"Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms."
-- Nora Ephron
The other day I was asked in my new teachers' lounge where I come from. When I mentioned Texas the response was jarring: "Oh, the place where all problems in education originate".
I realize that Texas gets a rather absurd, and quite frankly sometimes very real rap for being a state whose occupants are set in their ways, convinced they are right, and (gulp) conservative...but I had to remember that in this particular case, defending where I come from was not the real issue. Oh sure, I wanted to bulk up like the Friday night football champ whose rival just insulted his girlfriend and pipe up with, "Now wait just a minute, 'gal'", but I refrained, because if there are two things that Texas taught me, it's how to be a lady and teach.
When I lived in Texas and simultaneously decided that I wanted to teach, I knew nothing... except my content... which anyone can tell you who has been in the trenches, amounts to virtually nothing. As a first year teacher I spent a lot of my time doing the following rituals before students arrived:
1.) I laminated until there was nothing left to laminate in my room. Not a square inch of my classroom was safe until it was covered in a plastic overcoat of stability.
2.) I shopped for "cool" posters. I had everything on my walls from Miles Davis, to the Teas Rangers (debatably cool), but I digress. I also had posters of the notorious "Fiesta" that takes place in San Antonio once a year.
3.) I decorated. Wait. I surrender that last statement; my teacher friends decorated. I had plastic ivy, flowers, and colored lights. When the lights were turned out in my room, not one corner lacked for an amazing (and very warming in the literal sense) lighting fixture. *Imagine fried chicken at a gas station. That is what these lights produce: the feeling of being warmed under horrible lighting until you are inedible.
4.) I had every office supply imaginable. Oh, the joy of shopping for supplies! My teacher cohorts can substantiate this claim: You will never meet a happier teacher than the teacher on their first trip to buy supplies. Conversely, you will never meet an unhappier teacher than a teacher who is making their 25th trip by the second day to buy... more supplies.
And it was all for not. It didn't matter how "cool" my classroom was, because I was a first year. Your first year (unfortunately) you are just trying to survive and it doesn't matter how much training you've had. You make it to the end thinking, "I was great! I was stupendous! I taught them all so much!" Then the summer break comes, you reflect on every near catastrophe you escaped and you realize you barely made it out alive. Teaching is very much like pregnancy (although I have no right to compare): If we remembered how bad it was the first time, we'd never do it again.
I am also convinced in regards to teaching and pregnancy that if there was a book, the authors would cut the last two chapters.
You see, in my first year, I made many mistakes. But the kids forgive and forget. They remember things with nostalgia and longing. The real teaching went on between myself and my colleagues.
You must understand, not everyone had the same experience I had. Some people teach in horrible, dark, lonely places. I took a teaching job in a remote, little beach town off the coast of Texas... and I learned how to teach and live a meaningful life. In my time as a teacher in Texas, I was fortunate enough to be surrounded by some of the most upstanding, regal, and humble people I have ever met. Most of what I really learned in my first year of teaching... was grace.
I am sure (100%) that I came up with some of the most clichéd, ridiculous, and obvious statements during department meetings... and never once did someone correct me. I AM A GENIUS (I must have thought).
But I wasn't a genius. I was a first year. What I said had value because I was figuring it out... and I worked with people who actually let me figure it out. They validated me when I didn't even know they were doing it; they supported me when I made obvious mistakes with classroom management; and all the while they kept saying, "We're all in this together!".
Here are the real things I learned from my time as a teacher in Texas:
1.) Always listen before you speak... and really listen. Not every thought you have is original and chances are, the person who is presenting information to you is much brighter than you give them credit. It is also plenty fine to sit on your comment. If it is really that innovative or original, then you can share it. Plus, no one likes someone who keeps a meeting going. Stop it. Stop it right this minute. I beg of you.
2.) Lots of teachers were gifted and talented students. Some were engineers before they switched to teaching. Some went on the get PhDs. You would never know it because they are humble, sincere people. They chose this profession because they find dignity and reward within it, and you can do the same.
3.) Never underestimate the audible *sigh* before you speak at a meeting or someone asks your opinion. You have time to answer. You only get one time to answer. Please make sure you answer the question that is being asked.
4.) As long as you got one good thing out of it, it wasn't that bad. We sit through so many meetings; you would think we never actually interact with children. Most of the time they are what is known as PD (Professional Development) [Teaching is notorious for acronyms]. Most of the time they feel pointless, they take up your time, and they are always called, without fail, the Friday before a major holiday. That is no excuse for professional misconduct. You go in knowing that the person who is speaking is educated and knows that you hate their guts in that moment for calling a meeting. You go in knowing that if it were you, you would want people to smile at you and know that it really isn't your fault that you are having a meeting. You (hopefully) go in with an attitude that there can be at the very least one good thing that comes from this meeting. And whatever you do, DO NOT ROLL YOUR EYES OR TEXT.
5.) You are replaceable. That last one stings even as I type it. There is no job too big or too small that someone else cannot do. Teachers come and they go. People have babies, take jobs other places...get into graduate school across the country. It happens. There will always be someone else who needs your job. Sometimes they need it more than you do. As in public speaking, sometimes you have to know when to stop. Be brief, be thankful, be gone.
Texas did a lot to train me to become a good teacher. Yes, there are naturals. Yes, people will tell you at some point that you were "born to do this", and you probably were. I probably was. Texas paid a lot of money to train me to teach well. I sat through many a boring meeting... and I have found myself sitting on a lot of comments that I have wanted to make as I have started new rounds of boring meetings. Guess what.
New York has lots of boring meetings.
As I sit in meetings about unions, my union representative, where union meetings are held, and..... lots of other things that are union-y, I keep wondering... "Where is the training?" You see, in this club, you are very much alone. Well, most people are. I still have my department back in Texas sending me emails, sharing resources, and sending texts to check on me.
I do not think that most of the problems in education originated in Texas. I do not think that most of the problems in education originated in New York. I like to blame Idaho, because no one lives there and they have potatoes. And that is all they contribute in my small mind.
But I would never say so in a teachers' lounge...because I am a lady... from Texas.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Speaking of funny...
Doooo you want to know what my dream job is?
Well, I'm not going to tell you- not until the end, anyway.
Once upon a time, there was a girl who played things very cool- the motto is to never let anyone see you freak out or panic, because then you fall apart. The only bad thing about that is that you miss out on a lot of things, and people only see glimpses of you.
OK, so this story gets better; it's not sappy. I promise. See above, right?
The moral of the story is: (drumroll) Find a way to release who you really are without losing your shit, or at least temper it so that you can cope with the funny, ridiculous, absurd, boring, sad things that happen to everyone.
Some people are really sweet; they find the human condition so unifying that they can't help but feel for people.
I am not one of these people.
Some people are gifted with music, so they connect with people based on some extraordinary talent where people are moved beyond belief and they just gravitate to these people.
Still not me. But I do like music, and I am crazy jealous of these people. I hate them. Moving on...
Some people take a dark or humorous, or darkly humorous situation and try and laugh (and make others laugh) to connect with people.
That's me.
Laughing is my favorite. It's ridiculous. I laugh in the worst situations. It's embarrassing... and did I mention that I have a loud laugh? And when it comes to dudes, I am a sucker for someone who can keep me in stitches. But you want to know what is better than laughing?
Making others laugh. OK so back to above: Never lose your cool is the first part, but the next part is laughing about it. OK bad shit happens, but laughing about it is paramount, and then retelling what happened to people and having them cry so hard from laughing is extra.. but in the best possible way. When something weird or crappy happens to me... I get disappointed, but then I bounce back and think, "Uhhh no one is going to believe this story once I'm done with it."
Sooommmetimes people surprise you, let you down, pull the wool over your eyes, hang you out to dry, wear you out (i.e. your kids, or students in my case on some days), but that's not the point. The point is in the storytelling; how do you spin it?
OK, so as promised, my dream job... I want to tell stories someday for a living. Not an author; no, that is too ambitious for me, and quite frankly I could never diagram a story out in such detail. No, my dream job would be to write for television. In my opinion, you have to earn the right to write the character, and the talent is in the choice... so if all of my day-to-day endeavors get me one step closer to earning the right to write someday, I'm OK with that.
And who knows? Maybe some of you will find yourself in my stories...
Thursday, July 14, 2011
"You have nice veins"
I don't know what it is about teachers, but we seem to get sick more than the average person. Now, you might think that it's because we're around kids all the time, kids that don't wash their hands, cover their mouths when they sneeze, or bother to bathe... and this is all true. I however, manage to contract deathly, exotic stomach bugs when I haven't seen a child in months.
I can't predict these things, and until two o'clock in the morning, I had no idea that I was sick. (Of course it happens at 2 a.m., because for it to happen when you can actually scream for help and someone would care is just too much to ask.) My stomach felt much like the man in Alien right before the alien comes through... I wasn't ruling it out at this point. By three o'clock, I was begging for the alien to, "Please for the love of God, come out already so I can go back to sleep", but it was not that kind. Oh no, I spent the remainder of the waking hours wrapped in a sarong and a bath mat (it was all that was handy and I was not about to crawl 15 ft. to find a blanket). With all this free time on my hands... and knees, I decided to ponder my life. "So this is what it's come to," I thought. "Someone is going to find me dead in my bathroom wearing layers of beachwear and Bed, Bath, and Beyond and I didn't even bother to brush my teeth or comb my hair." Vanity left me around 4 a.m. because the alien, who I named ALF, was consuming most of my attention and because my teeth and hair actually hurt at this point.
For the record, I might have considered calling a friend for help... but then I remembered that all of my friends that I would trust to answer the phone and take me to the emergency room are all our of town. Every. last. one. Around 5 am I decide to call my parents, because if I have to suffer, then so do they. My dad instructs me to call the national guard, or at least an ambulance, but I have my pride so I resisted. I didn't even want to go to the emergency room, but I was feeling extra pathetic and I was determined to die a more glamorous death, so I brushed my teeth and grabbed my keys. This is where it gets ridiculous.
In my almost-four years of teaching, I have gotten sick EVERY YEAR. I have been to this emergency room many times, so I should be able to find it. I found myself screaming in pain and frustration at the people of Aransas Pass because they could not make the hospital in a central location, like next door to me. I start to realize (halfway to the next town) that I am going to wrong way. But it's too late. I'm going to be sick. I've never been sick in a car. I just kept thinking, "God, please no. I will listen only to Christian Rock in my car if You just let me pull over to somewhere where I can get sick and not get run over." The Lord works in mysterious ways, indeed.
There before my very eyes is the only place to pull over on this dirt road: a pasture. With horses. I don't even care at this point. I pull over, but I am quickly reminded that my car door handle broke a week ago, and I have to roll the window down to let myself out from the outside. I'm squealing, pursing my lips together, and can feel the anticipation of what is about to go down... or up, in this case. I get out of the car and I run to barely make it over a fence. When I finally look up, not really sure if I'm still alive or if ALF has taken over my body completely, I see a horse. Staring at me. I've lost all self respect at this point. I'm a woman on the edge about to ask a horse what the hell he's looking at, but then I remember that I wandered into his pasture. I technically broke into his home. I offer my apologies and decide to try and find the hospital... again. Keep in mind that the sun hasn't even come up yet.
I finally find the hospital, and then eventually the emergency room, and to my surprise, I am the only one there. Like at all. Finally, the insurance lady (that's what I call her because that's the only thing she really asks me about) shows up and takes basic information. It still takes almost an hour for them to call me back, but I am just hoping to deliver the alien and be done with it. Then it wouldn't matter if I had health insurance. I'm cold, I'm shaky, and I hate everyone. Including the horse.
The doctor sees me and says, "So, you're not feeling well?" No, you're wrong. I feel great. I just wanted to see if it goes down just like House and I can't think of a better time than 6am to surprise you. "No, sir. I don't feel well." He asks me what my pain feels like, so I tell him about ALF, as vividly as possible. He is pretty sure it's food poisoning. Clearly, we are going to have to agree to disagree. So he orders lots of clear fluids in a variety of bags and bottles to be administered. When my nurse comes in to fill the orders, he says things like, "Ah, mija! You poor thing!" I like him already.
As the nurse (my main man, Ray) starts an IV, he tells me, "You have beautiful veins." I don't really feel right taking credit for this... I mean, it's not like I work them out, so "thank you" seems a little much. I figure that a smile will do, since we're getting along so well. Hours later, the doctor comes back. At this point, I have hit my limit. My stomach hurts, I am wearing a hideous gown with bears on it, and Ray left me. When the doctor comes back, he asks me the only question that you should never ask a single person when they come into the ER. "Don't you have a husband that can take care of you?"
No, no I don't. You know what I do have? A third grade reading level (for prescription bottles) and a great right hook. Now kindly take your Don Juan mustache out of my... cubby with a drape... and I'll give you back your dancing bears robe. "No, sir I don't. I'm sure it will be fine." I get dressed and slink out of the emergency room.
It wasn't all bad. I do feel a little better. But it seems as though everyone wants to show me food. True Life: I'm Addicted to Food, Eat Pray Love, and Cupcake Wars. So I have decided to stick with a flick that won't hurt my stomach at all: The Departed.
I can't predict these things, and until two o'clock in the morning, I had no idea that I was sick. (Of course it happens at 2 a.m., because for it to happen when you can actually scream for help and someone would care is just too much to ask.) My stomach felt much like the man in Alien right before the alien comes through... I wasn't ruling it out at this point. By three o'clock, I was begging for the alien to, "Please for the love of God, come out already so I can go back to sleep", but it was not that kind. Oh no, I spent the remainder of the waking hours wrapped in a sarong and a bath mat (it was all that was handy and I was not about to crawl 15 ft. to find a blanket). With all this free time on my hands... and knees, I decided to ponder my life. "So this is what it's come to," I thought. "Someone is going to find me dead in my bathroom wearing layers of beachwear and Bed, Bath, and Beyond and I didn't even bother to brush my teeth or comb my hair." Vanity left me around 4 a.m. because the alien, who I named ALF, was consuming most of my attention and because my teeth and hair actually hurt at this point.
For the record, I might have considered calling a friend for help... but then I remembered that all of my friends that I would trust to answer the phone and take me to the emergency room are all our of town. Every. last. one. Around 5 am I decide to call my parents, because if I have to suffer, then so do they. My dad instructs me to call the national guard, or at least an ambulance, but I have my pride so I resisted. I didn't even want to go to the emergency room, but I was feeling extra pathetic and I was determined to die a more glamorous death, so I brushed my teeth and grabbed my keys. This is where it gets ridiculous.
In my almost-four years of teaching, I have gotten sick EVERY YEAR. I have been to this emergency room many times, so I should be able to find it. I found myself screaming in pain and frustration at the people of Aransas Pass because they could not make the hospital in a central location, like next door to me. I start to realize (halfway to the next town) that I am going to wrong way. But it's too late. I'm going to be sick. I've never been sick in a car. I just kept thinking, "God, please no. I will listen only to Christian Rock in my car if You just let me pull over to somewhere where I can get sick and not get run over." The Lord works in mysterious ways, indeed.
There before my very eyes is the only place to pull over on this dirt road: a pasture. With horses. I don't even care at this point. I pull over, but I am quickly reminded that my car door handle broke a week ago, and I have to roll the window down to let myself out from the outside. I'm squealing, pursing my lips together, and can feel the anticipation of what is about to go down... or up, in this case. I get out of the car and I run to barely make it over a fence. When I finally look up, not really sure if I'm still alive or if ALF has taken over my body completely, I see a horse. Staring at me. I've lost all self respect at this point. I'm a woman on the edge about to ask a horse what the hell he's looking at, but then I remember that I wandered into his pasture. I technically broke into his home. I offer my apologies and decide to try and find the hospital... again. Keep in mind that the sun hasn't even come up yet.
I finally find the hospital, and then eventually the emergency room, and to my surprise, I am the only one there. Like at all. Finally, the insurance lady (that's what I call her because that's the only thing she really asks me about) shows up and takes basic information. It still takes almost an hour for them to call me back, but I am just hoping to deliver the alien and be done with it. Then it wouldn't matter if I had health insurance. I'm cold, I'm shaky, and I hate everyone. Including the horse.
The doctor sees me and says, "So, you're not feeling well?" No, you're wrong. I feel great. I just wanted to see if it goes down just like House and I can't think of a better time than 6am to surprise you. "No, sir. I don't feel well." He asks me what my pain feels like, so I tell him about ALF, as vividly as possible. He is pretty sure it's food poisoning. Clearly, we are going to have to agree to disagree. So he orders lots of clear fluids in a variety of bags and bottles to be administered. When my nurse comes in to fill the orders, he says things like, "Ah, mija! You poor thing!" I like him already.
As the nurse (my main man, Ray) starts an IV, he tells me, "You have beautiful veins." I don't really feel right taking credit for this... I mean, it's not like I work them out, so "thank you" seems a little much. I figure that a smile will do, since we're getting along so well. Hours later, the doctor comes back. At this point, I have hit my limit. My stomach hurts, I am wearing a hideous gown with bears on it, and Ray left me. When the doctor comes back, he asks me the only question that you should never ask a single person when they come into the ER. "Don't you have a husband that can take care of you?"
No, no I don't. You know what I do have? A third grade reading level (for prescription bottles) and a great right hook. Now kindly take your Don Juan mustache out of my... cubby with a drape... and I'll give you back your dancing bears robe. "No, sir I don't. I'm sure it will be fine." I get dressed and slink out of the emergency room.
It wasn't all bad. I do feel a little better. But it seems as though everyone wants to show me food. True Life: I'm Addicted to Food, Eat Pray Love, and Cupcake Wars. So I have decided to stick with a flick that won't hurt my stomach at all: The Departed.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Not with that attitude, you won't!
This is a true story.
About a month ago I was reading a short story with my freshmen Pre-AP kids. We had been working pretty diligently for the class period, but I really did not see the point in starting a new chapter, discussion, etc. so close to the bell. I announce to the class that there is no way that we can finish today. And then I hear it. A kid that is way too smart for his own good says, "Not with that attitude, Ms. Son!" He was funny, and this has since become his tag line. I would be lying if I said that it had not become mine as well.
Then, about two weeks ago I was at a conference in Austin. I was coming out of the last session of the day and my eyeballs literally hurt. As I turned my phone back on, I see an email in my inbox from a program that seemed pretty nonspecific. I open the email, and it's from NYU. I had already gotten quite alright with not getting into graduate school, but I won't lie; NYU was my top pick. The day I got that rejection letter, I pretty much sank in a hole for 24 hours. So, you can imagine how shocked I was to get an email from NYU telling me that I was being considered for another program... one that feeds into doctoral program(s).
Now, the more I read about it, swallowing and digesting every last bit of information I can find about this program, the more I understand just how naive I had been about applying for graduate school this past fall. Maybe there are no accidents; I've never really been a huge believer in fate, or destiny, or the universe dropping big hints in our laps... But, for about 72 hours, I started to get a little superstitious about "what does it all mean" in regards to this opportunity.
But after that, I just kind of went on living my life.
I mean, yes I would love to live in New York, and I want this. Bad. But I seriously considered just sitting on the invitation as means of recapturing some of the pride that I lost this fall. Just chalk it all up to a lesson I've learned about bravado and bullshit, (mainly that I need to lose both), and not put myself out there again.
And then I thought, "What a coward."
I started to think about regret. People might tell you that there is dignity in regret and that we all grow from our mistakes... yeah, it's crap. All of it. Regret is for people that would rather hold their pride close to them like their mother's dress or a wooby. What I would like to say to those people is, "How brave do you think you are? Now how brave do you hope others think you are?" Because the truth is: regret is for cowards.
I have regrets... but I hope that the majority of them stem from situations that make sense only because I have information now that makes them illuminate something that was once dark, cryptic. I don't wear them like badges of honor. I don't wear them as a scarlet letter, either. I just refuse to knowingly engage in decisions that I can actually see the regret in foresight, rather than hindsight and then have the audacity to lie to myself and say, "I'll be a better person for it. It's better this way... the not knowing" That is when you immediately go from sincere to full of shit. "Who are you kidding?"
This is a question I ask myself constantly.
So I sent off the personal statement. Today, in fact.
Because here's the thing: it doesn't matter if I get in or not. What matters is that I'm not embarrassed or ashamed anymore if I do or don't. I don't care who knows that I applied a second time around. I don't care who knows that I applied to seven graduate schools this fall and was rejected by all of them. And if I don't get into this program, then that will be just fine, too. Because this time I'm not going to make excuses or apologies. For anything.
So maybe I don't get in. Or maybe I do. I just couldn't let my pride get the best of me this time around, knowing that I would always regret, and that I would never be able to fully convince myself that I was justified in taking pride from my cowardice. I'm not going to take that hard road out of fear and pat myself on the back for being so brave to walk away from something so amazing. Because if I did, there would be this cutting voice of a fifteen year old in the back of my mind shouting, "Not with that attitude, you won't."
And the real pain-in-the-ass realization: the fifteen year old is right.
About a month ago I was reading a short story with my freshmen Pre-AP kids. We had been working pretty diligently for the class period, but I really did not see the point in starting a new chapter, discussion, etc. so close to the bell. I announce to the class that there is no way that we can finish today. And then I hear it. A kid that is way too smart for his own good says, "Not with that attitude, Ms. Son!" He was funny, and this has since become his tag line. I would be lying if I said that it had not become mine as well.
Then, about two weeks ago I was at a conference in Austin. I was coming out of the last session of the day and my eyeballs literally hurt. As I turned my phone back on, I see an email in my inbox from a program that seemed pretty nonspecific. I open the email, and it's from NYU. I had already gotten quite alright with not getting into graduate school, but I won't lie; NYU was my top pick. The day I got that rejection letter, I pretty much sank in a hole for 24 hours. So, you can imagine how shocked I was to get an email from NYU telling me that I was being considered for another program... one that feeds into doctoral program(s).
Now, the more I read about it, swallowing and digesting every last bit of information I can find about this program, the more I understand just how naive I had been about applying for graduate school this past fall. Maybe there are no accidents; I've never really been a huge believer in fate, or destiny, or the universe dropping big hints in our laps... But, for about 72 hours, I started to get a little superstitious about "what does it all mean" in regards to this opportunity.
But after that, I just kind of went on living my life.
I mean, yes I would love to live in New York, and I want this. Bad. But I seriously considered just sitting on the invitation as means of recapturing some of the pride that I lost this fall. Just chalk it all up to a lesson I've learned about bravado and bullshit, (mainly that I need to lose both), and not put myself out there again.
And then I thought, "What a coward."
I started to think about regret. People might tell you that there is dignity in regret and that we all grow from our mistakes... yeah, it's crap. All of it. Regret is for people that would rather hold their pride close to them like their mother's dress or a wooby. What I would like to say to those people is, "How brave do you think you are? Now how brave do you hope others think you are?" Because the truth is: regret is for cowards.
I have regrets... but I hope that the majority of them stem from situations that make sense only because I have information now that makes them illuminate something that was once dark, cryptic. I don't wear them like badges of honor. I don't wear them as a scarlet letter, either. I just refuse to knowingly engage in decisions that I can actually see the regret in foresight, rather than hindsight and then have the audacity to lie to myself and say, "I'll be a better person for it. It's better this way... the not knowing" That is when you immediately go from sincere to full of shit. "Who are you kidding?"
This is a question I ask myself constantly.
So I sent off the personal statement. Today, in fact.
Because here's the thing: it doesn't matter if I get in or not. What matters is that I'm not embarrassed or ashamed anymore if I do or don't. I don't care who knows that I applied a second time around. I don't care who knows that I applied to seven graduate schools this fall and was rejected by all of them. And if I don't get into this program, then that will be just fine, too. Because this time I'm not going to make excuses or apologies. For anything.
So maybe I don't get in. Or maybe I do. I just couldn't let my pride get the best of me this time around, knowing that I would always regret, and that I would never be able to fully convince myself that I was justified in taking pride from my cowardice. I'm not going to take that hard road out of fear and pat myself on the back for being so brave to walk away from something so amazing. Because if I did, there would be this cutting voice of a fifteen year old in the back of my mind shouting, "Not with that attitude, you won't."
And the real pain-in-the-ass realization: the fifteen year old is right.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
This is something real...
This is something real.
I am horrible with directions. I can live in a town or a city, and never learn the proper names for highways or streets that I drive on every day. I used to think that this was just because I have no sense of direction, but the truth is that I am not a very observant person.
Lately I have gotten quite a few rejection letters for graduate school. It's not an easy thing for me to admit. My whole life I have always believed that I was smart and that if I work hard enough, I'll get what I want... but that's not true. Some things are not meant to be. I do not necessarily think that is applicable to graduate school, but it might be the final answer on the subject... right now. For someone like me, that answer is pretty hard to swallow. I thought that graduate school was what I wanted, but I haven't really pursued the idea of it much in prayer or thought since I submitted the damn applications. I still hate the rejection. A good friend told me recently, "Do I need to remind you that you are ALREADY in graduate school?"
I guess she did.
I hadn't really stopped to be mindful about the fact that I've already been offered quite a few incredible opportunities. I was lucky enough to get offered a graduate degree (for free, no less), a great job (that I try really hard to do well), great friends. My life is pretty great, graduate school or no graduate school. I had lunch with a friend from high school last summer. I hadn't seen him in nine years, but he paid me the nicest compliment that I have ever recieved. He told me, "Jackie, you have a great gift. You have the ability to make people feel like no time has passed in the friendship. I haven't seen you in years, and I still feel like I can tell you anything. I've told you more about my life than some of the people I've seen every day for the past nine years."
I have heard that before, but at that moment it stuck with me. I realized that maybe that's why I love what I do and why I work with kids. I do believe that it is a blessing to be able to make people feel like you are a safe place to visit. My students walk in my room and every day, every class period, we laugh. They have a very cooky English teacher that tells them anecdotes to get them to remember things, that has call and responses like "Hillshire Farms: Go Meat!", and who tries very hard... even though I make mistakes.
I love my job. At a time when teachers feel as though they are underappreciated, understaffed, and overworked, I find joy in what I do. I look forward to working with my students and I love teaching English. I overheard a student I taught last year helping another student with some dual credit homework the other day in the counselor's office. He was helping him with an essay over The Things They Carried, a novel we read last year. The other child who was not a former student of mine asked him, "How do you know any of this?" My former student replied, "I had Ms. Son last year. She had us read it... it was actually my favorite book we read last year. I hate to admit it, but I really liked English last year."
These moments are pretty special to me. I have all of these big plans, but in the end, maybe my purpose is to make a difference with the kids I interact with every day at this level. Maybe that will be in a special library, or a classroom, or with my own kids that I hope to have someday. I want a lot of big things. Some of those dreams are going to come true and some aren't, but until I try I'll never know. I guess it's not so bad to try, to take a leap of faith. I did that with my job in Rockport. I didn't know anyone, but I moved here and I built a life and a relationship with the friends and students that have crossed my path. I can never really be sure that it has made any difference at all in their lives, but it has made all the difference in mine.
I do get lost a lot. I don't always notice the signs in life or when I am driving, but my mom always tells me, "Sometimes when you are lost, it is best to stay right where you are."
Many are the plans in a person's heart, but it is the LORD's purpose that prevails.
Proverbs 19:21
I am horrible with directions. I can live in a town or a city, and never learn the proper names for highways or streets that I drive on every day. I used to think that this was just because I have no sense of direction, but the truth is that I am not a very observant person.
Lately I have gotten quite a few rejection letters for graduate school. It's not an easy thing for me to admit. My whole life I have always believed that I was smart and that if I work hard enough, I'll get what I want... but that's not true. Some things are not meant to be. I do not necessarily think that is applicable to graduate school, but it might be the final answer on the subject... right now. For someone like me, that answer is pretty hard to swallow. I thought that graduate school was what I wanted, but I haven't really pursued the idea of it much in prayer or thought since I submitted the damn applications. I still hate the rejection. A good friend told me recently, "Do I need to remind you that you are ALREADY in graduate school?"
I guess she did.
I hadn't really stopped to be mindful about the fact that I've already been offered quite a few incredible opportunities. I was lucky enough to get offered a graduate degree (for free, no less), a great job (that I try really hard to do well), great friends. My life is pretty great, graduate school or no graduate school. I had lunch with a friend from high school last summer. I hadn't seen him in nine years, but he paid me the nicest compliment that I have ever recieved. He told me, "Jackie, you have a great gift. You have the ability to make people feel like no time has passed in the friendship. I haven't seen you in years, and I still feel like I can tell you anything. I've told you more about my life than some of the people I've seen every day for the past nine years."
I have heard that before, but at that moment it stuck with me. I realized that maybe that's why I love what I do and why I work with kids. I do believe that it is a blessing to be able to make people feel like you are a safe place to visit. My students walk in my room and every day, every class period, we laugh. They have a very cooky English teacher that tells them anecdotes to get them to remember things, that has call and responses like "Hillshire Farms: Go Meat!", and who tries very hard... even though I make mistakes.
I love my job. At a time when teachers feel as though they are underappreciated, understaffed, and overworked, I find joy in what I do. I look forward to working with my students and I love teaching English. I overheard a student I taught last year helping another student with some dual credit homework the other day in the counselor's office. He was helping him with an essay over The Things They Carried, a novel we read last year. The other child who was not a former student of mine asked him, "How do you know any of this?" My former student replied, "I had Ms. Son last year. She had us read it... it was actually my favorite book we read last year. I hate to admit it, but I really liked English last year."
These moments are pretty special to me. I have all of these big plans, but in the end, maybe my purpose is to make a difference with the kids I interact with every day at this level. Maybe that will be in a special library, or a classroom, or with my own kids that I hope to have someday. I want a lot of big things. Some of those dreams are going to come true and some aren't, but until I try I'll never know. I guess it's not so bad to try, to take a leap of faith. I did that with my job in Rockport. I didn't know anyone, but I moved here and I built a life and a relationship with the friends and students that have crossed my path. I can never really be sure that it has made any difference at all in their lives, but it has made all the difference in mine.
I do get lost a lot. I don't always notice the signs in life or when I am driving, but my mom always tells me, "Sometimes when you are lost, it is best to stay right where you are."
Many are the plans in a person's heart, but it is the LORD's purpose that prevails.
Proverbs 19:21
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Finding the rite words...
Today in church there was a baptism...and I cried. I cry during all of the sacramental rites: baptisms, ordinations, weddings, funerals, etc. I always feel as though I should be stronger than a person who cries in church. But then I started thinking that if a person is going to cry, church is as good of a place as any.
I don't even know the family. That never seems to stop me. When I was in high school and I would acolyte at weddings and funerals, I always cried. I rarely knew the people that we were marrying or burying. This morning though, I figured out what gets me. It's the words.
As an English teacher, I tell my students to use stronger diction in their writing. We study writers that use a lot of impressive language and syntax, and I understand that it's this language and style that formed them into the writer they became. Sometimes fancy words are necessary. Sometimes they aren't. I think that sometimes just saying what you mean is the fastest way to connect with an audience. Sometimes we don't want to wait fifteen pages to get to something that you could have said in three. Sometimes we don't want to wait a year to hear what you really want to say. And sometimes, people just need to hear simple words.
I was sitting next to the priest's wife and little girl, who is learning to talk. Annie can say things like "baby" "mama" ..."cracker". These are pretty simple words, but they get the message across. Right about that time we all stood to renew our baptismal vows with the family. This is what gets me every time. A group of people saying in unison, "I will with God's help".
I saw Scott Simon, a broadcast journalist for NPR, speak at a conference last year. He said, "People say that a picture is worth a thousand words. You give me a thousand words. I'll give you the Lord's Prayer, the 23rd Psalm, the Hippocratic Oath, a sonnet by Shakespeare, the preamble to the Constitution, Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, the last paragraphs of the speech by Martin Luther King to the march on Washington, and the final entry of Anne Frank's diary. And I wouldn't trade you for any picture on earth."
Sometimes, instead of hearing a lot of complex words and contrived ideas that make a person sound smarter, simple words will do. Things like: "I miss you" "Please" "Thank you" "I forgive you" "I love you" "Forgive me".
Assuming these are things you need to say or do for someone, I hope that their response is "I will with God's help."
I don't even know the family. That never seems to stop me. When I was in high school and I would acolyte at weddings and funerals, I always cried. I rarely knew the people that we were marrying or burying. This morning though, I figured out what gets me. It's the words.
As an English teacher, I tell my students to use stronger diction in their writing. We study writers that use a lot of impressive language and syntax, and I understand that it's this language and style that formed them into the writer they became. Sometimes fancy words are necessary. Sometimes they aren't. I think that sometimes just saying what you mean is the fastest way to connect with an audience. Sometimes we don't want to wait fifteen pages to get to something that you could have said in three. Sometimes we don't want to wait a year to hear what you really want to say. And sometimes, people just need to hear simple words.
I was sitting next to the priest's wife and little girl, who is learning to talk. Annie can say things like "baby" "mama" ..."cracker". These are pretty simple words, but they get the message across. Right about that time we all stood to renew our baptismal vows with the family. This is what gets me every time. A group of people saying in unison, "I will with God's help".
I saw Scott Simon, a broadcast journalist for NPR, speak at a conference last year. He said, "People say that a picture is worth a thousand words. You give me a thousand words. I'll give you the Lord's Prayer, the 23rd Psalm, the Hippocratic Oath, a sonnet by Shakespeare, the preamble to the Constitution, Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, the last paragraphs of the speech by Martin Luther King to the march on Washington, and the final entry of Anne Frank's diary. And I wouldn't trade you for any picture on earth."
Sometimes, instead of hearing a lot of complex words and contrived ideas that make a person sound smarter, simple words will do. Things like: "I miss you" "Please" "Thank you" "I forgive you" "I love you" "Forgive me".
Assuming these are things you need to say or do for someone, I hope that their response is "I will with God's help."
Monday, January 24, 2011
Welcome to the jungle...
There comes a day in every person's life when they have to face a dreaded place. You hate it. Everyone hates it... But inevitably, it comes, and we all have to enter those automatic doors.
You've just arrived at the grocery store.
Being a single person, I go to the grocery store maybe three times a year. OK, maybe five... if I need more ketchup or toilet paper.
But when those staples run out, I have to muster every bit of energy I have and every piece of good fortune I've acquired and head to the store.
In the small town where I live, there are two basic options for the grocery store: Walmart or H.E.B. Most of us always choose H.E.B. because we're snobs and we are loyal to our Texas chain. But on this cold Texas night, I thought to myself, "Where am I likely to run into the LEAST amount of my students?" and since I know that half of the student population of where I work is employed at H.E.B., I went with Walmart.
Big mistake.
When I got to Walmart, I should have known that luck was not on my side because I got the cart. You know what cart I'm talking about; the one that has its own mind and absolutely no steering capabilities, and leans a little to the right at all times.
I go ahead and press on... literally, I'm having to press.
Now is as good a time as any to mention that I had just gone running, so I was extremely sweaty and not at all attractive, which I thought would motivate me to move faster. That plan would have worked, except I found out that Walmart is not only the place that children like to hang out, but the place where every child that I have ever written up or sent to the office like to hang out. ALL OF THEM.
I have never been so discouraged to hear my own name, but all of a sudden, there it is. "Ms. Son! What are you doing here?" Gee, what could I be doing here? I did not write this particular child up today... but someone else did. He got his phone taken up for texting in class. His father then turns the corner, and as soon as preciousangel tells dad that I'm a teacher at his school, dad wants to tell me how he thinks it's "Absolutely ridiculous that my son got his phone taken up today! Do you know how much an iPhone costs?" But before I can answer him, he continues to rant about the phone. I want to interrupt and ask if now is a good time to mention that I am actually not the one who wrote up his child, but I just do a lot of nodding and saying the only words I know to say to him: I understand.
After this escapade, I remember that I did in fact make a list. So I begin to look for the bread. And then I realize that they have no bread. And if they do, they are hiding it from me. I start circling the same aisles over and over again, as if the bread will magically appear or drop down from the sky like manna. But I never find it.
I give up on the bread. I'll eat the peanut butter and jelly in a bowl. I don't even care anymore. I'm so sore from the cart... or maybe it was the run, but it's probably the cart, that I wheel it to the checkout lane. My only real concern at this point is that my right bicep is getting more of a workout than my left. I roll into the checkout, and I see that there is a woman buying all the ramen that Walmart has to offer AND bread.
I realize at this point that I could be taking a huge leap of faith and risking my pride to ask, but I figure it doesn't matter. I ask her where she got her bread. She looks at me like I'm crazy, which is fair... but where is the bread?
"The bread aisle."
Thank you, that was very helpful.
The woman checking us out asks her when she is due. She replies, "I'm not pregnant."
This is awkward. It's awkward because there are hardly any people in the store (minus my students, their irate parents, the non-pregnant lady, my cashier, and me). It's awkward because she just committed a huge social no-no and there is no way to recover. But mostly, it's awkward because non-pregnant lady knows that I heard.
Nervous laughter. I blame it ALL on nervous laughter. I have to turn around, and I just want to die. Melting into the ground sounds so much better than finding the bread aisle at this point. I try to pretend like I am interested in the cover of US Weekly, but it's covered in snapshots of pregnant celebrities. I just turn my back and pretend to be interested in my shopping cart. But it's no use. Thank you, cashier. You've just made this lady probably want to cry, and I want to evaporate.
It's finally my turn to check out. Thank you, God. I hope she doesn't ask me when I'm due, but at this point, anything is possible. She is very helpful. So helpful that she puts almost every item in its own bag.
I get to my car and place all 33 bags and 19 items in my car. I arrive home to see that my front door is open. At this point, I hope there is a serial killer in my apartment. Maybe he would help me take in my groceries. No serial killer and no help with groceries. I must have forgotten to lock my door. When I finally get everything put away, my friend calls. I start by telling her, "I went to Walmart tonight for groceries---" She interrupts, "Wait. You went to Walmart? Why didn't you just go to H.E.B.?"
I tell her that I will be going to H.E.B., tomorrow, in fact. I need bread.
You've just arrived at the grocery store.
Being a single person, I go to the grocery store maybe three times a year. OK, maybe five... if I need more ketchup or toilet paper.
But when those staples run out, I have to muster every bit of energy I have and every piece of good fortune I've acquired and head to the store.
In the small town where I live, there are two basic options for the grocery store: Walmart or H.E.B. Most of us always choose H.E.B. because we're snobs and we are loyal to our Texas chain. But on this cold Texas night, I thought to myself, "Where am I likely to run into the LEAST amount of my students?" and since I know that half of the student population of where I work is employed at H.E.B., I went with Walmart.
Big mistake.
When I got to Walmart, I should have known that luck was not on my side because I got the cart. You know what cart I'm talking about; the one that has its own mind and absolutely no steering capabilities, and leans a little to the right at all times.
I go ahead and press on... literally, I'm having to press.
Now is as good a time as any to mention that I had just gone running, so I was extremely sweaty and not at all attractive, which I thought would motivate me to move faster. That plan would have worked, except I found out that Walmart is not only the place that children like to hang out, but the place where every child that I have ever written up or sent to the office like to hang out. ALL OF THEM.
I have never been so discouraged to hear my own name, but all of a sudden, there it is. "Ms. Son! What are you doing here?" Gee, what could I be doing here? I did not write this particular child up today... but someone else did. He got his phone taken up for texting in class. His father then turns the corner, and as soon as preciousangel tells dad that I'm a teacher at his school, dad wants to tell me how he thinks it's "Absolutely ridiculous that my son got his phone taken up today! Do you know how much an iPhone costs?" But before I can answer him, he continues to rant about the phone. I want to interrupt and ask if now is a good time to mention that I am actually not the one who wrote up his child, but I just do a lot of nodding and saying the only words I know to say to him: I understand.
After this escapade, I remember that I did in fact make a list. So I begin to look for the bread. And then I realize that they have no bread. And if they do, they are hiding it from me. I start circling the same aisles over and over again, as if the bread will magically appear or drop down from the sky like manna. But I never find it.
I give up on the bread. I'll eat the peanut butter and jelly in a bowl. I don't even care anymore. I'm so sore from the cart... or maybe it was the run, but it's probably the cart, that I wheel it to the checkout lane. My only real concern at this point is that my right bicep is getting more of a workout than my left. I roll into the checkout, and I see that there is a woman buying all the ramen that Walmart has to offer AND bread.
I realize at this point that I could be taking a huge leap of faith and risking my pride to ask, but I figure it doesn't matter. I ask her where she got her bread. She looks at me like I'm crazy, which is fair... but where is the bread?
"The bread aisle."
Thank you, that was very helpful.
The woman checking us out asks her when she is due. She replies, "I'm not pregnant."
This is awkward. It's awkward because there are hardly any people in the store (minus my students, their irate parents, the non-pregnant lady, my cashier, and me). It's awkward because she just committed a huge social no-no and there is no way to recover. But mostly, it's awkward because non-pregnant lady knows that I heard.
Nervous laughter. I blame it ALL on nervous laughter. I have to turn around, and I just want to die. Melting into the ground sounds so much better than finding the bread aisle at this point. I try to pretend like I am interested in the cover of US Weekly, but it's covered in snapshots of pregnant celebrities. I just turn my back and pretend to be interested in my shopping cart. But it's no use. Thank you, cashier. You've just made this lady probably want to cry, and I want to evaporate.
It's finally my turn to check out. Thank you, God. I hope she doesn't ask me when I'm due, but at this point, anything is possible. She is very helpful. So helpful that she puts almost every item in its own bag.
I get to my car and place all 33 bags and 19 items in my car. I arrive home to see that my front door is open. At this point, I hope there is a serial killer in my apartment. Maybe he would help me take in my groceries. No serial killer and no help with groceries. I must have forgotten to lock my door. When I finally get everything put away, my friend calls. I start by telling her, "I went to Walmart tonight for groceries---" She interrupts, "Wait. You went to Walmart? Why didn't you just go to H.E.B.?"
I tell her that I will be going to H.E.B., tomorrow, in fact. I need bread.
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