paint me a wish on a velvet sky.

Y’all, 

I swear, I have the attention span of Dug, the dog from Up, whenever he sees a squirrel…SQUIRREL!

Two posts ago, I wanted to highlight my Roman adventures, then I segue into a rant about the end of a friendship in my most recent post. I really, really wanted to (and finally) talk about all things Roman, but the news that dropped after my last post has taken precedence, and, what’s even better is that it is absolutely, 110% super historical and shit.

At least, I think it’s super historical and shit, so deal with it.

(So…yeah, Rome’s gonna have to wait. AGAIN. SQUIRREL!)

I’m talking, of course, about the news of the recent epic reunion of the boys from Manchester…

The Brothers Gallagher.

Liam and Noel.

OASIS.

90s Britpop is back and I am THRILLED. On the morning they announced the reunion, I ran into Lisa’s classroom when I got to work screaming repeatedly “OASIS IS BACK TOGETHER!” and she and my coworkers looked as me as if I had grown a second head.

If you don’t know the story, Oasis broke up in 2009 after yet another bust-up between the volatile Gallagher brothers. Liam and Noel traded insults moments before they were to take stage at the Rock en Seine Festival in Paris, France (even though just two weeks prior, Noel had said in an interview that Oasis would never ever break up). Noel confirmed the break up on the official Oasis website two hours later, stating: 

It is with some sadness and great relief...I quit Oasis tonight. People will write and say what they like, but I simply could not go on working with Liam a day longer.

Liam and the remaining Oasis members started a new band, the underwhelming Beady Eye. They broke up in 2014 and then Liam started his solo projects. Liam’s vocals, of course, carried the same edge and emotion in his post-Oasis career, but the lyrics he wrote could not quite match the prowess of his elder brother.

Me, February 2018, at the Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds concert during the Who Built the Moon Tour (The Anthem, Washington D.C.)

Noel, Oasis’s chief songwriter (please remember - he wrote the Oasis hits, not Liam) and guitarist, created his own band, Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds (NGHFB) and dropped four albums. He toured extensively with the High Flying Birds as well. It was clear that from the albums he produced from this musical foray that he did, indeed, carry plenty of weight in Oasis. The High Flying Birds albums, particularly Chasing Yesterday (2013) and Who Built the Moon (2017). Those two albums are amongst my favorites of all time, and really, the entire NGHFB catalog is worth a listen. Noel’s vocals aren’t as showy or aggressive as Liam’s, however, I’ve always enjoyed Noel’s singing because there is a sense of vulnerability he carries in his voice. Overall, the NGHFB project was a success. It showed that Noel did not need Liam to continue his music career. I can also personally vouch, as I saw NGHFB on tour when they came stateside and wow…Noel really can entertain a crowd with his stage presence and talent. Let me put it to you this way…I never once bothered buying tickets for Liam’s solo projects or Beady Eye, but I saw NGHFB three times and was on his preorder email list for early bird tickets!

Noel, however, probably needed more steady money to continue funding his recent divorce from wife #2, Sara MacDonald. I’m willing to bet (as is everyone) that the Oasis reunion news we’ve all been waiting for is to reline the Gallagher Bros bank accounts with more dollar bills. I don’t even care that they’ve reunited for selfish reasons…fifteen years later, the cheerful, attitude-filled, guitar-laden sounds of Britpop are entering British stadiums to great demand (eat your heart out Taylor Swift) and more than likely, will be crossing the Atlantic for a North American Summer 2025 tour.

Rumor is, Oasis is headlining at Soldier Field in Chicago. I haven’t seen DC tour dates from what has been unofficially confirmed, but I will totally pay money to book a flight to Chicago, get tickets, and go sing my wannabe British heart out to the strains of “Live Forever.” I mean it! If the tour dates coincide with me being back in school, I will cash in my personal days and peace out to Chicago. My sister has agreed to go to the concert with me and we’re hoping to meet up with our cousins and make it a girl’s weekend. I told my mom when the news dropped that “Oasis has reunited and all is right in my world.” Really, with all the uncertainties, chaos, and unhappiness floating around due to the upcoming election, my job, my personal life, and all the global conflicts, the reunion news was something that yes, is so trivial, and yet, it transformed my whole outlook in a positive way. The world is falling apart, but Oasis is back, and maybe, just maybe, we need them to help us cope with all the problems we’re facing right now.

Definitely Maybe, produced by Creation Records, released 29 August 1994 and peaked at #1 in the British album charts (and did so again just this past 29 August 2024…thirty years after its initial release). This is my favorite Oasis album (I will argue with anyone who disagrees and claims that the best one is (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?…I will die on this hill, I mean it!

I mean, that’s kind of how they formed to begin with in the early 90s. Noel and Liam wanted out of their mundane, poverty-stricken lives living on the dole in Manchester, working dead-end blue collar jobs, and thought, hey, let’s become rock stars. They didn’t give into this “woe is me” nonsense and blame the world for their crappy situation; they rose above and just within a few years of forming, they met Creation Records producer Alan McGee during their fateful set at King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut in Glasgow. McGee, as Oasis lore goes, was blown away by their raw talent, and suddenly, they’ve got a record deal and they started working on their debut album, Definitely Maybe. 30 years later, Definitely Maybe got a re-release almost two weeks ago on the day it debuted, 29 August. It reentered the UK Album charts at Number 1…just like it did 30 years earlier. 

I, of course, was not quite old enough to enjoy early Oasis, but my brother was, and thanks to him having CDs (!) of (What’s the Story) Morning Glory, Be Here Now, and The Masterplan, I became schooled in all things Britpop. I wanted to know everything about this shortlived, but historic musical genre. I purchased in high school the highly recommended book Britpop!: Cool Britannia and the Spectacular Demise of English Rock by the British journalist John Harris. Harris wrote about the rise of Oasis and the other less successful Britpop bands and how they contributed to the rise and popularity of the political New Labour movement. “New Labour,” led by then-Prime Minister, Tony Blair, caused a decades-long Conservative government to finally fall thanks to younger and more progressive British voters being influenced by who their Britpop idols supported politically (Noel Gallagher loved Blair and was not afraid to say so). Harris also featured the biographies of the almost-as-famous Blur, Suede, Pulp, and Elastica and their 15 minutes of fame, and discussed how all these bands would meet their demise, really, with overinflated egos and access to all the illegal substances.

Britpop, argued Harris, pretty much ended with the release of Be Here Now in 1997. Everyone thought Oasis’s third album would live up to the hype of its critically successful predecessors. Unfortunately, the lack of effort on the band’s end disappointed fans and was not worth the media anticipation leading up to the album’s release (Oasis would continue recording albums throughout the 2000s, but none of them truly were a return to their pre-Be Here Now form). The same year Be Here Now dropped, Radiohead catapulted into the British music scene with their odd sounding, but critically acclaimed third studio album OK Computer. A “new” wave of British alternative rock, led by Radiohead and Coldplay, had arrived and killed the Britpop scene for good.

Thanks to Harris’s book, I gave these other Britpop bands a listen (I like Blur and Elastica, not so much with Suede and Pulp). I also learned about Oasis’s earlier British inspirations that helped them find success. Thanks to the “Madchester” acid house/indie music scene of the 1980s and bands like The Stone Roses (do yourself a favor and listen to their eponymous 1989 debut album), Happy Mondays, and Inspiral Carpets, Oasis kept the alternative rock/guitar sound these Madchester bands pioneered. They sure would not be anywhere without the “Modfather” himself, the influence of Paul Weller. Weller, first the lead singer of the British rock/mod band The Jam during the 1970s and later frontman for The Style Council, has always been a cited hero of Oasis, and is respected by both Gallagher brothers for his talent in guitar playing, singing, and songwriting. Finally, who could forget the most obvious and biggest influence on Oasis but those four lads from Liverpool…the Beatles? 

Oasis, though, got me through high school. There are a few solid tracks on the later releases that do have some semblance of their peak talent and I enjoyed listening to those songs (as well as their earlier offerings) as I slowly made my way through my public education career. Their music provided me an outlet at school; I listened to them constantly on my iPod while tuning out the racist and conceited jerks in my English classes. They inspired me to write poetry for a long-term poetry portfolio project I had to submit in 11th grade. I excitedly bought tickets to go see them on their Dig Out Your Soul tour when it came to the DC area in the fall of 2008. My mama (who loves them as much as I do) and I went together and we were blown away by their talent that night. Their works became my default albums to burn and listen to in my car when I started commuting to George Mason.

Oasis, despite the turbulence they’ve experienced and their shaky reputation, has always had a place in my heart. I quote their lyrics for life lessons and Instagram posts, I’ve since added them to a “Cool Britannia” playlist on Spotify. You will also find tracks from Madchester bands, new British alternative songs, and Paul Weller selections if you check this playlist out…

…and, of course, I still frequently and eagerly wear my Oasis/Noel Gallagher concert t-shirts. I am ready to have Oasis come back into my life now as a relatively established thirty something, having come and grown far away from my awkward and painful high school days, and I have no shame in admitting that I’ve been blasting their albums during my drive to work on Spotify (no more burnt CDs…oh how times have changed) since the reunion announcement was made. I’m ready to pay the price for whatever it will cost to get me to Chicago…

…because really, they’ll probably break up again, and I better just enjoy this glorious historical moment while I can.

Hey, what can I say? I’m being honest. I know my Oasis history and it certainly repeats itself.

Before I end this post…I now present:

10 Oasis Songs to Listen to that are NOT “Wonderwall” or “Live Forever”:

#10 - “Falling Down” (Dig Out Your Soul, 2009, Noel sings lead on this one)
Best Line: “If you won’t save me, please don’t waste my time.”

#9 - “The Importance of Being Idle” (Don’t Believe the Truth, 2005, Noel sings lead on this one)
Best Line: “I can’t get a life if my heart’s not in it.”

#8 - “Half the World Away” (“B” Side to the “Whatever” single, later released on The Masterplan, 1998, Noel sings lead on this one)
Best Line: “You can’t give me the dreams that are mine anyway.”

#7 - “Acquiesce” (“B” Side to the “Wonderwall” single, later released on The Masterplan, 1998, Noel & Liam sing alternating parts)
Best Line: “Who wants to be alone when we can feel alive instead?”

#6 - “Don’t Go Away” (Be Here Now, 1997, Liam sings lead on this one)
Best Line: “I need more time just to make things right.”

#5 - “Where Did it All Go Wrong?” (Standing on the Shoulders of Giants, 2000, Noel sings lead on this one)
Best Line: “Do you keep the receipts for the friends that you buy?”

#4 - “Don’t Look Back in Anger” (What’s the Story Morning Glory? 1995, Noel sings lead on this one…also, the “acoustic” version is just as good as the more “electric” take linked first).
Best Line: “Step outside, summertime’s in bloom.”

#3 - “Whatever” (“Whatever” Single, post-Definitely Maybe, December 1994, Liam sings lead on this one)
Best Line: “It always seems to me you only see what people want you to see.”

#2 - “Columbia” (Definitely Maybe, 1994, Liam sings lead on this one)
Best Line: “I can’t tell you the way I feel, because the way I feel is oh so new to me.”

#1 - “Slide Away” (Definitely Maybe, 1994, Liam sings lead on this one)
Best Line: “Don’t know, don’t care, all I know is you can take me there.”

Honourable Mention:

“Talk Tonight” (“B” Side to the “Some Might Say” single, later released on The Masterplan, 1998, Noel sings lead on this one)
Best Line: “All your dreams are made of strawberry lemonade.”

Maybe next time I’ll finally get around to posting my Roman experiences. Or, you know, SQUIRREL!

Until then…

Many happy returns and live forever,

-kate.

coffee cup and i'm sailing out to sea

Y’all, I tried so hard to draft my Rome entry while I was still in Italy…but the trip kept me busy, so I did not achieve my goal in wanting to write as I was traveling. No matter - everything has been documented and I can’t wait to share the rest of my adventures now that I’m back stateside! I had an incredible two weeks in Europe and the travel bug has bit me once more…I’m thinking…Portugal? Summer 2025? We’ll see.

I feel like I do now have some energy to continue this site, at least, for the foreseeable future. The history I took in while traipsing across Europe did reignite my passion for learning and teaching. I, however, know that I do need to actively search for other potential career paths…and I have started to apply for openings on USA Jobs. My father (we’ll talk about him in a moment) may get what he wants after all and have a daughter in the civil service.

Maybe then he’ll finally be proud of me.

Personally, things have been strange since I’ve returned from Europe and many old wounds that I thought have healed are now reopened. Of course, I am still going to therapy, and at least I have that as part of my coping mechanisms, but I was not prepared for the emotional upheavals I’ve experienced this summer…

So what better way to decompress than by having story time with y’all?

To begin our story time, I received a phone call from my mother just before her birthday. This was during the week I had returned. I already had started the week adjusting from jet lag and recovering from my annual exams; the Pap Smear, unfortunately, exacerbated my pelvic muscles and I was bedridden for two days as I suffered through painful cramping. When I finally felt better, I decided to start going on daily walks to get my 10,000 steps in…and my body was grateful for this positive choice in attempting to get some exercise. During one of those walks, my mother called, and immediately apologized for what she was about to tell me.

Confused by her words, I stopped talking and listened to her.

Apparently, my mom and dad had an argument about how my dad can be racist towards Mexicans. My mom, then, accidentally used the wrong wording about how I also think he’s racist (side note: I have never said that to him). My dad got offended by this accusation, even though I wasn’t there in the room with them to defend myself. He told my mom that he was going to stop by my house to yell and give me a piece of his mind.

I knew what my mother was trying to convey to him regarding that statement. A few months ago, while I was visiting for Sunday lunch, he’d gone on some rant about (shocker) all the Mexicans coming in through my hometown of Laredo. I was taken aback by his offensive words, gestured to my mother and I, and said we’re right here. I never, however, told him in that incident that he was a racist.

When my mom made that phone call, I was planning to visit later during the week so I could celebrate her upcoming birthday. She and I both realized it would be best for me not to go to their house until he cooled off and she could get him to understand that she misspoke. She also advised me not to text her as he sometimes has her phone and sees her text messages. So, I spent that week frustrated with my mother, in fear of my father potentially coming to my house to tell me off, saddened by the fact that I wouldn’t be able to celebrate her birthday with her, and…mainly…

Heartbroken by the realization that, after thirty-two years of being on this earth, my maternal ancestry is still something that my father has not accepted. I texted my history nerd friends in our group chat about what had happened. They know my story; they have helped me work through my feelings towards my relationship with my dad throughout the years.

Lisa: Holy shit.
Me: She was angry at him for making Mexican comments and let the comment slip.
Keith: Sometimes the truth can hurt. Then one is apt to blame someone else rather than taking the responsibility of owning it.
Me: He has said hurtful things, don’t get me wrong. But I never actually said he was racist, my mom made a mistake in the heat of the moment…and now he’s super angry at both of us.
Lisa: It sucks you got pulled into it.
Me: So much for her birthday plans this week…I’m definitely not going over to their house now.
Lisa: Probably best to not.
Keith: Oh, I believe that. The problem is that many racists don’t realize what they are saying is racist.
Me: Nope and unfortunately he’s in denial.
Keith: How can someone be racist against Mexicans, and yet be married to someone with Mexican descent?
Me: Ding ding ding!

EXACTLY. Like Keith said…why does my dad say these hurtful things about Mexican immigrants when he’s married to someone who is Mexican and, furthermore, has kids who are Mexican?

I spent the week grappling with my feelings. Some of my other friends were telling me to have a heart to heart with my dad about this incident. Those other friends, however, aren’t quite at the level of understanding that Lisa and Keith are regarding my dad. Those other friends don’t get that there is no such thing as a “heart to heart” when it comes to speaking to him. Part of me wanted to finally bring up the fact to my dad I know about the blood test his mother wanted when I was born to prove I was his daughter. My parents have always known my blood type (AB+). My sister, however, once asked what her blood type was and they told her they didn’t know it. She was upset that they didn’t know hers but knew mine. She pulled the they must love you more card.

For some reason, years ago, on my 26th birthday, this was the conversation of choice at my birthday lunch. I then started to truly wonder…why do they know my blood type and not my sister’s?

When we got home from lunch, my dad disappeared to take a nap. I found my mom and while we were alone, I decided to ask her about the blood type debacle.

She looked at me, with sadness, and said that if she told me, I better not tell my father that I’m aware. So, I promised her I wouldn’t say a word to him.

And when she told me…that’s when I realized…they don’t know my blood type because they love me more.

(You were mistaken, dear sister).

My paternal grandmother, prior to my birth…sometime during the summer of 1991…wrote a letter to my dad explaining that people should marry their own kind. She was not happy with his choice in a Mexican bride and had no qualms giving her opinion. When December arrived and my mother was about to give birth, she decided to come to Texas and (as I so stupidly thought when I was growing up) offer the family support during labor. To this day, I still have a photo of her, with us in our former Laredo home, documenting that same visit.

Only now I know she didn’t come to Laredo for genuine reasons.

On the day my mother was discharged from the hospital, my dad came to her room and told her that my grandmother wanted a blood test to prove his paternity. My grandmother truly believed my mother was a gold digger trying to trap my father into a marriage with an illegitimate Mexican child.

Me. I was the illegitimate Mexican child in question.

The blood test was performed. My dad didn’t refuse my grandmother’s request. My mother, probably mentally and physically exhausted out of her mind after having just given birth, acquiesced so they could leave the hospital ASAP. Blood test or not, I am my father’s child.

The birth of a little brown Mexican girl tainted my paternal family’s bloodlines, legitimately, and it was just something they were going to have to deal with.

Thirty-two years later and I’m tired of carrying this burden. I’m tired of not being enough for the men I date as well as not being enough for my own father. I’m tired of holding onto this pain of knowing that I was not wanted by my father’s family the moment my mother married him in the spring of 1991, simply because of my heritage. I’m tired of the past because it keeps messing up my present…and preventing me from having the future I so desperately want.

My father’s frustrations and narrowmindedness also translates into him not wanting to meet the men I date. I’ve said several times before, his refusal to meet any man I want to bring home has destroyed possible relationships from developing. Although I would be okay with keeping a distance and cutting off contact should he not accept my choice in a potential spouse, the man I’m with would also have to be okay with not knowing his future father-in-law. I would never expect anyone to convert to Catholicism on my behalf, but I would hope my faith would be respected. I would want any children to be baptized, of course, for the sake of saving their souls if God forbid, something awful happened to them in their youth. I’ve learned though, that my father still would not want to meet any boyfriend of mine, even if he was Catholic, because he would just find some other reason to dwell on as to why the man is not worthy of me.

Perfect transition then, to part two of story time!

My friend I once dated (the one who cancelled lunch plans before my trip) and I have had some interesting and open conversations about relationships. We’re okay now; we’ve discussed our disagreement about making plans/maintaining a friendship since I returned from Europe and are on speaking terms again. He once brought up that when we dated, he was enjoying the options online dating was giving to him and eventually concluded that perhaps he was taking too much advantage of these many options.

We had dinner this past weekend and he asked me if I had finished a book he’d loaned me about dating. I brought up that the subject matter in the book made me feel uneasy about the way some men approach dating; that they seem to focus on intimacy, which makes dating difficult for me. My goal is to date meaningfully…that just because I don’t want to be intimate, that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with my decision.

I then, explained to him (yet again) that when we dated, I wasn’t trying to be intimate with him right away because I was simply trying to enjoy, you know, actual courtship…so obviously, we were both looking for different things when we met. He, however, had never been upfront about what exactly he wanted with me…even when I had asked where things were headed between us.

I also then explained to him that I hope he understood why it took me so long to process the end of whatever we were, and that was really, about the extent of our discussion. We found another topic to dwell on, enjoyed our dinner and beer and, as always, we had a nice time together. Clearly, we ARE capable of having hard, yet respectful, conversations while maintaining (I pray) a legitimate friendship.

After having had this talk with him, I realize now that I was always way more invested in him than he was in me. Three summers ago, I was catching real feelings for him…I was falling in love with him.

No, I’ll be brave and admit it now. It won’t change the outcome.

I was in wholeheartedly and unconditionally in love with him. I would’ve, back then, done anything to make him happy because I was so in love with him.

I know now, based on his admittance that he was having all the fun with online dating, he was not trying to date me “meaningfully.” He sure as hell was not falling in love with me! He could throw out every excuse he wanted to…my father, my faith, my health issues…

(In love with me? HA. He wasn’t even in like with me! Wow, I was so optimistic - gotta take off those rose colored glasses…am I right, y’all?)

Bottom line - I was never going to be good enough for him to be his girlfriend. I wasn’t someone he viewed as serious or worthy enough to be with in the long run. When we first met, he wasn’t focused on commitment and I was. I guess, all I was that summer was someone he was passing time with…to cure his boredom (and other things). At least, that’s how I’m perceiving it now that he’s told me that the summer we met was his summer of simply having fun with every single girl he matched with online. He claimed that he “cared” about me once while we dated…but I know that was a lie.

I was never special to him.

I was only one of who knows how many useless and worthless girls to him…a name lost in a sea of feminine names. I was trash, really, and he threw me away.

I was, and forevermore, nothing to him.

There can never be ‘what could have beens’ between us. I honestly fell in love, hard, and he didn’t even like me anywhere as much as I thought he did when we dated. At least I learned this hard and emotional truth this summer…although I wish I’d known it three summers ago…instead of placing all the blame on my father and my health as to why he left me.

No, he just didn’t want me in any sense because he wasn’t even thinking about embarking on a serious relationship that summer.

I wasted so much time praying and hoping for more from him…when I should’ve realized he was, from day one, never considering me for the long-term. I went home after that first date enamored and hopeful while he went home and probably asked out another girl on a date…without so much as a second thought of me.

Wow. Seriously, what a “come to Jesus” realization for me.

And even now I’ve only figured this out, on my own, with the limited evidence he’s given me: his admittance to how he approached online dating that summer we first met. I know that he’s probably never going to take ownership and point blank tell me the truth about his intentions/how he felt about me, apologize for how he treated me, or even admit why he came back after the 2023 ghosting (I wish he would just be candid for once…I think it’d make our friendship even easier to navigate, but again, I don’t want to risk pushing him away).

Three summers ago, he treated me no better than my teacher ex that I dated pre-Covid by letting me believe that that there could’ve been a chance…when clearly he had so many better options available to him.

And oddly enough, that statement is the perfect transition to the third emotional and odd moment that will conclude story time.

I thought I had finally put my teacher ex in the past. We’d mingled at happy hours scheduled by our mutual work friends and had made peace (we’d shared a friendly embrace with each other at the last happy hour we attended). I found out that he’d been in a serious relationship for almost two years and even had a child with his partner! I was happy for him that he seemingly had matured and settled down. I was proud of him.

Just before I jetted off to Europe, I learned that he was cheating on his partner/mother of his child by actively using online dating profiles…

And that he, more than likely, may have roofied and taken advantage of a girl he took out one evening.

When I told some of my girlfriends and my mother about this, they all pretty much said the same thing to me:

Can you imagine if you had continued dating him? Can you imagine if he was doing this to you while harming other girls? Can you imagine how much worse it would’ve been had you married him?

As painful as it was to navigate the end of that ‘relationship,’ then yes, I can only imagine what would’ve happened had we continued to date. I would have been absolutely miserable…just like I’m sure, right now, his partner, who apparently has decided to stay with him (more than likely, for the sake of the child) is feeling.

And as awful as he treated me, I didn’t think he’d ever go that far as to drug and assault someone.

When I heard about what he had done…my mind finally…finally went back to the year that he and I dated.

2019.

Whatever happened that year seems like it was an eternity ago, especially because of Covid.

I then remembered an event that I experienced not long after we broke up.

An event similar to what he had just done to this girl he met through his dating profile.

An event that, while I have started to come to terms with it by writing it as a part of the novel I’m attempting to draft…

(Please note, some names have been changed but everything else is true).

…Is something that is, I think, preventing me from truly wanting to physically entrust my body with anyone I date…

…And is something, I pray, that one day, I can forgive myself for…although I know the Lord has already seen to forgive me.

But yes, that all being said, this has indeed, been a strange summer of emotions.

Dear readers, I’m grateful I’m able to unload and unfold my life here to you on this site. I’m glad I have this site as an outlet to help me cope. You’ve no idea how much your reading of these posts means to me. Thank you for supporting me through my ups and downs, my mental issues, and my uncertainties as to what I truly want in this life.

Somewhere, in all this mess, this passionate history nerd is wanting to come out and just true to herself again. I pray she’s still there in this mess. I know deep down, she is still there.

I promise, next post…it’ll be all about Rome. Until then -

many happy returns…

-kate.

P.S. The title of this post is a line from my new favorite ‘go-to’ song from one of my favorite bands, Ride (shoegaze experts extraordinaire). There’s just something about this particular line that soothes me…grab a cup of coffee, casually sip on your brew as you try to tune out the noise and chaos of the world while, at the same time, attempt to find and enjoy the stillness and tranquility that life can offer you - if you look hard enough.

I don’t know, at least that’s how I’m interpreting this line from the lyrics. Really, this song does calm my nerves and makes for excellent driving music!

i need your grace to remind me to find my own.

Three days. Three days.

THREE days.

And then, I’ll be sitting on an international flight bound for a quick layover in Dublin (low-key kinda wish I was staying in Dublin on another Irish adventure, but oh well) before I arrive at my final destination of Naples, Italy. Michelle and I will be making Naples our home base for about a week while we traipse all around my “fatherland” and get in touch with my paternally inherited Italian side of the family. We’ve got a day set in Capri, the Amalfi Coast (ahem, Pompeii), potentially Florence (hello, Michelangelo’s David), and of course, a day dedicated to the beautiful city of Rome, with stops scheduled at the Colosseum and, where every Catholic dreams of going…Vatican City and St. Peter’s Basilica. 

Will I meet the Pope? Probably not, but still, just to be in the Eternal City…the center of the Roman Catholic Church? I can’t believe my return to Europe is just in a matter of days…but indeed, it is.

We’ll spend some down time in Naples proper, enjoying Neapolitan style pizza and hopefully basking in the night life (and maybe meet some charming Italian men) before we then board a plane to Paris/Charles de Gaulle for a quick layover in Paris. This is where Michelle and I will rendezvous with Lisa (and her daughter) before we go to our final final destination - Normandy. Lisa, Michelle, and I booked a day excursion in Paris; we’ll hit up the Louvre, Sacré-Cœur (French for the “Sacred Heart” of Jesus) of Montmartre Catholic Church (my mother already said to try to find her a rosary here), the Eiffel Tower (this is where we will probably act like idiotic Americans abroad taking gratuitous selfies), with a cruise along the River Seine to end our day. The next day, Lisa’s picking up the rental car, and we’re going on a road trip to Normandy…with a pit stop at Versailles!

We booked a charming airbnb in the commune of Port-en-Bessin-Huppain within driving distance of the major D-Day sites. On Sunday, we’re going to the D-Day Experience museum in Carentan - 

Cue Captain Lewis Nixon’s quote and uppity French pronunciation from Episode #1 (Currahee) of the epic war mini series - Band of Brothers (and duh, I’m rewatching the mini series to, you know, help me historically prepare myself for my visit):

“Airborne’s [101st] objective, gentlemen, is to take the town of Cah-rhen-tahn, or Carentan, thus linking Utah and Omaha into a single continuous beachhead.”

I’ve been waiting like, forever, to use that quote, and I fully intend to use it once we’re in Carentan for the museum visit. You can listen to it in all its Ron Livingston deadpan delivered glory since I decided to link it here (to the exact minute of the quote).

There will, of course, be other quotes from the book/series to use as we make our way through Normandy.

After the D-Day Experience, we’re going to drive over to Omaha Beach to see Lisa’s other, older daughter, perform with her high school band for a performance in honor of the D-Day 80th Anniversary commemorations. 

We will also be doing a day trip to Bayeux, where we will hopefully see the legendary Bayeux Tapestry, which tells the story of the conquest of England by William the Conqueror, and also visit Mont Saint-Michel (Saint Michael). I’m keeping my fingers crossed that we drive over and visit the Pointe du Hoc and Sainte-Mère-Église (Holy Mother [Mary] Church). Sainte-Mère-Église was the first town liberated by the Allied forces after the invasion…it’s a must-see for any World War II history nerd. 

On our way back to Paris to catch our departing flights, we’ll most likely detour to Rouen, and then it’ll be time to head back to the States.

Two weeks seems like forever…and the trip anxiety right now is real. I don’t want to say goodbye to my family, I am apprehensive about leaving my house and my comfortable bed, I’m scared that Ike and Mamie will forget all about me, I’m nervous about my luggage and the long haul flight…and I’m disappointed about the way I left things with my friend who came back into my life. We were supposed to have lunch, but of course, I’m the one who suggested to hang out and have this meet up in the first place. He finally gave me two days we could make this happen, and I went with Saturday. Then, he tells me he can’t do Saturday due to some house stuff, but can do Friday evening for dinner. Okay, cool. 

Friday evening dinner then somehow became Friday at 3 PM for lunch. Fine. Whatever. 

Then, Friday afternoon, he tells me he can’t even do 3 PM due to some work stuff delaying him from leaving his house. When I asked him why we couldn’t just move it to the evening (as he’d already earlier suggested via text), he told me why (he was going on a date) and I just felt like, once more, that I’m being taken for granted by him. All I wanted was to see him before I left. That was it. One lousy dinner. And there I went…making the plans, trying to accommodate him…but yet I’m the one who was passed over and forgotten about. 

He already accused me once of still wanting to be with him.  

And while that ship has sailed…a long, long time ago…I just thought maybe, after all this time, he at least valued my friendship enough to at least keep his word, especially since I’m leaving for awhile, and just wanted to say my goodbyes. Especially after I decided to try to trust him again once he returned at the end of 2023 and ended his disappearing act.

I don’t ever want him to think I don’t want him to find his happiness. Of course I do. I want nothing more than for him to be happy, and find the girl of his dreams (and I would hope he wants me to be happy too), but right now, it seems like it’s all going to be at my expense. Here I am, trying to make things easier for him and his schedule…like a friend should, and yet, he couldn’t even be bothered to take into account my schedule. I’ve been running around getting my trip details set and packing my suitcase, all while trying to finish this insane school year, but I still tried making time for him and worked with his schedule.

Let him be angry, let him think whatever he wants about me, let him think I’m a bitch like he thought I acted as to why he stopped talking to me the last time. I don’t care. I’ll never understand why he does this to me…why he doesn’t understand how I feel. Why he even came back. It hurts. I want to trust him, I want to rely on him as my friend, and it’s like I’m burdening him and asking for too much. I hope he knows that I’m sorry, but I also hope, this time around, he will finally understand how I’m feeling.

So right now, I’m going to use this time and this space away from him and focus on my historical adventures. I’m going to go off on this epic trip of a lifetime with people who do value my friendship, who don’t take me for granted, and will be by my side as I finally fulfill this dream of mine. 

Maybe, just maybe, this trip is what I need to revive my heart…my passions…for living, breathing, loving, and teaching history. I may not have the love of my life accompanying me, but the way this trip is happening, with Lisa and Michelle, is more than I could ever ask for.

I pray to God that this trip will save me from this slump I’ve been in…and I put it all in His hands. If I’m meant to live this life solo, then I only hope to spend my time now by exploring the unknown and making my own adventures with the people I love most in this life. So I’m taking a moment here to thank you, dear Lord, for these blessings you’ve bestowed on me…and I’ll try not to take this life for granted.

I’ll be bringing my laptop with me, and hope to find downtime to blog and write as we make our way through Europe, so please…stay posted for updates, Band of Brothers themed quotes, and all the amazing pictures. 

many, many happy returns…

-kate. 

take a sad song and make it better.

My feelings from the previous blog post have not really changed. I’m still numb and haven’t found a renewed joy in teaching. I don’t feel like continuing with my writing, whether it be here or with the book I’ve been trying to draft. Things have really, only worsened since the school year began in August, so I felt the need to just let all my feelings out here to help me decompress. My students, for the most part, have been fabulous; however, the students who have presented me challenges are incredibly apathetic and/or insanely disrespectful. I’ve had objects thrown at me, demands, insults, and negotiations screamed at me, I’ve been recorded without my knowledge for TikTok…

It has been a long, long year.

As I write this post, I have 15 school days left with this group of seventh graders. 

15 school days of daily being told by one volatile boy how weird I am and what a shitty teacher I am, just because I asked him to follow a reasonable request.

15 school days of having kids push past the teachers in the hallway as though we are inconveniencing them from their socializing.

15 school days of wondering another fight in the bus loop will break out and result in a student going to the hospital in an ambulance (as what happened just this week).

15 school days of monitoring bathroom passes and essentially, being a glorified babysitter instead of you know, actually teaching history. We’re in one of our best units yet, our Civil Rights unit, and my students could not be bothered.

15 school days of waking up at 5:45 AM so I can get to work on time.

15 school days of simply surviving.

Nothing’s changed with my dad. We argue, we still can’t agree with everything, and any choice I make in my life to him will never the one he wants…the one that will make him happy for me. I go to my parents’ house on Sunday, have lunch, make small talk, and go home. It’s just a routine, really, at this point.

For a brief while in late February, I thought I had a glimmer of hope with a guy I had started seeing. He seemed too good to be true; a bonafide Southern gentleman who took care of me, who didn’t see my faith or my anxiety/depression (and pelvic issues) as a detriment…someone who actually wanted to be seen with me in public. His communication skills were excellent, he took me on dates that I enjoyed, he sent me gorgeous flowers and encouraging texts whenever I was having a bad day…

He thought I was beautiful.

And for someone who has rarely been told she’s beautiful, for someone who struggles so much with her appearance and self-worth…who has dated men who make her feel like she is nothing…who has been with men who only viewed her as a one night stand, rather than commitment worthy…

For the entire month of March, he let me feel like I was his everything.

And the best thing of this man was that, even though there were some ideological differences, we had so much more in common, that I truly believed we could have made it work, as long as we were willing to put in effort.

Then, spring break came along…I was off from work, he wasn’t. He had, so he claimed, some busier days at work due to a coworker being out sick, and wasn’t able to go out with me as much. He still texted me, and I returned his messages…until I started to feel that my return messages were overwhelming him. 

So, I gave him space and took a day to not to respond to his messages so he wouldn’t feel like I was being a bother.

When I finally broke my silence and explained to him how I was feeling…he chose to ignore me.

Eventually, we talked it out and I apologized. I thought we were okay; we spent the next week after spring break exchanging messages and planning dates once more.

Until the first Friday in April when I left work with a break-up text from him…explaining that yes, I had been annoying him with messages before I took my voluntary space. Furthermore, he didn’t appreciate the passive aggressiveness of the space I gave him, even though, clearly, he was already bothered by my texts!

There was no way of winning this argument. Either way, in his eyes, I’d messed up. There was no redemption. My texts annoyed him, even though he never actually told me this, and my way of trying to take space also annoyed him. He also claimed that my political ideologies bothered him, but this had already been addressed when we started dating. I never hid my beliefs from him, so I didn’t appreciate him using it as more ammunition to dump me. 

I, however, reminded him that I had forgiven him for some awful comments he’d made at my expense…especially one about my race…but yet, he couldn’t forgive me for texting him too much when I wasn’t even aware of it…or for trying to give him space.

So, that was it with the seemingly perfect Southern gentleman. We haven’t spoken in over a month, I’m sure he’s moved on with someone who can, I guess (and hopefully) read his mind…and someone whose race he’s not bothered by. I’ve gone on a few dates here and there…but truly, this encounter has made me realize that no matter who I find, no matter what I do…

I’m still scared to fall in love again. 

I’m mortified to make a mistake if I do date, because my mistake will end up not being forgiven.

I’m worried that I’ll meet another guy who will not want to meet my father, accept my belief system, or use my health concerns against me. 

I keep telling myself…maybe I shouldn’t date anymore. I ask myself every day…

Isn’t it just easier, then, to live my life on my own? Is it easier? Or am I giving up? Am I settling?

My thoughts are always offered up to God. Sometimes, though, it’s difficult to let God take over…I do have my moments where I wrestle with my faith, but I know He’s protecting and looking out for me. Ultimately, my life is His will. 

I would hope I’m not settling if I opt to live this life on my own. Settling would be choosing to be with a man for the sake of being with a man…not because he’s a man who makes my soul happy, respects my belief system, and checks all the “boxes” of what I’m looking for in a relationship.

At least I’m not as lonely as I was in July.

I adopted two cats who were in need of a home, and even though the tortoiseshell female, named Mamie (after President Eisenhower’s wife) is legitimately psychotic, she and her furry black haired brother, Ike (named after Eisenhower himself), have brought so much love into my heart again. I don’t feel as empty when I get home, knowing that they are waiting for me to be with them. Just this morning, I woke up with Ike, safely cuddled away in my arms, enjoying the fact that his “mama” was able to sleep in with him after an especially long and exhausting work week.

The love from these two cats may not be the type of love I’m hoping and praying for, but it’s love nonetheless, and I’m blessed they came into my life when I was really struggling back in July. 

And as for my friend who fell off the face of the earth?

Well, for reasons still unknown, he decided to come back to the planet.

On Christmas Eve, I went to mass with my family. I remember kneeling on the pew and adoring the altar, decorated with fresh red and white poinsettias…and the offertory candles lit and luminous…

(Christmas is always my favorite time of year at church, not Easter. I chalk it up to being born in December; the Advent season is always so special to me for that reason, especially when the church is decorated and prepared for the birth of our Savior). 

I started my prayers and thought of my friend and his daughter.

How the previous year, we’d been on speaking terms and I’d sent them Christmas gifts…

Oh, how things can change in a year, I thought, as I prayed and prepared my heart for a Christmas without being able to wish them good tidings and cheer. I wondered how they were celebrating Christmas that year and hoped they were doing well. I was focused so much on my thoughts and the beautiful altar that I didn’t even notice I’d started crying during my prayers. 

I composed myself, wiped away my tears, and ended my prayers with a sign of the cross. I sat back in the pew and smiled at my family…because in that moment, despite my tensions with my father…I was with them, we were together and at peace, and I wasn’t alone.

We all spent Christmas Day as a family as well. I came over to my parents’ house armed with Starbucks iced coffees for myself and my sister, and the last few gifts I’d needed to wrap. My mama and I made breakfast tacos, we prayed a rosary as a a family after we ate, and then we exchanged gifts. I sent text messages all morning to all of my friends, but not to him, and truly had a joyous and blessed day. I went home that same night so Ike and Mamie weren’t alone, put my new Christmas gifts away, and settled in for the evening.

Then - a familiar, but unsaved number appeared in my iMessage app.

A simple “Merry Christmas.”

From him.

I was texting my friend Julie on and off that day and I told her what message I’d received.

She advised me not to text him back. To just enjoy whatever remained of my Christmas with the people who actually, you know, wanted to stay in my life. 

But, I didn’t want to be a jerk. I returned his text with the same energy - two words. 

Merry Christmas. 

I didn’t hear anything from him for a few days and then he reached out again. We chatted casually on and off about what we’d been up to over the year; apparently, he and his daughter had also adopted a cat, so of course, I had to tell him all about Ike and Mamie. By that Saturday, he’d asked if we could grab lunch…the three of us…and I agreed.

Lunch started a little awkward, but his daughter was happy to see me (and vice versa). We then grabbed some ice cream and conversation kept flowing. The tension started to melt. It felt as though an entire year hadn’t even passed since the last time we’d spoken. When we parted, he explained why he’d ghosted…that he didn’t like that I’d called him out on him standing me up last minute when we were supposed to hang out…in January…that I’d come off as “bitchy.” I offered my rebuttal - when you’re not given any indication on the day we’d planned to get together that you couldn’t make it…and you’re the one who had to reach out to ask if everything was okay…only to find out that the reason he stood me up was because he didn’t feel like driving out…of course I’d come off as “bitchy.”

He apologized, and I did too, if my frustration had been perceived as bitchiness - however, I then asked him:

Why now, why after a year?

And to this day, I still never received a clear answer.

We’re back to our routine; we hang out, we grab lunch or dinner, we have a nice time. I feel though, like I’m still the one making the effort to reach out/text more and make the plans. Before he’d ghosted, he’d been more diligent in coordinating our hang outs and I also feel like he’d been more communicative via text. 

I’m grateful and happy we’re friends again. I truly am. But right now, I am also still wondering what his motivation was in coming back after a year. If you recall from my July post…I was perfectly fine with his choice to forget about me. It wasn’t easy processing the fact that he decided to cut me off, but I spent the entire part of 2023 embracing my life with my friends who accept me…all of me…and my shortcomings. Not a day went by in 2023 when I didn’t think of him and his daughter, especially, praying that she didn’t think I just forgot about her. So to have him come back, and still not clarify and be honest about why he chose to come back…is so confusing. I don’t want to ask him or push the issue because I’m scared that’ll be license for him to walk away again.

Part of me has been living with a fear since his return that he’ll ghost me once more and I don’t want to lose them a second time. Oddly enough, despite the way we ended in 2021, he has become a dear friend, and his daughter means the world to me. He’s in my life for some reason, and although I may not know why, I do know that God put him, and his daughter, in my life (and God keeps having them come back into my life so I pray that they stay in my life) for good. I pray that we continue to be friends…that we don’t let pettiness, communication struggles, and potential significant others, get in the way of our strange, but fruitful, friendship. I just hope he’s able to make the same efforts that I do so we can continue to cultivate our friendship in the years to come. 

So, life is pretty much the same as it was before July. He’s back, my dad and I can’t get along, and teaching is still stressing me out. But at least, over the course of the year, I made some new friends at work, I’ve kept true to my faith, I’ve adopted two little furry friends who bring me a joy I’ve never known, and on a brighter note:

My passport was renewed, and Lisa and I, along with one of our amazing friends from school, Michelle, are about to embark on the most epic trip of our lives.

We’re going to Europe, and I’m going to be in Normandy, France for the 80th Anniversary of the D-Day landings this summer. My bucket list item…the one that I dreamed would happen with a husband by my side…is finally being fulfilled in a way I never expected…

And like I always say, God works in mysterious ways, so I wouldn’t now want this bucket list item planned out in any other fashion. Husband who? Going to Normandy with Lisa and Michelle is how He has made my bucket list item come true, so…

Stay tuned, because I pray that while I’m in France, my joy of learning and teaching history will revive itself…and I can find momentum to truly continue my career, as well as this blog, for good.

Brace yourselves and be ready for the insanely nerdy historical posts! 

many happy returns…

-kate. 

moratorium.

I have been contemplating what to say for a new post for a while now…and I realized just today, that I don’t know what to say. For once, I have no desire to say anything. I don’t feel compelled to continue my website, at least for the foreseeable future. I don’t feel like talking about my teaching career, or the excitement I get when I teach history to my students, or even the joy I receive when I get to geek out at a museum or historical site.

No desire. Whatsoever.

And I don’t care.

Right now, I’m trying to come up for air and survive. 

Recently, I lost a friendship with the guy I had dated a couple of summers ago. I was optimistic that we could forge a friendship, and all seemed well for awhile, but then, in January, he fell off the face of the earth once more, gave me no indication he was done with being friends, ignored my text messages, and did not acknowledge anything that I sent to his daughter. I think, honestly, that’s what I’m more disappointed about this friendship ending…that I don’t get to have a friendship with his daughter, even though he promised me I’d always be able to maintain one.

Losing this friendship, with no explanation, has impacted me more than I thought it would. I know we weren’t meant to be together in the romantic sense, but I had hope for a friendship…and I thought he did too. He’s gone. His daughter is gone. And I have to accept that, even though it’s been difficult to do so. I remind myself every day that they do not belong in my life anymore and I did what I could do keep the friendship going.

This, combined with the facts that:

• My reproductive health is still affecting my day-to-day activities

• I’m tired, but can’t pinpoint why I feel so tired (thyroid, maybe?)

• this past week, I finally realized that my relationship with my father is a detriment to my personal life, and my anxiety/depression, while better than it has been since I have a therapist, still needs better control.

I could go on a tangent about my father, so I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest Version:

Nothing and no one makes him happy. I will not subject a future, potential boyfriend to my father’s beliefs, attitudes, behavior, and temperament. I don’t want this future, potential boyfriend ending a relationship with me because of my father (much like the guy mentioned above had done when he ended it with me in the Summer of 2021).

Simply put, I just want to feel better…in some way…whether it be physically or emotionally first…but I don’t know exactly how to make that happen. But I know that continuing to blog about the topics and career that used to bring me happiness isn’t going to help me feel better…since I can’t even find a silver lining in teaching history.

It’s sad for me to admit that I’ve lost the spark of loving to teach history.

But at least I’m being honest with myself.

I can’t say if I’ll come back to this website. I can’t decide if teaching is going to be my future.

I’m lucky, right now, to be able to make it out of bed every morning and find some solace during this difficult, uncertain time, in my faith.

So, I’m going keep doing that for now, and place this site on a moratorium.

Pray that I find some relief and come back sooner, rather than later, before I lose all momentum.

Many happy returns…

-kate.

remember the maine (and to hell with spain!)

I’m detouring back into historical territory for a bit only because on Monday, I finally get to kick off my favorite historical unit with my seventh graders…wait for it…

The Spanish-American War, American Imperialism & World War I.

(Or, my favorite alternative name for World War I: “Frenchies in the Trenchies!”)

Let the meme usage commence…

Anyways…we had a major snow storm that prevented us from returning back to school after our winter break “officially” ended. We should start on time this coming Monday, which means I only had to shift all my lesson plans ahead a week.

2022 Goals: At this point, I’m optimistic I don’t lose any more school days to the weather and will be able to maintain this calendar…

This is the unit, I think, where the kids really enjoy the lessons, only because of the introduction of modern warfare and when we have our discussions on the “fake news” of the 1890s - “yellow journalism.” They are able to connect yellow journalism to “clickbait” pretty easily. Two years ago, I had my students create a (school appropriate) modern day “yellow journalism” headline on an index card before they left class after we had our yellow journalism lesson.

I had some pretty awesome Hearsts and Pulitzers in 2020…

I didn’t think such a simple “exit ticket” would result in some of the weirdest and hilarious headlines I’d ever read. Apparently, one student claimed that I would be “doing a bunch of backflips in front of the school” and another student said I was giving out “free Starbucks in the parking lot before school.” My friend Lisa, apparently, was “giving out free ‘Fs’ after school.” I proudly displayed their “headlines” outside of my classroom, much to the amusement of other coworkers, as some of their names were also mentioned. I really can’t wait to see what headlines my students create this year!

I love introducing the Spanish-American War with some hilarious Mr. Betts parody videos. These videos got me and my coworkers through a challenging virtual year. The kids claimed they “hated" how cringey the videos were, but I loved laughing at their reactions on Zoom (at least, those who kept their cameras on), and later, they secretly admitted that they loved watching them whenever I played one during class. Needless to say, Mr. Betts created an amazing parody summing up the Spanish-American War to One Direction’s “classic” hit: “What Makes You Beautiful.” The students usually do a two day document based lesson (DBL) on what caused the explosion of the USS Maine, but since we’re pressed for time, and they just finished one on John D. Rockefeller, I decided to shorten it to a historical assessment of thinking (HAT). With a HAT, they are still given historical sources to make a decision, but it’s only one source and they are given two questions to respond to. A DBL, on the other hand, consists of three sources and four to five questions for each source. The HAT will be a perfect way to end the Spanish-American War; they’ll have just enough time in class to finish it…and if they complete the HAT early, they will get to read this article about the theory if World War I was caused by Gavrilo Princip eating a sandwich. This will help the students shift their focus to the second half of this unit.

More than likely, they’ll get a little bit of John Green’s Crash Course (episode #28 - American Imperialism) to summarize everything during and after the Spanish-American War…and only because I really want to hear him admit three things:

1. that ‘Remember the Maine, to Hell with Spain’ became a 19th century “meme.”

2. that American Imperialism looked like all the other imperialisms (British, Spanish, you name it).

3. that Hawaii would eventually receive statehood because “white people…and also pineapples.”

Then we’ll start World War I with focusing on the ‘powder keg’ of Europe during the summer of 1914…because World War I will not make any sense if we skip over the “MAIN” causes of the conflict.

Cue Mr. Betts and his parody of “How Far I’ll Go” from Disney’s Moana.

Austria, Italy, Germany - Triple Alliaaaaaance! Things getting hot - the Triple Entente!

Then, after watching a perfectly summarized History of World I (in One Take) courtesy of History Bombs, we’ll (hopefully) do a recreation of the alliances of Europe on the eve of World War I. The students will be split into representatives of all the major players in Europe - they will have to send messages to each other as they try to join the alliance that will most benefit them before war breaks out. They’ll also need to be able to successfully label a 1914 map of Europe - they were warned that maps were going to go beyond American borders at the start of the school year, so we’ll see how well they do with their European map annotations…

I wish I had more time to talk about the British war poets during this unit, but I may be able to embed Wilfred Owen’s Dulce et Decorum Est when we have our lesson on the weapons technology of World War I and get to the section when we discuss chemical warfare. The poem focuses on Owen witnessing the death of one of his soldiers via a gas attack, so I should be able to make this work. This also reminds me to wear my Wilfred Owen t-shirt for the lesson that day.

Side note: If you’re interested, you can listen to British actor Christopher Eccleston (the Ninth Doctor - and my favorite - from Doctor Who) recite Owen’s poem recorded during the 2013 Remembrance/Veteran’s Day commemorations.

Although I mentioned to a friend that my favorite lesson to teach during this unit is the weapons technology, I truly also enjoy teaching about the home front of World War I. The kids get to learn more about how minority groups and women responded to the war effort. We get to talk about, arguably, the coolest unit in the United States Army - the Harlem Hellfighters and their acts of bravery…and unfortunately, how their efforts weren’t recognized until years later. The role of women, working in dangerous munitions factories and as nurses, cannot go unnoticed, especially as this would set the precedent for them doing the same duties (and beyond) during World War II. The British documentary series Great Britain and the Shaping of the 20th Century has a fascinating segment about the munitions workers known as the “Canary Girls” or the “Girls With Yellow Hands” - as featured in Episode #3: “Total War” from 30:14 to 36:25, but the entire series is worth a watch! These ladies were exposed to instant death if they mishandled the TNT (stories of explosions in the munitions factories were commonplace). Long term effects were everything from infertility, their hair turning red, and their skin color turned yellow - hence the nicknames I mentioned above. Their work, however, was crucial to the Allied war effort; they truly did help win the war!

My sweet little Pershing…

The unit is wrapped up with a little Stalin, peace, land, bread, and an introduction to Communism, the entrance of the United States thanks to the Zimmermann Telegram (the students will also get the chance to decode the telegram as a unit project worth 80% of their grade), General John J. “Black Jack” Pershing (and my cat’s namesake), the “100 Days Offensive,” the armistice, and of course, the really awkward peace process (Fourteen Points, Woodrow Wilson, Treaty of Versailles, and the failed League of Nations) that would only set the foundation for World War II and the rise of totalitarian governments in Europe - here’s looking at you, Third Reich.

They’ll have two days of turning in missing assignments and working on their study guides and Zimmermann Telegram projects in class before their unit test review day. I always give them a review day - Kahoot is what I typically use for the review game, but I may recreate my Spanish-American War/Imperialism/World War I review questions on the Blooket platform instead (although I don’t know if I will be able to handle the louder chaos that ensues whenever Blooket is used instead of Kahoot).

And then, before I know it, my favorite unit will come to an end, I’ll stream the episode called “Boom” from the History Channel series America: The Story of Us, and it’ll be time to learn about the Roaring ‘20s. This unit is never given enough time, in my opinion, but as you can see, I try to pack a lot of lessons and topics into the curriculum. This is where I’m able to justify talking about European influence, my concentration from grad school if you don’t know this about me by now, and how it would impact America’s rise as a global power at the start of the 20th century. This is the time period I’ve studied in great depth, and it’s one that I’m always “brushing up” on throughout the year. I remember one of my students last year telling me it became her favorite unit because of how happy, passionate, and animated I was when I taught it.

I’ve been in a slump at school and at home, so admittedly, I am really looking forward to teaching this unit - if only to find some temporary happiness during this insane school year. I’m glad I got the extra week off after winter break. I remember crying on the phone to my mother last weekend, admitting to her that I did not have the heart or courage to return to another few months of crazy behaviors, TikTok challenges, unmotivated students, and sheer uncertainty.

So let World War I, despite its grim topics and major devastation, spark some life in me. I will not let any of my students or my personal problems take away from the joy that teaching this unit brings to my heart. Just writing this post discussing my goals and plans for the unit has already vastly improved my mood.

Monday, I’m ready for you.

End of second quarter, I’m ready for you.

End of the worst school year ever, I’m ready for you.

Check out my Twitter account over these next few weeks to keep posted on this unit’s activities if you’re interested! Until next time (and I swear, that promised post on the literature side of things I mentioned last time is on its way)…

much love and many happy returns,

-kate.

life is worth living.

The basic reason for loneliness is that man today has divorced himself from both love of God and love of neighbor. - Bishop Fulton Sheen

Feliz año nuevo, y’all! I hope everyone reading this had a blessed and joyous New Year’s holiday!

I thought I’d start today’s post with a little advice from American bishop Fulton Sheen. In fact, the title of this post is a tribute to the eponymous television series Bishop Sheen hosted in the 1950s. The church I attend gave us a Christmas gift in the form of a book. It’s called The Wisdom of Fulton Sheen: 365 Days of Inspiration. There is a quote by Bishop Sheen for every day of the year. I was glad for the gift, as I am always on the search for daily Scripture/religious words to get my day started. The words quoted above is the entry for January 1st. It spoke to me, particularly, because these last few days of 2021, I’ve been having an interesting philosophical and religious debate when it comes to what we believe (or don’t) believe in - especially if is the “make or break” of a potential romantic relationship.

During the sermon of Christmas Day mass, my priest advised the congregation to try to “find peace in our hearts,” even after another chaotic and frustrating year since the pandemic started. His words moved me to tears. Since the summer, I’d been trying so hard to let go of bitterness from the failed “relationship” I’d placed so much faith in. I knew I wasn’t angry anymore, even though I’d been led to believe by the guy that he didn’t want to be with me for my health reasons. So, for my own peace of heart (and because I missed the dorky history conversations he and I had), I sent a “Merry Christmas” message to the guy who ended it with me this past summer. I went to bed with a lighter heart that evening, only to wake up the following morning to see (much to my surprise) that he had replied.

words of wisdom for 2022.

For the next few days, we were texting on and off. He admitted to failing to convey the reason why he couldn’t end us in a better way. Apparently, he had never dated a religious girl and realized he didn’t see us working out in the future. I admittedly called him out - I never hid my Catholicism from him the entire time we dated. I asked him why did he even bother continuing to see me - especially after things became more serious - when he was aware of my faith? My emotional attachment began - he opened up my heart once things took off, only to take it away so abruptly and unfairly, despite knowing my religious affiliation. Although I’m glad he told me the truth about why he ended it, (even though for months I blamed myself and my health problems) it still doesn’t mean I’m not struggling to process this new news - he knew, from the get go, that my faith was an important part of my life, and he continued to carry on, instead of ending it before I became too emotionally invested.

So, of course I’m still hurting over his actions. I don’t think he realizes just how much I’m hurting. I don’t know if he cares that I am still heartbroken.

I, however, bravely made the offer to be friends. I told him I respected the fact that he has his work, his life, his child, and his own dating. I made it clear that I would never want to be a burden to him, but I also told him that I wasn’t going to be doing all the work in a friendship; that one-sidedness was out of the question. Like I said in my previous post, I have some pretty awesome friends whom I would not want to do life without. I’m done with fair weather friends who sure don’t mind taking advantage of my kindness, but won’t return favors whenever I need help. Or, at the very least, respond to text messages within a 12 hour window. The people in my life are in my life because we all give and take when it comes to our friendship. I’d love to be able to cultivate that with him, even though we ended pretty terribly, because I know God put him in my life for a reason.

I keep asking God: why? Why did you bring someone who, on paper, seems to check all my boxes of what I’m looking for in a partner (intelligent, funny, handsome, historically and even politically similar)…except for the biggest box of all: religiously? I remember telling my mom over the summer that yeah, this guy seems to have almost everything I’m looking for…but I’m not sure where he stands when it comes to his faith.

I remember her being happy for me that I seemed to had found someone who was able to make me smile again. I know she would have wanted to meet him. She remembers how long it took for me to say I’m ready to date again after the guy from two years ago broke up with me. She thought he was something special, then, since I had decided to keep seeing him.

…And then I remember us deciding not to tell my dad I was dating someone….because we both knew that even if he was a practicing Catholic, my dad would find some other reason to say I don’t want to meet this guy. I was worried my dad would use the guy’s divorce status, or the fact that he already had a kid, against him. Or hell, even his tattoos. Anything. No one…and I mean no one makes my dad happy (not even me) and I am still hesitant to date again. I would never want to subject anyone to my father’s criticisms. Like I’ve said in the past, I’m still navigating how to improve my relationship with my dad. Only when I know I’ve accomplished that will I feel better about introducing a potential significant other to him.

So…I’d like to think that God put this guy in my life as a reminder that I am not lonely - going back to the quote from Bishop Sheen. I have my love of neighbor, if you will, because of my wonderful friendship circles. I’ve certainly had my moments of being “alone,” but the fact that I have my love of God means that although I don’t come home to a husband, I am not lonely because God is always with me in my house and in my heart. God is forever by my side, even if I cannot physically see Him. My faith, my prayers, and my belief are what help me realize that God will be in my life. Bishop Sheen, then, is saying in his quote that, without both love of neighbor and love of God, we may find ourselves feeling more loneliness in our lives. As much as I yearned for the relationship to work out, once again, God didn’t abandon me, even though the guy did. My lack of a significant other doesn’t mean I don’t have my “neighbors” who love and care about me. I have love of neighbor and God and I am blessed to have both. Love isn’t defined as only from a husband or wife, or your bloodline. Love comes from everywhere.

…still waiting to do our ‘tropic thunder’ movie night, y’all!

Even in the shape of three dorky history nerd teachers (pictured right).

Even in the form of three intelligent and relentless “work moms.”

Even from eight courageous, beautiful, and lovely ladies I’ve known as far back as middle school and as recently as three years ago.

Even from the four-legged friends - especially three furry, fuzzy, and adorable cats I’ve mentioned several times in this blog.

And, maybe, just maybe, even from the ashes of a summer romance gone horribly wrong.

My New Year’s hope is that you all (like I’ve been able to) will find your peace of heart in 2022 - and for the rest of your lives. Whether you have love of God or not in your life, my New Year’s prayer is that you all at least find your "love of neighbor,” in any way you define love of neighbor…and that you don’t take your neighbors for granted.

Be prepared for a post of my continued forays of teaching literature to a group of middle school students who don’t enjoy reading - coming soon! Posting today on New Year’s Day just seemed to be the perfect opportunity to reflect on life before I return to writing all things historical and/or educational.

much love and many happy returns…

-kate.

you know we can't go back.

For those of you who have helped me find my inner strength, you know who you are, and I dedicate this post to you. I don’t know what I would have done without your patience and love.

For those of you who are struggling on the inside - I hope one day you find the courage to admit that it is okay to not be okay.

A year. It’s been a year since the man I was falling in love with walked away. It has been a year of growth, of self-discovery, of coming to terms with who I am, of many emotional nights crying myself to sleep, of wondering what is wrong with me…

And I’ve come to realize that one year later, despite the heartbreak, forgiveness was the key to move on and put this all in the past. But before we talk about forgiveness and stuff, let’s talk about the road it took to get me there.

Last summer, after my first school year ended and I got used to not living at home, I finally admitted and accepted the fact that I needed to address my anxiety and depression. With the help and support of my best friend Jessica, I made the first step in my journey to wellness, mindfulness, and self-care. I made an appointment with a cognitive behavioral therapist (CBT). I decided to ignore what my family believed about mental healthcare (that it wasn’t important) and chose to do this for my own sake and mindset. The guy who broke my heart made it pretty clear I was an anxiety-ridden basket case and couldn’t accept me as I was. I didn’t go seek out a therapist to make him happy or to prove to him that I was trying to “feel better” in a pathetic attempt to hope he would take me back.

Again, I did it for me.

I am writing this because I fully believe in trying to get rid of the stigma that surrounds mental healthcare. I am not afraid to admit to those who know me, that I see a therapist once a week. Now, I still haven’t told my dad, because I’m not ready to, but I’m working getting the guts to do so. But I shouldn’t have to feel skeptical about admitting it to my coworkers. I always had a fear that if I admitted at the workplace that I was seeking therapy, I could be labeled as mentally “unstable.” Then I realized…why, then, does my insurance (provided through work) consider CBT as primary, basic healthcare? My appointments are $20 co-pays, rather than $35 specialist co-pays. Basic mental healthcare should be considered necessary and important, to anyone who feels like they would benefit from it - yours truly, included. I’ve told my closest colleagues (really, they’re friends more than colleagues) that I see a therapist and it didn’t even faze them. They were incredibly supportive, and understood that on Wednesdays, I left immediately after work to make it on time to my appointments. If I ever had a particularly emotional session, they were always willing to talk to me on the phone and ease my mind - sometimes they would call me to make sure I was okay.

I’m so comfortable with telling other people (if, of course, it naturally comes up in conversation) that I’ve gotten to the point at work where I mention it casually: oh, I can’t stay after school for that meeting - I’m seeing my therapist today. Big deal.

Although my “break-up” (I use this term loosely, as, in his mind, we were never in a relationship) was the catalyst to finally getting to a therapist, there were many other factors that I knew contributed to my declining mental health. I love my parents dearly, I do. Those who know me well know that I have a strong relationship with them. As I got older, I realized that my father can be stoic and unemotional to the point where I feel like, no matter what I do in my professional or personal life…it is not good enough, even though I have spent my entire life living up to his expectations - of trying to be a perfect daughter. Case in point: we had disagreed about the man I was seeing when I decided to move out. He believed the man was only into me to get a green card, and was not going to support my decision to keep seeing him. I, of course, had faith in the guy and decided that, no, I was going to keep seeing him, so I left. I felt like I had reached my breaking point. For twenty-seven years, I had always done right by him and what he wanted. For once, I wanted to be selfish and look out for my best interests.

Then a few days after I left, my former drunkenly berated me, ditched me at a bar, and walked away from me. Yeah, we’d broken up, but not for the reasons my father thought would cause problems later on in the relationship. I spent the entire summer, after a trip to Syracuse, Chicago, and Laredo, renting a room in a townhouse, virtually alone unless one of my friends reached out to see if I wanted to get together, seeing my therapist, holding on to my continued faith in God, and trying desperately not to let the swarming rumors of what my former was telling all of our co-workers affect my attempts to heal from my broken heart:

• That I was just a “hook-up,” even though his many texts and conversations had me convinced I actually meant something to him.

• That I was the one who ruined everything - that I single-handedly destroyed our relationship.

Returning to work, I knew, was going to be just another challenge to talk through with my therapist - there was the fact that, yeah, I was going to have to see him every now and then…and I was also now going to have to try to ignore his friends who were spreading his vitriolic rumors about me, but whatever. I was reassured that I had my therapeutic outlet, plus the added bonus of having such an amazing group of friends at work. Slowly, but surely, I was finding my footing again.

I ended up coming back home before the summer ended. That’s when my footing slipped a bit and I ended up having some awful breakdowns with my therapist. My former kept showing up nearby where I was living at night to play tennis at the courts in my neighborhood. My landlady gave him the key to access the courts. She was friends with him. When I asked her if she could tell me when he was coming by so I could make a quick exit (just seeing his car was still a mental trigger), she flat-out refused. What made it worse is that she was telling him when I wasn’t home so he could make an appearance.

I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t like the fact that he was close by and I didn’t like that my landlady was giving him intel on when I wasn’t at home! Frankly, it was none of his business. All I wanted was to move on and live my life - and his nighttime visits weren’t allowing me to do that. I could accept the fact that I was going to see him at work. My therapist was helping me, at the time, to figure out coping strategies for that prospect. Him coming by, his car in view by where I would park, - him, essentially invading my personal space? That, I knew, wasn’t fair.

I called my mom one night and told her what was going on. I had already talked to my therapist, and we’d figured, okay, guess it’s time to find another place, even though I’d only been there for all of two months. Was it right to have to be uprooted again so suddenly? Absolutely not. I, though, was at least able to clearly realize I needed to leave for my own sake. So, I told my mom that I needed to have peace of mind with him showing up - what if our paths eventually crossed? She was worried about me, regardless of my decision, and told my dad what was happening (although I had told her not to).

This is where the love that my father can excellently convey appears. My dad didn’t say “I was right” or “I told you so.” Even a year later, he still never has. He told me to come home because he was afraid that my former would do something to hurt me. No apologies, no bitterness, nothing. Just come home. I was safely back in my old room, with my family, before I returned to work at the end of the summer. Now I’m working on my next steps of finding a place to live that I can own…with the support of my parents.

That’s not to say everything is perfect. I still struggle with my dad’s gruffness and I’m sure he thinks I’m too flighty at times, but thanks to therapy, I have figured out how to better approach my father…or when to just give him space. Even when my sister and mom feel frustrated with his stoicism, I offer them the advice my therapist gives me, and it has helped immensely on how they talk to my dad as well. My therapy has also been helpful in that I find new ways to approach how I interact with my students, especially if I’ve had a particularly stressful day or week at work. I’ve come a long way from my first few sessions, when I was the proverbial hysterical therapist’s client, short of lying on a couch - bawling her eyes out, going through a box of Kleenex, and wondering why she wasn’t good or pretty enough for the man who walked away from her. It’s so nice to have therapy sessions for other facets of my life to help create a more well-rounded me.

A year later, I am glad to say that, while I may not be the trustworthy and wear my heart on my sleeve girl that I was before this all happened, I am proud with the girl that I have become. I’m more aware of my quirks and flaws and unashamedly embrace them. I used to be someone who loved to give love with all her heart, to the point where I was used and taken advantage of. Now I know that, while I can still be giving with my love, I must also do so with caution. I shouldn’t just give my love so freely and openly - if someone truly wants my love, or even my friendship, they are going to have to truly earn it. As my therapist says, I am aware of what I bring to the “table,” both the good and not-so-good. I just need to remember that no one can have my good, if they can’t accept my not-so-good.

Him included.

I gave him my heart, my love, and my everything so quickly. He painted me such beautiful, hopeful words, and I quickly believed in his words. I believed in him. He, in the time we were “together,” didn’t provide any actions to make those words believable. He told me I was beautiful, I was his angel…that I gave him joy and peace. Who wouldn’t melt at such lovely word craft? Unfortunately, when he ended things with me and walked away, I couldn’t believe in him and anything else he told me, because he couldn’t give me the satisfaction of closure. I heard rumors he wasn’t faithful (and from more than one source) and instead of worrying about me and how I may have been impacted by this…instead of being mature enough to personally tell me he was faithful, he yelled at me over the phone and told me to stop making assumptions. Add in the nasty things he was telling his friends at work, well…it certainly didn’t help his case.

We don’t talk. At all. We go about our days as if we never had spoken to each other. He told me he wasn’t ready for a relationship, and then two months later, he was showing off his new girlfriend on social media. The girl that he always wanted me to be. When we were “together,” he told me I should grow my hair out because he preferred it longer, wanted me to stop biting my nails (he didn’t understand that I bit them due to my anxiety)…really, he told me at one point, he would be my “life coach.” Now, in my place, was someone he could be proud to show off to the world. He has now found his true beauty - a girl with long, lustrous hair, perfectly manicured nails, a sexy body, and no anxiety issues stamped on her forehead. A girl, who unlike me, didn’t need a life coach.

I know he’s hurt me in so many ways, and even though I wasn’t perfect, I don’t think I deserved the way he just left me behind. I don’t think I needed to be the target of such crude statements.

And yet, I still miss him. I know he’s been through enough in his life, and although I don’t know what to believe in what personal problems he’s told me about having an impact on how he treats women, I’ll still have a little faith in his words. I am a realist, and I know that he is never coming back. There is no fairy tale ending. He didn’t want me. I can finally admit that without feeling despondent. He is never going to apologize for the pain he caused me. He is never going to admit that he too, was at fault. He is so happy now with his true beauty, and that’s all I had ever wanted for him. I hoped I could’ve been the one to be beautiful enough for him, and to make him happy, but alas, that wasn’t meant to be. I’m so glad he’s truly, truly happy. There are days where I am angry with him, but I don’t hate him, although the jury’s out on his opinion of me. I don’t hate him - I could never hate him. I forgave him a long time ago for the heartache he caused, because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to forge ahead and be happy myself.

Therapy, really, has taught me the most important thing:

That I deserved to forgive myself.

I deserved to stop blaming me, and me only, for the end of our “relationship.” I deserved to be happy too.

One day, someone will take me as I am - short hair, anxiety, and all.

And if that someone doesn’t arrive, well…at least I know that the journey I have been on has allowed me to be happy with myself.

So, in honor of this discovery, this history nerd is making a return to producing original, historical, and occasionally dorky content, after a year of being scared to embrace who she truly is. She’s back, and going to (try to) be better than ever.

Until then…

many happy returns.

-Kate

goodbye to all that.

The time in between the beginning and end of that relationship in my previous post are all a blur to me now. I do not wish to remember that time because I refuse to spend another moment worrying about him.

He’s moved on. He’s found someone else who will give him everything I wouldn’t. I’ve moved on by using my writing as an emotional platform to rid myself of lingering feelings.

The beginning - that seemingly magical moment we met in college - and the end, are the moments that will truly remain with me. Our end arrived, and although it pained me to let him go, I know now that he was not God’s plan for me.

And I thank God every day for the path I am on now, without him.

I wrote this piece on March 9th of last year, when I realized it had been his birthday and it was the second one I wouldn’t be celebrating with him. I was saddened by this realization - I, admittedly, did cry and spent the better part of his birthday in bed. But, the next day marked the turning point for getting over him the moment I chose to write down my feelings on paper.

That day, I wrote our ending and let it remain a relic of my past - a past that I do not ever wish to return to.

So here, dear reader, is our end:

March 9th, 2018

Yesterday was his birthday. It was the second birthday I’ve spent without him. Two years since I last saw his face. Two years since everything fell apart. I still wonder if he kept the DVD set of Downton Abbey  I got him for the first (and last) birthday we were together. I then smile, and think back to when we watched the series together - he’d never seen it, and I kept begging him to watch it with me. He adored it, and it was yet another thing that we could say we had in common.

And then, I feel my heart break all over again when I recall how we ended things over a phone call just a few months later in May.

Tuesday, May 3rd, 2016 to be exact. 

My worst day.

Just a few days before I’d started my comprehensive exams for my history graduate program.

The day that he finished his term teaching history at the community college.

He didn’t have anything to worry about if he was hurt by us ending things - no exams, no classes to play student in. He’d achieved what he wanted. He already had his MA. He had his job. He had the whole summer free to be away from writing papers, and thinking of a thesis for graduation. A broken heart wouldn’t affect his studies - he didn’t have any. 

Me? I cried non-stop, and listened to The Beatles (Rubber Soul, by the way, is the perfect melancholy break-up album) on repeat as I typed three exams from a variety of topics ranging from post-colonial Europe, Communism, Josef Stalin, modernity, and totalitarian governments. I wondered how the hell I even passed my exams. I couldn’t be bothered with thinking about what impact and role Fascism played in Mussolini’s Italy as I worked on the essays. I didn’t even think about the possibility of me failing my comps, and what it would mean for my future in the grad program, thanks to my altered state of mind. All I wondered was:

Does he hate me?

I miss his hazel eyes already. And those freckles. 

Is he thinking about me? 

Does me miss me?

Is he going to show up on my doorstep, profess his undying love for me, and ask me to marry him? 

I submitted my exams - all thoughts of him still fresh and painful the moment I emailed them to my professor and clicked “send.” The last hope I had for him did not occur in that four-day period, burrowed up in my room, as I struggled to write each exam.

He was gone. There would be no grand gesture from him. He didn’t love me. He didn’t want a life with me. He told me that, plain as day, especially when he told me I’d never be the girl who would be the mother to his children (my heart broke at that statement). He was over me. He didn’t want to fight for me.

He didn’t want me. 

I can easily state these realizations now. It took me almost two years to get to this point.

Almost two years. And my feelings remain unchanged. I don’t know if I’ll ever really get over him.

(But, oh, dear reader. I did. I’m so glad I did.)

Many happy returns…

-Kate

first impressions

As someone who has, to put it lightly, uhh…unusual tastes in the history I study, I have struggled to find a “better half" who will tolerate my quirky interests. Here’s an example if you’re wondering what I mean by “quirky.” My mom and I were talking about weddings and cliché proposals. I said that I would absolutely hate it if my boyfriend (we’re talking imaginary here - as if that’s going to happen any time soon) proposed to me on Valentine’s Day, my birthday, Christmas, or New Year’s Eve. So, she then asked me what my ideal proposal scenario would be.

Without missing a beat, I said, “June 6th, the Normandy beaches, preferably on the Omaha or Utah sector.”

Then she dared to ask what day the actual wedding would occur on.

Again, without missing a beat:

“May 8th of the following year, to commemorate Victory in Europe Day…and grandma’s birthday.”

I’d really need to find the right man to make that happen. The right man who would just get me enough to make those scenarios happen. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid to take my quirkiness on, but accept and love me for it. I could be wrong, but I doubt there’s a man out there who would do all that for me…just to make me happy. Now you’re probably wondering, my goodness, are all of these posts going to deal with sappiness and heartbreak?

To answer your question: no, they are not. I think, however, it’s okay for me to talk about my (lack of a) romantic life because I want you, my readers, to know that:

It is absolutely okay to be yourself. I have thought, for years, that I need that better half to define me. That myself isn’t good enough for this world. I’ve only recently come to the conclusion that no, I do not need a better half. I can be my own better half. I can be a better me and let the world take me as I am. I am happy with the way my life is turning out so far. I’ve finally embarked on the path I’ve wanted to take. I’m using my historical nerdiness in a relevant field. I am a teacher, sharing my passion for the subject to a varied pool of students from all walks of life.

I teach Language Arts to preteens, hoping to instill the value of reading in them while they are still young. I teach world history to college students - most of them are in my class to fulfill general education requirements. I, however, have some older students that are there to prove to their family members that it is never too late to get a college education. It makes me feel like I am making a difference as a teacher by being that educator who will help them prove that no, it is certainly never too late to learn.

If there’s not a better half for me out there, wanting to stand by my side and be my cheerleader as I become a seasoned educator, then that is his loss. I know I have achieved an iota of self-fulfillment by doing what I do best - sharing my love for learning and history…and I get to do it in a professional realm.

That still doesn’t mean I don’t hold on to hope that my better half is somewhere in this world - whether he’s somewhere where I live in northern Virginia, an ocean away in Ireland…

Waiting. Just waiting. For me. Little, unremarkable, unashamedly nerdy me.

Once upon a time, I thought I had found my better half. I thought this would be the guy who would give me that Normandy beach proposal. I thought I was going to marry this man - I prayed that he would ask me to be his wife. I had dreams of us blissfully married; our days filled with history, books, being underpaid teachers, living in a cozy house with our cats…and eventually, our children.

I was wrong. I was so so wrong. It took me a long time to get over him. Sometimes I do wonder if I truly am over him. Part of the reason I started writing about my historical endeavors was because of him. I began to put our story to paper - the two history nerds in love - as a way of coping with the heartbreak. The writing process has finally helped me get over him.

So, I offer y’all First Impressions, a vignette of the day I truly believed I met my better half:

I’m pretty sure I was in love with him from the moment I caught him smiling at me during the first class session of one of my graduate history seminars. I walked in the room with my friend Christina, and I could feel a gaze on me instantly. This bearded guy, wearing a black and red checkered shirt and glasses. I took him in…his adorable freckles. His mirthful brown eyes. His floppy dark hair, sprinkled ever-so-slightly with grey. His good-natured grin.

Just him, really.

He wasn’t trying to play coy; that was a definite. Not with the way his gaze remained fixed on me.

So, I take back my earlier sentiment: I know I was in love with him upon our first meeting.

I didn’t think that first day back to school would have me instantly falling for some guy I’d never even spoken to. I honestly thought I’d be on my own in that seminar. Christina, of course, was with me, and at least I’d be able to make some snarky commentary with her underneath our breaths during whatever lecture we’d have, but really, the class was meant to be an independent research project. Maybe I’d have to make some awkward small talk with the other students at some point in the semester. Cultivating relationships? Nah. I was beyond caring about that in grad school, and this class was giving me the opportunity to work (mostly) independently.

I liked relying on myself. I liked being alone. Alone meant I could focus on getting a good grade; the class was a “capstone.” You needed to pass to meet all requirements in the MA program. The final paper was worth 60% of my grade—I knew it would be hard work. I didn’t need (but probably secretly wanted) the distraction of a man to prevent me from doing thorough research and writing a concise, well-mapped thesis.  I didn’t want to take the risk of having someone break my heart in the middle of the semester, causing me to have an emotional upheaval, and jeopardize my work. With my track record, I knew that’s exactly what would happen. 

(Just sayin’, men are absolutely, the worst distractions.)

But that evening, when my professor asked each of us to introduce ourselves, had me pray to God that I’d get to know the man who smiled at me. No distractions weren’t an option anymore. Who was he?

Name. Concentration. Ideal topic that we would base our final papers on. That’s what we were forced to tell the class as we went one by one around the classroom to speak.

I barely paid attention to everyone else. I didn’t even care; everyone was like, I’m so and so who just loves America so much, that I made my concentration American history!

Those damn Americanists. Where were the European historians at? I get it; we’re in America, but still…

So it’s this one other guy’s turn. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Couldn’t resist staring at him for a moment; he was total eye candy. Still, didn’t even care to note his name. He said he was interested in Scottish history. Okay, cool…decided I wasn’t interested. My eyes followed back to my man. I waited like an impatient sod, desperate to hear his response. If it was Europe, that was it. We were soulmates.

Finally. It was his turn.

“My name is David. My concentration is European history—”

Oh, thank God.

“And I’m interested in researching about Oscar Wilde and the sodomy charge that was brought against him.”

Interesting, I thought, as I processed what he’d just said. I myself would not have decided to research about Oscar Wilde in a history class. I think it’s because I relate Wilde too often to a literary background that I forget that yes, the charges that were brought against him would have had historical impact. As I continued to dwell on his topic (and how much I really wanted to ask him about his research), I completely ignored everyone else’s turn. Before I knew it, I had to speak.

I cleared my throat, aaaand…

“I’m Kate. My concentration is European history (there were like, five of us in the room, compared to the nine Americanists—clearly, we were the minority, but whatever), and I would like to study the libel trial against the Irish nationalist leader, Charles Stewart Parnell.”

Boom. That’s right. Go Ireland. My professor commented on my topic but I can’t even remember what he told me. My mind was elsewhere.

I dared to look at David.

(Wasn’t even paying attention to Christina, who was now telling the class about her research project.)

And he was still staring back in my direction.

(Those pretty brown eyes.)

Class ended at nine that evening. Tall, dark, and handsome, to my surprise, flagged me down. Wanted to know more about my fascination with Parnell.

Especially was wondering why I hadn’t signed up for the “Ireland in War and Revolution” course that he was in.

Honestly, I had wanted to. My favorite professor was teaching it, and he’d told me about the course before I’d signed up for fall semester classes the previous spring. The truth was, I was craving a different area of Europe to study (as much as I loved Ireland), so I told him that I opted to take “Stalinism” (of all topics) with my second favorite professor in the history department instead.

And I was barely paying attention to him. I was trying, not-so-subtlety, to look for David, but he’d walked out ahead of me and this guy, who politely introduced himself as Josh (glad he did, because I really didn’t remember his name from the classroom introductions.)

Like the nerd I am, I continued to ramble to Josh that I wanted to learn more about Stalin… because I loved discussing rhetoric in totalitarian governments (truth) and that was the reason I hadn’t wanted to take the Ireland class (double truth). My history obsessions are sooo seductive, I know. I thought Josh would be turned off after that (he probably thought, wow, this girl’s a weirdo, let me walk away from her slowly), but no! He continued to walk with me to the quad. Josh was talking up his interests in Scotland (…meh), but said he had an interest in Ireland, and then I’m there correcting him when he merely referred to the Provisional Irish Republican Army as the “IRA.”

They had different names. The PIRA, the faction that emerged during the Northern Irish “Troubles,” was the one we were discussing, and I always get so pissed when people just call them as the the “IRA.”

(Nitpicky, yes, I know.)

But on our way to the quad, I saw out the corner of my eye, someone lighting up a cigarette. Oh eww, secondhand smoke. Gross. I turned my head from Josh, and looked at the offender.

David. Trying so desperately to get his lighter to work. The flame met the cigarette just as I locked eyes with him again for probably the sixtieth time that night.

He looked at me guiltily, and it was sooo awkward that I just turned my attention back to Josh. We walked past David, and I felt like a total jerk.

Ugh.

(I was a fool. In love.)

And it would be another week before we saw each other again.

(Double ugh.)

Until next time…

Many happy returns,

-Kate