IT WAS a bitter cold morning, and it was early -- ungodly early for a night person like me. I clutched an insulated coffee cup in one hand and tugged a wheeled cart over snow-covered ice with the other. The cart contained the day's necessities -- my son's 1974 Star Wars lunch box packed with fruit and egg salad, a selection of children's books, a box of interesting keys I had collected over the last 10 years, a 1920s-era typewriter, and bags of toilet-paper rolls, meat trays, buttons, old jewelry, and other precious things. This morning was just one in a string of remarkably cold mornings I'd experienced since moving to Montana. On other such mornings, I would pull my hat lower to shield my face, utter a four-letter word or two, and ask myself, What were you thinking? It was a fair question. After all, I had traded the mild winters of Appalachian Georgia for almost- Canada, Montana. There was a reason I had made that decision, but sometimes I would forget what it was. However, on that February day, I did not curse the cold or question my judgment. I was excited, smiling, joyful, running on adrenaline, and eager to be on my way. I pushed a Dylan CD into the player, pulled on the four-wheel drive, and backed my Jeep out of the driveway. As I drove the 30 miles south to the reservation, I sipped my coffee and sang along with Dylan -- loudly and badly. As I sang, I noticed a flutter in my stomach. Butterflies, I said through a smile. I love butterflies, always have. And on that day, the flutter reminded me how nervous I was to meet the fifth-graders I would teach and learn from through the end of May. I had come to Montana to work in a teacher education program. The experience had proved less than rewarding. However, taking that job had allowed me to discover the Rocky Boy Reservation. Volunteering at Rocky Boy Elementary School had become the high point of my week and had reawakened my desire to work with young children. Still, only days earlier, I had thought that classroom teaching was forever behind me -- along with all the lunch duty, lesson plans, inside recess, faculty meetings, and paperwork that go with it. But that was before the principal asked me to stop by her office, before she explained that a teaching position had unexpectedly opened, and before she offered that position to me. With some schedule wrangling at Rocky Boy and at the university, we developed a plan that would allow me to meet my responsibilities to both student groups. I knew it would be difficult to balance two full- time teaching jobs, but I was convinced I could do it. And I wanted to do it more than I had wanted to do anything in a long time. It has been a terrific two months. My fifth-graders are in their glory, making monster goo, exploring magnets and electricity, studying tribal government, identifying and writing biographies of the family members they most honor, and building a model of the reservation. For the first time, I get to integrate technology across the curriculum. My kids have become fanatic shutterbugs. And my preservice teachers have had the benefit of authentic connections between our classroom learning and life in an elementary school. Still, the task has been neither easy nor simple. Nothing about teaching is ever easy or simple. It can't be. That's what I love about teaching -- the complexity, the lack of clarity, the never-ending need to find new answers to old questions, the constant intellectual challenge. The complexity and continuously growing need to know more and do better makes every day exciting, new, and different. And the ongoing search for deeper and broader understandings provides years of exciting, challenging, and, yes, exasperating days. How could anyone not love that? While my experiences at Rocky Boy are exciting, they are also humbling. Each day I learn more about how little I know and understand about Chippewa-Cree culture and history. …
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