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I joked about hiring them to help me move into my house next Tuesday, but they rescinded the offer when I got mad at them for swimming in the ocean three times after I joined the lifeguard in demanding they get out due to unsafe swimming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...
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Medicating with Media
A slight case of the winter blues and an ever-shifting sense of acceptance/dissatisfaction with family situations sent me spending all of my money leftover after buying Christmas presents on every film that struck my fancy. So, here's my holiday media countdown of favorites:
1) The Extras Christmas special--Of course, my favorite was also the only free item. Reminded me that Maggie deserved the honor I gave her when I named my new iPod after her. And thank the constellations of comedians for Ricky Gervais...and Stephen Merchant getting on his groove to the tune of his mobile phone with his workmates, which gave me just the gutlaugh I was needing when I sat down to it first thing after coming home from attempting to connect with family on Christmas day.
2) The Kiterunner-- Just found out about the big controversy surrounding the producers and the child actor who was hired to play Hassan, but luckily (or not?), I saw the film before knowledge of the scandal could tarnish my viewing of this film adaptation of a book that has made me cry like no other book before or since I first read it years ago.
3) Atonement-- Another film adaptation of a book I enjoyed quite a while ago. James McAvoy captures the fragile disillusionment of war and imprisonment as I can only imagine it must look.
4) I'm Not There--Already raved about this homage to Dylan in my Thanksgiving post... yes, I'm counting Thanksgiving as the beginning of my holiday viewings...
5) Across the Universe-- Another homage to musical greats, this time the Beatles. Clearly made by music fans who have managed to crawl inside the Beatles world and create a storied country from within.
6) Margot at the Wedding-- I found I related to both Margot AND her sister, but a bit horrified to find that I more often identified with Margot than I'd like.
7) The Savages-- These are popping up in pairs, I'm realizing-- this completes the pair of brutal humanity films along with Margot. As I told my mom when she asked me what the point of a film like this is after I had convinced her to movie-hop into viewing it, "It's to remind us that sometimes life just sucks, and that's all there is to it." I think trying to decide what to do with a loved one dealing with mental deterioration struck a little too close to home for us... which is exactly why we needed to see it.
8) Sweeny Todd-- I loved watching Johnny Depp on a silver screen as always, and the boy can sing, but this had more value due to surrounding circumstances than the film itself: toked with my little brother in a car in the mall outside the theater to enhance the viewing experience like you'd expect from any... freakin' teenager. And I don't regret it for a minute, though my parents, religion, and the law would probably ask me to rethink things...
And music? Well, my monthly e-music subscription came in today, so I bought the Hem Christmas tracks, the Kate Bush song featured on the Extras special, completed my Gillian Welch collection so that I now have everything she has out, did the same with Cass McCombs who I've been revisiting for the first time in a while since I started listening to him after seeing him in concert alongside some dreckful emo bands years ago, a new Jolie Holland aficionado named Eilen Jewell, a new JayMay album, a Richard Buckner album, and some random tracks by Mendoza Line and Okkervil River.
Can we say Merry Consumption? I prefer to call it Medicating with Media...
1) The Extras Christmas special--Of course, my favorite was also the only free item. Reminded me that Maggie deserved the honor I gave her when I named my new iPod after her. And thank the constellations of comedians for Ricky Gervais...and Stephen Merchant getting on his groove to the tune of his mobile phone with his workmates, which gave me just the gutlaugh I was needing when I sat down to it first thing after coming home from attempting to connect with family on Christmas day.
2) The Kiterunner-- Just found out about the big controversy surrounding the producers and the child actor who was hired to play Hassan, but luckily (or not?), I saw the film before knowledge of the scandal could tarnish my viewing of this film adaptation of a book that has made me cry like no other book before or since I first read it years ago.
3) Atonement-- Another film adaptation of a book I enjoyed quite a while ago. James McAvoy captures the fragile disillusionment of war and imprisonment as I can only imagine it must look.
4) I'm Not There--Already raved about this homage to Dylan in my Thanksgiving post... yes, I'm counting Thanksgiving as the beginning of my holiday viewings...
5) Across the Universe-- Another homage to musical greats, this time the Beatles. Clearly made by music fans who have managed to crawl inside the Beatles world and create a storied country from within.
6) Margot at the Wedding-- I found I related to both Margot AND her sister, but a bit horrified to find that I more often identified with Margot than I'd like.
7) The Savages-- These are popping up in pairs, I'm realizing-- this completes the pair of brutal humanity films along with Margot. As I told my mom when she asked me what the point of a film like this is after I had convinced her to movie-hop into viewing it, "It's to remind us that sometimes life just sucks, and that's all there is to it." I think trying to decide what to do with a loved one dealing with mental deterioration struck a little too close to home for us... which is exactly why we needed to see it.
8) Sweeny Todd-- I loved watching Johnny Depp on a silver screen as always, and the boy can sing, but this had more value due to surrounding circumstances than the film itself: toked with my little brother in a car in the mall outside the theater to enhance the viewing experience like you'd expect from any... freakin' teenager. And I don't regret it for a minute, though my parents, religion, and the law would probably ask me to rethink things...
And music? Well, my monthly e-music subscription came in today, so I bought the Hem Christmas tracks, the Kate Bush song featured on the Extras special, completed my Gillian Welch collection so that I now have everything she has out, did the same with Cass McCombs who I've been revisiting for the first time in a while since I started listening to him after seeing him in concert alongside some dreckful emo bands years ago, a new Jolie Holland aficionado named Eilen Jewell, a new JayMay album, a Richard Buckner album, and some random tracks by Mendoza Line and Okkervil River.
Can we say Merry Consumption? I prefer to call it Medicating with Media...
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Student Moments to Remember
I was thinking today that I need to start writing down some of the brilliant moments I'm having in the classroom.
First thing happened a few weeks ago. I make some cheesy joke like the ones I'm always making, probably something about me being a big English dork. Joey P. chuckles at my nerdiness, looks up at me, and says, "Ms. G., do you ever watch The Office?" I have never been so flattered in my life. I pretend to be offended and ask, "I love it, but WHY? Are you saying my humor reminds you of Michael Scott or something?" As he started to react defensively, I laughed and said, "I'm just kidding! I'm SO thrilled you asked me that. Even if I DO remind you of Michael himself, no one could ever compliment me any better than by saying I remind them in any way of that show..."
Second thing happened last night. I had to go to BTSA, or SHITSA as my English department chair tells me her daughter calls it, the new teacher induction program of redundancy that California makes new teachers attend for four hours every other week. We were focusing on cultural/gender/religious/racial bias with the 200 nameless other new district teachers in some elementary school's crummy auditorium. After reading some cheesy Chicken Soup for the Soul stories about teachers who looked beyond the labels others place on their students, they told us we needed to start opening up and sharing our own feelings. They had four corners labeled accordingly:
1) Gender/Sex/Sexual Orientation
2) Race/Ethnicity/Culture
3) Class/Socioeconmic Status/Level of Education
4) Religion/Morality
We were told we would be asked questions and have to make one of the four choices. When we arrived in the corner, we were asked to talk to others around us who made the same decision about why we made that choice. You know, forcing us to talk about the main things people usually avoid in dinner conversation... Sound like an episode of The Office yet? I immediately wanted to describe the scenario to Joey and his class the next day to muster some empathy for my pain.
First question: Which of the four areas do you like to talk about the most?
I went to Class/Socioeconomic status/Level of Education because frankly, I'm tired of talking about gender as a girl who used to be a diehard feminist; I definitely didn't want to mingle with the diehard Christian evangelists from the Orange Curtain; and I didn't really want to be the white girl to say condescendingly that she LOVES racial diversity, even if I do. Thinking about the upcoming elections, I decided class issues are the biggest concerns I feel to be facing our nation and the biggest control factor for student approaches/attitudes toward learning based on a book I read last year, the name of which escapes me right now. Of course it didn't occur to me that a room full of teachers, at our salary, would be there because they like to talk about status and how much they can earn. WTF? I mustered my strength to keep a fake smile on my face as I listened to the superficial kids who grew up in Huntington Beach talk about how hard it is for them to understand the lack of motivation for upward mobility among our student population.
Next question: Which of the four areas influenced your home life growing up most as a child and how did it help/harm you? I thought about going to gender when I thought about how my mom used to make me feel like there were just certain things she felt my brothers could be trusted to do that I couldn't, like early driving and roadtrips for high school graduation, but I decided I couldn't say my parents were very deeply sexist, especially given the role reversal of typical gender roles I see in my family and among my siblings, since Mom supports Dad and I'm the only one as an only girl with a college education and a job that keeps me afloat (albeit only barely) among myself and my two brothers.
Third question: Which of the four areas are you least willing to change about yourself and why? Didn't want to hear what the homophobes had to say in gender/sex/sexuality, so I stayed where I was. Then a woman comes up to me and tells me I'm her son's teacher. And I don't know what to say, because I don't know WHY she's in this corner-- because she loves her religion, like most probably were, or because, like me, she's tired of people trying to convert her to their religious convictions and because my humanist principles are something I hope I will never waver from upholding. I tried to avoid the conversation as long as I could, chatting about the beautiful milagro necklace she had on (milagros, as in miracles that devout Catholics wear on rosaries) from her latest trip to Mexico City, talking about how impressed I am with Max, etc.
Finally, she asked, "So, why did YOU choose this? I myself am here probably for reasons most aren't. You see, I'm a socialist, even I'd say a Communist, and although I believe in God, I just don't understand the passion that people have about joining a congregation and going regularly." HUGE sigh of relief and instant recall of my impulse to comment on Max's Che Guevarra patch on his backpack the day before, which I restrained, not wanting to appear to be the teacher who tries too hard to be cool. Also an instant supercharge of energy and understanding of why I've liked the kid from the first day I met him. Yea-- more kindred spirits...
First thing happened a few weeks ago. I make some cheesy joke like the ones I'm always making, probably something about me being a big English dork. Joey P. chuckles at my nerdiness, looks up at me, and says, "Ms. G., do you ever watch The Office?" I have never been so flattered in my life. I pretend to be offended and ask, "I love it, but WHY? Are you saying my humor reminds you of Michael Scott or something?" As he started to react defensively, I laughed and said, "I'm just kidding! I'm SO thrilled you asked me that. Even if I DO remind you of Michael himself, no one could ever compliment me any better than by saying I remind them in any way of that show..."
Second thing happened last night. I had to go to BTSA, or SHITSA as my English department chair tells me her daughter calls it, the new teacher induction program of redundancy that California makes new teachers attend for four hours every other week. We were focusing on cultural/gender/religious/racial bias with the 200 nameless other new district teachers in some elementary school's crummy auditorium. After reading some cheesy Chicken Soup for the Soul stories about teachers who looked beyond the labels others place on their students, they told us we needed to start opening up and sharing our own feelings. They had four corners labeled accordingly:
1) Gender/Sex/Sexual Orientation
2) Race/Ethnicity/Culture
3) Class/Socioeconmic Status/Level of Education
4) Religion/Morality
We were told we would be asked questions and have to make one of the four choices. When we arrived in the corner, we were asked to talk to others around us who made the same decision about why we made that choice. You know, forcing us to talk about the main things people usually avoid in dinner conversation... Sound like an episode of The Office yet? I immediately wanted to describe the scenario to Joey and his class the next day to muster some empathy for my pain.
First question: Which of the four areas do you like to talk about the most?
I went to Class/Socioeconomic status/Level of Education because frankly, I'm tired of talking about gender as a girl who used to be a diehard feminist; I definitely didn't want to mingle with the diehard Christian evangelists from the Orange Curtain; and I didn't really want to be the white girl to say condescendingly that she LOVES racial diversity, even if I do. Thinking about the upcoming elections, I decided class issues are the biggest concerns I feel to be facing our nation and the biggest control factor for student approaches/attitudes toward learning based on a book I read last year, the name of which escapes me right now. Of course it didn't occur to me that a room full of teachers, at our salary, would be there because they like to talk about status and how much they can earn. WTF? I mustered my strength to keep a fake smile on my face as I listened to the superficial kids who grew up in Huntington Beach talk about how hard it is for them to understand the lack of motivation for upward mobility among our student population.
Next question: Which of the four areas influenced your home life growing up most as a child and how did it help/harm you? I thought about going to gender when I thought about how my mom used to make me feel like there were just certain things she felt my brothers could be trusted to do that I couldn't, like early driving and roadtrips for high school graduation, but I decided I couldn't say my parents were very deeply sexist, especially given the role reversal of typical gender roles I see in my family and among my siblings, since Mom supports Dad and I'm the only one as an only girl with a college education and a job that keeps me afloat (albeit only barely) among myself and my two brothers.
Third question: Which of the four areas are you least willing to change about yourself and why? Didn't want to hear what the homophobes had to say in gender/sex/sexuality, so I stayed where I was. Then a woman comes up to me and tells me I'm her son's teacher. And I don't know what to say, because I don't know WHY she's in this corner-- because she loves her religion, like most probably were, or because, like me, she's tired of people trying to convert her to their religious convictions and because my humanist principles are something I hope I will never waver from upholding. I tried to avoid the conversation as long as I could, chatting about the beautiful milagro necklace she had on (milagros, as in miracles that devout Catholics wear on rosaries) from her latest trip to Mexico City, talking about how impressed I am with Max, etc.
Finally, she asked, "So, why did YOU choose this? I myself am here probably for reasons most aren't. You see, I'm a socialist, even I'd say a Communist, and although I believe in God, I just don't understand the passion that people have about joining a congregation and going regularly." HUGE sigh of relief and instant recall of my impulse to comment on Max's Che Guevarra patch on his backpack the day before, which I restrained, not wanting to appear to be the teacher who tries too hard to be cool. Also an instant supercharge of energy and understanding of why I've liked the kid from the first day I met him. Yea-- more kindred spirits...
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Belated Thanksgivings
After Forty Years of Marriage, She Tries A New Recipe For Hamburger Hot Dish by Leo Dangel
"How did you like it?" she asked.
"It's all right," he said.
"This is the third time I cooked it this way. Why can't you ever say if you like something?"
"Well if I didn't like it, I wouldn't eat it," he said.
"You never can say anything I cook tastes good."
"I don't know why all the time you think I have to say it's good. I eat it, don't I?"
"I don't think you have to say all the time it's good, but once in awhile you could say you like it."
"It's all right," he said.
Well, I realized I needed to count my many blessings after venting to Amy and James about my Thanksgiving frustrations with an ever-imperfect family. After all, in addition to the usual family holiday madness, we DO have some clinical insanity to deal with, and as I told James, it was nearly heartbreaking to watch Jon so heavily medicated that it was all he could do to munch slowly on his dinner, let alone hold any kind of conversation. Then there was Grandma, who not having attended church herself since she was put in rehab for overusing anti-depressants, first offended my practically atheist uncle by asking him to pray and then passed over her daughter, my mom, to the only other man, my father whom she despises, to make sure that the representative patriarch was praying for the sins of our heathen family, which could only chuckle nervously at the awkwardness. Still reeling from the variety of feelings that invoked, I reached over for a spoonful of Katherine's sweet potato pudding, deciding that, on Thanksgiving and after losing 26 pounds, it would probably be okay to cheat a little. My dad tut-tutted me, at which point I barked perhaps a bit overreactively, worried (irrationally) that my lifelong rebellion against my parents' constant pressure about my weight would revisit and somehow send me on a reversal landslide back to my original weight if he went any further. In the end, though, I've decided that with a few exceptions, Thanksgiving never is truly Thanksgiving in ANY family without a little family dysfunction, let alone an officially dysfunctional one like ours. And as I was just writing the other day, I AM proud of us all for managing to figure out how to cope with it better than we used to...
But Bob Dylan saved the day for me. After Katherine gathered her ex-husband and chicks to go to the beach house, and once my dad and Matt convinced Jon it was time for him to go back to his new home so they could hightail it home to Murrieta, my mom and I settled in on the couch in my uncle's empty house to watch No Direction Home, the most recent Dylan documentary. I had been trying to convince my mom since the day before to trek out to Irvine to see the new film inspired by Dylan's music and life, I'm Not There, so I figured it would help her see how interesting another movie about his life would be. When Joan Baez came on, her interest was officially piqued and we got out the paper to find the showtime. I couldn't help chuckling about my mom and her former pretentions to be a hippie when the film made Joan's ardent self-belief look a little silly, but I was mostly proud of us for being so cool as to give the holiday to Grand Master Dylan.
And I am grateful for more than Dylan this year. Even the holiday was an improvement on last year's ridiculous, maudlin display when I rushed through an airport with tears streaming down my face only to learn I'd missed a flight I had lied to everyone to try to catch to see someone who really didn't want to see me, which was followed by an awkwardly silent dinner with Mom as I choked back tears she didn't want to hear about and my brothers and Dad boycotted the meal altogether upstairs, locked in their rooms.
I am grateful for a job that I love, where I work with kids who GET me and need me and laugh with me. I am grateful that it also happens to be the first job that is paying enough for me to live reasonably comfortable, even despite all of the money that is funneled into paying off last year's foolhardy debts and a new car, Sophie, who I also love and appreciate dearly. I am grateful for a year of more great musical feasts thanks to monthly music subscriptions and even finally a renewed concert schedule that went on hiatus for far too long.
Most of all, though, of course, I am grateful for loved ones that make life worth living with their conversation, laughter, shared experiences, and patience.
The Orange by Wendy Cope
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.
"How did you like it?" she asked.
"It's all right," he said.
"This is the third time I cooked it this way. Why can't you ever say if you like something?"
"Well if I didn't like it, I wouldn't eat it," he said.
"You never can say anything I cook tastes good."
"I don't know why all the time you think I have to say it's good. I eat it, don't I?"
"I don't think you have to say all the time it's good, but once in awhile you could say you like it."
"It's all right," he said.
Well, I realized I needed to count my many blessings after venting to Amy and James about my Thanksgiving frustrations with an ever-imperfect family. After all, in addition to the usual family holiday madness, we DO have some clinical insanity to deal with, and as I told James, it was nearly heartbreaking to watch Jon so heavily medicated that it was all he could do to munch slowly on his dinner, let alone hold any kind of conversation. Then there was Grandma, who not having attended church herself since she was put in rehab for overusing anti-depressants, first offended my practically atheist uncle by asking him to pray and then passed over her daughter, my mom, to the only other man, my father whom she despises, to make sure that the representative patriarch was praying for the sins of our heathen family, which could only chuckle nervously at the awkwardness. Still reeling from the variety of feelings that invoked, I reached over for a spoonful of Katherine's sweet potato pudding, deciding that, on Thanksgiving and after losing 26 pounds, it would probably be okay to cheat a little. My dad tut-tutted me, at which point I barked perhaps a bit overreactively, worried (irrationally) that my lifelong rebellion against my parents' constant pressure about my weight would revisit and somehow send me on a reversal landslide back to my original weight if he went any further. In the end, though, I've decided that with a few exceptions, Thanksgiving never is truly Thanksgiving in ANY family without a little family dysfunction, let alone an officially dysfunctional one like ours. And as I was just writing the other day, I AM proud of us all for managing to figure out how to cope with it better than we used to...
But Bob Dylan saved the day for me. After Katherine gathered her ex-husband and chicks to go to the beach house, and once my dad and Matt convinced Jon it was time for him to go back to his new home so they could hightail it home to Murrieta, my mom and I settled in on the couch in my uncle's empty house to watch No Direction Home, the most recent Dylan documentary. I had been trying to convince my mom since the day before to trek out to Irvine to see the new film inspired by Dylan's music and life, I'm Not There, so I figured it would help her see how interesting another movie about his life would be. When Joan Baez came on, her interest was officially piqued and we got out the paper to find the showtime. I couldn't help chuckling about my mom and her former pretentions to be a hippie when the film made Joan's ardent self-belief look a little silly, but I was mostly proud of us for being so cool as to give the holiday to Grand Master Dylan.
And I am grateful for more than Dylan this year. Even the holiday was an improvement on last year's ridiculous, maudlin display when I rushed through an airport with tears streaming down my face only to learn I'd missed a flight I had lied to everyone to try to catch to see someone who really didn't want to see me, which was followed by an awkwardly silent dinner with Mom as I choked back tears she didn't want to hear about and my brothers and Dad boycotted the meal altogether upstairs, locked in their rooms.
I am grateful for a job that I love, where I work with kids who GET me and need me and laugh with me. I am grateful that it also happens to be the first job that is paying enough for me to live reasonably comfortable, even despite all of the money that is funneled into paying off last year's foolhardy debts and a new car, Sophie, who I also love and appreciate dearly. I am grateful for a year of more great musical feasts thanks to monthly music subscriptions and even finally a renewed concert schedule that went on hiatus for far too long.
Most of all, though, of course, I am grateful for loved ones that make life worth living with their conversation, laughter, shared experiences, and patience.
The Orange by Wendy Cope
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Taking Time for Myself
I was supposed to run another OCSL tournament this weekend since Sal, the president who got me my job at Godinez and position as OCSL vice president was out of town for the second tournament of the season, but I called Steve on Thursday, my co-vice president and begged for a half-day reprieve so I could go with Mom to visit Jon at his halfway home in Southeast Los Angeles.
I almost surrendered the time for myself and my family (after all, I woke up feeling more nervous than I expected about the prospect of visiting Jon) when Jeanna shoved me in the judges' room and seemed to indicate I was running it on my own. At first I started to call to cancel with Mom, but after I got the first round of ballots off, I realized that there was someone there capable of running it and decided to insist on taking the day that Steve had promised me.
I'm so glad I did. When Jon seemed unwilling to leave with us and uncommunicative, I started to worry as I watched him get understandably edgy when my mom started to tut at him, hoping to guilt him out for not spending time with us after we drove so far to be with him. I sensed he just needed some time to himself (I found out right before we left that my dad came out yesterday to take him to a car show all day long in Los Angeles), so I cut through Mom's stifling to calmly ask him without a sign of pressure in my voice if he thought he'd want to go out for dinner and/or a movie later on if my mom and I first went to kill some time together downtown Los Angeles.
I really needed to get home to grade, but in a split second, I decided my mom would enjoy time with me in town and I needed a break, too, plus I'd still get the brother time I had set out to get, without crowding him out. After getting a half-commitment from Jon, I talked my mom down from being practical and boring (she wanted to go home to get Grandma her groceries and didn't want to waste my gas, thinking Jon wouldn't ever end up wanting to spend time with us anyway). We headed to Westwood after a brief driving tour to satiate our long-held curiosity about the fashion district (somehow didn't seem worth the hassle of parking in the end). Refreshed by the morning victory weighing of -26 pounds, I stayed strong while drooling as I watched Mom eat a cookie ice cream sandwich from Diddy Reese's, compensating with a sugarless green iced tea. Then I lumped my previous reservations and swiped the debit card at Urban Outfitter's for the Charlie Brown Christmas tree I want to set up for the delight of myself and my students in my classroom before walking my mom to the Borders so she could use my teacher discount to buy a friend a Christmas gift...where I caved and finally bought Stephen Colbert's latest literary gem. I pulled out an old Fairmont Christmas present gift certificate and was surprised to find $15 still on it.
We finally made our way back to Jon around 3 and he was eager to come, apologizing and regretful when he found out what we had done without him. We consoled his self-recriminations by promising to drive him to the garment district in the coming weeks, and then headed to the El Monte outdoor shopping mall, which was a perfect example of these little neighborhoods in Southern California that sometimes feel like instant transports to different countries. We soaked up the discount shopping at La Casa Barata (which I at first translated for them as "Cheap House" before agreeing with Mom when she suggested "Discount Store" was a better translation) and other Latino swapmart-type clothing stores before heading to eat dinner, where I treated Mom and Jon since Mom and I both didn't have our cell phones and couldn't call to activate the credit card she had just received in the mail after losing her old one (yes, I blame HER for my absent-mindedness, though she is MUCH less willing to admit that she suffers from the malady).
Everything felt good, even though I have to admit I'm a little too tired today to appreciate how perfectly everything seemed to click. It's starting to dawn on me now, though still fuzzily, as I struggle to keep my eyes open after grading 10 essays while watching a bad movie with Katherine: I'm starting to learn how to draw appropriate boundaries with my work so it doesn't consume me altogether and so I can genuinely enjoy my family, which I am better appreciating in spite of, even because of, our many dysfunctions and differences. Seeing Jonny's new digs finally set my heart at rest, too, which before was relying too much on my sometimes defeatist mother's depictions: yes, the neighborhood doesn't feel as safe as the Stepford tract housing air of Murrieta and his apartment, shared with four other people, isn't as impeccably-designed as my Mom's house, but he's in an environment that has the structure he needs right now, where he can take classes and be with people who aren't going to make him feel so much like a burden or outsider. And Mom is so much more happy now that she isn't dealing with the unreasonable stress of trying to sleep through Jon's midnight rants and dismantling of the house; she doesn't snap when we confront our differences about religion and the role of love as we individually see it. Which brings me to my last source of gratitude tonight: I'm grateful for the love I can show through my teaching and coaching and through trying to help friends when they need it, but I was reminded tonight that my own life and blood needs me probably more than those other people and things...and I actually know how to help them probably better than I know how to teach or befriend, because I have known them since I breathed my first breath... I miss romantic love sometimes, but somehow tonight I'm feeling how much more important is my family's love.
I almost surrendered the time for myself and my family (after all, I woke up feeling more nervous than I expected about the prospect of visiting Jon) when Jeanna shoved me in the judges' room and seemed to indicate I was running it on my own. At first I started to call to cancel with Mom, but after I got the first round of ballots off, I realized that there was someone there capable of running it and decided to insist on taking the day that Steve had promised me.
I'm so glad I did. When Jon seemed unwilling to leave with us and uncommunicative, I started to worry as I watched him get understandably edgy when my mom started to tut at him, hoping to guilt him out for not spending time with us after we drove so far to be with him. I sensed he just needed some time to himself (I found out right before we left that my dad came out yesterday to take him to a car show all day long in Los Angeles), so I cut through Mom's stifling to calmly ask him without a sign of pressure in my voice if he thought he'd want to go out for dinner and/or a movie later on if my mom and I first went to kill some time together downtown Los Angeles.
I really needed to get home to grade, but in a split second, I decided my mom would enjoy time with me in town and I needed a break, too, plus I'd still get the brother time I had set out to get, without crowding him out. After getting a half-commitment from Jon, I talked my mom down from being practical and boring (she wanted to go home to get Grandma her groceries and didn't want to waste my gas, thinking Jon wouldn't ever end up wanting to spend time with us anyway). We headed to Westwood after a brief driving tour to satiate our long-held curiosity about the fashion district (somehow didn't seem worth the hassle of parking in the end). Refreshed by the morning victory weighing of -26 pounds, I stayed strong while drooling as I watched Mom eat a cookie ice cream sandwich from Diddy Reese's, compensating with a sugarless green iced tea. Then I lumped my previous reservations and swiped the debit card at Urban Outfitter's for the Charlie Brown Christmas tree I want to set up for the delight of myself and my students in my classroom before walking my mom to the Borders so she could use my teacher discount to buy a friend a Christmas gift...where I caved and finally bought Stephen Colbert's latest literary gem. I pulled out an old Fairmont Christmas present gift certificate and was surprised to find $15 still on it.
We finally made our way back to Jon around 3 and he was eager to come, apologizing and regretful when he found out what we had done without him. We consoled his self-recriminations by promising to drive him to the garment district in the coming weeks, and then headed to the El Monte outdoor shopping mall, which was a perfect example of these little neighborhoods in Southern California that sometimes feel like instant transports to different countries. We soaked up the discount shopping at La Casa Barata (which I at first translated for them as "Cheap House" before agreeing with Mom when she suggested "Discount Store" was a better translation) and other Latino swapmart-type clothing stores before heading to eat dinner, where I treated Mom and Jon since Mom and I both didn't have our cell phones and couldn't call to activate the credit card she had just received in the mail after losing her old one (yes, I blame HER for my absent-mindedness, though she is MUCH less willing to admit that she suffers from the malady).
Everything felt good, even though I have to admit I'm a little too tired today to appreciate how perfectly everything seemed to click. It's starting to dawn on me now, though still fuzzily, as I struggle to keep my eyes open after grading 10 essays while watching a bad movie with Katherine: I'm starting to learn how to draw appropriate boundaries with my work so it doesn't consume me altogether and so I can genuinely enjoy my family, which I am better appreciating in spite of, even because of, our many dysfunctions and differences. Seeing Jonny's new digs finally set my heart at rest, too, which before was relying too much on my sometimes defeatist mother's depictions: yes, the neighborhood doesn't feel as safe as the Stepford tract housing air of Murrieta and his apartment, shared with four other people, isn't as impeccably-designed as my Mom's house, but he's in an environment that has the structure he needs right now, where he can take classes and be with people who aren't going to make him feel so much like a burden or outsider. And Mom is so much more happy now that she isn't dealing with the unreasonable stress of trying to sleep through Jon's midnight rants and dismantling of the house; she doesn't snap when we confront our differences about religion and the role of love as we individually see it. Which brings me to my last source of gratitude tonight: I'm grateful for the love I can show through my teaching and coaching and through trying to help friends when they need it, but I was reminded tonight that my own life and blood needs me probably more than those other people and things...and I actually know how to help them probably better than I know how to teach or befriend, because I have known them since I breathed my first breath... I miss romantic love sometimes, but somehow tonight I'm feeling how much more important is my family's love.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Valley of Ashes
I've felt odd, driving through the falling ashes and wishing the smell of fires in the air had more to do with the campfires I can't help thinking fondly of than the burning homes of displaced families that they actually represent, but part of me can't help appreciating the almost supernatural effect... Somehow it seems like something that only happens in L.A., belonging in a jaded movie script looking wryly at Hollywood's moral Satanists.
Yes, as you may or may not be able to see, I haven't quite escaped the clutches of the October blues that have haunted me since Chris, who would have turned 31 last Friday, died seven years ago. Unfortunately, I've finally realized that a motivating force for my clockwork depression at this time of year includes its inconvenient timing as the first six-week grading period of every school year, but I really thought I had kicked it this year as I celebrated the twenty-pound mark of my weight loss and laughed through the stress with students who can finally appreciate my sense of humor again. I even almost successfully convinced myself to be grateful that my brand new Sophie Rabbit got hit just after I finally had enough money to actually drive around with insurance again (don't ask...) rather than the disaster that would have ensued if old Gilbert the Golf had been nailed just months before, but I couldn't keep smiling when the bastardly insurance companies refused to grant me the deductible refund I deserve for the other fellow's fault in a collision where he tore out taking an unprotected left in front of me as I was all clear to accelerate through the intersection half a block forward so that I could enter the freeway there at a proper speed.
Anyway, my bitching session has now officially ended and, with that off my chest, it's time to go back to grading... My new full-time lover... I can hear my students groaning in disgust at THAT one...but I'll keep that bad joke to myself so as to remain in comedic graces on their stage.
Yes, as you may or may not be able to see, I haven't quite escaped the clutches of the October blues that have haunted me since Chris, who would have turned 31 last Friday, died seven years ago. Unfortunately, I've finally realized that a motivating force for my clockwork depression at this time of year includes its inconvenient timing as the first six-week grading period of every school year, but I really thought I had kicked it this year as I celebrated the twenty-pound mark of my weight loss and laughed through the stress with students who can finally appreciate my sense of humor again. I even almost successfully convinced myself to be grateful that my brand new Sophie Rabbit got hit just after I finally had enough money to actually drive around with insurance again (don't ask...) rather than the disaster that would have ensued if old Gilbert the Golf had been nailed just months before, but I couldn't keep smiling when the bastardly insurance companies refused to grant me the deductible refund I deserve for the other fellow's fault in a collision where he tore out taking an unprotected left in front of me as I was all clear to accelerate through the intersection half a block forward so that I could enter the freeway there at a proper speed.
Anyway, my bitching session has now officially ended and, with that off my chest, it's time to go back to grading... My new full-time lover... I can hear my students groaning in disgust at THAT one...but I'll keep that bad joke to myself so as to remain in comedic graces on their stage.
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