...for something completely awesome.
Usually, if I'm tired, I become wide awake while teaching, then resume tiredness during my quiet study hall. Today, though, I was so zonked that I kept referring to a story about robots in front of my sixth graders, even though the story they'd read was about hitchhikers. It's like my brain fell asleep in second hour, then woke up during fifth hour, not realizing it was in the wrong class. After wiping the drool from its cerebellum, my poor, shriveled brain figured out that the answers were right but the timing wasn't, so it blushed and shuffled awkwardly to the door, hoping we could all forget this and try again tomorrow. It's a good thing my sixth graders are so sweet; they will forgive anything if it means they don't have homework. :)
Okay, but that's not the awesome thing. This is just the preface to the awesome thing, wherein I mention that I cried the entire time I watched this. It may be a little bit due to my zoning robot hitchhiker brain, but mostly, the tears are just because it's beautiful.
This guy, Chris Medina, was on American Idol last season. I was, for the first time in ages, not watching it with Kelly because I was waiting for the consulate to legitimize me, so I heard all this buzz about Chris but didn't look into it. I have no idea how I ended up watching these videos tonight, except that I was supposed to be doing something else, so of course that didn't get done and this did. Why am I still talking? You don't want to read about me; you want to watch this guy!
Here's the audition, in which Chris explains his fiancee's story:
And here's his music video, What Are Words, which has the potential to be totally sappy but, I think, ended up just right.
There you have it: today's lesson in love.
29 September 2011
28 September 2011
The Bird
Birds are cute when they look like this:
They are not cute during first-hour prep periods when they fly into your classroom window and then flutter around, buzzing up to the ceiling, flapping, flailing! I blurted out the most intelligent thing that came to mind, which happened to be, "Baugh!"
(This is my default sound effect. I once shrieked, "Baugh!" when I was filling my car with gas in Stanley, North Dakota. It was dark; the car was parked at the farthest possible gas pump from the store; I had to go inside to pay. As I walked back, I could feel that strange, creeping sensation one gets when they know they are being followed. I quickened my pace, only to feel it also getting faster, and when it brushed against my leg, I let out a shrill, "Baugh!" This, of course, is the perfect thing to yell at a predator--it deceives them into thinking that you're not frightened, only German. Of course, then I looked down and saw a friendly black dog...and, ten feet behind, his attractive owner. Welcome to my life.)
So I yelled, "Baugh!" before clapping my hand over my mouth in case next door's math class heard me. In a lower voice, I cried, "Caitlin! Caitlin!" She was sitting in the third-floor kitchen and swiftly came to my aid as the bird tossed itself around the room.
We flung open the windows, hoping the bird would fling itself out. It knocked against the walls and windows some more, then disappeared. I thought it had fallen down beside my file cabinet, so we tiptoed around, checking behind shelves and desks in the fear that the bird would spring up from behind something. And then...it did! It must have flown out instead of falling, but then it flew back in, flitted around a bit, and left us to calm our racing hearts. Baugh!
They are not cute during first-hour prep periods when they fly into your classroom window and then flutter around, buzzing up to the ceiling, flapping, flailing! I blurted out the most intelligent thing that came to mind, which happened to be, "Baugh!"
(This is my default sound effect. I once shrieked, "Baugh!" when I was filling my car with gas in Stanley, North Dakota. It was dark; the car was parked at the farthest possible gas pump from the store; I had to go inside to pay. As I walked back, I could feel that strange, creeping sensation one gets when they know they are being followed. I quickened my pace, only to feel it also getting faster, and when it brushed against my leg, I let out a shrill, "Baugh!" This, of course, is the perfect thing to yell at a predator--it deceives them into thinking that you're not frightened, only German. Of course, then I looked down and saw a friendly black dog...and, ten feet behind, his attractive owner. Welcome to my life.)
So I yelled, "Baugh!" before clapping my hand over my mouth in case next door's math class heard me. In a lower voice, I cried, "Caitlin! Caitlin!" She was sitting in the third-floor kitchen and swiftly came to my aid as the bird tossed itself around the room.
We flung open the windows, hoping the bird would fling itself out. It knocked against the walls and windows some more, then disappeared. I thought it had fallen down beside my file cabinet, so we tiptoed around, checking behind shelves and desks in the fear that the bird would spring up from behind something. And then...it did! It must have flown out instead of falling, but then it flew back in, flitted around a bit, and left us to calm our racing hearts. Baugh!
27 September 2011
Plumbing, Math, and some other Disassociations
1. The plumber came by today. It seems that the leak under the old rat pool has extended to underneath the kitchen and bedrooms as well, so the plumber will be making a return trip tomorrow morning to work on that. I would like to take my kids on a field trip to our back patio to observe, as I have no idea how someone gets beneath a house that appears to be sitting on a solid cement foundation, sans basement. Also, I might need to take a field trip to a friend's washer and dryer, or my kids are going to start thinking that my clothes have taken their own field trip to an animal farm.
2. I taught math in English class yesterday. Yep. Math. When I handed out personal bathroom passes, explaining that these would help cultivate responsibility, my sixth grade girl sighed and asked, "Why are adults always trying to get us to do responsible things?"
"Well, let me tell you!" And so I told the fairy tale about the princess who didn't pay her credit card bills on time and racked up lots of late fees and couldn't get school loans. (What? You haven't heard that one? I guess most children haven't; it's quite scary.) To my surprise, their eyes didn't glaze over like day-old Krispy Kremes. Instead, they asked whether credit or debit cards were better, and we had this 10-minute talk about using money wisely. Even though doing math is about as fun for me as sweeping a room with my tongue, this discussion was particularly enjoyable! It seemed like something worth sparing 10 minutes for, particularly when the most practical lesson from the daily lit. book reading was "Don't stop your car to talk to ghosts when you pass through Gettysburg." Our school is still looking for a full-time math teacher, but don't get any ideas. I'm done channeling Dave Ramsey.
3. I think this whole planning thing is becoming more manageable! I finally feel like I'm making headway, like I don't have to bring a mat and pillow to school just in case. This is partially due to a color-coded chart I forced myself to make last weekend, and mostly due to a caring veteran teacher who spent two hours with me on Friday, offering tips and strategies and letting me cry a little bit about my fear that the kids will drop everything they've learned in the trash can as they walk out the door in May.
"You are not the only English teacher to say that to me," she consoled. "You probably think, 'I'll send them to her class, and she'll wonder why I didn't teach them this.' But you know, they will leave my class and go to [another English teacher's] class, and she probably wonders why I didn't teach them this.'"And so I feel a little better, knowing that every year, teachers fight for periods at the ends of sentences and paragraphs that actually make sense. If nothing else, they will finish these 9 months having read more books than they've probably read in their whole lives, and I'm okay with that.
Just today, a boy told me, "Last year, I never liked to read. But this year, I am really enjoying it." It has nothing to do with me; the kid is just finding books that he connects with! Still, I'm stoked. Even if your brain is paste in my classroom, you will, by reading, intrinsically absorb the intricacies of English. I was about to say, "You will, while reading, learn by osmosis," but osmosis involves water, and that is why language is important--because you have to know what words mean before you can use them. It would be fun to hear someone say they're going to do something by osmosis and then pour water on them. Not that I will try it.
4. When you teach international students, you can't assume anything. You can't assume that they will all know Hansel and Gretel, because they don't. You can't assume they know where Gettysburg is or why it's important, and you have to remember that it's okay if they write colour or recognise or if their president is Zapatero instead of Obama. And they will think you are old because you grew up without the internet. Oh, wait. That is not because they are international! That is because they were born in 1998.
2. I taught math in English class yesterday. Yep. Math. When I handed out personal bathroom passes, explaining that these would help cultivate responsibility, my sixth grade girl sighed and asked, "Why are adults always trying to get us to do responsible things?"
"Well, let me tell you!" And so I told the fairy tale about the princess who didn't pay her credit card bills on time and racked up lots of late fees and couldn't get school loans. (What? You haven't heard that one? I guess most children haven't; it's quite scary.) To my surprise, their eyes didn't glaze over like day-old Krispy Kremes. Instead, they asked whether credit or debit cards were better, and we had this 10-minute talk about using money wisely. Even though doing math is about as fun for me as sweeping a room with my tongue, this discussion was particularly enjoyable! It seemed like something worth sparing 10 minutes for, particularly when the most practical lesson from the daily lit. book reading was "Don't stop your car to talk to ghosts when you pass through Gettysburg." Our school is still looking for a full-time math teacher, but don't get any ideas. I'm done channeling Dave Ramsey.
3. I think this whole planning thing is becoming more manageable! I finally feel like I'm making headway, like I don't have to bring a mat and pillow to school just in case. This is partially due to a color-coded chart I forced myself to make last weekend, and mostly due to a caring veteran teacher who spent two hours with me on Friday, offering tips and strategies and letting me cry a little bit about my fear that the kids will drop everything they've learned in the trash can as they walk out the door in May.
"You are not the only English teacher to say that to me," she consoled. "You probably think, 'I'll send them to her class, and she'll wonder why I didn't teach them this.' But you know, they will leave my class and go to [another English teacher's] class, and she probably wonders why I didn't teach them this.'"And so I feel a little better, knowing that every year, teachers fight for periods at the ends of sentences and paragraphs that actually make sense. If nothing else, they will finish these 9 months having read more books than they've probably read in their whole lives, and I'm okay with that.
Just today, a boy told me, "Last year, I never liked to read. But this year, I am really enjoying it." It has nothing to do with me; the kid is just finding books that he connects with! Still, I'm stoked. Even if your brain is paste in my classroom, you will, by reading, intrinsically absorb the intricacies of English. I was about to say, "You will, while reading, learn by osmosis," but osmosis involves water, and that is why language is important--because you have to know what words mean before you can use them. It would be fun to hear someone say they're going to do something by osmosis and then pour water on them. Not that I will try it.
4. When you teach international students, you can't assume anything. You can't assume that they will all know Hansel and Gretel, because they don't. You can't assume they know where Gettysburg is or why it's important, and you have to remember that it's okay if they write colour or recognise or if their president is Zapatero instead of Obama. And they will think you are old because you grew up without the internet. Oh, wait. That is not because they are international! That is because they were born in 1998.
23 September 2011
The Best House on the Block
The landlord showed up yesterday afternoon while my roommate was at home. ("The landlord" usually includes both the landlord and his wife; they are a package deal. He makes nice conversation with lots of big gestures, and she laughs at our bad Spanish.) They explained that the meter man had called because the water meter was running incessantly. After examining the house and being convinced that we were, indeed, not flooding, they figured that perhaps something was leaking underground--maybe where the pool used to be.
(Yes, our back patio once housed a pool. That was before they covered it up with wood. It's just as well--I've heard that the swimmers who utilized it most were rats, and they usually had such delightful little swims that they just stayed in the pool until they drowned. Really, I'm okay with the wooden floor.)
So, Ruth and I are now following this awesome routine in which, every time we need to flush the toilet or shower or brush our teeth, we must run out to the front patio, flip the water lever, and remember to flip it back the other way when we're done. Rats, broken toilets, mystery water, telemarketers who ask if you speak Spanish and,when you say that you don't, ask in English if you speak French--our house is like one big Indiana Jones adventure! Why waste time going to theme parks? It would be far wiser to cash in your Disneyland fund and buy a plane ticket to Spain, where you can sit in our house, watching the meter spin while admiring our vast array of colorful knick-knacks (including one waist-high Greek column. Bathroom decor.).
(Yes, our back patio once housed a pool. That was before they covered it up with wood. It's just as well--I've heard that the swimmers who utilized it most were rats, and they usually had such delightful little swims that they just stayed in the pool until they drowned. Really, I'm okay with the wooden floor.)
So, Ruth and I are now following this awesome routine in which, every time we need to flush the toilet or shower or brush our teeth, we must run out to the front patio, flip the water lever, and remember to flip it back the other way when we're done. Rats, broken toilets, mystery water, telemarketers who ask if you speak Spanish and,when you say that you don't, ask in English if you speak French--our house is like one big Indiana Jones adventure! Why waste time going to theme parks? It would be far wiser to cash in your Disneyland fund and buy a plane ticket to Spain, where you can sit in our house, watching the meter spin while admiring our vast array of colorful knick-knacks (including one waist-high Greek column. Bathroom decor.).
22 September 2011
The Twilight Zone
We watched it in class today. Yep, American television from the late 50's, hyperbolic alien hysteria at its finest. The kids have spent the past two days reading through the script of one episode (it's actually in their textbook!), and today, we viewed the first fifteen minutes.
(This particular segment was introduced by some British guy who gave a little background on the teleplay writer, Rod Serling. When the actual show began in all its black-and-white glory, one of the kids turned around, concern showing on his face. "Is it supposed to be like that?" Of course, kid! Color wasn't invented until the 80s!)
(Speaking of the 80s, sometimes I get really nostalgic for The Wonder Years. I do not watch TV or movies by myself ever, but if they ever release Wonder Years on DVD, you will probably find me enraptured on the couch for days, doing nothing but eating popcorn and watching the show that makes me think I was born in the wrong decade.)
The story, basically, follows Maple Street, USA, your classic small-town June-Cleaver community. When a spaceship passes overhead, the people living there begin freaking out, accusing one another of being aliens. Even though there are some type of extraterrestrial beings involved, all they do is cause a few lights to flicker, cars not to start. As suspicion builds, turning neighbor against neighbor, one man ends up dead, the others left to argue. The camera finally pans out to the aliens on a hilltop, discussing how easy it is to destroy humans--all they have to do is cause a power outage, and bam, the humans blame it on monsters, not realizing that in the process, they have become the monsters they fear.
Even though the episode itself is quite simplistic, it is the ending, succinct but deep, that hit me, that I hope hits each of the students with its truth: "The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices--to be found only in the minds of men. For the record, prejudices can kill, and suspicion can destroy, and the thoughtless, frightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all of its own for the children...and the children yet unborn. And the pity of it is that these things cannot be confined to...The Twilight Zone."
What do you know? TV is educational after all.
(This particular segment was introduced by some British guy who gave a little background on the teleplay writer, Rod Serling. When the actual show began in all its black-and-white glory, one of the kids turned around, concern showing on his face. "Is it supposed to be like that?" Of course, kid! Color wasn't invented until the 80s!)
(Speaking of the 80s, sometimes I get really nostalgic for The Wonder Years. I do not watch TV or movies by myself ever, but if they ever release Wonder Years on DVD, you will probably find me enraptured on the couch for days, doing nothing but eating popcorn and watching the show that makes me think I was born in the wrong decade.)
The story, basically, follows Maple Street, USA, your classic small-town June-Cleaver community. When a spaceship passes overhead, the people living there begin freaking out, accusing one another of being aliens. Even though there are some type of extraterrestrial beings involved, all they do is cause a few lights to flicker, cars not to start. As suspicion builds, turning neighbor against neighbor, one man ends up dead, the others left to argue. The camera finally pans out to the aliens on a hilltop, discussing how easy it is to destroy humans--all they have to do is cause a power outage, and bam, the humans blame it on monsters, not realizing that in the process, they have become the monsters they fear.
Even though the episode itself is quite simplistic, it is the ending, succinct but deep, that hit me, that I hope hits each of the students with its truth: "The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices--to be found only in the minds of men. For the record, prejudices can kill, and suspicion can destroy, and the thoughtless, frightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all of its own for the children...and the children yet unborn. And the pity of it is that these things cannot be confined to...The Twilight Zone."
What do you know? TV is educational after all.
16 September 2011
Classroom Rule #1: I will not be your facebook friend.
Today, before the bell rang to start 8th grade English:
Boy #1: "He's mad at you."
Boy #2: "No one can stay mad at me for long. I'm like a cute little puppy! I could tear your shirt right now, and you'd just smile at me."
Me: (bursts into laughter)
Boy #3: "Ms. C, you should write down some of the things we say."
Me: "Believe me, I do!"
Boy #1: "And that's why she's not our facebook friend!"
Boy #1: "He's mad at you."
Boy #2: "No one can stay mad at me for long. I'm like a cute little puppy! I could tear your shirt right now, and you'd just smile at me."
Me: (bursts into laughter)
Boy #3: "Ms. C, you should write down some of the things we say."
Me: "Believe me, I do!"
Boy #1: "And that's why she's not our facebook friend!"
15 September 2011
A Day in the Life
8:30am Enter the school building and faithfully move my dot to the "in" column
8:35am Open my computer and check email, enter grades, etc.
8:55am 8th grade boy enters my room, reads yesterday's assignments from the board, and cries, "Oh!" As he returns to the hallway, I hear him ask another 8th grader, "Did you finish English?"
8:57am I wave to the boys who are peering through the windows of the door behind me, trying to scope out what I'm doing online. They laugh their faces off and disappear.
9:10am 1st period. The yearbook kids gather around the computer, playing with photos in InDesign. My head graphics man can't understand why I won't agree to let him fill the yearbook with half-and-half photos: half a student's face, half Barack Obama's face. The same student is also uncertain if he'll be able to live together with another boy when the dorm parents come...because that boy doesn't believe in Santa Claus.
"Do you believe in Santa Claus?" Caitlin asked him today. He insisted that Santa is real and lives in Russia. We're not sure if he's joking.
10:05am 2nd period. The 7th graders review for a test by transforming their literature stories into comic strips. "You can do this by yourself or with a partner or a small group," I tell them. One boy's hand shoots up instantly. "By myself! Those boys talk too much!" Indeed, they do. They spend most of the class discussing how to draw rats with beady eyes.
Also during this class, one of the boys asks, "Did you know that TV used to be in black-and-white? It was a long time ago; I think it was the 80s." And then I look down to make sure that my ancient arms haven't gotten wrinkled and gray or crumbled apart like the relics they are.
11:05am The 8th graders are begging for more reading time. We do the same comic strip project, and the boys discover a bottle of glue in the box of markers. One of them begins to glue his hands together. I commandeer the glue for awhile, but eventually, I throw it back in the box. "Okay, guys, please just don't glue any more flesh or body organs, okay?"
One grins. "She didn't say hair!"
11:58am The 9th graders are, likewise, reviewing. I have just received my 17th student in that class, making it my largest and most crowded. The other day, I told them that I really liked them, and they cooed "Awwww!" in unison. A particular posse of girls likes to "Awwww!" many things I say, so I don't know that they always feel affirmed so much as they like to make noise--but on that particular occasion, one looked up at me and asked, "Really?" New goal for 9th grade: help them believe it.
12:51pm The two 6th graders come in: one boy, one girl. Since it's the period before lunch, the boy likes to remind me that he's starving. Famished, actually. (That's one of our weekly vocabulary words.) He is famished and he thinks I should bring chocolate for the class. I tell him that chocolate is a great idea and that perhaps he should bring it. He tells me that the science teacher has a drawer full of chocolate. I say that sounds brilliant. His eyes light up, and I continue, "So when you're talking about being famished and making me feel hungry, I can go to my chocolate drawer and munch away."
I think he's a little disappointed that I keep twisting his scheme, but apparently he doesn't mind too much, since he asked me today if I was going to be his class sponsor. "That'd be awesome," I told him, "except that middle school doesn't have sponsors."
"Well, you should do it anyway. Are you coming to the breakfast tomorrow?"
The middle school prayer breakfast. He tells me they're serving chocolate and churros, and his mom's in charge, so it's okay that I'll be there. "So are you going to come?"
"Okay, I'll be there."
1:41pm Lunch in the third-floor kitchen. By Thursday, some of us are looking a little bedraggled. Mostly those of us on the third floor, where the stuffy afternoon air sits still while the wasps buzz around our windows. I eat tuna straight from the can, as it's been awhile since I've been grocery shopping. If ever a man should find himself attracted to any particular quality of mine, I think it will be my prowess with a can opener.
2:15pm The study hall kids ask for passes to here and there. I write three different literature tests, feeling my cerebellum peel away from the rest of my brain as I do.
3:05pm Last hour. Prep period. I print my tests and wonder what on earth I'm going to do with myself if I leave the school building before 9:00. Oh, I know! I will attempt to make origami with the paper I inherited in my big file drawer.
3:25pm I am just as bad at origami now as I was in second grade. I abandon the procrastination break. Maybe I will try again tomorrow.
4:00pm The bell rings! School is over. At least until 4:20, when I will go downstairs for a meeting, the first time I've descended the staircase all day. I walk all the way to the first floor and think, "Wow. There are so many people in this building. We have elementary students? What happens on these other floors all day long?!"
4:30pm Meeting. I listen carefully while sketching pictures of Russian babushkas.
5:45pm Meeting ends. My tired brain is simultaneously full and empty. I try one more round with the origami. No luck.
6:45pm I have no idea what I've been doing for the past hour other than coercing the printer to spit out my literature tests, but I'm still at school. Caitlin and I are lounging in the first grade room with Sarah and Juliana, discussing Sylvia Plath, and I am a little bit glad that an offhand discussion in my freshman English class has burgeoned into a continuing conversation amongst a fraction of the staff. It's very likely that the things my kids remember most from class will be the life stories of the very sad, depressed authors I introduced them to at the very beginning of the year, the ones who met tragic ends early in life.
Every day, my 6th grade boy asks if any other class is reading Edgar Allan Poe yet, and I tell him, no, not yet. And he smiles and asks if we're going to have homework today, and I tell him that we'll see. And I go home exhausted and sweaty and with only half of my mind still intact, and I collapse in bed and laugh about Russian Santa Clauses, but somehow I manage to scrape myself out of my sheets in the morning and smile because I can't wait to go try it all again.
8:35am Open my computer and check email, enter grades, etc.
8:55am 8th grade boy enters my room, reads yesterday's assignments from the board, and cries, "Oh!" As he returns to the hallway, I hear him ask another 8th grader, "Did you finish English?"
8:57am I wave to the boys who are peering through the windows of the door behind me, trying to scope out what I'm doing online. They laugh their faces off and disappear.
9:10am 1st period. The yearbook kids gather around the computer, playing with photos in InDesign. My head graphics man can't understand why I won't agree to let him fill the yearbook with half-and-half photos: half a student's face, half Barack Obama's face. The same student is also uncertain if he'll be able to live together with another boy when the dorm parents come...because that boy doesn't believe in Santa Claus.
"Do you believe in Santa Claus?" Caitlin asked him today. He insisted that Santa is real and lives in Russia. We're not sure if he's joking.
10:05am 2nd period. The 7th graders review for a test by transforming their literature stories into comic strips. "You can do this by yourself or with a partner or a small group," I tell them. One boy's hand shoots up instantly. "By myself! Those boys talk too much!" Indeed, they do. They spend most of the class discussing how to draw rats with beady eyes.
Also during this class, one of the boys asks, "Did you know that TV used to be in black-and-white? It was a long time ago; I think it was the 80s." And then I look down to make sure that my ancient arms haven't gotten wrinkled and gray or crumbled apart like the relics they are.
11:05am The 8th graders are begging for more reading time. We do the same comic strip project, and the boys discover a bottle of glue in the box of markers. One of them begins to glue his hands together. I commandeer the glue for awhile, but eventually, I throw it back in the box. "Okay, guys, please just don't glue any more flesh or body organs, okay?"
One grins. "She didn't say hair!"
11:58am The 9th graders are, likewise, reviewing. I have just received my 17th student in that class, making it my largest and most crowded. The other day, I told them that I really liked them, and they cooed "Awwww!" in unison. A particular posse of girls likes to "Awwww!" many things I say, so I don't know that they always feel affirmed so much as they like to make noise--but on that particular occasion, one looked up at me and asked, "Really?" New goal for 9th grade: help them believe it.
12:51pm The two 6th graders come in: one boy, one girl. Since it's the period before lunch, the boy likes to remind me that he's starving. Famished, actually. (That's one of our weekly vocabulary words.) He is famished and he thinks I should bring chocolate for the class. I tell him that chocolate is a great idea and that perhaps he should bring it. He tells me that the science teacher has a drawer full of chocolate. I say that sounds brilliant. His eyes light up, and I continue, "So when you're talking about being famished and making me feel hungry, I can go to my chocolate drawer and munch away."
I think he's a little disappointed that I keep twisting his scheme, but apparently he doesn't mind too much, since he asked me today if I was going to be his class sponsor. "That'd be awesome," I told him, "except that middle school doesn't have sponsors."
"Well, you should do it anyway. Are you coming to the breakfast tomorrow?"
The middle school prayer breakfast. He tells me they're serving chocolate and churros, and his mom's in charge, so it's okay that I'll be there. "So are you going to come?"
"Okay, I'll be there."
1:41pm Lunch in the third-floor kitchen. By Thursday, some of us are looking a little bedraggled. Mostly those of us on the third floor, where the stuffy afternoon air sits still while the wasps buzz around our windows. I eat tuna straight from the can, as it's been awhile since I've been grocery shopping. If ever a man should find himself attracted to any particular quality of mine, I think it will be my prowess with a can opener.
2:15pm The study hall kids ask for passes to here and there. I write three different literature tests, feeling my cerebellum peel away from the rest of my brain as I do.
3:05pm Last hour. Prep period. I print my tests and wonder what on earth I'm going to do with myself if I leave the school building before 9:00. Oh, I know! I will attempt to make origami with the paper I inherited in my big file drawer.
3:25pm I am just as bad at origami now as I was in second grade. I abandon the procrastination break. Maybe I will try again tomorrow.
4:00pm The bell rings! School is over. At least until 4:20, when I will go downstairs for a meeting, the first time I've descended the staircase all day. I walk all the way to the first floor and think, "Wow. There are so many people in this building. We have elementary students? What happens on these other floors all day long?!"
4:30pm Meeting. I listen carefully while sketching pictures of Russian babushkas.
5:45pm Meeting ends. My tired brain is simultaneously full and empty. I try one more round with the origami. No luck.
6:45pm I have no idea what I've been doing for the past hour other than coercing the printer to spit out my literature tests, but I'm still at school. Caitlin and I are lounging in the first grade room with Sarah and Juliana, discussing Sylvia Plath, and I am a little bit glad that an offhand discussion in my freshman English class has burgeoned into a continuing conversation amongst a fraction of the staff. It's very likely that the things my kids remember most from class will be the life stories of the very sad, depressed authors I introduced them to at the very beginning of the year, the ones who met tragic ends early in life.
Every day, my 6th grade boy asks if any other class is reading Edgar Allan Poe yet, and I tell him, no, not yet. And he smiles and asks if we're going to have homework today, and I tell him that we'll see. And I go home exhausted and sweaty and with only half of my mind still intact, and I collapse in bed and laugh about Russian Santa Clauses, but somehow I manage to scrape myself out of my sheets in the morning and smile because I can't wait to go try it all again.
10 September 2011
Which English do you speak?
While talking about which household chore they dislike the most:
Boy (Australian): "I hate going outside and brushing."
Other kids (grown up in Spain): "Brushing?!"
Boy: "Yes, brushing, you know, brushing the leaves."
Kids: "Oh! Sweeping!"
My brain: "Oh! What? Oh. Raking. Right."
Boy (Australian): "I hate going outside and brushing."
Other kids (grown up in Spain): "Brushing?!"
Boy: "Yes, brushing, you know, brushing the leaves."
Kids: "Oh! Sweeping!"
My brain: "Oh! What? Oh. Raking. Right."
09 September 2011
Ms. C has left the building.
Rather, she will--in about forty minutes!
I have been here almost every night until about 9pm, trying to make my lesson plans and my brain play nice together. Teachers, that is a really helpful thing to remind your students when they are weeping over the hour of the homework they had to do last night. (If you are a particularly vicious kind of person, you can say it with kind of a snarl: "Well, I was here for five hours making worksheets--just because I love you guys so much." But that's just a general example, not one obtained from my own personal experience. ;)
I don't mind public speaking a bit, but when the monologue is mainly unscripted as with teaching, my brain is always playing tag with my tongue. I sometimes feel like this wits-vs-voice showdown is playing out in front of class, with my poor mind always lagging a few minutes behind, trying to wipe up the mess my mouth just made. For example, while defining "suspense," today, I said something like, "You know, when you're just really on the edge of your sheet? I mean, the edge of your seat. Maybe you're on the edge of your sheet if you're reading in bed." And in this way, I impart my supreme wisdom and awkwardness to the next generation.
But I look out my classroom's west window and see this, and then I look at the faces of those kids filling up the seats, and I think that it's okay to be a little awkward in front of such a great audience.
I mean, I really am looking forward to the day when I will be done with lesson plans and photocopies by 5:30, to that moment when I am no longer spending two hours getting ready for every fifty minutes I teach. It's part of the rhythm in this imaginary song called "Someday After September," a song which is subtitled "I Will Be a Real Person Again." It's how it is, and I hope I'm not sounding too negative about it. I'm tired, yes, and I'm a little overwhelmed, but I like being in this place.
Last night, I sat at this desk writing responses to 7th grade book journals. Halfway through, I was trying to make realistic goals, wondering how long it would take to get beyond these surface 2-sentence back-and-forth exchanges about their books--when I opened up to a page-long letter. She shared a little about her book, then asked me what I thought of something--a rather personal kind of question, the tiniest hint of need for affirmation. And so I thought for awhile, penned a page in response, decided I didn't like it, ripped the page out, and re-wrote the thought.
I handed it back to her this morning, wondering if she'd think my response was cheesy or weird or heavy-handed. She whipped it off her desk immediately, gasping when she saw all that handwriting (or maybe she was just stunned by my profuse use of White-Out). And then she smiled and looked up at me, then down again, then into the journal again, rereading the page and smiling just enough to let me know that she's probably going to write another page back this time, maybe even two. Now maybe I'm romanticizing this little exchange, and maybe she'll write back, "Um, that was weird. But thanks. I like Dawn Treader, too. It is a good book," and that will be the end of it. But I kinda don't think so, and that's the part that makes my awkward little heart smile.
I think we spend a lot of life likening our purpose to a unicorn, talking about it as if it's this mysterious, mythical entity out there somewhere, and we must go discover it and capture it and then our lives will be complete. But I don't think it's like that. I don't think anyone has to wait. Even though we're always in the process of becoming, what's the point of being who we are now if that person has nothing to contribute? Maybe we do have some grand future destiny to fulfill, or maybe we're just the person who writes letters back and forth to a middle school girl for the rest of forever, and that's it. It's just as grand a calling as anything. We spend most of our lives in the mundane and the ordinary; I can't suppose that's an accident. I think it's because those are the places where we have the most opportunity to love.
Even when "love" just means answering "Can we please never read Sylvia Plath in your class again?" with a hearty "yes."
I have been here almost every night until about 9pm, trying to make my lesson plans and my brain play nice together. Teachers, that is a really helpful thing to remind your students when they are weeping over the hour of the homework they had to do last night. (If you are a particularly vicious kind of person, you can say it with kind of a snarl: "Well, I was here for five hours making worksheets--just because I love you guys so much." But that's just a general example, not one obtained from my own personal experience. ;)
I don't mind public speaking a bit, but when the monologue is mainly unscripted as with teaching, my brain is always playing tag with my tongue. I sometimes feel like this wits-vs-voice showdown is playing out in front of class, with my poor mind always lagging a few minutes behind, trying to wipe up the mess my mouth just made. For example, while defining "suspense," today, I said something like, "You know, when you're just really on the edge of your sheet? I mean, the edge of your seat. Maybe you're on the edge of your sheet if you're reading in bed." And in this way, I impart my supreme wisdom and awkwardness to the next generation.
But I look out my classroom's west window and see this, and then I look at the faces of those kids filling up the seats, and I think that it's okay to be a little awkward in front of such a great audience.
I mean, I really am looking forward to the day when I will be done with lesson plans and photocopies by 5:30, to that moment when I am no longer spending two hours getting ready for every fifty minutes I teach. It's part of the rhythm in this imaginary song called "Someday After September," a song which is subtitled "I Will Be a Real Person Again." It's how it is, and I hope I'm not sounding too negative about it. I'm tired, yes, and I'm a little overwhelmed, but I like being in this place.
Last night, I sat at this desk writing responses to 7th grade book journals. Halfway through, I was trying to make realistic goals, wondering how long it would take to get beyond these surface 2-sentence back-and-forth exchanges about their books--when I opened up to a page-long letter. She shared a little about her book, then asked me what I thought of something--a rather personal kind of question, the tiniest hint of need for affirmation. And so I thought for awhile, penned a page in response, decided I didn't like it, ripped the page out, and re-wrote the thought.
I handed it back to her this morning, wondering if she'd think my response was cheesy or weird or heavy-handed. She whipped it off her desk immediately, gasping when she saw all that handwriting (or maybe she was just stunned by my profuse use of White-Out). And then she smiled and looked up at me, then down again, then into the journal again, rereading the page and smiling just enough to let me know that she's probably going to write another page back this time, maybe even two. Now maybe I'm romanticizing this little exchange, and maybe she'll write back, "Um, that was weird. But thanks. I like Dawn Treader, too. It is a good book," and that will be the end of it. But I kinda don't think so, and that's the part that makes my awkward little heart smile.
I think we spend a lot of life likening our purpose to a unicorn, talking about it as if it's this mysterious, mythical entity out there somewhere, and we must go discover it and capture it and then our lives will be complete. But I don't think it's like that. I don't think anyone has to wait. Even though we're always in the process of becoming, what's the point of being who we are now if that person has nothing to contribute? Maybe we do have some grand future destiny to fulfill, or maybe we're just the person who writes letters back and forth to a middle school girl for the rest of forever, and that's it. It's just as grand a calling as anything. We spend most of our lives in the mundane and the ordinary; I can't suppose that's an accident. I think it's because those are the places where we have the most opportunity to love.
Even when "love" just means answering "Can we please never read Sylvia Plath in your class again?" with a hearty "yes."
06 September 2011
03 September 2011
Cheering for the Toro
Spanish pueblos celebrate their own fiesta days each year. This past week, it was Camarma's turn. That means music blasting from the plaza every night (getting an early start at 11pm and ending at 3 or 4am, maybe). It also means that peñas take over the street (to my best understanding, a peña is a group of comrades that makes matching group t-shirts and hangs out together all festival, laughing and drinking until daybreak). And it means fireworks, cheap carnival toys, and Camarma's own running of the bulls. All this in honor of the town's patron saint, Nuestra Señora del Rosario (Our Lady of the Rosary). She would be so honored.
This morning, a bunch of us met on our friend Juliana's porch, which is situated directly (and safely!) above the bull-running route. Camarma's toro fest is much less dramatic than the ones you see on TV: our toros run three days in a row, four times each day, the runs taking place over the course of an hour--and there are no drunken Australians. Also, there are only two toros. The "motivator bulls" are released first, zig-zagging about 4 blocks before they meet and fire up the actual running bulls, who then plow through the streets with the runners (which, I would like to point out, are mostly men).
But this morning was a rainy morning. The streets were a little slick, and one of the toros slipped every single time he ran. First, he slid into a corner fence. The second time, he skidded on the pavement for several yards, and the third, he nearly crashed into a lamppost.
I hate when sad things happen to animals, and so on the sadness scale from 1 to Bambi, this definitely earned a Homeward Bound.
After the final run, one of the toros was let loose in a makeshift ring, where amateurs taunted him--and by "amateurs," I mean everything from random peña men waving t-shirts to rising matadors with their own personal mantle and sword.
At first, Friedrich was charging after them all, but then he got tired. (I have chosen the name Friedrich for this particular toro because it seems a noble name, the kind of name that one should have when they are forced to undergo teasing in the name of public spectacle. I mean, how sad to be forced into this big testosterone fest, especially when your taunters have the option of jumping behind a wall before you can peg 'em with a horn. I realize I'm anthropomorphizing a toro, but seriously, it's Friedrich! Get Friedrich a sword and some opposable thumbs and then we'll see who's brave!)
I really wanted Friedrich to get one of those guys. I mean, I didn't want him to cause major injury--just maybe a ripped shirt or a hole in their pants or something. I don't know for sure what happens to Friedrich once fiestas are over, but I have a pretty good guess--so he might as well go out with flair! And although Friedrich didn't get close enough to slice anyone's clothes off, he kinda got his comeuppance when he snatched away a mantle!
It dangled there on his horns for several seconds, then fluttered to the ground. Does Friedrich care about comeuppances? Probably not. I decided to care on his behalf. YAY, BULL!
I may have said that aloud a few times, too: "Yay, bull!" I guess I said it softly enough, or maybe no one around me spoke English, since none of them gave me dirty looks or tried to punch my teeth out.
As we were leaving, my friend Will reminded me that you're not supposed to cheer for the bull. I just can't help it. I hate it when the deck is stacked against the helpless (human or bovine). And I like it when the underdog (underbull?!) comes out on top. So, even if I have to whisper it, I'm going to cheer for the bull. Good job, Friedrich. Good job. I hope your last moments were happy ones. GO, BULL!
This morning, a bunch of us met on our friend Juliana's porch, which is situated directly (and safely!) above the bull-running route. Camarma's toro fest is much less dramatic than the ones you see on TV: our toros run three days in a row, four times each day, the runs taking place over the course of an hour--and there are no drunken Australians. Also, there are only two toros. The "motivator bulls" are released first, zig-zagging about 4 blocks before they meet and fire up the actual running bulls, who then plow through the streets with the runners (which, I would like to point out, are mostly men).
But this morning was a rainy morning. The streets were a little slick, and one of the toros slipped every single time he ran. First, he slid into a corner fence. The second time, he skidded on the pavement for several yards, and the third, he nearly crashed into a lamppost.
I hate when sad things happen to animals, and so on the sadness scale from 1 to Bambi, this definitely earned a Homeward Bound.
After the final run, one of the toros was let loose in a makeshift ring, where amateurs taunted him--and by "amateurs," I mean everything from random peña men waving t-shirts to rising matadors with their own personal mantle and sword.
At first, Friedrich was charging after them all, but then he got tired. (I have chosen the name Friedrich for this particular toro because it seems a noble name, the kind of name that one should have when they are forced to undergo teasing in the name of public spectacle. I mean, how sad to be forced into this big testosterone fest, especially when your taunters have the option of jumping behind a wall before you can peg 'em with a horn. I realize I'm anthropomorphizing a toro, but seriously, it's Friedrich! Get Friedrich a sword and some opposable thumbs and then we'll see who's brave!)
I really wanted Friedrich to get one of those guys. I mean, I didn't want him to cause major injury--just maybe a ripped shirt or a hole in their pants or something. I don't know for sure what happens to Friedrich once fiestas are over, but I have a pretty good guess--so he might as well go out with flair! And although Friedrich didn't get close enough to slice anyone's clothes off, he kinda got his comeuppance when he snatched away a mantle!
It dangled there on his horns for several seconds, then fluttered to the ground. Does Friedrich care about comeuppances? Probably not. I decided to care on his behalf. YAY, BULL!
I may have said that aloud a few times, too: "Yay, bull!" I guess I said it softly enough, or maybe no one around me spoke English, since none of them gave me dirty looks or tried to punch my teeth out.
As we were leaving, my friend Will reminded me that you're not supposed to cheer for the bull. I just can't help it. I hate it when the deck is stacked against the helpless (human or bovine). And I like it when the underdog (underbull?!) comes out on top. So, even if I have to whisper it, I'm going to cheer for the bull. Good job, Friedrich. Good job. I hope your last moments were happy ones. GO, BULL!
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