What form does he/she/it take? What does he/she/it say?
"You gotta' stop with that."
"WHAT?", these are the first words I share with God. He repeats himself,talking slower.
"You. gotta'. stop. with-that."
"Stop? Stop wit what?" and he just stares at me with those scaly unemotional eyes. They make me nervous because I can't tell if he/she/it is angry, disappointed, or just apathetic. That's why vegetarians eat fish. Without eyebrows, they can't express feelings like puppies.
10.06.2008
9.17.2008
What I Learned Today - Day Five
5. Noodling is the deadliest form of fishing in the U.S. - averaging 69 deaths annually. Another proud MIO product.
9.16.2008
What I Learned Today - Day Four
"A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong."
-Poe, The Cask of Amontillado
9.15.2008
9.13.2008
Things I learned - Day One
1. There are many reasons Batman is more awesome than Superman, but the primary defining reason is that Batman has solved crime with Scooby Doo.
6.24.2008
Now, I'm a Dog-Person
I’m not allowed to have hamsters as pets anymore. When I was eight years old my hamster, Mr. Butters, bit me. The Texas summer seemed like a perfect time to take him outside for a roll in the hamster ball. Nocturnal by nature, Mr. Butters was not in the mood for exercise.
So, he bit me.
My training from analyzing Doogie Howser, M.D. kicked into fourth gear: Apply pressure to the wound. Find a bandage. Our household was all out bandages, but I had the next best thing. With expert finesse, I return to the back yard, injury adorned with my mother’s white bath towel. Before you jump to conclusions, rest assured that I wasn’t so absent minded as to use her decorative bath towels. Mom was very clear that the towels hanging on wall hooks were for décor only! This was evident by the still attached price tag meticulously tucked out of sight (imagine being an eight year old trying to explain the difference between decorative and useable bathroom towels to friends).
Returning to my play outside, I was certain the wound would have no trouble clotting… at least it would have clotted had my mom allowed. Through the kitchen window, she takes interest in the blood stained bath towel surgically fitted to my hand. I hear her before she even steps foot outside, “¡JOSUE!” (My Hispanic birth name, usually preludes panic or imminent harm). She charges at me.
“IT’S NOT A DECORATIVE TOWEL! I SWEAR IT’S NOT!” I pleaded.
In a fluid swipe comparable only to veteran prize fighters, she removed the towel and lifted the injured hand to her eye level along with my dangling body. Blood erupted from the wound as if it had been suddenly frightened out of my hand. Carrying my hand, with me attached, inside the house we immediately called the town pediatrician, Dr. Julie. Promptly, my mother had us transferred to the emergency room. A week later, Mr. Butters was returned to the previous owner.
Now, I’m a dog owner.
So, he bit me.
My training from analyzing Doogie Howser, M.D. kicked into fourth gear: Apply pressure to the wound. Find a bandage. Our household was all out bandages, but I had the next best thing. With expert finesse, I return to the back yard, injury adorned with my mother’s white bath towel. Before you jump to conclusions, rest assured that I wasn’t so absent minded as to use her decorative bath towels. Mom was very clear that the towels hanging on wall hooks were for décor only! This was evident by the still attached price tag meticulously tucked out of sight (imagine being an eight year old trying to explain the difference between decorative and useable bathroom towels to friends).
Returning to my play outside, I was certain the wound would have no trouble clotting… at least it would have clotted had my mom allowed. Through the kitchen window, she takes interest in the blood stained bath towel surgically fitted to my hand. I hear her before she even steps foot outside, “¡JOSUE!” (My Hispanic birth name, usually preludes panic or imminent harm). She charges at me.
“IT’S NOT A DECORATIVE TOWEL! I SWEAR IT’S NOT!” I pleaded.
In a fluid swipe comparable only to veteran prize fighters, she removed the towel and lifted the injured hand to her eye level along with my dangling body. Blood erupted from the wound as if it had been suddenly frightened out of my hand. Carrying my hand, with me attached, inside the house we immediately called the town pediatrician, Dr. Julie. Promptly, my mother had us transferred to the emergency room. A week later, Mr. Butters was returned to the previous owner.
Now, I’m a dog owner.
Where the Hell was Modern Parenting when I was a Kid?
“¡Josue!” said in a piercing low growl, usually followed by “¡Hoy te Pego!” is a phrase my mother was all too familiar with using. It’s a tornado siren of impending doom and the harm to come, except tornadoes are friendlier. First, the sharp hiss of my Hispanic birth name, “¡Josue!” with inverted exclamation mark and all! Then, the promise of harm to come: “¡Hoy…”, meaning
“today”, and “…te pego!” translating to “…will hit you!”
“¡JOSUE, HOY TE PEGO!”
or
“Joshua, today I will hit you!”
I’m very apt to blocking after eighteen years. I can endure a furious maelstrom of slaps and screams. Chupacabra has nothing on Mama Flores.
“today”, and “…te pego!” translating to “…will hit you!”
“¡JOSUE, HOY TE PEGO!”
or
“Joshua, today I will hit you!”
I’m very apt to blocking after eighteen years. I can endure a furious maelstrom of slaps and screams. Chupacabra has nothing on Mama Flores.
6.20.2008
Chapter 4: Critics, Blind Dates, and Plan B
“This is gay.”
This is the first critique I received from one of my sweet, little angels about my first class assignment. He was on the wrestling team. I received the same thoughtful review from a football player and a sophomore student. I didn’t teach sophomore English, but this particular student loved freshman level English enough to repeat the course, thus earning the title of super freshman. I never met so many people proud of un-accomplishment.
“Really?” I drew back with shock and awe at the harsh critique. “It’s so simple, though. Besides, you get to use water colors paints and it can be anything! It’s all about YOU!”
“Water colors are gay.” They reply.
Coming out of shock, I demonstrated the penalty for using derogatory language in class. It is a weird transition monitoring such lax behavior. Indeed, a sad state of affairs when such abuse of language feels commonplace.
During lunch, my critic dusted the areas of my classroom gone untouched by janitorial staff. He expressed the gay-ness of such a penalty beforehand. Meanwhile, I check my email.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To: MrJ@webmail.org
From: Mandynificent@gonzaga.net
Subject: Blind Date?
Hey Josh! How was the first week of school? I heard you’re single again? What’s up with that? Although I know it’s soon, I have someone in mind for you to meet. Would you be interested? Let me know and I’ll give you her number! Later Babe,Mandy ;)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was interested.
The first time we met, I immediately deemed myself unworthy of her company. Amy wore the demeanor of an unapproachable goddess. Something of myth, imagined from texts of the Greeks. She was a centerfold breathed into life. Her shadowy hair was tamed only by intricate and faint strands of light. The attention of the room was demanded by the curves she purposefully, strategically accented.
“Well…”, I said to no one, “This isn’t going to go anywhere…”
I already announced my demise beforehand, already switching body-language that communicated “No, thanks. I’m already like-a-brother to enough girls”. I’d still remain and have a drink, talk, and politely make my exit. It was the weekend and I couldn’t leave a foul impression on an acquaintance.
“Amy?”
“HI! It’s so nice to meet you!”
“Yeah, likewise…”, the painful first impression phase commences.
“Do you want to grab a table?” she offers.
“Feh! Why waste a perfectly good bar stool? Know what I mean?”
“Oh, okay.”
From this point, we hit the basics of introductions:
She lived in the same town, in the same state most of her life. She was still going to school, but lived on her own. Two bedroom apartment, one roommate. March 14th, 1983 – only a year younger than me! Favorite color is purple. Favorite beer is Shiner. Favorite wine is Red. Not big into sports, but loves writing poetry. Coldplay, Amy Winehouse, and Radiohead. One tattoo, planning for more. One brother and some step sisters.
Pretty level headed so far.
We close the bar and stroll into the parking lot. So much for plan A. Commence the awkward goodbye phase.
“Well…” I commence, “ I guess time flies… and all that good stuff.”
“Yeah, but…” she parries, “I’m not really tired…. are you?”
This isn’t how the Awkward Goodbye phase works! Yes, yes I am tired! I’ve been teaching all week and have a faculty workshop to attend in the morning.
“Yeah, I’m not tired either….”, says me.
“Well… I don’t want to go home… my roommates been bugging me…”
“Huh….”, I’m confused.
We stare at each other. The lights from the bar flicker off, abandoning me. She speaks again before biting her bottom lip.
“Well… what are we gonna do then?”
“Well…”, eloquently I brainstorm. It’s more akin to a brief sprinkle or fog. “I don’t have roommates anymore… but I do have more Red wine at my place if you want come-"
“Sounds good! Let’s go!”
“…sounds good. Let’s go.”, and we do.
This is the first critique I received from one of my sweet, little angels about my first class assignment. He was on the wrestling team. I received the same thoughtful review from a football player and a sophomore student. I didn’t teach sophomore English, but this particular student loved freshman level English enough to repeat the course, thus earning the title of super freshman. I never met so many people proud of un-accomplishment.
“Really?” I drew back with shock and awe at the harsh critique. “It’s so simple, though. Besides, you get to use water colors paints and it can be anything! It’s all about YOU!”
“Water colors are gay.” They reply.
Coming out of shock, I demonstrated the penalty for using derogatory language in class. It is a weird transition monitoring such lax behavior. Indeed, a sad state of affairs when such abuse of language feels commonplace.
During lunch, my critic dusted the areas of my classroom gone untouched by janitorial staff. He expressed the gay-ness of such a penalty beforehand. Meanwhile, I check my email.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To: MrJ@webmail.org
From: Mandynificent@gonzaga.net
Subject: Blind Date?
Hey Josh! How was the first week of school? I heard you’re single again? What’s up with that? Although I know it’s soon, I have someone in mind for you to meet. Would you be interested? Let me know and I’ll give you her number! Later Babe,Mandy ;)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was interested.
The first time we met, I immediately deemed myself unworthy of her company. Amy wore the demeanor of an unapproachable goddess. Something of myth, imagined from texts of the Greeks. She was a centerfold breathed into life. Her shadowy hair was tamed only by intricate and faint strands of light. The attention of the room was demanded by the curves she purposefully, strategically accented.
“Well…”, I said to no one, “This isn’t going to go anywhere…”
I already announced my demise beforehand, already switching body-language that communicated “No, thanks. I’m already like-a-brother to enough girls”. I’d still remain and have a drink, talk, and politely make my exit. It was the weekend and I couldn’t leave a foul impression on an acquaintance.
“Amy?”
“HI! It’s so nice to meet you!”
“Yeah, likewise…”, the painful first impression phase commences.
“Do you want to grab a table?” she offers.
“Feh! Why waste a perfectly good bar stool? Know what I mean?”
“Oh, okay.”
From this point, we hit the basics of introductions:
She lived in the same town, in the same state most of her life. She was still going to school, but lived on her own. Two bedroom apartment, one roommate. March 14th, 1983 – only a year younger than me! Favorite color is purple. Favorite beer is Shiner. Favorite wine is Red. Not big into sports, but loves writing poetry. Coldplay, Amy Winehouse, and Radiohead. One tattoo, planning for more. One brother and some step sisters.
Pretty level headed so far.
We close the bar and stroll into the parking lot. So much for plan A. Commence the awkward goodbye phase.
“Well…” I commence, “ I guess time flies… and all that good stuff.”
“Yeah, but…” she parries, “I’m not really tired…. are you?”
This isn’t how the Awkward Goodbye phase works! Yes, yes I am tired! I’ve been teaching all week and have a faculty workshop to attend in the morning.
“Yeah, I’m not tired either….”, says me.
“Well… I don’t want to go home… my roommates been bugging me…”
“Huh….”, I’m confused.
We stare at each other. The lights from the bar flicker off, abandoning me. She speaks again before biting her bottom lip.
“Well… what are we gonna do then?”
“Well…”, eloquently I brainstorm. It’s more akin to a brief sprinkle or fog. “I don’t have roommates anymore… but I do have more Red wine at my place if you want come-"
“Sounds good! Let’s go!”
“…sounds good. Let’s go.”, and we do.
Chapter 3: Single Male. Enjoys walks on the beach. Sagitarius.
Panic. Anger. Defeatism. Such emotional states are associated with Emo music (see My Chemical Romance, Fallout Boy, 30 Seconds to Mars, or confiscate an iPOD from any student and start browsing). Being dumped fosters identical moods that are as recursive as the banal lyrics, riffs, and gimmicks of the mascara painted “musicians” (Sorry Elvis, technically they’re considered musicians, too). Binge drinking soon mixes into the cycle. Usually friends are involved; especially guy friends.
Shaving is annoying with a hangover. So, I stop. Attending daily faculty retreats with a hangover is worse. Tragically, this cannot be stopped. Less than a week remained before the first day of school. It was too early to decide whether this was excellent or catastrophic timing for a break-up. If I could keep my mind preoccupied with work, there’d be no time for doubt, regret, or self-loathing. After all, I had to keep my head clear, maintain a professional facade with new coworkers. How pathetic would it be for me to be sad over a silly thing like a break-up! Besides, I’ve been single before! It was over five years ago, but I must have had more exciting things other than being in a relationship to occupy my time. I just had to remember what those exciting things were…
[Three boys crowd around a very blurry television screen. One stands behind the TV arranging various amounts of foil paper. It’s me arranging the foil paper.]
Me: “This is stupid! Where did you get such a stupid idea?”
Heavy-set Boy: “Quit being such a whiny little bitch! I’m telling you I got this to work at my grandma’s house last weekend! You could see vagina and everything!”
Scrawny Boy: “Whoa!”
Heavy-set Boy: “It helps to turn the brightness all the way up too.”
[Turns the brightness up]
Me: “Can you see anything yet?”
Heavy-Set Boy: “No, you’re sucking at it. Here, try the big foil penis. I dunno why but it usually helps with transmitting the digital signal or something.”
Me: “But my parents have cable, not satellite.”
Heavy-Set Boy: “It’s amazing how much of a whiny bitch you are. You really set the bar!”
Me: “FINE! Gimme’ the foil penis.”
[The bottom half of the screen clears up and audio clears.]
Heavy-Set Boy: “Bitch! Don’t! Move!”
Me: “I can’t see! Get a mirror or something you guys!”
Heavy-Set Boy: “IF YOU MOVE, YOU DIE!”
ME:
Scrawny Boy: “WHOA!”
Me: “Is it awesome?”
Heavy-Set Boy: “Well, it’s got a light green hue, but the bottom half is still very clear. You must be doing something wrong.”
Scrawny Boy: “Whoa.”
Heavy-Set Boy: “She’s really taking it! You should see this man!”
Me: “Damn it.”
[Mom walks in.]
Mom: “Hey boys, we’re ho… WHAT IS THIS!?”
Heavy-Set Boy: “ Hi, ma’am.”
Me: “Damn it!”
Scrawny Boy: “Whoa.”
On second thought, being single isn’t always so great. It’s especially inconvenient when you’re in a profession with predominantly married women and bar hopping is almost unheard of the first year teaching. Focusing on my career was my moment of peace, but I couldn’t escape the round table conversations of the newlyweds:
Parakeets are not meant to be pets. In some countries, if you buy your child a bird for a pet, it’s the same as child abuse. In fact, child abuse is less cruel than having a bird as a pet. When I get home, Molly, my dog greets me with concerned whines as to where I’ve been all day. We get the mail together and she watches me cook dinner. We eat at the dinner table. She can’t actually sit at the table but she sits on the floor and eats with me.
Molly licks herself; certainly that must translate to “yeah that’s an awesome lesson plan”.
Shaving is annoying with a hangover. So, I stop. Attending daily faculty retreats with a hangover is worse. Tragically, this cannot be stopped. Less than a week remained before the first day of school. It was too early to decide whether this was excellent or catastrophic timing for a break-up. If I could keep my mind preoccupied with work, there’d be no time for doubt, regret, or self-loathing. After all, I had to keep my head clear, maintain a professional facade with new coworkers. How pathetic would it be for me to be sad over a silly thing like a break-up! Besides, I’ve been single before! It was over five years ago, but I must have had more exciting things other than being in a relationship to occupy my time. I just had to remember what those exciting things were…
[Three boys crowd around a very blurry television screen. One stands behind the TV arranging various amounts of foil paper. It’s me arranging the foil paper.]
Me: “This is stupid! Where did you get such a stupid idea?”
Heavy-set Boy: “Quit being such a whiny little bitch! I’m telling you I got this to work at my grandma’s house last weekend! You could see vagina and everything!”
Scrawny Boy: “Whoa!”
Heavy-set Boy: “It helps to turn the brightness all the way up too.”
[Turns the brightness up]
Me: “Can you see anything yet?”
Heavy-Set Boy: “No, you’re sucking at it. Here, try the big foil penis. I dunno why but it usually helps with transmitting the digital signal or something.”
Me: “But my parents have cable, not satellite.”
Heavy-Set Boy: “It’s amazing how much of a whiny bitch you are. You really set the bar!”
Me: “FINE! Gimme’ the foil penis.”
[The bottom half of the screen clears up and audio clears.]
Heavy-Set Boy: “Bitch! Don’t! Move!”
Me: “I can’t see! Get a mirror or something you guys!”
Heavy-Set Boy: “IF YOU MOVE, YOU DIE!”
ME:
Scrawny Boy: “WHOA!”
Me: “Is it awesome?”
Heavy-Set Boy: “Well, it’s got a light green hue, but the bottom half is still very clear. You must be doing something wrong.”
Scrawny Boy: “Whoa.”
Heavy-Set Boy: “She’s really taking it! You should see this man!”
Me: “Damn it.”
[Mom walks in.]
Mom: “Hey boys, we’re ho…
Heavy-Set Boy: “ Hi, ma’am.”
Me: “Damn it!”
Scrawny Boy: “Whoa.
On second thought, being single isn’t always so great. It’s especially inconvenient when you’re in a profession with predominantly married women and bar hopping is almost unheard of the first year teaching. Focusing on my career was my moment of peace, but I couldn’t escape the round table conversations of the newlyweds:
“I can’t wait to get home and spend time with my husband!”
“My husband’s cooking dinner tonight, again!”“Tonight, the wife and I
are taking the kids to buy a parakeet!”
Parakeets are not meant to be pets. In some countries, if you buy your child a bird for a pet, it’s the same as child abuse. In fact, child abuse is less cruel than having a bird as a pet. When I get home, Molly, my dog greets me with concerned whines as to where I’ve been all day. We get the mail together and she watches me cook dinner. We eat at the dinner table. She can’t actually sit at the table but she sits on the floor and eats with me.
“Hey Molly, does this sound like a fun first-day lesson plan? Introduce
yourself by designing a tattoo (a.k.a. symbol) that represents you.
Include an inspirational quote and two metaphors that best describe you.
See what I did? The students will use literary devices, but they’ll think
it’s just a fun artsy assignment! Meanwhile, they’ll also be introducing
themselves to me!”
Molly licks herself; certainly that must translate to “yeah that’s an awesome lesson plan”.
“Yeah… I thought so…”
Chapter 2: When It Rains... (Revised)
Melanie met me at school to see my first classroom. She listened to my speech about how I would organize and decorate the room. Mel said she really needed to talk.
“I really need to talk to you.”
“We are talking! Look at this huge blank wall! I need posters from Universities across the country to cover it! Maybe pennant flags?”
“I really need to ask you something…”
“What? What’s the matter? Are you hungry? There’s an awesome Chinese place down the street. I’m gonna eat there every pay day! Look, I already picked up a menu and everything to keep in my desk, MY desk!”
“No. I just need to talk and don’t want to here.”
“Well, this is my classroom now. We can come and go as we please… I even have a lock on the door…”
I winked at her, but the implication was somehow lost.
“I’m just kidding with you. Get excited! It’s finally coming together!”
“I’d just feel more comfortable at your place.”
“…”
Anticipation must be like dying in reverse. Instead of your life flashing before your eyes, it’s possibilities in the form of what-ifs. Multiple what-ifs flooding the head; it’s suffocating. It’s an unexpected nothing until the curtain is pulled back. No one knows why we try and predict it, but it’s the paranoid that know the benefits of expecting the worst. So we keep trying.
My what-ifs sprouted practical scenarios. Maybe her cat died. She might have been torn up about a speeding ticket. It was possible that there was drama with some co-workers. I started getting angry. Anything can upset a female! I started assuming there must be a loss of life in the family. She needed me to go with her to a funeral. That must be it; she would be worried about whether I could get time off so soon. Now I was worried about whether I could get time off so soon for a funeral! I wish it were as easy as someone dying. Instead, Melanie really wanted to know:
“Is our relationship going anywhere?”
Like the sweet grasp of death, every man knows this conversation inevitable, but nothing can quite prepare us. I might have even stopped breathing at that moment. Life paused. A list of top ten things worrying me thirty minutes ago began to manifest:
10. I’m responsible for all my finances now.
9. I have college debts that need to be paid (yes, that does include bar tabs).
8. I have to learn a new curriculum…
7. …and make lesson plans.
6. I have to create a Creative Writing syllabus!
5. I have to make nice with co-workers (who are probably more qualified than me).
4. Holy s***! I’m not qualified or confident enough to teach Grammar!
3. My parents are struggling because of my dad’s new career choice.
2. I haven’t had any ME time lately.
Finally, the number one thing on my mind among everything else was of course…
1. I hope Melanie doesn’t bring up whether “this relationship is going anywhere” right as my career was starting.
We talked, or rather, she talked and I froze. Needless to say, I wasn’t prepared for this conversation. No one is considering the circumstances. I was freaked and angry. This was supposed to be my day. Instead, a girlfriend wanted to know where she fit. She was crying. I was going to once she looked away. So I sat on my couch with my dog and looked up at her and said the only rationale thing that came to mind:
“I think you should leave.”
And after shedding many tears and venting many frustrations, that’s exactly what she did.
“I really need to talk to you.”
“We are talking! Look at this huge blank wall! I need posters from Universities across the country to cover it! Maybe pennant flags?”
“I really need to ask you something…”
“What? What’s the matter? Are you hungry? There’s an awesome Chinese place down the street. I’m gonna eat there every pay day! Look, I already picked up a menu and everything to keep in my desk, MY desk!”
“No. I just need to talk and don’t want to here.”
“Well, this is my classroom now. We can come and go as we please… I even have a lock on the door…”
I winked at her, but the implication was somehow lost.
“I’m just kidding with you. Get excited! It’s finally coming together!”
“I’d just feel more comfortable at your place.”
“…”
Anticipation must be like dying in reverse. Instead of your life flashing before your eyes, it’s possibilities in the form of what-ifs. Multiple what-ifs flooding the head; it’s suffocating. It’s an unexpected nothing until the curtain is pulled back. No one knows why we try and predict it, but it’s the paranoid that know the benefits of expecting the worst. So we keep trying.
My what-ifs sprouted practical scenarios. Maybe her cat died. She might have been torn up about a speeding ticket. It was possible that there was drama with some co-workers. I started getting angry. Anything can upset a female! I started assuming there must be a loss of life in the family. She needed me to go with her to a funeral. That must be it; she would be worried about whether I could get time off so soon. Now I was worried about whether I could get time off so soon for a funeral! I wish it were as easy as someone dying. Instead, Melanie really wanted to know:
“Is our relationship going anywhere?”
Like the sweet grasp of death, every man knows this conversation inevitable, but nothing can quite prepare us. I might have even stopped breathing at that moment. Life paused. A list of top ten things worrying me thirty minutes ago began to manifest:
10. I’m responsible for all my finances now.
9. I have college debts that need to be paid (yes, that does include bar tabs).
8. I have to learn a new curriculum…
7. …and make lesson plans.
6. I have to create a Creative Writing syllabus!
5. I have to make nice with co-workers (who are probably more qualified than me).
4. Holy s***! I’m not qualified or confident enough to teach Grammar!
3. My parents are struggling because of my dad’s new career choice.
2. I haven’t had any ME time lately.
Finally, the number one thing on my mind among everything else was of course…
1. I hope Melanie doesn’t bring up whether “this relationship is going anywhere” right as my career was starting.
We talked, or rather, she talked and I froze. Needless to say, I wasn’t prepared for this conversation. No one is considering the circumstances. I was freaked and angry. This was supposed to be my day. Instead, a girlfriend wanted to know where she fit. She was crying. I was going to once she looked away. So I sat on my couch with my dog and looked up at her and said the only rationale thing that came to mind:
“I think you should leave.”
And after shedding many tears and venting many frustrations, that’s exactly what she did.
Chapter I: On Your Mark...(Unabridged)
In the seventh grade my English teacher, Mrs. Wallace, suggested I be enrolled in a lower level English class. I had difficulty writing book reports on par with her expectations. After multiple revisions, my papers still returned covered in the scarlet of efficient grading. The content and creativity was acceptable, but when it came to grammar, I was a disaster. Furthermore, nothing compared to the embarrassment I felt about my handicap because my mother was an English teacher too.
In eighth grade, there wasn’t much improvement, but there was more support. My new English teacher, Mrs. Behrens, stayed after school and tutored me. She bought me a grammar flow chart that could be tucked into any three-ring binder. My essays didn’t come back bleeding from red pen stabs. There was a distinct difference between their teaching styles. Driven by resentment for my seventh grade English teacher, or inspired by my eighth grade English teacher, I resolved during this time to become an English teacher.
It was an epic struggle through high school, college, and an internship or two to prepare myself for August 13th, two weeks before the high school fall semester. The accumulation of blood, sweat, tears, coffee, patience, and most of all tears had rendered my first job as a high school English teacher. I was anxious, frightened, and prone to hyperventilating with the thought: standing in front of twenty-five plus teens as their teacher and expecting them to listen to me. Years of dreaming, theorizing, and training, yet I’ve never felt less prepared.
I was hopeful to find veteran guidance at the upcoming new-hire orientations.
All rookies attend mandatory conferences with the local school’s board of directors. The meetings are important if you’re interested in job related information such as payroll, taxes and insurance, vacation, and retirement benefits. The new-hires yawn through the information and sign on the dotted line. Everyone looks forward to the catered lunch and time for mingling. The remainder of the week is spent attending retreats with senior staff members and getting to know each other. The retreat coordinator decided to forgo formal introductions and opted to organizing the faculty in a circle.
“Everyone in the circle has to introduce themselves by using an adjective that starts with the same letter as the first letter in your name! I’ll start! My name is Daring Diane! Now the person to my left has to remember everybody’s name to their right and recite it from memory!”
The senior faculty members groan with enthusiasm. I’m certain they look forward to this activity each year. Personally, I appreciate this part of the week the most because you can always get interesting advice from veteran peers as you don’t pay attention to the events taking place around you. Sometimes, it’s advice to live by:
Some of it is less encouraging than others:
At least we always look forward to enjoying lunch together. Rookies usually congregate around senior teachers unofficially designated as cool. It is a lot like high school, but shouldn’t that make sense? For example, I’m a pariah. It’s nice to have a group to go out with again, but I can‘t always relate to them because most are recent newlyweds. I wanted to start my career then look into this marriage thing. Until then, I faked interest in the conversations surrounding me.
God, please keep my eyes from rolling. Two reasons people shouldn’t get into education are money and vacation. The ratio of engaged to single students in the college of education made matters worse. Well, as far as dating prospects went anyways. Worrying about the dating scene didn’t apply to me. I’ve been in love with the same girl for the past five years. She was younger than me and graduated from the college of business.
Her name was Melanie. She had already started her career in sales working for a large and popular computer company. Someday, she was going to be my sugar mama, but not anytime soon. I’d have to be crazy to get married so soon after college and on the cusp of my career. Half-way through the second week of new-hire retreats, she came to meet me for lunch. No more conversations about marriage! What a relief!
I was especially excited to see Melanie today because after introductions and paperwork, the new-hires finally received the keys to our classrooms! This wasn’t the smoothest process when the assistant principal had all the school keys corralled loosely in a plastic box.
After four trips, I was able to unlock my classroom. It was one of the larger rooms but lacked the windows of the smaller rooms. Antique chalk boards took the place of the white boards I was accustomed to from training. I was too eager to care. I’d go home with chalk dust covering me each day. The desks were stacked and shoved against one wall waiting to be meticulously situated. It was in dire need of dusting. I stood in the center thinking about the previous decade. In a movie, this would be my big “I-made-it” moment.
Then my phone rang into the holy silence of my moment.
It was my, Melanie.
“HEY BABY GIRL! Guess where I am?”
“Hey… We really need to talk.”
Perfect timing! She needed to talk and there wasn’t a better place for us to meet than in my new classroom.
[End Chapter 1]
[Continued in Chapter 2: When it Rains…]
In eighth grade, there wasn’t much improvement, but there was more support. My new English teacher, Mrs. Behrens, stayed after school and tutored me. She bought me a grammar flow chart that could be tucked into any three-ring binder. My essays didn’t come back bleeding from red pen stabs. There was a distinct difference between their teaching styles. Driven by resentment for my seventh grade English teacher, or inspired by my eighth grade English teacher, I resolved during this time to become an English teacher.
It was an epic struggle through high school, college, and an internship or two to prepare myself for August 13th, two weeks before the high school fall semester. The accumulation of blood, sweat, tears, coffee, patience, and most of all tears had rendered my first job as a high school English teacher. I was anxious, frightened, and prone to hyperventilating with the thought: standing in front of twenty-five plus teens as their teacher and expecting them to listen to me. Years of dreaming, theorizing, and training, yet I’ve never felt less prepared.
I was hopeful to find veteran guidance at the upcoming new-hire orientations.
All rookies attend mandatory conferences with the local school’s board of directors. The meetings are important if you’re interested in job related information such as payroll, taxes and insurance, vacation, and retirement benefits. The new-hires yawn through the information and sign on the dotted line. Everyone looks forward to the catered lunch and time for mingling. The remainder of the week is spent attending retreats with senior staff members and getting to know each other. The retreat coordinator decided to forgo formal introductions and opted to organizing the faculty in a circle.
“Everyone in the circle has to introduce themselves by using an adjective that starts with the same letter as the first letter in your name! I’ll start! My name is Daring Diane! Now the person to my left has to remember everybody’s name to their right and recite it from memory!”
The senior faculty members groan with enthusiasm. I’m certain they look forward to this activity each year. Personally, I appreciate this part of the week the most because you can always get interesting advice from veteran peers as you don’t pay attention to the events taking place around you. Sometimes, it’s advice to live by:
“My teaching philosophy has always been the person, doing all the work is
the person doing all the learning.”
“Always walk your students through the material so they find the
answers. Don’t spoon feed ‘em! Give ‘em a chance to work it out.”
Some of it is less encouraging than others:
“Don’t turn your back on those little bastards for a second! They’ll
do anything to slip something in your drink. So, invest in a coffee cup
with a secure cover!”
“Sign-up for a teacher’s union, because someone will sue you for
something you probably didn’t do!”
“Run.”
At least we always look forward to enjoying lunch together. Rookies usually congregate around senior teachers unofficially designated as cool. It is a lot like high school, but shouldn’t that make sense? For example, I’m a pariah. It’s nice to have a group to go out with again, but I can‘t always relate to them because most are recent newlyweds. I wanted to start my career then look into this marriage thing. Until then, I faked interest in the conversations surrounding me.
“I had to decide whether I want to be a teacher or a wife, and honestly, my
new husband comes first.”
“I just want to be in education so I can take three months off to
travel and raise a family with my new husband.”
“I just love being a dad.”
God, please keep my eyes from rolling. Two reasons people shouldn’t get into education are money and vacation. The ratio of engaged to single students in the college of education made matters worse. Well, as far as dating prospects went anyways. Worrying about the dating scene didn’t apply to me. I’ve been in love with the same girl for the past five years. She was younger than me and graduated from the college of business.
Her name was Melanie. She had already started her career in sales working for a large and popular computer company. Someday, she was going to be my sugar mama, but not anytime soon. I’d have to be crazy to get married so soon after college and on the cusp of my career. Half-way through the second week of new-hire retreats, she came to meet me for lunch. No more conversations about marriage! What a relief!
I was especially excited to see Melanie today because after introductions and paperwork, the new-hires finally received the keys to our classrooms! This wasn’t the smoothest process when the assistant principal had all the school keys corralled loosely in a plastic box.
“I think this is the key to the school’s main door. Hmmm… this looks like a
room key. No… wait… room keys are more of a brown color. This is like a rusty
gold. I tell ya’ what, Jason…”
“Actually, I’m Josh…”
“Come again?” the assistant principal was surprised at this
revelation.
“Josh, my name… it’s Josh”, I explained, slightly insecure about
correcting an administrator.
“Right, right, right… take this key and if it doesn’t work, come back
and I’ll look again, John.” He hands the key to me. I actually always like
the name John, anyway.
After four trips, I was able to unlock my classroom. It was one of the larger rooms but lacked the windows of the smaller rooms. Antique chalk boards took the place of the white boards I was accustomed to from training. I was too eager to care. I’d go home with chalk dust covering me each day. The desks were stacked and shoved against one wall waiting to be meticulously situated. It was in dire need of dusting. I stood in the center thinking about the previous decade. In a movie, this would be my big “I-made-it” moment.
Then my phone rang into the holy silence of my moment.
It was my, Melanie.
“HEY BABY GIRL! Guess where I am?”
“Hey… We really need to talk.”
Perfect timing! She needed to talk and there wasn’t a better place for us to meet than in my new classroom.
[End Chapter 1]
[Continued in Chapter 2: When it Rains…]
6.10.2008
Chapter I: On Your Mark...(Revised)
In the seventh grade, the English teacher suggested my parents enroll me in a lower level class. I was having difficulty writing book reports that were up to par with her expectations. Even though I’d revise my work multiple times, the English teacher would still bleed my papers. The content and creativity was usually acceptable, but when it came to grammar, I was a disaster. Furthermore, nothing compared to the embarrassment I felt about my handicap because my mother was an English teacher too.
In the eighth grade, there wasn’t much improvement, but there was more support. My new English teacher stayed after school to tutor me. She bought me a grammar flow chart that could be tucked into any three-ring binder. My essays didn’t come back bleeding from red pen stabs. There was a distinct difference between their teaching styles. Driven by resentment towards my seventh grade English teacher, or inspired by the motivation of my eighth grade English teacher, I resolved during this time to become an English teacher – just like mom.
It was an epic struggle through high school, college, and an internship or two to prepare myself for August 13th, two weeks before the high school fall semester began. The accumulation of blood, sweat, tears, coffee, patience, and most of all tears had rendered my first job as a high school English teacher. I was anxious, frightened, and prone to hyperventilating with the thought that in two weeks, I’d be expected to stand in front of twenty-five plus strangers as the teacher rather than the student. And they were supposed to listen to me for instruction. Years of dreaming, theorizing, and training, yet I’ve never felt less prepared.
Hopefully, I’ll find guidance at the two week long new-hire orientation.
All rookies attend mandatory conferences with the local school’s board of directors. The meetings are important if you’re interested in job related information such as payroll, taxes and insurance, vacation, and retirement benefits. The new-hires yawn through the information and sign on the dotted line. Everyone looks forward to the catered lunch and time for mingling. The remainder of the week is spent attending retreats with senior staff members and getting to know each other. Apparently, the retreat coordinator decided the best way to introduce yourself to new co-workers is by standing in a circle and use irrelevant adjectives.
“Everyone in the circle has to introduce themselves by using an adjective that starts with the same letter as the first letter in your name! I’ll start! My name is Daring Diane! Now the person to my left has to remember everybody’s name to their right and recite it from memory!”
The senior faculty members groan with enthusiasm. I’m certain they look forward to this activity each year. Personally, I appreciate this part of the week the most because you can always get interesting advice from veteran peers as you don’t pay attention to the events taking place around you. Sometimes, it’s advice to live by:
“My teaching philosophy has always been the person, doing all the work is the person doing all the learning.”
“Always walk your students through the material so they find the answers. Don’t spoon feed ‘em! Give ‘em a chance to work it out.”
Some of it is less encouraging than others:
“Don’t turn your back on those little bastards for a second! They’ll do anything to slip something in your drink. So, invest in a coffee cup with a secure cover!”
“Sign-up for a teacher’s union, because someone will sue you for something you probably didn’t do!”
“Run.”
At least we always look forward to enjoying lunch together. Rookies usually congregate around senior teachers unofficially designated as cool. It is a lot like high school, but shouldn’t that make sense? For example, I’m a pariah. It’s nice to have a group to go out with again, but I can‘t always relate to them because most are recent newlyweds. I wanted to start my career then look into this marriage thing. Until then, I fake interest in the conversations surrounding me.
“I had to decide whether I want to be a teacher or a wife, and honestly, my new husband comes first.”
“I just want to be in education so I can take three months off to travel and raise a family with my new husband.”
“I just love being a dad.”
God, please keep my eyes from rolling. Two reasons people shouldn’t get into education are money and vacation. The ratio of engaged to single students in the college of education made matters worse. Well, as far as dating prospects went anyways. Worrying about the dating scene didn’t apply to me. I’ve been in love with the same girl for the past five years. She was younger than me and graduated from the college of business.
Her name was Melanie. She had already started her career in sales working for a large and popular computer company. Someday, she was going to be my sugar mama, but not anytime soon. I’d have to be crazy to get married so soon after college and on the cusp of my career. Half-way through the second week of new-hire retreats, she came to meet me for lunch. No more conversations about marriage! What a relief!
I was especially excited to see Melanie today because after introductions and paperwork, the new-hires finally received the keys to our classrooms! This wasn’t the smoothest process when the assistant principal had all the school keys corralled loosely in a plastic box.
“I think this is the key to the school’s main door. Hmmm… this looks like a room key. No… wait… room keys are more of a brown color. This is like a rusty gold. I tell ya’ what, Jason…”
“Actually, I’m Josh…”
“Come again?” the assistant principal was surprised at this revelation.
“Josh, my name… it’s Josh”, I explained, slightly insecure about correcting an administrator.
“Right, right, right… take this key and if it doesn’t work, come back and I’ll look again, John.”
He hands the key to me. I actually always like the name John, anyway.
After four trips, I was able to unlock my classroom. It was one of the larger rooms but lacked the windows of the smaller rooms. Two chalk boards took the place of the white boards I was accustomed to from my training. I knew this meant I’d go home with chalk dust covering me at the end of each day. The desks were stacked and shoved against one wall waiting to be spread out. It was in dire need of dusting. I stood in the center thinking about the five years that lead me here. In a movie, this would be my big “I-made-it” moment.
Then my phone rang into the holy silence of my moment.
It was my, Melanie.
“HEY BABY GIRL! Guess where I am?”
“Hey… We really need to talk.”
Perfect timing! She needed to talk and there wasn’t a better place for us to meet than in my new classroom.
[End Chapter 1]
[Continued in Chapter 2: When it Rains…]
In the eighth grade, there wasn’t much improvement, but there was more support. My new English teacher stayed after school to tutor me. She bought me a grammar flow chart that could be tucked into any three-ring binder. My essays didn’t come back bleeding from red pen stabs. There was a distinct difference between their teaching styles. Driven by resentment towards my seventh grade English teacher, or inspired by the motivation of my eighth grade English teacher, I resolved during this time to become an English teacher – just like mom.
It was an epic struggle through high school, college, and an internship or two to prepare myself for August 13th, two weeks before the high school fall semester began. The accumulation of blood, sweat, tears, coffee, patience, and most of all tears had rendered my first job as a high school English teacher. I was anxious, frightened, and prone to hyperventilating with the thought that in two weeks, I’d be expected to stand in front of twenty-five plus strangers as the teacher rather than the student. And they were supposed to listen to me for instruction. Years of dreaming, theorizing, and training, yet I’ve never felt less prepared.
Hopefully, I’ll find guidance at the two week long new-hire orientation.
All rookies attend mandatory conferences with the local school’s board of directors. The meetings are important if you’re interested in job related information such as payroll, taxes and insurance, vacation, and retirement benefits. The new-hires yawn through the information and sign on the dotted line. Everyone looks forward to the catered lunch and time for mingling. The remainder of the week is spent attending retreats with senior staff members and getting to know each other. Apparently, the retreat coordinator decided the best way to introduce yourself to new co-workers is by standing in a circle and use irrelevant adjectives.
“Everyone in the circle has to introduce themselves by using an adjective that starts with the same letter as the first letter in your name! I’ll start! My name is Daring Diane! Now the person to my left has to remember everybody’s name to their right and recite it from memory!”
The senior faculty members groan with enthusiasm. I’m certain they look forward to this activity each year. Personally, I appreciate this part of the week the most because you can always get interesting advice from veteran peers as you don’t pay attention to the events taking place around you. Sometimes, it’s advice to live by:
“My teaching philosophy has always been the person, doing all the work is the person doing all the learning.”
“Always walk your students through the material so they find the answers. Don’t spoon feed ‘em! Give ‘em a chance to work it out.”
Some of it is less encouraging than others:
“Don’t turn your back on those little bastards for a second! They’ll do anything to slip something in your drink. So, invest in a coffee cup with a secure cover!”
“Sign-up for a teacher’s union, because someone will sue you for something you probably didn’t do!”
“Run.”
At least we always look forward to enjoying lunch together. Rookies usually congregate around senior teachers unofficially designated as cool. It is a lot like high school, but shouldn’t that make sense? For example, I’m a pariah. It’s nice to have a group to go out with again, but I can‘t always relate to them because most are recent newlyweds. I wanted to start my career then look into this marriage thing. Until then, I fake interest in the conversations surrounding me.
“I had to decide whether I want to be a teacher or a wife, and honestly, my new husband comes first.”
“I just want to be in education so I can take three months off to travel and raise a family with my new husband.”
“I just love being a dad.”
God, please keep my eyes from rolling. Two reasons people shouldn’t get into education are money and vacation. The ratio of engaged to single students in the college of education made matters worse. Well, as far as dating prospects went anyways. Worrying about the dating scene didn’t apply to me. I’ve been in love with the same girl for the past five years. She was younger than me and graduated from the college of business.
Her name was Melanie. She had already started her career in sales working for a large and popular computer company. Someday, she was going to be my sugar mama, but not anytime soon. I’d have to be crazy to get married so soon after college and on the cusp of my career. Half-way through the second week of new-hire retreats, she came to meet me for lunch. No more conversations about marriage! What a relief!
I was especially excited to see Melanie today because after introductions and paperwork, the new-hires finally received the keys to our classrooms! This wasn’t the smoothest process when the assistant principal had all the school keys corralled loosely in a plastic box.
“I think this is the key to the school’s main door. Hmmm… this looks like a room key. No… wait… room keys are more of a brown color. This is like a rusty gold. I tell ya’ what, Jason…”
“Actually, I’m Josh…”
“Come again?” the assistant principal was surprised at this revelation.
“Josh, my name… it’s Josh”, I explained, slightly insecure about correcting an administrator.
“Right, right, right… take this key and if it doesn’t work, come back and I’ll look again, John.”
He hands the key to me. I actually always like the name John, anyway.
After four trips, I was able to unlock my classroom. It was one of the larger rooms but lacked the windows of the smaller rooms. Two chalk boards took the place of the white boards I was accustomed to from my training. I knew this meant I’d go home with chalk dust covering me at the end of each day. The desks were stacked and shoved against one wall waiting to be spread out. It was in dire need of dusting. I stood in the center thinking about the five years that lead me here. In a movie, this would be my big “I-made-it” moment.
Then my phone rang into the holy silence of my moment.
It was my, Melanie.
“HEY BABY GIRL! Guess where I am?”
“Hey… We really need to talk.”
Perfect timing! She needed to talk and there wasn’t a better place for us to meet than in my new classroom.
[End Chapter 1]
[Continued in Chapter 2: When it Rains…]
4.28.2008
A Quote I Memorized from a Comic Book Once Read: “Ubi Dubium, Ibi Libertas”
[DISCLAIMER: The following story is a “when-I-was-in-high-school” story.]
When I was in high school, students could be separated into two groups: the Born Test Takers and the Average Struggling Students. I’m certain you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting a BTT. Heck! You might even fit into this category! If you do, I’ll admit that I don’t particularly like you. I still have an immature resentment for how easy test taking comes to you. If you’re still not sure what category you fit into, ask yourself the following question:
Do you have an abundance of free time spent NOT studying?
If you answered “yes”, then you are in fact a BTT and I don’t much care for you’re kind. Instead of studying, you’re more likely to be found socializing. When the time comes to be tested over the material that the rest of us are studying over all night, the BTT will have no trouble jumping through the hoops like an obedient best of show Maltese terrier at the Westminster kennel club.
[DISCLAIMER: Try and keep up with me, because transitions aren’t my strength.]
In the eighth grade, it was required that I take a general academic skills exam before enrolling in a private high school. Much like every exam, I got nervous, froze up, and my mind went blank. As a result of the less than spectacular score, my parents had to endure the embarrassment of being told (in a very politically correct manner, I’m sure) by the high school counselor that I would have better success in a “regular” high school. Consequently, this didn’t translate to my mother who was familiar with people doubting her abilities. When she immigrated to America, she was the oldest of six, experienced the death of her father, lived in poverty, and had to endure social prejudices of the times. Before he died in an accident, her father had moved his family to America with the intention of providing educational opportunity. My mother worked through school and college, later graduating from Wayland Baptist University in Plainview, TX; she was the first graduate in her family.
Despite the counselor’s advice, my parents enrolled me. They pushed and encouraged me through four years of College Prep curriculum and it wasn’t always in the friendly manner of modern parenting! Eventually I was getting ready to graduate and had to start applying for colleges. I had to apply through my counselor who was difficult to schedule time with. I had to stop by before school, between classes, at lunch, after school, and between various extracurricular activities in order to schedule time with the counselor. The counselor stayed busy pulling my friends out of class and chasing them down the halls begging them to fill out college applications.
I finally did get some time scheduled and narrowed my choices down to three colleges. My top choice was the University of Oklahoma. In a very politically correct manner, the counselor explained the challenging curriculum at this school and based on my current ACT practice scores, I would be more successful at a junior college.
“…but that’s not really what I want.” I protested.
“Let’s fill out an application just in case.” the counselor
said, sliding the application form across the desk.
Five years later, I graduated from the University of Oklahoma with half my masters degree complete. Somewhere in time I must have evolved into a BTT or somehow learned to be a better student. Whatever it was, I didn’t have to overwhelm myself when it was time to take the three major exams required to be a certified educator in Oklahoma. I was recently very flattered when my old high school called me up and had an awfully impressive job offer for me. Maybe that’s how long it takes to get some people to believe in your potential. Perhaps my high school teachers believed in me all along. Whatever the reason, I’m proud that my old high school would ask me to return as a faculty member. Like my immediate family, I believe I represent my high school, the teachers and the mentors that helped me grow up and I’d hate to embarrass them. But I’m not leaving NHS, yet. I like being a Tiger.
4.12.2008
My Alanis Morissette Moment
My high school counselor said it would be unlikely I would graduate. I went to an expensive Catholic high school and it would be in poor taste for me to post the school and the counselor’s name, but I’ll say the school does share the same name as a popular book of world records and Irish stout beer. Make your own Catholic joke about that.
After it was evident that I was going to graduate, my counselor said I would probably not make it into or be able to graduate from the University of Oklahoma. She recommended Junior Colleges but I was already influenced by Adam Corolla’s idea that “Junior College is just High school with ash trays”.
I went back to visit my favorite English teacher from High school, Mrs. Vicki Paque, in 2006 after receiving my graduation ring from the University of Oklahoma and my certification for secondary school education. She was walking down the newly constructed cafeteria with my old counselor. I was happy to share the news with each.
In 2008, completing my first year as an educator, I received a phone call from my old high school:
I wanted to throw in some cliché expression about how ironic all this was but frankly, I don’t want to sound like those blowhard Chicken Soup… books. Really, Nelson from The Simpsons fame said it best: “Haw-haw”.
After it was evident that I was going to graduate, my counselor said I would probably not make it into or be able to graduate from the University of Oklahoma. She recommended Junior Colleges but I was already influenced by Adam Corolla’s idea that “Junior College is just High school with ash trays”.
I went back to visit my favorite English teacher from High school, Mrs. Vicki Paque, in 2006 after receiving my graduation ring from the University of Oklahoma and my certification for secondary school education. She was walking down the newly constructed cafeteria with my old counselor. I was happy to share the news with each.
In 2008, completing my first year as an educator, I received a phone call from my old high school:
“Hi Josh! This is __________ from ________ __ __inness High school. We
want to talk to you about a teaching position with our English department for
the 2008-2009 school year.”
I wanted to throw in some cliché expression about how ironic all this was but frankly, I don’t want to sound like those blowhard Chicken Soup… books. Really, Nelson from The Simpsons fame said it best: “Haw-haw”.
3.18.2008
3.16.2008
Sag Horoscope
Sagittarius
Your idea of what life is, dear Sagittarius, is going through a radical change. None of the "givens" that you have always taken for granted apply anymore. Rather than grieving the change, grow from it. So don't drag your feet! Stand up and move ahead. This is no time for vacation. You have some rebuilding to do! The loving support you may receive from friends and family won't likely be sufficient to remove the very real pressure you face about serious life issues. You might even feel as if others have abandoned you. But doing it alone could also be your decision, so don't try to blame anyone else for your current isolation. Discard those items from the past for which you really have no use anymore. Much as you like to surround yourself with objects of sentimental value, the time comes when it is necessary to look to the future, rather than dwell on the past. Time spent cleaning up and throwing out will release you from the past and allow you to embrace the
future...
Saturday, March 15, 2008
I try not to get involved with all that supernatural, voodoo, spiritual blah-blah-blah, but horoscopes always make me think and self-reflection is an important skill. We have already decided that we’ve come as far as we’re going to go riding on the waves of our past multiple, tremendous, impressive successes. We’ve already started setting new goals and have new accomplishments to make.
So Monday is the one blow-off day we’ll spend enjoying the vacation. I’d rather not go into detail as to what that entails. Tuesday we’ll be at our usual hole-in-the-wall breakfast joint watching the planes land as we recover. That night, we get a free pass into the underground of the city where local businesses do their networking. I wish our business cards had come in on time but our character will more than make up for it. I have some drastic spring cleaning to do and know a friend who has a fireplace. We’ll ceremoniously do away with past achievements because we’ve relied on them for long enough. We’re at risk of abusing them, making them a crutch.
I could take this week off of work to just be lazy or take the option that will make me a better teacher when we return. If you knew the whole story of how I got this far then you’d know what road I’m going to take.
Sagittarius
Your irrepressible optimism is being tested now as you change your plans to respond to new events. Don't be discouraged, for you cannot be everything to everyone. You may have challenging decisions ahead, yet the sooner you eliminate unnecessary distractions, the better. Common sense could pay off quickly, but unrealistic dreaming does not.
March 16, 2008
A Different Kind of Lesson Plan for a Different Kind of Student
“You don’t have to assign all thirty prompts to be completed.”
“Nah, my students are smart. They can get it done. No problem. Besides, I’m giving them a whole week to work on it in class.”
It was a conversation I had at the beginning of the week before Spring Break. I had essays to finish grading, meetings about student behavior, meetings about student progress, faculty meetings, and every meeting has its share of paperwork to complete. Then there were deadlines to fulfill. There were votes to be made that decided the next text book we’d be stuck with for the next six years. We had to vote on the class schedule for next year. My application to the OWP summer institute was due at the end of the week. It’s an extensive application and an important opportunity for me as a writer and teacher.
Among the monotony, two teachers were lost to us: one to the behest of “personal matters” and a second to the ills of cancer.
In the time between teaching and grading/preparing for the next day, I like to fight. Four nights a week, I force the time to train like an MMA fighter: running, endurance training, hand-to-hand combat, and weight lifting. After teaching all day, it’s easy to hand over responsibility to someone else and just take directions. It’s reassuring knowing you’re progressing in a skill on a weekly basis. It takes years to become a comfortable teacher and decades to master. I can see myself improving weekly when it comes to mixed martial arts. Energy, strength, and flexibility are the main improvements others have noted.
This week, on top of everything else, I was going to spend a couple days helping an aspiring fighter train. I barely knew him but any educator would feel compelled to help when asked. I was asked to help drill him and sweat away ten pounds in a sauna. It wasn’t a healthy idea, but he had $300 guaranteed for just showing up to fight. If he won, he’d receive an additional $300. He wouldn’t spend it on frivolous things because he had a baby and a young wife to feed. They shared a duplex apartment and lived off food stamps until recently when his wife started making just enough to disqualify them for government aid. Because of his felony history, he couldn’t drive a vehicle. He’d walk unless his wife was off work.
When we trained, she would be there watching with a frustrated baby. Before agreeing to help him, I had no idea about his personal life. He freely shared it with me and even told me the story of when his friend stabbed him. He showed me the stab wounds on his arms and where the steak knife went into his stomach and pulled out his large intestine.
In the cage, we practiced defensive drills over and over. It made us both out of breathe and equally beat up our bodies. While I write this, I’m still limping three days later from a wrong landing. My ankle is swollen and bruised but it didn’t prevent me from practicing leg locks. I was already dehydrated but I suited up in multiple layers with this new kind of student and stood up in the sauna with him as we ran through punching drills. We were soaking but had lost ten pounds over the course of thirty minutes of non-stop movement. I had to demand he stay in the sauna. The heat was getting to him and making him frustrated. He tried to make excuses to get out but two hours earlier I had promised that I wouldn’t let him get away with that. It’s very similar to getting students to stay seated and remain engaged but a lot less comfortable.
He was exhausted when we walked out, so I pushed the stroller with his infant son. We still lacked six pounds to make weight, but he had forty-eight hours until it mattered and he wasn’t going to eat tonight or the next. I drove him to his apartment so he wouldn’t have to walk. If he wins, we’ll be celebrating with a victory barbecue on Sunday.
He’ll be helping me drop weight if needed for an amateur submission competition in April. It’s in Tulsa and I can’t think of a better excuse to drive to Tulsa.
“Nah, my students are smart. They can get it done. No problem. Besides, I’m giving them a whole week to work on it in class.”
It was a conversation I had at the beginning of the week before Spring Break. I had essays to finish grading, meetings about student behavior, meetings about student progress, faculty meetings, and every meeting has its share of paperwork to complete. Then there were deadlines to fulfill. There were votes to be made that decided the next text book we’d be stuck with for the next six years. We had to vote on the class schedule for next year. My application to the OWP summer institute was due at the end of the week. It’s an extensive application and an important opportunity for me as a writer and teacher.
Among the monotony, two teachers were lost to us: one to the behest of “personal matters” and a second to the ills of cancer.
In the time between teaching and grading/preparing for the next day, I like to fight. Four nights a week, I force the time to train like an MMA fighter: running, endurance training, hand-to-hand combat, and weight lifting. After teaching all day, it’s easy to hand over responsibility to someone else and just take directions. It’s reassuring knowing you’re progressing in a skill on a weekly basis. It takes years to become a comfortable teacher and decades to master. I can see myself improving weekly when it comes to mixed martial arts. Energy, strength, and flexibility are the main improvements others have noted.
This week, on top of everything else, I was going to spend a couple days helping an aspiring fighter train. I barely knew him but any educator would feel compelled to help when asked. I was asked to help drill him and sweat away ten pounds in a sauna. It wasn’t a healthy idea, but he had $300 guaranteed for just showing up to fight. If he won, he’d receive an additional $300. He wouldn’t spend it on frivolous things because he had a baby and a young wife to feed. They shared a duplex apartment and lived off food stamps until recently when his wife started making just enough to disqualify them for government aid. Because of his felony history, he couldn’t drive a vehicle. He’d walk unless his wife was off work.
When we trained, she would be there watching with a frustrated baby. Before agreeing to help him, I had no idea about his personal life. He freely shared it with me and even told me the story of when his friend stabbed him. He showed me the stab wounds on his arms and where the steak knife went into his stomach and pulled out his large intestine.
In the cage, we practiced defensive drills over and over. It made us both out of breathe and equally beat up our bodies. While I write this, I’m still limping three days later from a wrong landing. My ankle is swollen and bruised but it didn’t prevent me from practicing leg locks. I was already dehydrated but I suited up in multiple layers with this new kind of student and stood up in the sauna with him as we ran through punching drills. We were soaking but had lost ten pounds over the course of thirty minutes of non-stop movement. I had to demand he stay in the sauna. The heat was getting to him and making him frustrated. He tried to make excuses to get out but two hours earlier I had promised that I wouldn’t let him get away with that. It’s very similar to getting students to stay seated and remain engaged but a lot less comfortable.
He was exhausted when we walked out, so I pushed the stroller with his infant son. We still lacked six pounds to make weight, but he had forty-eight hours until it mattered and he wasn’t going to eat tonight or the next. I drove him to his apartment so he wouldn’t have to walk. If he wins, we’ll be celebrating with a victory barbecue on Sunday.
He’ll be helping me drop weight if needed for an amateur submission competition in April. It’s in Tulsa and I can’t think of a better excuse to drive to Tulsa.
2.16.2008
"median survival expectancy: approx. 11-15 yrs."
“I always get malignant and benign confused.”
That was my excuse when someone asked me why I had a medical dictionary. It wasn’t a total lie. I do get the two diagnosis confused, but it’s not why I own a medical dictionary. It may be the reason why I didn’t become a doctor; there’s no room for errors. In the broad scheme of things, educators save more lives and there is room for error, as long as there’s opportunity to improve from the errors.
…but I digress…
I needed a Medical Dictionary to look up information on Leukemia. I wasn’t sure what it was or what the symptoms and treatments for it entailed. Besides my parents, the only other family members I really care for are my grandmother, one uncle, and one aunt. Everyone else is either blatantly two-faced or just dead beats. My uncle, my mother’s baby brother, was recently diagnosed with Leukemia. I wasn’t sure how severe the situation was so I bought a medical dictionary and looked it up. It states the different types of Leukemia. That is requires frequent blood transfusions. A severe case, Acute 1, gives the patient a life expectancy of a matter of weeks. Another, Chronic 1, gives a patient a “median survival expectancy; approx. 11-15 years.”
Distracted, I highlight in my dictionary and close the book, needing time to think about this.
“Whatcha’ doin’ with a medical dictionary?” a girl sitting at an adjacent bar stool asks.
“I’m studying to be a nurse.”
Cutting the tip of a cigar, I pull out my lighter.
That was my excuse when someone asked me why I had a medical dictionary. It wasn’t a total lie. I do get the two diagnosis confused, but it’s not why I own a medical dictionary. It may be the reason why I didn’t become a doctor; there’s no room for errors. In the broad scheme of things, educators save more lives and there is room for error, as long as there’s opportunity to improve from the errors.
…but I digress…
I needed a Medical Dictionary to look up information on Leukemia. I wasn’t sure what it was or what the symptoms and treatments for it entailed. Besides my parents, the only other family members I really care for are my grandmother, one uncle, and one aunt. Everyone else is either blatantly two-faced or just dead beats. My uncle, my mother’s baby brother, was recently diagnosed with Leukemia. I wasn’t sure how severe the situation was so I bought a medical dictionary and looked it up. It states the different types of Leukemia. That is requires frequent blood transfusions. A severe case, Acute 1, gives the patient a life expectancy of a matter of weeks. Another, Chronic 1, gives a patient a “median survival expectancy; approx. 11-15 years.”
Distracted, I highlight in my dictionary and close the book, needing time to think about this.
“Whatcha’ doin’ with a medical dictionary?” a girl sitting at an adjacent bar stool asks.
“I’m studying to be a nurse.”
Cutting the tip of a cigar, I pull out my lighter.
It's Hard to Escape (A Two Part Self Assessment Story) Part Two
…I looked like a hung over magician Saturday night. I didn’t purposely set out to look like a magician, I hate magicians actually; they’re annoying. A waitress knows me as a regular and didn’t believe it when I told her why I was dressed up. Neither did the table of college students I met later in the night. Without my bag of paperwork and lesson plans, I got bored. The only tools with me were a pen and my sunglasses, so I put them on - even though there wasn’t a need for them and it was harder to see. As a reflex, my hand will immediately begin doodling on the nearest object, a coaster. I suppose it was my affinity for architecture that inspires me to draw buildings or in this case, a house.
Meanwhile, my friend was talking to a waitress who was now sitting with us. When she went back to work, another familiar face walked in and sat with us. She had had a crush on my friend but came to sit and talk to me.
“I have a single friend you should meet”, she started “I think she’d like you because you have style!”
“I do what can.” I wasn’t sure how else to respond at the time. I was tired and had other subjects preoccupying my mind.
“You even look sexy when you’re hung over.”
Even this didn’t really build enough interest for me to look up from my doodling on coasters.
“That’s why I don’t think you’re a good match with that girl you were with at the party last week.”
Now I stopped writing. Without my prompting, she began making very general statements such as:
“She wasn’t _____________ enough for you.”
I wasn’t doodling anymore, instead the pen was being strangled in my hand and I glared behind my sunglasses listening to her ridiculous judgments. My friend changed the subject. He knew I was getting upset. Still glaring at her, this ridiculous little girl, I had a moment of self assessment. Somewhere outside, was a table of her friends and I was dressed up like a hung over magician. I took my drink, coaster, and pen then walked outside.
“Howdy, you’re friend was boring me so I hope you guys are more entertaining.”
Naturally, I sat next to the cutest girl, who also turned out to be the shyest and most soft spoken. I poked fun at them. They questioned my affinity for wearing sunglasses at one in the morning. I replied by saying “I just had my pupils dilated”. They asked why I was so dressed up and I told them about my career and chaperoning a dance (or to be more specific, “I was making sure no one was doing bugger sugar in the bathroom”). They said teachers weren’t as good looking when they were in school. They complemented my doodle on the coaster. I claimed to have the power to reveal their personality just by examining how they draw a house. I teased them with a brief explanation using my doodle and made a bad joke about needing to add blinds on my windows. They replied with a perverted but flattering comment. They drew houses and I interpreted their meaning. It was very revealing for some of them and if I found them to be a protective and closed off person, I’d tease and say “Wow, you got issues. Do you need a hug? Are you okay? Remember, you’re with friends right now. Relax!” and they’d all smile and laugh.
Side Note: The House Personality test is a great way to introduce lesson plans over Symbolism or short stories such as Saki’s “The Interlopers” or Robert Frost’s “The Mending Wall” and really, isn’t that what it’s all about?
Meanwhile, my friend was talking to a waitress who was now sitting with us. When she went back to work, another familiar face walked in and sat with us. She had had a crush on my friend but came to sit and talk to me.
“I have a single friend you should meet”, she started “I think she’d like you because you have style!”
“I do what can.” I wasn’t sure how else to respond at the time. I was tired and had other subjects preoccupying my mind.
“You even look sexy when you’re hung over.”
Even this didn’t really build enough interest for me to look up from my doodling on coasters.
“That’s why I don’t think you’re a good match with that girl you were with at the party last week.”
Now I stopped writing. Without my prompting, she began making very general statements such as:
“She wasn’t _____________ enough for you.”
I wasn’t doodling anymore, instead the pen was being strangled in my hand and I glared behind my sunglasses listening to her ridiculous judgments. My friend changed the subject. He knew I was getting upset. Still glaring at her, this ridiculous little girl, I had a moment of self assessment. Somewhere outside, was a table of her friends and I was dressed up like a hung over magician. I took my drink, coaster, and pen then walked outside.
“Howdy, you’re friend was boring me so I hope you guys are more entertaining.”
Naturally, I sat next to the cutest girl, who also turned out to be the shyest and most soft spoken. I poked fun at them. They questioned my affinity for wearing sunglasses at one in the morning. I replied by saying “I just had my pupils dilated”. They asked why I was so dressed up and I told them about my career and chaperoning a dance (or to be more specific, “I was making sure no one was doing bugger sugar in the bathroom”). They said teachers weren’t as good looking when they were in school. They complemented my doodle on the coaster. I claimed to have the power to reveal their personality just by examining how they draw a house. I teased them with a brief explanation using my doodle and made a bad joke about needing to add blinds on my windows. They replied with a perverted but flattering comment. They drew houses and I interpreted their meaning. It was very revealing for some of them and if I found them to be a protective and closed off person, I’d tease and say “Wow, you got issues. Do you need a hug? Are you okay? Remember, you’re with friends right now. Relax!” and they’d all smile and laugh.
Side Note: The House Personality test is a great way to introduce lesson plans over Symbolism or short stories such as Saki’s “The Interlopers” or Robert Frost’s “The Mending Wall” and really, isn’t that what it’s all about?
It's Hard to Escape (A Two Part Self Assessment Story) Part One
I was meeting a friend to do some studying the other night then noticed them immediately as I walked in the door. A three-set of stereotypical sorority girls: blonde, overly mystic tanned, loud, squeaky, matching North face jackets. Their table was next to ours and I couldn’t help myself. Immediately engaged in the three second rule, I purposely overheard their conversation.
…wonder what he’s doing?
…1…
He’s got a lot of paper work….
…2…They were talking about my friend who was already busily at work…3…
…but he’s using a marker?
…4… “We’re Teachers.”
The trio turned their attention to me and in unison exclaimed “Ohhhhhh!”, and I had to continue somehow. “Sorry, either I’m too nosey or you are but I couldn’t resist myself.”
“(giggles) It’s probably me that was too nosey (giggle)!”
Smiling, turning my attention away, pulling my own stacks of paperwork out …1…2…3… and they were already discussing the next stop on their bar crawl. I forgot my lines and it was past the three second window – attempting to get them engaged again would look needy now. There was no need for my partner to look up from his work or complete his thought:
“You know”, he started “you did it agai…”
“I know! I know!” I whispered through my teeth “I only had three seconds to think of an opener”, and couldn’t think of anything more interesting, challenging, dangerous, or important than being an educator.
“Mmmm hmm”, he replied.
Then we got back to work. I was in such a different mindset last Saturday…
…wonder what he’s doing?
…1…
He’s got a lot of paper work….
…2…They were talking about my friend who was already busily at work…3…
…but he’s using a marker?
…4… “We’re Teachers.”
The trio turned their attention to me and in unison exclaimed “Ohhhhhh!”, and I had to continue somehow. “Sorry, either I’m too nosey or you are but I couldn’t resist myself.”
“(giggles) It’s probably me that was too nosey (giggle)!”
Smiling, turning my attention away, pulling my own stacks of paperwork out …1…2…3… and they were already discussing the next stop on their bar crawl. I forgot my lines and it was past the three second window – attempting to get them engaged again would look needy now. There was no need for my partner to look up from his work or complete his thought:
“You know”, he started “you did it agai…”
“I know! I know!” I whispered through my teeth “I only had three seconds to think of an opener”, and couldn’t think of anything more interesting, challenging, dangerous, or important than being an educator.
“Mmmm hmm”, he replied.
Then we got back to work. I was in such a different mindset last Saturday…
2.10.2008
"And I wonder..."
Once upon a time, a man and a woman were walking in the park together.
“This is our song!” she told me. I was immediately apprehensive. Usually it’s a song I’m not familiar with or in a genre I dislike.
“Yeah… you sure about that?” I ask; very cocky, too demeaning, trying to shy away from the point.
“Yes, it’s our favorite band. It’s your favorite song! This is our song.”
I had to change the subject. She was on the offense and it was so painful for me to even consider.
“This is the song that you want to be played on our wedding day.”
“…”
She looks at me but not in a way a woman looks at you for confirmation. She already knows her accusations are true and doesn’t need any confirmation.
“…This isn’t even a song”, I try and protest, “…this is the morning weather report!”
She almost immediately begins to tear up.
“ Yo...’ll nev…r …eally gro… …p and liste… to …, will …u?”
“What?” I ask desperately because she wasn’t making any sense.
I wasn’t making any sense.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
5:45 AM
“…accident on I-40. Two cars involved will hold up traffic an extra fifteen minutes. Avoid if possible. Last night, the temperature will drop…”
My alarm clock introduces me to a new day promptly at five, forty-five in the A.M. so I can get a solid thirty to forty-five minutes of weightlifting or cardio before going to work in the morning.
I woke up alone this particular morning. I’m usually disturbed by dreams involving wedding bells of any kind. This was a different feeling, somehow. I wasn’t disturbed but… it didn’t feel… great…?
There are many theories based on interpreting dreams, but there are also many theories that claim our dreams have no meaning.
Dreaming about a wedding has interpretations that include:
“…symbolizing a new beginning or transition in your current life… often negative and highlight some anxiety or fear. It often refers to feelings of bitterness, sorrow, or death. Alternatively, wedding dreams reflect your issues about commitment and independence.”
Or:
“To dream that you are planning your own wedding to someone you never met, is a metaphor symbolizing the union of your masculine and feminine side. It represents a transitional phase where you are seeking some sort of balance between your aggressive side and emotional side.”
Taking such interpretations from Dreammoods.com, I choose option ‘C’ and assume dreams have no real meaning.
On the other hand... I know exactly what song she’s talking about and won’t be able to listen to it again. Specific songs, according to Dreammoods.com, are interpreted to mean:
“…that you are looking at things from a spiritual viewpoint. Your future path is a happy one with good health and much wealth. Consider the words to the song that you are dreaming about for additional messages.”
I guess that’s something to look forward to experiencing.
Do you know what song I'm talking about? She does.
“This is our song!” she told me. I was immediately apprehensive. Usually it’s a song I’m not familiar with or in a genre I dislike.
“Yeah… you sure about that?” I ask; very cocky, too demeaning, trying to shy away from the point.
“Yes, it’s our favorite band. It’s your favorite song! This is our song.”
I had to change the subject. She was on the offense and it was so painful for me to even consider.
“This is the song that you want to be played on our wedding day.”
“…”
She looks at me but not in a way a woman looks at you for confirmation. She already knows her accusations are true and doesn’t need any confirmation.
“…This isn’t even a song”, I try and protest, “…this is the morning weather report!”
She almost immediately begins to tear up.
“ Yo...’ll nev…r …eally gro… …p and liste… to …, will …u?”
“What?” I ask desperately because she wasn’t making any sense.
I wasn’t making any sense.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
5:45 AM
“…accident on I-40. Two cars involved will hold up traffic an extra fifteen minutes. Avoid if possible. Last night, the temperature will drop…”
My alarm clock introduces me to a new day promptly at five, forty-five in the A.M. so I can get a solid thirty to forty-five minutes of weightlifting or cardio before going to work in the morning.
I woke up alone this particular morning. I’m usually disturbed by dreams involving wedding bells of any kind. This was a different feeling, somehow. I wasn’t disturbed but… it didn’t feel… great…?
There are many theories based on interpreting dreams, but there are also many theories that claim our dreams have no meaning.
Dreaming about a wedding has interpretations that include:
“…symbolizing a new beginning or transition in your current life… often negative and highlight some anxiety or fear. It often refers to feelings of bitterness, sorrow, or death. Alternatively, wedding dreams reflect your issues about commitment and independence.”
Or:
“To dream that you are planning your own wedding to someone you never met, is a metaphor symbolizing the union of your masculine and feminine side. It represents a transitional phase where you are seeking some sort of balance between your aggressive side and emotional side.”
Taking such interpretations from Dreammoods.com, I choose option ‘C’ and assume dreams have no real meaning.
On the other hand... I know exactly what song she’s talking about and won’t be able to listen to it again. Specific songs, according to Dreammoods.com, are interpreted to mean:
“…that you are looking at things from a spiritual viewpoint. Your future path is a happy one with good health and much wealth. Consider the words to the song that you are dreaming about for additional messages.”
I guess that’s something to look forward to experiencing.
Do you know what song I'm talking about? She does.
2.05.2008
Unconventional, possibly illegal, definetly not P.C. statements I make in class
- "Are you high?"
- "Did you toke up before class today?"
- "You're an embarrassment to your people"
- "Someone please jump that kid in the parking lot after school."
- "I am now and will forever be better than you"
- "Are you high right now?"
- "..." (I just stare at them sometimes)
- "You couldn't do less work even if you were in a coma"
- "Yes, I'm pro-choice, because some people are too stupid to be breeding."
- "We should swap out those ID cards for shock collars"
- "I hate kids, actually"
- "When you talk, all I hear in my mind is 'Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...'"
- "Go play freeze tag in the street"
- "...eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
- "Lord! Help my people!"
- "I'm going to personally beat you up."
I love my job so much. I can't even begin to explain it.
1.31.2008
They better not cancel school tomorrow...
It’s not easy being single in the winter. I’ve grown to hate the winter season. I’m sick of the indoors. I resent leaving my dog inside all day because it’s far too cold outside. We don’t go jogging everyday and she’s getting chubby. What’s worse is how pale I’ve become. I look my best after some time baking in the sun. It gives me confidence in a vain sort of way. Winter is definitely a time for couples; it’s when all the major couple holidays occur.
Overall, I’m bored of being at home trying to stay warm and it’s freezing outside. I’m not accustomed to it yet. I preferred being at home trying to stay warm with her next to me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My administrator came in to observe me today. If anyone didn’t know my students on an individual basis, they would see a classroom of chaos. In reality, a handful of them have progressed in leaps in bounds since the beginning of the year. Another scoop of them haven’t changed and aren’t going to be inspired to do so by me. An unfortunate majority of them are just well rounded young adults who are accustomed to being overshadowed by the bastards and assholes in their classes and never receive the attention and praise they really deserve because teachers don’t have to worry about them.
They’ll never know how much we appreciate them.
Overall, I’m bored of being at home trying to stay warm and it’s freezing outside. I’m not accustomed to it yet. I preferred being at home trying to stay warm with her next to me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My administrator came in to observe me today. If anyone didn’t know my students on an individual basis, they would see a classroom of chaos. In reality, a handful of them have progressed in leaps in bounds since the beginning of the year. Another scoop of them haven’t changed and aren’t going to be inspired to do so by me. An unfortunate majority of them are just well rounded young adults who are accustomed to being overshadowed by the bastards and assholes in their classes and never receive the attention and praise they really deserve because teachers don’t have to worry about them.
They’ll never know how much we appreciate them.
1.12.2008
How to Meet Single College Girls
Grading papers is boring.
Early in the year, the teaching staff was pulled out of the classroom to attend a seminar with Carol Yago as the presenter. Yago was going to reveal her method of lessening the grading work. I hate having to leave my classes with a sub, but if Carol Yago really had an innovative method of grading, it would be worth it. She didn’t.
Her advice resembled all the local news tips about avoiding hangovers on New Year’s Eve: Remediation! That’s the secret! Just pace yourself and limit your drink intake! Drink water! Don’t forget to eat! Remediation is the key! This isn't good advice or news. It's the same as saying, Don't want a hangover after New Year's Eve? Stay home, do nothing!
In Yago’s seminar, we learn that in order to keep the paper stacks down, we have to grade a little every night. Just plunk yourself down and grade a few papers a night. Sit somewhere without distractions and just grade. Have a glass of wine when you do it! She joked.
I find myself more productive when grading at The Library. Did I mention The Library is a local pub near the university? It’s comfortable to grade papers while being served food, drinks, and have the occasional small talk. Weekly, I’ll venture to The Library with the intentions of grading and bring along my buddy. He also has papers to grade and ideas to write, but usually uses the time to pick up the waitress or any college girl that happens to look like fun. This is the real f’ing secret to grading.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Walking into a pub with a stack of papers attracts attention. I sit and put my red pen to work. My buddy scans the room, analyzing the prospects of adventure. Meanwhile, I die a little inside as I circle a misspelled word on a typed essay; they misspelled “you” by spelling it “u”.
“So, are you like a professor or something?” the waitress inquires to me. They always ask.
“YES! Yes he is!” my friend decides to answer for me, always trying to be my benevolent wingman.
“No, no I’m not. I teach high school.” I correct him and the waitress’ smile fades. “English and Creative Writing”, I offer up since I knew that would be her next question.
“Oh… that’s too bad you’re not a professor… I just started in the nursing school…”
“Yeah, I suppose, heh…congrats… can I get another Boyd Street Wheat?”
“…Coming right up.”
I move to return to my work when my buddy interjects “Wow. What the fuck is wrong with you, Flores? Why didn’t you just tell her you were a professor and keep her attention?”
“…”
“News flash, Flores: chicks do not exactly fall head over heel for guys in the teaching field! Especially a high school teacher because most of them grew up hating high school and want nothing to do with those who remind them of that time in their life” and then he laughs. Laughs at me, not with.
I’m grinning while flipping him off, knowing full-well his point was valid. I wasn’t about to acknowledge this verbally, though.
Early in the year, the teaching staff was pulled out of the classroom to attend a seminar with Carol Yago as the presenter. Yago was going to reveal her method of lessening the grading work. I hate having to leave my classes with a sub, but if Carol Yago really had an innovative method of grading, it would be worth it. She didn’t.
Her advice resembled all the local news tips about avoiding hangovers on New Year’s Eve: Remediation! That’s the secret! Just pace yourself and limit your drink intake! Drink water! Don’t forget to eat! Remediation is the key! This isn't good advice or news. It's the same as saying, Don't want a hangover after New Year's Eve? Stay home, do nothing!
In Yago’s seminar, we learn that in order to keep the paper stacks down, we have to grade a little every night. Just plunk yourself down and grade a few papers a night. Sit somewhere without distractions and just grade. Have a glass of wine when you do it! She joked.
I find myself more productive when grading at The Library. Did I mention The Library is a local pub near the university? It’s comfortable to grade papers while being served food, drinks, and have the occasional small talk. Weekly, I’ll venture to The Library with the intentions of grading and bring along my buddy. He also has papers to grade and ideas to write, but usually uses the time to pick up the waitress or any college girl that happens to look like fun. This is the real f’ing secret to grading.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Walking into a pub with a stack of papers attracts attention. I sit and put my red pen to work. My buddy scans the room, analyzing the prospects of adventure. Meanwhile, I die a little inside as I circle a misspelled word on a typed essay; they misspelled “you” by spelling it “u”.
“So, are you like a professor or something?” the waitress inquires to me. They always ask.
“YES! Yes he is!” my friend decides to answer for me, always trying to be my benevolent wingman.
“No, no I’m not. I teach high school.” I correct him and the waitress’ smile fades. “English and Creative Writing”, I offer up since I knew that would be her next question.
“Oh… that’s too bad you’re not a professor… I just started in the nursing school…”
“Yeah, I suppose, heh…congrats… can I get another Boyd Street Wheat?”
“…Coming right up.”
I move to return to my work when my buddy interjects “Wow. What the fuck is wrong with you, Flores? Why didn’t you just tell her you were a professor and keep her attention?”
“…”
“News flash, Flores: chicks do not exactly fall head over heel for guys in the teaching field! Especially a high school teacher because most of them grew up hating high school and want nothing to do with those who remind them of that time in their life” and then he laughs. Laughs at me, not with.
I’m grinning while flipping him off, knowing full-well his point was valid. I wasn’t about to acknowledge this verbally, though.
1.09.2008
Things You Learn as a Teacher
- It's a big teacher's pet peeve getting new transfer students from other schools... in the middle of Nofuckingvember.
- It's a big teacher's pet peeve when you spend X amount of personal time teaching problem students how to behave like a human being... and they transfer to another school in the middle of Nofuckingvember.
- It's a big teacher's pet peeve when a student acts like a fool and does almost no work in class then misses 1, 2, and sometimes 3 weeks of school in a row just to return for another week... and you're expected to get them caught up with every student who does their work.
- If a student has the characteristics of a classic bully, they usually perform low academically... and grow up to be assholes.
- If a student is a genuine genius and male, they're also the most immature... and are already assholes.
- 90% of the time, a 5 minute conversation with the parent/guardian will explain why a student is a screwed up as they are; and it's a wonder they aren't more screwed up than they are.
That's all for now...
(I jest, not really, but regardless... this is the best career and most important. If you disagree, refer to number 5 on the list and see if this applies to you. Then go take a long look in the mirror. You're probably going to die alone and bitter.)
1.08.2008
My Self-Improvement Plan
“We should always look to improve ourselves.” I proclaimed in class one day. “Just like Odysseus was loved by the gods because he knew there was always something to learn – as proclaimed by that whack-a-doo Aeolus, the wind god.”
“I think we should love ourselves just the way we are”, said the girl in the back row. She was sincere, too.
I never intend to damage my student’s fragile psyche. I didn’t want to say how ridiculous her statement was either. It felt like I stood for five long minutes before finally replying:
“Well… some people don’t like who they were and need to change… for the good of the community.”
It’s all I could think of to not sound too cynical.
--------------------------------------------------------------
It started with the need to exert bottled up stress and testosterone. Then I started going six days a week. Now I’m signed up to learn mixed martial arts four days a week. My buddy became obsessed with a book that supposedly teaches the secret combination of lines and hand signals to pick up women. It’s your basic how-to guide to being a prick. After all, women like dating assholes. So, I started reading that. I soon started to organize my self-improvement plan:
Books to Read:
1. The Game by Neil Strauss
2. The 4 Ingredients Cook Book
3. World War Z by Max Brooks
Monday: 5:30 – wakeup; 6:00 – gym (cardio); 7:00 – shower; 8:00 – teach; 5:00 – box; 6:30 – walk dog ; 8:00 – box (advanced class); 10:00 – grade papers (5-10 per night)
Tuesday: 5:30 – wakeup; 6:00 – gym (back); 7:00 – shower; 8:00 – teach; 6:00 – Mat Work (Jiu Jitsu); 7:30 – walk dog; 10:00 – grade papers
Wednesday: 5:30 – wakeup; 6:00 – gym(triceps); 7:00 – shower; 8:00 – teach;6:00 - kick boxing; 7:30 – walk dog; 10:00 - grade papers
Thursday: 5:30 – wakeup; 6:00 – gym (arms); 7:00 – shower; 8:00 – teach;6:00 – Mat Work (Wrestling); 7:30 – walk dog; 10:00 – grade papers
Friday: 5:30 – wakeup; 6:00 – gym (chest); 7:00 – shower; 8:00 – teach; 4:30 – Weekend begins…
Saturday…
Sunday….
I love my job… and my dog…
“I think we should love ourselves just the way we are”, said the girl in the back row. She was sincere, too.
I never intend to damage my student’s fragile psyche. I didn’t want to say how ridiculous her statement was either. It felt like I stood for five long minutes before finally replying:
“Well… some people don’t like who they were and need to change… for the good of the community.”
It’s all I could think of to not sound too cynical.
--------------------------------------------------------------
It started with the need to exert bottled up stress and testosterone. Then I started going six days a week. Now I’m signed up to learn mixed martial arts four days a week. My buddy became obsessed with a book that supposedly teaches the secret combination of lines and hand signals to pick up women. It’s your basic how-to guide to being a prick. After all, women like dating assholes. So, I started reading that. I soon started to organize my self-improvement plan:
Books to Read:
1. The Game by Neil Strauss
2. The 4 Ingredients Cook Book
3. World War Z by Max Brooks
Monday: 5:30 – wakeup; 6:00 – gym (cardio); 7:00 – shower; 8:00 – teach; 5:00 – box; 6:30 – walk dog ; 8:00 – box (advanced class); 10:00 – grade papers (5-10 per night)
Tuesday: 5:30 – wakeup; 6:00 – gym (back); 7:00 – shower; 8:00 – teach; 6:00 – Mat Work (Jiu Jitsu); 7:30 – walk dog; 10:00 – grade papers
Wednesday: 5:30 – wakeup; 6:00 – gym(triceps); 7:00 – shower; 8:00 – teach;6:00 - kick boxing; 7:30 – walk dog; 10:00 - grade papers
Thursday: 5:30 – wakeup; 6:00 – gym (arms); 7:00 – shower; 8:00 – teach;6:00 – Mat Work (Wrestling); 7:30 – walk dog; 10:00 – grade papers
Friday: 5:30 – wakeup; 6:00 – gym (chest); 7:00 – shower; 8:00 – teach; 4:30 – Weekend begins…
Saturday…
Sunday….
I love my job… and my dog…
1.06.2008
Clarity is Found Only When the Sun Goes Down
I always resented living on the outskirts of this small, college town. It wouldn’t matter except that roads are always under construction, the posted speed limit is rarely over 35 mph, and the town is a cluster f_ck of four way stop signs and lights. Making it across town is always an ordeal.
When you live on the outskirts of a town, the night sky is always wholesome. When I can’t sleep and it’s unusually warm, I’ll take my dog for a walk and appreciate not living closer to the mall, bars, gym, and University.
I was cleaning my classroom the day before school started and found my pile of random holiday cards given by random people. I never understood the allure of holiday cards. Doesn’t everyone have e-mail now? Tossing one after the other into the trash can, two caught my attention.
The second card had an overly muscular caricature of me. A dialogue box accompanied it saying:
It was flattering.
...
Sometimes it’s a card or sincere note that makes you say, “Wow, to hell with everything else”.
When you live on the outskirts of a town, the night sky is always wholesome. When I can’t sleep and it’s unusually warm, I’ll take my dog for a walk and appreciate not living closer to the mall, bars, gym, and University.
I was cleaning my classroom the day before school started and found my pile of random holiday cards given by random people. I never understood the allure of holiday cards. Doesn’t everyone have e-mail now? Tossing one after the other into the trash can, two caught my attention.
Dear Flores,I didn’t “think” this particular student was a stoner; some things you just know.
Thanks for being the only teacher who doesn’t think I’m a
stoner. Merry X-mas!
The second card had an overly muscular caricature of me. A dialogue box accompanied it saying:
"I swear it’s all natural! I don’t take any steroids and never have
time to work out!”
It was flattering.
...
Sometimes it’s a card or sincere note that makes you say, “Wow, to hell with everything else”.
1.03.2008
“That S- -t was getting old”
Whenever going through a break-up, it’s important to maintain control over one’s emotions. Emotions make a weak person act out of character and even irresponsible; sometimes, irreversible.
While getting my first tattoo ever, I had time to reflect on what was behind me and what was in front of me. It was the perfect time for reflection because it kept me unfocused on my fear of needles and until today, had purposely filled my agenda with plans to keep me distracted from thought.
After breaking up, I was anxious to return to my classroom, to return structure and discipline in my daily routine. It’s the smartest strategy to handle any emotionally disrupting event. Regrettably the ice and power outages took this from me, taunted me with it even. School was canceled the remainder of the week due to power outages. I suppose there was plenty of time to return all those gifts…
I soon realized that many local bars did in fact have power.
We returned to school for one more week before leaving again for winter break. It felt good going back after a grueling, lost week. It felt good catching up with everyone again:
“Hey Josh! How did you’re snow day week go? Did you get to spend a lot of time with your girlfriend?”
Well, at least it was going to feel good to catch up. Apparently, not everyone pays attention to the “relationship status is updated” memo on my FaceSpace page. I was really surprised that everyone knew just the wrong things to say:
“Really? Oh no! That’s too bad! She was sweet!”
“She was pretty!”
“She was stacked!”
And even the one person who originally disapproved of her let me down:
“Really? That’s too bad, she was starting to grow on me.”
Whatever happened to the friends that point out how inconsiderate, high-maintenance, spoiled, and mentally faulty all ex’s are? They couldn’t see it, but I was getting tired of all that shit.
(Well… not all exs are like that…)
The constant reminder had successfully followed me to my inner sanctum but the profession has a way of forcing you to perceiver. Every morning, despite personal woes and gripes, it’s necessary to put it on a shelf until you find time out of public view to let it out. The text books on classroom management label it as “Modeling”. Modeling what it looks like to be a mature and responsible adult.
At the end of the week, I collected all the relationship artifacts from my house, including gifts given to me. It was the first day of winter break when I drove over to her apartment. I remember taking the long way to give myself time to plan out a really great speech. A speech that in a mature and respectable tone conveyed that she politely “go f-ck herself”.
I was ready and walking up her steps.
I was standing in front of her door.
I was… wasting my time. She had been wasting my time.
Before dating Amy, there was never time to get any structure reintroduced into my life. I never learned how to live without Melanie. Instead, I settled for the first Siren I sailed past.
I hung the bag of artifacts on her door. She’d probably find them. It didn’t matter; she was probably at work anyway.
I left for Dallas to kick off my winter break. The weekend was a blur, but not always blurry enough. Now I’m sitting with Rocco. He’s been doing tattoo “art” for over a decade.
I’m eager to get back to my classroom; structure and self-discipline.
The first semester wasn’t over yet but already left its mark.
While getting my first tattoo ever, I had time to reflect on what was behind me and what was in front of me. It was the perfect time for reflection because it kept me unfocused on my fear of needles and until today, had purposely filled my agenda with plans to keep me distracted from thought.
After breaking up, I was anxious to return to my classroom, to return structure and discipline in my daily routine. It’s the smartest strategy to handle any emotionally disrupting event. Regrettably the ice and power outages took this from me, taunted me with it even. School was canceled the remainder of the week due to power outages. I suppose there was plenty of time to return all those gifts…
I soon realized that many local bars did in fact have power.
We returned to school for one more week before leaving again for winter break. It felt good going back after a grueling, lost week. It felt good catching up with everyone again:
“Hey Josh! How did you’re snow day week go? Did you get to spend a lot of time with your girlfriend?”
Well, at least it was going to feel good to catch up. Apparently, not everyone pays attention to the “relationship status is updated” memo on my FaceSpace page. I was really surprised that everyone knew just the wrong things to say:
“Really? Oh no! That’s too bad! She was sweet!”
“She was pretty!”
“She was stacked!”
And even the one person who originally disapproved of her let me down:
“Really? That’s too bad, she was starting to grow on me.”
Whatever happened to the friends that point out how inconsiderate, high-maintenance, spoiled, and mentally faulty all ex’s are? They couldn’t see it, but I was getting tired of all that shit.
(Well… not all exs are like that…)
The constant reminder had successfully followed me to my inner sanctum but the profession has a way of forcing you to perceiver. Every morning, despite personal woes and gripes, it’s necessary to put it on a shelf until you find time out of public view to let it out. The text books on classroom management label it as “Modeling”. Modeling what it looks like to be a mature and responsible adult.
At the end of the week, I collected all the relationship artifacts from my house, including gifts given to me. It was the first day of winter break when I drove over to her apartment. I remember taking the long way to give myself time to plan out a really great speech. A speech that in a mature and respectable tone conveyed that she politely “go f-ck herself”.
I was ready and walking up her steps.
I was standing in front of her door.
I was… wasting my time. She had been wasting my time.
Before dating Amy, there was never time to get any structure reintroduced into my life. I never learned how to live without Melanie. Instead, I settled for the first Siren I sailed past.
I hung the bag of artifacts on her door. She’d probably find them. It didn’t matter; she was probably at work anyway.
I left for Dallas to kick off my winter break. The weekend was a blur, but not always blurry enough. Now I’m sitting with Rocco. He’s been doing tattoo “art” for over a decade.
I’m eager to get back to my classroom; structure and self-discipline.
The first semester wasn’t over yet but already left its mark.
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