Posts Tagged ‘education’

25
Jan
2018

party girl

categories: me

I did my best to participate in the debauchery and depravity that is college life. In all honesty, I went to college to…you’ll never guess…get an education! Really. No one forced me to be there. There were no parental units guilt-tripping me into attending. The cocaine-toting, binge-drinking party-goers sort of swirled around my book-reading, homework-doing college self.

I am definitely not trying to paint some picture of a good girl. That, I was not. But, I was studious. And, I took college seriously because I was genuinely interested in learning. I had always loved school. As an escape from home but also as a place to learn about the big, wide world outside of my small-town life. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to experience everything.

I spent much of my high school career focused on extracurricular activities — college was the place for learning, I decided. College was the place to finally get a sense of the world around me. The history, the culture, the literature. I was a product of shitty, small-town schools, with the occasional incredible teacher but mostly a sea of small-minded, right-leaning, mostly white, mostly christian people. I was caught in the middle of the conservative reality of the town I called home and the liberal, commune ideology I’d grown up around.

College was, for me and for many others, a place where I could finally be myself. Or, rather, be the self I always wanted to be. I could shed the reputation I had earned/inherited, get labeled with all new adjectives, stick myself into the categories and groups I felt best defined me or supported me, and make all new friends. Friends who knew nothing about my background. People with whom I could start fresh.

It was exhilarating for me. Moving 3,000 miles away from where anyone knew my name was the most important gift I could have given my adolescent self. The gift of anonymity–where I could feel safe and free and normal.

11
Jan
2018

hello, again (written in a fury whilst battling pneumonia)

categories: california, me, teaching

So, it’s been nearly two years. Here’s what happened…

I moved across the country and got swept up in excitement and planning–packing and unpacking, organizing and searching and life was hectic for a good long while. I started a new job and moved into a new house. My daughter started at one school. Then moved to another one. We traveled a bit, my back issues returned. I hit some health road blocks and made a bunch of changes in my life. Trump got elected and it drained all hope from my body. I fell into a very real depression and went on medication for the first time in my life–to treat my mental and emotional state. And, then, there were a million other things in-between.

So, here I am. Devastated and still reeling about the state of our country and our political landscape. Losing my mind over having a daughter and feeling so scared for her future every day.

I almost started blogging again but didn’t really know how to address the way I was feeling. I didn’t feel that I could accurately articulate the sorrow and fear and lack of hope. I still don’t feel qualified to discuss the state of our world and the myriad ways in which people are affected by our current leaders. But, needless to say, it is a horrifying time to be anything but a rich, white, Christian, cisgender, heterosexual man.

There are plenty of great websites with links to all of the things you can do to be a part of the revolution. Whether it’s time, money or power you can part with–there are many ways to get involved. I have found that feeling like I’m doing something (whether I am or not is a trickier conversation) has been the only thing to get me out of bed. I have joined and contributed and volunteered and written letters and made calls and marched through streets. It’s never enough. But, it’s something.

I am living in a privileged bubble out here in small town, California. We are not all so lucky. This man is ruining lives, endangering communities, and undoing so much of what has been done to embolden and empower folks who have been disenfranchised, abused and silenced.

So, I go to work. I teach middle school now. And, I talk about race and class and gender and sexuality and politics. I talk about the power of language and what it means to be an ally. I assign books by women and people of color. I discuss the need for windows and mirrors in literature. Books should be a reflection of ourselves, our lives and experiences and realities. They should also be a window into the realities of others–folks who don’t look, live or exist as we do.

I start GSA and Ally clubs, bring LGBTQI training to our staff and push for changes to our handbooks to ensure the safety and security of ALL students. I take my kids to environmental film festivals and put up signs on my door that piss off the Trump-voter parents in my class. I keep my political viewpoints to myself but make it known that I am against bullying of any kind at any level. I tell my students that they are powerful, that they can change the world. I read I am Malala aloud and explain that it is up to them to find and fight against injustice. To speak up and speak out.

My daughter doesn’t know words like, “asshole, racist, imbecile, narcissist, bigot, chauvinist, etc.” What she does know is, “bully and stinker.” Those are the worst words in her vocabulary. But, if you heard her refer to Trump as a, “Stinkin, stinker, bully, potty, poo, pee-pee-head, meanie” you would think she had just uttered the most obscene profanity known to womankind. Her face gets scrunched up and serious and her body tightens, her fists pump in the air and she is mad. She’s actually mad. She hates this man. She hears NPR in the morning and listens to us talk in the evening. She picks up on conversations and nuances and body language. And, we talk to her about him. We tell her in words she’ll understand. He is a bully–to all people, everywhere. He is not smart. He doesn’t care about our planet and he’s not a nice person.

I am not in Trump country. But I’m not not in Trump country. I’m in 50/50 land. So, it’s been a divisive year in an already divided community. And, striking the balance between respecting differing belief systems while still holding folks accountable for what they are ACTUALLY advocating for is difficult…and, incredibly important. Particularly as a teacher and a parent and a woman and…a freaking human. So, I do my best. There are some days when I completely fail. And, others where I am so proud of myself for the thing I said or didn’t say or the conversation I had with my students.

I am out of the denial stage, the intense anger has faded, depression is on the mend and so I’m left with (un)acceptance. I accept that it’s real but refuse to accept the reality.

Short story: I’m back.

19
Jan
2016

work // past

categories: alzheimers, family

“You’ll get over him,” she whispered as she downed a shot of creamy, unfiltered sake. I’m not sad because of some guy, you twit, I thought as the 19-year-old waitress crouched down behind the sake bar with me as I sobbed. Something had set me off. Some movement of a plate or a gentle hand gesture, maybe it was the way that elegant woman had unfolded her napkin–something had unleashed the well of sadness that had been lingering just below the surface. I had turned from the table, plates in hand, a stream of tears falling from my chin, and silently slid down the wall until I was out of sight. I had planned on a quiet cry, just letting the sadness valve open for a short time–until I could find some way of plugging it up and getting back to work.

She offered me a shot, “If they don’t drink it, we shouldn’t just let it go to waste.” We had a policy of eating any untouched sushi and drinking any unfinished sake. “It’s not like they’re drinking from the bottle,” we’d told ourselves. “They didn’t actually touch the sushi. I mean, it’s on an entirely different plate. It’s totally not gross to eat off a platter of unfinished food,” we’d convinced each other. I didn’t have the energy to explain to her that I was mourning. Mourning my mothers slow decline into nothingness, watching her body finally decay the way I had watched her mind rot over the past five years–not the demise of some crush. I didn’t have the patience to watch as she attempted to grasp the seriousness of my situation, the weight of the truth. I couldn’t bear to politely nod as she fumbled around for some platitude that would serve only to make her feel better. You live in a bubble, I thought as I stared into her dark eyes, following the shine of her tightly pulled back ponytail, down her slender shoulders, over her perfect tits.

I was only a few years older than her but it felt like we lived on different planets. She, with her pressed black pants and heels, next to my threadbare Dickies and black sneakers–how did she wear those heels all day? We must have covered two miles during our 8-hour shift–not to mention all the bending down to place the bowls just so and the ginger to the left and the wasabi on the right and all the trekking back to the kitchen, carrying boxes of avocados and bags of shredded cabbage. I got a weekly lecture on how my shirts weren’t clean enough, “But, I washed them, I swear,” I lied. I had two shirts to wear to work, which meant if I worked 5 days a week, I’d have to do laundry twice during my workweek. I didn’t even have a car–I hitchhiked to work every day–how was I supposed to hitch (arms filled with dirty clothes) to the laundromat twice a week? Meanwhile, she looked like she’d bought a new shirt for each shift. I was fresh out of college–filled with sermons on feminism and class struggles, on systemic racism and the wealth gap. I had traveled Europe and the U.S., I’d lived outside our small town for four years and would never have returned had my mother not been dying. She was fresh out of high school, no desire to go to college, no desire to do much beyond wait tables and look beautiful. What a wonderful life, I thought, staring at her manicured hands. I’ll never feel that. I will never know what it’s like to be unburdened, to be young, to be free from responsibility.

“Yeah, he’s a real shit,” I said–creating the version of my life she could comprehend. “But, I’ll get over it, him, whatever.” I faltered. “Totally,” she said through her bright white teeth. “Now, let’s get back to work before Madame sees us!” She grabbed my arm, handed me another shot of sake and stacked my plates. “You’ll so find someone better,” she offered as a parting sentiment. “Yeah,” I responded. “Totally replaceable.”

 

03
Dec
2015

on teaching & being human (a rant)

categories: teaching

Teachers are expected to be superhuman.

To not think about themselves, to not have lives outside of their classrooms or be prone to bouts of negativity. To not be the type of people who need to let off steam or have feelings toward other humans–whether they be child or adult.

This disturbs me greatly.

We are not in the business of saving lives–although many of us take our jobs seriously enough that we feel as though we can impact lives in a huge way. But, that’s how we are treated. As though some tiny misstep, one little shred of weakness, one human emotion, and someone could DIE. And, therefore–since we are supposed to act like gods while we’re treated like servants–we should be fired for being human, reprimanded, or at the very least, shamed publicly.

Have you ever had surgery? Have you ever watched surgeons during surgery? They have funky playlists and no qualms about idle chatter. Do we scold them for acknowledging that even though they are saving and risking lives–it’s also just their job? Do we shame them for being so callous as to discuss their weekend plans before cutting you open? No. We pat them on the back and say, Job well done. Bravo. How skilled you are, how precise, how brave and bold.

I’m not trying to rag on doctors. Respect. I’m just trying to point out the insane double-standard we seem to have in this country when it comes to certain professions.

Teachers are consistently berated for simply having human thoughts. I can’t tell you how many books I read in my first year of teaching that describe, in detail, how negative teachers are–and warned against the evil that lurked in the teachers lounge. It is a place of malice, it is a place of hate and darkness. Teachers go there to say ugly things–about each other, about their students, about the administration and the PTA, to bitch incessantly. Don’t go! they warn. Don’t let them drag you down to their underworld, the books preach.

Well, first of all it is a non-issue in New York, because who has space for a teachers lounge? But, we meet in classrooms or in school yards, we congregate in shared spaces and find solace in each other. In the shared experiences and the shared grievances. In the shared joys and successes. We plan field trips, talk through curriculum. We discuss books–educational and non, we talk politics, babies, weekend plans. We collect contributions for baby showers and bridal showers, funereal costs, and birthday presents–we plan Friday happy hour. It’s a safe space for people who understand your particular struggles and your particular triumphs. Yes, there is kvetching–about kids, about disrespectful parents, about run-ins with administrators and teachers who we feel could be doing more.

My question is, what’s the harm? Why the drama?

Why can’t teachers speak honestly about their experiences? Why can’t teachers come together to ask for help from their colleagues? Why can’t teachers congregate and discuss hardships–be they curriculum or human-based? This rhetoric around the evil teacher who sins by being truthful or blunt is so disturbing to me. And it is continually reinforced by these “teaching” books by “educators”. I would like to know who these supposed educators are–writing about the evils of having feelings and discussing them openly. I’m not trying to be a conspiracy theorist here, but…they can’t actually be teachers, can they? This vitriolic dialogue about educators simply serves to reinforce unfair stereotypes. It does nothing to change the conversation or challenge commonly held beliefs–be they true or fabricated.

Let’s talk about the camaraderie of teachers, the necessity of colleagues. Let’s be real about how draining–emotionally and physically–the profession is. Let’s just say out loud that some kids wreak havoc on our lives, treat us disrespectfully, fight, are sneaky, are cruel and dishonest, are generally pains in our asses. Why can’t we acknowledge that? Because it’s not pc to say–because they’re tiny humans and so we attach to them some sort of immunity from being human. And, listen, those kids get a new start every day. They get a smile and the benefit of the doubt; they get endless patience and hours of us trying to figure them out. They get, “let’s find their buy-in” and “let’s complete a functional behavior assessment and see if we can’t figure out the antecedent to the tricky behavior.” They get behavior plans and model-student partnerships, they get one-on-one help and meetings with parents, reading buddies, and after-school tutoring. Sometimes a tricky kid is a product of poor parenting, shitty circumstances, abuse, realities of a cruel and unfair world. And, that’s real and it’s horrifying. And, I spent years surrounded by trauma in my first half decade of teaching. And, it nearly killed me inside. I cried every damn day my first year of teaching. I cried after lockdowns and guns in our school, I cried after cousins got jumped and mothers were murdered, I cried every week when I called ACS and had to report yet another horror story–things I will never erase from my memory, images I can never un-see.

We are on the front lines. It is an impossibly hard job–especially in certain parts of the world/country/city. We are the ones saying, we’re here for you, we aren’t going anywhere, you are safe. You can breathe here and flourish and think and wonder. I will support you, I will love you, I will do everything in my power to help you love yourself and to help you think critically about the world around you. But, I am still allowed to be wrecked by the end of my day. I am allowed to scream about injustice and to rage about inequality and abuse. And, I should be supported in having a glass of wine and talking about my outrageously difficult day–otherwise, I won’t survive it. It will gnaw at my insides and empty me out until there is nothing left but a angry, hostile shell.

Every day we play: therapist, mommy, friend, coach, peace-maker, advocate, evaluator, motivator–and now I sound like a t-shirt slogan, but you get the idea. It’s a big job. It’s a hard job. It’s exhausting if you’re doing it well. And, all I’m asking is for a little understanding from the outside world. A little support for the ways in which I take care of myself and keep from burning out–discussing my feelings and the things/people that/who are stressing me out, dissecting reactions to particular interactions, breaking down my strengths and weaknesses, and yes, some plain old shit-talking with colleagues. Just like everyone else. Because we are teachers and leaders but we are also just humans. Working alongside other humans. Interacting and navigating the same air space.

22
Aug
2015

i’ve never heard my father’s voice on the telephone

categories: me, new york

“That’s a poem. Right there. What a strange thing,” my poetry professor said, breathing heavily, leaned forward in his gray, ikea swivel chair. We sat in his windowless office, each of us sucking in the same stale air. Beads of sweat ran down his balding temples as he wrung his hands, wiping them on his slacks every few minutes. It was the beginning of September but it was still hot. Swelteringly hot. And humid. Cicadas still whistled outside, the grass was limp with heat and I swear there were some confused fireflies still flitting about in the early evenings. Fall had not yet fallen in New York.

Why haven’t I taken a writing class? I wondered as I flipped through the course offerings the summer before my senior year. “You should really think about seeing one of our writing tutors,” my Environmental Studies professor had said after reading my first paper. I ignored his recommendation but continued to double or triple-load my coursework for the next three years. I agonized over which classes to take. I read and reread course descriptions, desperately trying to figure out which classes would be best suited to my particular interests at the time (environmentalism, social justice, policies and politics, latin american studies).

The start of my senior year of college hadn’t been easy. Summer had ended with the realization that my on-again, off-again boyfriend was a covert heroin addict. By mid-year my mother was actively dying from early-onset Alzheimers and I had undergone unsuccessful back surgery which left me in more rather than less pain. So, an easy course load, I decided, was the only way to get through the year. Poetry, photography and one more sociology course for good measure. One entitled, Protest & Art: How art has birthed movements and movements have birthed art. Or something to that effect. In my four years I had established myself as the social sciences darling. My professor had even asked me to sit in on the interviews and help him pare down the admittance list. But, this would be the year to take an art class, finally. And, a writing one too.

I spent my first few weeks of classes lying on the ground, having received approval from the office of Students with Disabilities. I hobbled in, explaining that lying prostrate on the floor was the only way that I could cope with the pain. I hadn’t responded well to the pain meds and was hesitant to pop pills anyhow. I’ve never been much of a medication person. I blame it on my hippie upbringing. A sacred physical vessel and all that.

“How is that possible?” Jeff asked, puzzled. “You have a relationship with him, right? By that I mean, he is in your life. You speak to him. You visit him when you’re back in California, yes?” he paused. “So, how do you make plans? Do you email him?”

“No,” I explained. “He doesn’t do anything directly.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. His interest piqued. I could see him floating ideas for his own poem. My strange upbringing and experience perfect fodder for his dark, human-experience poetry. “So…what would happen if you were to call and ask for him?”

“Well, I suppose that if he were available…and wanted to talk to me…that he would speak through one of the women.”

“Speak through them?! Like, a medium? Speak through them metaphysically?”

“No, no. Speak through them, literally,” I said, regretting having mentioned it at all. “No one would go and get him. But, if he happened to be in the main house when I called and felt inclined — for whatever reason — to say hello, then it would go something like this:

‘Say hi to dad for me.’

‘She says hello.’ the woman would say aloud to my dad who would be sitting down for lunch.

‘School’s going well. I’m really enjoying my poetry class,’ I might say.

‘She says she’s liking her poetry class,’ she would relay. Then she would either hold the phone up near my father so I could hear his response — provided he had one — or he would reply and she would paraphrase his words back to me. This would go on until our (very short) conversation came to a lull. At which point I would lie and say that I had to go and they would know that I was lying but be more than happy to oblige. And, I would say goodbye and they would yell ‘goodbye’ and that would be that,” I explained.

“Hmm,” Jeff squinted as he caressed his stubbly chin. His brow furrowed, hunched forward, dripping with perspiration.

“Yep. That’s what I meant when I said I’d never heard his voice on the phone. I don’t know, it’s just one of those weird quirky things, I guess. Not a big deal. I’m not sure how that gets worked into a poem. But, then again, what do I know about writing,” I admitted, biting the inside of my cheek and tasting the sweet metallic flavor of blood.

“Fascinating,” he continued. “Just fascinating. Do you have other stories like that? Other, as you say, ‘quirky’ tales from your childhood?”

“Um…I don’t know. Probably. Honestly, it didn’t really occur to me that it was weird until I said it out loud and you told me how strange that was.”

“Right. Right. Well, keep digging. Think back to a specific time in your life. Remember a smell. Or, a sensation. One word someone said. Poetry can come from anywhere. Read tomorrow’s headlines. Start there if you can’t come up with something from your own life. There’s always an interesting story. A beautiful headline. I want five poems by next week. Let’s pick back up in our conference next Wednesday.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I said with a half-smile and backed out of his door, winding my way through the dim corridor and out into the orange September sun.

11
Aug
2015

rainy days

categories: california, me, new york, teaching

I love them. So many people talk about how depressed they get when it rains. But, it just makes me feel content. Quiet, introverted. I want to curl up next to a crackling fireplace and read a book. A real book. With paper pages. Of course, on the East Coast you get rainy days even when it’s warm. Which is very different from how weather works on the West Coast. In California if it’s raining, it’s cold. There is no such thing as a warm, summer deluge. If it’s raining in the summer, El Nino is nigh.

Now, if you’re living in Portland and dealing with rain for 60% of the year I get being bummed seeing yet another gray day. But, I think growing up in a very dry place — where rain is celebrated and welcomed — really set the tone for my relationship with precipitation.

I’m not sure there is a better smell than rain. The scent that emanates from wet pavement after the first shower, it’s indescribable. The way arid, dusty soil soaks up the water, the honeyed steam, like a cloud of sweet smoke rising from the ground. The way the grass intensifies in color and in fragrance. The trees take on that earthy, mustiness. City or country, it’s magnificent.

I love going to the coast on gray days. Perhaps because most days on the Pacific Ocean are gray. We’re the only ones camping on Fire Island in October. Which is great for us. My ideal walk on the beach includes fog in the distance, rich, thick clouds over head and the smidgen of moisture in the air. A hot, sunny walk? Ugh, no thank you. I’m not really a lay-sprawled-on-a-towel to tan kind of gal, I guess. I mean, I think the cluster of freckles and a little bronzing of my face helps to conceal the dark under-eye areas — and the mess of wrinkles I’ve accumulated over the years — but mostly, I am not a tanner or a swimmer. I’m an appreciater. That’s a word, I swear.

I love teaching on rainy days. The kids come in soaked and jittery. We spend a little more time doing independent reading and a little more time on art projects those days. I play music and turn off the lights. We sit silently at the window to listen to the pitter-patter or more likely, the downpour outside. I giggle and make silly faces, I dance and sing and take it upon myself to be the sunshine. They moan and groan about not getting to go outside but then get really excited when they tell me about the movie they’re going to watch with their families when they get home. They sulk over being wet but then I watch them refuse the umbrella their adult has brought and jump into the nearest puddle, splashing and screaming, stomping their muddied boots, heads upward, catching water droplets in their mouths, palms open, stretched skyward, happy.

I think, even if it’s just secretly, everyone actually loves the rain. Or, at least, that’s what I’d like to believe.

31
Jul
2015

just a friendly conversation

categories: brooklyn, new york, teaching

“Aren’t you at all concerned with the way in which they handle behavioral issues? They’re quite strict. And, they believe in…consequences!” my mom-friend whispered to me in hushed tones. As though they were listening. As though she’d just divulged some terrible crime. She was fuming over an incident at the YMCA — where she paid a whole $87/month and had access to endless classes, lessons, activities and events for her and her family of four. The ballet instructor had reprimanded her daughter when she told another girl her twirl was wrong and her tutu was ugly.

“I’m…no. I’m not overly concerned with it,” I said, carefully weighing my words. Think. Think before you speak, I reminded myself. Your words have consequences. Your approach to teaching and learning are not the mainstream ideology of Park Slope-ians.

“I’m really sorry you had a bad experience there,” I said. That’s right, turn it around, I thought. “It’s really upsetting when things don’t go the way you expect them to,” I continued. Yes, this is good, I thought. Keep going in this direction. “You should raise your kid in whatever way feels right for you. However…I mean, well, she can’t be getting paid much,” I said. No. No, don’t do it, don’t go there. But it was too late. “We can’t exactly expect her to be up on all the latest parenting or behavioral management techniques. I mean, she’s a dancer. She’s not really a teacher by trade. She works at the Y, for god’s sake.”

“This is my daughter’s first experience with a teacher. I want it to be a positive one,” she said sharply. “This will lay the groundwork for how she views teachers for the rest of her life. If she doesn’t have a good experience now, she may never want to go to school.” She was mad. I could see it. She had expected me to get on board with her indignation. She had hoped for my support. She’s a teacher, I’m sure she’d thought. She’ll understand.

This was a regular occurrence in my profession. Parents expecting me to agree with their views on education. And, to agree with their parenting choices around education.

No, I do not think that one less-than-perfect experience when a kid is 4 will create lasting and irreversible trauma around schools and teachers. If you lose your temper once is your family doomed? That’s it, I’ve been fired as a mother because Zoe did not appreciate that I yelled at her.

No, I do not think that holding a child accountable for her actions and for how those actions effect those around her, is unjust and cruel. I think it’s going to make your kid a more empathetic and thoughtful human.

No, I don’t think that the first time she interacts with a “teacher” has to be perfect or else she will forever hate and distrust teachers. Was her first trip to the doctor perfect? How about the grocery store? Who is this delicate flower who may never want to talk to another teacher because she made her apologize to a kid who’s feelings she hurt? Who is this kid that you are raising who is incapable of resilience, perspective-taking, empathy? Are you not concerned by this?

One single teacher cannot be everything to everyone. Your perfect teacher is not Madison’s mommy’s perfect teacher. Or Elijah’s two dads’ perfect teacher. It’s not Procopio’s family’s version of perfect. It’s just yours. Model who you want your child to be. Let teachers teach and be who they are. They are working hard to meet the needs of all 28 students in their classroom. Don’t make them work even harder to meet your needs too. It’s not part of their job description.

I’m not in the business of judging other parents. We’re all doing our best. We’re all doing what we think is right. I could sure as hell be doing a lot more a lot better.

I will say, though, that I am a huge fan of public schools. And, of letting kids figure shit out. At school, at home, on the playground. School does not make kids smart. Not by itself. School doesn’t fix societies wrongs or teach kids about being compassionate citizens of the world. So much of this stuff is done at home. Modeled by families. Okay, yes, some of it is done in school. Of course. But, you get my point.

Do I want my kid to have a good experience in school? Of course. Do I want her to like her teachers? Yes. Do I want her to be inspired to learn and question and think critically? You see where I’m going with this. But, people take it too far. School is supposed to be everything for a child. Their family, their support system, their counselor, their savior. It starts to feel like no one is holding families accountable for anything. I can say from my experience as a teacher…in many ways you feel helpless and powerless. You can only instill so much. Kids go home at the end of every day and every weekend and all summer. So much of the good that gets done in a day is undone by the time the following morning bell rings.

For that reason and many more, I choose to prioritize my daughter’s life experiences. As a whole. Not just her school experience. You will not find me fighting to get her into the classroom of “the best teacher” at her school. Here’s why: It’s ok for kids to have bad teachers. It’s not ideal. But, it’s okay. By “bad” I mean not the teacher YOU have decided is the ideal teacher. For some, that’s a strict, curriculum-focused, data-driven, serious person. For others, it’s an artistic, fun, funny, rule-bending, process-over-product person. There are so many different types of teachers…it’s almost as if they’re just regular humans like you and me.

The occasional crap teacher is good practice. An adult with a different approach to the world than myself? Great. A person who forces my kid to be adaptable and flexible and to modify her behavior to fit different expectations. I’m in. I mean, if a teacher is a bad human and saying hurtful things or teaching inaccurate facts and sitting on his ass all day or bullying kids, well, I’ll kill a fucker. But, a teacher who doesn’t see the world as I do? That’s great for my kid. She won’t be traumatized because someone holds her to different standards than I do.

“We’re just in daycare,” I’d said to a woman on the playground one evening after work.

“Oh, us too,” she responded “What’s up with those crazy parents who are obsessing over pre-k and, like, worrying about where their 2-year-olds are going to school? Jesus, I’m just happy if they’re feeding her and keeping her alive and you know, happy most of the time.”

“Yes!” I said. A bit too loudly and emphatically. This was someone I could be friends with. No one makes new friends in their thirties but this will be my exception. She’s smart, she’s got a kid my daughter’s age, she’s gorgeous and funny. It’s a freakin’ soulmate-friend situation. “It’s insane to be consumed with the education of a 3-year-old. Paint, dirt, water, some books. Social skills. Right? That’s where it’s at. Turn-taking, sharing, reacting without frustration…” I could see my new bestie losing interest. What had I said wrong? It was going so well. “I mean, right?” I sort of half laughed and half stuttered.

“Two-year-olds are one thing. But, we’ve got Mira on the waitlist for a great 3’s program in Tribeca. It’s supposed to be the best in the city. And, anyone who goes there is guaranteed a K spot in their sister school, and an elementary spot in the parent school. Which means, she’ll end up in their cousin school for middle school and get into any college she wants.”

I kid you not. This was a real conversation. Except the sister/cousin/brother business. The schools had real names.

It was so outrageous, I honestly thought she was pulling my leg at first.

This is what I have learned about some people. Not all people but some of them. Some folks have this incredible ability to just believe whole-heartedly and without any doubts in their mind in whatever the latest trendy thing is. Parent trend, celebrity trend, education trend, fashion trend. They are all in. Until they’re out. And, then they are all out. And, they cannot even see that the views they held less than a month ago now completely contradict the ones they are currently holding. “We cannot wait to have a baby and change the world one person at a time.” Turns into, “Population control is real. This planet is overpopulated and we refuse to participate in the chaos.”

That one’s real too.

I wish I could be like that. I wish I could just believe in things. Just blindly and without all the questioning and wondering and the what if’s. How freeing it must be. How clear the world must seem. Everything in black and white all the time. I am always making things far more complicated than they need to be. Over-explaining and overthinking. What if I could just believe that I was right all the time? Those people must feel very powerful.

27
Jul
2015

adult books (the non-pornographic sort)

categories: me

I hate a question that starts with, “What’s your favorite…”

I loathe having to make a choice. That’s not entirely true, I just feel like there is a time and place for one thing or another. Salty or sweet depending on the day. Or both, if that’s what I’m in the mood for.

My favorite color? To look at, to wear, to paint with? Favorite movie? For when I’m in a foul mood, for when I need a laugh, for when I want to be challenged?

You see what I mean? Context. It all comes down to the specifics of the moment.

That said, here are a few of my all-time favorite reads. Books that have left me quiet, introspective and immobilized for days at a time. Books I couldn’t put down. Books whose beauty made me feel like, “Well, that’s the last book I’ll ever read. How can anyone top that?” That is especially true for Pale Fire. I’m not sure there is a better book than that one.

So, here are my top picks. I’m sure I’m forgetting some, but these are the ones that have withstood the test of time (and memory):

A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce

The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan

Catch 22 by Joseph Heller

Half Broke Horses by Jeannette Walls

The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison

Pale Fire & Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov

The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner

To the Lighthouse & Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson

I like a lot of nonfiction. In fact, it took me a while to really embrace the fiction world. Nabokov, Camus and Woolf helped me with that problem (could I sound more elitist?) I used to be kind of a book snob. Judgy and snooty about popular, summer reads. Now, I love those books. They don’t make my all-time favorite list but, they have their time and place.

Again, it’s all about what I’m in the mood for. Lately, I want a lighthearted, easy read. I’ve gotten similarly lazy with my audio endeavors. I used to listen to a ton of experimental and punk music. Now, I spend a lot of time in the genre I like to call “easy listening.” I’m not embarrassed to admit it. I also watch really crappy t.v. shows. My Netflix queue would horrify my 20-year-old self.

I think this is what they call, “getting older.”

22
Jul
2015

Life as a first grade teacher

categories: new york, teaching

“You should really wear makeup, Miss. My mama wears makeup and she’s real pretty. She don’t look like you.”

“Well, Xavier, women don’t actually have to wear makeup. It’s not a law. Not all women want to,” I explain. “It’s okay to make your own choices as a person.”

“But, you look tired. You look prettier if you put makeup on.”

“I appreciate your opinion, sweetie. But, it isn’t very nice to tell someone that they need to put makeup on to be pretty. I don’t tell you that you have to dress a certain way to look handsome. You look like a kind and intelligent human no matter what you’re wearing.”

“I got style, Miss.”

“You certainly do, Xavier. I agree. But, I would be able to notice your charm even if you didn’t have ‘style’ to speak of.”

“Dance skills too. You seen ’em. I can do all Michael Jackson’s moves.”

“Yes, I know you can,” I say.

“And, why you got boy hair? My mama says only boys have short hair,” he continues.

“Well, I can tell you that I do not identify as a boy. And, I have short hair. What do you make of that? We call that a conundrum.”

“I don’t know about no cone drum but you do look like a boy. I mean, you’re nice and all, and I know you a girl but you don’t look like no girl.”

“Hmmm, yes, well I can see why that might feel confusing for you.”

16
Jul
2015

merry, mary & marry

categories: new york, teaching

There was a time in New York City’s history when five-year-olds were not legally required to attend school. We’re not talking about 1950. Kindergarten was not mandatory in New York until 2012. Two thousand twelve! It’s crazy.

As a first grade teacher pre-2012, thems was dark times. Half my kids had gone to Kindergarten and knew the drill. Half were brand new to having a schedule and lining up and, you know, sitting still for extended periods of time.

It was a mad house.

I was teaching up in East Harlem at the time and doing a whole lot of small group, differentiated instruction to meet the myriad needs in my classroom.

Word study was a particularly fun (can you hear the sarcasm?) subject to teach. With a huge array of needs there was absolutely no room for whole-group instruction in this subject area.

Word study is exactly what it sounds like. It includes things like rhyming, word families, pattern recognition, phonetic principles, English language norms (the rules and the rules for breaking those rules), etcetera. It’s considered one of the five necessary components of reading readiness: phonics, phonemic awareness, vocabulary, fluency and comprehension.

I digress.

This was not meant to be a lecture on educational philosophy or a plug for my belief in whole language instruction or a history lesson on New York’s academic realities.

I just wanted to share a funny story.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m home with this giant teacher manual, planning out my groups and marking the pages I need to xerox when I come across what I am absolutely positive is a mistake.

“Honey, come here a sec,” I shout to my boyfriend who is preparing a modest breakfast of coffee and toast. Because we have spent every last bit of our combined income on this glorious one-bedroom in Queens.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“This is so weird. Say these three words for me.”

“Mary, merry and marry. Why?”

“Right,” I counter.

“Huh?”

“I just mean, yeah, you’re right. These words all sound exactly the same. Why would they all be in different categories?”

“What? I have no idea. Maybe it’s a mistake.”

“Must be,” I conclude. And so, I plan accordingly.

Monday rolls around and I’m checking in with my coteacher, explaining the work I’ve done and the curriculum I’ve laid out for my groups.

“Wait?! What is this?” she asks, looking fairly confused.

“Oh, there’s a mistake in the manual,” I explain. “It’s so weird. They put these three words in three different families. Why would they do that? They’re homophones. They should be in the same family.”

Danielle, my coteacher, is roaring with laughter.

“What. Is. So. Funny?” I ask, knowing I’m about to feel like a fool.

Now, Danielle is lovely. She’s an amazing teacher, she’s patient, kind, warm and brilliant. And, from Long Island.

“Those are not homophones, sweetie,” she says. Already I can feel my cheeks turning pink.

She proceeds to say each word aloud to me. I will do my best to convey their phonetic accuracy…

“May-ry, mah-ry, and merry. Subtle. But, totally different words. Like Kerry and Carrie,” she explains.

“What?! Those are different names? No. No!” I shout, exasperated and feeling very aware of my California-ness. “How long has this been going on?” I ask.

“Since forever, love.”

“Hmm. I don’t like it. Not one bit,” I say as I raise one eyebrow. “Just doesn’t feel right, ya know? I mean, this is just wrong. We can’t go around making all these tiny phonetic distinctions. It’s hard enough teaching this shit. Now we gotta convince these kids there are three marys? This is lunacy. I mean, I totally respect regional dialects and all. But, should we really be reinforcing this craziness?”