A Boy Called Jamie

Everyone called me Jamie until I was 5-years-old. I think I was thinking at the time that ‘Jamie’ was not sufficiently masculine. This seems strange because I don’t remember myself as being overly macho. I didn’t play with G.I. Joe and the most dangerous weapon in my juvenile arsenal was the gun formed by my thumb and forefinger. Many pictures from this time show me with a dorky smile, hunched down by a group of cats who are ignoring me as they devour the latest pile of table scraps.

Mini Bio of James Martin

I grew up on a farm in Iowa. I read somewhere that Iowans are fiercely proud of their state—so much so, it’s almost like they have a pathological love for dirt and pigs. I certainly fit this description. Until quite recently, I used to say that I was proud to be from Iowa, but not so proud to be from the US. Yes, I am happy about our new president.

My wife and I have been living overseas for 12 years—4 in Azerbaijan and the last 8 in Kazakhstan—working as teachers. This year, I am enjoying a year of sabbatical while I study ideas about teaching literacy. Oftentimes, I like to write. Many times, though, I am sick of it. So...I’m taking this class to explore the possibility that I might actually be able to write something that is valuable.

There is a slim chance—practically NO chance—that I will have to take some time this spring to go to Australia for a personal interview. If you are interested, you could follow this link to my 1-minute—video application.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BVGz9CrUHqY