There Is No Big Picture, Yet

First-Year Teaching Fatigue.

Now. Before I begin let me just clarify: this is not fatigue of teaching, but fatigue from teaching.

Which, in my book, are entirely different things.

Even with parent meetings which kept us at school until well past 6 pm last night, and even with an entire weekend ahead (and with the end of the quarter looming--for both teachers and students) I know some part of me is excited to see my students again--Monday morning bleary-eyed, rumbling along at half speed, and to carry on.
There are those moments--when I ask a student a question and you can see their brains starting to churn, mulling over ideas--old and new--trying to find the connections. and that expression--not totally present with us in class, but wandering off somewhere in the outer-reaches of the cerebral cortex, to me is just beautiful.

So. what I want to write about has nothing--or at least very little--to do with the teaching part of teaching.

I knew that this would be challenging for me from the get-go: but one of the hardest parts of teaching for me is turning off teaching: stopping myself from thinking about teaching day in and day out; stop replaying lessons in my brain, scrutinizing them for hidden hints for how to teach better; stop worrying about homework or lesson plans or documentation for the Ministry of Education. Even though my body goes home at the end of the day, sometimes it takes a while for my brain to disengage from schooling and make that same journey home.

and I'm finding that this is getting exhausting. like get in bed at 7:30 on a Wednesday kind of exhausting. almost to tired to walk the block and a half from the apartment to the corner store to get milk for the morning coffee. although--for the record--I haven't been reduced to taking the lift the two flights up to our apartment--that still seems ridiculous.  (the time change hasn't helped at all, either. nor the 5am call to prayer).

I'm sure that the challenge is also compounded by being in an dual-immersion language context (and being an introvert) and that other than holing myself up in our apartment, everything; from going to the store to buy milk to going out for coffee, to sitting with the neighbors chatting or eating dinner, to just walking around town involves some sort of language-input-processing (and then sometimes switching between languages). I miss the true quiet of nature--which finding usually involves a drive up into the mountains. I think because last year I trained my brain to take as much in as I could, to use every waking second, every instance of language contact to soak up just a few more words, I'm also having a hard time 'turning off' that stimuli as well. or finding the energy to stay fully engaged. because--by now, I can follow a lot of what gets said--but there's always details which are just beyond my grasp. things I can't quite catch. and the more I understand, the more I want to understand even more. it's a vicious cycle.

I think part of the challenge ahead is shifting the way I use energy in the classroom--so that I'm not depleting my stores quite as quickly, part of it is finding/making time/energy to do things unrelated to school which fill me with satisfaction (like taking an online course on political theory with Zeko. and again I wonder 'just how did we find each other?' or learning songs to sing while I'm waiting for the bus to come, or making pickles (so delicious!)) and part of it is patience.

Sharr, near Leshnica.
a different sort of 'big picture' 

Talking with Nicole--one of the Elementary School teachers, and one of the other two Americans at the school, she noted that first year teaching is even harder because you don't have the benefit of seeing the big picture: "there is no big picture your first year" she said. "You're making it."So I don't have the instant gratification of seeing my students improve, because Monday to Tuesday, to Friday to Monday, the changes are incremental: sometimes invisible, and sometimes I get just a glimmer that something is changing somewhere. and I know, or at least I hope, these small changes are adding up. But really I don't know. because I don't know fully where my students (and here I am again. talking about my students. I promise I will write something where the word student does not appear. not even once. but it may be challenging) started from. Or what they were like last year. So my students can see their 'big picture,' especially the ones who were struggling last year, they see their grades improve. But to me, this is just the way they are. I would never have guessed that some of my students--who to me are focused (or as focused as 11th grade guys can be) responsible, on the path to becoming mature individuals--were receiving Ds and Fs last year, having major behavior problems, constantly in the principal's office. And no. of course this dramatic change is not my doing, but theirs. Maybe I'm helping. maybe not. That's not exactly the question, at least for me. but how to I help. more. better.

it's a hard question to turn off.

and if anyone has suggestions or ideas--especially with coping with fatigue: I'm ready to hear them.

so with that said: I'm going to clean the apartment. tune out and listen to NPR. catch up with the world.

Original Strangers, that's what we are

A few nights ago, I was visiting the parents of friends (Dita--who lives downstairs from us, and helped us get this apartment), the father--who is from Tetovo (or at least a village nearby) but met, fell in love and married a woman from Croatia (who now speaks Albanian but with a very clean sound--but plot full of dialect. it's really fascinating to listen to her speak because her accent--at least to my 'expert ear' sounds foreign (as if I am one to talk), while the way she speaks is utterly of Tetovo.) Anyhow, he (Dita's father) looked at the both of us (his wife and I) and smiled, saying, 'you two, you are original strangers. While he [indicating is son-in-law Dita's husband who is from Albania], he's a cousin. but you? [followed by a head wag]."

No, Siree, we're no counterfit strangers, but the real deal.

Since Zeko and I started dating, the subtle/gentle/inquisitive/totally baffled/laughing interrogations have only increased because for so many the idea of choosing this community, is, well a sign of clinical insanity. Dita's father also joked that one day, he and his wife and I would have to go to the psychiatrist, so that we (his wife and I) could be checked out (although unfortunately--I really enjoyed their company--they just went back to Croatia, so our trip to the psychiatrist will have to wait).
Especially when the alternative is the States (however hyped and glorified through hours of hollywood/pop culture/endless murmur of televisions). How crazy must I be to want to stay here?

And I know that even having the right to choose (and the right to un-choose) rooting myself here, that knowledge in and of itself, makes me more able, more comfortable with the idea of "investing" in Tetovo--although honestly teaching has been so exhausting that I don't exactly feel like I have a lot to invest in anything. And yes--there are so many ways in which I see (even through the foggy lens of the language barrier, which makes just about everything a little blurry around the edges) problems in this community--but thus far, I've found the support I need (and hopefully provided it as well) to navigate some of these cultural minefields without too much damage to the mind, body or spirit.

And I also love teaching.

I feel a little bad for Zeko--because all (literally) I want to talk about are my students--their mannerisms, their ticks, things I'm planning, problems I'm having: Zeko gets them all--and usually the unfiltered, unprocessed, raw version, the first words that spring from my mouth when I tumble through our apartment door. And he's a champ (not only for this, though). Not only for being the unceasing receptacle, sometimes translator, and constant support (oh so constant)--but genuinely is interested in helping in whatever way he can--from helping translate test questions, to trying to figure out a solution to the scheduling problems we were having at the beginning of the year (he offered we go home and make a grid and then move beans around. at the time (we spent so much time worrying about making the schedule work), it sounded like divine wisdom. and I'm sure would have worked, but we found another solution. But for next year: saved by the beans. Mark my words.)

I'm teaching 11th grade English and Social Studies at a private school here in Tetovo--and we're approaching the end of quarter 1 (strange how time just zoomed ahead, looking neither to the right nor left. and us passengers, hanging onto our purses and umbrellas and stacks of student papers for dear life--which brings to mind a scene of the Professors from Gormenghast. Thanks again Ned, for bringing those books into my life). Of course there are the rocky days--where for whatever reason the dynamic in the classroom is out of whack, students want to test boundaries, or students want to complain (justly and unjustly) about the amount of work they have, or debate their grades. and on those days--especially with 6 hours of class, and with a total of 38 students (there are two groups of 11th grade students, and I teach each section English and Social), days can get long.
But luckily, those days have been few and far between. and usually, time spent teaching--while exhausting physically/mentally, is also replenishing. rejuvenating. inspiring.  amusing.

Like today: one of my students (mind you, an eleventh grader) in social studies class--when I started to erase the board, said 'jo, ne(ne)!'--which translates literally as 'no, Mom!' The entire class started to laugh--as did I, eraser posed to start wiping words out (thinking: 'is that really what I just heard?' Although, for the record, I do call them dude).  I think E. might have been a little embarrassed--but honestly I was touched. My classes have a wide range of language proficiencies--and especially with the students with whom there is a wider language gap/barrier, I worry (endlessly. Just ask Zeko) about if I'm reaching them, if anything of what I'm saying/we're doing is settling for them, if I'm able to maintain their interest and curiosity (and spark their imaginations! I know, my expectations of schooling/education/teaching/being a teacher are high),  and if what I'm asking them to produce for me is adequate to allow them to express their mastery of the content, if they feel comfortable asking questions...the list is never ending.
 and being called Mom in class, while perhaps not the best indicator of whether or not manifest destiny (one of our topics for today's social studies class) makes any sense at all, at least, to me, says something about the dynamic I'm building with my students. I'm just not sure what exactly that is, or how to interpret it.


The class where I got called Mom is also my homeroom, who I see for 15 minutes every morning (and then sometimes 4 hours of class later throughout the day), and read announcements. And even though usually those 15 minutes are spent prying students eyes open (and mine, sometimes, I will be honest)--I'm starting to get a feel for their personalities, and I think, they for mine.
And I really enjoy letting myself be surprised by my students--and they surprise me all the time. Today--to celebrate the beautiful fall weather--we went outside for the last part of class and made skits about the short story we're reading. and like any first--taking a group of students outside for the last 30 minutes of the school day was a little bit daunting--and yet. rather than just basking in the sun--or running away (I think my subconscious fear) or revolting now that they had gotten what they wanted (to be outside on a nice day), they brought their books, make their skits, and then performed them. and we laughed. one group even asked me to be in their skit--and yes, to play the Mom (sensing a theme here? hmmm). and then even offered to help me take the books back to the classroom at the end of the lesson.

and watching them take on this small task--and see how their eyes smiled just a little (although some were clearly nervous) to be 'on stage,' taking on a new character, with all our attention focused on them, makes me impatient to do more with these students. to see what other talents they have, that I am thus unaware of. what other surprises they have in store.

Trust-Fall Teaching

This morning I read an article about teaching, and like any good article about teaching it both inspired me--and has forced me to spend some of this morning in critical reflection of my own teaching and that meeting point between a teaching philosophy and a teaching practice (and the challenges of making them overlap).

The article (How a Radical New Teaching Method Could Unleash a Generation of Geniuses by Joshua Davis) explains how conventional teaching--and conventional assessment!--are nearly antithetical to the 'natural' (and I use this word with several grains of salt) ways children learn (through experience, experimentation, curiosity!) from a neurological point of view. He then follows one teacher, Juarez Correa in a school in Mexico, and how, through changing the ways in which he tasked students--and his role in the classroom--enabled students to take responsibility (and above all, interest) in their learning. And, like most happy teaching stories--yes, the students even do better (and not just better) on the State standardized tests.

And yes. For my educator-self, stories like these are fairy tales--not in the sense that they are unreal (for they very much are real) but have this gossamer sheen to them, and I find myself wishing that one day, I might have that kind of impact on a student's life. And I know, much of the process--especially from Correa's perspective was him changing his role in the classroom. Him relinquishing the traditional/typical position of power teachers hold in the classroom, hold over students, hold over 'knowledge' (or perhaps more importantly, information).

But for me--especially now, up to my elbows in the good and bad of teaching high school students (more good than bad, I think)--the pieces that I am curious about are the perspectives from the students--and what kind of challenges Correa faced asking students to change not only how they saw or understood the role of the teacher in the classroom, but how they shed some of the ingrained characteristics of what it means to be a student. Because, the second half of 'teachers are in control of the classroom' is that 'students are subservient to the teacher' (in perhaps more harsh language than typical). Correa's (radical) modification of his practices as a teacher had/has to be accompanied by an equal (if not greater) modification of students' understanding of their role in the classroom--and changing of their expectations (most importantly, of themselves, but also of their classmates, and teacher).

And so, what I see Correa doing--on one level--is placing radical trust in his students.
Trust that they can and will fill the spaces vacated by him--the teacher--as he changes his role in the classroom. Trust that they will change their expectations of themselves, trust that they will motivate themselves --rather than receive motivation from the teacher. Trust that they can take responsibilities in the classroom which they never dreamed they would have.

And this trust, in turn, is a powerful thing to receive--to feel trusted by someone usually "more powerful" than you.

And it is this trust that I seek with my students. and I know (said with a sigh) that this trust--and changing behaviors in a profound way--takes time (and patience). Time for the teacher--and time for the student. And that these two clocks may not be perfectly synchronized--especially with the cross-cultural 'time zones' (or perhaps jet lag is a better metaphor) which my students and I face, we have to be patient with each other. But it gives me something to hope for. and for a Sunday--with a week of teaching ahead, hope is a rather beautiful thing.

Where have all the people gone?

One year ago today (--ish. Eid--or as we call it here, Kurban Bajram (the feast of the Sacrifice commemorating when Abraham didn't sacrifice his son Issaac/Ismail for god/Allah/whatever name you would like to use, and instead sacrificed a lamb) isn't a fixed date, as it is a fixed number of days after the end of Ramadan.
So with that tangent aside, one Kurban Bajram ago, Evan, Tasha and I woke up, and proceeded to walk two kilometers through what is usually 'hopping' studenty-peopled Tetovo, where you can't step without either passing food (how many places sell burek between the university and the qender?) or building equipment, usually encroaching out into the sidewalk, all without seeing a soul. Nor, for that matter, a place to eat breakfast.

Just two months into living here--it was eerie to wake up in a bed, in a building, on a street, in a town that I thought I was 'getting to know' and have it feel like I had entered an alternative universe.
And after that day, I always wondered: just where did all those people go? how can what sometimes feels like thousands of people just disappear, overnight? where are the traffic jams? the honking cars? the kids running between strolling pairs on the sidewalks (who always, it seems, are walking at 1/4 speed)? where did all the merchandise, usually spread out over square meters in front of stores, where did it disappear to? the mannequins? the bananas, cucumbers, the men selling plastic trinkets and peanuts? the noise of the traffic (oh so markedly absent from the soundscape of my new apartment--and a welcome change)?

I knew that Bajram is a big family holiday here--and that people (mostly men) go visiting the various branches of the extended (and my god. When they say extended, they mean extended. ) family. But the math didn't quite add up for me: if Tetovo, a city full of people, hasn't gotten any bigger, and  the number of people has remained the same (these two remain constant), and people are moving between outposts of the family clan--wouldn't there still be people out and about? perhaps not on the scale of your hum-drum Wednesday morning, but some middle ground between quasi-post- apocalyptic ghost town, and cars parking on the sidewalks because there isn't enough parking space?

And today--I think I unraveled some of the mystery.

Having the apartment to myself for the majority of the day (as Zeko is one of the people zipping from halle (father's sister) to teze (mother's sister) to daje (mother's brother) to xhaxha (father's brother) to another halle, another teze, another daje another xhaxha, and thus it continues (and then to their children...I think he said he ate more than 20 pieces of baklava over the last Bajram (and I'm surprised that much sugar didn't knock him out)), and assuming that I'd also have the roads to myself (who's going to be out pleasure driving on Bajram?), I went out to see the fall foliage (for the record: still no comparison to Vermont) on bike.

And biking down these usually sleepy quiet roads, there I found the traffic jams: seven, eight cars in a line zipping from Halle to Teze to Daje to Xhaxha (although they use a different word here (Mingj?) all riding their Baklava-induced sugar high, and all, I suspect, a little surprised to find me there on my green bicycle.

It's an interesting testament to how connected families remain--something I'm still trying to wrap my head around--as I have five first cousins, and my knowledge of the extended family ends there, and also to how much the population has shifted towards the cities--places like Tetovo, contributing to the fullness of the city (and the housing/infrastructural shortages)--and yet pillars of the family still remain in the villages. I hadn't been able to see this connection between the urban and the rural quite so clearly until this morning.

And it also speaks volumes to the extent to which personal/face-to-face contact matters in this culture/community. it's not enough to just send 'holiday's greetings' cards--with messages about all events of significance in the family--at choice times during the year (and not to imply that this is the extent of our means of staying connected as a family--or on a broader, American scale) but sitting down and having tea. eating the Baklava. taking the time to nourish these relationships--in this manner. it's a generosity with time that I know will take me a while to get used to. because--hand in hand with generosity with time, is patience (and waiting). and in so many ways, our cultural understanding of time (as having fixed quantity. as being precious (time is money, or so they say), as moving in a linear, organized manner) leads me to this inexplicable impatience, especially around unspecified periods of waiting--when in so many other ways I can be oh so patient.

I guess it's a good thing, then, that I've got another year here, to keep working on it.

The god of small things

Or the things of small gods. Or maybe small gods of things.

I'm not quite sure which one yet.

(but my postmaterialist self (thanks Malvi) is somewhat skeptical about the second two)--but this isn't going to be about the God of Small Things--saddelicious as it is by itself.

But the close of the semester has also been somewhat saddelicious--or maybe frusturatingdelicious, because it's brought to the surface a lot of the tensions I feel with a) assessment in general and assigning something as dynamic as person/their work and growth over the past 16 weeks with something as staticemotionless as a number (but then having to rationalize to them those impersonal numbers, and 'take ownership of them'), and b) the academic culture here, especially around assessment.

Today was, shall I say, hopefully me hitting rock bottom. And after almost starting to cry because a colleague really doesn't know how to read other people's emotions, and therefore didn't quite get the message that I was done with him lecturing me about how bad my albanian was, and how studying Albanian grammar was pointless (because we all have 'human grammar' so why try to learn the grammar of another language?. yeah. not the best conversation to have today, especially because Albanian grammar is not exactly intuitive, or predictable--at least to my novice eyes. and it's damn hard for me to learn through emersion without some sort of vague gramatical frame to throw my language-encounters up against).

Durres--not to confuse anyone.
Tetovo still doesn't have the sea

And this week has also just been a extended conversation with various people about how broken elements of the educational system are here--and how little people think they can do about it. how powerless we are--which to me also can imply the 'why bother resisting when they'll just find some other way to override you? so just play by their rules, however shitty they are and make the whole process shorter' attitude. and my consciousness, well, it hasn't been beaten just yet. and it won't shut up.

Durres

These issues--especially around academic cultural differences--are made even more 'real' by my growing realization that I will be here for (at least) another year. I signed a contract yesterday to teach 10th and 11th grade Social Studies (what!? teach the Russian Revolution? the age of enlightenment? the cold war!? imperialism? the 1960's? I can't wait) and 11th grade literature (suggestions welcome! the idea is to tie the literature into the social studies curriculum. which sounds super cool) at a local private school. After what feels like an eternity (but was really just a month. how does time feel so fastslowfastslow) of saying 'I will sign it,' 'I will sign it': it finally happened.

Which is thrilling.

But especially in light of these tensions I'm feeling around being engaged in the academic culture here, this also means that these problems aren't going anywhere fast because neither Tetovo nor I am up and leaving just yet, so we (you and I, Tetovo, you and I) are going to have to find a way to live in peace together.

Durres

But [Enter stage right: God of Small Things], going out, spending time with my thoughts and the whirl of my bicycle wheels, and the wildflowers, I realized that tensions or not, if I can only, just for one moment, pull my gaze up out of my gradebooks and e-mail, and really see. let the light, the boys throwing rocks into the river yelling after me 'but where are you from?', and backlit wheat into my brain, that's when this tension starts to be resolved on its own. because its easy to get lost in technology,  wrapped up in the impersonal rapidfire communication of end-of-year madness, overrun by the cold numbers we distill our students down to (and the ferocity and coldbloodndness with which they fight back (this week students have said 'oh. I can't do your required course work (second chance to pass the class) because I need to go dress shopping,' 'but teacher I tried. and that's what grades are for [wink wink]' 'but you're course is just an elective (so why should I have to work for a grade)? and, the kicker 'I signed up for a class with you [meaning my co-teacher] not Claire'--and after a week of hearing these things, I begin to question what, if anything, we accomplished in the past 16 weeks. or if it's really all about a number--and nothing more).

and that kills me. these are future teachers--what about love? what about curiosity? what about change? or hope? quest for knowledge? what is delicious, and what is our quest for it? we spent so much of the course identifying the specific problems the students felt they encountered in their own educations, and spoke with such passion about how these were the things that needed to change--and I know. it's hard to find this harmony between theory and your own daily practice--in any regard. change starting at home is never easy (speaking as a woman living in the Balkans this rings even truer). but where else can it start? how can I be both empathetic with them, and also push them to push themselves?

and from this place, yes.  it's true. I can forget about beauty, and just see the factories--spewing smog and graduating students. and trying to turn a profit.

and today--I think because I had hit this wall--I logged out and went to go find everything that I've been missing: smells, colors, flowers, honking horns, textures, grit, exhaust fumes, sheep herds, and all. and just be.

and somehow, this quietness of just drinking in what is around me, this is what keeps me sane. and keeps me rooted here. it's these small details that remind me, that yes, life is also beautiful. if we only let ourselves see it. let our selves live in it.


.

life as the school shepherdess: let's do this with dignity

if anyone told me teaching was like herding cats--folks, I must have missed it.

But now I know. oh lord do I know.

(so for anyone else who missed the memo) Teaching is like herding cats. but even worse, because honestly, what would you want with a room full of cats (one cat is plenty enough for me)?

Classes finished nearly two weeks ago, but I'm still trying to track down student work--I've sent e-mails  I've re-sent e-mails, sent e-mails in all caps and I'm almost to the point where want to just lurk around the rooms where students are taking exams and not let them leave until they give me their work). And, yes, while I understand that doing work isn't always the highest priority (spring, graduation looming, end of classes...) I also don't quite comprehend the logic of failing classes this close to graduation--especially for something as stupid as not turning in a 3-5 page paper. In part because I think students are used to being able to strong-arm their way into passing--perhaps without actually deserving the grade.

Tomorrow I have consultation hours for one of my classes--so students can come and talk about their grades--and honestly I'm nervous. Because students put on their 'aggressive face' and I whip out my 'stickler-for-rules-bitch face' and, well, the combination isn't always pretty.

But I think 'how to have a disagreement with professors' is going on my list of topics I'd love to talk to students about (along with the usual suspects of plagiarism, how to see a thesis when it hits you in the face, and how to hit other people with your thesis, the beauty of revision)--because it's one of the teacher/student dynamics that I've experienced here which has been really unsettling for me.

And, sadly, I think a lot of teachers feel compelled to play along by this game--or at least by these rules. It's hard to actually fail students--because there are plenty of second chances (make up exams, summer school) and so I think there is some pressure to just move them through (someone actually said as we were talking about final exam results 'remember. there is summer school. do you want to be here for it?' suggesting that students should be passed along so we don't have to sit here and swelter with them for two weeks over the summer (and instead pull out our hair about them next year). Which I'm not sure is the best attitude towards student assessment--but it also does put teachers in rather uncomfortable positions. Furthermore, there is something inherently unfair about giving students a chance to receive the same credit for a 16 week course over two week intensive in the summer. firstly, some ideas take time to mature. secondly, the math just doesn't add up (to me at least. I'm sure the university has some logic behind it. whether or not I would agree with it is another story).

And after ranting about this situation last night (with a lot of really loud hand motions), Zeko took my hands and said--and it made me so happy to hear this from someone-- don't give in, and furthermore you shouldn't.
yes. you have principles. and we have principles for a reason--and we can live by/with/inside/for them.

and I'm brought back to Kropotkin's quote: "Think about what kind of world you want to live and work in. What do you need to know to build that world? Demand that your teachers teach you that." 

The inverse of it though, is that as a teacher we also have responsibilities/the responsibility to teach for the kind of society we want to live in, the world we want to work, to be in. It's not just student responsibility--it's civic responsibility, to be engaged in this dialogue about what kind of society we really want to build together. As a teacher--especially teaching a class called 'Education and Society' I was always grappling with this question of how/if/will what I'm teaching--a verb I have some disagreements with, but anyhow--what I'm sharing with students is what we need to build this society, and to assess what the realties/problems/challenges are on the ground which shape/impact(/control? although I fear using this word only reifies how out of their control people see reality as, so take it with a grain of salt) reality now. 

Which then--to bring this full circle--also makes this period of the semester so so so much more frustrating because we've spent the past 16 weeks talking about what it means to be a student, a teacher, hidden curriculum and implicit messages. meritocracy (and some of the problems posed by systems based on merit)--using education to really change society, and the importance of dignity and maintaining dignity, respect. and then, it seems, this process of grades--of assessing someone (a livingbreathingspeakingwalkingbeing) with a number--all of this gets flung out the window, baby, bathwater and all. and as a teacher, I object to having to do this, but ok folks. let's do this with dignity. 

Telling our stories, one square at a time

Friday was the official last day of school at SEEU--although there's still a bit of time until graduation-- final exams and the like to finish up (and a stack of student work to read). but I'm starting to realize that my 'Fulbright experience,' whatever that is supposed to mean, is starting to wrap up (as if experiences have neat endings or beginnings. but my fulbright-companions/comrades getting on planes and up and leaving, well that feels kind of like the end of something). and it's an odd transition place to be in--because yes, I'm transitioning out of something--but I'm not leaving. I just moved into a new apartment, and am thinking about buying things like appliances--decisions which don't exactly index 'end' of an experience.

but this also is the end of my first year of teaching. and that. well that feels like something--I just haven't quite figured out how to articulate what yet.

On Thursday, the final day of my final class (Mapping, Cartography and Geography) my students gave presentations of their final projects (basically identify something in the community (or their home community if they weren't from Tetovo) that they wanted to explore further through the process of making a map.) Some of my students choose the awkward public square in the center of Tetovo, which was 'redone' (although this term usually indicates progress, where as in this instance, it seems to be 'regressive' (thank you, Jeremy. it's taken me a while, but, yes. you were right on the whole regressive thing) change) about a decade ago. And it was one of those instances where my students started to say the most profound things, but I couldn't tell if they knew how much they were blowing my mind with their observations. and so didn't want to react too strongly, in case it shut them up.

Previously, the square--at the heart of the city--had a fountain, green space, some statues. Now it's this vast expanse of concrete, where at night, people come out and rent small cars for children to drive around. it has a strange feeling of an free-form amusement park--but not a public space.

One student said, 'squares [but I think you could expand this to talk about public space in general] are supposed to tell the story of the city. But what story does our square tell?"

"Emptiness," was the response.

The square is oddly ahistorical ('you can't tell anything about our city's history from this square,' one student noted), a void as it were, without any place-specific markers that situate this square within the center of Tetovo--geographically as well as socially. From the man selling cotton candy, to the guy with the plastic toys that make all sorts of noise, to the cigarette buts, and old men sitting on the park benches in silence, it looks like just about any other square, in any other city.  Although--it should be noted, there is a large screen where companies  blast advertisements in flashy neon hues (so hell, it's certainly a consumerist/capitalist space--another  observation my students made--that the square was just used for personal profit--either as a 'market place' for lots of plastic crap, or a political market place--for holding rallies, and the such. ), and around the 28th of November (big holiday time around here, celebrating Albania's centennial) a huge banner of a local  Albanian politician (now deceased) was unveiled--although I don't know if it is a permanent installation or not. So, yes, the space is marked, in various ways--by the languages used, the gender norms enacted there. Which then begs the question--retuning to my students' observations--'whose story of the city' will the square tell? and does the marked absence of a story reflect Tetovo's contested histories? There are plenty of other smaller parks around the city with their relics of socalist-realist art--stoic women, chiseled men, all gazing off in the distance with a determined look on their faces, ready to conquer anything and everything. Yet these bodies, these markers, these narrators have left this stage, the space where the story of the city is told, acted and reinacted. and now we, bags of popcorn and wisps of cotton candy in hand, are waiting for another story to begin.