The Garden, The Classroom, & Me

I always knew I wanted to teach, but realizing that history was the subject I was meant to teach was a slower, more gradual process. It wasn’t so much about choosing a direction as it was about uncovering something that had always been there, like finding a key part of myself hidden just beneath the surface. History felt like an invitation to understand the world and connect with others in meaningful ways. I deeply resonated with my undergraduate history professor, Dr. Scalberg, when he described his own dilemma entering college without a declared major. He loved the sciences, literature, and more; his interests were broad and varied. In a simple conversation, his guidance counselor pointed him toward social studies, remarking that there’s a history to everything. By studying history, he could satisfy his wide-ranging curiosity about it all. As he shared this anecdote on a random morning during the fall term of my Junior year, he gave words to an experience that I aligned with to my core. 

After graduating with my bachelor's in History, I found the idea of starting a teaching career in the middle of the pandemic overwhelming. A few disappointing job fairs left me discouraged, and I wasn’t eager to return to working as a barista. I craved a workplace that offered some peace during such a tumultuous time. By chance, I remembered the Portland Japanese Garden and the fond memories I had of that beautiful gem. (See the photo of my glorious bowl-cut and my older sister's incredible red jumpsuit at the PJG in 2000.) After interviewing and falling in love with the garden all over again, I was thrilled to be offered a job.

Working at the Portland Japanese Garden satisfied my desire to immerse myself in rich history, be occupied with tasks of multivariety, and all within a peaceful setting. I can’t fully express how valuable my time at the Garden was. My role kept me constantly on my feet, roaming the grounds, acting as a walking guide, and answering any and all questions. Whether I was in quiet solitude snipping water shoots from azaleas, memorizing all 40+ koi fish by name and appearance, or explaining the purpose of new wood replacements next to old (embracing the juxtaposition of age rather than masking it for aesthetic uniformity), I found myself truly understanding what it means to love what you do so much it doesn’t feel like work. This quiet time was also invaluable for my prayer life; a story for another time. Throughout this experience, I found myself being drawn back to the idea of teaching.

Although it wasn’t officially part of my job, I dove into the Garden’s history, fascinated by its role in fostering cultural ties between Japan and the United States after World War II. (See the photo of the Peace Lantern, one of four of its kind, the others in Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Tokyo.) That research completely drew me in. I felt like my middle-school self again, eager to learn the rich histories behind my paternal and maternal grandmothers’ “Coming to America” stories. Working at the Garden, I saw firsthand the impact cultural connections can make. I found so much joy in sharing my research and historical discoveries with both coworkers and guests. That year at the Garden will always hold a special place in my heart.

While I have a tendency to lean into nostalgia, I’m confident the Garden could have been a lifelong career for me. I like to imagine it as my retirement job someday, or a place where I could volunteer in the summer to refresh my soul after a demanding school year; however, the joy and peace I found at the Garden in that year is something I hope to foster in my own classroom one day. Call it wishful thinking or new-teacher naïveté, but it’s what led me back to education, the idea of a garden in my classroom. 

Working at the Garden reminded me that history isn’t just about dates or events; it’s about connection, context, and hospitality. As John Fea writes in Why Study History, “Historians should be in the business of practicing hospitality, and in the Christian tradition, 'hospitality' and 'exclusion' are incompatible terms,” and that vision is exactly what I hope to share with my future students.