The snooze button bought me nine minutes and I rolled over into them in the urgency of morning sleep. I groaned to the second alarm which always seems to come so quickly that it’s no use hitting the snooze in the first place. Getting up just gets harder every time it’s delayed. I laid there for a few minutes, swishing my toes up and down as the last few shreds of sleep slipped away and thought about the banality that sticks to the skin even after a skip across an ocean. Hours of class filled up my mind, long dried-up stretches of dust and yellow grass, little pieces of paper flying across a classroom, eraser bits on desktops, kids’ heads turning. I brushed the crust from my eyes and headed for the shower, letting my feet feel the cold and my mind linger over the Nutella waiting in the closet.

Holding the shower head over my head (I love France) the water was lukewarm again and again I let myself groan softly, my desires rolling over the hills and mountains next door, experiencing the weekend through images on my eyelids as I washed my hair and brushed my teeth. I was nervous about the coming week, not knowing if my lesson plans would cover an hour, if the students would care, if they’d listen to the speech I’d prepared, if they’d ever been inspired by words like me or preferred to sleep their teenage years away, smoking dope and making jokes.

The day before slipped quickly away while I was climbing cliffs and belaying boys. I couldn’t have been more content. The January sun was utterly alone in the sky, lighting up rolling hills green where they stretched out below. I was wearing nothing but running pants and a tank top and marveled at these unusual winter conditions. I felt absolutely free swinging in my harness out over the valley, taking in that silence that climbers enjoy together. Meeting people who climb and ski has been one of the biggest perks this year, along with the paid vacation and free days with which to play. And oh we play. But even in foreign countries Monday comes so soon.

Before I knew it I was locking my door and walking to school. The sky was deep dark blue and the sidewalk with its sticks and fallen leaves was glittering with frost that would linger in the shadows as the sun began to melt the rest. I wouldn’t get to enjoy this phenomenon, though, as I’d be in a linoleum room with a stereo, trying to inspire a bunch of punks with my country’s recent history, my heart leaning as far out the window as theirs.

So there the high school loomed, large and cold as I approached, and I straightened up my back, lifted my chin, and strutted, glancing at curious faces, letting my mouth curl into a half smile at the students who yell “hello Bonnie” across the courtyard. I can never tell if it’s meant to be friendly or jeering but I like it all the same. They know my name.

A few feverish photocopies later and I was running to the bell, lugging the Educombi CD and cassette player for teachers that just has to weigh about 30 pounds. Wouldn’t be educational if it was convenient, now would it? My legs found the third floor, my key found the lock, my students found their seats, and my voice, (can you believe it?) my voice found its authority. “Question of the day:” I scribbled on the board, “What is the American Dream?” They watched my movements as I sashayed across the room and back, and they listened to my words, every one. Some of them even raised their hands when I asked them to read. “It must be the weather,” I thought, “Or they ate something funny, maybe?”

I was excited when the class was half over because my most anticipated activity had come. “You’ve all heard the words ‘I have a dream,’ haven’t you?” I asked. They nodded and said “oui.” I gave them the text with missing words to fill in so that they’d have to pay attention, and told them to have their pencils ready. “On your marks,” I said, “Get set…” and my trusty Educombi let loose the clear ringing words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the emotion in his voice bouncing off of chairs and tables and walls and pencils, permeating their skulls and my own. His voice mounted as the crowd responded, which the kids found silly, and there they sat concentrating on his words in silence.

One boy was clicking his pen and the girl across from him was staring at her desk. Two whispered to each other now and then and they all sat and they listened. And as the end of the speech approached, King was almost yelling, his voice shaking with urgency as I had heard it before in films and classes and all over my childhood, really. My heart picked up for a moment while he teetered on the edge of that phrase “Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty we’re free at last!” The bell rang, then, as if saying “you’re all free!” and the students filed out, telling me “goodbye” while I leaned on the desk and looked at the floor, waiting for the goose bumps to fade from my arms.