My job is bipolar

Last year was incredibly wonderful and difficult at the same time. I think that's how it is with being a school teacher. For example I LOVED my students. My LitMag staff was the best I've ever had. My IB kids were incredible. My English IV students.. I really liked some of them. (and this is where in sitcoms you hear the needle getting pulled off of the record)

As much as my LitMaggers and IBers made me excited to do my job, the other classes were so difficult. Some of this difficulty was a result of the usual teaching obstacles: Too many students in one classroom; too much paperwork; too many responsibilities that extended beyond the actual job of, oh let me think - teaching; very little discipline; tons of micromanaging; irrational parents; etc.. But some of it was that I had a tough group of kids.

As often as folks get upset about inconsiderate drivers or rude customers, teachers are likely, if not certain, to deal with the worst of the worst every day. You're thinking that in your job this is true, too. However, teachers are expected to be more forgiving. It's like knowing every single day the same punk kid driver in his car that costs twice as much as yours will inevitably cut you off in traffic, flip you off, and then laugh at you while texting his cleverness to his friends. As a teacher you know this is will happen again, and it shocks you each time, yet you still hope that something you do or say might make the rude driver a little bit more compassionate someday. "Maybe tomorrow when he cuts me off and flips me the bird, he won't laugh as loudly," you think. "Maybe if I call his parents (who taught him to drive), I can get ahead of him or show him that what he's doing is abusive and humiliating."

Every year you are guaranteed to have one mean driver in your class. But some years you have twenty of them. Last year I had forty. (40 out of 120 is too big of a percentage) Contrary to public opinion, there is nothing to do about a student's lack of respect toward a teacher. Unless a kid actually becomes violent against a teacher, all she can do is file paperwork and hope for an understanding counselor or principal. Plus, changing a kid's schedule to get him our of a particular class means that you have burdened another on of your colleagues with another issue that they do not need or deserve.

My personality is not commanding or controlling which some might say is part of the problem. The few times I've tried to "rule by force", it comes back to get me and makes me feel horrible. Combatting the rude drivers by being an even ruder one is sort of ridiculous and leads to accidents. I'm more of a mutual respect kind of teacher. In other words, I hope that if I model integrity, patience, responsibility, good will, and generosity, the kids will mirror it. They do for the most part. We have open dialogue in my class. I am a firm believer in inquiry based learning. Sometimes, though, the students don't mirror me. That's when things get tricky.

Monday is the start of a new school year. I will meet my new classes and get a sense of what kind of drivers they are. I'm trying to be optimistic, but there is a whole car-load of anxiety that comes with the start of the year.

Manic Post-Graduation

So, the kids are all grad-gi-ated and such - And I was elected to read their names! - which means that summer has officially begun. This also means that I am now coming down off my high, the kind where you shiver in a corner, rock back and forth, eyes glazed over, and beg for someone to please, please, for the love of god, please just knock you out.

Summer is a weird transition.

I know it's not the same for all teachers, but to go from working 12 hour days for ten months to having to "find something to do" is a kind of withdrawal, or is at least an excusable life change. My brain which is used to making 100 thousand decisions per second - "Class, here's what were doing today; no, you may not use the restroom, please don't interrupt; I just received a pass for so and so from the office, no you may not go now, or yes you can; If I could just recap..; last class you didn't understand __________. I'll talk about it after the announcements are over; no you can't see your grade right now, I'm trying to teach; Are you crying? Do you need to go to the hall?; As I was saying..; Another pass; So, Shakespeare wrote in iambic pentameter; Wake up, you in the back; Stop talking; No you still may not use the restroom; The play Macbeth is cursed; You're tardy? Nice of you to join us. Where's you pass? Go back to the office; It is a Scottish play which means that you have to pay extra close attention to inflection; Stop throwing things; Another stray announcement; AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!; Yes, I'm fine. Only 89 minutes of class to go. As I was saying..

And so we've been doing some work around the house to cope with the de-tox:

The house is extremely clean and organized.
The fence is mended.
New curtains are purchased and hung.
Flowers are planted.
The dishes are clean.
Pictures have been framed and hung.
New furniture - a bench with cubbies and a shelving unit - for the baby's room is put together.
Baby's toys are all organized on new furniture.
Old furniture has been moved to the garage.
Baby's winter clothes have been boxed and moved to the garage.
Three boxes of books are removed from guest room and sold.
Laundry is clean.
Lawn is mowed.
Wii is played.
Bills are paid.

This all happened in two days and there was still time to watch a little TV!

I'm trying to will my body and mind to be idle for just a few days so that I don't die of exhaustion. Americans are really good at that. At the same time, sitting makes me itchy.. I have to go and do!

Voices I (hope to always) Recall

I'm going to miss my International Baccalaureate class dearly. They are graduating seniors and are off to college next year. This week ends our two year journey together, and I am incredibly humbled by their gratitude and appreciation. I love them. A lot.

As a concluding assignment, I asked my kids to write "This I Believe" essays (in the same form as NPR's 1950's program) - Christine's brilliant (as usual) idea. All of the essays are special - inspirational and personal - because they define what's important to the kids right here, right now. One of my kids, Lauren, wrote a particularly insightful essay about the importance of internationalism, especially regarding education. Her words are poignant and universal. Please enjoy this incredible wisdom from an 18 year old kid:

When I started high school, I was basically a loser. I wanted to get in and out as soon as possible, putting in the minimum effort. I didn't think I had much to learn. I could read and write and I knew what I thought about, well, everything. I knew what was right and what was wrong and what needed to change in the world. I still have a moral code. I know what needs to change. But everything else is different.

I started in International Baccalaureate (IB) flat-out disagreeing with a lot of people in it. With their ideologies, political views, study habits even. I also started out wanting to get my diploma basically to prove that I could. I still thought I knew everything, and after two years of the same ole, I figured I needed to do something challenging before I died of apathy.

And now? I still disagree with a lot of people about a lot of things, but my beliefs - and how I view theirs - have altered drastically.

This I believe - if we are to achieve world peace, we must first seek world education. Universal teaching, not necessarily of the same curriculum, but of the same ideal: that people must learn how to think. They must learn to think for themselves, and they must learn to question those thoughts. Every culture in the world gives their children a different beginning. Every country, every village, every family. Each child begins with a foundation, but to question it, examine it.. And to be willing to change it.. How we know what we know?- Theory of Knowledge (TOK) asks. And that's the most important question anyone will ever be posed.

I don't care if every kid learns Mandarin because that's not really the universal language, is it? There will always be translators of words. The hardest thing is to translate thoughts. Beliefs. How do other people think? Where are they coming from? Where are they standing? A lot of wars have been fought over that kind of translation.

I started out headstrong, and I ended up in love with diversity. I'm pretty much a firm believer in learning through experience. I feel like if every student spent two years in class next to a girl as lovely and compassionate as my friend, Yassmin, there would be fewer idiots in the hallways telling jokes at her expense. I believe that if one in a hundred classes could include the incredible variety of human thought that each and every one of ours does - this is what we do where I'm from; this is what my religion says; this is how we think differently, and the same - there would be a lot fewer hate crimes and stupid remarks and just horrible ignorance in general. There are kids in this country, state, and city who barely even see people of a different ethnicity on a daily basis. How on earth are we supposed to be a global community if we don't even get what our neighbors are saying?

I really didn't care when I began this programme. And then it started to sink in: what IB means, and through that, what education means. And I started to care. I know other apathetic students could, too. I believe that if everyone had to go through this - essentially write a college-level thesis in high school, have discussions in every class, research and study with every resource available like their lives depended on it - they would love learning, or at least take a little pride in their educations. I believe that no one would ever fault their child for wanting a college degree, or two, or four, nor would they confuse academia with elitism.

So, yes, I believe in IB. Me, my classmates, my teachers - we could really change the world because whether we realize it or not, we know what to do. I believe in education and yes, even TOK. I believe in myself, and I believe in all of the future CEO's and presidents, and diplomats I share math class with.

This I believe.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Voices I Recall, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

If I could be anything, I would be..

...an artist. Any kind: writer, musician, painter, or photographer... Here's why:
True artists immerse themselves in their creativity, reposing with their muses for a while, feeling their souls break free from their bodies through extensions of their instruments be they pens, pianos, paints, or pictures. How incredible it must be to linger in that space, even if it is uncomfortable. They are risk takers in several ways both physically and emotionally. They push people to reflect about their own lives and invite souls to connect to theirs making them (and us) completely vulnerable. They open fire doors.

I've been thinking about my job - English teacher - a lot lately. I realize how much of my life is consumed by my job, how much I mercilessly give to that profession, and I pray that it's the right thing to do. I hope that my investment is somehow sacred or at least worthy. Otherwise, what the hell am I doing? I love being a teacher, though bureaucracy and money make my job just shy of impossible to do well. I don't care if my students love literature or even reading for that matter. What I do hope for is that they:

1. Learn to weigh their decisions judiciously with the understanding that every decision they make affects something/someone else.

2. Learn that people are people and that none are better than others, that sometimes circumstance affords people opportunities that others do not have and sometimes circumstances are just absolute shit. No matter what, there are people in worse places and ones in better ones. Life isn't fair and we shouldn't form opinions about people or circumstance without considering the truth of this.

3. Learn to effectively communicate with each other via speaking, writing, art, or any other medium they can come up with. This means understanding and implementing "the basics" of reading and writing at the very least, and at the very most creating poetry*.

4. Spend time in mature, honest reflection and form fair, cogent arguments or representations of their ideas to share with others.

5. Learn to think. Period. Especially in a world that is so eager and easy to manipulate..

I happen to use literature as a medium to get them recognize these things. In presenting my understandings of characters and situations, writings and interpretations, I become vulnerable to them and them to me. In this way, I am an artist.

However, I'm so tired. They take too much.

So, really if I could be anything, I would choose something else. Something that doesn't depend on the success or failure of another human - something with less responsibility.. A house cat maybe, or a tree.

* Poetry in this case means, "an imaginative awareness of experience expressed through meaning, sound, and rhythmic language choices so as to evoke an emotional response. Poetry has been known to employ meter and rhyme, but this is by no means necessary. Poetry is an ancient form that has gone through numerous and drastic reinvention over time. The very nature of poetry as an authentic and individual mode of expression makes it nearly impossible to define."

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (If I could be anything, I would be.., this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

(im)maturity

Maturity - I have none.

It comes (or probably 'goes is the better term) with the job. I am currently- at this very moment- sitting in a high school writing lab with my literary magazine staff who are lovely, mostly vegan, free spirits. We are on deadline, working furiously late into the afternoon so that we can get the mag to the printer by Monday. We've had coffee and soy milk, peanut free, gluten free, egg-less cookies, and we're just about delirious with our work. Here are brief snippets of random conversations going on around the room:

"The first line of that song makes me feel purple."

"Do you guys want to see a video of me and my friend lip-syncing to a French song?"

(A student is in the middle of a joke until it's hijacked by James)
"Takin' the punchline of my jokes.. (clicking sound) Thanks, James."

"Stop grinding on me like that!"

"Hey, come look at my things!"
"I'll look at your things."
"Your mom has things."

"Goo goo g'joov"
"I am the Walrus."

"Hey guys, do you want to taste some of my delicious margarita candies?"

"That is such bushlee!" (The word the kids use instead of 'bullshit')

"Technology hates me so much right now in this time of my life.."

"Oh how I miss sophomore year in French class!"

"People don't name their children Syphilis!"
"Oh yes they do!"

"Guys, I just had a super awesome idea!!
(Much too enthusiastic high five)
Ow!"

"Ok, I'll shut up now."

"That kiwi looks inviting."

There is no being mature in this job, and I'm ok with that. :) Thanks, my darling Navel Gazers, for your hard work today, even if you have attention spans of gnats!!! (Yarrrr-ly!)

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Maturity, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Faith

There was a horrible car accident on the street right outside of our school this morning, as the students were arriving for the day. The tell-tale signs were the varying pitches of wailing sirens -the low honking of the punctual fire trucks, the persistent two-toned police car whine, followed by the sing-song savior/bearer of bad news ambulance - and eventually the nosey news helicopters that whirred overhead. For an hour or more I listened to the horror outside.

The kids who were milling about in the halls ambled their ways to class, a little more quiet than usual, feigning nonchalance. After all, high school kids can't appear to be bothered by much, including by whatever obvious apocalypse that may or may not be occurring on their doorsteps. I could see that their eyes were a little wider than usual.

The PA system announced that we were to let our students in our classes without tardy paperwork. There was, "a horrible accident" in front of the school and traffic was stopped in all directions.

I feigned nonchalance for a different reason - the one that dictates that if the leader is calm, the crowd will follow. I silently took inventory of which students I saw in the halls, those who made it to class, those who didn't make it to class (my breath caught), and of those who weren't in class, those who were rumored to be the "bad" drivers (holding my breath). In the halls I took a silent teacher roll call and cautiously sighed in relief when I recognized that my department - the English folks - were present and accounted for. Not that any of that truly mattered. We all know that there is no reasoning when it comes to "horrible accidents." Without knowing any details about the chaos outside, and while being completely aware that for someone, somewhere - probably too close to home for it to ever be ok - the world was crumbling into irreparable pieces, I steeled myself, trembling, and began the routine assigned for the day: roll call, warm-up activity, instruction, assignment.
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Perhaps this is the definition of faith -the place where the world in shambles meets standard procedure or expectation.

I once had the fortune of hearing Archbishop Desmond Tutu speak at a local university, and though I drive his message into the ground on this blog, it has become sort of a mantra for me on difficult days. "The world," he explained, "is good. How do we know it's good? Because the atrocities are still horrific to us. That's how." The horrific things- the murders, the scandals, the things that leave black scorches on the face of the earth - are newsworthy because we can't believe things like that can happen. The lovely things, in contrast - mothers caring for their babies, people checking in on one another, people praising each other for accomplishments and surviving the shit - that's what is normal. And here is where we find proof (and comfort in knowing) that the world is good.

I suppose in a way this is the concrete faith for which we are desperately searching. It's easy to dismiss people, to say, "You can't trust people to do the right thing or to make the right choices,"or "We're just going to ruin the planet" or the economy or the country or other people or whatever it is we feel like we've got a stake in or control over. For the collective, perhaps these are worthy accusations. But for the individual... Think about the folks around you - friends, family, teachers, grocery store clerks, neighbors, etc. and then weigh your findings.

If you ask me about my specific faith, I land somewhere amid the God inspired, majestic mountains and man-made chasms of the Abrahamic faiths and serene valley of Buddhism. I'm not sure how, exactly, to classify myself. What I do know is that whatever faith people in my school building proclaim (we are a very diverse campus) we were all hoping for, praying for the same things - that our loved ones were accounted for, and that whatever was happening outside would be bearable for whomever it was happening to. Understanding that commonality is a type of faith for me - a faith in people, more specifically, in the good in people.
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It turns out that a school bus carrying 11 kids (aged 14 and under) hit a motorcycle cop who had just made a routine traffic stop. The gas tank on the bike exploded, killing the officer on contact and creating pandemonium. All of the people on the school bus were physically unharmed. The counselors from my high school rushed to the scene amid all of the wailing sirens, boarded the bus, and ushered the little ones out. They acted as immediate trauma counselors for them at our school, even though the kids were from other schools. Emails were exchanged all day about how our faculty was so thankful for the counselors and for the officer on our campus, that all of the police department was wholly appreciated for the constant vigilance and protection.

Individuals taking care of other individuals.. I, thank God, have faith in that.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Faith, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Dogma in a Nutshell

artist: anonymous student in my class

medium: pencil and marker on scrap paper

message: metaphorical, in my opinion, but open to personal interpretation. Art is, after all, a relationship, isn't it..

Tag. you're it.

Record Labels

There is a very heavy moment that happens every year in the second right after a student asks me the most dreaded question they dare: "So, what kind of music do you listen to?" The room usually goes silent, every kid waiting to know if my taste matches theirs, for better or for worse, and what my musical inclinations say about me. In that very moment, judgement hangs in the room in the same way that it hung in the Coliseum when the spectators awaited Caesar's signal - will it be life or death for the poor gladiator English teacher?

I always feel like my answer will color the rest of the year, that either they'll respect me for being like minded, they'll shove me into the "old maid" pile, or they'll shrug me off with a label - emo, techno, bubble gum, navel gazer, screamo - or something like that. "Is the cool teacher really cool?" they'll ask, "or have we been snowed the last few months?"

I know it's silly to assign so much meaning to one question and to care about what the answer says about me. Still, I usually answer vaguely - the ole "I listen to all sorts of music," song and dance. But they know as well as I do, that my usual answer is pretty much a cop out. That's why this year I decided to go with, "Actually, lately I'm really interested in this new radio station that plays mostly indie music from people who record in their own homes. You know, the starving musicians who can't afford a fancy recording studio and who refuse sell out to some corporate label. Yeah. I'm into that."

They bought it! I didn't mention that it's the new NPR music station I'm talking about. They didn't ask, as they were nodding approval and wondering what "indie" means.

(Speaking of snowed..)

But there it is. I survived the question one more year.

Thankful for Christine

The folks over at ModCloth are affording me the opportunity via their ModCloth Thank-a-thon contest to write about a person I am thankful for. Please enjoy my extremely sincere attempt:

The Office Supply Store:

“Do you think it’s worth a dollar fifty to make our boss happy?” I asked her. We were standing in front of a depleted end cap at Staples, weighing whether or not a package of multi-expressioned smiley face push pins would be part of our next diabolical plan. A stranger standing next to us, pretending to ignore our conversation, smothered a snort.

School:

FISH. It’s an acronym for something. I have no idea what it stands for other than it’s in a book , one that’s among the favorite self help texts used, supposedly, for breathing life back into stifled, floundering grade school faculties across the country. Campuses, at this very moment, are having staff retreats – playing “get-to-know-you” games that involve answering questions like, “How have you made you students’ day? If you have a story about that, grab a red construction paper fish from the pile,” and “How have you been there for the kids lately? Take a green fish if you have,” or “Take a yellow fish if you’ve played lately.” Think, pair, share; think, pair, share. “Now, everybody, throw your fish.”

Or something like that.

It’s times like these, when I’m sitting in the middle of a faculty FISH exercise, a pile of papers in my inbox needing to be marked, that I’m glad to have my equally cynical cohort, my accomplice extraordinaire, Christine, sitting next to me. Mocking such endeavors in the form of secretly exchanged glances, or the defacement of construction paper fish, or by the planning and executing of diabolical plans – chocked full of jackholery - are the only ways we know how to deal with the overwhelming proof that in our country teachers are not considered intellectuals.

Apparently, we’re FISH.

Choose your attitude:

A black and white printout touting this message is taped on the back of the main office door, so that when one exits the office, she sees the sign. Underneath the message are two faces, the elementary equivalent of theater masks: a happy face and a sad one.

“What’s up with this sign? I would wager that it’s part of the FISH philosophy,” I said to Christine as we walked together out of the office.

“Dude. There are more than two choices aren’t there? I mean what about being mad (zigzag mouth) or surprised (large oval mouth) or indifferent (a line)? Are these two the only options? ”

“We should add the others. Obviously, this sign is lacking.”

It was agreed. With enthusiasm, everyone, including the office staff, riffled through their desk drawers looking for markers, finding any excuse to throw caution to the wind.

“This will be a great joke,” we exclaimed. “It’ll make our boss’s day! She’ll laugh at our ingenuity and praise us for playing! This is our way of FISHing without being intrusive! And she’ll understand that positive change comes from all sorts of places, including sad faces. It will be brilliant!!”

Markers in hand, we set about “correcting” the sign. We added all sorts of facial options, delighting in our creative genius, liberating the masses, hoisting our own petards! We were cheered and revered by all and, after many high fives and giggles, our mission complete, we skipped back to the realities of our lives – down the hall to our respective classrooms.

The Next Day:

The next day the sign had been replaced with a new, clean printout. The glory of our masterpiece had been taken down without the slightest acknowledgement or reprimand, thrown like a dead fish onto a trash heap.

The Office Supply Store:

Christine raised an eyebrow and smirked. “It might not be worth making the boss happy, but a dollar fifty to make us happy? Absolutely, it’s worth it.”

“I’ll take two packages. Let’s add a card that says ‘See! There are more than two attitude choices!” I said with a fist in the air.

“And we’ll put one package on our boss’s desk when she’s not looking!”

“Yes! And I’ll divide the other one between us as souvenirs.”

And we skipped off to the checkout counter having crafted a new reality, one that involved as many expressions - diabolical glee, perhaps - as we could imagine.

** Thank you, Christine, for being my very dear friend - the one who hears me, goes to bat for me, and is a complete jackhole, no matter what others think, with me. I am thankful for you, always and forever. I love you!!

You've Been Hit By a Smooth Criminal.

Apparently I am a criminal.

That's how I'm being treated, anyway. My school informed me that the Feds are fingerprinting all teachers, and my turn is tomorrow. Why is this happening, you ask? Well the answer, I think, is very simple. It's that.. (covering mouth as I mumble something incoherent) .. WHO THE HELL KNOWS? As far as I can guess, they are doing a thorough background check on each of the teachers in this country to make sure we aren't pedos or arsonists or borders crossers or something horrifying. I mean you can never tell, right? I have shifty eyes, after all..

So, of course, I immediately protested the idea. I asked questions like, "Why is the current background check not enough?" and, "What percentage of teachers are actually criminals?" and, "If there are so many shady teachers, then who the hell is doing the hiring?" followed by, "Isn't this a statement about society - that they think all teachers are criminals?" and finally, "What happens if I refuse to give up my digits?"

Only one answer was given and only to the last question. The answer was, "Your teaching certificate - the one that you earned, the one that says, "Sure I'll keep getting punched in the gut for a thankless job that no one wants unless they want to do something wussy like help society"; the one that, apparently, is very accessible to pedos - that certificate will be suspended indefinitely."

My next question was (and is) "How is this not against my fundamental rights - that you can fire me because I refuse to be fingerprinted like a criminal?" No. Answer. Just a reminder about what will happen if I don't comply. Did I mention that they're making us pay for it, too? Fortunately (and I'm saying this in the same way a person might smile as he's pouring salt into his own wound), our state is paying for our share..

Fine. So, I'm being fingerprinted tomorrow at 1:50 pm which will be a difficult task for the print taker seeing as my hands have been tied behind my back. I'll be handing a random person a form with my social security number, my drivers licence number, my birth date, my maiden name, my height and weight. Hope they don't lose it in the parking lot on the way to wherever they're going, seeing as pretty much anyone can now steal my identity at the cost of a small gust of wind, or a poorly organized clerk, or another shifty-eyed fellow.

If that weren't bad enough, I also had to declare my ethnicity on a different form, for another "information" gathering agency. This was also mandatory. I clicked the box that said, "Other." Or maybe it said, "Why does that matter/How does that effect my teaching ability?" Actually the box, according to me, said, "It's really none of your business". The drop down menu under that option gently explained that "they" will physically come and check if I choose not to declare. Fine. Again. But I'm not going to make it easy.

Overheard: A subtle distinction, and just in time for Halloween!

Presenter: ...and based on all of my research, I've concluded that out of all of the suspects Jack the Ripper was most likely the priest suffering from the delusions of syphilis.

(Applause.)

Any questions?

Student 1: I've heard that Jack the Ripper was a cannibal. Did you find anything about that in your research?

Presenter: Actually, yeah...

Student 2: (Interrupting.) WAIT. WHAT? JACK THE RIPPER WAS MARRIED?!

Picture Perfectionist

The auditorium was dimly lit except for the occasional bursts from the bulbous, umbrella-like flashes that flanked each of the three predictably blue and black backdrop tarps on the stage. Creeping my way down the aisle among the sea of empty seats, I wondered how it was that I still hated picture day so much. I had, after all, been having my school picture made for the last thirty years or so, minus my four years at college, 'the blissful years' I call them, and I still had not mastered the art of being suitable or even marginally presentable in that one inch by one inch yearbook square.

I think the problem started when I was eight. It was at this impressionable age that I was finally conscious enough of my own reflection to notice that my previous school pictures were ridiculous. I realized in a single moment that all those times my parents opened the white picture envelope to see that year's picture, they weren't giggling at the delight of a picture well taken. They were laughing because my smile was too forced (to the point of painful grimace), or because my curls had not withstood the game of tag at recess, or because the caption of that year's photo, "deer in headlights," would be whispered among the extended family that holiday season.

I realized, when I was eight, that school pictures were just another punchline given at my expense. But that wasn't the horrible part. The horrible part was they were right. I was as un-photogenic as they come.

After having that epiphany, I remember practice posing. The night before picture day I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and practice smiling. I would tell my brow to relax to rid it of the fear lines. I would tell my lips to soften to be more picturesque and less like a taut white line. I would measure the exact amount of gum line that should show, using my finger as a guide, so that the next day I could set my smile as it looked in the mirror when I finally got it right. I would raise my eyebrows and lower them to see what looked distinguished, or happy-go-lucky, or amused. I would pause at each expression, willing myself to remember it so that I could recall it as the mood struck the next day.

Every year I practiced which is probably why my pictures continued to get worse and worse. I think my parents eventually stopped trying to give them away as gifts as the photos became less endearing and more ridiculous. After all, they weren't hoping to offend anyone, including extended family. Plus they didn't want the pictures to be misconstrued as a shortcoming in their parenting skills. They knew they had to purchase a package so as not to devastate me, but they did buy the smallest package so as not to be too wasteful.

These were my thoughts that day in the auditorium. I stepped to the front of the line, a perk of being a teacher, just in time to hear the photographer saying, "No. No! Just stop. Turn your head a little more.. No! (sigh) Look. You have to relax. Let's start over. Stand up."

"Shit," I thought. "Of course I got in this line. It has to be karma of some sort. But what did I do to deserve this repeated torment?"

"Next!" the photographer called.

I stepped forward and took a deep breath, hoping that I wouldn't be as humiliated as the poor soul who went before me.

"Have a seat," the photographer said. "Perfect."

"What?" I thought. "Did he say 'perfect?'" I smiled, allowing myself a second of relief. "I have done this before, you know," I quipped. Maybe this would be the year I would break the cycle. Surely I was due some sort of reprieve after all of these years of aggravation.

"Ok. Now turn your head a bit.. No. Not like that. Just a little.. Your shirt.." he said.

"What?" I asked.

"Your shirt. Pull it down some." I started smoothing out my shirt. "No," he said, "Pull it. It's too.. Just.. It's the collar. It's too close to your neck." I pulled, trying frantically to understand his wild gesticulations.

He eventually gave up and sighed. "Fine. Whatever. Just smile."

My face reverted back to all of those frozen practice moments. I felt the panic creeping out of my pores and into the camera lens. I grinned my most forced smile, cursing the likes of all of those perfect kids - the photogenic ones whose pictures, K-12, still adorn the hallways of their parents' homes.

Click.

Another picture day come and gone.

Enduring One Aeon Creates Grumpy-gilled Humanoid

It's only Wednesday. The last three days have felt aeonic. Seriously. It's been so slow that I've watched an entire evolution happen. All of a sudden people have grown gills that operate as pollution regulators, and they no longer walk but glide.. or something.

I'm tired.

The first week of school does that to teachers. It doesn't help that my classes are mammoth (as in 32-35 kids per English IV class, except for my Literary Magazine class that kids are dropping in what feels like an effort to actually make more work for the rest of us. I started with 10 kids (a cozy sized staff) and am down to 6. 6 kids to fundraise three thousand dollars; 6 kids to campaign for submissions, judge them, and edit them for publication; 6 kids to design and create a publication worthy of selling. 6 kids to do all of that and more. It's a tall order.)

On top of the extra work loads, today I had students comparing walking through perpetual minefields and explosions to get to school (like Sunshine in Mosul) with being upset because taking today's notes made their hands cramp.

"It's similar. I mean, both are inconveniences. Besides, a bomb could fall on us at any second, so I can totally relate," one said. "This sucks."

"What?" I gasped. "Are you serious? You can't compare the two or possibly understand what it is like to live in a war torn country!"

"Yes I can," he said. "I mean, you never know what could happen, so it's totally the same. You could be walking down the street and get blown up. Besides, it's my opinion and I'm entitled to it."

"Sure, you're entitled to your opinion," I said, "but you're absolutely wrong, and how disrespectful to those who actually have to live through the falling bombs!"

He held his hand up to stop me from talking and then waved it around and said, "Whatever. I'm right and there's nothing you can do to change my mind."

This is the second full day of school.

Frighteningly, this year is already head and shoulders above last year. Despite my grumpiness tonight (sick baby in tow), I have some wonderful kids, too. I'll try to focus on them.. after my pity party.

Overheard: Teacher Staff Development

A principal, on staffing:

"The On Campus Suspension teacher will not be returning this year. He moved to Oklahoma and opened a night club."

A principal, on dress code:

"Remember to keep in mind that thongs are dangerous."


The school nurse's sage advice:

"If it's wet and not yours, don't touch it."

(And the school year has only begun, darlings!)

Beaten

In a world where one can find any "conclusive evidence" to back what she is saying, it is surprisingly difficult to actually form a cohesive argument. What I mean is that people are emotional, reactionary creatures. We have a deep seeded need to be "right" in order to justify our actions, and we'll use any argument to prove ourselves. We are especially good at manipulating emotions by using words such as "God! Justice! Freedom!" and any other store of "evidence" we've gathered from our cultural norms.


Unfortunately, sometimes when we are at our wits end - when we know we're sunk, in over our heads, dead wrong, up shit creek (you get the idea)- the most most moving counter one can come up with is, "Oh yeah?! Well, my dad can beat up your dad!" This is ultimate desperation play, and, by the way, is a total lie for most of us. But she - the opponent - didn't know that.

Lately, I've been fighting a battle. Seriously. I've gone "to the mat." And literally, too - as in, one on one, face to mat. Because my proverbial nose is so smushed in, and I can't breath anything but sweaty, mildewed vinyl mixed with the sulfury smell of my own proverbial blood, I think it's safe to say that I lost. K.O. Game over. Roll credits.

As many of you know, I am sort of a wanna-be activist, though the only "march" or "protest" I've ever participated in was when I found myself blissfully lost in DC, and I accidentally stumbled into a march for Haitian rights. I did stop by the "Stop the War" camp in Parliament Square last time I was in London and shared an umbrella and a chat with some very interesting people who were staying there for a season. (Read more about the company I keep and then tell me I'm pretty)*

I want to be conscientious of issues, even if I am not participating in a march. What I'm learning - and this pertains to the fight - is that it is ridiculous for me - an average person, of average intelligence and height - to assume that I can win an argument against a full fledged activist. I don't have the wherewithal or the gumption. My battle scars aren't deep enough, and my tears are too salty. I also learned a little about cruelty and compassion, that if one can successfully mix the two in just the right amounts, one is assured "victory".

It doesn't matter what the argument was that caused me to be lying limp and broken on this mat, her shadow lording over me. Her win was in her concluding remarks - full of righteous indignance and God and poetry. I mean, who can argue with that? She won. Not because she's smarter than me or right, but because she knows the correct way to argue - the winning rhetorical combination - the right one, two.

It turns out it takes a few good ass kickings to learn how to respond to certain bullies, even ones who claim that "God is on their side". It also turns out I am a very good student.

*I am a member of a list (hardly active on my part,but very active on my friend, Mark's) that advocates true community cohesion and decision making, what they call a Campaign for Real Democracy. My teaching job is quite a platform for activism. The International Baccalaureate Program I teach with promotes international mindedness (not globalization), in an effort to help people embrace cultural differences. "Tolerating" differences implies that a negative judgement has been made. We must do more. Some of my friends in Arizona "break the law" by leaving gallon water jugs in the desert for people who are trying to cross the border and who sometimes die of dehydration in their efforts. (The activists from the Restoration Project were acquitted, by the way. It turns out leaving water in the desert so that people don't die is a difficult case to prosecute morally.)

I Love to Feel The Rain in the Summertime

Every year about this time, I start griping about summer. You'd think I'd love it seeing as I am a teacher and this is "my time off." Many have said that having free summers is a great reason to be a teacher.

So, it turns out that this is actually not my "time off." I'm still working, and I'm not getting paid for it. Because I teach, it is assumed that I will do extra tasks happily because it is "for the betterment of the kids, i.e. the society." Actually, I agree that it is. And honestly, I do do the extra stuff because I enjoy doing it. I just hate the assumption, one that is made worse when people throw in a platitude about how lucky teachers are that they get to have so much vacation time. For the record, I've formally taught summer school once and vowed never to do it again (not because of the kids, but because of the burn out I experienced the next year in October). I have, however, worked every summer, revamping assignments, going to trainings, reading(!), collaborating with other members of my department, etc..

Incidentally, the same folks who list "summers off" as a lucky break for teachers are the same ones who smother teachers in common cliches such as, "Teachers are so important. You definitely should get paid more," and then they vote against raising taxes. They're the same ones who say, "Geez. You're job is so difficult. It takes a really special person to do it," and then they treat the school like it's Wal-mart and the teachers like they are customer service reps. Some pretend that they get to tell us what they would like to see happen in the classroom - like ordering off of a menu- and then they file complaints to management when the product isn't what they thought they paid for. I've heard parents tell their kids, "not to listen to that stupid teacher," when their child hasn't gotten his/her way.

Honestly, it really isn't their fault. We've allowed this sort of disrespect in our society in several ways:

*by not respecting that the teacher/student relationship is not a business transaction, but part of a sacred tradition involving mutual respect and understanding^

*by allowing bad teachers to continue to teach^

*by allowing those with the loudest voices to rule the day

*by filling our classrooms with so many students that teachers don't have time to guide each one^

* by making students and teachers adhere to state guidelines/statistics that look important on paper, but that have no real value^

* by allowing money to be the means of deciding who our heroes are
and/or (even more apt) undervaluing members of society who do not have a lot of money^

*etc. and on and on

^= money at the state or local level is involved in some way

I didn't intend this to be a rant. In fact, when I sat down to write this morning, I thought I would talk about the burden of summer - the heat, the lack of structure, the monotony. I guess I should be grateful that, if I want to, I can choose to go to the mall today or to the neighborhood pool. But those things will have to wait until I'm done grading the summer assignments, until I read some new poetry (possibly to teach next year), until I find out about the required reading for the conference I'll attend in two weeks, until I consider how I want next year to be different.

A Week of Cheers! and Jeers.

Cheer!: The convertible bra - that claims to be strapless, backless, and push up, depending on the occasion - is truly convertible! Standing in front of the Victoria's Secret mirror that instructed me to "strip" in neon red, I realized that in this bra my bosoms went from less than perky bobbers to "you can start me up," va-va-va-voom fantastic! Welcome back to the surface ladies! (and welcome back sideways glances from men)! And watch out Betty Paige! Strip, indeed!

(p.s.. Dear VC, I love the new fitting/customer service system! You guys rock!)

Jeer.: Unfortunately, the convertible part of the bra also converts my stomach into two ginormous muffin tops. Great top to muffin top in a single glance to my midsection. It's fair to say that I do have some body fat to speak of. I did have a baby and all. But seriously, Kate Moss is as waifish as one can get; she's almost inside-out, she's so (too) skinny! And I would wager most of my life's savings on a bet that even Kate Moss would have a muffin top in this thing. Ok, probably not. But it helps me sleep at night to think that. Plus, my life's savings is like three dollars, or something.

Cheer!: Regarding School - Next week is the last week of school! Everyone is so excited, including the teachers who have stopped counting days and started counting minutes! There are very few of us rocking in corners, muttering incoherently to ourselves. I have everything ready for exams and check out, so I really can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Also, I got fifth place in the ranks of teachers voted to read names at graduation. Only the first four read! (This is a victory, friends. Believe me. If you don't understand, try saying "Onegbule" or "Fuc Duc Dong" or "Oluwakanyinsola Obayan" correctly in front of a packed auditorium, these kids' mommas being among the many. Hell, try saying "magna cum laude" correctly. It sucks. But I don't have to do it!!)

The litmag is OUT! It looks phenomenal, thanks to my great staff! (Pictures to follow.) Temporary Utopia , the release party, is over. :)

Jeer.: I still have to make a failure list for those who won't make it. I get so angry when kids put me in this position - having to tell them that I'm sorry that their great aunt Gladys flew in all the way from Buffalo for the commencement, but she'll have to go home. "You're not walking across the stage this time, but chin up! There's always summer graduation." (sigh) I should mention that I do everything I can to help my kids pass. EVERYTHING. Ironically, they have to really work at failing. :(

We have to sell 100 magazines in a week. That's what happens when your deadlines get pushed back two weeks because of AP/IB testing that you forgot was happening the week before the mag was supposed to go to printer.

Hey, y'all! Want to buy a literary magazine for the low, low cost of $15?

Cheer!: My baby is turning one in two weeks!

Jeer.: My baby is turning one in two weeks.

Spit Wad Survival

I'm five. At least, I've been acting that way lately. In the last week my professionalism at work has diminished into something akin to a hollow ballpoint pen and perfectly saturated spit wad aimed at that waxy old school marm, also known as me.

For example, I walked by a colleague's classroom on Tuesday. By colleague, I mean the very same Tweedle Dee who passed extremely mature notes with the cool kids at that very formal staff meeting that one time. Anyway, as I passed his room, I noticed his door was propped slightly open which, as any amateur knows, is an invitation to jackholery.

I peeked into the room and noticed Tweedle Dee was at his desk. The lights were off and the kids were watching some sort of enlightening documentary, one that I believe comes standard with any American history class.. or maybe it was contraband.. I can't remember. The point is that seeing TD at his desk, clearly absorbed in the film, I crouched down close to the floor and whispered to the nearest kid sitting in the closest desk.

"Pssst. Hey. Psst."

The kid turned around slowly. From the expression on his face I knew he was slightly horrified to be breaking a rule - that is, to almost talk during a movie - and even more horrified to find a grown woman- a teacher, no less- crouched close to the ground in the hallway, whispering "psst" to him through the slightly open door. His amusement quickly overtook his surprise, and he grinned.

I held one finger to my mouth, the universal signal for "shhhh" and in this case for "Act natural, kid. Don't draw attention to this area of the room," and then I whispered, "Do you have any paper?" He slowly and methodically unzipped his backpack, careful not to make a sound that might alert his teacher that he was doing anything remotely devious. He shimmied a single loose leaf sheet out of a folder and carefully passed in through the door to me.

I took the paper and on it wrote, "Walk up to Tweedle Dee, point one finger at him, and say, 'Zap!' Do this before you leave class today." I then passed the note back to the kid, who read it and looked back at me. I made the universal hand signal for "pass this around the class," which in return was given an almost too enthusiastic thumbs up. Before I left, I took one more peek at Tweedle Dee who had not moved a muscle.

I'm not sure how far the note got, or if any of his class had the chance to Zap Tweedle Dee. I did get an email back with the word "ZAP" written in 72 font size, so I know he knows..

See? I'm five. And this story does not even include the argument I had with a student that involved my shoulder angel (that sits across from my demon one) being Al Capone which means that his shoulder angel should watch his back. It does not include the fact that I had my entire LitMag staff singing Minnie Ripperton's "Loving You" with a particularly robust "La la la la la" chorus, or the fact that I'm making my kids River Dance to the pencil sharpener.

I think my stress level is really high and because I'm drowning in worry - about whether or not my kids will graduate (I seem to be the only one who cares); magazine production - printing, music recording and release party; IB assessment papers; and general end of the school activities - I think I've reverted to these immature shenanigans. But I'm surviving. And it's kind of fun to be the crazy one..

Gay is the New Black

I saw in my peripheral vision something fly across the classroom, hit the trash can, and knock it over, spilling trash across the floor. "Damn it," I thought mid-lecture, "why do they always have to do that shit? When will they freaking grow up?" I was lucky I didn't say that sentence out loud because that would've made twice in two weeks I would have cursed in class.

The first time happened last Monday when two 18 year olds were playing grab ass- as in slapping at each other, calling each other names, and trying to take each other's pens. They were doing this as I was giving directions on appropriate behavior in an assembly - the one we were about to attend. My actual words were, as I pointed in the air, at their behavior, "OK, that shit can't happen. It has to stop. NOW." Immediately they tried to escalate the situation by saying, "You can't say that to us. You don't have the right and we weren't doing anything wrong." What they don't know is they got the nice version of what I really wanted to say which was far more brutal and inappropriate. But I backed down. They were right. I shouldn't have cursed. But I was right, too. They shouldn't have taken me to that level of frustration.

Needless to say, my blood pressure has been a bit elevated lately, so when I saw the object- which I later learned was a water bottle- fly across the room and the trash strewn across the floor, I was pissed. I was acutely cognizant of what my reaction should be seeing as it was being monitored by 25 people who were waiting for a theatrical temper tantrum. So as not to give in, I calmly asked the kid to pick up the trash and then stay after class to pick up the rest of the room. My tone was measured. I tried to remember that I like the kid and anyway we had eight weeks left to survive each other. I took a breath, proud that I hadn't lost it, and continued with my lecture. I noticed that there were some whispers in that area of the room, so I raised my voice over them, as usual, and tried to finish out the class without losing my temper.

When the bell rang, I reminded the offender that he needed to stay after and pick up. He was shaking. He said, "Mrs. Haag. I don't know if I should say anything or not because it's all stupid high school drama, but you should know that if the girl sitting next to me were a boy, I would've punched her in the fucking face! I mean it. And I apologize for throwing the water bottle and for knocking over the trash. It wasn't the right thing to do. But it kept me from hitting her. And I really wanted to fucking hit her!"

"OK." I said as calmly as I could, "I appreciate that you're apologizing to me, but what exactly is going on?"

"Look," he said, "I'm friends with John (who sits behind him in class) and you know he's gay. I don't care about that. I like him. We're friends and we hang out outside of school sometimes and it's fine because we're friends and I don't care what people say about it. "

"That's great," I said. "So, what's the issue?"

"I mostly don't care what people say. But they get mean, and take it too far. They all joke that I want to bang him and stuff. Whatever. That's stupid. They can make fun of me all they want, but today that girl crossed a line. She started drawing pictures of me banging him. She wouldn't shut up, calling me a faggot fucker and stuff. I lost it, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have thrown the water, but I had had enough."

I paused to get my brain wrapped around the enormity of what he was saying. All that came out was,"I'm sorry." And I was. In the second it took for me to process, I realized I was sorry - sorry that I didn't hear the conversation or catch the girl drawing the pictures; sorry that I punished the reaction, rather than catching the real deviant; sorry that John was sitting next to the girl, knowing what the joke was, but allowing it to happen because in our society it is OK to make fun of gay people. It's just another day for him. I was really sorry. And then I was sick.

I collected myself and continued, "It's not OK, the way she treated you, or how any of the others treat you regarding John. You're a really good person to still be his friend and hang out with him anyway. Tell her next time that it's not OK." In my anger, I said something I shouldn't have, but that I still think was necessary to the point. I said, "Tell her to replace the word "faggot" with "nigger" to show her how absolutely WRONG it is to be so racist/sexist! Ask her if she would ever say 'nigger fucker,' that of course she wouldn't because she learned a long time ago that saying such racist, hateful things is not OK. Tell her that saying "faggot fucker" is just as wrong, and hopefully she'll think about it next time. It's ignorant."

We both calmed down, and he apologized again and then went to his next class.

That would be the end of the story, except that there has to be a "now what" on my part. And really. Now what? What is my responsibility with this? What is the follow up action? I have eight weeks left with these kids. It is times like these when writing papers and reading novels seems ridiculous in the face of all the other things they need to learn - like tolerance, for example. I hate the word tolerance because there is a connotation that one is "putting up with" people who are different, tolerating them. Really what I want to teach them is how to love people and their differences.

But I'll settle for tolerance.

List five things to do before you die.

Every time I see a prompt like this I start with, "Does someone know something I don't know about my death?" which then leads to, "How much time do I have left, because if it's a lot I might list more grandiose things. If not, I'll be sure to list relatively attainable things so that I can check them off the list and then feel fulfilled."

And therein lies the problem. Shouldn't dreams be attainable ones, or should we say (and lie to ourselves a little) that we can do anything - that all things, big and small are within reach?

My students were taught "You can do anything you set your mind to." And then rainbows and kittens shoot out of their asses. When I hear them say this, I usually cough "bullshit" under my breath. Today it came out as "That's a bunch of crap. You can't do anything you set your mind to!"

They countered with (and I'm not kidding with this), "Ms. Haag! Why do you have to be such a Negative Nancy!"

"OK, first of all, where did you find the time machine that took you back to the time period when people (moms) said 'Negative Nancy?," I rhetorically asked, "and secondly, I'm not being negative. I'm being truthful. You cannot be or do anything you want. It's called the real world, gang. Welcome to it."

They acted like I had just told them the truth about the Tooth Fairy - that their parents were not the Tooth Fairy's 'helpers' at all, that they had been tricked into believing something completely and utterly bogus - like believing that one can be anything he or she wants, for example.

They mumbled that no matter what I said, they actually could do anything. I think they were kicking rocks down the street in their imaginations. I mean, how dare someone - a teacher, no less - tell them that they can't be whatever they want!

I said, "Look. I would love to be a professional musician. But it's not going to happen. I don't have the talent."

"Well, get to practicing, Mrs. Haag, and you can be," one said. "Plus, you're Ms. Haag!" said another bright-eyed boy, as if I really were the beloved, magical Tooth Fairy in a shabby teacher disguise.

May I remind you that I teach seniors? These "kids" are 17 and 18 years old - eligible to vote and to carry a weapon for the US military.

I suppose there is still some illusion about what they can and can't do. For example, they believe they are invincible and can race a car at 100 mph in traffic and not hurt anyone. They believe that they don't have to do any classwork and still graduate (they aren't too far off on this one, thanks to our lovely education system). So maybe it isn't such a leap to think that they can one day snap their fingers and be superheros and rock stars and professional athletes.

But I think it is irrational and counterproductive, even, to tell them they can do or be anything, because doesn't that immediately set them up for certain failure? I might be more amendable to using the word "try" instead of "do" or "be." Maybe.

The conversation pretty much ended with me saying, "Um OK," seeing as I was obviously going nowhere fast.

All of this occurred to me as I was thinking of my list of 5 things just now.

So here they are, grain of salt included:

1. Climb Maccu Piccu
2. Live in a different country for a while
3. Learn how to play the guitar
4. Raise a kind, mindful son
5. Become as magical and inspirational as the Tooth Fairy

Now that I have sufficiently stomped your dreams and aspirations into the ground, what are your five things?