After staying at work until 5 to prepare my classroom for tomorrow's Back to School Night, I ran to Costco to buy sodas for our Speech & Debate pizza/soda sales, at which point I realized that I don't have a big ice chest. So, I called Bernard to ask him if he had one he could bring. The conversation cracked me up, and I have to share.
As preparation for tomorrow's Bell Jar presentation in our AP class, I have the class reading an article by Stephen Jay Gould about the history of how science has used biological discussions of the female brain to justify misogyny in the past.
Ring...
Bernard: Yes?
Me: How's it going?
B: Good, I'm just reading this article about women's brains that you assigned.
Me: Oh, yeah? Good. Whaddya think?
B: [Like a toddler repeating something an adult has said, as if he knows he's going to make other adults mad if he says it himself] Women's brains are smaller than men's.
Me: Bernard!!
B: Hey, don't get mad at me. That's what YOUR article says.
I had a trio of students from last year helping me in my classroom until I left so late tonight. I love these kids so much.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Feeling Better
I just realized how negative my last post was and wanted to write while I'm feeling better. The financial resource I needed finally came through in the form of a nice check from UC Irvine and I'm feeling better in general. Teaching is proving to be the continued inspiration I found it to be last year, even despite some uncomfortable adjustment to the AP Language curriculum. My ninth graders are beautiful, even a potentially rowdy sixth period.
I also had a wonderfully restful weekend, beginning with a train ride into Los Angeles, where Amy and Jane picked me up for many fantastic meals, an afternoon at the Huntington, where we looked on Duchess Georgiana of Devonshire among many other masterpieces, before wandering through the gardens and a later viewing of "The Duchess," based on the aforementioned duchess's life. She was another reminder of how grateful I am to live in an era where I can find so much joy outside the realm of what was once such a restricted scope of activity for women, married or not.
Anyway, not feeling too coherent, but rest assured that I AM feeling happier and more content...
I also had a wonderfully restful weekend, beginning with a train ride into Los Angeles, where Amy and Jane picked me up for many fantastic meals, an afternoon at the Huntington, where we looked on Duchess Georgiana of Devonshire among many other masterpieces, before wandering through the gardens and a later viewing of "The Duchess," based on the aforementioned duchess's life. She was another reminder of how grateful I am to live in an era where I can find so much joy outside the realm of what was once such a restricted scope of activity for women, married or not.
Anyway, not feeling too coherent, but rest assured that I AM feeling happier and more content...
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Tired...
...of parents who don't answer the phone.
...of high gas prices.
...of an inadequacy to offer emotional support.
...of my ever-shedding living room rug.
...of feeling bad for speaking up for my hurting heart.
...of budgetary chicken casserole.
...of ignored phone calls that are supposed to connect me to a financial resource that I need to survive this month.
...of feeling exploited by people who, knowing I want to help wherever I can, withdraw without awareness of its effects on me until I have to get nasty to redraw boundaries, completely negating the original kind intentions.
...of watching my country go to shit because of a bunch of idiots who thought they could vote in God rather than someone equipped to govern...and watching them get close to doing it all fucking over again.
...of wishing I could just move to Canada.
...of high gas prices.
...of an inadequacy to offer emotional support.
...of my ever-shedding living room rug.
...of feeling bad for speaking up for my hurting heart.
...of budgetary chicken casserole.
...of ignored phone calls that are supposed to connect me to a financial resource that I need to survive this month.
...of feeling exploited by people who, knowing I want to help wherever I can, withdraw without awareness of its effects on me until I have to get nasty to redraw boundaries, completely negating the original kind intentions.
...of watching my country go to shit because of a bunch of idiots who thought they could vote in God rather than someone equipped to govern...and watching them get close to doing it all fucking over again.
...of wishing I could just move to Canada.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Kiss of His Memory Made Pictures of Love and Light
Tea Cake: Well...reckon you never 'spected tuh come tuh dis when you took up wid me, didja?
Janie: Once upon uh time, Ah never 'spected nothin', Tea Cake, but bein' dead from the standin' still and tryin' tuh laugh. But you come 'long and made somethin' outa me. So Ah'm thankful fuh anything we come through together.
She closed in and sat down. Combing road-dust out of her hair. Thinking.... Then Tea Cake came prancing around her where she was and the song of the sigh flew out of the window and lit in the top of the pine trees. Tea Cake, with the sun for a shawl. Of course he wasn't dead. He could never be dead until she herself had finished feeling and thinking. The kiss of his memory made pictures of love and light against the wall. Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see.
Janie: Once upon uh time, Ah never 'spected nothin', Tea Cake, but bein' dead from the standin' still and tryin' tuh laugh. But you come 'long and made somethin' outa me. So Ah'm thankful fuh anything we come through together.
She closed in and sat down. Combing road-dust out of her hair. Thinking.... Then Tea Cake came prancing around her where she was and the song of the sigh flew out of the window and lit in the top of the pine trees. Tea Cake, with the sun for a shawl. Of course he wasn't dead. He could never be dead until she herself had finished feeling and thinking. The kiss of his memory made pictures of love and light against the wall. Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Asking Lonesomeness Some Questions
"...At night she was there in the big house and sometimes it creaked and cried all night under the weight of lonesomeness. Then she'd lie awake in bed asking lonesomeness some questions....She liked being lonesome for a change. This freedom feeling was fine. These men didn't represent a thing she wanted to know about. She had already experienced them through Logan and Joe" (Hurston 90).
Monday, August 18, 2008
Impatience at the Gate
“Oh to be a pear tree—any tree in bloom! With kissing bees singing of the beginning of the world! She had glossy leaves and bursting buds and she wanted to struggle with life but it seemed to elude her. Where were the singing bees for her? Nothing on the place nor in the house answered her. She searched as much of the world as she could from the top of the front steps and then went on down to the front gate and leaned over to gaze up and down the road. Looking, waiting, breathing short with impatience. Waiting for the world to be made” (11).
Dreams of Tea Cake
"Janie saw her life like a great tree in leaf with the things suffered, things enjoyed, things done and undone. Dawn and doom was in the branches."
I'm reading Their Eyes Were Watching God for the first time since I met my own Tea Cake, and I find myself shaking as I begin. I had to face that my Tea Cake was dead, too, only in a different way than Janie's died, recently. Again. Because I finally faced that he was done being my Tea Cake long ago. But I'm still haunted by Tea Cake's ghost.
I was reading Yellow Raft in Blue Water earlier today, and there's a beautiful scene where Aunt Ida tells Willard Pretty Dog about her sadness in an effort to let him know that she understands his pain. "So, without planning it or thinking, I told him. I laid my life on the table—Clara and Papa and Mama and Pauline; Christine, the lies, the loneliness—for Willard to examine and see if it was bad enough to suit him. As I listened to my own story, I lost the control of its interpretation. I heard it as a tale on the radio, so sad it deserved applause and a trip to Florida. Unhappiness was the only thing that Willard valued, and as I admitted mine, I put myself in his broken hands. When I was done, I raised my palms to my face and breathed into them. My skin was cool and smelled of onion. The wood of Willard's chair crackled as he leaned toward me. His fingers tugged at mine, left my face exposed. I waited, hardly breathing, my eyes closed. Then I felt his touch, light as fog, upon my cheek.”
And I remembered that night during my first visit when he got me talking about Chris and I started crying from a well deep within that I didn't know existed and that has since re-submerged. Sometimes I think I could use another gut-wrenching cry or throat-gurgling laugh like the ones I shared with him, but I know I need to save them to share with someone who loves me in the same way. It will be worth the wait. But I do miss it.
I'm reading Their Eyes Were Watching God for the first time since I met my own Tea Cake, and I find myself shaking as I begin. I had to face that my Tea Cake was dead, too, only in a different way than Janie's died, recently. Again. Because I finally faced that he was done being my Tea Cake long ago. But I'm still haunted by Tea Cake's ghost.
I was reading Yellow Raft in Blue Water earlier today, and there's a beautiful scene where Aunt Ida tells Willard Pretty Dog about her sadness in an effort to let him know that she understands his pain. "So, without planning it or thinking, I told him. I laid my life on the table—Clara and Papa and Mama and Pauline; Christine, the lies, the loneliness—for Willard to examine and see if it was bad enough to suit him. As I listened to my own story, I lost the control of its interpretation. I heard it as a tale on the radio, so sad it deserved applause and a trip to Florida. Unhappiness was the only thing that Willard valued, and as I admitted mine, I put myself in his broken hands. When I was done, I raised my palms to my face and breathed into them. My skin was cool and smelled of onion. The wood of Willard's chair crackled as he leaned toward me. His fingers tugged at mine, left my face exposed. I waited, hardly breathing, my eyes closed. Then I felt his touch, light as fog, upon my cheek.”
And I remembered that night during my first visit when he got me talking about Chris and I started crying from a well deep within that I didn't know existed and that has since re-submerged. Sometimes I think I could use another gut-wrenching cry or throat-gurgling laugh like the ones I shared with him, but I know I need to save them to share with someone who loves me in the same way. It will be worth the wait. But I do miss it.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Mi Casa
After meeting up with Amy for a chat and lunch, I came home to my house and called James while swinging on my hammock in my new backyard. I still can't believe I live here, but it's definitely looking more and more like me as I roll out my old rugs, unpack my books, hang up my paintings, find new nesting spots for each of my owls who have been stuck in boxes for way too long, and keep forcing more and more people to let me play host to them now that I finally have a hang-out of my own.
Mom finally came over the weekend and helped me hang up my orange CD shelves. She brought her old records and we decided to use my lime green rolling side table as a stand for my old record player and for storing my records under the CD shelves, making a nice music station in the corner by my couch. She also reminded me of something only Mom would remember-- to lay down cute blue and white contact paper under the blue and white dishes that I haven't been able to use since my mom gave them to me for Christmas before the wedding that never happened with Charles, so we worked on that together, too.
It's still hard to hear her talk so much about her boyfriend, but I tried to show more patience and we managed to have some good mother/daughter time. I keep forgetting she needs to be reminded that I love her as much as I keep hoping to see or hear signs of it from her. At one point, I talked about another errand I needed to run while we were getting some supplies at Home Depot. She asked if I wanted to take her to my house so she could start working on things while I went to get the second errand done, at which point I said, "No, I want you to come with me. I don't know why you don't seem to get this concept, but I've been wanting your COMPANY more than your labor..." Her reaction of surprised relief and giddiness made me feel a little sad that it took me spelling it out for her to feel what I thought was obvious in all of my concerns.
I do love my home, though. It's going to be such a nice place to come home to when things at school get busy again...
Mom finally came over the weekend and helped me hang up my orange CD shelves. She brought her old records and we decided to use my lime green rolling side table as a stand for my old record player and for storing my records under the CD shelves, making a nice music station in the corner by my couch. She also reminded me of something only Mom would remember-- to lay down cute blue and white contact paper under the blue and white dishes that I haven't been able to use since my mom gave them to me for Christmas before the wedding that never happened with Charles, so we worked on that together, too.
It's still hard to hear her talk so much about her boyfriend, but I tried to show more patience and we managed to have some good mother/daughter time. I keep forgetting she needs to be reminded that I love her as much as I keep hoping to see or hear signs of it from her. At one point, I talked about another errand I needed to run while we were getting some supplies at Home Depot. She asked if I wanted to take her to my house so she could start working on things while I went to get the second errand done, at which point I said, "No, I want you to come with me. I don't know why you don't seem to get this concept, but I've been wanting your COMPANY more than your labor..." Her reaction of surprised relief and giddiness made me feel a little sad that it took me spelling it out for her to feel what I thought was obvious in all of my concerns.
I do love my home, though. It's going to be such a nice place to come home to when things at school get busy again...
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Defeated Expectations
Trying to be grateful for my beautiful new home with the killer yard at a killer price, but I'm just sad. When I moved out to California from D.C., I had fears about leaving a city I loved for a state where I knew I really didn't fit in, even though I grew up here, but the things I thought I could count on to be great assets were:
1) I'd be close to family.
2) That meant, first of all, that we could work through some of our sadness and be there for each other.
3) I also figured we'd save a lot of money in flying me home for Christmas.
4) I imagined having my mom there to help me decorate my new apartment when I finally got one and helping me create works of art for my students in my classroom.
All of those things have been defeated:
1) We're spread out through the state in ways I never thought we would: Jon is in a halfway house in El Monte, Mom is living with a boyfriend who seems to be a royal scam artist and I can't bear to watch the shit hit the fan, Dad is in the house alone, and Matt is planning a move to New York, or Florida, or San Francisco, depending on the week-- anywhere far away from here.
2) We can't seem to sit in the same room together, let alone work through sadness.
3) We've stopped observing Christmas.
4) Mom is too busy with the new boyfriend mentioned above to help-- she had to work Tuesday, naturally, but she planned a trip to Phoenix to meet Mark's parents this weekend instead of helping me get the apartment in order as we had planned.
Dad got Jon out of his house for a few days to help us with the move, and I kept noticing how intricate the designs were and kept telling him how delightful they were. I just found it on my couch and found this written on the top: "Love should be forever; I die alone."
We're either royally good at putting on the emo act, or we're truly tragic.
1) I'd be close to family.
2) That meant, first of all, that we could work through some of our sadness and be there for each other.
3) I also figured we'd save a lot of money in flying me home for Christmas.
4) I imagined having my mom there to help me decorate my new apartment when I finally got one and helping me create works of art for my students in my classroom.
All of those things have been defeated:
1) We're spread out through the state in ways I never thought we would: Jon is in a halfway house in El Monte, Mom is living with a boyfriend who seems to be a royal scam artist and I can't bear to watch the shit hit the fan, Dad is in the house alone, and Matt is planning a move to New York, or Florida, or San Francisco, depending on the week-- anywhere far away from here.
2) We can't seem to sit in the same room together, let alone work through sadness.
3) We've stopped observing Christmas.
4) Mom is too busy with the new boyfriend mentioned above to help-- she had to work Tuesday, naturally, but she planned a trip to Phoenix to meet Mark's parents this weekend instead of helping me get the apartment in order as we had planned.
Dad got Jon out of his house for a few days to help us with the move, and I kept noticing how intricate the designs were and kept telling him how delightful they were. I just found it on my couch and found this written on the top: "Love should be forever; I die alone."
We're either royally good at putting on the emo act, or we're truly tragic.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
A P.S. from Bernard
About five minutes after I finished my last post, Bernard texted me to say, "I just finished reading the first part of Nickel and Dimed and its off the hook! oh to put it in eglish terms iam relishing the book." Points for an attempt at aiming for audience and using better vocab, but I have a feeling I won't be having many grammar arguments with Bernard the way I did with Gabe...
School's Out
I had an amazing last week of school, partly because I'm finally letting go of a lot of the anxiety I was feeling about my mom's latest mid-life crisis antics. Tuesday, the day before our last day on Wednesday, I forced myself to be a good sport and joined some friends from work for a drink at a sports bar, pretending to care about the Lakers' defeat by the Celtics. Although I was completely uninterested in the game, it put me in a good mood to have social interaction. But it only got better when Gabe called me from the road to tell me songs on his iPod (Rufus Wainwright, Decemberists, and Pedro the Lion) got him thinking about me and prompted him to call. I taught Gabe during my first year of teaching in D.C. He was a sophomore in my English class and we often argued about punctuation and organization, but I treasured his cynicism and was delighted to find him in my class again as a senior, in my Radiohead to Dylan music lyrics class. I can't believe that he's entering his senior year at U Michigan, spending the summer as an intern for a newspaper in Toledo, Ohio.
Needless to say, the conversation prompted me to remind my fabulous students of this year that they must do the same (call me five..and then ten...and then twenty, etc. years down the line) as I handed the last of them a copy of the book I made of their writings. I have become so addicted to the kids that I was eager to take some of my speech students up on throwing a party around a bonfire on the beach the following Monday, where they made fun of me for being white and having a crush on Obama (I got them back when I pulled out my obnoxious self-dubbed "being ethnically-sensitive" plates, which had big, silly Mexican sombreros on them).
I joked about hiring them to help me move into my house next Tuesday, but they rescinded the offer when I got mad at them for swimming in the ocean three times after I joined the lifeguard in demanding they get out due to unsafe swimming conditions.
"We'll get out, but it looks like you better hit Home Depot on Tuesday, Ms. G."
"What are you talking about? You ARE my Home Depot crew."
"Eeeeeee!"
After I finished packing away my classroom for the summer on Friday, I texted three of my speech students while waiting in line to watch the Jay Leno show inside the NBC studio in L.A., telling them to look out for me that evening. Bernard replied by first texting, "Is it on cable, cuz we ain't got none," to which I indignantly asked him who his English teacher was (gulp-- me, next year, and in AP, no less) and then he later texted me to tell me to look for him, actually IN the show, on "Late Night Oprah."
I will be young forever with their help. Young, and happy, and full of laughter. I think I've found my salvation...
Needless to say, the conversation prompted me to remind my fabulous students of this year that they must do the same (call me five..and then ten...and then twenty, etc. years down the line) as I handed the last of them a copy of the book I made of their writings. I have become so addicted to the kids that I was eager to take some of my speech students up on throwing a party around a bonfire on the beach the following Monday, where they made fun of me for being white and having a crush on Obama (I got them back when I pulled out my obnoxious self-dubbed "being ethnically-sensitive" plates, which had big, silly Mexican sombreros on them).
I joked about hiring them to help me move into my house next Tuesday, but they rescinded the offer when I got mad at them for swimming in the ocean three times after I joined the lifeguard in demanding they get out due to unsafe swimming conditions.
"We'll get out, but it looks like you better hit Home Depot on Tuesday, Ms. G."
"What are you talking about? You ARE my Home Depot crew."
"Eeeeeee!"
After I finished packing away my classroom for the summer on Friday, I texted three of my speech students while waiting in line to watch the Jay Leno show inside the NBC studio in L.A., telling them to look out for me that evening. Bernard replied by first texting, "Is it on cable, cuz we ain't got none," to which I indignantly asked him who his English teacher was (gulp-- me, next year, and in AP, no less) and then he later texted me to tell me to look for him, actually IN the show, on "Late Night Oprah."
I will be young forever with their help. Young, and happy, and full of laughter. I think I've found my salvation...
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Jose Raises Us One: Lie Your Part Deux
Best Sense of Humor about Self Ever: Jose decided to laugh with us, rather than feel laughed AT, and he made an artistic homage with a new assignment, this time for our identification, illustration, and analysis of literary elements in Sandra Cisneros' House on Mango Street. The analysis isn't too deep, but here it is in its full ungrammatical glory (only one of the errors being intentional).
Monday, June 02, 2008
Best Birthday Ever
It's not until tomorrow, but the run-up to the day marking the beginning of my last year before I exit the twenties has been everything I could wish for:
--Friday I paid my deposit for renting a house near beautiful historic Orange, just minutes from work and within walking distance of "the Circle" that is full of fun bars, restaurants, and antique stores, at a price that will leave plenty of room to save for a historic home there (goal: 2010, when my tenure is secured and the district is predicting our state will be in the clear from its current financial mess). I drove from school to pay the deposit and was back at our faculty Happy Hour within twenty minutes, more than half the time it usually takes to commute home...ONE-WAY.
--Today Mr. Rankin pulled me aside to tell me I had my job back and I came home to find confirmation in the mail
--But best present of all: it looks like Hillary Clinton is preparing to resign the race tomorrow, on the actual birthday itself, after the last two states finish their primaries, confirming Obama's clean and clear win...
--Friday I paid my deposit for renting a house near beautiful historic Orange, just minutes from work and within walking distance of "the Circle" that is full of fun bars, restaurants, and antique stores, at a price that will leave plenty of room to save for a historic home there (goal: 2010, when my tenure is secured and the district is predicting our state will be in the clear from its current financial mess). I drove from school to pay the deposit and was back at our faculty Happy Hour within twenty minutes, more than half the time it usually takes to commute home...ONE-WAY.
--Today Mr. Rankin pulled me aside to tell me I had my job back and I came home to find confirmation in the mail
--But best present of all: it looks like Hillary Clinton is preparing to resign the race tomorrow, on the actual birthday itself, after the last two states finish their primaries, confirming Obama's clean and clear win...
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Yo Soy Yo-Yo
Mom and Dad are acting like children.
My students make my heart soar.
Jon shows up at 11 on my front porch after walking all day from Los Angeles to get here.
Today I pick up my beautiful, new rug.
I still can't get a place of my own with a job that remains insecure.
Obama is probably our next president.
Matt has to shrug his shoulders at the neighbors when he finds himself outside while Mom is trying to jump out the window, screeching "help," as my dad confronts her about an affair.
My principal grins with relief when I tell him I want to be at his school next year and gives me strong reassurance there is great hope.
I realize I have only been a financial lifeline and not much more for an ex.
I'm fighting through.
My students make my heart soar.
Jon shows up at 11 on my front porch after walking all day from Los Angeles to get here.
Today I pick up my beautiful, new rug.
I still can't get a place of my own with a job that remains insecure.
Obama is probably our next president.
Matt has to shrug his shoulders at the neighbors when he finds himself outside while Mom is trying to jump out the window, screeching "help," as my dad confronts her about an affair.
My principal grins with relief when I tell him I want to be at his school next year and gives me strong reassurance there is great hope.
I realize I have only been a financial lifeline and not much more for an ex.
I'm fighting through.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Modernizing Shakespeare
Gilberto just reminded me of a priceless EL student moment that happened last week. We were outside practicing our modernized Shakespeare scripts for class performances when Gilberto asked Jose, "What does this mean? It doesn't make sense: 'You are a lie your?'"
Jose: "What? Yes, it does. Lady Capulet's calling you, Benvolio, a liar for saying Tybalt started the fight."
And did it make me sad as his English teacher? No, because he got the more important point-- what was happening in the play. But our new favorite catchphrase in third period is "You are a lie your."
Jose: "What? Yes, it does. Lady Capulet's calling you, Benvolio, a liar for saying Tybalt started the fight."
And did it make me sad as his English teacher? No, because he got the more important point-- what was happening in the play. But our new favorite catchphrase in third period is "You are a lie your."
Monday, April 07, 2008
Harmoniconverse
So, tonight I decided that I couldn't bear to see people glaring at me in my newly-bashed Sophie. Yes, alas, Sophie is officially cursed-- this marks her fourth collision, and the second major one, since I first bought her less than a year ago. More like I'm officially driving the equivalent of drunk due to lack of sleep, in accordance with the latest 60 Minutes sleep deprivation study that I caught a few weeks ago. Gilbert may have been falling apart, but at least his brakes always worked in time when I lost focus momentarily.
Anyway, as I was saying... Deciding I needed another Diet Coke refill for the rotting of the gut, I took a walk to the Carl's on the corner. As I shuffled back up the street to hit the grading again at home, I was admiring the look of the Converse on my feet, having pulled them out of the bottom of my closet where I relegate them when I'm teaching, not wanting my kids to think I'm trying too hard to be cool in hipster Chucks (though I think the Chuck resurgence has passed. In case it hasn't, though, I insist on calling them Converse as I did when I originally wore them in the 90s, because I am convinced we never called them Chucks until emo kids started bringing them back a decade later. In so doing, I open myself up to attack for being a dork...and welcome it.)
As I was making my way up the last block before the house, I looked up at the sound of a bluesy harmonica, only to see a man on a bicycle coming toward me. I pretended to be unphased so he'd continue. As he passed me and I turned my back to him to make my way up the driveway, he must have pulled his harmonica out because I heard him start belting a blues song at the top of his lungs, though I couldn't quite catch the words as he careened out of sight and also out of audio range.
See? Even Orange County suburbs got a little soul...
Anyway, as I was saying... Deciding I needed another Diet Coke refill for the rotting of the gut, I took a walk to the Carl's on the corner. As I shuffled back up the street to hit the grading again at home, I was admiring the look of the Converse on my feet, having pulled them out of the bottom of my closet where I relegate them when I'm teaching, not wanting my kids to think I'm trying too hard to be cool in hipster Chucks (though I think the Chuck resurgence has passed. In case it hasn't, though, I insist on calling them Converse as I did when I originally wore them in the 90s, because I am convinced we never called them Chucks until emo kids started bringing them back a decade later. In so doing, I open myself up to attack for being a dork...and welcome it.)
As I was making my way up the last block before the house, I looked up at the sound of a bluesy harmonica, only to see a man on a bicycle coming toward me. I pretended to be unphased so he'd continue. As he passed me and I turned my back to him to make my way up the driveway, he must have pulled his harmonica out because I heard him start belting a blues song at the top of his lungs, though I couldn't quite catch the words as he careened out of sight and also out of audio range.
See? Even Orange County suburbs got a little soul...
Friday, April 04, 2008
My First Quinceneara
After dropping not-so-subtle hints all year, I've finally gotten an invitation to a quinceneara that I can attend tomorrow morning and I CAN'T WAIT. I spent all night finding the perfect gift for Marisol...and bought a second one for Rocio, feeling guilty that I wasn't able to attend hers when she invited me because of a speech tournament I had to host all day long.
As I wrote them letters inside their cards, I couldn't help envying them this rite of passage. There was always something like that for the boys in my church-- when they were twelve, we gathered around them to bless them with the first level of the priesthood, and again when they were sixteen for the second level, and a third time when they were eighteen for the third. While that never involved a big party, Eagle scout courts of honor and missionary farewells do. I didn't really ever have a sense of becoming an adult until I went away to college and even then, I'd say I was never made to feel it was anything to celebrate in my culture. Not that these girls will find much more appreciation of academic endeavor from their families as a general rule. In fact, I'm a little worried it will all feel a little too much like a pre-wedding because as I looked at Joana's TOME of pictures from her quinceneara, I couldn't help feeling anxiety that it romanticizes the big church production experience at a time in their lives when they're too young to be thinking about that. I was happy to get the anticipated shrieks of horror when I told them Juliet was not yet fourteen when her dad was trying to marry her off to Paris and when she married Romeo, but I hope they'd react the same way if I suggested 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20...etc., etc. :)
Ironically enough, I introduced the students to Sandra Cisneros' novel, House on Mango Street, today after having them read an article about bad Latina stereotypes by Judith Ortiz Cofer for homework last night. The boys rolled their eyes a bit at our feminist rants until I told them about something I heard this morning on NPR about a new exhibit of Chicano art at the LA County Museum of Art. An artist was telling how his career as a conceptual artist began. He was on a date with another Mexican-American woman thirty-six years ago when he became outraged to find that there was not a single piece of Chicano art in the middle of a city with such a large population of Chicanos. When he demanded an explanation from the curator, he was told Chicanos don't make art because they're in gangs, so he came back that night with some friends and a can of red spray paint. In the spirit of Marcel Duchamp, the three new artists signed the front of the building (you can read the interview here). Then we read this vignette from the novel until the bell rang:
"Those who don’t know any better come into our neighborhood scared. They think we’re dangerous. They think we will attack them with shiny knives. They are stupid people who are lost and got here by mistake.
"But we aren't afraid. We know the guy with the crooked eye is Davy the Baby's brother, and the tall one next to him in the straw brim, that's Rosa's Eddie V., and the big one that looks like a dumb grown man, he's Fat Boy, though he's not fat anymore nor a boy.
"All brown all around, we are safe. But watch us drive into a neighborhood of another color and our knees go shakity-shake and our car windows get rolled up tight and our eyes look straight. Yeah. That is how it goes and goes."
The next project is a book of our own vignettes. The honors kids are going to design journal entries tied to the thematic focus of selected vignettes and the possible personal experiences of their classmates. Then all of the students will write in the journals I got them at the beginning of the year for a few weeks while we read the novel. At the end, each student will choose three vignettes to be included in a book that I'll get bound, my wallet willing. I asked the girls to promise me to write down their memories of their quincenearas while their memories are still fresh...
As I wrote them letters inside their cards, I couldn't help envying them this rite of passage. There was always something like that for the boys in my church-- when they were twelve, we gathered around them to bless them with the first level of the priesthood, and again when they were sixteen for the second level, and a third time when they were eighteen for the third. While that never involved a big party, Eagle scout courts of honor and missionary farewells do. I didn't really ever have a sense of becoming an adult until I went away to college and even then, I'd say I was never made to feel it was anything to celebrate in my culture. Not that these girls will find much more appreciation of academic endeavor from their families as a general rule. In fact, I'm a little worried it will all feel a little too much like a pre-wedding because as I looked at Joana's TOME of pictures from her quinceneara, I couldn't help feeling anxiety that it romanticizes the big church production experience at a time in their lives when they're too young to be thinking about that. I was happy to get the anticipated shrieks of horror when I told them Juliet was not yet fourteen when her dad was trying to marry her off to Paris and when she married Romeo, but I hope they'd react the same way if I suggested 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20...etc., etc. :)
Ironically enough, I introduced the students to Sandra Cisneros' novel, House on Mango Street, today after having them read an article about bad Latina stereotypes by Judith Ortiz Cofer for homework last night. The boys rolled their eyes a bit at our feminist rants until I told them about something I heard this morning on NPR about a new exhibit of Chicano art at the LA County Museum of Art. An artist was telling how his career as a conceptual artist began. He was on a date with another Mexican-American woman thirty-six years ago when he became outraged to find that there was not a single piece of Chicano art in the middle of a city with such a large population of Chicanos. When he demanded an explanation from the curator, he was told Chicanos don't make art because they're in gangs, so he came back that night with some friends and a can of red spray paint. In the spirit of Marcel Duchamp, the three new artists signed the front of the building (you can read the interview here). Then we read this vignette from the novel until the bell rang:
"Those who don’t know any better come into our neighborhood scared. They think we’re dangerous. They think we will attack them with shiny knives. They are stupid people who are lost and got here by mistake.
"But we aren't afraid. We know the guy with the crooked eye is Davy the Baby's brother, and the tall one next to him in the straw brim, that's Rosa's Eddie V., and the big one that looks like a dumb grown man, he's Fat Boy, though he's not fat anymore nor a boy.
"All brown all around, we are safe. But watch us drive into a neighborhood of another color and our knees go shakity-shake and our car windows get rolled up tight and our eyes look straight. Yeah. That is how it goes and goes."
The next project is a book of our own vignettes. The honors kids are going to design journal entries tied to the thematic focus of selected vignettes and the possible personal experiences of their classmates. Then all of the students will write in the journals I got them at the beginning of the year for a few weeks while we read the novel. At the end, each student will choose three vignettes to be included in a book that I'll get bound, my wallet willing. I asked the girls to promise me to write down their memories of their quincenearas while their memories are still fresh...
Monday, March 03, 2008
Meltdowns, but still managing to burn bright, too
That's a mixed metaphor, I realize. Maybe it's the result of reading too much Shakespeare as I study him and Romeo and Juliet with my students. I needed to get on and vent as I navigate through so many ups and downs in the rollercoaster that is currently my life.
First, the ups. It looks like Barbara has approved me for move-in in her BEAUTIFUL, HOMEY, and HISTORIC apartments this May. Perfect timing for some more debt repayment-- in fact, I just paid off the second of my five original credit cards yesterday, which is another bright spot.
Teaching is also still going gloriously. I had some movement in my only trouble spot of seventh period, with most of my major problems getting moved out, but my most major one getting reshifted back soon after I was getting too comfortable. With the relocation of some came some new replacement problems, too, but we're trudging along. In fact, on Friday, I had a major breakthrough in front of my BTSA coordinator who was there to observe.
I decided to risk looking a little unprofessional by asking them to start the day off discussing the famous balcony scene by writing down as many pick-up lines, bad or good, in their journals. Then we shared and giggled over them before I pointed out that if they're looking for help in the love department, Shakespeare is a great place to look. I showed them a film clip of the pick-up line Romeo had given Juliet the night before in their reading and then made them look more carefully at the language, at which point many of them actually genuinely yelled out, "Dang! He's GOOD!" I nodded enthusiastically and begged for more, saying, "So, what's the verdict, ladies? Is he smooth?" at which point many of them shyly cocked their heads and crooned, "Yes." At which point all of the boys sat up to listen to our analysis of the metaphors that made his wooing so successful.
Best moment of all came with my challenge student early on and again at the end of the period. I had had my biggest meltdown of the year the day before with him and had warned my BTSA mentor that things might very well go very bad with him that day. When they were writing, he got really quiet and as I was walking around, he asked me if I wanted to read what he had written. Instead of something cheesy like the "Are you Jamaican? Cuz you Jaimaican me crazy" model I had given them, he had written a very sweet poem. When the students started sharing, I encouraged him to share his and told the students he had something REALLY good, so he acted embarrassed, but didn't protest when Ruben asked him if he could read it. And the kids were amazed and oohed and ahhed, my BTSA coordinator raised her eyebrow, and I wanted to cry, but I called him a regular Romeo instead so that when the girls said the Romeo in the film was cute, he said, "Thanks!" accepting my nickname.
And when he left, he looked me in the eye and said, "Thanks, Ms. G. Have a nice weekend." Magic.
And this is why when Sal told me I needed to apply to teach with him in Fullerton, I sobbed. Santa Ana is riffing 650 teachers and I'm losing sleep and too many tears over the situation. Apparently, a long history of irresponsibility in the district office is trainwrecking with Swarzenegger's educational budget cuts and our current economic mess in the entire country. Worst of all, as a teacher in a school that is looked on by all as the second-best in the district even though it's only in its first year of running, the likelihood of my displacement as a first-year teacher is all the more likely. I think I'll have a job, but in a place that may be very different from the home I have grown to love so dearly here. I woke up on Sunday and my first words to Katherine as I stumbled in for some coffee were, "I am so mad at George W. Bush." When she pressed me about it later, I vented about how upset I am that there seems to be absolutely no accountability for how fucked I am due to forces entirely beyond my control.
I'm hoping things will work out for the best. Mr. Rankin was clearly talking directly to me when he said he understood that people were approaching some of us to warn us to find a position elsewhere as soon as possible and tried to reassure us that they knew as little as he did before telling us so genuinely that he would do everything he could to make sure the faculty he loves working with here is able to remain intact next year. I do hope so... I don't know if my heart can take the end of this dream...
First, the ups. It looks like Barbara has approved me for move-in in her BEAUTIFUL, HOMEY, and HISTORIC apartments this May. Perfect timing for some more debt repayment-- in fact, I just paid off the second of my five original credit cards yesterday, which is another bright spot.
Teaching is also still going gloriously. I had some movement in my only trouble spot of seventh period, with most of my major problems getting moved out, but my most major one getting reshifted back soon after I was getting too comfortable. With the relocation of some came some new replacement problems, too, but we're trudging along. In fact, on Friday, I had a major breakthrough in front of my BTSA coordinator who was there to observe.
I decided to risk looking a little unprofessional by asking them to start the day off discussing the famous balcony scene by writing down as many pick-up lines, bad or good, in their journals. Then we shared and giggled over them before I pointed out that if they're looking for help in the love department, Shakespeare is a great place to look. I showed them a film clip of the pick-up line Romeo had given Juliet the night before in their reading and then made them look more carefully at the language, at which point many of them actually genuinely yelled out, "Dang! He's GOOD!" I nodded enthusiastically and begged for more, saying, "So, what's the verdict, ladies? Is he smooth?" at which point many of them shyly cocked their heads and crooned, "Yes." At which point all of the boys sat up to listen to our analysis of the metaphors that made his wooing so successful.
Best moment of all came with my challenge student early on and again at the end of the period. I had had my biggest meltdown of the year the day before with him and had warned my BTSA mentor that things might very well go very bad with him that day. When they were writing, he got really quiet and as I was walking around, he asked me if I wanted to read what he had written. Instead of something cheesy like the "Are you Jamaican? Cuz you Jaimaican me crazy" model I had given them, he had written a very sweet poem. When the students started sharing, I encouraged him to share his and told the students he had something REALLY good, so he acted embarrassed, but didn't protest when Ruben asked him if he could read it. And the kids were amazed and oohed and ahhed, my BTSA coordinator raised her eyebrow, and I wanted to cry, but I called him a regular Romeo instead so that when the girls said the Romeo in the film was cute, he said, "Thanks!" accepting my nickname.
And when he left, he looked me in the eye and said, "Thanks, Ms. G. Have a nice weekend." Magic.
And this is why when Sal told me I needed to apply to teach with him in Fullerton, I sobbed. Santa Ana is riffing 650 teachers and I'm losing sleep and too many tears over the situation. Apparently, a long history of irresponsibility in the district office is trainwrecking with Swarzenegger's educational budget cuts and our current economic mess in the entire country. Worst of all, as a teacher in a school that is looked on by all as the second-best in the district even though it's only in its first year of running, the likelihood of my displacement as a first-year teacher is all the more likely. I think I'll have a job, but in a place that may be very different from the home I have grown to love so dearly here. I woke up on Sunday and my first words to Katherine as I stumbled in for some coffee were, "I am so mad at George W. Bush." When she pressed me about it later, I vented about how upset I am that there seems to be absolutely no accountability for how fucked I am due to forces entirely beyond my control.
I'm hoping things will work out for the best. Mr. Rankin was clearly talking directly to me when he said he understood that people were approaching some of us to warn us to find a position elsewhere as soon as possible and tried to reassure us that they knew as little as he did before telling us so genuinely that he would do everything he could to make sure the faculty he loves working with here is able to remain intact next year. I do hope so... I don't know if my heart can take the end of this dream...
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
A New Place on Stueckle Avenue
Well, after years of angst living with parents and Auntie K, it's finally almost time to be an adult, on my own again (glory be!). I've found the PERFECT place. Jennifer knows a woman who restores Craftsman-style buildings in a historic neighborhood in Anaheim for rental. Here's the long list of benefits, with only a few hang-ups:
--Biggest selling point: the charm of being in a building with HISTORY-- Barbara strips all the paint off the wood fixtures so the original beauty of the dark wood shows through, there are delightful built-ins throughout for storage, and charming Craftsman-style windows in a sunny front room. Beautiful wood floors, too!
--Affordable-- Have to make it an issue in my current financial state of debt: cheaper than anything I've found in my months of searching, even the studios, yet it's a one-bedroom. As my pay raises (which is a fact I can't count on this year, if district rumors are correct), I'll have some breathing room to start saving to possibly buy my own place after a few years. In fact, her rental costs as little as the rentals I was dreaming of in Portland and Seattle when I thought they seemed so much more affordable than D.C. and California...
--Space-- The front rooms in these units feel GIGANTIC: They're essentially split into two large rooms, so you can use the front room for a TV and couch and the back room for a study/music room; I think I'm even going to convince my mom to let me move my piano in so I can start using music therapy to get me through the harder teaching days and brush up on my old skills that have been neglected... Barbara also gives us a large two-car garage out back so I can store my car safely and use half the space to store things I'm not using everyday.
--Building-- The building is painted a wonderful olive green with ORANGE window accents and it is big enough to be a community, but not so big you feel like a number-- eight units.
--Location--It's around the corner from Obama headquarters in Orange County, so I'll be walking to do my volunteer time every Saturday... and throughout the week once he wins this Primary and I'm free for the summer (it WILL happen, Nevada and New Hampshire be damned...). I could also walk to see Jennifer, too. Still further from work than I'd like to be, but closer to the freeway than K's and one exit closer on that freeway.
So...drumroll please? Here are the shots Barbara sent me this morning. Projected move-in date: A month and some change while restoration efforts are finished up. I told her I'd be willing to wait until the summer or fall for a spot, because she's working on a few places, but I think there's a good chance she's going to give me a shot when her next place is completed.
--Biggest selling point: the charm of being in a building with HISTORY-- Barbara strips all the paint off the wood fixtures so the original beauty of the dark wood shows through, there are delightful built-ins throughout for storage, and charming Craftsman-style windows in a sunny front room. Beautiful wood floors, too!
--Affordable-- Have to make it an issue in my current financial state of debt: cheaper than anything I've found in my months of searching, even the studios, yet it's a one-bedroom. As my pay raises (which is a fact I can't count on this year, if district rumors are correct), I'll have some breathing room to start saving to possibly buy my own place after a few years. In fact, her rental costs as little as the rentals I was dreaming of in Portland and Seattle when I thought they seemed so much more affordable than D.C. and California...
--Space-- The front rooms in these units feel GIGANTIC: They're essentially split into two large rooms, so you can use the front room for a TV and couch and the back room for a study/music room; I think I'm even going to convince my mom to let me move my piano in so I can start using music therapy to get me through the harder teaching days and brush up on my old skills that have been neglected... Barbara also gives us a large two-car garage out back so I can store my car safely and use half the space to store things I'm not using everyday.
--Building-- The building is painted a wonderful olive green with ORANGE window accents and it is big enough to be a community, but not so big you feel like a number-- eight units.
--Location--It's around the corner from Obama headquarters in Orange County, so I'll be walking to do my volunteer time every Saturday... and throughout the week once he wins this Primary and I'm free for the summer (it WILL happen, Nevada and New Hampshire be damned...). I could also walk to see Jennifer, too. Still further from work than I'd like to be, but closer to the freeway than K's and one exit closer on that freeway.
So...drumroll please? Here are the shots Barbara sent me this morning. Projected move-in date: A month and some change while restoration efforts are finished up. I told her I'd be willing to wait until the summer or fall for a spot, because she's working on a few places, but I think there's a good chance she's going to give me a shot when her next place is completed.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Writers' Strike
Me [noticing a look of thoughtful struggle on Mike's face as students worked on campaign commercials for or against Odysseus as president]: Can I help you brainstorm some ideas, Mike?
Mike: Nah... I'm just respecting the writers' strike.
That's what I get for starting class by showing a short clip from Jon Stewart's Daily Show as a reminder of yesterday's discussion of persuasive techniques. I think I've created current event/media comedy monsters...
Mike: Nah... I'm just respecting the writers' strike.
That's what I get for starting class by showing a short clip from Jon Stewart's Daily Show as a reminder of yesterday's discussion of persuasive techniques. I think I've created current event/media comedy monsters...
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Mysterious Subscriptions
Dear Secret Magazine Purchaser,
Unfortunately I didn't realize that I had a subscription to Newsweek until it was expired and they were begging me to re-enlist, but a subscription to a MUSIC magazine I used to buy of my own freewill, Paste, has me wondering if this is a very thoughtful and perfect Christmas gift, like the workers at Carl's Jr. down the street who know me so well now that they wink and nod me away from the cash register to pursue my heart's desire when I come to pay $1.28 for my addictive Diet Coke refill. After scouring the magazine for any clue, all I can gather is that it doesn't expire until next January, so it looks like I'll be able to enjoy the mysterious gift before it expires this time...
But who are you, dear secret magazine purchaser? Step up and take credit so I can thank you for monthly articles about my favorite artists and a choice sampler CD... Katherine smiled and suggested an old ex, but somehow I don't see the shortlist of those men thinking of something like this...
Gratefully yours,
Ever the Music (only thing I love more than) Diet Coke fanatic
Unfortunately I didn't realize that I had a subscription to Newsweek until it was expired and they were begging me to re-enlist, but a subscription to a MUSIC magazine I used to buy of my own freewill, Paste, has me wondering if this is a very thoughtful and perfect Christmas gift, like the workers at Carl's Jr. down the street who know me so well now that they wink and nod me away from the cash register to pursue my heart's desire when I come to pay $1.28 for my addictive Diet Coke refill. After scouring the magazine for any clue, all I can gather is that it doesn't expire until next January, so it looks like I'll be able to enjoy the mysterious gift before it expires this time...
But who are you, dear secret magazine purchaser? Step up and take credit so I can thank you for monthly articles about my favorite artists and a choice sampler CD... Katherine smiled and suggested an old ex, but somehow I don't see the shortlist of those men thinking of something like this...
Gratefully yours,
Ever the Music (only thing I love more than) Diet Coke fanatic
Friday, January 04, 2008
Call Me Overardent...
I taste victory...Glad I dragged Tigist, a dear ex-student from JDS, to LA Obama headquarters to watch the victory of a 7% lead over Edwards and Clinton (in third!) in Iowa... Saturday will find me learning how to lead precinct calls in Anaheim...
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