“So you must be getting use to it huh? I mean, you barely ever write anymore.”
At first his words stung. It could have been taken a million ways, but my first reaction was, how can you ever get used to it?! Get used to parents trying to poison their children or kids going hungry night after night. So I huffed, and I puffed, and finally wrote him back.
“No, brother, I didn’t just get used to it.”
“I didn’t mean that to sound mean, I just meant, you rarely write, so it must not be as hard. You’re assimilating.”
Well, okay, calm down.
I read back over my first couple of years here. I can hear the pain in my voice. The struggle between what I thought and what I saw. The turmoil of not knowing where to move or how to affect anything at all. and I realize… I have stopped writing.
This has become real life. Ive set into a comfortable pace. I know my way around and how to talk to people. I have relationships with my staff and students. I eat, sleep, drink, play- its a different life but it is just that- life. Normal, everyday life.
So it is hard to write about it. I call home and ask how everything is going. What has changed. “Oh, the usual” is the response I get. “Working, family dinners, you know same ol’ same ol’.” And I do. So when the question is turned around, I reply very similiarly. School is going well. Teachers are learning to teach better, students are learning their subjects. Im eating, drinking and playing. Same ol’ same ol’.
What a good feeling it is to be rutted in a track of familiarity. It may be nothing great- but it is my life.