thing. I had done the will of the Lord, and He would not suffer my work on His behalf to prove inconsequential. That woman would be blessed through me. I felt assured of that.

And if she was going to be called back to God soon . . . well, maybe I had been able to give her a reminder of His love. I prayed that He would prepare a rest for her.

And I prayed my thanks, that God had given me the opportunity to feel His Spirit in such abundance. Truly, I feel as though I am the one who benefitted most from this experience. It is one that I hope I shall never forget.

Blood in the Classroom

It happened in the baby class, of course. I had six of them today; fewer than usual, but still enough to cause havoc. They came running into class with screams on their tongues, tearing things off my desk and throwing each other on the ground. I tried in vain to get them to line up against the wall so that I could seat them one by one (our usual procedure) but I didn't allow myself to get angry.

Patience, I told myself. They aren't old enough. You can't expect them to sit still and behave themselves like the older kids. So don't ask it of them. Change the class to fit the students.


I smiled, making my eyes wide. I gasped loudly to get the kids' attention. "Hey, guys, come sit down over here!" I said, running over to one of the beds that line the room. It was a break from tradition, so the kids were game for that. They hopped up to their feet and padded over, throwing themselves on the bed. They laughed and nudged each other as I got on my knees in front of them. "Oh!" I gasped again, pointing to Lera's legs. "Look at your socks! Everyone, look at Lera's socks! They have stripes on them!"

And thus, we started learning words about socks. Once I had set the pattern, the rest of the kids all started kicking out their legs at me, wordlessly asking me to tell them what was on their socks. I taught them. It wasn't much - it was nowhere near as much as the older kids had learned that day - but it was enough. They were all engaged and learning bit by bit. I was pleased.

Once we'd exhausted the sock topic, it was apparently time to get up and move around again. So I played with them for a while, repeating (over and over again) phrases like, "I can spin! I can jump! I can fall!" They all paid attention, and while they didn't speak very much, I could tell they were understanding.

After a while, it was time to count tokens. The ILP works by "tokening" kids for speaking; basically, when they say what I want them to say, I give them a token - just a red circle of plastic. At the end of the day, everyone tallies their tokens. Once a kid makes it to twenty, he or she gets a prize. In fact, today Vova got a prize. He was so excited about his little box of crayons that he leaned over, pulled my hair out of my face, and kissed me right on the nose. (The babies are hard, but they can be quite adorable.)

I had everyone sitting in a circle on the floor at the beginning. After I started to count tokens, however, one notoriously rambunctious girl - Aliza - lost interest. She stood, shaking her blonde curls, then raced to a nearby chair. I looked up and called after her, "Aliza? Please come sit down."

No answer. I was not shocked. She rarely responds to any commands. "Aliza?" I said again. "Please come sit down."

She was oblivious. Two of the girls in the circle, however, were paying attention and wanted to get back to tokening. They stood and walked over to Aliza, apparently intent on dragging her back to the circle. I called their names, but the other kids were all babbling loudly now and I don't think the girls heard me. They grabbed the smirking Aliza around the waist and started tugging on her. She narrowed her impish eyes and yanked out of their grip, forcefully. So forcefully, in fact, that she was flung back toward the chair, face-first...

...and bit right through her lip.

Oh no...

Immediately, she was bawling. She stumbled past the girls - who were reaching for her - and came over to me. Her mouth was full of blood, and she kept wiping at it with her little hands, streaking it all over her face. Thinking practically, I grabbed her arms and shoved her sleeves up to keep the blood off of them, speaking soothingly to Aliza and trying to keep an eye on the rest of the frightened kids at the same time.

Fortunately, there was a Russian teacher nearby, and I got her attention. "Aliza," I said simply, pointing at the bloodly, tear-soaked child. The teacher started speaking in fast, angry Russian, pushing past the other kids. She gathered Aliza up in her arms and took her out of the room. I don't know where they took her after that, but I'm afraid it might have been the hospital - the girl may very well have needed stitches.

As for me, I finished teaching quickly. I took the rest of the kids out of the room and sent them to their next classes. Then I went to the bathroom to wash my student's blood off my arm.

- - - - - - - -

To be honest, I did not feel guilty about the incident at all, at first. Kids run around; they bump themselves, scrape themselves, cut themselves; and occasionally they bust open their lips or break bones. This is part of childhood. What happened to Aliza was not the result of anything I had instigated; it was simply an accident. She spends so much time running around haphazardly - in all of our classes - that something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. I felt sympathy for her pain, but no guilt. It wasn't my fault.

Apparently, that is a matter of opinion. One of the workers at the school approached my Head Teacher, Allison, about the incident, and she was not at all pleased. I happened to be in the next room over at the time, close enough to hear and close enough to know that I probably wanted to stay hidden. "This situation is very bad," the lady said. "It is bad for you, bad for the school, bad for us as parents.  The teacher did not respond correctly. We wish you to take better care of our children."

I was blushing furiously at this point. I heard her walk out of the room, but I still didn't come out of the supply closet. I heard Allison address the rest of the teachers in a subdued voice, reminding them that we are responsible for the children's safety, and that it's up to us to make sure that they aren't doing anything that is dangerous, anything that could get them hurt. "These kids are being entrusted to us," she said. "It's our job."

Well, that's all very well, I thought. But I've been trying. We've ALL been trying. We stop fights every day, scold the kids, but they still happen EVERY DAY. We tell them not to climb on things, we pull them away from dangerous things, but the kids don't listen. They're kids! The way they learn is through getting it wrong and getting hurt, sometimes. This could have happened in ANYONE'S class. She was just standing by a chair, and two girls just grabbed her waist. I called after them and tried to stop it, but it all happened too fast. What else was I supposed to do?!


I went home feeling like I was under attack. I tried to push it out of my mind, preparing for my Elementary class this evening, but it just kept haunting me. I struggled between self-centered defensiveness and unreasonable guilt. But the time I was walking back to the school, my internal arguments had become external: I started muttering under my breath. "It was an accident. It could have happened anywhere; in any class, or on the playground, or at home. But it happened in my class. Does that make it my responsibility?" I thought about that, but then growled in frustration, "It wasn't my fault! I didn't do anything! I took care of it right away and got her to help immediately. It wasn't my fault!"

But then, my dramatic subconscious sent a tendril of thought slithering poisonously through my mind. Her blood is on my hands . . . it said.

"That's not true," I murmured, weakly. "I washed it off."

I resisted the sudden, Macbeth-ian urge to look at my hands and check if the crimson stains were still there.

- - - - - - - -

Needless to say, I arrived at my Elementary class in an unhappy state. I was full of a tempest of emotions, unsure which one I felt more strongly. I gathered my materials, trying to get myself calmed down enough that I could teach effectively. (Though, at that moment, I didn't know if I believed myself fit to teach anyone ever again.) I shoved everything to a dark corner of my mind, trying to stay focused on the present. All I can do now, I told myself, is make sure I pay even closer attention to the safety of my students, to keep this sort of thing from happening again. Of course, as it's only happened once in the nearly two months that I've been teaching, chances were that this was an isolated incident, and I didn't need to worry.

I went to my Elementary class and they all greeted me cheerfully, unaware that I had already caused the mutilation of one student that day. I love my Elementary class, and quickly fell into my happy role as teacher, nearly forgetting all of my problems. About five minutes into class, one of the kids - the hyperactive, highly unstable Dima - pulled something out of his pocket and began to play with it, showing it to the other students. I looked over to see what it was . . .

. . . just as Dima unfolded the pocketknife and started wielding it like a sword.

"DIMA!" I shouted, trying not to betray my terror. He had stood up, showing off his swashbuckling skills to his laughing classmates. My nerves were on fire. It was all I could do not to tackle him to the ground and wrestle the weapon from him. "Dima! Put it away!"

He laughed maniacally and turned toward me, making feinting stabs in my direction from a few feet away. I held up my binder to defend myself, sincerely afraid. (I'm not kidding when I say the boy is unstable.) I swear, children can smell fear, because this only made him more delighted. He slashed through the air with his tiny - but surprisingly sharp - blade.

I spoke in a calming tone, "Dima, give me the knife." I couldn't help but think of the countless movie scenes I must be parodying. He didn't respond (stupid movies - you lied to me), so I tried another tactic. "Hey, Dima!" I said, smiling and sounding impressed. "That's cool. Can I see it?"

Dima's face fell just a bit - he liked his toy, but likes me enough to let me have a turn - and he closed the pocketknife, handing it to me. I snatched it out of his hand and quickly pocketed it. He cried out in alarm at my two-faced duplicity, but I told him, "You can have it back after class, okay?" He knew he was beat, so he agreed and went back to his bench.

Myself, I was trying to keep my weak heart from failing.

---
----
---
----
---

And so, I have spent the majority of the day wondering if I am a heartless fiend who leaves trails of gore behind myself everywhere I go. My entire body is shaken and weak, and (even though I know it's stupid) I am still afraid to look at my own hands. Bloodstains - I am discovering - are very, very hard to wash off.

Moral of the story: Some Mondays are worse than others.

Autumn at the Catherine Palace

Last Saturday, for our latest cultural excursion with Sveta, we travelled to the Tsar's village. There are lots of things in the Tsar's village, but we spent the afternoon exploring the Catherine Palace, a summer residence used by the Russian Tsars (naturally). It's a huge, blue, beautiful palace; but I must admit I was more impressed by the beauty of the grounds. Russia, it turns out, has beautiful autumns.

To the pictures!

This is the Catherine Palace. When St. Petersburg was the capital of Russia,
this was a popular place for the Tsars to receive dignitaries from other countries.
There are still huge, international parties held here.
They have a picture on display of George Bush visiting the Palace!

We had to look at the palace through the giant gold gate.
No tourists allowed!
(The touristy stuff, you get to through the back.)

Nature is incomprehensible in its beauty, I think.

We took so many pictures. Clarie and I kept getting left behind
because we were so caught up in trying to capture the moment.

Can you imagine owning these grounds?
The Tsars could just walk around here all day if they wanted!

Halloween is coming . . . .
I'll be in Estonia when it finally gets here.

(*sighs*) Why can't I have a backyard like this?

And if you thought the grounds already had it all -
SURPRISE! A hidden tennis court!
(Braden, this picture is for you.)

Ooh! And now we get to an ancient archway.
What doesn't this place have?

(*pretends to order a drink*) One Grosland, on the rocks.

(*laughs uncontrollably at the terrible pun*)

I'm thinking of using this picture as a "No Engagement" Announcement.
Wouldn't that be hilarious?
Well, if not, it's still a gorgeous photo. I'm well pleased.

Check it out! You can see the trees in the water.
Hurrah, reflections!

When I'm in places like this, I feel strangely absent.
Like I'm watching a movie or something.
This is a fantastical place. Could I really be here?

These are Allison and Bekka.
We were all very delighted with life.

Ah, yes. The bridge of stone faces.
I took these pictures for my mom, because they're kinda like gargoyles.
(*feels Mom's hesitation*) Okay, they're not gargoyles,
but they're faces made of stone. Okay?
Just work with me.

Like I said, it's a bridge. We passed many a couple getting their wedding
photos taken under this bridge and elsewhere on the grounds.
Can't say I blame them. It's great scenery!

See, Mom, I was thinking you could use this as a new profile picture.
I know you love your gargoyle, but people complain about it.
This is a compromise! And it kind of looks like you, too.

But you have to promise that Dad will use this photo as HIS new profile picture, too. (*grins*)
I specifically chose one that was wearing a hat.
Love you, Dad!

I feel like there's something almost artsy about having the wedding
couple in the background, getting their pictures taken.
I just don't know what it means . . . .

Look! I think that's grass! We don't have much of that in the city.

An island of trees and shrubbery in a sea of grass.
Landscape major Beth, eat your heart out.

I wanted to roll down this hill.
But we were on palace grounds, and I didn't want to get arrested.

More beautiful trees and reflections and grounds.

Oh! And we're back to the Palace. Almost ready to go inside now.

Hello, Catherine Palace!
(Golly, this is a gigantic back yard.
Do you have any idea how long it would take to play hide-and-seek here?!)

Now look closely, and you'll notice something that's a trend here.
When Russians are doing contruction on a building, they hang a great big
canvas over it to hide their work. But it's not just any canvas.
It's painted to look like the building!
See, you've got the real Palace on the right side,
and a faux palace on the left.
These fake buildings are all over the city, and it's pretty amusing.

Okay, we're finally inside. And it only took hours and hours!

First, we climb up the stairs. (At which point you can look out over the palace grounds that you already miss dearly.)
Then, we shall enter . . . .

The main ballroom! Wow! Can't you just imagine this place filled with dignitaries,
kings, queens, tsars? All wearing fancy dresses and suits, and dancing to a live orchestra?
It's like a fairy tale, but it's real!
I WAS THERE!!!

And then, as you grow hungry at this fancy ball, you wander in here to sample a few of the fine delicacies that have been artfully prepared for you. What a charmed life!

Just a humble sitting room.
You know, where Tsars used to sit and talk about Tsar things.

A more private dining room.
That picture on the right confused me. It's some strange animal.
I couldn't identify it. It has antlers, that much I'm sure of.
But the body looks more like it belongs to a calf.
What is this alien beast, and why did someone want to hang it in the palace?

Russians hold chess in very high esteem.
Sometimes, kids are taken out of our classes early
just so they can go have their chess lessons.
Of course the Tsars would have played chess.

I'm not sure about the significance of the black statues
holding the fruit bowls. Did Russia use African slaves as well?

A piano, an oven, and a writing desk.
(Green, blue, and brown, respectively.)

Catherine the Great herself! That portrait is original, I think,
but the dress is a replication made for the 300 anniversary of something or other. Still, though, it looks pretty cool.

I like this man. He was performing on the grounds,
playing absolutely beautiful flute solos.
It made me miss my mother and sisters.

Alas, every cultural excursion must come to an end.
As must every blog post.
(*sighs, looking at the photo*) I do so love trees . . . .

Sending you well wishes from St. Petersburg,
Jessica Grosland


(P.S. This is my favorite picture of me, ever)

Breaking News

I sat down at the computer like it was any other day. I turned on the machine, stretched as I waited for it to boot up, then got on the internet. I got onto my Yahoo!mail account, just like every other day. Except that when I opened my inbox, I was suddenly attacked by a vicious hydra!

Okay, that's not really true. But it best captures the emotions that came upon me when I saw that I had an email from BYU's English Teaching department. My stomach clenched, my heart constricted, and a wave of fright flooded my body. I stared and stared at that one line of text, dreading what the email might contain.

For those of you who don't know, I applied to the English Teaching program just before leaving the country. At BYU, English Teaching is a closed major. The application process is long and labored, involving many essays and other paperwork. The last thing I had to do before I left was have an interview with Dr. Chris Crowe - who happens to be the author of a book I loved, so I was entirely intimidated during the whole thing. I came away from the interview very nervous, having found out that the English Teaching program only accepts approximately 30 students per semester. 30 students? I thought. BYU has over 30 THOUSAND students! What kind of a chance do I possibly have? I came here to Russia knowing that while I was here, countless other students would be turning in their applications and attending interviews; the deadline wasn't until halfway through September. I wouldn't be informed of my acceptance or rejection until mid-October.

Apparently, mid-October is today.

I couldn't open the email. I just couldn't. I thought about how much I've learned about teaching with the ILP, how I'm sure - more than ever - that teaching is what I want to do. I knew that the email probably held a rejection, and I didn't want to read it. I didn't want to have to consider what I'd have to do to try and become a teacher if my school rejected me.

But I had to read it. I had to know. So I stepped back and prayed. I leaned right over the computer desk and I prayed. For weeks I've been praying that God would go with my application, softening the hearts of those who read it and helping them to see my fervent desire to teach. Today, though, I didn't pray to be accepted. I knew the decision was made. Instead, I prayed that God would be with me, to give me peace and comfort no matter what the email said. I finished my prayer and looked at the screen again, staring for a few more moments. Then, impulsively, I clicked to open the email.

I read,

"Congratulations! The Admissions Committee has recommended you for acceptance into the English teaching major....

You need to get fingerprints taken ASAP.  When do you return from study abroad?  Please let me know what your plans are so we can work out the details....

In order to be successful in our program, it is essential that you make a professional commitment to preparing for a career in teaching.  Your commitment will be measured, in part, by the quality of your academic work, the ability to be on time, to complete work on time, to accept suggestions, and to develop good communication skills.  Of course, you must also be comfortable in a classroom, working with and supervising 30-40 teenagers at a time....

We need good teachers, and we are pleased that you want to be a part of this profession.


Jacqueline S. Thursby, Director
English Education Program"






And thus, the hydra turned out to be really just a great big hug from the cuddliest teddy bear in the world.

I GOT IN! I'm on my way to being a real English Teacher!!!