The Pompitous of 1973

It all started back in the 5th Grade with Secret Valentines. Two weeks after the landmark Roe v. Wade decision, I started finding little Sweetheart candies on my school desk. Then on February 14th,  the big reveal came. MC had drawn my name out of the hat and he handed my present off to me in an embarrassed walk-by. It was a 45 – “The Joker” by the Steve Miller Band. That record set off a month-long unrequited crush and an awakening to music’s power to incite and amplify emotions. I played that single to death while somewhere in the background, the troops were withdrawn from Vietnam, the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center were finished – making them briefly the world’s tallest buildings – and the Watergate hearings began. Only that third one really registered with me because it upset Grandpa so much. It also vindicated me after losing the class debate on the ’72 Presidential Election earlier in the fall. My attention was much more attuned to “Maurice” ‘cause  he spoke “of the pompitous of love” (whatever that meant). That was the first record in what would become a fairly large collection of vinyl.

If memory serves, I played my 45 on a portable record player in my own room. I don’t remember exactly how it looked, but while googling, this picture seemed most familiar to me, closest to my fuzzy recollections – especially those two white knobs on the front. Meanwhile, an exploration of our house had added two LP’s to my collection – the only two I found that weren’t classical music: “The Best of the Monkees” and the soundtrack to “Jesus Christ Superstar”. I played them to death. Secretariat won the Triple Crown and the Lakota people gave up their occupation of Wounded Knee with the government promising to investigate broken treaties, but I barely noticed. I wanted more. I wanted the stuff I was hearing on WKTI FM – the “non-stop stereo rock” station.

I had started the 6th Grade and the Vice-President had resigned, when I saw an ad on TV for “24 Golden Hits of 1973” and it was perfect. It had “Monster Mash” and “Superfly” and “Crocodile Rock” on it!! Amazingly my mother let me order it. (Possibly she was tired of hearing “The Joker” and Davey Jones?) When it arrived in the mail, I was so excited and then immediately deeply, deeply disappointed. Somehow I had missed the fact in the commercial that these weren’t the original songs. They were all covers done by a group called “The Sound Effects”. (To use my non-PC 1973 vocabulary): “What a gyp!”

 

I played that record to death.

And I began “appropriating” records from my brothers to grow my collection. Goodbye Pop Top 40, hello Pink Floyd and Jethro Tull.

By the time I was 13 or 14, Nixon was long gone, the world population had passed the 4 billion mark and Lucy’s discovery in Ethiopia had set its starting date back about 3 million years. I started to have a little mad money from babysitting, raking leaves, shoveling snow, etc. I had also stopped spending all of my allowance on Wacky Packages stickers and Bazooka bubble gum. One day, I finally did it. I entered a record store with the intention of actually buying something. The decision was excruciating, but I finally went for Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” and the brand new Queen album – “A Night at the Opera”.  (“Hhmmm. Pretty good choices!” my later self would think 40 years in the future.)

From then on, music was a constant and continually changing companion. It helped me feel the world and helps me now to remember it. Every relationship got its theme song. Styx’s “Come Sail Away” will always evoke the basement of my high school house and the first boyfriend who lasted more than a few weeks, (now shrouded with an extra layer of sadness since the news of his suicide a few years ago.)  Toto’s “Hold the Line” still throws me back to my first real date – as in boy picks up girl in his dad’s car and gets grilled by the girl’s stepfather (who only looks mean) before driving her to a family restaurant with popcorn on the floor. Journey, Kansas, Genesis, Foreigner, The Cars, Kinks, Kings and Doors were some of my guides through the wild but romantically lean college years during which I scared away a succession of potential suitors by pointing out how their love of Bruce Springsteen contradicted their support for President Trickledown.  Later, a certain nameless artist’s now unmentionable song about violet precipitation remains the soundtrack to my one and only broken heart and still, 30 years later, makes me change the radio station went it comes on.

 

But it is not only romances I remember. Country music conjures the smell of the pine trees up in northern Wisconsin. Neue Deutsche Welle tastes like German wheat beer and pungent French filter-less cigarettes. Punk makes my shoes stick to the floor in an illegally occupied tenement turned even more illegal dancing bar. The sound of the accordion has me sitting in a cozy warm mountain lodge on a cold night sipping tea with schnapps. R.E.M. puts my first baby back in my arms. The fiddle wakes up ancestral memories stored in my DNA. Fusion Jazz tells me that my childhood is officially over. But never fear – a Davey Jones song can bring it back for a while if I ever need it to.

As I wrote a while back, my birthday present this year was the resurrection of long lost feelings and memories, raised from near-oblivion by the power of music – “the records of my past” in both meanings of the phrase. Something tells me this going-back-to-vinyl thing will be more than just a passing fancy. Last week I was in Graz and had some time on my hands before I had to catch my train. I googled record stores and actually found one. Here’s what my smile and I came home with:

Listening to these sometimes scratchy sounds takes me out of the present for a while, but while helping me with a dose of nostalgia, I also sense a faint and haunting echo.As the disc spins, it seems to me, here in 2017, that the world of 1973 has circled back on me – only now with its population doubled and its history slightly warped. There are big holes in the ground where the twin towers used to be, and yet, we are still living under their shadows. There’s another space cowboy/joker in the White House planning new onslaughts on Roe and the Lakota. There’s an old conflict in Southeast Asia ramping up just as the hearings on Watergate 2.0 begin. There is pompitous galore and the same old song being played to death.

 

Kids in Their Cells – The Epilogue

My Years of Montessori – Part 37 ½

 

Movie Night was a mixed success in the end. Despite the lovely afternoon, it seems that the later it got, the more bad ideas the kids had and the more they acted on them. Cell phones reappeared and then after midnight, without my (sleeping) colleague’s knowledge, a third movie (not rated for their age group) was watched. For four of my five fellow teachers – this incident was the proverbial last straw. Time to take action against the increasing number of – and increasingly dishonest – provocations before our trust in them disappeared altogether. Cell phones would now be banned from the school.

I got tasked with letting them know. Right then and there. I trudged up the stairwell toward the classroom, thinking this is going to suck.

I called the whole class to the carpet and they sat in a circle. They were eerily quiet and uncharacteristically attentive. I think they knew what was coming.

“I have something to tell you all. It’s about the cell phone situation. We teachers have decided it is time to disappear them completely.”

The room was silent. There were no objections or groans or complaining noises. No one whined “But whyyy??” So I continued . . .

“We decided this because our original agreement on how and when cells can be used is not being kept to. So . . . from now on, they should stay in your schoolbags, turned off or in flight mode, for the entire school day. Basically from when you get out of the bus in the morning to when you get back in after school.  And . . . I guess . . . that is all. Does anyone want to say something?”

Tommy raised his hand and asked “Why does this have to apply to everyone in the group? The girls didn’t do anything wrong.”

I was stunned. All eyes were on me and all mouths remained shut. I surveyed the other boys’ faces and they were all looking back at me expectantly. Where was the protest? Tommy had essentially expressed a group confession, a collective acceptance of the consequences, and then tossed in a fine, fair, and socially mindful proposal to protect the innocent. I didn’t know how to respond. So I said,

“I don’t really know how to respond to that.”

A few of the girls quietly added that they would still like to listen to music during the break, and that it was true they had always stuck to the rules.

“Well, I can’t change the Team’s decision on my own. But if you all have an idea for a better solution in this situation, you can bring it to us and we will consider it.”

One girl then said, “I think we all agree with Tommy’s suggestion.”

“One set of rules for the girls and another for the boys? Is that true? Who of you thinks Tommy’s suggestion is a good way to go?”

All fifteen hands immediately shot up into the air.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll bring it to the team and let you know. Until that happens, the new rules apply to everyone. Does anyone have anything to add?”

Another boy raised his hand.

“Should we go put our cells in our school bags right away?” He seemed eager, as if hoping to hear a “Yes”.

 

“How can it be,” I asked myself as I left the room, “that they all seem  . . . relieved?!”

 

I later came to believe that the kids had talked among themselves before this circle discussion ever happened. I think they knew the hammer was going to come down and came up with their own solution – as a group – that everyone could live with when it did. If so, that was a great sign. They were on their way to becoming unified again. I thought it would be a positive development to respect their unanimous proposal.

My fellow teachers, unfortunately, didn’t tend to agree. Especially my Movie Night friend wanted us to take the hardest line possible and saw all of this as just the next attempt to bend rules. I had to argue for 45 minutes till we came to an agreement.

Today, I sat with the kids in a circle again and had each individual one say in turn if they still felt the same, still agreed to Tommy’s proposal. No one had changed their mind. So I told them that we teachers see this as their decision, not ours, but that we will respect it because it was unanimous and had its own kind of fairness. Still, I asked the girls if they would think about alternative ways to listen to music as a show of solidarity and they all nodded yes. Then we wrote up the new arrangements and everyone signed:

 

Cell Etiquette

cells in schoolbags, flight mode, from bus to bus

music for the girls

ask before calling or texting (e.g. parents)

 

Kids in Their Cells

 

My Years of Montessori – Part 37

 

I spent five hours of my normally free Friday with my Secondary class. They were having their annual “Movie Night”/ sleepover at the school. It was very good timing, too, because the once good atmosphere in the group has been slipping away. And for one major reason: cell phones.

We have a general agreement that we teachers don’t take their cells away from them during the school day. They should be on flight mode and only used for listening to music during the break. I don’t know exactly when it started, but it is now the school’s worst kept secret that the five boys huddled on the couch for the entire 40 minute break are NOT listening to music. They are stealthily clan clashing or mine-crafting or subway surfing or Pokémon going. (I assume I revealed my ignorance about these games with that last sentence.) The non-gamers in the classroom are increasingly bothered about it – not only because of the dishonesty, but because these boys are no longer available to them. They are missed on the soccer field and in the rounds of Werewolf or Activity. They are missed in simple conversation. As they sit there staring into their screens, thumbs waving, they are unresponsive and inaccessible to everyone else. And they resent being asked to stop by their classmates, then compensate for their tinges of guilt by being extra snippy or sullen. As these cell phone games draw them in, they also draw them away from their friends, isolating them in a sort of self-inflicted solitary confinement.

So as I wrote at the start, it was a very good time for a class event like the Movie Night. Just like last year, I agreed to chaperone until 5 pm, when my younger and more idealistic colleague arrived to take over for the night shift. And just like last year, I agreed to do this on the condition that my Dog 4 came along and that we ALL went for a walk together.

When I arrived, most of the kids were cooking lunch already. The missing five were up in the classroom, on the couch, staring into screens with thumbs flashing. I sat down next to one of them and asked him to show me the game. Technically the school day was over and they had the right to do this openly, but my presence seemed to take the fun out of it. They broke off and, one after another, meandered down to the kitchen where all the laughter was. The one last holdout could not be talked into joining the rest, so I left him there alone. He finally showed up for lunch when the remainder of the spaghetti was cold and sticky.

We cleared the table and immediately set out for our walk. The girls set off at an enthusiastic pace, singing songs, while the boys lagged behind in a demonstration of their reluctance. Our destination was a sort of natural playground next to a stream that had been recently restored to its original course as part of a regional conservation project. It’s a beautiful area that now attracts more bikers and hikers than tractors or pesticides. Part of the project was planting hundreds of trees and special plants in an effort to bring back the bees. The restoration of the original river will hopefully bring back the native fish.

 

About halfway along, one of the girls blurted out: “Could we maybe forbid cell phones in the school?” That set off a flurry of discussion and revelations about what was going on in their classroom and how they felt about it. I mostly just listened and learned. The discussion continued all the way to the playground where we sat down and waited for the stragglers to show up.

They (the stragglers) eventually arrived and plopped themselves down at a distance from us, apparently exhausted after their 30 minute trail of tears.

But then something happened. The playground started to work its magic. They slowly, one by one, got up and moved toward some piece of equipment. They started playing. And competing. And laughing. Cell phones appeared – but only to take pictures.  As we all soaked up the sun, some of their adolescent lethargy melted away and the factions started intermingling.

The walk home happened in different constellations and unhurriedly as we stopped along the way for more games by the river.

Two hours after taking off, we returned to the school and . . .

. . . the five went directly to their classroom couch, dove into their cells, and were once again lost to the others.

But not for long. Protests from their classmates pried the first two out and back to group games. They went outside to play soccer, leaving just three. After five minutes, I said to them “Everyone else is outside playing – why don’t you join them?” I pointed to a cell phone. “You can do that anytime.” It was enough to get another one to move. Three down, two more holdouts: the biggest gamer of them all and a recent convert who I guessed was only doing it to fit in with the others. I set my sights on him.

“You know, I don’t think you realize what that device in your hand is doing to you. Those 12 kids outside are your friends and their feelings are hurt. You all only have about three more months together. They want to spend time with you. And you are up here doing something you can do alone in your room.”

The convert paused for a second, put the cell down, sighed an “Okay” and went to join the others. That left one. The leader of the lost pack.

“Are you coming too?” I asked him.

“Maybe. Later.”

It took no more than a few minutes before the convert was running around whooping after scoring his first goal. Another five minutes after that, the final holdout appeared at the side of the soccer field. The others noticed him and squealed out his name, letting him know how glad they were to see him. He smiled.

 

Marketed to Death

I don’t know why we keep our landline telephone. It hardly ever rings, and nine times out of ten when it does, somebody aggressively tries to sell me something, or tries to trick me into subscribing to something, or asks me to participate in a marketing survey. In that last case, they begin by lying about how long it will take.

Back when I was teaching Business English, I used to say yes to these survey takers and even found it sort of fun. But then, one day, the Grocery Store Jingle Guy called. He said he would either play snippets or say slogans, and I should tell him what chain it was for. Why not? I thought. I don’t watch Austrian TV, but I do go shopping occasionally . . .

“I’m going to be really bad at this,” I warned Survey Guy nevertheless.

After answering “Not sure” to the first three questions, I interrupted him. “Would it be better if I just guessed when I’m not sure?” He said yes.

For the rest of the questions I just said whatever popped into my mind and then immediately thought “No. Wait . . . that wasn’t right.” Survey Guy’s pauses after each of my answers got a tiny bit longer . . .

Near the end, he asked if I lived in a village or town, and then if my village had a store, and then which one.

“Adeg,” I answered, and then thought “No. Wait . . . that’s not right.”

As always, the survey ended with a few questions about me – sex, age range, income range, education level . . .

I told him I had two university degrees.

“OH!” he said, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

Despite this embarrassing performance, marketers kept calling regularly. I was clearly on some kind of list that gets passed around. It got annoying – all the more because I had only myself to blame for getting on such a list.

I should have known better.

Back in my college days, I once got on a very different sort of list – or at least my telephone number did – but that time it wasn’t my fault. Out of the blue, the phone in my apartment started ringing off the hook – I mean 10 or more times an hour – all men asking to speak to my roommate. A few of the dejected or confused callers mentioned the words “Hot Lips” (or something close to that – it was a long time ago). It turned out that one of my roommate’s friends pranked her by placing an ad offering telephone sex in the classified section (“Hot Lips”) of a men’s magazine, using her real first name and our shared telephone number. Nice. We had to put up with these calls for a month, until the next issue of the magazine came out. In the meantime, the phone stayed off the hook overnight and for long periods during the day.

Ginger Hot Lips

I confess we did have some fun with the situation. Sometimes when the phone rang, we would ask unsuspecting visitors “Could you get that please?” Some of our friends . . . “engaged” with this or that caller for a while. Sometimes we passed the phone on to the Gingerbread Man and let him deal with it. (For more on this little guy’s escapades, see “My Velveteen Rabbit.) And my roommate’s prankster friend?  When she came over, she always had to answer the phone as a condition of her forgiveness and continued visiting privileges. (By the way, in case you read the post linked to above, Prankster Friend and Lampshade Lady are one and the same.) Despite some fun, the constantly ringing phone and subsequent – short! – conversations got very, very annoying, just like the marketing calls now.

 

This morning our landline phone rang and I just stood there listening to the sound for a while. Experience has taught me to blow it off, but there was that little fleeting thought that it might be important. I started to slowly climb the stairs. The ringing stopped when I was halfway up.

We really should lose that device.

And it is not the only communication port around here that has lost its usefulness. I used to love checking the mailbox. There were times when I even waited impatiently for the mailman to come. But now that I have cancelled my last subscription and no one writes letters anymore, the mailbox has become nothing more than a depository for bills, advertisements and donation requests. Here is yesterday’s dump:

 

That’s all from just one day!

For a while, 99% of the contents of our mailbox never made it into the house. (Our paper recycling can is conveniently located halfway between.) But then my husband protested – he likes looking at this stuff. So now there are little piles of it all over the house requiring constant removal.

“Dealing with mail” and “answering the telephone” became two new additions to our household chores list. The first one has slowly shifted over to my husband’s column and the second to my daughter’s. She is getting really good at filtering. Now, when the phone rings, nine times out of ten I hear this:

(the sound of my daughter walking)

“Hello?”

(long silence)

“Um. I’m sorry, but my mom and dad aren’t here right now . . .”

Fifty-five

fifty-five

I reached 55 today. It’s a good time to ease off life’s gas pedal and switch on the cruise control.

 

fifty-five-2

According to Merriam-Webster, today I also reached the status of “senior citizen” (synonyms: ancient, elder, geriatric, golden-ager, oldster, old-timer, senior). At least that’s the definition “for English language learners”. When I think of my very young students, it is probably true. My own Grade School teachers were a lot younger than I am now, but to me back then, they were all like Grandma. Sigh.

vinyl

 

So today was also an especially good day to resurrect the vinyl with my new excellent birthday present/toy! For a few hours this afternoon I soaked in the sounds of my two-six-pack basement parties during high school, my college dorm rooms, my very first apartment . . .  In the vernacular of my newly rediscovered inner 15 year old, I was really rowdy and had a blast!

Thank You, NPR

I am fairly sure that I owe my sanity to National Public Radio.

Whenever I overindulge in corporate media and feel myself winding up tighter and tighter till I’m ready to snap (and here “snap” usually means going on a blog rant), I switch to public radio and television for a while. It’s like therapy. News of the world is discussed calmly and in depth by people who actually have expertise in the subjects they are talking about. Commentary (opinion) and news (fact) are clearly delineated. Podcasts and shows cover a wide range of topics beyond the sensationalized flavor-of-the-month personality or the most recent act of violent insanity heralding the End of Days.

I like the science shows the best. Interesting and nice people enthusiastically researching cool things out of sheer curiosity or for the advancement of their chosen field. Sure, some of them may secretly dream of attaining fame and fortune for curing cancer. But isn’t that still better than merely fantasizing about fame and fortune for their own sakes?

An Aside:
The whole fame thing has been a constant question in my life. Honestly, what is the appeal? So you get your picture in the paper a lot, but the tradeoff from that point onward is never knowing who your true friends are. In case you aren’t convinced and you still want to live forever, here are my recipes for success:
For:
15 minutes of fame:               Audition for a casting show
15 months of fame:                Become a Trump campaign spokesperson
15 years of fame:                    Compose a one-hit wonder song
15 decades of fame:               Take over Germany
15 centuries of fame:             Start a religion
15 millennia of fame:             Fossilize
Eternal fame:                          Start a blog on WordPress
Where was I? Oh right. NPR.

cyberkrank1Today I indulged in a bunch of podcasts all dealing with parenting and technology, the first being an interview with the author of “How to Raise a Wild Child”. It started with statistics that the average American child spends less than 10 minutes a day outside and up to 10 hours a day at some device with a screen. (First question: do I believe that? Not really. But even if it were one hour outside and 5 hours with a screen, I would still be alarmed.)  It intrigued me and got me linking to all sorts of related stories. I heard great discussions about helicopter versus free range parenting including a story about some Americans who got into trouble (or maybe even arrested?) for allowing their kids to walk home from the playground alone. It seems that not only are kids rarely outside, they are basically never unsupervised.

When I was young, my mom didn’t know exactly where I was every second of the day. I spent a lot of my afternoons “bombing around” the neighborhood with the other kids on the block, riding bikes, playing games, taking walks to the Dime Store or 31 Flavors . . . It was understood that I would show up back home around dinnertime.

My own girls have grown up in the country in a house built into the side of a hill. Behind us, up a steep climb is a major road leading to the local spa, but spread out in front of us are rolling hills, fields, trails, streams and small forests. We can walk for a half hour in that direction before coming to a road. My daughters didn’t have the benefit of a neighborhood gang, but they had friends over  or sometimes struck up short-lived friendships with young guests at the three B&B’s near our house. I can still remember the first time the two of them told me they were “going outside to play” and then took off. Over the next 4 or five hours, I heard their voices sporadically, but in between I wasn’t really sure what they were up to. I fought the impulse to go looking for them and reminded myself of the importance of trust. By early evening they had returned to the trampoline in my neighbor’s yard and I finally shouted down to them “Time to come home, girls. It’s getting dark.” And then a monstrous wave of nostalgia washed over me. How often had I heard that sentence in my own childhood?

Where was I? Oh right. NPR.

The next show I listened to was about a study finding that American parents were less happy than non-parents (mostly due to financial and work-related pressures).  After the report above, this didn’t surprise me at all. With so few family-friendly policies, affordable daycare options, live-in grandparents and the fact that children apparently need to be supervised 24/7, I wonder how Americans ever succeed in combining careers and kids. It must be exhausting. I can imagine such harried parents being grateful for an hour or two of peace and quiet as their kids are glued to TV sets or playing some game online in their rooms with the doors closed . . .

cyberkrank2The end of that show got me thinking about a local lecture I had missed (due to work) and so I found the link to the video and watched the entire 2 hours. Manfred Spitzer – a German expert on brain development – gave a talk about the dangers of introducing children to the digital world too soon. He has written two books (“Digital Dementia” and “Cybersick” – unfortunately neither of which has been translated into English) in which he explains very clearly why we should keep our children away from screens and their mindless, habit-forming instant gratification for as long as humanly possible. His prescriptions for good brain development of your children: 1) bilingualism, 2) music, 3) sports.

That all made me feel pretty good.  By way of happy accident, my kids grew up speaking two languages, they were always encouraged to do sports by their gym teacher father, and they were both born with musical talent in their genes. They don’t like video games and watch very little TV – never during the day. I live in a country with family-friendly policies and in a marriage with a 50/50 dad. Very little of the above is of my own doing, beyond making a fortuitous decision here or there. I fully realize that I have been lucky.

Where was I?

I also fully realize the irony of confessing to hours and hours of internet consumption while writing on the topic of digital dementia – but all that surfing today did me a world of good. My mind finally detached from all the sensationalized reporting of creepy convention frenzy and found its way back to my real life, here and now, past and present. The corporate media had been sending me multiple messages that the world is falling apart and that my kids are in danger. NPR tells me that they are doing fine and have bright futures. I can now go to bed with a mind at ease.

 

Hey Kids! Go Outside, Already    http://www.wbur.org/onpoint/2016/07/20/children-nature-parenting-outside
Why Are American Parents So Unhappy? http://www.wbur.org/onpoint/2016/07/11/unhappy-american-parents
Prof. Dr. Dr. Manfred Spitzer – Gehirnforschung und die Schule des Lebens (Stadtgemeinde Feldbach)  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2IAsvyadSvQ

Catch I-20

I have ranted several times about the circular firing squad that our team meetings at school can be. I have to say now . . . “Thanks Team! You prepared me well for the nightmare that is our visa situation for my daughter.”

It is really very simple.

My daughter wants to spend 9 months in the States by her aunt and attend an American high school that she has been accepted into. Just like any HS exchange program except no host family.

catch 22Unfortunately, the post-9/11, illegal-alien-hysterical, and “Don’t call us. Please visit our website” world has thrown a few chinks (is that not PC?) into our plans. My daughter can’t get an F-1 visa because the school that accepted her is not allowed to issue the necessary I-20 form on their own. The exchange program they normally work with cannot provide the form, because the school is not on the officially accredited list. For that school, they can only provide the form for the J-1 cultural exchange visa, but under the condition that my daughter lives with strangers and not American relatives.

No form, no visa. You can’t even submit the application and then try to talk your way to a solution. The online system will not allow a form with an empty field to be transmitted. (And mind you – this is a machine making the decision of whether you can apply or not.)

So we went the citizenship route. According to the Child Citizenship Act of 2001, my adopted daughter is entitled to be treated equally to biological children. She has the right to automatic dual citizenship. All we need to do is apply for a “Certificate of Citizenship” once she arrives in the States. I read up on all of this and set the process in motion.  I gathered documents and asked my sister to call the nearest Immigration and Naturalization Office to set up an appointment for us right after our arrival. She did so immediately and was informed that this process was unnecessary. My daughter is already a citizen. All she needs is a passport. I should go get one from the Embassy.

That seemed like good news. I returned to that now very familiar website, but this time I read the entire “Citizen’s Service Section” and how to apply for a passport. Under the list of necessary documents I spotted “Certificate of Citizenship”.  Which can only be applied for inside the US.

At some point you simply put yourself in the hands of a higher power. I made an appointment at the Embassy for three days from now anyway. Then I started compiling every single document listed in the website along with every additional one I could think of that might be helpful – all the way down to my grade school report cards (which, by the way, repeatedly declare me to be “cooperative and courteous”).

If we end up having to give up our plans for my daughter’s exchange year in the States, then someone is going to have to look her in the eyes first and explain to her why she can’t go. That person is not going to be me.