I Will Survive
Yes, Gloria, I will!!! Sunday afternoon. I'm sitting here in serious pain. I think I twisted a muscle in my back or something. How? I've NO idea! I've basically spent the weekend either reading in bed or sitting and working on my portfolio for BTSA (the state-mandated beginning teacher two year torture ordeal.) What could I have done?
Seriously though, this hurts - to sit, to stand, to bend - WTF? I've never done anything like this before. Meds are barely touching this pain. It'd better be gone before tomorrow because I have to go to work. I'm getting formally observed during a math lesson I'm teaching. My BTSA mentor and colleague Michelle is observing me. I just want the damned thing over. To say I've lost a great deal of my confidence during this extended stay in HELL would be putting it mildly.
So a week ago this past Friday, my **** boss (insert word beginning with the letter "C" folks) calls me down to her office. I've noticed now that whenever she is going to dump on me, it's on a Friday. That must be the first and only thing she ever learned in her "how to be an ineffectual government administrator" courses. So she has the office manager call me, as she has every time. I guess she's either too good to call me herself, or just too damned busy. I know things are NOT good. I dread seeing her. I think to myself, "What now?" Christ, I've been canned, I have formally resigned. WHAT NOW? I should've known. After the Friday of My Infamous Meltdown, I did something kinda out of control and stupid. I came home and wrote the parents a letter. Yep. I wasn't exactly thinking clearly and I admit it; I do things in the heat of the moment that I probably shouldn't. That's always been a problem with me. Impulse control. So what did this letter say? Well, for starters, far too much. That's another problem I have. I say too much. But no more! If I've learned only one thing on this job it's to keep my f-ing mouth shut. But in the heat of emotion and feeling sick as hell - sick to my stomach, sick of the kids, etc. I wrote a VERY diplomatic, kind letter to the parents. I'm nothing if not diplomatic. Really. I could write you a letter telling you how much I hate you and you'd probably end up thanking me for it. But seriously, I just said things to the effect that the kids were a bit out of control after spring break - and I blamed it on everything BUT the parents. Said the kids were overworked, stressed, getting hormonal, tired of fifth grade, feeling senioritis, etc. But I also laid it on the line. I told the parents the kids were being disrespectful and I asked the parents to please sit down and remind the kids how important it was to follow the rules and be respectful, blah blah, blah. Yeah, that was about it. I told them I was gonna start coming down hard on the kids. Well, it had to happen. Thus far I've been very lucky in that none of my parents have gone behind my back to my principal. This time some Judas parents who were too chicken-shit to face me in person, too immature to take the issue up with me, forwarded the emails to my principal. I still don't know exactly what specifically they were upset about. I guess I insulted their kids. Not every kid in the class can be misbehaving right? Wrong.
Whatever they said to my principal, I think it really stuck in her craw, that passive-agressive bitch from hell! She was MAD - but you could barely tell. You had to really look at her and listen to her - but I could tell she was angry. She just said "You can't write emails like this." So what do I do? The usual. I turn on the waterworks. FUCK! Why am I crying again? I've HAD IT! HAD IT! My anger turns to tears but I'm tired of looking so fucking weak in front of her. However, I did and said something that shocked me - something I've never done before. Even through a few tears falling down my face I said: "Bitch, (well actually I used her real name), this is not very professional, I know. But I just don't give a shit anymore."
HAHA! I actually told my boss I didn't give a shit if the parents were upset with me! Way to burn a bridge baby!!!! Because you know what - I DON'T. I told her I have spent 8 months fearing these people - trying to please the students, trying to please overbearing, insulting parents who won't let me do my job properly. I've had it. Intellectually, I see now that I probably shouldn't have sent the email. But emotionally, I don't give a damn. Someone needed to tell these parents that their kids are out of control. Only problem is that 9 out 10 parents actually believe - are psychotic enough to believe that their precious little spoiled brats would NEVER misbehave. Naturally I wasn't told which parents turned into rats on me. One of the best parts though, was I think the parents laid into my principal. I think that's why she was mad. Because SHE got grief from the parents. They probably asked her why she wasn't helping me. WHY DIDN'T SHE HELP ME? I asked her for guidance in October and she threw a book at me, came into my classroom, had the kids rearrange their desks and clean the classroom. That was IT. Anyway, I blubbered on too much in her office.
Here's the best part. The **** actually had the NERVE to ask me, stone-faced, deadpan, "Did you ever student teach before?" WHAT? Holy mother of GOD. This is akin to asking a first year medical resident if he/she had ever gone to medical school. What a fucking passive-agressive, nasty, mean, hurtful thing to say. Why didn't she grow a pair and just say "I think you SUCK as a teacher." I actually LAUGHED - a short, almost bitter laugh, OUT LOUD when she asked me that. I laughed at her, and laughed at the insanity of someone - a principal asking me this. What kind of principal would HIRE a teacher who hadn't student taught? I simply could NOT believe she asked me this. First of all, any semi-decent school HAS to hire people who've student taught. It's the LAW. You HAVE to student teach in order to get a teaching credential.
Then she went on and on about how people told her she just had to be a teacher because she was such a NATURAL with kids, blah, blah, vomit, blah. The fact that she and I, and her EGO fit into the same room was amazing. I obviously don't have the intuitive, magical abilities to handle these kids. I mean, the only thing she admitted - in the sense of NOT blaming me for EVERYTHING - the only thing she said was this: "This (meaning the area I teach in, and the school I teach in) is the hardest population I've ever dealt with." No shit, Sherlock. It's the hardest place I've ever been in my entire life. I told her they couldn't pay me enough to come back and deal with this again. I will happily go back to the gang-infested ghettos with kids who can't speak English. The people I deal with NOW are FAR FAR more fucked up than those kids.
Here comes the best part, after the "Did you ever student teach" question. I believe, in my perception, she tried to get me to quit, right then and there. She kept saying, over and over "You're not being heroic here. You're not being a hero. You can quit." Over and over. There aren't words filthy enough in any language to describe what I think of this sub-human scumbag. For a millisecond in her office, I thought of quitting. But I am not a quitter. And knowing that for whatever reasons, she wants me to quit, just solidified in my mind that I will NOT QUIT. I felt like saying "Lady you just convinced me to stay until the very last second of the very last day. Whatever bothers you, I will do. It will make me JOYOUSLY HAPPY to know that my presence here might bother you." Suck on that.
So after an hour of being insulted by her, I go home and have another shell-shocked weekend. But something wonderful happened last weekend. I finally got ANGRY - and ANGRY enough to do something about it. Fuck her - she's not going to give me a recommendation and I wouldn't want one from her. I just want to finish the year - because I finish what I start, and I have, believe it or not, bonded with about 2/3 of the class and how unfair would it be to these kids, spoiled or not, that their teacher, whom they actually LIKE, leaves them with less than two months to the end of their final year in elementary school?
I have NOT been an even near-perfect teacher. I have made so many mistakes, some big and some small. This has been the hardest job I've ever done. But as God is my witness I have always tried my hardest, done my best, and I have always had the welfare of my students at heart. It's really NOT their fault they're spoiled; it's their parents fault. I have letters from parents - glowing letters, thanking me for this, for that, for caring so much, for going above and beyond. Because I have - I did - that's just who I am. Even if I HATED this job - and God have I - I still tried to do my best. I made a pact to educate and be there for 31 kids. I signed a contract. I will not run away because it's hard or because some bitch thinks I'm the teaching equivalent of Nurse Ratched.
So Monday morning, I send a big envelope down to my principal. In it was a green professional development sheet that I needed her to sign and approve (I attended a Children's Literature Conference last weekend for my staff development hours). I also made copies of the FIVE glowing letters of recommendation I received from my student teaching supervisors and master teachers. I also took 21 samples of parent emails and made copies of them to show the Bitch that while yes, I may have parents who are complaining - I have many more that have spent the year quite happy with me.
I wrote the Bitch a short, highly diplomatic letter. I made sure she could show it on CNN and no one would think any less of me. I told her "After a relaxing weekend I've decided to continue on with my class and see them through the end of their 5th grade year in the happiest and healthiest way possible." Translated: I'm not leaving you nasty ****, deal with it. I admitted I'm new, I've made mistakes, but as you can see from these parent emails, I've always had the kids' best interests at heart. And finally, to ease your mind of any worries...yes I did student teach...here are the 5 letters from my student teaching supervisors and master teachers...each of whom has 20+ years of teaching experience." That last part was a not so passive- agressive dig at my principal - who ONLY TAUGHT FIFTH GRADE for 4 years before she ditched the classroom and became an administrator. That makes me wonder a few things. She thinks she was the greatest teacher that ever lived. Was she really? Why such a short time in the classroom? How dedicated to students is she if she bailed so fast and went for the $$$$ and power in administration?
Also, if she's so disappointed in me and so worried about my performance, how come she hasn't come to visit my classroom since January 8th? It's going on 4 fucking months and the bitch just doesn't care. If I'm such a nightmare, why hasn't she checked up on me? Because even she admitted I'm an excellent teacher and while it may not always be totally peaceful in my class, deep down, she has to know there's nothing to worry about. In my letter I told her I thought that despite some bumps over the past year, that my kids were having a good fifth grade year.
So.....a couple of strange things. One, she hasn't returned my green staff development form to me. That's odd. Usually she signs it and it's put right back in my box. Makes me wonder if she's not keeping it, so she can call me in for another emotional beat down. Guess what? It's not going to happen. Since she seems to enjoy emotionally battering people on Fridays, I was a little on edge yesterday. However if she wanted to talk with me, either she didn't call, or couldn't reach me, as our class was out of the classroom the last two hours of the day. I don't trust the fat fuck as far as I can throw her. I was going to call my union; but I've held off. Sadly it's my words against hers. I don't want to call in anymore people into this mess than I need to. BUT if she calls me to her office again, I am going to ask that someone else be present. I won't sit there alone with her. It can be the office manager for all I care. Oh and I won't go in on Friday afternoon. Fuck if she ruins another weekend for me.
Despite all the shit, something amazing happened yesterday. I have a student, let's call her Maggie. Her mom is a professional mommy and Maggie is an only child. Her mom has been up my ass about something or other ALL year. I've tried to be diplomatic, etc. So Maggie has a severe thyroid problem and I was told at the beginning of the year that she also suffered from anxiety. Ok. Well, I've never actually seen or experienced Maggie having any anxiety issues. Until this past Friday. She asked me in the morning if she could go to the nurse as she wasn't feeling well. Fine. She comes back to class. A few minutes later she needs to go back to the nurse. Fine. She says maybe she should eat some crackers; I say, go ahead. Cut to two minutes before lunch: I'm with my math class. The nurse calls me and asks me if anything strange/upsetting happened in class with Maggie. I say "No. Why?" Seems Maggie is downstairs absolutely coming apart at the seams. Sounds like she's having a major panic attack. Could I come down? Nurse says "I can't get a hold of her mother." No problem, says I. Lunch bell rings. I come down. I see Maggie in the bathroom, sitting on the bed. She's shaking ALL OVER. She's pale. Her lips are quivering. She's practically hysterical. The nurse is trying to get her to drink some juice. She can barely swallow. I'm calling it - a full blown panic attack. I sit down next to her. I start rubbing her back a bit and talking gently to her. I remember the 20 million times I've been in this same place. Did I ever mention I suffered for years with a pretty serious panic disorder? Even as a child I had a couple of whammy panic attacks - although back then, I didn't know what they were. As a young adult though - I took the Panic Attack train to hell and back. I know exactly what it's like.
I told Maggie I'd had this happen at her age. I reassured her that her mom was probably out running errands...shopping...maybe for the weekend...I started talking to her and asking her questions....because the WORST thing a person in the midst of total panic can do is sit and fixate on their physical symptoms. The heart will only race faster, the hands will only feel more pin-prickly, the person will just keep spiraling out of control. I get Maggie calmed down to the point where she wants some air. We walk outside to the front of the office. We sit outside. We talk about everything - I see her calming down in front of me. Suddenly several girls from my class and another class come down to see how Maggie's doing. They know she was at the nurse. I've got a posse of 11 year olds around me now. We're talking, we're laughing.
Another student of mine, with her own posse, goes to see the principal. She wants to start a school newspaper. Yeah, a little late in the year. I don't know where she got this idea. But she's going to leave it for her third grade sister to pick it up and take over when she leaves. I've never seen my student, let's call her Cathy - so excited. She is just BURSTING with joy at the thought of doing this paper. Thankfully, the principal says "yes" - they can do it. BUT - they need a teacher sponsor. Cathy and her posse hint around - then they ask me. I said I'd be honored to be their teacher sponsor. I have NO idea what the hell I'm getting into with this little project but I don't care. My student wants to do it and I think they can and I think it'll be a nice legacy for her. I told her she can always be known as "Founding Editor." She's wildly happy. Maggie is totally fine now. All the girls and I are laughing and talking. Lunch is over. I wasn't hungry so I didn't care that I didn't eat.
Maggie is still too afraid to come back to class; but eventually, she does. She comes back and the nurse tells me they finally got ahold of the mother. The nurse asks me what I did. She can't believe I got the kid so calmed down. I told the nurse I used to get those - I know what the girls was going through. It's called empathy. I could TRULY feel what she was feeling. I knew to get her out of herself was the only answer. I did something right. I wanted to cry. An entire YEAR of being told every tiny thing I've done wrong (my principal even scolded me for leaving construction paper out on a computer desk) and for once, I knew I'd done something right and good.
The day was over. Sadly, I don't think the principal will know what I did with Maggie. No matter. I just walked back to my classroom and said "No one's ever going to tell me I'm not good with kids again." NO ONE.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Kiss My Fat White Ass, Kid
You know what's really annoying? I mean really, really, really annoying? More annoying than your boss questioning you at work, or subtly sabotaging you, or your co-workers butting into your business, or taking credit for your work or butting into your business?
Try having an 11 year old do it. Every damned day. You think you can't despise a kid right? I mean, what's so awful about one kid over another? Oh man. Some kids just make you want to sterilize the entire human race they are so obnoxious. Not to mention punch them in the teeth. This kid questions everything I do in class and then runs home and tells mommy about it. Doesn't help that mommy is even more obnoxious and was a teacher for 20 years. Mommy has no qualms about running to the email every time little Johnny doesn't like something that happened in my classroom. Given the chance, I'm not sure who'd I'd smack first, her or the kid.
He pokes his obnoxious nose into other kids' business, and my business and questions my judgment. I just had to write his mother and tell her the reason a girl in my class is retaking a test is NONE OF HER BUSINESS. I finally stood up to her crazy ass. I told her it was a private matter, and my judgment call. She can take it to the principal and then shove it where the sun don't shine. No teacher has tried harder to be fair to each and every one of her kids than I have.
Really, I mean this kid makes me realize why some creatures eat their young. I just wish his mother was one of them. I can't wait until June when I can say "See ya! Don't let the door hit you in the ass - good luck you snobbish, selfish, arrogant, conceited nasty, ugly little fuckhead!"
Good times are coming.
You know what's really annoying? I mean really, really, really annoying? More annoying than your boss questioning you at work, or subtly sabotaging you, or your co-workers butting into your business, or taking credit for your work or butting into your business?
Try having an 11 year old do it. Every damned day. You think you can't despise a kid right? I mean, what's so awful about one kid over another? Oh man. Some kids just make you want to sterilize the entire human race they are so obnoxious. Not to mention punch them in the teeth. This kid questions everything I do in class and then runs home and tells mommy about it. Doesn't help that mommy is even more obnoxious and was a teacher for 20 years. Mommy has no qualms about running to the email every time little Johnny doesn't like something that happened in my classroom. Given the chance, I'm not sure who'd I'd smack first, her or the kid.
He pokes his obnoxious nose into other kids' business, and my business and questions my judgment. I just had to write his mother and tell her the reason a girl in my class is retaking a test is NONE OF HER BUSINESS. I finally stood up to her crazy ass. I told her it was a private matter, and my judgment call. She can take it to the principal and then shove it where the sun don't shine. No teacher has tried harder to be fair to each and every one of her kids than I have.
Really, I mean this kid makes me realize why some creatures eat their young. I just wish his mother was one of them. I can't wait until June when I can say "See ya! Don't let the door hit you in the ass - good luck you snobbish, selfish, arrogant, conceited nasty, ugly little fuckhead!"
Good times are coming.
Friday, April 04, 2008
You Can't Stop What's Coming
Today has been one of the saddest, sickest, strangest days of my life. I feel as though I have stepped into the Twilight Zone - or even out of my own body. I am sitting here at 11:30 p.m. on a Friday night, with a monster headache, an upset stomach, and about enough Xanax in me to knock out a horse. Still, I am awake, tense, wired, feeling strangely hyper, full of dread and fear and horrible, horrible helplessness and failure.
I never intended for it to happen. Spring Break was a mere week ago and it lies in my memory like a soft, beautiful dream. Who was I a mere 7 days ago? What happened to me? Is this a nervous breakdown? A midlife crisis? Am I slipping into insanity or am I finally waking up from the dream life of denial and delusion? Where does reality begin and where does it end? I am guilty, guilty, guilty. I feel too much, I cared too much, I tried too hard.
Wednesday night I started getting violently ill - another strange stomach flu exactly like the one that pounded me in February. Hello bathroom. How odd, I never get stomach bugs. I have been sick every month since January, with a cold, or a flu. Oddly enough I never got sick between August and December despite how massively stressed and overworked I was. Well we all know what happened in January. Coincidence? Probably not. Depression and a sense of utter and total failure set in after my Principal's conversation with me. A sense of deflated morale and a loss of direction in my life ensued. My grandma's death has been much harder on me than I suspected it would be. My grandma! She lived a longer, healthier life than most people ever will. I know that. It's not really even her I miss - she was mentally gone years ago. It's knowing the house sits for sale, and that that era of my life was wiped out almost instantly...this still resides in a part of my brain that I can barely go to, but sometimes do, late at night, when I close my eyes and remember waking up as a child in her house, or swimming in her pool, or sitting with her at the dining room table. It probably doesn't help that the little monsters I spend my days with are nothing but germ factories as well. It's been a revolving door of illness in my class since January. My immune system is obviously shot to hell. And my psyche and soul are in no better shape. I forced myself to go to work yesterday and barely made it through. I woke up this morning and felt like I wasn't going to make it. But I did. Until I didn't. Until I left at lunch, feeling like I was going to throw up and pass out at the same time.
I began the week with such high hopes; a new Zen-like attitude of letting everything just roll off my back. I just have to make it to June 18th, right? I was good to go. A week in Palm Springs did the trick. Now, I am shaking, cold, hot, shivering on the couch, paralyzed with dread and fear. A lot of it is the flu; I know this. But I wonder, will I even make it to Saturday? I am fairly certain and hopeful I will beat this flu. I am not certain I will gain back the soul I have lost somewhere in this madness. This is what terrified me today. I am nowhere near my period; I cannot blame this on hormones. I lost control of my emotions. I mean, I literally lost control of myself. I could not stop crying. In front of my kids, or in front of my coworkers. It was humiliating and frightening beyond belief.
I will be 41 years old in a few weeks. I am not a young, naive, recent college graduate with idealized hopes of being teacher of the year, educator of the century. I never dreamt of winning any awards, or saving any lost souls, or even turning around the kids who seriously fucked up or lost. I am a realist, and some might say, sometimes even a cynic. I took this job because I needed the money. I thought I might like it. I thought I'd give it a chance. I knew deep down I probably wouldn't spend the rest of my career in an elementary school. Frankly, I'm too intelligent (if that doesn't sound egotistical I don't know what does but I'll explain) and don't like children that much. Haha. And believe me, I'm not insulting the primary school teachers of the world. Sit in a first, or second or even fifth grade classroom. This is where the real teaching is done. The actual process of teaching a six year old to read is excruciating - and yet it is a miracle. These are the teachers who are indeed, truly doing some of the hardest work on the planet. We degrade them by talking about how noble and wonderful they are, but secretly learn pithy little saying at a young age like "Those who can do, those who can't teach." We applaud them at Open House and admire their creativity but blame them for failing test scores and low student achievement. We expect them to teach a class full of kids who can't speak English and we expect them to receive merit pay for it. We expect them to teach kids who are on Zoloft, Valium, Prozac, who still wet the bed, who watch porn at home, who beat their younger siblings, who are so indulged, so massively spoiled that they are convinced they can do no wrong. Narcissim bordering on the sociopathic. We expect them to teach Special Education kids alongside extraordinarily gifted kids. We give them 30+ kids to a room and say "Differentiate instruction for each one of these kids." We expect them to be teacher, counselor, parent, minister, nurse, decorator, administrator, secretary, diplomat. We expect them to work for the district, to work for the kids and work for the parents. We don't have one boss; we have 30, 40, 50, 60 bosses. Everybody's a critic and everybody's allowed to critique you. Any parent with an email address is welcome to tell you what a shit job you're doing with their kid and demand your attention day or night. Email - what a gift for teachers. We expect teachers to teach kids who have been abused, neglected, beaten, abandoned, fucked by their fathers, uncles and cousins in the dead of night on soiled mattresses. We expect them to successfully teach standards while they go home to a raging alcoholic father, or spend weeks out of the month crossing back and forth over the border or are so spoiled their parents tell them to disregard everything the teacher says. I taught kids who had to walk around the coroner's van to get to school; to pass the gang murdered lowlifes blocking the sidewalk, still and seeping crimson under a white sheet. We expect teachers to teach kids who don't even have a place to sleep or eat or do their homework because 10 people are living in a one bedroom apartment. I teach kids now who live in mansions and are dropped off in Ranger Rovers and picked up by nannies and who are as fucked up as the kids who had no food to eat, no place but a closet to sleep. This was what was expected of me. And I did it willingly.
We expect teachers to work 10 hours a day and take home grading every night. Contrary to what one naive, out-of-touch parent said to me in class when she barged in at 7:00 a.m. one morning, teachers do NOT simply work from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. I had to LAUGH directly at her face when she said that because at over 40 years of age, this professional mommy actually still believed that myth. No bitch, there's a reason I'm here at 7a.m. and there's a reason you should make a fucking appointment with me if you want to see me and not walk into MY FUCKING OFFICE because when the kids aren't in the classroom it's MY FUCKING ROOM and would you just barge in unannounced to your kid's pediatrician or to your lawyer's office? Do I not deserve the same level of respect? She proceeded to take up my whole morning - the morning I came in to get more work done - but what did it matter - I could just stay until 5 or 6 p.m. that day and make it up.
We get annoyed when teachers ask for a living wage (yeah, the unions are corrupt and fucked as anything and I'm not a huge fan - sorry Jimmy Hoffa - but without them I wouldn't set foot on a school campus), a better salary, because you know, Jesus, they get three months a year off, right? Another tidy myth. Most teachers work other jobs during that time just to make ends meet. Indeed, the teachers I have worked with in the last year do the most important work I've ever seen, and get little to no respect for it. But they do it. Because they love it, and thank God they do love it, for who indeed would teach our children?
Anybody can stand at a podium in college and drone on, lecture after lecture. I did it. However, here's the rub: While I believe teaching small kids is amazingly hard, you don't have to be especially intelligent or insightful to do it. My co-worker who teaches fifth grade hates reading. That's right. You read this correctly. She doesn't read. At all. Yet she is the one who teaches the gifted kids in the literature circle. I eat books for breakfast, lunch and dinner but no one cares. My principal was right. I don't fit in here. I'm no better, I'm just different. My interests are not those of these women. No one cares about Caravaggio or ancient Egypt or what I saw on the History Channel. Elementary school teachers are not academics. They are teachers. There's a difference. I don't mean to demean them. They are hugely important. But I came from a different world. Even though I only taught at a junior college - these people had Master's degrees and PHD's and they just existed on a different level, academically. The American educational system however, really does encourage conformity and mediocrity. Teaching is HARD WORK, but it's not rocket science. It's not intellectually stimulating. I've sat around enough teacher staff rooms now and let me tell you, the conversations are less than stimulating. If you're interested in current events, politics, books, profound movies, discussions about art, culture, history - you're in the wrong place. You will get discussions about how little Eli blew the spelling test AGAIN and can you believe that parent said THAT? I'm not saying these people are stupid. They're not. But by and large, in MY experience, there's very little true intellectual stimulation to be had at this level of the educational world. But still, it's brutally hard. And I still think the good teachers are amazing human beings.
For example, try teaching 31 10 year olds how to write. How to write! I wish every American could spend a month teaching an elementary school class. Then perhaps the coy lip service would be silenced and the State buildings overrun with thousands of people who've finally seen the light and realized, Jesus, maybe we should start these people out with with a goddammed fucking living wage. It boggles the mind. Still, I thought, how hard can it be. I taught college! I student taught in the ghetto, the gang schools. This is a cushy place. They all speak English. I'll give it a couple of years. I was told "Don't teach high school. The kids don't want to be there." I have news for America. Ten year olds don't want to be in school anymore. I had second graders who acted like I was an imposition to them and they had somewhere better to be. Oh I was naive, for certain. I laugh at the girl I was last August. Even at age 40, with my hardened view, I was still naive. I didn't expect rewards, but I didn't expect the madness of getting a classroom full of fifth-grade rejects either. They speak English yes, but they hear nothing and they care even less. Stack the deck and the player is going to get fucked royally.
I came into this job with a lot of anxiety but also with principles and values because I live my life with principles and values. I don't have a house. I don't have a husband or a fancy car or a lot of money. I don't even have the health I'd like. But I have principles and values and as God is my witness I will not give them up. I like to think even if I came into a great Lotto win, I'd still have my principles and values. Because I have to live with myself and with what I do. I am I suppose, still naive enough to believe in honesty. I abhor cheating - of any kind. Cheating on a test, cheating on your spouse. The level of cheating I've seen in a class full of 10 year olds stuns me - again, perhaps this is where I am naive. Enron, elementary school. Isn't it all the same? The medium is the message. The message is get ahead, whatever the cost. The ends justify the means. Capitalism has officially run amok in this country. Materialism is a religion and the grand self-esteem movement tells us all the children are special and all the children are winners, and there aren't any losers in games anymore and everyone needs to know they will change the world and their very presence in the world is so very, very meaningful and special. My silver cross just fell off my neck. How symbolic. Losing my religion indeed.
Spiteful, hurtful lying makes me sick. Bullying kids make me want to wring their mean, nasty necks. And I was fortunate enough to never have been a bullied kid. Picked on a little as all kids are, but never truly bullied. Here's what I see - people treating other people as if they are dispensable paper towels - something we have become so good at here with the massive influx of immigrants; this makes me want to commit a homicide. I know, I know, I shouldn't care so much. But as surely as I can't stop my blood from flowing I cannot stop these feelings. I don't care if you are the cook at Denny's, the man who washes my car, the woman who cleans the toilets at an office building, the superstar who plays in front of arena stadiums or brings in $20 million dollar paychecks, I am fucking naive enough to believe that every single one of these people deserves the same level of kindness and respect as a human being. I am not naive enough to think that all men are created equal. Oh yes, this sweetness makes for nice Constitutional copy, doesn't it. But we're not. I realize that. Some people are born with brilliance. Some people are born Bono, some people are born Charles Manson, some people are born Ghandi and most people are just born pretty average and try to make the best of their lives, with whatever talents they have or pursue or cultivate. But I do believe, black or white or yellow or red skin, born here or crossing the Rio Grande with a coyote that took your life savings and will dump you in the desert in the dead of night, I believe that every man deserves dignity and respect.
I am ashamed to admit it, but I didn't always think this way. Maybe that's my problem. I am older and wiser now. I remember in college walking around with a sense of specialness and entitlement too. I was at an elite university, right. I was young and special and my professors kept telling us this was true. Well, I grew up and I've had a few nasty reality checks along the way. Perhaps that's why I have so little tolerance for it now. I hated it in myself, and I hate it in others. I believe in basic decency when dealing with people. I believe in doing your job to the best of your ability. I believe in taking pride in my work. I believe people are supposed to make a fucking effort when they go to work. I trust the man or woman who puts the bolts on my 747 and who takes my flower order over the Internet. I trust they will do their fucking jobs. I am a moron. I am an idealist. I am a romantic with pessimistic tendencies. I am sick because I am deluded enough to cling to outdated illusions and when I started this job, I was terrified. I am terrified still, 7 months later, but in a very different way. In the beginning, I was scared because I thought I would fail these kids, and myself. Now I am scared beyond belief by what I have seen in a small classroom, in a wealthy city in a suburb of Southern California. I am scared because what I thought I would see in this classroom is very different from what I have seen. I expected to come in and yes, perhaps make a tiny difference in some people's lives. I expected I would teach these kids the things I was supposed to, and maybe throw a few creative curveballs their way. I thought, perhaps I could be a small success. I'm a small fish in a small pond. There's nothing grand or magnificent about what I do. I stand and deliver but I'm no Jaime Escalante. But no matter what, I was going to be a professional and do the very best job I could for my kids. My kids. Thirty-one kids I spend 7 hours a day with. Thirty-five hours a week. Outside of their parents, they see me more than they see anyone else. I guide them everywhere. I bring them into the class in the morning. I pick them up from recess. I give them Bandaids, I send them to the nurse, I call their parents. I stand at the gate once every month and make sure every child goes home safely. I loan them lunch money (yes, they pay me back). In short, I work my ass off for them. I grade their papers in a timely basis and send them back. I give them feedback on their work. I am in constant contact with their parents. I email, I talk on the phone, I write letters. I set boundaries far too late in the game.
I bring them in from lunch and I take them to the library. I take them down to the computer lab. I teach them how to write a creative topic sentence. I help them find books to read. I counsel them during recess when they are crying. I counsel them when they fight with each other. I applaud their efforts and praise their growth. I endure their increasing moodiness and honestly, I thank God I go home to two animals. I teach them with every fiber of my being. I teach them to think. I teach them to question. I teach them what I am told by the state of California to teach them. I listen to their stories about their dogs, their siblings, their dance competitions, their vacations. I send them to the office for vision and hearing tests. I sit with them in assemblies. I watch them in their musicals. I encourage them in their contests, their sports events. I sponsor them, I root for them. I go through hundreds and hundreds of their assignments a week, looking for ways to help them learn, improve, get better, grow. I try to prepare them for the insanity that will be middle school. All I ever ask of them is that they try their very best. I put up rules; I ask them to live by the Golden Rule. I talk to them about character. We talk about death and the war in Iraq and 9/11 and religion and the Holocaust. I am sensitive to their religious beliefs. I tip-toe around everyone at the holidays, terrified I will offend someone. In a classroom where 90% of the kids are Jewish, I don't dare say the word Christmas - even though I grew up saying "Christmas vacation" and not "winter break." I listen to story after story about this person's bat mitzvah or bar mitzvah, this person's birthday party, that person's trip to Europe. I go to camp with them. I write their parents and let them know their kids are OK at camp. I hike with them, I eat shitty, cold camp food with them. I sit by a stream and eat a soggy peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches with them. I write down their food allergies in class. I bring different kinds of candy for the kids with allergies. I talk to them about my love of reading, my love of books, my love of animals. I try to show them the wonders of reading and books. I give away Barnes and Noble gift certificates in the weekly raffle. I try and teach them about peace. I talk about Martin Luther King Jr. and Ghandi. We talk about Darfur and Africa. I have a Star of the Week each week. I have raffles for incentives and table points and the prizes aren't good enough you know? Because who wants some scented erasers or Silly Putty when you've been given a laptop and a cell phone and a TV and an iPOD and every video game known to God and man. Now I understand why Oprah started her school in Africa. She was right when she said that even in the poorest schools in America, all the kids want are things. The kids in Africa just wanted a chance. A chance at an education.
I teach them about Impressionism. I teach them about the brilliance of van Gogh. We color like van Gogh. I take pictures of them when they dress up for Halloween. I laugh at their corny jokes. I let them have show and tell. I encourage them to talk about their feelings with me. I encourage them to be grateful for everything that that have because dear God, they have so, so much. Too much.
We read stories together. We talk about the American Revolution. I never mention my political beliefs even when they ask me about them. I don't speak negatively about our leaders, despite my intense hatred of the current administration. That is not my job. I don't tell them my age even when they ask - no yell- about it across the classroom. I confiscate notes from them. I am their advocate. When the science teacher keeps them in at recess, I talk to the principal for them so they get their recess back. I am the last one out of the classroom during fire drills, and disaster drills. I will be the first one in the line of fire, God forbid anything like that happens.
I am not a hero. I am not noble. I am not some great, wonderful person creating better people for the future. I am an idiot for doing this for a shitty salary and no respect. I hate myself right now. I AM naive to think I could do a good job and give 150% to my job and expect one iota of appreciation for my efforts from the administration or from my fellow fifth-grade teachers or from parents or kids. I know I got the shit class full of losers and academic fuck-ups. I've got parents writing me telling me what a fucked up class I have; these are the parents of the FEW good kids I have. You can look at the test scores to see how low some of these kids are. They stacked the deck against me; I've been bleeding chips at the table since August and you know, Jesus you know, the house always wins. I've got kids who cheat, steal and teach other kids how to find pornography between grown men and young boys. I've got bullies in my class. I still tried to play my hand and play it the best I could. People give a lot of lip service to teachers but do I for one fucking minute think ANY SINGLE ONE of those parents would encourage their kids to be a TEACHER? No. I am, in this school, just another blue collar worker to these kids. I am the maid who can't be fired. But I am the maid, when they pull the books off my shelves, and don't put them back. I bring in a book on Impressionism and they leave it scattered on the floor. Their Star of the Week papers are in the trash; they just wanted the prize, the toy, the goods. What? I don't have an iPhone in the treasure box? Yes, I am the maid. I am the gardener, I am the nanny, I am the help. I am the necessary evil. I am the bad guy because I keep bothering these kids with the word respect - I keep asking for it and don't I know by now I ain't gonna ever get it? Wake the fuck up teacher!
A kid whose parents are extraordinarily rich is obsessed with Donald Trump. He's an amazingly sweet kid. But he scares the shit out of me. He proudly told me "Do you know how many maids my mom has fired? When I grow up I'm gonna get a maid and fire her. They don't even speak English." These people are Iranian. No, I'm sorry, Persian. They don't want to be called Iranian. Iranians obviously look down on the poor wetback Hispanics too. At least the rich Iranians do. I hope this kid's parents are proud of the message they're sending him. They're doing a great job alongside the media. My kids are obsessed with Britney Spears. They say she's crazy. They're obsessed with Paris Hilton. They're only reflecting what we as a society care about. They know so much more than I ever did at their age. They know who Kurt Cobain was - they know who he was, what he did, how he died, why he mattered. Jesus. They weren't even alive when he died. I don't think I knew what gay was , what pornography was, at 10. Maybe I was naive and sheltered. I wanted to tell some of these parents at conferences, "Your kid is getting an A in reading and a B in math and I think you should put them on birth control now."
Yeah. I am a teacher. I am the fucking moron who sits there and tells my class to be quiet a hundred times. I have whispered it. I have screamed it. And they defy me a thousand times. I point to the rules. I have made them write me apology letters. They have written letters home to their parents. They are without boundaries. I am the sad soul who took this job thinking I was going to teach fifth graders like myself - kids who not only respected their teachers, but perhaps even had a little bit of fear of their teachers. Instead I sit with kids who have no qualms about asking me every little detail of my personal life. NO FUCKING BOUNDARIES. How old are you? Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? They have been taught the world is theirs for the taking. I never had a chance; the real teaching was done at home. God only knows what the parents say about the teachers - why do you think these kids have NO respect for teachers? The parents set the example. I have kids who interrupt me, interrupt each other. I have kids who scream out in class and don't care about class rules, or consequences. I have kids with no respect for anything but money. I have no power. And they know it. They've made cracks in class, right in front of me, about how teachers make no money. I make no money, I work for them, I have no power. I do not deserve respect. I can do nothing with them. I write their parents. I can't keep them after school. I can't legally keep them in for recess. I can't discipline them. I had a kid argue with me about the year the Iraq war started. Jesus Christ - would you have EVER argued with your teacher about anything, much less the YEAR A MAJOR WAR STARTED? The kid was in kindergarten when the war started; I was teaching college. I wanted to scream WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU GET OFF? This kid is in love with himself. He's very, very bright. But so fucking what. He's a big fish in a tiny pond now. He has no idea; he'll end up like Narcissus at this rate. People like him are a dime a fucking dozen in the real world. I won't be there when these shitheads grow up and realize that no, the sun doesn't rise and set on their spoiled, indulged asses. I won't be around to see them get fired and watch them collapse under the truth that they are not the center of the goddamned fucking universe.
This is not my world. I don't understand children who have no respect for their elders or teachers. It's utterly surreal to me what these kids have said and done in my class. I didn't expect to save the kids; I could give a shit about the future for the children. Sad, but true. My principles and values involve respect. I give it to you, you give it to me. It's a transaction I require you to make with me as a human being.
I work at a beautiful school. Most of the kids are from very wealthy families. Many have traveled the world by age 10. They have iPhones and iPods and Wii and X-Box and laptops. They get laptops for Christmas and Hannakuh and whatever Iranian holidays they have and cell phones for their birthdays. We have cupcakes at every birthday party. They all wear Abercrombie and Fitch. They have expensive sneakers and go on cruises for spring break. Their parents have given them everything. I have a kid who spent two months in the beginning of the year telling us repeatedly how he flew to London first class. That's great. I finally said "How much later did the people in economy get to London?" This kid is on Zoloft, the product of divorce and can't control himself in class, socially, emotionally or physically. He's crippled by anxiety and sees the nurse for a different ailment every single day and I am not, as God is my witness, exaggerating. There is no hyperbole here. This kid went to Las Vegas over spring break, stayed the Bellagio, saw "O" and can't control his mouth in class; but he has everything - everything but values and respect. Their parents give them a sense of entitlement and forget to teach them humility and gratitude. I have everything a teacher could want. A nice, big classroom of my own. I am given money for school supplies. I have an Apple laptop - a lovely computer of my own to use. I work in a beautiful, safe environment. I have a nice budget for any creative activity I want to do with these kids. And oh God, if I could only buy them some character, some values, a sense of respect. I haven't even spent a dime of my allotted $600 on them. Why? Because there's nothing I can buy them they don't already have and no experience I can give them that I feel they will get anything out of.
This is not my world. And maybe I'm a fool; I expect and know that the only guarantee in life is change. The world has changed; perhaps it is better now than when I was a child, perhaps it is worse. Millions of years and we're still killing each other, still battling each other over pieces of land and pieces of silver. I am trapped in a dream world of my own making. A world where children are decent and respectful. This is a crazy time - a recession, an endless war, a psychotic dictator ruling the country for the last 8 years, an uncertain future. A country struggling to hold onto its position as the world's super power. A country that must see itself slipping, in the grandest of the grand scheme of things. A country that sees China and India in its rearview mirror and they are gaining ground quickly - and so we, the teachers, must push our children harder, and the harder we push, the harder they push back.
I have now lived long enough to watch stock markets rise and start markets fall. I have seen interest rates at 14% and 1%. I have lived in fear of the USSR and the nuclear bomb and have realized all it takes is a few angry, disenfranchised radical extremists to end our lives. I have seen Presidents come and go, recessions begin and end, Cold Wars end and countries fall into economic, political and social despair. I have hoped for freedom and seen exploitation. I see the middle class disappearing here. I see America's halcion days of great dreams for everyone who just works hard enough, on life support. I have studied history. Oh I have studied history and I know we will repeat it; we are repeating it every day. To quote the title of a book I bought, are we Rome? Yes, indeed, Rome fell. I don't know if we are Rome. I think we are. I think we are falling. The decline has begun and if you want to see some of the very tiny beginnings, please come into room 17. That is where I am, with children who reflect the decline of civilization in their narcissism and defiance and disregard and disrespect almost pathological egoism. I have read about this and heard from teachers all over the world on various teacher websites - the stories are the same. Perhaps I got an especially shitty class this year; but the general consensus is that too many of these children, the future, reflect a general defiance and disregard for all authority. The world is their oyster, theirs for the taking. I once asked them if they didn't have school, what could they contribute to the country, the economy, the fucking tax base, at ten years old? OK so maybe I didn't quite use that language, but that was the general question.
The sun set on the British Empire. The sun will set on what is left of America some day. This is the macro. And I live here in the micro. A world of small beings I am paid to guide into the next year of their lives. I have given them everything I have to give. I have nothing left. I am carved out, I am hollow now. I am finished.
To paraphrase a character in the Coen brothers' brilliant movie "No Country for Old Men" - you can't stop what's coming. The world has changed. It's not my world anymore. Too many people don't care about their work anymore. Too many people worship at the altar of consumerism and materialism and status and greed and hey, why not, two planes just took out the Twin Towers but we as Americans MUST GO SHOPPING! Because if we don't then by GOD THE TERRORISTS WILL HAVE WON. Maybe Gordon Gecko was right. Greed is good. People on fire - human torches can willingly propel themselves off the 97th floor of buildings, melting corporate American Express cards floating with them to the detrius and blood and smashed bodies below - and this was the message our leaders gave us. Do not let the economy down people. Prop up the dollar. Stop watching the man floating upside down to his death in a smoke-filled New York City and get thyself to Bloomingdale's stat. No, no, no, this is not my world. Let them have it - whoever them is. No country for old men, or disenfranchised, burned out, tired, cynical, disappointed, sad, sad, sad teachers. I am finished. There is no honor, no nobility, no dignity left in me, in my profession and I wonder if there really ever was and I no longer want to sacrifice myself on the altar of blatant disregard for everything I value. I've worked in corporations and I've worked in offices and I already know there's no honour amongst thieves. I'm not looking for a better deal; I'm just leaving this table. I'm done with this game.
Everything I thought I knew was wrong. Everything I believed in was a lie. I lied to myself. I told myself pretty stories to get myself through the days. Today the world cracked open and the abyss showed itself and there is nothing, nothing, nothing there. Darkness reigns and I give up. My cards on are the table and God willing, in two months, I will walk away and not look back.
Today has been one of the saddest, sickest, strangest days of my life. I feel as though I have stepped into the Twilight Zone - or even out of my own body. I am sitting here at 11:30 p.m. on a Friday night, with a monster headache, an upset stomach, and about enough Xanax in me to knock out a horse. Still, I am awake, tense, wired, feeling strangely hyper, full of dread and fear and horrible, horrible helplessness and failure.
I never intended for it to happen. Spring Break was a mere week ago and it lies in my memory like a soft, beautiful dream. Who was I a mere 7 days ago? What happened to me? Is this a nervous breakdown? A midlife crisis? Am I slipping into insanity or am I finally waking up from the dream life of denial and delusion? Where does reality begin and where does it end? I am guilty, guilty, guilty. I feel too much, I cared too much, I tried too hard.
Wednesday night I started getting violently ill - another strange stomach flu exactly like the one that pounded me in February. Hello bathroom. How odd, I never get stomach bugs. I have been sick every month since January, with a cold, or a flu. Oddly enough I never got sick between August and December despite how massively stressed and overworked I was. Well we all know what happened in January. Coincidence? Probably not. Depression and a sense of utter and total failure set in after my Principal's conversation with me. A sense of deflated morale and a loss of direction in my life ensued. My grandma's death has been much harder on me than I suspected it would be. My grandma! She lived a longer, healthier life than most people ever will. I know that. It's not really even her I miss - she was mentally gone years ago. It's knowing the house sits for sale, and that that era of my life was wiped out almost instantly...this still resides in a part of my brain that I can barely go to, but sometimes do, late at night, when I close my eyes and remember waking up as a child in her house, or swimming in her pool, or sitting with her at the dining room table. It probably doesn't help that the little monsters I spend my days with are nothing but germ factories as well. It's been a revolving door of illness in my class since January. My immune system is obviously shot to hell. And my psyche and soul are in no better shape. I forced myself to go to work yesterday and barely made it through. I woke up this morning and felt like I wasn't going to make it. But I did. Until I didn't. Until I left at lunch, feeling like I was going to throw up and pass out at the same time.
I began the week with such high hopes; a new Zen-like attitude of letting everything just roll off my back. I just have to make it to June 18th, right? I was good to go. A week in Palm Springs did the trick. Now, I am shaking, cold, hot, shivering on the couch, paralyzed with dread and fear. A lot of it is the flu; I know this. But I wonder, will I even make it to Saturday? I am fairly certain and hopeful I will beat this flu. I am not certain I will gain back the soul I have lost somewhere in this madness. This is what terrified me today. I am nowhere near my period; I cannot blame this on hormones. I lost control of my emotions. I mean, I literally lost control of myself. I could not stop crying. In front of my kids, or in front of my coworkers. It was humiliating and frightening beyond belief.
I will be 41 years old in a few weeks. I am not a young, naive, recent college graduate with idealized hopes of being teacher of the year, educator of the century. I never dreamt of winning any awards, or saving any lost souls, or even turning around the kids who seriously fucked up or lost. I am a realist, and some might say, sometimes even a cynic. I took this job because I needed the money. I thought I might like it. I thought I'd give it a chance. I knew deep down I probably wouldn't spend the rest of my career in an elementary school. Frankly, I'm too intelligent (if that doesn't sound egotistical I don't know what does but I'll explain) and don't like children that much. Haha. And believe me, I'm not insulting the primary school teachers of the world. Sit in a first, or second or even fifth grade classroom. This is where the real teaching is done. The actual process of teaching a six year old to read is excruciating - and yet it is a miracle. These are the teachers who are indeed, truly doing some of the hardest work on the planet. We degrade them by talking about how noble and wonderful they are, but secretly learn pithy little saying at a young age like "Those who can do, those who can't teach." We applaud them at Open House and admire their creativity but blame them for failing test scores and low student achievement. We expect them to teach a class full of kids who can't speak English and we expect them to receive merit pay for it. We expect them to teach kids who are on Zoloft, Valium, Prozac, who still wet the bed, who watch porn at home, who beat their younger siblings, who are so indulged, so massively spoiled that they are convinced they can do no wrong. Narcissim bordering on the sociopathic. We expect them to teach Special Education kids alongside extraordinarily gifted kids. We give them 30+ kids to a room and say "Differentiate instruction for each one of these kids." We expect them to be teacher, counselor, parent, minister, nurse, decorator, administrator, secretary, diplomat. We expect them to work for the district, to work for the kids and work for the parents. We don't have one boss; we have 30, 40, 50, 60 bosses. Everybody's a critic and everybody's allowed to critique you. Any parent with an email address is welcome to tell you what a shit job you're doing with their kid and demand your attention day or night. Email - what a gift for teachers. We expect teachers to teach kids who have been abused, neglected, beaten, abandoned, fucked by their fathers, uncles and cousins in the dead of night on soiled mattresses. We expect them to successfully teach standards while they go home to a raging alcoholic father, or spend weeks out of the month crossing back and forth over the border or are so spoiled their parents tell them to disregard everything the teacher says. I taught kids who had to walk around the coroner's van to get to school; to pass the gang murdered lowlifes blocking the sidewalk, still and seeping crimson under a white sheet. We expect teachers to teach kids who don't even have a place to sleep or eat or do their homework because 10 people are living in a one bedroom apartment. I teach kids now who live in mansions and are dropped off in Ranger Rovers and picked up by nannies and who are as fucked up as the kids who had no food to eat, no place but a closet to sleep. This was what was expected of me. And I did it willingly.
We expect teachers to work 10 hours a day and take home grading every night. Contrary to what one naive, out-of-touch parent said to me in class when she barged in at 7:00 a.m. one morning, teachers do NOT simply work from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. I had to LAUGH directly at her face when she said that because at over 40 years of age, this professional mommy actually still believed that myth. No bitch, there's a reason I'm here at 7a.m. and there's a reason you should make a fucking appointment with me if you want to see me and not walk into MY FUCKING OFFICE because when the kids aren't in the classroom it's MY FUCKING ROOM and would you just barge in unannounced to your kid's pediatrician or to your lawyer's office? Do I not deserve the same level of respect? She proceeded to take up my whole morning - the morning I came in to get more work done - but what did it matter - I could just stay until 5 or 6 p.m. that day and make it up.
We get annoyed when teachers ask for a living wage (yeah, the unions are corrupt and fucked as anything and I'm not a huge fan - sorry Jimmy Hoffa - but without them I wouldn't set foot on a school campus), a better salary, because you know, Jesus, they get three months a year off, right? Another tidy myth. Most teachers work other jobs during that time just to make ends meet. Indeed, the teachers I have worked with in the last year do the most important work I've ever seen, and get little to no respect for it. But they do it. Because they love it, and thank God they do love it, for who indeed would teach our children?
Anybody can stand at a podium in college and drone on, lecture after lecture. I did it. However, here's the rub: While I believe teaching small kids is amazingly hard, you don't have to be especially intelligent or insightful to do it. My co-worker who teaches fifth grade hates reading. That's right. You read this correctly. She doesn't read. At all. Yet she is the one who teaches the gifted kids in the literature circle. I eat books for breakfast, lunch and dinner but no one cares. My principal was right. I don't fit in here. I'm no better, I'm just different. My interests are not those of these women. No one cares about Caravaggio or ancient Egypt or what I saw on the History Channel. Elementary school teachers are not academics. They are teachers. There's a difference. I don't mean to demean them. They are hugely important. But I came from a different world. Even though I only taught at a junior college - these people had Master's degrees and PHD's and they just existed on a different level, academically. The American educational system however, really does encourage conformity and mediocrity. Teaching is HARD WORK, but it's not rocket science. It's not intellectually stimulating. I've sat around enough teacher staff rooms now and let me tell you, the conversations are less than stimulating. If you're interested in current events, politics, books, profound movies, discussions about art, culture, history - you're in the wrong place. You will get discussions about how little Eli blew the spelling test AGAIN and can you believe that parent said THAT? I'm not saying these people are stupid. They're not. But by and large, in MY experience, there's very little true intellectual stimulation to be had at this level of the educational world. But still, it's brutally hard. And I still think the good teachers are amazing human beings.
For example, try teaching 31 10 year olds how to write. How to write! I wish every American could spend a month teaching an elementary school class. Then perhaps the coy lip service would be silenced and the State buildings overrun with thousands of people who've finally seen the light and realized, Jesus, maybe we should start these people out with with a goddammed fucking living wage. It boggles the mind. Still, I thought, how hard can it be. I taught college! I student taught in the ghetto, the gang schools. This is a cushy place. They all speak English. I'll give it a couple of years. I was told "Don't teach high school. The kids don't want to be there." I have news for America. Ten year olds don't want to be in school anymore. I had second graders who acted like I was an imposition to them and they had somewhere better to be. Oh I was naive, for certain. I laugh at the girl I was last August. Even at age 40, with my hardened view, I was still naive. I didn't expect rewards, but I didn't expect the madness of getting a classroom full of fifth-grade rejects either. They speak English yes, but they hear nothing and they care even less. Stack the deck and the player is going to get fucked royally.
I came into this job with a lot of anxiety but also with principles and values because I live my life with principles and values. I don't have a house. I don't have a husband or a fancy car or a lot of money. I don't even have the health I'd like. But I have principles and values and as God is my witness I will not give them up. I like to think even if I came into a great Lotto win, I'd still have my principles and values. Because I have to live with myself and with what I do. I am I suppose, still naive enough to believe in honesty. I abhor cheating - of any kind. Cheating on a test, cheating on your spouse. The level of cheating I've seen in a class full of 10 year olds stuns me - again, perhaps this is where I am naive. Enron, elementary school. Isn't it all the same? The medium is the message. The message is get ahead, whatever the cost. The ends justify the means. Capitalism has officially run amok in this country. Materialism is a religion and the grand self-esteem movement tells us all the children are special and all the children are winners, and there aren't any losers in games anymore and everyone needs to know they will change the world and their very presence in the world is so very, very meaningful and special. My silver cross just fell off my neck. How symbolic. Losing my religion indeed.
Spiteful, hurtful lying makes me sick. Bullying kids make me want to wring their mean, nasty necks. And I was fortunate enough to never have been a bullied kid. Picked on a little as all kids are, but never truly bullied. Here's what I see - people treating other people as if they are dispensable paper towels - something we have become so good at here with the massive influx of immigrants; this makes me want to commit a homicide. I know, I know, I shouldn't care so much. But as surely as I can't stop my blood from flowing I cannot stop these feelings. I don't care if you are the cook at Denny's, the man who washes my car, the woman who cleans the toilets at an office building, the superstar who plays in front of arena stadiums or brings in $20 million dollar paychecks, I am fucking naive enough to believe that every single one of these people deserves the same level of kindness and respect as a human being. I am not naive enough to think that all men are created equal. Oh yes, this sweetness makes for nice Constitutional copy, doesn't it. But we're not. I realize that. Some people are born with brilliance. Some people are born Bono, some people are born Charles Manson, some people are born Ghandi and most people are just born pretty average and try to make the best of their lives, with whatever talents they have or pursue or cultivate. But I do believe, black or white or yellow or red skin, born here or crossing the Rio Grande with a coyote that took your life savings and will dump you in the desert in the dead of night, I believe that every man deserves dignity and respect.
I am ashamed to admit it, but I didn't always think this way. Maybe that's my problem. I am older and wiser now. I remember in college walking around with a sense of specialness and entitlement too. I was at an elite university, right. I was young and special and my professors kept telling us this was true. Well, I grew up and I've had a few nasty reality checks along the way. Perhaps that's why I have so little tolerance for it now. I hated it in myself, and I hate it in others. I believe in basic decency when dealing with people. I believe in doing your job to the best of your ability. I believe in taking pride in my work. I believe people are supposed to make a fucking effort when they go to work. I trust the man or woman who puts the bolts on my 747 and who takes my flower order over the Internet. I trust they will do their fucking jobs. I am a moron. I am an idealist. I am a romantic with pessimistic tendencies. I am sick because I am deluded enough to cling to outdated illusions and when I started this job, I was terrified. I am terrified still, 7 months later, but in a very different way. In the beginning, I was scared because I thought I would fail these kids, and myself. Now I am scared beyond belief by what I have seen in a small classroom, in a wealthy city in a suburb of Southern California. I am scared because what I thought I would see in this classroom is very different from what I have seen. I expected to come in and yes, perhaps make a tiny difference in some people's lives. I expected I would teach these kids the things I was supposed to, and maybe throw a few creative curveballs their way. I thought, perhaps I could be a small success. I'm a small fish in a small pond. There's nothing grand or magnificent about what I do. I stand and deliver but I'm no Jaime Escalante. But no matter what, I was going to be a professional and do the very best job I could for my kids. My kids. Thirty-one kids I spend 7 hours a day with. Thirty-five hours a week. Outside of their parents, they see me more than they see anyone else. I guide them everywhere. I bring them into the class in the morning. I pick them up from recess. I give them Bandaids, I send them to the nurse, I call their parents. I stand at the gate once every month and make sure every child goes home safely. I loan them lunch money (yes, they pay me back). In short, I work my ass off for them. I grade their papers in a timely basis and send them back. I give them feedback on their work. I am in constant contact with their parents. I email, I talk on the phone, I write letters. I set boundaries far too late in the game.
I bring them in from lunch and I take them to the library. I take them down to the computer lab. I teach them how to write a creative topic sentence. I help them find books to read. I counsel them during recess when they are crying. I counsel them when they fight with each other. I applaud their efforts and praise their growth. I endure their increasing moodiness and honestly, I thank God I go home to two animals. I teach them with every fiber of my being. I teach them to think. I teach them to question. I teach them what I am told by the state of California to teach them. I listen to their stories about their dogs, their siblings, their dance competitions, their vacations. I send them to the office for vision and hearing tests. I sit with them in assemblies. I watch them in their musicals. I encourage them in their contests, their sports events. I sponsor them, I root for them. I go through hundreds and hundreds of their assignments a week, looking for ways to help them learn, improve, get better, grow. I try to prepare them for the insanity that will be middle school. All I ever ask of them is that they try their very best. I put up rules; I ask them to live by the Golden Rule. I talk to them about character. We talk about death and the war in Iraq and 9/11 and religion and the Holocaust. I am sensitive to their religious beliefs. I tip-toe around everyone at the holidays, terrified I will offend someone. In a classroom where 90% of the kids are Jewish, I don't dare say the word Christmas - even though I grew up saying "Christmas vacation" and not "winter break." I listen to story after story about this person's bat mitzvah or bar mitzvah, this person's birthday party, that person's trip to Europe. I go to camp with them. I write their parents and let them know their kids are OK at camp. I hike with them, I eat shitty, cold camp food with them. I sit by a stream and eat a soggy peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches with them. I write down their food allergies in class. I bring different kinds of candy for the kids with allergies. I talk to them about my love of reading, my love of books, my love of animals. I try to show them the wonders of reading and books. I give away Barnes and Noble gift certificates in the weekly raffle. I try and teach them about peace. I talk about Martin Luther King Jr. and Ghandi. We talk about Darfur and Africa. I have a Star of the Week each week. I have raffles for incentives and table points and the prizes aren't good enough you know? Because who wants some scented erasers or Silly Putty when you've been given a laptop and a cell phone and a TV and an iPOD and every video game known to God and man. Now I understand why Oprah started her school in Africa. She was right when she said that even in the poorest schools in America, all the kids want are things. The kids in Africa just wanted a chance. A chance at an education.
I teach them about Impressionism. I teach them about the brilliance of van Gogh. We color like van Gogh. I take pictures of them when they dress up for Halloween. I laugh at their corny jokes. I let them have show and tell. I encourage them to talk about their feelings with me. I encourage them to be grateful for everything that that have because dear God, they have so, so much. Too much.
We read stories together. We talk about the American Revolution. I never mention my political beliefs even when they ask me about them. I don't speak negatively about our leaders, despite my intense hatred of the current administration. That is not my job. I don't tell them my age even when they ask - no yell- about it across the classroom. I confiscate notes from them. I am their advocate. When the science teacher keeps them in at recess, I talk to the principal for them so they get their recess back. I am the last one out of the classroom during fire drills, and disaster drills. I will be the first one in the line of fire, God forbid anything like that happens.
I am not a hero. I am not noble. I am not some great, wonderful person creating better people for the future. I am an idiot for doing this for a shitty salary and no respect. I hate myself right now. I AM naive to think I could do a good job and give 150% to my job and expect one iota of appreciation for my efforts from the administration or from my fellow fifth-grade teachers or from parents or kids. I know I got the shit class full of losers and academic fuck-ups. I've got parents writing me telling me what a fucked up class I have; these are the parents of the FEW good kids I have. You can look at the test scores to see how low some of these kids are. They stacked the deck against me; I've been bleeding chips at the table since August and you know, Jesus you know, the house always wins. I've got kids who cheat, steal and teach other kids how to find pornography between grown men and young boys. I've got bullies in my class. I still tried to play my hand and play it the best I could. People give a lot of lip service to teachers but do I for one fucking minute think ANY SINGLE ONE of those parents would encourage their kids to be a TEACHER? No. I am, in this school, just another blue collar worker to these kids. I am the maid who can't be fired. But I am the maid, when they pull the books off my shelves, and don't put them back. I bring in a book on Impressionism and they leave it scattered on the floor. Their Star of the Week papers are in the trash; they just wanted the prize, the toy, the goods. What? I don't have an iPhone in the treasure box? Yes, I am the maid. I am the gardener, I am the nanny, I am the help. I am the necessary evil. I am the bad guy because I keep bothering these kids with the word respect - I keep asking for it and don't I know by now I ain't gonna ever get it? Wake the fuck up teacher!
A kid whose parents are extraordinarily rich is obsessed with Donald Trump. He's an amazingly sweet kid. But he scares the shit out of me. He proudly told me "Do you know how many maids my mom has fired? When I grow up I'm gonna get a maid and fire her. They don't even speak English." These people are Iranian. No, I'm sorry, Persian. They don't want to be called Iranian. Iranians obviously look down on the poor wetback Hispanics too. At least the rich Iranians do. I hope this kid's parents are proud of the message they're sending him. They're doing a great job alongside the media. My kids are obsessed with Britney Spears. They say she's crazy. They're obsessed with Paris Hilton. They're only reflecting what we as a society care about. They know so much more than I ever did at their age. They know who Kurt Cobain was - they know who he was, what he did, how he died, why he mattered. Jesus. They weren't even alive when he died. I don't think I knew what gay was , what pornography was, at 10. Maybe I was naive and sheltered. I wanted to tell some of these parents at conferences, "Your kid is getting an A in reading and a B in math and I think you should put them on birth control now."
Yeah. I am a teacher. I am the fucking moron who sits there and tells my class to be quiet a hundred times. I have whispered it. I have screamed it. And they defy me a thousand times. I point to the rules. I have made them write me apology letters. They have written letters home to their parents. They are without boundaries. I am the sad soul who took this job thinking I was going to teach fifth graders like myself - kids who not only respected their teachers, but perhaps even had a little bit of fear of their teachers. Instead I sit with kids who have no qualms about asking me every little detail of my personal life. NO FUCKING BOUNDARIES. How old are you? Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? They have been taught the world is theirs for the taking. I never had a chance; the real teaching was done at home. God only knows what the parents say about the teachers - why do you think these kids have NO respect for teachers? The parents set the example. I have kids who interrupt me, interrupt each other. I have kids who scream out in class and don't care about class rules, or consequences. I have kids with no respect for anything but money. I have no power. And they know it. They've made cracks in class, right in front of me, about how teachers make no money. I make no money, I work for them, I have no power. I do not deserve respect. I can do nothing with them. I write their parents. I can't keep them after school. I can't legally keep them in for recess. I can't discipline them. I had a kid argue with me about the year the Iraq war started. Jesus Christ - would you have EVER argued with your teacher about anything, much less the YEAR A MAJOR WAR STARTED? The kid was in kindergarten when the war started; I was teaching college. I wanted to scream WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU GET OFF? This kid is in love with himself. He's very, very bright. But so fucking what. He's a big fish in a tiny pond now. He has no idea; he'll end up like Narcissus at this rate. People like him are a dime a fucking dozen in the real world. I won't be there when these shitheads grow up and realize that no, the sun doesn't rise and set on their spoiled, indulged asses. I won't be around to see them get fired and watch them collapse under the truth that they are not the center of the goddamned fucking universe.
This is not my world. I don't understand children who have no respect for their elders or teachers. It's utterly surreal to me what these kids have said and done in my class. I didn't expect to save the kids; I could give a shit about the future for the children. Sad, but true. My principles and values involve respect. I give it to you, you give it to me. It's a transaction I require you to make with me as a human being.
I work at a beautiful school. Most of the kids are from very wealthy families. Many have traveled the world by age 10. They have iPhones and iPods and Wii and X-Box and laptops. They get laptops for Christmas and Hannakuh and whatever Iranian holidays they have and cell phones for their birthdays. We have cupcakes at every birthday party. They all wear Abercrombie and Fitch. They have expensive sneakers and go on cruises for spring break. Their parents have given them everything. I have a kid who spent two months in the beginning of the year telling us repeatedly how he flew to London first class. That's great. I finally said "How much later did the people in economy get to London?" This kid is on Zoloft, the product of divorce and can't control himself in class, socially, emotionally or physically. He's crippled by anxiety and sees the nurse for a different ailment every single day and I am not, as God is my witness, exaggerating. There is no hyperbole here. This kid went to Las Vegas over spring break, stayed the Bellagio, saw "O" and can't control his mouth in class; but he has everything - everything but values and respect. Their parents give them a sense of entitlement and forget to teach them humility and gratitude. I have everything a teacher could want. A nice, big classroom of my own. I am given money for school supplies. I have an Apple laptop - a lovely computer of my own to use. I work in a beautiful, safe environment. I have a nice budget for any creative activity I want to do with these kids. And oh God, if I could only buy them some character, some values, a sense of respect. I haven't even spent a dime of my allotted $600 on them. Why? Because there's nothing I can buy them they don't already have and no experience I can give them that I feel they will get anything out of.
This is not my world. And maybe I'm a fool; I expect and know that the only guarantee in life is change. The world has changed; perhaps it is better now than when I was a child, perhaps it is worse. Millions of years and we're still killing each other, still battling each other over pieces of land and pieces of silver. I am trapped in a dream world of my own making. A world where children are decent and respectful. This is a crazy time - a recession, an endless war, a psychotic dictator ruling the country for the last 8 years, an uncertain future. A country struggling to hold onto its position as the world's super power. A country that must see itself slipping, in the grandest of the grand scheme of things. A country that sees China and India in its rearview mirror and they are gaining ground quickly - and so we, the teachers, must push our children harder, and the harder we push, the harder they push back.
I have now lived long enough to watch stock markets rise and start markets fall. I have seen interest rates at 14% and 1%. I have lived in fear of the USSR and the nuclear bomb and have realized all it takes is a few angry, disenfranchised radical extremists to end our lives. I have seen Presidents come and go, recessions begin and end, Cold Wars end and countries fall into economic, political and social despair. I have hoped for freedom and seen exploitation. I see the middle class disappearing here. I see America's halcion days of great dreams for everyone who just works hard enough, on life support. I have studied history. Oh I have studied history and I know we will repeat it; we are repeating it every day. To quote the title of a book I bought, are we Rome? Yes, indeed, Rome fell. I don't know if we are Rome. I think we are. I think we are falling. The decline has begun and if you want to see some of the very tiny beginnings, please come into room 17. That is where I am, with children who reflect the decline of civilization in their narcissism and defiance and disregard and disrespect almost pathological egoism. I have read about this and heard from teachers all over the world on various teacher websites - the stories are the same. Perhaps I got an especially shitty class this year; but the general consensus is that too many of these children, the future, reflect a general defiance and disregard for all authority. The world is their oyster, theirs for the taking. I once asked them if they didn't have school, what could they contribute to the country, the economy, the fucking tax base, at ten years old? OK so maybe I didn't quite use that language, but that was the general question.
The sun set on the British Empire. The sun will set on what is left of America some day. This is the macro. And I live here in the micro. A world of small beings I am paid to guide into the next year of their lives. I have given them everything I have to give. I have nothing left. I am carved out, I am hollow now. I am finished.
To paraphrase a character in the Coen brothers' brilliant movie "No Country for Old Men" - you can't stop what's coming. The world has changed. It's not my world anymore. Too many people don't care about their work anymore. Too many people worship at the altar of consumerism and materialism and status and greed and hey, why not, two planes just took out the Twin Towers but we as Americans MUST GO SHOPPING! Because if we don't then by GOD THE TERRORISTS WILL HAVE WON. Maybe Gordon Gecko was right. Greed is good. People on fire - human torches can willingly propel themselves off the 97th floor of buildings, melting corporate American Express cards floating with them to the detrius and blood and smashed bodies below - and this was the message our leaders gave us. Do not let the economy down people. Prop up the dollar. Stop watching the man floating upside down to his death in a smoke-filled New York City and get thyself to Bloomingdale's stat. No, no, no, this is not my world. Let them have it - whoever them is. No country for old men, or disenfranchised, burned out, tired, cynical, disappointed, sad, sad, sad teachers. I am finished. There is no honor, no nobility, no dignity left in me, in my profession and I wonder if there really ever was and I no longer want to sacrifice myself on the altar of blatant disregard for everything I value. I've worked in corporations and I've worked in offices and I already know there's no honour amongst thieves. I'm not looking for a better deal; I'm just leaving this table. I'm done with this game.
Everything I thought I knew was wrong. Everything I believed in was a lie. I lied to myself. I told myself pretty stories to get myself through the days. Today the world cracked open and the abyss showed itself and there is nothing, nothing, nothing there. Darkness reigns and I give up. My cards on are the table and God willing, in two months, I will walk away and not look back.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Screenland Drive
Years and years we waited for it to be finished, over, done
A life stretched over days, weeks, months, years, decades
It was quite understood
A silent agreement
No one would come undone
The dusk just barely collapsing into the familiar arms of night
Walking through that same wooden door for the thousandth time
A warm glow curtains closed in the gloaming
The blinking caress of Christmas lights
No one saw you coming, no one saw you going
An old man stirs a cup of coffee
The tired old house sighs in some final relief
Things to be done, no time for disbelief
Papers and forms and documents and pens
The strangest of strange thoughts
We will never swim in the azure pool
again
There are the ancient rooms we played in
There are the cracked cups we drank from
In the eerie, grey dawn
In some other life, in some other eon
There are the fading pictures, proof positive
We were all once here and how it seemed so very promised and long
Still the hollow voices will carry on
Into the future
A memory of an endless bright white afternoon
A splash of chlorine, the taste of tea
We never said goodbye to you
Only a hand held so tightly
The warmth of forever so mad and deceiving
We turned our backs as they packed you away
In a cold black bag
For another life, another dream, another day
A desperate plea for sleep
A heart that whispered “No more”
A promise even these grand illusions can’t keep
Where did you go?
And we waited and we waited and we waited.
It was expected… the time had justly come.
It was not however…
That we would ever come undone.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Blah Blah Blah
Don't really have much to say tonight. I slept like shit last night - I swear it was like I had nerves going back to school! Then today I'm in the lunchroom and I hear other teachers talking about the same thing; e.g. they couldn't sleep, they've been teaching for ten years and they still get 'jitters' the night before. Weird. It's like I never outgrew it. So I'm exhausted tonight, plus my stomach is upset and shall we say, causing me to visit the loo every few minutes.
The first day back was pretty blah, hence the title of this blog. The kids were as self-centered and out of control as usual. Even the art teacher told them they were out of control. I can't get over, no matter how many times I see and hear it for myself in my classroom, day after day, how I can ask, tell, beg, plead, yell at these kids to be quiet and for about two seconds while I'm telling them to be quiet, they'll be quiet, and then they just immediately start talking again. Oh I made mistakes big time in the beginning of the year. With kids like these, I'm not sure anything or anyone could tame them. But I know now I should have come down on them hard and consistently and been much, much more consistant in my discipline. Now I am paying the price for my niceness and inconsistancy. Little fuckers. Driving me batshit crazy.
They were ALL over the Britney Spears story. I had to shut that one down in a hurry. Then Clayton calls Britney 'mentally retarded'. Jesus! Now I am NO fan of Britney's and I'll be the first to say the girl is obviously quite ill and has many mental issues, but she's clearly NOT retarded. I had to tell him "Clayton, we don't use the word retarded anymore and she's NOT retarded. Let's just say she has issues."
Then as the kids were writing the final outlines for their 'autobiographies' (yes, the story of their ever so exciting and long 10 year-old lives) they had to start thinking about what kind of careers they'd want. Someone asked if teachers made a lot of money and you could just HEAR the disdain in the voices of those that said "They don't make anything." Clearly being a teacher is not something these spoiled kids would EVER aspire to. I know a lawyer - a real asshole, (not to mention an absentee father, alcoholic and a womanizer), who voiced his huge disappointment than two of his four children turned out to be teachers. I guess it's just not classy enough and certainly there's just not enough money in it and isn't that what it's all about?
Today was obviously NOT a day I felt near and dear to my class. Tomorrow is my grandma's funeral - well, her interment. She didn't want a church service, so no church service. Hardly anyone is coming anyway - she outlived all her siblings and friends. I was able to take the day off from work as paid bereavement leave and I didn't have to use a sick day. I'm paranoid about using my sick days, can you tell? My psycho step-grandfather will be there. I hope he doesn't throw himself on the casket or start beating everyone up with his cane. I say this with all seriousness. It will be definitely a two Xanax day. Her caretaker of the last four years will be there. She really loved my grandma. When I was uploading all the pictures of Ella from my camera, I discovered I'd taken a picture of my grandma with her caretaker at my mom's house last Christmas. It's actually a pretty good picture. I'll post it here. My grandma's caretaker's name is Dahlia. She's Filipino (am I spelling that right?) and I can't understand a word she says, but she was always the best to my grandma, and I'll always be grateful for that.
Finally, a friend of mine is going through a nightmarish time with her mom, who is very sick and in the hospital. My heart is breaking for her and other than pray, I can't think of anything else to do. Life seems so capricious and fragile to me these days. People getting sick, institutions like my grandma dying, middle age - it's all happening at once and it's not any fun at all. Nights like tonight I feel so defeated I wonder if I could ever feel happy again. I heard it might rain tomorrow. That'll just make everything so perfect. Ugh.
Photo: Dahlia and my late grandmother Mary, Christmas, 2006
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Back to the Grind
Well, here it is, almost midnight on Saturday night/Sunday morning. My 'blissful' 2 1/2 week 'winter break' (we don't dare say Christmas vacation anymore) is almost over. Where in the hell did it go? I know exactly where it went. I spent 8 days in Atlanta, which was great when I got to see my niece, but was tough because traveling during the holidays sucks. This was the first time I'd ever spent Christmas out of California. I'm 40 years old and have still spent almost every Christmas at the house I grew up in. It was a bit disorienting, but again, worth it, to see my niece.
Then I get home, and the next day visit my dying grandmother. Cut to one morphine dose and one New Year's Day later and grandma leaves this earthly realm on the 2nd. So then I spend a few hours in her house with my mom waiting for the mortuary to arrive and take her body away. I am fascinated by how when we're alive, we are "us" by the millisecond we die, we become "the body." It makes sense really because if you've ever been up close and personal to someone after they've died, it is totally and completely obvious that our bodies are truly just shells...whatever brain activity, life force, soul, etc. that is 'us' has let the proverbial building.
So now I'm sitting here writing thank-you notes to my students for all their wonderful 'winter' gifts. Gee, I don't know what else to call them! Oddly enough, I received extraordinarily generous 'winter' gifts from my 90% Jewish students. Seriously, you should see the stack of Barnes and Noble gift cards I received. Not to mention the Macy' gift card, the Nordstrom's gift card, the Starbucks and Coffee Bean/Tea Leaf gift cards and the Visa $50 gift card. Oh and don't let me forget the TWO Disneyland park-hopper passes! These winter gifts also included about two tons of candy, a book on van Gogh, a gratitude journal, several scented candles, a beautiful ring, a lovely scarf, a throw for the couch, a bath set, a personalized teacher pad, a coffee and mug set and probably more things I've forgotten. Honestly my biggest fear is that I'm going to forget to give someone a thank you note and/or get the gifts mixed up.
I am falling into the inevitable grip of "January" despair, which could be understandable this year, giving my temperment, history of depression, rainy, cold weather, and the recent death of my grandmother - which has just generally put me in a funk and set me off on one of the 'what the hell is it all for' anyway mindsets. Aside from her death, I normally despise the months of January and February. There's always the post-holiday meltdown, and since I've been teaching and/or in school for over ten years, I'm used to having a long vacation and going back to work, while good for me, is never that exciting in the new year. I don't normally find the 'new year' very inspiring. I find it depressing. I can't really explain any better why I hate these two months so much. It's normally our 'winter' if you will - the two months when we get the most rain - although the last couple of years have been pretty dry. Here's something kind of odd. My paternal grandmother, who I was very close to, died on January 30, 1995. My maternal grandfather died on January 4, 1986. Now my maternal grandmother has died on January 2, 2008. My father died on February 12, 1996, and my best friend's mother died on Februrary 28, 2003. Even Mr. Rogers died on February 27, 2003! Mr. Rogers! Ha. Needless to say, I have even more reason to despise these dreary months. We do get a couple of paid holidays, so yippeeee.
I know it's best for me to go back to work, since I am getting too depressed now just roaming about here on my own. Yet I'm not ready for 31 kids bouncing off the walls. Also, Tuesday is the funeral and I really just want to get that out of the way. The kids are going to camp on February 4th. I'm praying I don't have to spend the night there with them. It's going to be colder than a witch's tit in the Malibu/Santa Monica mountains, where the camp is located. All the schools in the district have their fifth grade classes go to this "Outdoor Education" camp. We just got lucky and we get to be the first school who goes - in the beginning of February. Geniuses.
My biggest issue is how NOT to spend 10 hours at work a day. Seriously. I want to be able to have a life. Work took over and with my health and work, this is why I never had time to write, or sometimes even to read people's blogs and make a simple comment. My goal is to start leaving work at 3:00 p.m. I get there early enough - there's no one paying me to stay any later than 3p.m. and I don't care what anyone else thinks. I'm contractually supposed to be there from 8:00am to 3 p.m. I worked my ass off doing all these extra things for my class and honestly, it's sad to say I don't think the kids appreciated it. The principal doesn't know about them. It's not like I can get a promotion. Hell, I'm on probation and just praying the school will re-hire me at the end of June. I always felt like I needed to put 110% into a job. But I realize there is really no loyalty from any organization or company. No one is going to reward me or pat me on the back. With my limited energy I'd rather do other things. Perhaps if I didn't have the FMS I could do it all. But I can't. Fourteen years into this health nightmare and I'm just accepting this now. I can't be superwoman and I don't want to be superwoman anymore. I want a relationship. I want fun. I want more time with friends, here and online. I keep saying "They don't pay me enough" to be there at work on the weekends. I know new teachers that spend sooooooo much time in their classroom. Perhaps because I'm older, have worked other jobs, don't have the energy of a healthy 24 year-old, I'm not willing to do this. Maybe I'm smarter, maybe I'm lazy. Maybe I don't care as much as I should, or maybe I've decided to care about me more.
I think that's the whole point right there. For those of you who know me, and those who only know me via online or email, I spend an inordinate amount of time doing, doing, doing for others - now it's for my class/students. I also spend a lot of $$$ buying for others. Gifts for the holidays, gifts for the kids, etc. I've decided for the first time in my life, to become more selfish. If I am hired back to teach next year, ohhhhhhhhhh I'll be doing things differently in class. Talk about being too indulgent! This is a very bad habit I plan to break. It's going to be hard. I'm used to saying "yes" to everyone for everything. I'm used to paying for too much, buying too much, and paying in a different way. No mas.
Ok, I don't really have any picture to put up, so I'm putting up another one of my niece, because I don't ever get tired of looking at her.
Photo: Ella bella and her funny fingers. She likes to play with her fingers and hands.
And In One Ending, We Shall Discover Some Other, Grand Beginning
I know a couple of gals who'd like me to start writing again. I'd like me to start writing again. I seem to have fallen into some sort of abyss with this blog. Complacency is rooted at my core now; I have been emotionally paralysed for quite some time. Can't explain why, really.
I am listening to the rain and longing to run out into the street, bare feet and all, and worship every God-given drop. Flooding be damned, we need the cleansing. It is late, and quiet and the cats are settling in for several hours of slumber - an activity of sorts to keep them busy between meals. I suppose I shall pay for letting them rest their furry and weary heads in my bed, as one of them will no doubt start howling at 6a.m. for breakfast. And speaking of...today and tomorrow mark the last days of my vacation where I can truly sleep in. If I had any sense at all I'd toss those two critters out into the dark, cold living room. But I have less and less common sense as I get older and I'd rather feel the warmth of their stuffed, over-fed bodies next to me and listen to their tiny snores during the night than kick them to the sorry ends of the living room couch.
I am getting ready to get in bed myself, and grade 3o essays; my students have written about their school yers - all five of them - well, perhaps 7-8 if you count pre-school. These essays are part of a larger 'book' the students are composing. They are in essence writing their autobiographies - and at such a young age! You'd be surprised. Travel-wise some of these 10 year olds can run circles around me. Nevertheless, grading essays and writing is the absolute hardest type of work to grade and I imagine I'll give it a good five minutes before giving up and searching the tube in vain for yet another episode of Law and Order: Whatever Murder or Sexual Offense Sounds Good Tonight.
My grandma's funeral is set for Tuesday at 1p.m. I figure I may actually be able to work half a day; however my mother seems to want me to come over to her house early, so I can dramatically walk her into the church - the dutiful daughter bringing yet another daughter to the pyre to pay respects and whisper barely-hidden resentments. Ah death, there's nothing like it to bring about all those conflicted feelings you may have had about a person. My grandma was, as my cousin so succinctly put it " a real prima donna." She was pretty spoiled and quite self-centered and selfish, especially with my mother. Let's just say, there's history there. My grandma was a Southern belle; she hailed from the south and never lost her taste for sitting on the porch receiving her admirers. Well, this will be her last time receiving accolades. I wonder if she'll be around in any form to enjoy it.
I leave you now and will post a picture of my insanely adorable niece. Oh sure, I'm biased I know. The pictures don't even do her justice. She just looks like a regular baby in the pictures. In reality, she's like a living doll. I believe she's finally going to go home next weekend after spending over three months in the hospital. Her name is Ella Elizabeth. My great-grandma's name was Amanda Elizabeth. My grandma's name was Mary Elizabeth. My brother met a girl named Mary Elizabeth and married her. My aunt's name is Linda Elizabeth. My cousin is Stacy Elizabeth. I am Denise Elizabeth. And so the tradition continues. Ella Elizabeth. My class has nick-named her Ella bella. Indeed, Ella, so beautiful.
Photo: Ella Elizabeth in her grandma Carole's arms at Northside Women's Hospital, Atlanta, Georgia, December 2007
Saturday, October 06, 2007
The Glimmer Man
You were once the queen
The king
And all the players in between
You were the yes men
The yeomen
The north the south the east the west men
You wept for the worst you wept for the rest
The game
The game has changed you
Nothing new nothing new nothing new nothing fucking new
About this.
You are halfway gone
You are bitter despised forgotten and even you
Can’t keep check of all your petty lies
You want to go down you want go in
You want to go out and let it all end
It’s a never never land a netherworld a bottom line
That’s written in sand
Your voice is lost in the wind and no one is listening anymore
Anyway
The mirror crack’d after you
The pieces floating dead in someone else’s eyes
They see the jester the clown the journeyman
You’ve crossed that bridge
Into another town
Fourteen years ago
And even hope flew the coop
When it saw the hole inside
Your soul
Punch the clock laugh at the troubles
The grave awaits and the demons writhe
Will you pick a box or a bag
A vault a furnace a wall
In the end it’s all the same swag
Dilated and fixed
Would it get you through the night
Somebody else has to pull the plug
The trigger the lever the switch
Beg borrow or steal
The queen is dead
The yes men have gone
The glimmer man walks by
To light the darkening sky
And hum a forgotten song.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
The Wait Is Over
Yeah yeah yeah, I know it's been about three months since I've written.
You don't even want to know. Believe me.
Churchill called it his 'black dog' ; let's just say William Styron and I undertsand each other a lot better now. Well, he's dead, but you get the drift, right?
So anyway, I return with but one burning question on my mind:
Why do people tape themselves having sex? I mean, celebrities, regular folk - why do they do it? I don't want to watch myself getting out of the shower much less having sex. Sometimes I haven't even wanted to be in my own body whilst having sex!
What are these people thinking?
I know what you're thinking: I waited three months for this? Ah shut up. This is like the great American novel for me. Baby steps people, baby steps.
Photo: Eric Bana. Someone I'd let turn the camera on.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Fin.
Freedom.
The nightmare of the past nine months
is officially over.
I'm credentialed and at least 10 years has been
shaved off my life.
I get to sleep in tomorrow. I can watch TV. I can go to the
movies or watch DVD's without worrying about those fucking
nasty bitches or that rotten program or those stupid assignments.
I can visit my friends (yes I do have some left) and go out to dinner
and lie on the floor staring at the ceiling if I want to.
I am free from the clutches of those old, wrinkled, inefficient, insulting,
lying, manipulative cows.
It's gonna take me a few days to process the fact that I'm free.
Looking for a job will be a piece of cake next to what we went through.
I look forward to speaking to people I haven't even talked to since last August - before I went through this meat grinder.
Also, what's up with this font? I've changed it in the 'edit' portion of this blog about ten times and it still comes out looking huge.
What's it all look like to you guys?
Freedom.
The nightmare of the past nine months
is officially over.
I'm credentialed and at least 10 years has been
shaved off my life.
I get to sleep in tomorrow. I can watch TV. I can go to the
movies or watch DVD's without worrying about those fucking
nasty bitches or that rotten program or those stupid assignments.
I can visit my friends (yes I do have some left) and go out to dinner
and lie on the floor staring at the ceiling if I want to.
I am free from the clutches of those old, wrinkled, inefficient, insulting,
lying, manipulative cows.
It's gonna take me a few days to process the fact that I'm free.
Looking for a job will be a piece of cake next to what we went through.
I look forward to speaking to people I haven't even talked to since last August - before I went through this meat grinder.
Also, what's up with this font? I've changed it in the 'edit' portion of this blog about ten times and it still comes out looking huge.
What's it all look like to you guys?
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
I Forget You Forever
It is over now.
So many things.
Tomorrow,
my last class, my last assignment
the last time I will likely ever see most
of the 16 people I have lived so closely with
the last 9 months.
It is over now.
An 8 year friendship - ended in a split second of
rage and misery. What is left - a package of books
sent in the mail, a key to my front door, someone who
I thought was my best friend changing the locks on her door
I never knew what hit me
She never told me why
It was over before I knew it
Eight years and a week of grieving
sighing, why why why?
I had lunch with her on Sunday and by Monday it
was finished
I'd tell you if I knew what caused this death
and it was a death indeed - a murder of me - but still I breathe
I never saw her; she hid in her bathroom when I came to her house to pick up my videotape from her husband (he'd taped me for my portfolio)
I never spoke to her; she left a screaming message on my machine
I was unable to find out what I'd done, what I'd said to cause
such immense rage
Though now, almost two weeks out, I suspect it had little to do with me
Projection is a great defence
Still
I grieve
and wake up and think
I will call this person, my friend and tell her
"Oh you will not believe what happened. One day I had a friend and the next I did not. You see, someone died; she died in a car accident and I never had a chance to say goodbye." But she didn't die. She just erased me completely from her existence.
There is no rhyme or reason despite my persistence
in wondering, wondering, wondering.
No one, man or woman, has ever, ever, ever treated me with such harshness, such coldness, such utter indifference
She called my mother up crying the night she flipped out
She is 43 and could not face me, but called my mommy???
I do not understand this.
Her timing was impeccable. I spent the last week of student teaching
in a daze - stunned, shocked. I cried at my 'graduation' ceremony. I was walking in a surreal world of obligations and incriminations
My students were my sweet salvation and amazed me on my last day with notes, cards, flowers, and hugs that seemed never ending. I cried and did not want to go.
I wrote my portfolio in a dizzy mad state - for four days I did nothing but sit at the computer and type and scan and attach and click and type until my eyes blurred from the glare of the screen and the burning of my tears
She never called, she never wrote, she never faced me
She went insane and surely you must be thinking "Well you had to have done something for her to act this way"
Ah yes of course!
You see, Monday, May 14th we were on the phone; I was very stressed, very pressured, very PMSy and crying and asking her for the digital tape that her husband had videotaped me with because he was a stubborn fool who wouldn't admit he didn't know what the hell he was doing and my video for my portfolio wasn't working - I'd just come from a friend's house where we tried to work it out on a CD but it wasn't working - so I called her, quite upset, and was doing something stupid. I was on my cell phone, crying, not paying attention and almost got hit by a car as I went right through a stop sign. I dropped the phone as I veered the car to the right and pulled over. I tried to call her back. She wouldn't answer the phone.
I knew why. She thought I'd hung up on her. I tried to tell her I didn't. I told her I almost got hit by a car and dropped the phone to grab the steering wheel and slam on the brakes. She refused to believe me. She insisted I hung up on her and 'she would not be treated that way' - my god, it was my life or staying on the phone with her. My instinct to stay alive and not get hit simply overwhelmed me and I dropped the cell phone as a reflex and it closed shut and hung up.
OK. So THAT was the straw the broke this woman's back? Who knows.
Her behavior became insane, irrational, nuts. And in a matter of hours, it was all over. Eight years with someone I trusted, I thought was a dear friend, someone I'd spent so much time with, someone I opened myself up to.
At this moment, I feel I never want to do that again. I feel if she can do this to me, anyone can do anything to me. I don't trust anyone. I am afraid to even try and trust anyone ever again. I feel I want to crawl up into a tiny ball and never ever let anyone inside again. No one will hurt me like this again. Never, ever, ever, ever, ever.
She is 300+ pounds and sits in the house all day. She does nothing. Her perogative - but sometimes I wondered what the hell we had in common. Now forgive me if I offend anyone because I've gained quite a bit of weight over the course of the program which I am already shedding due to the stress of this week...but this is the second morbidly obese friend I've had and well...these people seem to have more issues than National Geographic as they say. I'm sensing a pattern here.
Oh God yes I've got problems. I'm in a constant state of trying and not always succeeding, to better myself. I'm the first to admit my fucked-upness.
She won't. She'd rather throw me away like a piece of trash. And change the locks on her door. I went over when she was out of town, simply to put her bag of books I'd had inside her hallway. I was going to leave the key under the mat. I've never, ever, ever gone over to her house and used her key without permission. I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach when I realized what she'd done. She CHANGED THE FUCKING LOCKS? These people were like my family. Her husband was my good friend too. They BOTH did this to me? I felt like they thought I was some kind of thief. I was degraded. I tossed the key in the street.
In the middle of one her Weight Watchers books she'd loaned me (obviously she wasn't using them) I left a note - the name of a psychiatric center near her house. I told her she needed help. Nasty maybe. But true.
No relationship in my life, be it with a boyfriend or a female friend, has ever ended so horribly. But I will not sit and wonder what I did anymore. I have no idea. Even if I had hung up on her, did that warrant her hiding in her bathroom from me? Calling my mom at midnight? Changing the locks on her door? Spending $13 to mail my books back to me when she could've just dropped them off on my doorstep while I was at work? We live three minutes away from each other. What in the holy fuck happened to her? I don't even know that person.
I cannot take anymore craziness.
This has completely colored the end of my program, which as you know, has been a real nightmare.
But the end is here.
And I will forget her forever.
And I will move on.
Sadder but no wiser.
It is over now.
So many things.
Tomorrow,
my last class, my last assignment
the last time I will likely ever see most
of the 16 people I have lived so closely with
the last 9 months.
It is over now.
An 8 year friendship - ended in a split second of
rage and misery. What is left - a package of books
sent in the mail, a key to my front door, someone who
I thought was my best friend changing the locks on her door
I never knew what hit me
She never told me why
It was over before I knew it
Eight years and a week of grieving
sighing, why why why?
I had lunch with her on Sunday and by Monday it
was finished
I'd tell you if I knew what caused this death
and it was a death indeed - a murder of me - but still I breathe
I never saw her; she hid in her bathroom when I came to her house to pick up my videotape from her husband (he'd taped me for my portfolio)
I never spoke to her; she left a screaming message on my machine
I was unable to find out what I'd done, what I'd said to cause
such immense rage
Though now, almost two weeks out, I suspect it had little to do with me
Projection is a great defence
Still
I grieve
and wake up and think
I will call this person, my friend and tell her
"Oh you will not believe what happened. One day I had a friend and the next I did not. You see, someone died; she died in a car accident and I never had a chance to say goodbye." But she didn't die. She just erased me completely from her existence.
There is no rhyme or reason despite my persistence
in wondering, wondering, wondering.
No one, man or woman, has ever, ever, ever treated me with such harshness, such coldness, such utter indifference
She called my mother up crying the night she flipped out
She is 43 and could not face me, but called my mommy???
I do not understand this.
Her timing was impeccable. I spent the last week of student teaching
in a daze - stunned, shocked. I cried at my 'graduation' ceremony. I was walking in a surreal world of obligations and incriminations
My students were my sweet salvation and amazed me on my last day with notes, cards, flowers, and hugs that seemed never ending. I cried and did not want to go.
I wrote my portfolio in a dizzy mad state - for four days I did nothing but sit at the computer and type and scan and attach and click and type until my eyes blurred from the glare of the screen and the burning of my tears
She never called, she never wrote, she never faced me
She went insane and surely you must be thinking "Well you had to have done something for her to act this way"
Ah yes of course!
You see, Monday, May 14th we were on the phone; I was very stressed, very pressured, very PMSy and crying and asking her for the digital tape that her husband had videotaped me with because he was a stubborn fool who wouldn't admit he didn't know what the hell he was doing and my video for my portfolio wasn't working - I'd just come from a friend's house where we tried to work it out on a CD but it wasn't working - so I called her, quite upset, and was doing something stupid. I was on my cell phone, crying, not paying attention and almost got hit by a car as I went right through a stop sign. I dropped the phone as I veered the car to the right and pulled over. I tried to call her back. She wouldn't answer the phone.
I knew why. She thought I'd hung up on her. I tried to tell her I didn't. I told her I almost got hit by a car and dropped the phone to grab the steering wheel and slam on the brakes. She refused to believe me. She insisted I hung up on her and 'she would not be treated that way' - my god, it was my life or staying on the phone with her. My instinct to stay alive and not get hit simply overwhelmed me and I dropped the cell phone as a reflex and it closed shut and hung up.
OK. So THAT was the straw the broke this woman's back? Who knows.
Her behavior became insane, irrational, nuts. And in a matter of hours, it was all over. Eight years with someone I trusted, I thought was a dear friend, someone I'd spent so much time with, someone I opened myself up to.
At this moment, I feel I never want to do that again. I feel if she can do this to me, anyone can do anything to me. I don't trust anyone. I am afraid to even try and trust anyone ever again. I feel I want to crawl up into a tiny ball and never ever let anyone inside again. No one will hurt me like this again. Never, ever, ever, ever, ever.
She is 300+ pounds and sits in the house all day. She does nothing. Her perogative - but sometimes I wondered what the hell we had in common. Now forgive me if I offend anyone because I've gained quite a bit of weight over the course of the program which I am already shedding due to the stress of this week...but this is the second morbidly obese friend I've had and well...these people seem to have more issues than National Geographic as they say. I'm sensing a pattern here.
Oh God yes I've got problems. I'm in a constant state of trying and not always succeeding, to better myself. I'm the first to admit my fucked-upness.
She won't. She'd rather throw me away like a piece of trash. And change the locks on her door. I went over when she was out of town, simply to put her bag of books I'd had inside her hallway. I was going to leave the key under the mat. I've never, ever, ever gone over to her house and used her key without permission. I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach when I realized what she'd done. She CHANGED THE FUCKING LOCKS? These people were like my family. Her husband was my good friend too. They BOTH did this to me? I felt like they thought I was some kind of thief. I was degraded. I tossed the key in the street.
In the middle of one her Weight Watchers books she'd loaned me (obviously she wasn't using them) I left a note - the name of a psychiatric center near her house. I told her she needed help. Nasty maybe. But true.
No relationship in my life, be it with a boyfriend or a female friend, has ever ended so horribly. But I will not sit and wonder what I did anymore. I have no idea. Even if I had hung up on her, did that warrant her hiding in her bathroom from me? Calling my mom at midnight? Changing the locks on her door? Spending $13 to mail my books back to me when she could've just dropped them off on my doorstep while I was at work? We live three minutes away from each other. What in the holy fuck happened to her? I don't even know that person.
I cannot take anymore craziness.
This has completely colored the end of my program, which as you know, has been a real nightmare.
But the end is here.
And I will forget her forever.
And I will move on.
Sadder but no wiser.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
This is My Brain on Student Teaching
Oh god am I sick. AGAIN. This must be my fourth cold in five months. This time I have a raging sinus infection and fever. I can't smell, taste or breathe. You know, the little things in life. AND my kids had the GALL to tell me yesterday that it was MY fault THEY all had colds! HA! I said "There are 20 of you - and you're ALWAYS sick! There's only ONE of me!" LOL! They are little germ-spreading freaks. I am going to miss them like crazy. I want to cry just thinking about how much these annoying kids have gotten into my heart. I was worried because it took me a while to bond with them - but I did. Damn kids.
So I'm on Levaquin - my standard antibiotic and I slept about 12 hours last night. My throat is raw and I couldn't even watch TV. I just passed out at about 8 p.m. So Levaquin and Tylenol Severe Cold ,medicine must be some wild drugs because I had the CRAZIEST dreams last night and when I woke up I remembered the dream vividly. Hours later, I still do. I'm going to write my dream here - I don't know how much you'll understand - but the names of the people are people in my program. All other names have been changed to protect the guilty, ha.
My dream: We were taking classes back at my university - although it looked like a mall, not our university at all. Naturally, I'd missed like three of the first classes for some reason (I always have these anxiety dreams where I miss classes). I met with one of the professors on what looked like a porch/stoop or something and she was really nice and told me what reading I had to make up. We were taking classes alongside TODDLERS! We all stood in class and there were adults and tiny kids taking the class too! And there were babies in the classroom. In what seemed to be some kind of advanced math methods class my friend Peri chose to sit at a computer - but there were also BEDS in the classroom. They were single beds with white sheets. I sat in the class lounging in one bed, and my friend Jen lounged in the bed next to me, and next to her was her BOYFRIEND! Then the teacher gave us all some seasoned green beans to eat. We were all laughing hysterically eating these beans. Apparently they tasted really good and there was something wildly funny about them. Then she showed us something on the CBS evening news and we all started crying; it was the CBS news from the 1970's! I remembered the old newscasters and everything. My cohorts Amber and Chelsea were also in the class. So was Rob - but Rob was absent - naturally! I kept asking "Where are the other members of our cohort" At one point I was walking somewhere with Cheri and I said "Oh yeah, Donna quit for now."
It gets even better - after class, Jen and I walked to an area of the class where there was a little 'liquor store' - Jen was thinking about taking home a big bottle of whiskey. We had a liquor store in the class and after class we could stock up. What a riot. I was looking at a the 'baby bottles' of booze. I adore them - I collect them actually; I don't drink them. I asked Jen if the big bottle of whiskey was good. She didn't respond, and she didn't buy anything. I didn't either. Then Peri, Jen and her boyfriend and I were walking to take the bus home. I don't exactly know what happened to my car. It's like I forgot it somewhere - and yet I remember thinking "My car's so messy inside. I can't drive it anymore." This is so true. I am not normally this messy of a person - but my car is a disaster zone now.
So we all got on the bus, at the back and there was hardly anyone else on the bus. I had to go to the bathroom the entire time. Nice detail, huh? Again, we went to a mall parking structure to catch the bus. Now what's really strange is that as I was dreaming this, in the dream, I was thinking about the fact that I was about to have an affair with this guy (have no idea who he was) who seemed to be a family friend and he and his perfect Barbie doll girlfriend came to my mom's house for Thanksgiving dinner. Gena was there and mentioned there was no stuffing and how my mom didn't really go to any effort with the dinner. I was really mad at Gena for saying that. I felt she was insulting my mom; but it WAS a strange meal. Then I find myself sulking and longing for this 'mystery man' inside some long black car (I swear it seemed like it was a hearse) between two streets close to my mom's house. Then, this mystery man, who I felt I LOVED and LUSTED after, came over to the car. I rolled down the window a little bit and put my fingers on the glass and he started sucking on my fingers. He had long, blondish hair and was REALLY classically good looking. The type of guy that would NEVER go for ME in real life. LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Who the hell is this guy? NO ONE! It's just my libido saying "For God's sake woman - are you EVER going to get some again?" LOL! Oh - and then this hot mystery man appears in one of our university classes. He stands in front of me at a desk. He opens his shirt and starts to pull down his pants and show me his underwear! A PORNO DREAM! I am cracking up laughing as I type this. What a riot. How sick am I?
I'm thinking all of this as we are all on the bus. So I'm dreaming and thinking too - does that make sense? Then Peri and I get off at our stop - but naturally I forget my TWO rolling suitcases. I have TWO - not one. We are close to my mom's house on this long street, running down the street trying to stop the bus. We are screaming at the bus. I PANIC - naturally. Oh - Amber is with us too. I make her call Jen, who is still on the bus. She can't get a signal. I pull out my cell phone - except it isn't mine and I can't understand it at all. I just look at it, totally unable to figure it out. At some point we see Jen and her boyfriend. The bus is long gone. I whine and whine about how am I going to get my bags. Then Jen falls down a flight of stairs - don't ask where they came from. Her boyfriend rushes down to check on her - she is really dazed. We all run down to see if she is OK. She is, pretty much.
Is this not FUCKED UP or what? Freudian???? Oh wait- I remember some more - I also dreamt about my cousin having her baby and my mom was bitching that today you could just set an appointment to have a baby. LOL! I have no idea where that came from - my cousin hasn't had a baby in almost four years.
I saw a job advertisement for a home economics teacher. It listed the class schedule - and two of the things on the schedule were "the channel 7 news" and "terrorism"! I said "Wow, when I took home economics we learned how to make artichoke hearts and sew pillows. This is true - this is what I did in my 7th grade home ec class. Boy has that shit helped me in life. Not. Anyway, now they're making kids watch the news and learn about terrorism.
I can probably explain almost everything in the dream - I think I know where it all came from. Isn't the brain fascinating though - how it creates all this symbolism? Still, I need to get laid. Let's face it. I need to fall in love. I need to do so many things that have NOTHING to do with work, teaching and most of all, this stupid ass program.
Only 9 teaching days left. 17 days total left. I can hardly believe it. I'm still trying to get recommendation letters from my mentor teachers. I can't properly look for a job without having these. Naturally everyone is now moving at the pace of a slug. A job? Fuck it. What I need now is a stud.
Photo: Can't someone get me this for graduation?
Monday, April 30, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
Coda
Will I sit by some dimly lit window
Gently holding all the children of my discontent
The whispers of disbelief and soft, sad sentiments
The carrion waiting patiently
For some discombobulated demise
Will this numbing silence define all of my goodbyes
Unanswered questions born long ago… so broad and deep
Will I caress the haunted relics of my suffering
Kissing sweetly the dull aching and the long, deep, bitter want
And in the very end I shall lay down this burden
This interminable grief
These neurons insistent upon fact not faith
And like offerings before a great god
I will lay down my questions, my tears, my empty prayers
My sufferings
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