Major Wardrobe Malfunction

A week later it was time to talk to parents once again but this time it was scheduled for a bit later in the day which meant that I could go home, relax and recuperate before hitting the trail for a second time that day. This required multiple layers and forms of clothing. But of course I wanted to look my best for the parents since many of them were there simply to have a look, after all how much can you say in five minutes? So I put on my favorite dangly coral earrings and covered my neck and lower face with a fuzzy warm scarf. Once on the bike path, I realized that something wasn't right. One earring had caught on the scarf, but how was I to untangle it in the growing darkness with gloves on, etc. I was beginning to think that my ear lobe might tear. Oh woe! So after crossing at a major light for which I had to wait the maximum, I pulled the scarf free, only to hear a small object fall to the ground, and I removed what was left of one earring. Although I had heard that wearing just one earring was "in" in Germany, I didn't have the time to consider whether to do anything about earring number two. I simply got onto the bicycle highway (the Pronenade) as quickly as possible and fantasized about arriving two minutes late and not only cutting into the five minute appointment set for me at 4pm but also about a lasting impression someone might have of "late" American exchange teachers. Thirty parents later, I began to muse upon all of the single earrings I have collected over the years. The next morning fortunately was a later morning for me, which meant I could re-visit the scene of the crime in daylight. For the first time, I discovered that scraping hardened, stuck-on frost off of a bicycle seat requires quite different motions than when scraping a car windschild clean. I knew exactly where the small object had fallen and there is where I found it, unscathed. Miracle of miracles, it had not rained in the night and no one else had gone to that spot right next to the advertising column on the corner of Niedersachsenring and Goldstraße, looking for treasure. It was a happy camper who peddled on to school that day. It was also a pleasure to see how many students were handing me work which had been delayed but which the parents had managed to maneuver out of them on the day after parent talk day number two.

Parent Speak Day.

Many parents feel obliged to come and see the teacher of their child even if for a paltry five minutes and even if it isn't really necessary. Two days for this marathon activity are set aside each semester at Paulinum. The three-hour block is cut into five-minute slots with a couple of breaks for the teacher scheduled. Kids sign-up for slots in advance and the teacher can study the sheet and puzzle-out who is going to show-up. A full time teacher has anywhere from eight to twelve different classes to keep track of. In order to not appear too incompetent, I made myself seating charts decorated with individual photos of my students. In addition I made sure that I had arrived at a "sonstige Mitarbeit" grade for each child in advance of the parents' coming. Basically this grade encompasses everything besides the mandated test scores: oral participation in class, quizzes, homework, and study habits. Teachers here don't work with a point system and therefore there is more room to maneuver. Around mid-semester, students start asking what this grade is. I put it off as long as I can because the whole prospect of figuring this frightens me. Most teachers use it to determine a grade if and when a student's test scores are on the edge between two grades. Back to the parents: this allowed me to communicate to parents that students had failed to hand in various assignments or weren't doing their homework or were more focused on their classmates than on the material taught. I had one parent inform me that according to her child I hadn't actually taught the material properly, having just read through it. She hadn't considered that her child might have been focused elsewhere when the material was presented in different ways repeatedly over a period of weeks. Both fortunately and unfortunately five minutes is a very short length for a conference. For the parents of the good students, five minutes is too long and for the parents of the struggling students (who mostly don't come), it is too short. So what was the really fun aspect to this? First, I was assigned to a chemistry room for which my key didn't work. That got me off to a great start with a parent who was going to lose at least two of her five minutes while I figured out what to do. The littlest visitors I had were two pupils selling UNICEF cards. They walked away with 14 of my Euros. During the breaks I could catch a whiff of the waffles being prepared and sold a floor and a corridor away. The hallways weren't heated and if you really wanted to know what the temperature was outside, all you had to do was walk into the bathroom where the windows are always open. Although a few parents who had signed up failed to appear, others showed up unannounced to replace them. As my watch struck 6pm and it appeared that no one else was going to come, I turned out the lights and shut the door. It was then that I was met by the mother of two pupils, one in grade 7 French and one in grade 9 English. What else was I to do but to graciously return to my post. We took care of business and I once again was glad that I had been privileged to raise two sons but that I could go home at night to a quiet household. As one of the colleagues had said, the smile pasted on your face becomes plastic after a while and oh, were we all tired that evening! This coming week we get to do it again, on a different day of the week and for slightly adjusted hours so that all parents will have a chance to come and see what we look like. I can't wait!

Quest for the Brethren.

Sometimes a quest must take a bold turn. Not too many days ago I discovered that there was in fact a group which calls itself Mennonite in the region. After a bit of research I could see that getting there would require some extra effort. I called and asked if anyone from Münster drove there to Sunday worship only to find out that the German verb for "drive" actually means "ride" and yes, there was one woman who occasionally took the train out to Warendorf, home of the "Mennoniten-Brudergemeinde" congregation. Then, after a very embarrassing second phone call during which I said I would come to Wolbeck by train and was reminded that they are not in Wolbeck but in Warendorf, I hung up, totally ready to abandon the whole effort. A few days later it seemed like it might be time to put the key into the car and take a little ride. Sunday promised to be a good day for my first driving excursion since arriving in Germany, 103 days ago. Mapquest came through with accurate directions with an estimated travel time of 34 minutes and a distance of 17.73 miles. Once in the saddle everything seemed fine until I glanced at the fuel level. Oh well, hopefully gas stations are open in Germany on Sundays, even if most other shops aren't. Upon arriving at the church I was impressed with the number of cars streaming into the parking lot. A gentleman in a black suit showed me to a seat among women roughly my age. Only then did I notice that I was fully inappropriately dressed. Oh my God! Would they throw me out? I was the only female of any age in trousers. I also had an exposed head. Only unmarried younger women, men and babies had their hair on display as I did. This house of prayer was equipped quite differently from the typical church I had been in up to this point. There was no cross, no statuary, and no organ. The centrally featured piece of art was a large Bible painted on the wall. In huge letters, written across the front of the worship space was a verse from Jerimiah about "the Word". Seated in a large bleacher like area facing the congregants was a huge mixed choir of 50 and a separate group of 11 men who turned out to be preachers, worship leaders, etc. There was no printed program nor page numbers for songs mounted on the walls. Most folks around me weren't using the song books anyway. Could they read German? All the rows in the front half of the church were reserved for young people. A young married couple walked in together and split up so that he could sit in a row of men and she with the women. Some very young children were with one parent or the other. Right behind me were several babies and a number of pregnant women. The first preacher seemed to have an accent but he held my attention. Preacher number two was definitely repeating himself and had very little to say. Soon, congregants began exiting to use the toilet, one at a time, and I began to worry. Was this a sign that the service was just getting started? Every time the choir sang the piano played and it was truly beautiful but a style I couldn't identify. Then two saxafone players did a song with the piano. The only women I saw up front were musicians. When preacher number three got up, I too, suddenly had to go out. It was enough. Any more preaching would have put me over the top! The same gentleman in black suit was kind enough to accompany me to the door. He answered a few of my questions. I was somewhat surprised to learn that the entire church is made up of Russians who had migrated back to Germany from whence they had originally come, but had forgotten their German language. It is all very complicated but in fact it all rather made sense. Every seat was taken. Another worship with communion was to take place at 5pm. This is a community which prays together and stays together. At one point in the service a young man, probably about 25, got up to tell the story. He said that instead of a story he would introduce us to the nine boys he had worked with during a summer camp back in Russia. The narrative was truly moving; each boy had come from a home where love and care were lacking and the church had stepped in to provide support. Coincidentally we are learning about the Amish in English class grade 8 right now at school and I have been researching their practice of "rumspringa", where 16 year olds are given a year to go off and try out the "real world". Something about the church I visited today felt a little "amish". This much I know, I have a lot more research to do before I understand the origins and the historical development of the Mennonites and the Brethren. Today I barely began.