Never wear a red polo to Target...

...especially on a day when there are tornados sucking up earth in all the surrounding counties and the emergency sirens are sounding as you pull into the parking lot. I don't care how much you need ice cube trays and a drain plug for your sink. Don't go to Target at all in these conditions, and if you absolutley have to, don't wear a red polo. Customers will approach you and ask you where the George Foreman grills are, even if you're wearing black pants, have a basket full of merchandise, and there is no trace of a walkie-talkie on your body. Then, when a tornado is spotted a few miles west of the city and you're coralled into the back room with every other customer and employee in the store, you'll find yourself avoiding eye contact with everyone because you're afraid they'll ask you when they can leave or how sturdy the building is or "doesn't this place have a basement?". You'll find yourself on the fringes of the mob, slinking down the baby doll isle, willing to risk being sucked into the vortex outside just because you wore your red polo to Target.

In a nutshell, that's how I was welcomed back to Mankato...in confusion, chaos, and frustration. But I only have myself and my Phoenix Staff shirt to blame. I hold no grudges. I went to Target last night for a hairbrush and a surge protector. I left with those items plus granola bars, a book that I won't have time to read, a prayer plant, and cork coasters.

School feels good again; familiar in many ways. Yesterday I felt the muscle soreness at the base of my neck that comes from toting between ten and thirty pounds every day in my backpack. The walk from my apartment to campus is considerably less this year (only about ten minutes from apt. door to office door), but it will still take a week or two to get used to. When I'm not wearing a skirt and have decent shoes on, I ride my bike, which cuts the commute in half but has it's own drawbacks: windblown hair, which can either look good or awful, and grease marks on my pants from the chain. Usually I just hike one pant leg up like LL Cool J to avoid that, but sometimes the wind is just too damn cold. Another familiar feeling is always being prepared with something to say in my Wednesday class that goes from 3:00-6:00 in case my stomach starts grumbling audibly. That's so embarassing. Who schedules a class through dinner time? Isn't dinner the most important American meal? Do they want me to lose all sense of my own culture? I'd be happy to live the Spanish lifestyle with siesta's and mid-day naps, but until then I'll just have to be ready to speak over the grumble.

The familiar is good to know, but rarely exciting. I have a batch of students now (hopefully the first of many batches) which is wonderful and exhilirating, but wierd because we co-exist in the same, relatively small, community. It didn't really occur to me until the end of the first week of class that I would be running in to these kids on campus. I was walking across the street and heard "Teacher, hey teach!" shouted from a car. Since I'm not used to being called "teacher" I didn't realize he was addressing me until he drove off and I saw the baseball hat he wears every Monday and Wednesday and realized who it was and that he was shouting to me. I'm afraid that 1) I won't recognize all my students and remember their names so I'll ignore them when I pass them in the halls, and 2) somebody will catch me when I'm having a really bad day or I'm in a pissy mood. I'm not exactley 'eternal sunshine' but I'll have to learn to fake it...but I detest even the idea of that...so I guess they'll just have to take me or leave me. Can't be everyone's best friend. I'm sure I'll run into kids at the gym when I'm sweaty and I have a scowl on my face from the soreness in my legs. God - what if I run into them at the bar. Shit. Maybe I can become the "cool teacher" who is "so laidback" and "throws back a few cold ones with us". So it is - so it shall be.

There's a skinny, mop-headed kid who brings his guitar to the plaza outside of Armstrong Hall (English building) and plays Sublime, Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots, and takes requests. He played Sweet Baby James for me last May. His name is Jon - no 'h' - and he's got a sweet voice that can follow a melody anywhere. We have a loose agreement from last semester that I would accompany him with my mad tamborine skills. I haven't seen him around this year, which is disappointing, soI keep the window in my office open so I can listen for him. Maybe he's found another window in another building to play under. Maybe he's found someone who actually owns a tamborine and will shake their hips when they play.