There is this assumption amongst friends and family back home that my life is paradise since moving to a tropical island. I often read comments on Facebook that sound something like these: Aruba looks like heaven, or you packed and moved to paradise, or you’re living the dream, or the ever popular jealous. Their words are on mark when it comes to many moments in my life, but I hate to break it to everyone that the reality is my alarm still goes off at 5 every morning, and I’m out the door on my way to work everyday before 7. And even though there are many days when my work is enjoyable and rewarding, I would hardly call it paradise.
The truth is I spend 9 to 10 hours five days a week working and additional time away from work attending events or working at home to meet deadlines. I’m clearly not lounging under the sun, scrunching white sand beneath my toes, and sipping rum punch most days. I’m usually drinking cup after cup of coffee and a much coveted club soda during the 30 minute break I have to scarf down a cafeteria lunch, which always consists of a plate of rice with a side slab of mystery meat. Depending on the day, I get 60 to 90 sacred silent moments to do all the work it takes to teach class after class of teenagers in English and history. And this teaching of teenagers, according to my all time favorite quote on the profession by Franklin Habit, “seems to require the sort of skills one would need to pilot a bus full of live chickens backwards, with no brakes, down a rocky road through the Andes while simultaneously providing colorful and informative commentary on the scenery.” So, yes, I am on that bus for 7 hours everyday—it’s a far cry from the beach.
Beginning with the sound of my alarm, my morning routine hasn’t changed much from that of my previous life. Really the only difference I can think of is that my breakfast now consists of one banana. I vaguely remember making oatmeal on cold, drizzly mornings in another place and time. Some days, if I didn’t have time to make breakfast, I would grab a banana nut bread on my daily stop at Starbucks. I no longer make frequent stops at the Starbucks drive thru en route to work, which usually had a line of cars that wrapped around the building and onto the street because apparently every other American had the same morning routine.There are days in Aruba, however, when I do stop at the Tur Dia (I think this is Papiamento for everyday) for a cheese pastechi. This is usually on Friday mornings, after the last of the bananas have turned a dark spotted brown because fruit ripens quickly in the tropics.
I still drive an old car, a Hyundai instead of a Honda. Only my commute in a jalopy does not shorten my telomeres as it once did on a heavily congested freeway—one that is always under construction in the city where I come from—where if your car were to break down, a helicopter would soon be flying overhead to report the mile-long traffic jam caused as result of your modest teacher salary. If my car breaks down here, I could just veer off on to the open space of dirt along the side of the one lane road, and someone would probably even stop to help me. The combination of sun, sand, and sea in the air can wreak havoc on a vehicle however; two of my door handles have fallen off and my windshield wipers just stopped working last week. But I’m not complaining because it seldom rains on a desert island and no one here judges me for not having door handles. And any commute where one routinely sees chickens and goats on their way to work is worth the price of not being able to open a car door or sometimes see clearly through the windshield.
Once I get to my classroom, I drop my bag and turn on the airco; it’s like an oven in there every single morning of the year. I plop down at my desk and open up my laptop to check email. Checking email when I first arrive at work is something I would do in my old life, but earlier this week on Monday morning, a little bird was flying around the room above me while I sat and surveyed my inbox. Actually, a bird flying about indoors is unusual here as well because it is much more common to find creepy crawlies slithering on the ground. And on that same day, during my second period class, a student spotted a scorpion and everyone hysterically jumped to their feet. Luckily, the scorpion was already dead, which I discovered after evacuating the classroom since my students were already trying to kill it. I’m preparing for the day that I come across a boa constrictor or a centipede. I have watched in awe as other teachers have clobbered centipedes with rocks or captured boa constrictors coiled around toilets. I only hope I can be so brave!
The working part of my life here seems more familiar to me than anything else on this island. The school runs very much like the schools I have worked at in the States. I have fewer students overall, but I make up for it by teaching multiple subjects across several grade levels. I never teach the same lesson twice, which is great if the lesson was a complete flop, but not so much if there is room for improvement the next go around. And I’m always flying by the seat of my pants as far as content goes because there isn’t much time to read ahead. Thursday morning I reviewed students through Hamilton vs. Jefferson, and then moved on to another class about vague pronoun references mid-morning, followed by a class covering the French Revolution before lunch, and then an afternoon of character analysis covering a book I haven’t read in years.
Teenagers are pretty much the same all around the world. The typical traits for the adolescent stage of development are fairly predictable. Teens are by nature impulsive, gregarious, argumentative, rebellious, moody, hilarious, and extremely energetic. Inevitably, when someone asks what it is I do for a living, they always respond with you couldn’t pay me enough or that isn’t a job I would want. Usually, I piece together a quick defense of the profession and of teenagers in general. “They’re just developing their independence,” I explain. “It’s totally normal for them to question authority. It means they are thinking critically.” “Maybe we as adults could benefit from recovering some of these traits instead of blindly accepting the status quo.” This is also what I tell myself on the really challenging days, which are usually the days when I have left my sense of humor at home. When all else fails, I just remind myself that their full frontal lobe is not fully developed.
I still come home from work exhausted. How can you not after arriving at sunrise to spend all day piloting a bus full of chickens backwards down a rocky road in the Andes? Nowadays, I let myself take a siesta when I get home from work, which is an instinct I always fought in the United States because it felt lazy. But I’m in the land of hammocks now, not a place for guilt when it comes to relaxation. I eat a snack when I get home from work and then I am out like a light. It’s the strangest kind of sleep ever, knocked out and dead to the world for all of 15 minutes. After I wake up, I carry forward with my evening by trying to create a semblance of some kind of life away from work. I am more than my job, I remind myself. I have interests and hobbies; at the very least, I must exercise and eat a healthy dinner. Most of the time I can pull together an evening that reflects all of this somewhat, maybe an evening yoga class or dinner out with friends, except on Fridays. On Fridays I wave the white flag, order take out, and watch a movie on Netflix. As long as I have something on schedule for Saturday night, I never worry about a Friday night with Netflix.
I wish I could say that the island has cured my Friday fatigue or that feeling that there is never enough time to do it all. The irony is my job is harder than ever since moving to paradise. It takes every bit of the many years of experience I have to handle it, but here is the thing—I wouldn’t be able to handle it if I weren’t living in paradise. I would have already lost my mind trying to do what I do here in Dallas. Americans could learn a lot from this because I have never been more productive than I am now that I live on island time. My work load is heavier than ever, my schedule is nuts, and whenever I turn around I am greeting new students with varying degrees of English proficiency. But something about island mentality melts away all the stress, and without the added stress, all of it seems doable. On an island, the collective mindset is that everything will eventually get done and there is always a beach to go to when the work is over. It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you follow this formula.
The best part about living on a rock surrounded by beaches is there is never a need to take a vacation to a beach to get away from it all, which leaves space to explore another kind of landscape when you finally make it to vacation time. We leave for Colombia in one week. It’s been a long stretch until Spring Break this year, and I have never been more ready to turn off the alarm clock and throw out the schedule.