Recessive genes

I am currently working at a church. Attached to the church is a K-8 school. Classes began yesterday. Why the state of Kansas thinks it's necessary to stick children in a classroom when there are still weeks of "good" summer weather left I don't know, but I think it has something to do with finishing the semester before Christmas. I live with the 3rd grade teacher and her husband (one of the pastors of the church), and I've been watching as she and the other teachers get their classrooms ready and prepare for the start of another year. I observed as they wrote on nametags, covered bulletine boards, organized bookshelves and filed lesson plans for Reading (why did they not offer this as a major at Northwestern?), Spelling, Math, Religion, Science, and Social Studies.

Social Studies. Hmm.

When I was in grade school Social Studies was a class in which I learned about maps, directions, Christopher Columbus, neighborhoods, state capitols, the Native Americans, and a brief overview of ancient Greece. I didn't question it at the time, but studying "social things" - all of the components and structures that make up a society - is really quite a mindful for a grade school student. In fourth grade Social Studies was replaced by (or morphed into) Nebraska History. At the age of 10 I assumed everyone spent an entire year learning about the Bugeaters, the Great Plains, the Dustbowl, Heritage School, Laura Ingalls Wilder, William Jennings Bryan and Willa Cather. Apparently I was wrong.

At one point in the year we diverged from our diligent studies of the great state of Nebraska (whose birthday happens to be March 1st, state flower is goldenrod and state bird is the meadowlark), to explore our family history. We made family trees, brought in "pieces of heritage" (mine was a German Bible), wrote stories and interviewed living grandparents (my great grandmother told me a story about a dancing black bear in Scottsbluff, NE). I shared with the class what I'd always known  - that I come from a long line of German Lutherans, that a number of my relatives were or still are farmers, and that if I go just a few generations back on either side of my family I can trace when great great grandparents immigrated through Ellis Island before settling in the Midwest. There's something very warm and safe and comforting about having roots in an agrarian family. It seems very secure and grounding to read about the farm that was passed down and passed down and passed down, to know that my ancestors were born and married in the same houses in which they raised their own children. I like being German. I like claiming a piece of our family farm and imagining my grandmother chasing geese and milking cows and baking bread before she met my grandfather while skating at someone's birthday part or a church social. It's all very sweet and quaint and comforting. But sometimes I wish my family history was a little more...exotic. A little less warm and safe and stable, in part because I am not warm and safe and stable.

And then I think of my mom's dad, the grandfather I never met but have heard so much about. I'm not really sure where the family records went, but I've never been able to trace his lineage. With the last name Carroll we think he may have had some Irish in him, though the man was dark-haired with olive skin that beautifull browned in the sun. The muddle of marriages on that branch of the family tree give no definite answer. My mom once told me she thinks there could be some Native American blood somewhere in the mix - a proposition that has resurfaced from the swirling depths of my memory. My schema for tribal people is quite the contrast to the farm-raised German Lutherans with whom I've always associated. Though I'm no kind of expert on Native American history, grade school Social Studies taught me that Native American tribes were horse-riding, arrow-shooting, teepee-dwelling nomads.

Nomad - that's something I can relate to. "Roaming about from place to place aimlessly, frequently, or without a fixed pattern of movement" (according to Webster) - that's my life right now. That's been my life for the past five years, certainly for the past two. In the past two years I've moved five times and traveled to four countries. I've spent more long weekends away from a temporary home than I can count. And to be honest, I've enjoyed a lot of it. I like experiencing new places. I like meeting new people. I lack any kind of emotional, physical, financial or occupational stability, but I'm starting to think some of that is okay. That it's alright to wander for a while.

I've applied for a lot of jobs since coming to Kansas City, but even the ones I'm really interested in I can't imagine staying with for more than a year or two. There are just too many things to do and see and learn. I recognize the danger in thinking "the grass is always greener" and the strain of feeling that I am continually looking for or anticipating "the next great thing" in my life. I don't want to be ruled by that. But I don't feel ready to root myself yet either. I value the freedom to explore and experience. I only wish it didn't seem so irresponsible. There is this inner battle between stability and spontaneity. I imagine my invented nomadic ancestor trying to find level ground with my historic German Lutheran family and I wonder which I would side with. Which is stronger? My sense of wanderlust or sense of duty? My sense of adventure or desire for security? I would like to say there is a balance between the two, a balance that I'm capable of finding and living in, but that has yet to be seen.