Ms. Brunault, are you writing a book?

Last week. In the middle of reviewing research requirements with the sophomores of period 5A religion, a student raised her hand and innocently asked, "Ms. Brunault are you writing a book?" Immediately my answer was no. No I am not writing a book. "But Ms. W said you were," the reply came, instantly rumored by voices throughout the room. Am I? I was forced to ask myself? Am I writing a book? The simple answer is no. No I am not a novelist. No I am not in the midst of some massive writing project with the goal of publication. But the bigger question remains, am I a writer? I still bounce between yes and no. Part of me, the part that would like to be a writer, says yes. Another part of me, the part of me that knows writing takes more time, talent and effort than I have, says no. No you are not a writer. What is a writer we ask? Is a writer simply someone who writes? A kindergartener learning to print her name, and string simple sight words into sentences. Or is a writer the Jodi Piccoults, Ann Rinaldis and William Shakespeares of the world? Our answer I believe lies somewhere in the middle, and it is thanks to a fellow blogger (if I can really use the term to describe myself) that I have reached this conclusion. "Someone I know is a blogger." I told a few friends and family members, "But she is not a blogger like me," I continued. "She is a real blogger. She doesn't just write about what she does. She really writes. She is prophetic." It is in this reading of words from someone I actually know that I realize we all have the potential to be writers. We write stories of our own lives. We have been given the paper and the ink, but it is our responsibility, our opportunity, to write a story everyday. Each day I visit As Simple As That I am given the chance to read someone elses story, and to be inspired to write my own. It is in reading Hannah's words that I am reminded that real people can be writers.... I am reminded that next time maybe I should answer my students a little differently when they ask, "Ms.Brunault are you writing a book?"

Yes. I am writing a book. Everyday is a new chapter. Every word I write is a lesson learned. I have a good teacher.

A New Englander in the Midwest

Growing up and throughout college, I had friends who were 100% of a particular ethnicity, or had their ethnic background neatly divided into two categories. People who spoke Spanish at home, visited relatives in Portugal, took pride in Notre Dame football because they too were "fighting Irish," enjoyed pierogi at Polish picnics, or ate a traditional fish dinner on Christmas Eve. This neat background, and grounding in a particular heritage were not true for myself however. My best attempt at an accurate count, shows at least 6-7 cultural backgrounds in my blood, though I suspect the number may be higher. I am not 100% anything. My parents are not 100% anything. Neither are my grandparents. At times I considered this the best of both worlds. I could join the DAR if I really felt the desire, can eat Linzer tarts at holidays, oplatek on Christmas Eve. I can enjoy Yorkshire Pudding, or homemade pitscelles, or lasagna. (Yes, I know - all memories seem related to food.) At other times I was jealous, felt that I was missing out on some mystical family bond which develops over shared culture and ethnic foods. It seems silly in some ways, to think that a close-knit and loving family could be enhanced over something so trivial. I know what I am. What we are. I am French like my name. Italian like my love for pasta. I am Polish, English, and German. I am things I don't even know about. I am American. I am a New Englander. A New Englander in the Midwest. I knew that our country was different. That throughout this great nation there was variety. From Redwood forests to the New York Island. From the mountains, to the prairies, to the oceans white with foam. For the past few months, these differences have smacked me straight in the face on a daily basis. I cannot even perform a simple activity such as pumping gas, without being reminded - "Lauren you are in South Dakota." Pulling off Hwy. 16 or a similar road outside of town into a gas station, means feeling the crunch beneath your tires as asphalt becomes gravel. There is no requirement to pay before you pump, and in fact, many gas stations do not have a pre-pay option. My initial avoidance of pumping gas on the bitter cold -10 days was somewhat alleviated when I remembered that outside Massachusetts gas clips are allowed, and I could wait in the comfort of my car while filling up. I am not in Italy or Africa or Mexico, and yet simple everyday tasks, also remind me that I am no longer in Massachusetts, no longer in New England. They remind me that even when I can not connect to any particular ethnicity, I am a New Englander. The title of this blog was started as a bit of a joke. Rapid City is not even on the prairies (it's part of the Black Hills, and the largest mountain between the Rockies and the Alps is visible from town.) The culture of the area however is far more different than I expected. Shockingly different. Soccer is not a sponsored interscholastic sport. Football is intense. High school games can lead to the type of heckling I'd previously seen amongst Sox-Yankees fans. The western, prairie lifestyle I'd imagined from Laura Ingalls Wilder books still exists. I have students who live "in town," during the week to attend school, and go home on the weekends. School districts have separate categories for "rural schools," many of which service K-8 with only one teacher. In Massachusetts there is no such thing as living "out of town," we consider Palmer and it's population of 12,000+ to be a "small town," and deem anyplace more than 45 minutes from the nearest mall "rural." Moving here has made me realize, that being a New Englander really can be an identity. I am a Sox loving, Yankees hating, Dunks drinking, Friendly's eating New Englander. I love seafood. I don't consider the Atlantic too cold or too rocky. I know the difference between whole belly clams and strips, between New England Chowder and Rhode Island. I love summer days at the beach and the smell of fall air. I like visiting small cities, college towns, and used bookstores. I ski on hills. I love local, homemade, hard-serve ice cream. I can navigate highway traffic and left hand exits just as well as rural roads and snowstorms.

I am a New Englander. A New Englander in the Midwest.