A Year to Remember

On Friday, February 26th, Kirsten and I woke with a heavy weight on our hearts; it was our last day of school. The day we had been dreading for weeks was finally here and there was no avoiding the pain that we would feel. As I wrapped myself in a sari for the last time, my eyes stung with tears. I thought back to the first time Kirsten and I wore a sari to school. I remember feeling nervous that my sari would fall off and how our cheeks burned with embarrassment when 700+ students cheered wildly at the sight of us in traditional Indian dress. That day seemed so long ago, and now, here we were preparing to say goodbye. I could have never predicted the emotions I would feel on our final day, but earlier that week I was given some insight into just how hard it would be.

On the 22nd, after weeks of preparation, endless amounts of frustrations and several headaches later, our Spoken English students performed their Annual Function to a hall packed with students, teachers and families. Despite our worries, the students did a fabulous job and we couldn't have been more proud. At the end of the program some of my girls rushed up to me and said, "Teacher, Binal is crying." As I went to comfort her, the tears became contagious and soon, all 16 girls were huddled around me, tears streaming down their faces. "Please Teacher," they begged, "don't go to America. Don't leave us!" Now, I was the one with tears running down my face.

The rest of the week was just as hard and filled with tears. In each of my final classes I wrote my address on the board and the students copied it down into their worn notebooks. I was crying again when my 8D class presented me with gifts and roses. I was deeply touched when my 5th standard students gave me whatever they could, which amounted to 15 ball pens, 2 key chains, a half bottle of purple nail polish and a heart made from notebook paper. I choked back my tears as I said goodbye and walked out of the classroom for the last time.

Not only did I build relationships with the students, but also with our fellow teachers, and saying goodbye to them was just as hard. As a small token of our appreciation, Kirsten and I hosted a lunch for all the staff members on that final Friday. The entire staff of 60+ people gathered in the center hall and I was fighting back tears (unsuccessfully) as some of the teachers spoke about us. When it was my turn to talk, I couldn't. Sadness had gripped my throat and I couldn't catch my breath. Kirsten took over while I regained my composure and I then tried to relate with words the feelings in my heart. I thanked them for opening their school, sharing their students, and for treating us like family.
As we sat down to eat, a teacher leaned over and whispered, "Even though you are leaving, we will always remember you in our hearts."
"And you will be in mine," I replied.

My days in India are numbered, a fact that I would like to deny. This country is so vibrant and full of life, from the colors to the people. India is bursting with possibility and I hope that the students, the future leaders of India, are given the skills to make their dreams possible and to lead their country. I hope that I helped to contribute to their future successes, and I hope that they will remember me, because I will remember them.

I feel so blessed to have had this opportunity to experience India in such an intimate way; to interact with it's future, to fall in love with it's people, and above all, to learn. India is a country I have grown to love, even though it challenged me. It's a place I have learned to appreciate, even though at times it frustrated me. My heart will not forget the things that my eyes have seen or my ears have heard. The kindness that was shown to me and the friendships I have made will not be forgotten.
For me, India will always remain Incredible.

A Difficult Day

Time. There is never enough of it. Time seems to speed up as we get older and it flies when we are having fun. These realities about time are becoming more and more evident to me as my final weeks of teaching draw near. On Monday, I taught my English Medium students for the last time and it was a very depressing day. The students had no idea it would be my last day when I walked into the classroom on that Monday morning. When I told them, there was an audible gasp and the pained look on Dhruti’s face was especially hard to bear. Her mouth dropped open, her brow furrowed and it looked as if she might cry. I felt the same way.

When I first came to the English Medium school the students didn’t know what to think of me, especially the Kindergartner and Pre-KG kids. I was immediately drawn to them because they are some of the cutest kids I have ever seen, especially in their uniforms. The dress shorts, plaid button-up shirt, and striped tie make the boys look like little gentlemen. The girls, dressed in blue pinafores, white socks and the same striped tie, look like petite ladies. Some of the kids are so small that their white socks slouch and bunch around their tiny ankles. The illusion of perfect gentlemen and ladies is shattered when the school bell rings and they run full force to the playground, their striped ties waving to me in the breeze.

My favorite part of the day is recess, which is when the kids descend upon the narrow patio to devour the delicacies packed into their small lunch tins. Instead of sitting in the staff room with the other teachers, I sit on the patio and watch the kids. On the first day I did this, the kids walked by me and recoiled in horror at this strange creature that had appeared at their school. I would smile at them and say hello, which would either send them into a fit of giggles, or send them running.

Part of what I love about recess is the opportunity to watch them interact with each other. They are so animated with their facial expressions and their bodies; they use their arms and hands to gesture to each other in such a serious manner. At times they are in such intense discussions it seems they could be discussing the future of India, or how to achieve world peace. I asked the teachers what they are saying and was told that they are talking about their snacks, and most arguments involve “He/She was eating my food!”

Slowly, week by week, the kids became more comfortable with me. Now, the kids are the first to say “Good morning Teacher!” When I walk down the corridor, I am greeted by every student with a smile and a wave. They ask me (in Gujarati because they are so young) to open their lunch boxes and water bottles. It may sound weird, but I was especially touched when a KG student came to me to tattle on another student. Tattling, usually seen as an annoyance by teachers, meant to me that they finally recognized me as a teacher. I was no longer some alien creature. My persistence had paid off and they had accepted me.

The Principal told me in our final discussion on Monday that I was the best teacher in his heart for his students. This touched me deeply and I was taken aback with his sincerity and at once I felt the same. His students are the best students in my heart.

The Near Zero North

Before I knew it, it was nearing the end January and it was time for us to leave on our two week trip up North to run our half marathon. I trained for 11 weeks, along the way posting weekly blogs on my progress (www.21k4kids.com). While the students prepared for their exams, we prepared for our trip by packing the warmest clothes we could find, which for me were two long sleeved shirts and a fleece zip-up. I never anticipated that I would be cold in India so I brought nothing from America useful to combat the cold.

We started our journey on yet another train ride in sleeper class, a mode of transportation that I am beginning to loathe. Drew, Kirsten, Addaia and I jumped on a packed bus to Surat and had to stand with our packs on for 30 minutes, about 29 minutes more than I could handle. Meghan stayed in Bajipura to finish some work and was scheduled to meet us in Chandigarh on the 30th. We arrived at the station, hopped onto our train and settled in. The scheduled 24 hour train ride turned into 30 hours as dense fog reduced visibility to zero. During the long periods of time we spent sitting on the tracks my sanity decreased as the hours increased.

Finally, we arrived in Delhi to my friend’s familiar face. We checked into a hotel, washed the train grim from our bodies, and headed out to the Defense Colony for food and choice beverages that can’t be found in Gujarat. We spent the next few days bumming around Delhi, drinking coffee, eating western food, and watched New York I Love You, which made us all a little homesick for America.

For the next few days we headed off to Jaipur, about a four hour drive from Delhi in the state of Rajasthan. Jaipur is known as The Pink City, named so after the Prince of Wales demanded that the city be bathed entirely in pink. Jaipur is home to many ancient forts and palaces that mystify and take your breath away. We toured the City Palace and Ajmer Fort, a fantastic fort perched on a hill. Jaipur was originally a walled city and remnants of the wall can still be seen from Ajmer Fort on the distant hills and at first glance, it reminded me of the Great Wall. After sightseeing, it was time to head back to Delhi. As night fell, so did a thick blanket of fog, again reducing visibility to zero. The four hour trip stretched into a painful 9 hours and we didn’t make it back to Delhi until 4am.

After Jaipur, our group split up. Drew and Addaia left for Chandigarh to meet some friends and Kirsten and I hung back in Delhi for another day of fun in the capital. Then, on the 29th we got on the Delhi subway, stopped at the Interstate Bus Station and searched for a bus to Chandigarh. We found one leaving at 3:30 and we didn’t arrive in Chandigarh until about 9pm. Having not reserved a hotel beforehand, we were stuck haggling rickshaw drivers to take us to unknown hotels. After looking at three hotels out of our price range we were directed to The Blue Moon Hotel in Sector 12. At this point, we were so tired that we gladly accepted his ‘bargain’ of 1,000rs and were happy to find a modern room with a hot water shower!

We spent the day before the race walking around Chandigarh to get a feel for the city. The Lonely Planet described it as a boom town, but Kirsten and I thought it was more of a bust. The city was a planned city with the heart being sectioned off into numbered ‘sectors.’ We headed to Sector 17, which was supposed to be the most interesting sector, but we were disappointed by what we found. We hired a rickshaw to take us into another sector so we could carb-load at Pizza Hut. We gorged on pizza and pasta until we were happily satisfied. At the hotel, we laid out our running clothes, shoes, and bib numbers so they would be ready when our alarm went off at 5:15am, then, we burrowed ourselves into our thick fleece blankets.

The alarm went off. It was here. Race Day. We shivered as we slipped into our running clothes and laced up our shoes. I stuffed some money into my shorts for a ride back after the race and we went down to the lobby, hoping to easily find a rickshaw at 6:00am. It proved more difficult than the front desk man said it would be the day before. We were growing more and more anxious as we stared down the empty road bathed in darkness. Finally, a rickshaw pulled up to our hotel to drop some people and we jumped in. We shivered violently as the cold morning air blew against our bare legs while the rickshaw flew down the road. After about 7 minutes of driving we came to a police barricade and were not allowed to pass. We jumped out and pleaded with the officers, who only gave us directions on how to walk the half kilometer to the starting line. Just then, a car pulled up with a fellow runner in it. “Would you like a ride?” asked the driver. “Yes, please!” we answered back between our clattering teeth. Being a native of the city, the driver of the car knew some handy shortcuts and got us to the starting line just in time to meet up with Meghan, Drew and Addaia. We huddled, said a prayer, and we were off and running.

The race proved harder than I thought due to the acclimate weather. I am now a Gujarati Girl, used to hot, dry weather and Chandigarh was cold and wet. I settled into a comfortable pace and tried to focus my attention away from my slowly numbing body. I tried to drink some Gatorade at one of the stations, but found that I could barely swallow it because my muscles were so cold. I also tried to sniff my nose but my face was too numb for it to be effective…yep, I used my sleeve (don’t tell my mom). After some mental and physical battles I made it to the finish line in 1:48, well under my goal time. Our efforts raised over $1,000 for our libraries! You can read a more detailed account here: www.21k4kids.com

After we were all showered and had regained feeling in our extremities, we packed up my friend’s car and headed further North. We drove for about 6 hours into the hills and stopped at Palampur, famous for the production of North Indian tea. We toured a tea plantation the next morning and I couldn’t help myself…I plucked a leaf off the bush and was not impressed with the taste. After sampling tea, it was back into the car for some more driving, this time to Dharmashala, home of the Dali Lama. The drive was beautiful and the roads that were lined with tall trees wound up endlessly into the peaceful hills. We drove further up and stopped at McLeod Ganj, a more bustling center of activity. The girls decided to call this home for the next two nights while my friend, Drew and I continued into the hills to a more secluded place to stay, literally, on top of the mountain.

When I first saw the road we were to drive up, I didn’t even think it was a road. Regulations state that any new roads must be carved out of the mountain by a chisel, which made for a very small, and very rocky road. I closed my eyes at several points during the drive, but couldn’t believe the view at the top when I finally opened them. Stretching out beyond our guest house was an unbelievable sight. Tall, snowcapped mountains on either side made for a dramatic valley below. Wild monkeys could be seen jumping from tree to tree and the air was so crisp and clean. During the drive a leopard jumped in front of our car and it was a thrilling sight. It was hard to believe that this was India.

That night we dined with the Crowned Prince of the region at his estate, which was a great experience. Even though the ruling class gave up their powers in favor of a united India in 1947, many people still look to and recognize the descendants of the Maharajas. Some of these descendants still own great forts and palaces scattered throughout India. Drew and I had a great time talking with the Prince and learning more about Indian history.

The next day Drew and I were feeling a little ambitious, maybe a little too ambitious, as we embarked on a hike further up the mountain. My legs were still sore from the half marathon and the hike wasn’t as easy as I had hoped it would be. After about an hour we reached a small tea stall, the halfway point. I glanced around and looked up on the top of another mountain that was looming above us. I squinted at some small structures on the top. “We had better not be hiking up to that!” I said to Drew. He shrugged his shoulders and we continued on…to that very peak. The higher we hiked, the colder I got. My hands were so cold that I thought they would crack. I pulled them inside the sleeves of my cheap fleece and huffed on. Finally! We made it to the top and were rewarded with an impressive view at 9,059 feet. I couldn’t resist making a snowman out of the patches of snow…a snowman in India! I never would have thought.

Good times must come to an end and we were again packing up the car for the 12 hour drive back to Delhi. Our road trip through North India was a great time and I enjoyed getting to see a side of India I didn’t know existed. As we boarded our 7:45am train I took in one last deep breath of cold, fresh air and then climbed into the top bunk, where I would remain until our 1:30am arrival in Surat. I am excited to plan my next trip through India where I would like to find myself maybe on a beach, or, anywhere for that matter.

Pictures: http://picasaweb.google.co.in/lyndi.milton

Christmas in Colaba

Christmas this year was not traditional, which actually seems to be the tradition for me. In the last 5 years, I have spent only one at home with family, which was in 2008. Before that I spent Christmas in Beijing, Xinzheng, Manila, and now India. My roommates had never spent a Christmas away from family, so we decided to go on a trip to distract ourselves and Mumbai was the perfect destination for four days off.

We boarded the train on Christmas Eve after working a full day and woke up in Mumbai at 5am. The train ride from Surat to Mumbai should be about 5 hours, but we took the slowest train imaginable and the trip took a lengthy 12 hours (one way was 99 rupees; about $2.00). We found a taxi and headed towards Colaba, one of the most popular places in Mumbai, in search of The Salvation Army Hostel. It was too early to check in so we hung around the dining area and while we waited we witnessed a small Christmas gathering of the workers and got to sing some Christmas songs and listen to the Christmas story. Then, we all filed downstairs to check in, which is when I realized I had made a huge mistake.

As I was packing for the trip I was hesitating about bringing my passport, and then, at the last minute I decided against bringing it. As a traveler, your passport is the most important item. A lost passport can be devastating, so if I think I don’t need it, I leave it locked up at home. Other teachers had told me that they had stayed in hotels in Mumbai with no passport, so I thought I would be okay. This was not the case for me. When the gruff front desk man asked me for my passport my stomach dropped. I did have a black and white copy of my passport and visa which I handed to him. He was looking them over when I realized that the visa copy was of my OLD visa which had expired on November 14th. I had neglected to photocopy the new visa I received in October. My stomach jumped.

“This is expired,” he said in a rough tone.
“I’m sorry, I left my passport in Gujarat. I do have a new visa,” I managed to say.
“You cannot stay here without a passport and visa. Go to the police station and ask for a letter,” he replied flatly, handing the copies back to me.

When I entered the Colaba police station several officers turned as I entered and gave me a hard look. “What can I do for you?” the sergeant asked.
“I, um, I need a letter to stay at The Salvation Army. I, uh, forgot my passport,” I stammered as I handed him my passport and visa copy.
“Sit and wait,” he barked back and I obeyed.

I sat for about 45 minutes while he dealt with four Indian women and their grievances. The longer I sat, the more nervous I got. I started to run through my options if I was not given the letter that I needed. I decided that I could give my bags to the other girls for safekeeping inside and that I would wrap myself in my sheet and sleep outside. It wasn’t too cold, and if no one saw that I was a foreigner maybe I could survive two nights sleeping on the streets of Mumbai.

Finally, the sergeant finished with the women and it was my turn. Before I even sat down in front of him he swept all the papers from his desk, including my only copy of my passport, balled them up, and threw them into the corner. Not good.

“So what do you want from me?” he asked.
I repeated my story as he looked at me, clearly not happy that I was there.
“How can I write you a letter?!” he said, folding his arms across his chest, “I don’t know you. Go back to America and get your passport,” he said.
“I have my passport, but I left it in Gujarat. I’m sorry. I made mistake and left it in Gujarat,” I replied, shrinking smaller by the minute.
“Go back to Gujarat! Get your passport, and then come back to Mumbai,” he growled.
“I can’t, my return ticket is for the 27th. I am only here for two nights, for Christmas. Today is Christmas,” I managed to say through the growing ball in my throat, and I felt it coming; tears.

Till this point, I had not cried in India, but this was too much. It was Christmas Day and the irony of not having a place to stay was too much. I bit my lip and my eyes spilled over as a few tears slid silently down my cheeks. He picked up the phone and began a lengthy conversation with someone while watching me.
He slammed down the phone and said “Do you know what Whagwalla means?”
“What?” I sniffed.
He began to write the word on a scrap of paper. “Whagwalla! It means Tiger Killer. Say it! Tiger Killer.”
“Tiger Killer?” I said in a questioning voice, totally confused as to what was happening.
“You go to Salvation Army and ask for the Tiger Killer,” he said as he slid the paper across the table. “I have just spoken with him. You tell the manager he is the Tiger Killer. Maybe he will let you stay,” he said.
“Uh, okay, um, Tiger Killer? Ok, thank you,” I said as I walked out.

The manager at the Salvation Army was clearly not happy with the trouble I was causing by not bringing my passport. He was more Army than Salvation and he too gave me a hard time about not bringing my passport. I don’t blame him; it was a stupid mistake on my part, but it was Christmas! He snatched the scrap of paper I humbly offered and slammed it into his desk drawer.
“You stay only two nights,” he said in a tone of finality.
“Yes. Thank you. Only two nights. Merry Christmas,” I said as I breathed a sigh of relief.

After cleaning up, we hit the streets. Mumbai, also interchangeably called Bombay, is an island in the Western state of Maharastria. Our hostel was in prime real estate in the Colaba district and we were just a five minute walk to the Gateway of India and other sites of interest. The weather was perfect on this Christmas morning and our appetites were craving both good food and entertainment. We ended up at Mondegar Café for our Christmas brunch which included bacon AND sausage for me. After filling up on delicious food, we headed to a nicer part of Mumbai to watch Avatar in 3-D, which we enjoyed immensely. As we were walking out of the theater we literally ran into a famous Bollywood actor, but were too star struck to speak.

The next day we went to the Museum of Modern Art, did some shopping, marveled at the Gateway of India, admired the Taj Hotel, and got lost in the chaos of Crawford Market. We spent the majority of our time eating all the food and drinks that are impossible to find in our village. Before we knew it, it was time to head back to Bombay Central to board our train headed for home. After another 12 hours we arrived back in Madhi, the village Kirsten and I teach in, and jumped into a rickshaw bound for Bajipura.

We had postponed opening gifts until the 28th, which is when we celebrated our after-Christmas Christmas. I made some muffins (thanks to Shellie) and Dunkin Donuts coffee (thanks to Hannah) as a special treat and we all sat on mattresses on the floor as we exchanged our Secret Santa gifts between the four of us. Then we laid on the floor together and watched Elf and Love Actually. Even though we were missing our families, we were still able to have a good Christmas.

New Year’s came and went with barely a second glance from me. Running at 6am everyday makes me very tired and I try to be in bed by 10pm. As I was heading to bed at 9:30 Drew asked if I was going to stay up, and then I realized that it was New Year’s Eve. Going to bed sounded like more fun, so I missed the arrival of 2010.

Hit the Road!

Some of the Nanubhai Teaching Fellows are hitting the road, literally, in hopes of earning money for rural education. A group of 6 Fellows have set their sights on running a Half Marathon in January with the hope of earning money for every kilometer ran on race day.

After running my first marathon in 2006 I decided that I would either run one Full or two Half Marathons every year. I’m not sure how to explain my attraction to doing something most people would consider a punishment, but nonetheless, I continue to run even here in India. My roommates call me a masochist, and maybe so, but misery loves company and so I enlisted them to join me.

Training for a major race in America can be hard enough; running in India sometimes feels impossible. As we have already experienced, the obstacles can be great. Earlier in the year we were faced with extreme heat, punishing humidity, and finally, mass amounts of rain during the monsoon season. It has also been difficult to find good places to run; there are no jogger friendly trails here. The main roads are extremely dangerous and so we started scouting good routes on less traveled roads that cut through the thick sugar cane fields. Nutrition is now becoming a problem as our mileage increases. We are on vegetarian diets that don’t provide us with enough calories or protein to sustain all that we demand of our bodies. I am starving one hour after eating breakfast!

The idea of raising money through running has been in my mind for a while. When I traveled through Indonesia I met an English teacher who asked me if I could send his school some books in English. I promised that I would, but at that time I was living in China and it wasn't possible for me to fulfill my promise. When I returned to America in July of 2008 I vowed to make good on my word and I began to send boxes of books to Indonesia. I felt great about being able to help, but this was very costly for me during a time that I was unemployed. It was also during this time that I was training for the Seattle Marathon and an idea popped into my head; what if people donated money for every mile I run, and that money could finance the postage of books to other countries? I was really excited about this idea, but it never got further than my mind. Until now.

So here we are; 6 of us in 3 different cities in rural India. We are all training for the same race, all with the same hopes that running a few miles can make a difference in the life of at least one student. We have our own blog spot where interested people can follow our training, feel our pain, and hopefully get involved in our goal of providing assistance to a well-deserving student. Just like our students, we will keep our eyes on the future and continue to work hard despite all the obstacles and pain that we face.

Please visit www.21k4kids.com

So this is Christmas

Last week in my Spoken English class we spent a lot of time talking about Christmas, which seemed a little unreal to me. In India it feels nothing like winter, let alone Christmas time. I still think it is baseball season in America and that my parents, who are both teachers, are on summer vacation. In the Land of the Perpetual Sun, it is difficult for me to imagine people in America bundled up, building snowmen, Christmas shopping, and spending time inside with family and friends to take refuge from the cold weather.

Explaining and planning lessons around the Christmas theme made it a little easier for me to get in the Christmas mood. The students here all know about Christmas, but in our little village they have never had an opportunity to hear about it from a Western’s point of view. I have to admit that the more I talked about how Christmas is celebrated, the more ridiculous it sounded to me. When asked who Santa Claus was I first tried explaining about Saint Nicolas, the Patron Saint of Children, and how through the years he morphed into the Santa Claus we know today. This was of little interest to them; they wanted to hear about the red suit, red cap, and the bag of gifts they have seen in pictures. As I talked about how Santa flies around the world in a sleigh and enters every home through the chimney to deposit gifts under the tree and into the stockings hung by the chimney (with care) their expressions became more and more contorted into a face that seemed to be saying “Huh?”

In my class we made Christmas ornaments out of pipe cleaners and it was a lot of fun to see the students use their creativity. At first when I handed out the pipe cleaners they kept asking me “Teacher, what do I do with it?” “Anything!” I replied as I showed them how to bend and twist them into different shapes. As they caught on to the pipe cleaners’ possibilities there was no stopping them. Then, on Christmas Eve we made Christmas cards and chaos reined my classroom. I spent time the week before cutting out different shapes and preparing all the materials, which included some glitter that was sent from America (thanks mom!). The glitter was by far the most used material and the desks and floor of the classroom sparkled with the remnants of their creations.

The culmination of the Christmas lessons was our Christmas Party. The students took full control of the planning as they ordered food and a cake and talked to the Principal about wearing red clothes in lieu of their uniforms. I was not allowed into the assembly hall until everything was just perfect. They even managed to find snow spray and as I entered we were all covered in wet, foamy snow. As I cut my Christmas cake the students sang We Wish You a Merry Christmas before I blew out the candles. Then, every student fed me a piece of cake, and then smeared a little frosting on my face. I had a lot of fun celebrating with my students and I appreciate their efforts to make my Christmas a very merry one!

An unfortunate coincidence

Today I was given a new name. Why? It’s a funny story that I will tell, but only because I have a tendency to be self-deprecating. Promise not to laugh too hard at my expense. Promise? Okay…

In Gujarati, Lyndi means . . . . ready for this? . . . . goat poop. Yep. Goat poop. You just can’t make that stuff up. Hilarious, I know. Okay, stop laughing! I almost didn’t believe Meghan when she came home from school and told me that her principal laughs hysterically every time my name comes up in conversation. She finally asked what was so funny and he replied “In Gujarati Lyndi is poop of the goat!”

I couldn’t believe it! Why people neglected to tell me this until my 6 month here (my 6th day would have been preferable) is beyond me. I went to school to ask the teachers I work with if it was true; surely they would have told me of this unfortunate coincidence. In the staff room I leaned in to the teachers that sit next to me and said quietly “So, in Gujarati my name means….” and they began laughing. “Who told you?!” they asked. Awesome, I thought. It is true.

Apparently people didn’t want to tell me, fearing that I would feel bad about sharing my name with a goat’s excrement. A valid reason I suppose, but in hindsight I feel pretty bad about walking around proclaiming that I am goat poop for the last 6months. I guess if anything, I’m not surprised at all. I’ve known since I was ten that my name is unusual and causes problems (“your name is Cindy/Mindy/Wendy/Lyndsey??). So now, this just confirms it. Again, thanks Mom.

From now I may be introducing myself as Lena, as suggested by an Indian teacher here. I like this new name, but I don’t know if I can embrace it. I still like my old name, despite its unfortunate meaning. I recently began teaching two new 5th standard classes and I hesitated before introducing myself as Lyndi, knowing that a 5th standard student’s sense of humor would capitalize on such an opportunity to laugh. After both saying and writing my name on the board I cringed, waiting for an eruption of laughter, but there was none. Perhaps they waited until I left the class to die of laughter, or perhaps, it isn’t that big of a deal. As a teacher at my school told me “Have no tension….don’t worry, be happy.” So, I will happily proclaim that I am, in fact, goat poop.