ERIN CONWAY

“Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday, especially in Guatemala,” I announced after showing up to work my shift at the library’s Learning Through Play program. I slid my calf out along the carpet to reveal black tights dotted with red and pink hearts. It was. It was Saturday. It was Valentine’s Day. Weekends were where I made up extra outreach hours I was missing to stay on track to finish my requirements as an Americorps volunteer. It was Valentine’s Day and just anot

Savta Hanna shifted from one foot to the other and pulled the bag in close to her again in an attempt to move away from where the conversation had gone. Her body looked like the bag felt heavier. “What about your friend? Lila is her name, right?” Ori squinted. “She likes trees. She’s drawn a lot of the trees around Tel Aviv. I lent her a book. I didn’t want to give it to her at first, because of all the notes I made on the page about the olive tree.” Sipping from the

The temperature had most definitely grown cooler but there was no wind. Bagel shivers, but it may not be from cold. I retreat to an easier subject. “Those people, the family that was walking you around. Where do you think they’re from?” “Their eyes were familiar to me, but I guess it would be ridiculous to think they were all the way from Guatemala.” “I wish I had their blanket. That would keep us warm. We could make a cave like Saba made.”

Excerpt STRINGS IN OUR HANDS: A Memoir for my Community of Teachers I sat on Oscar’s front step in Guatemala, holding his daughter after her first birthday party. After almost three years of Peace Corps working together in his elementary school and a few months in to a stint at an international school nearby, I was automatically invited to all family gatherings. Galy was Oscar’s third child and first girl. I was dressed in my guipil, a bright blue traditional blouse with

I remember a kind of Rockwell painting of teaching. When my grandmother, a former teacher in New York City, frowned at me for expressing...