Last year, at the end of my first student teaching, one of my precious kiddos made me a goodbye card that read: "You will be a great techer." I immediately took it home and hung it on my fridge, where it still hangs today as a daily reminder that I will one day make a difference for a child, if only to teach them the proper spelling of "teacher."
Today, I received a Christmas card from one of my current students. On the inside, it simply says: "You are a great teacher."
Such a simple change of tense, but it means the world to me. Especially since it's all spelled right.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Perspective
The kids have been working on a fun project today, and I've been doing a lot of thinking (partly to avoid end-of-term grading... ugh). One of my co-workers has been talking this week about a situation going on at her husband's school. He is a teacher at one of the worst of the KCMO schools, where the gang activity has begun to affect the safety of the teachers as well as the students. Gang members have been stealing teachers' coats so that they can use the car keys to steal their cars. A female teacher was cornered and sexually assaulted by a group of gang members until another teacher came along in the nick of time. In an effort to "take back" the school, some of the staff have actually chosen to arm themselves at work today, and after a shooting at the funeral of a former student, they fully expect retribution to occur at the school this afternoon.
I've been emailing with A. about this all day, getting his point of view and comparing to the situations at his school. He tells me stories every day about the wacky things that happen at KCK's alternative high school, and we generally have a good laugh about it. His students get suspended for maliciously throwing cookies at each other, smoking pot in his classroom's bathroom, and other relatively entertaining offenses, but I still worry if I think too much about the metal detectors he walks through each morning. Thankfully, his school chooses to remove potentially violent students before violence can occur - if they didn't, I would be a nervous wreck all day every day. But it wasn't too long ago that the KCMO problems were in KCK as well. Those students (and those teachers) are blessed to have an intelligent principal who cares.
Then there's me, teaching "JoCo brats" to write. I've been feeling stressed lately, ready for break, and the last couple mornings have been particularly difficult where getting out of bed and making myself drive for 40 minutes has been concerned... but as I write all of this, my innocent little kiddos are dancing around my room to the Numa Numa song, decorating my fake (deciduous) tree for Christmas, and "cleaning" the room after a long day of puppet making. Despite the times I have to tell them not to wrap crepe paper around their heads, and ask them thirty times to stop talking and read a book, and constantly remind them to keep their hands to themselves... I am extraordinarily blessed.
Each bad morning this week has been turned into a good day by kids gluing fake Santa beards to their faces and asking me what I want for Christmas, re-creating Amelia Earhart's plane out of Legos, making up goofy songs about llamas, and shamelessly rocking out to Queen. There are no guns here, my students wish me no harm, and they wouldn't know what to do with my car keys if they found them. They don't know what pot even smells like yet, and if they're throwing cookies at each other, they're laughing about it (even if I'm not). I wish I could keep them like this forever.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Idiot-savant poetry
It has been FOREVER since I've posted here. I won't be so immodest as to think anyone has been disappointed by that, but I offer my apologies anyhow. I think my New Year's resolution this year might be to update/write more. The spring should be a little easier on me as I've finally settled into a routine and without any grad school work, there will also be less on my plate. The plate will still look like the kind you get at a Chinese buffet, with a million different things piled together and flowing over the sides so that you get soy sauce on your shoes and rice down your sleeve, but I think the spring plate will have a little more sesame chicken and fewer of those powdered sugar fried things that look like a really good idea but just make you sick.
Anyway... I wrote an honest-to-goodness poem yesterday, but it's not done, and it's also not postable. I have my reasons. It might be available upon request, but the whole world doesn't need to see it. It felt really good, though, both to write again and to process/exorcise that demon, so you may see more relatively soon.
Enough cryptic crap; I came back here today because I've got another addition to the collection of awesome accidental poems that appear on the magnetic surfaces in my classroom. I have no idea who put this tiny gem together on the side of my desk or if they knew at all what it could mean, but it's kind of perfect (punctuation added for effect):
Our pedagogue
Stalwart, day to-do'ed
- Discovered December 6th, 2010
If this job kills me, THIS is what I want on my tombstone.
Anyway... I wrote an honest-to-goodness poem yesterday, but it's not done, and it's also not postable. I have my reasons. It might be available upon request, but the whole world doesn't need to see it. It felt really good, though, both to write again and to process/exorcise that demon, so you may see more relatively soon.
Enough cryptic crap; I came back here today because I've got another addition to the collection of awesome accidental poems that appear on the magnetic surfaces in my classroom. I have no idea who put this tiny gem together on the side of my desk or if they knew at all what it could mean, but it's kind of perfect (punctuation added for effect):
Our pedagogue
Stalwart, day to-do'ed
- Discovered December 6th, 2010
If this job kills me, THIS is what I want on my tombstone.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Guess who wasn't paying attention in class...
…and not for the first time, either. Yes, the teacher can often be the worst student, and for this I am thankful because I wouldn’t be where I am now if A. and I had been ideal students throughout our teacher training. (Put two nerdy kids in front of computers, bore them to death with lessons about skills they already have, add ridiculous websites about cats, and you’ve got a recipe for LOLZ and disaster. Warning: byproducts may also include a temporarily broken heart, but that’s another story.)
That first computer class was a lot of fun (no thanks to the instructor), but my favorite memories of the “we’re just friends” phase come almost exclusively from the three classes we had in one particularly hellacious room last fall. Yes, every Thursday for 9 weeks, we were trapped in room 247 alongside our colleagues as a rotating panel of professors appeared before our bleary eyes over the course of 6 hours. If you looked at my bag on 247 Thursdays, you would think I was packing for a weekend camping trip. Computer, books, lunch AND dinner, multiple layers of clothing (the room was alternately sweltering and freezing, of course), and supplies for a bottomless cup of tea were diligently packed and hauled up the hill each week. At 2:00, everyone would stake out their spot (preferably near a power outlet), spread their stuff all about them, and stay put until 8. It wasn’t long before everyone had self-assigned seating, and thus, Team Awesome was born.
Team Awesome typically consisted of a hilarious engaged (now married, still hilarious) couple, Kylee, A., and myself. Team Awesome’s purpose was to get ourselves through those marathon classes with at least a shred of sanity intact, which meant there was a LOT of muttering, giggling, and general heckling throughout the evening. We played flash games, we shared ridiculous links and videos, we made fun of each other, ourselves, and everyone else.
As mind-numbing as those classes were, and as frustrating as those hours could be, I’m grateful for them and for room 247 (where I have another class by myself this semester). I sit in that room now and think back on those ridiculous memories (lowering the steaks, the hammer of justice… don’t ask) and I get an odd sense of nostalgia when I compare that time to what I have now. Because when circumstances changed, as circumstances are wont to do, it was those ridiculous and fun nights that gave me the courage to invite one particular (and newly-single) member of Team Awesome over to watch MST3K’s professional heckling one June evening. And when the news spread? Not a single member of Team Awesome was surprised.
JRP 247
Once again in this grey, hard-backed chair
with little give or support,
I rest with my baggage at my feet
and, as always, on my mind.
Back in this room, this place,
surrounded by beige walls and
carpet lined by squares,
sitting at tables a friendly vandal left her mark on –
the same tables that left a mark on me –
your living ghost hangs over my head
alongside teleconferencing equipment.
Discussion drones on
indifferent to my inattention -
unfocused out the window,
beyond the golden valley
to an invisible skyline.
In reality, I’m only wistfully wasting time
the way we used to
because now I only need to look
past the fireflies in the yard,
under a crisp linen sheet,
up to a crowded stage,
or through the space in my mind,
and there you are: smiling,
waiting for me.
Bells sound and I gather my things
as the prison doors unlock.
It’s not time for peacoats and scarves yet,
but the memory warms me anyhow
as I walk outside alone –
the campanile is no longer our cue for goodbye,
but rather my signal to dial and say hello
the way only a cold, dark alley knew I wanted to.
September 8th, 2010
That first computer class was a lot of fun (no thanks to the instructor), but my favorite memories of the “we’re just friends” phase come almost exclusively from the three classes we had in one particularly hellacious room last fall. Yes, every Thursday for 9 weeks, we were trapped in room 247 alongside our colleagues as a rotating panel of professors appeared before our bleary eyes over the course of 6 hours. If you looked at my bag on 247 Thursdays, you would think I was packing for a weekend camping trip. Computer, books, lunch AND dinner, multiple layers of clothing (the room was alternately sweltering and freezing, of course), and supplies for a bottomless cup of tea were diligently packed and hauled up the hill each week. At 2:00, everyone would stake out their spot (preferably near a power outlet), spread their stuff all about them, and stay put until 8. It wasn’t long before everyone had self-assigned seating, and thus, Team Awesome was born.
Team Awesome typically consisted of a hilarious engaged (now married, still hilarious) couple, Kylee, A., and myself. Team Awesome’s purpose was to get ourselves through those marathon classes with at least a shred of sanity intact, which meant there was a LOT of muttering, giggling, and general heckling throughout the evening. We played flash games, we shared ridiculous links and videos, we made fun of each other, ourselves, and everyone else.
As mind-numbing as those classes were, and as frustrating as those hours could be, I’m grateful for them and for room 247 (where I have another class by myself this semester). I sit in that room now and think back on those ridiculous memories (lowering the steaks, the hammer of justice… don’t ask) and I get an odd sense of nostalgia when I compare that time to what I have now. Because when circumstances changed, as circumstances are wont to do, it was those ridiculous and fun nights that gave me the courage to invite one particular (and newly-single) member of Team Awesome over to watch MST3K’s professional heckling one June evening. And when the news spread? Not a single member of Team Awesome was surprised.
JRP 247
Once again in this grey, hard-backed chair
with little give or support,
I rest with my baggage at my feet
and, as always, on my mind.
Back in this room, this place,
surrounded by beige walls and
carpet lined by squares,
sitting at tables a friendly vandal left her mark on –
the same tables that left a mark on me –
your living ghost hangs over my head
alongside teleconferencing equipment.
Discussion drones on
indifferent to my inattention -
unfocused out the window,
beyond the golden valley
to an invisible skyline.
In reality, I’m only wistfully wasting time
the way we used to
because now I only need to look
past the fireflies in the yard,
under a crisp linen sheet,
up to a crowded stage,
or through the space in my mind,
and there you are: smiling,
waiting for me.
Bells sound and I gather my things
as the prison doors unlock.
It’s not time for peacoats and scarves yet,
but the memory warms me anyhow
as I walk outside alone –
the campanile is no longer our cue for goodbye,
but rather my signal to dial and say hello
the way only a cold, dark alley knew I wanted to.
September 8th, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
One down...
I am tired.
Fortunately, this time it’s the kind of tired that accumulates from too much of a good thing (several good things, even). I have survived my first week of teaching; a week that included changing the name of my course, a fourteen hour day on Back to School Night, improvising due to a malfunctioning projector, and employing the principal as an emergency substitute when an IEP meeting ran long. This week has already felt like a month, except I hope that in a month, I know a lot more than 60% of my students’ names!
All of that sounds negative, but as I had hoped/expected, this has been one of the most rewarding and affirming weeks I’ve had in a long time. I'm amazed at how quickly I went from the terror of realizing that of everyone in the room, *I* was supposed to be in charge (yikes!) to the familiar ease of talking with kids and leading them toward a goal. I already feel right at home in my classroom with these fascinating students, and I’m cheesily excited about what we’ll be able to accomplish together this year. Our classroom already feels both fun and productive, and I hope we can maintain that balance as the kiddos get crazier.
Some highlights from week one:
I very smartly planned for them to do their first class presentations for the next two days so that I could take today off – happy birthday to me! I’ve already watched one movie and there’s another on tap, but for now I’m grabbing a book and I’ll catch you poolside. ;)
Fortunately, this time it’s the kind of tired that accumulates from too much of a good thing (several good things, even). I have survived my first week of teaching; a week that included changing the name of my course, a fourteen hour day on Back to School Night, improvising due to a malfunctioning projector, and employing the principal as an emergency substitute when an IEP meeting ran long. This week has already felt like a month, except I hope that in a month, I know a lot more than 60% of my students’ names!
All of that sounds negative, but as I had hoped/expected, this has been one of the most rewarding and affirming weeks I’ve had in a long time. I'm amazed at how quickly I went from the terror of realizing that of everyone in the room, *I* was supposed to be in charge (yikes!) to the familiar ease of talking with kids and leading them toward a goal. I already feel right at home in my classroom with these fascinating students, and I’m cheesily excited about what we’ll be able to accomplish together this year. Our classroom already feels both fun and productive, and I hope we can maintain that balance as the kiddos get crazier.
Some highlights from week one:
- I’m creating a fleet of miniature copy editors by offering extra credit if they find published mistakes to put on our “wall of shame.” There have already been submissions.
- I spied a student carefully copying Thursday’s “Big Word of the Day” onto a growing list at the back of her journal, completely unprompted. Call me dorky, but that's awesome.
- Magnetic poetry is a big hit - the best additions to my metal desk and bookshelf so far are: “death must be 2 good to like mr. experience,” “whisper music in a picture/I almost run 2 winter inc./diamond feet boil over scholarships,” and my personal favorite, “a juggernaut butt said you have a repulsive man lust.” (That one is just so perfectly middle school boy…)
I very smartly planned for them to do their first class presentations for the next two days so that I could take today off – happy birthday to me! I’ve already watched one movie and there’s another on tap, but for now I’m grabbing a book and I’ll catch you poolside. ;)
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Aubade
Just a few months ago, I had to google the word "aubade" to learn what this particular type of poem is... now, I actually know what it means. So, I tried my cheeky little hand at one.
Aubade
A sonnet could describe your hair;
sandy and tousled under my chin,
and your freckled shoulders tangled in the stripes -
but a neat fourteen lines can’t capture
the way I begrudge the light
playing across your face.
The sunshine gets to spend each day with you,
piquing my jealousy.
The quiet comfort
as I brush my teeth and watch
your peaceful stillness -
- cannot adequately be explained in a haiku.
O, waking!
Sinews stretch toward a new day,
releasing a sigh for the passing of another night.
Sleepy, smiling eyes meet,
spreading a warmth neither an ode
nor the covers could contain.
Peanut butter kisses preclude reluctant responsibilities –
like clockwork, the garage door rises with the sun.
You walk away,
I steel myself against the glare,
and another aubade is complete.
July 26, 2010
Aubade
A sonnet could describe your hair;
sandy and tousled under my chin,
and your freckled shoulders tangled in the stripes -
but a neat fourteen lines can’t capture
the way I begrudge the light
playing across your face.
The sunshine gets to spend each day with you,
piquing my jealousy.
The quiet comfort
as I brush my teeth and watch
your peaceful stillness -
- cannot adequately be explained in a haiku.
O, waking!
Sinews stretch toward a new day,
releasing a sigh for the passing of another night.
Sleepy, smiling eyes meet,
spreading a warmth neither an ode
nor the covers could contain.
Peanut butter kisses preclude reluctant responsibilities –
like clockwork, the garage door rises with the sun.
You walk away,
I steel myself against the glare,
and another aubade is complete.
July 26, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
From tweet to poem
"Sitting outside KS Union, feeling nostalgic about moving away from campus, freshman orientationites passing by. A nice full circle moment."
- about 21 hours ago via web
Disorientation
Stickers peeling and glossy bags swinging – they’ve arrived.
Clutch that folder tight; it holds all the answers – for now.
I, the wizened old veteran, sit silently watching,
desperately waving through thick air
in a vain attempt to catch a few more remembered moments
of grounded familiarity – even as they slide away
into new, uncharted territory.
Cracking numbers on a pilling t-shirt aren’t all that dates me –
walking shoes well-worn, an iPod dented by Oread concrete,
and subtle impressions from a five-year furrowed brow
separate me from the crisp, shiny silk screens in their hands.
They, too, will earn their blisters, scratches, and creases,
and they will inevitably be replaced as they replace me,
but these bricks and stones will continue to keep watch
as they always have.
July 8, 2010
- about 21 hours ago via web
Disorientation
Stickers peeling and glossy bags swinging – they’ve arrived.
Clutch that folder tight; it holds all the answers – for now.
I, the wizened old veteran, sit silently watching,
desperately waving through thick air
in a vain attempt to catch a few more remembered moments
of grounded familiarity – even as they slide away
into new, uncharted territory.
Cracking numbers on a pilling t-shirt aren’t all that dates me –
walking shoes well-worn, an iPod dented by Oread concrete,
and subtle impressions from a five-year furrowed brow
separate me from the crisp, shiny silk screens in their hands.
They, too, will earn their blisters, scratches, and creases,
and they will inevitably be replaced as they replace me,
but these bricks and stones will continue to keep watch
as they always have.
July 8, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
Quiet
Things are changing a lot right now, and you know my feelings on change. Although this set of changes is beautiful and welcome and a long time coming, I've been discombobulated and have had a hard time finding my own words lately. They've been overshadowed by the re-definition of everything around me - rediscovering music has been a particular obsession: some lyrics, long loved and hoped for, finally ring true while old standbys are suddenly strangers, which is endlessly fascinating to me... but inevitably, this lends too much credit and meaning to the words of others. So, it's been a little while since an insta-poem has visited me - but in the quiet of this evening, it's a refreshing feeling. Suggestions are welcome.
Being a solid ball of light is hardly ever easy.
Liquid energy rushing within, seeking escape;
I’m full of bees, and believe me, making honey is taxing work.
Mercifully, you instill total calm because it’s what you need from me,
and therefore what I need from you.
Like pouring smoke on a hive, the buzzing stops.
July 2, 2010
Being a solid ball of light is hardly ever easy.
Liquid energy rushing within, seeking escape;
I’m full of bees, and believe me, making honey is taxing work.
Mercifully, you instill total calm because it’s what you need from me,
and therefore what I need from you.
Like pouring smoke on a hive, the buzzing stops.
July 2, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Grab Bag
Here are a couple of poems I don't have a whole lot to say about (partly because it's too hot to think), but I like them and felt like they deserved a promotion from the hard drive. I will say that the second one is another from the series of home poems and was mostly composed there - edited this afternoon. I hope you enjoy them.
1. Miss Goody-Two Shoes
The shower’s too hot,
but you don’t reach for the cold.
Are you ignoring that tap with rebellious desire,
or as premonitory self-punishment?
Inner and outer voices clash beneath the suds -
blood pressure rises with the steam;
“Take the easy option,
look right in front of you.
It’s a sure thing -
it’s what the good girls do.”
Follow their advice, do what you’re told;
“Send this text, but not that one,
just see what might happen.
Leave that other Facebook option alone;
‘friend’ doesn’t mean what it used to.”
But that tattle-tale feeling in your gut?
Connected to that lineal story of misaligned stars
predating and predicting your very existence?
“Wait until the time is right…”
Wash confusion down the drain
with orchid extract and apricot bits,
but it clogs and swirls at your feet,
casting a scalding, dizzying spell.
Cut off the flow before heat fades,
revel in the heaviness of saturated air,
the anticipation of the moment
when crimson skin will recoil in shock and anger
from the frigid blast beyond the safety of the door.
May 20, 2010
2. Storm Chasing
564 miles doesn’t make any difference sometimes.
Tornado Katie, Tornado Jay – they’re all the same,
brandishing flashy graphics and HD radars
as weapons in the war on weather,
as if blotches of green and red
could be more highly defined than a bolt of lightning.
Dog breathes faster, trees sway amongst the flashes;
shut the windows, batten down the hatches.
One sibling flutters in panic, the other chuckles wisely until
SkyCam proves too tempting – both run outside to look.
June 17, 2010
1. Miss Goody-Two Shoes
The shower’s too hot,
but you don’t reach for the cold.
Are you ignoring that tap with rebellious desire,
or as premonitory self-punishment?
Inner and outer voices clash beneath the suds -
blood pressure rises with the steam;
“Take the easy option,
look right in front of you.
It’s a sure thing -
it’s what the good girls do.”
Follow their advice, do what you’re told;
“Send this text, but not that one,
just see what might happen.
Leave that other Facebook option alone;
‘friend’ doesn’t mean what it used to.”
But that tattle-tale feeling in your gut?
Connected to that lineal story of misaligned stars
predating and predicting your very existence?
“Wait until the time is right…”
Wash confusion down the drain
with orchid extract and apricot bits,
but it clogs and swirls at your feet,
casting a scalding, dizzying spell.
Cut off the flow before heat fades,
revel in the heaviness of saturated air,
the anticipation of the moment
when crimson skin will recoil in shock and anger
from the frigid blast beyond the safety of the door.
May 20, 2010
2. Storm Chasing
564 miles doesn’t make any difference sometimes.
Tornado Katie, Tornado Jay – they’re all the same,
brandishing flashy graphics and HD radars
as weapons in the war on weather,
as if blotches of green and red
could be more highly defined than a bolt of lightning.
Dog breathes faster, trees sway amongst the flashes;
shut the windows, batten down the hatches.
One sibling flutters in panic, the other chuckles wisely until
SkyCam proves too tempting – both run outside to look.
June 17, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
On the question of home
I hate change. Ask anyone who’s known me for any length of time and they’ll say “Amanda watches too much TV and cannot cook to save her life, but those things are okay because she’s generally pretty awesome. Oh, and she hates change more than Fred Phelps hates the world.” Or at least that’s what I’d like to think they’d say.
I know why I watch too much TV, and I know why I'm a terrible cook, but I genuinely don’t know where this bit of neurosis regarding departure from the status quo comes from; I wasn’t violently ripped away from family or home at a young age... nothing traumatic happened at all, really. But I have always stubbornly hated changes big and small, sometimes with better results than others.
I mention this because my recent visit to the Great White North - only my second since truly moving out on my own - simply overwhelmed me with the sheer volume of changes occurring in this place that had unquestionably been my home for so many years. More than the obvious transformation of my sister's graduation (the reason for the trip in the first place), it was the little things that threw me off balance. The first morning, I woke up on an air mattress on the living room floor; the only guest invited to this particular slumber party. My bed is in Lawrence now, of course, and my room has been converted to desperately-needed sewing space, not a guest room. All very logical, but still disconcerting. That afternoon, I went to run errands for my mother, and while I knew exactly which streets to take and exactly when the lights would change, and my license plates blended in with the masses for the first time in months, something felt off. I caught myself looking on the streets and in the stores for faces I couldn’t possibly find – they were over 500 miles away. Some of those that did appear were hauntingly familiar but void of any context or too far removed by time, so we passed one another in silence.
As the week went by, things only got weirder as my family went about their business (jobs, friends, rehearsals, etc.) and I realized that I had nothing to do. I spent afternoons in my pjs taking advantage of a television signal that isn't dependent on tin foil and wind, which was a nice way to recover from the stress of the semester, but after a few staring contests with the dog (she always wins), I grew restless. And so, the intense labor of this poem and sorting out the feelings behind it began. I'm still not sure it does itself any justice, but believe it or not, I'm ready for a change.
Between 1st and 3rd
Fill up the car and hit the road,
no hastily scrawled dashboard directions necessary;
left where the deer (no antelope) play,
left again at the top of the hill, and you’re there:
home.
If only it were still that simple.
Heart pulls southward,
against the cruise control
for the first time -
unclear toward what or whom,
but for ten hours, the sensation is tangible;
landmarks and reminders appear in the rearview.
Arrival never tastes the way it should –
like frosting on a store-bought cake.
Sometimes bitterly sweet,
but more often, full of air.
Within brick walls lies a paradox
of simultaneous same and different.
Everything smells right:
lilacs mix with earthy dust,
but tear-filled eyes are left disappointed.
What was solid rock is now wobbly;
a foundation crumbles,
an aging dog stumbles,
and amidst the emptiness, realization dawns:
memories at these coordinates have transformed
into a fantasy waiting to be found.
June 14, 2010
I know why I watch too much TV, and I know why I'm a terrible cook, but I genuinely don’t know where this bit of neurosis regarding departure from the status quo comes from; I wasn’t violently ripped away from family or home at a young age... nothing traumatic happened at all, really. But I have always stubbornly hated changes big and small, sometimes with better results than others.
I mention this because my recent visit to the Great White North - only my second since truly moving out on my own - simply overwhelmed me with the sheer volume of changes occurring in this place that had unquestionably been my home for so many years. More than the obvious transformation of my sister's graduation (the reason for the trip in the first place), it was the little things that threw me off balance. The first morning, I woke up on an air mattress on the living room floor; the only guest invited to this particular slumber party. My bed is in Lawrence now, of course, and my room has been converted to desperately-needed sewing space, not a guest room. All very logical, but still disconcerting. That afternoon, I went to run errands for my mother, and while I knew exactly which streets to take and exactly when the lights would change, and my license plates blended in with the masses for the first time in months, something felt off. I caught myself looking on the streets and in the stores for faces I couldn’t possibly find – they were over 500 miles away. Some of those that did appear were hauntingly familiar but void of any context or too far removed by time, so we passed one another in silence.
As the week went by, things only got weirder as my family went about their business (jobs, friends, rehearsals, etc.) and I realized that I had nothing to do. I spent afternoons in my pjs taking advantage of a television signal that isn't dependent on tin foil and wind, which was a nice way to recover from the stress of the semester, but after a few staring contests with the dog (she always wins), I grew restless. And so, the intense labor of this poem and sorting out the feelings behind it began. I'm still not sure it does itself any justice, but believe it or not, I'm ready for a change.
Between 1st and 3rd
Fill up the car and hit the road,
no hastily scrawled dashboard directions necessary;
left where the deer (no antelope) play,
left again at the top of the hill, and you’re there:
home.
If only it were still that simple.
Heart pulls southward,
against the cruise control
for the first time -
unclear toward what or whom,
but for ten hours, the sensation is tangible;
landmarks and reminders appear in the rearview.
Arrival never tastes the way it should –
like frosting on a store-bought cake.
Sometimes bitterly sweet,
but more often, full of air.
Within brick walls lies a paradox
of simultaneous same and different.
Everything smells right:
lilacs mix with earthy dust,
but tear-filled eyes are left disappointed.
What was solid rock is now wobbly;
a foundation crumbles,
an aging dog stumbles,
and amidst the emptiness, realization dawns:
memories at these coordinates have transformed
into a fantasy waiting to be found.
June 14, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
This needs help!
I have hit a wall on this poem, but it deserves to be finished and re-posted with a proper write-up because there are things in it that I absolutely LOVE. So, I am turning it over to more capable (or at least more objective and less distracted) hands. My biggest issue is the ending - I can't decide if it just needs a better last line (this one is terrible) or if it should keep going; perhaps a third movement about the trip back to KS? I don't know. Thoughts? Push me. I need it.
(It also needs a title)
Fill up the car and hit the road,
no hastily scrawled dashboard directions necessary;
left where the deer (no antelope) play,
left again at the top of the hill, and you’re there:
home.
If only it were still that simple.
Heart pulls southward,
against the cruise control
for the first time -
unclear toward what or whom,
but for ten hours, the sensation is tangible;
landmarks and reminders appear in the rearview.
Arrival never tastes the way you’d expect –
like frosting on a store-bought cake.
Sometimes bitterly sweet,
but more often, full of air.
Within the brick walls lies a paradox
of simultaneous same and different.
Everything smells right, but looks a little off.
What was solid rock is now wobbly;
A foundation crumbles,
an aging dog stumbles,
and you realize:
perhaps home has become a figurative place
waiting to be re-created.
(It also needs a title)
Fill up the car and hit the road,
no hastily scrawled dashboard directions necessary;
left where the deer (no antelope) play,
left again at the top of the hill, and you’re there:
home.
If only it were still that simple.
Heart pulls southward,
against the cruise control
for the first time -
unclear toward what or whom,
but for ten hours, the sensation is tangible;
landmarks and reminders appear in the rearview.
Arrival never tastes the way you’d expect –
like frosting on a store-bought cake.
Sometimes bitterly sweet,
but more often, full of air.
Within the brick walls lies a paradox
of simultaneous same and different.
Everything smells right, but looks a little off.
What was solid rock is now wobbly;
A foundation crumbles,
an aging dog stumbles,
and you realize:
perhaps home has become a figurative place
waiting to be re-created.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
A Stalling Tactic
I don't have anything new finished yet, but I'm feeling the need to post something on this lazy Sunday afternoon. So, here's a piece I wrote at the end of January - one of you in particular will recognize it from a time that already seems to be lifetimes ago. I'm not completely satisfied with it (the ending especially bothers me... I guess that's because there isn't an end yet!), but it may also end up being necessary as a reference for one of the poems I'm working on/avoiding - we'll see if that pans out soon. (Keep bothering me about it/them!) Also worth noting: it was done as an imitation exercise (see A.R. Ammons' piece, "Autobiographical Note," which I tried to find online but failed) - hence, the extremely choppy tone. Although it actually suits my voice just fine, it would feel a bit different if the idea had been mine originally.
(I'm blanking out some of the more specific identifying details since this is going out on the wild, wild interwebz, but I didn't want to eliminate them entirely and ruin the rhythm of the piece.)
Autobiographical Note
I was born in the swelteringKansas 2-- S. C------- St Kansas
(Grr... such a cop-out ending, but I don't have the energy to fix it. It's too hot. Time for some iced tea.)
(I'm blanking out some of the more specific identifying details since this is going out on the wild, wild interwebz, but I didn't want to eliminate them entirely and ruin the rhythm of the piece.)
Autobiographical Note
I was born in the sweltering
(Grr... such a cop-out ending, but I don't have the energy to fix it. It's too hot. Time for some iced tea.)
Friday, May 28, 2010
"As our lives change, come whatever..."
When you grow up in a town of 24,ooo people, it is not at all surprising to have known your high school friends since childhood. What is surprising, however, is successfully holding onto those friends as the distance between you grows to span a world full of over 6 billion people.
I may have been one of the eight luckiest high school students the world has ever known - at least as far as friends are concerned. I followed a couple of girls from my 2nd block class to the lunchroom on the first day of ninth grade, and the rest is history. As it turned out, I already knew everyone at that table (or who would eventually come to that table) from past lives, but we needed the perfect storm of timing and circumstance to make the group gel. Over the next four years, hardly a day would go by for any of us without seeing at least one member of our lunch crew - we took most of the same classes, participated in the same activities (we were evenly split between debaters and dramatists, which was nearly always the cause of any fights we had), and spent more than a significant portion of our free time together. Movie nights were nearly a weekly (sometimes bi-weekly, tri-weekly...) occurrence, every birthday and holiday was celebrated, and even if we were just playing on a swingset or driving in (very small) circles around town abusing our stereo systems and our voices, life was great when we were together.
Since all eight of us are hilarious, brilliant, attractive (humble), and extraordinarily ambitious over-achievers, we began to realize that what we had in high school could not last forever. We all had dreams that necessarily extended past the city limits of our little town, and one by one, we chose our distant destinations: Brookings, Fargo, St. Peter, Lincoln, Lawrence, and three different sections of Washington, DC. Like all high school friends do, we promised to keep in touch and to stay friends forever, but then things got weird: we actually did. I can only speak for myself at this point in the story, but I know that in the sitcom of my life, although the cast is continually growing, these people are my co-stars. They are my extended family, my eventual wedding party, and my first call/email/text when things go wrong.
The visits get fewer and farther between as the years go by and responsibilities pile up and we continue to spread out on a now international scale, but nothing else seems to change. When we do get the chance to be together, we pick up right where we left off - knowing a person for fifteen years will allow for that, I suppose. This week, three of us got one of those opportunities. For a precious 37 hours, Adrienne got to play hostess and welcomed us into her home, which of course, already felt like our home. We had an amazing time, took some truly ridiculous pictures (look for those on Facebook soon), and took care of each other mentally, emotionally, and physically - the way only the best of friends can. So, thanks go to Addy for planning a fabulous day, and thanks go to Kiki (teehee) for his infinite patience for things that are girly. This is for you guys (and our absent friends) - I love you all. :)
Homecoming
Senses awaken, each in turn: coffee brewing, laughter trickling in;
this morning immediately seems less painful than most.
Yawn, stretch; bare feet meet a warm floor.
Round the corner to greet grinning faces with a sleepy smile.
Squeeze in tight to share space and time, cozy like an old Beatles LP.
Settle into giggles and snorts between comfortable silences,
memories tossed about like Frisbees on an early summer afternoon;
no performance to consider - we can just be.
Prepare for the day, accomplish routines and tasks -
dishwasher full, contacts in, did you find your phone?
Domesticity is false and fleeting, but no less comforting.
Grab shoes, keys, and each other as we walk out the door.
May 28, 2010
I may have been one of the eight luckiest high school students the world has ever known - at least as far as friends are concerned. I followed a couple of girls from my 2nd block class to the lunchroom on the first day of ninth grade, and the rest is history. As it turned out, I already knew everyone at that table (or who would eventually come to that table) from past lives, but we needed the perfect storm of timing and circumstance to make the group gel. Over the next four years, hardly a day would go by for any of us without seeing at least one member of our lunch crew - we took most of the same classes, participated in the same activities (we were evenly split between debaters and dramatists, which was nearly always the cause of any fights we had), and spent more than a significant portion of our free time together. Movie nights were nearly a weekly (sometimes bi-weekly, tri-weekly...) occurrence, every birthday and holiday was celebrated, and even if we were just playing on a swingset or driving in (very small) circles around town abusing our stereo systems and our voices, life was great when we were together.
Since all eight of us are hilarious, brilliant, attractive (humble), and extraordinarily ambitious over-achievers, we began to realize that what we had in high school could not last forever. We all had dreams that necessarily extended past the city limits of our little town, and one by one, we chose our distant destinations: Brookings, Fargo, St. Peter, Lincoln, Lawrence, and three different sections of Washington, DC. Like all high school friends do, we promised to keep in touch and to stay friends forever, but then things got weird: we actually did. I can only speak for myself at this point in the story, but I know that in the sitcom of my life, although the cast is continually growing, these people are my co-stars. They are my extended family, my eventual wedding party, and my first call/email/text when things go wrong.
The visits get fewer and farther between as the years go by and responsibilities pile up and we continue to spread out on a now international scale, but nothing else seems to change. When we do get the chance to be together, we pick up right where we left off - knowing a person for fifteen years will allow for that, I suppose. This week, three of us got one of those opportunities. For a precious 37 hours, Adrienne got to play hostess and welcomed us into her home, which of course, already felt like our home. We had an amazing time, took some truly ridiculous pictures (look for those on Facebook soon), and took care of each other mentally, emotionally, and physically - the way only the best of friends can. So, thanks go to Addy for planning a fabulous day, and thanks go to Kiki (teehee) for his infinite patience for things that are girly. This is for you guys (and our absent friends) - I love you all. :)
Homecoming
Senses awaken, each in turn: coffee brewing, laughter trickling in;
this morning immediately seems less painful than most.
Yawn, stretch; bare feet meet a warm floor.
Round the corner to greet grinning faces with a sleepy smile.
Squeeze in tight to share space and time, cozy like an old Beatles LP.
Settle into giggles and snorts between comfortable silences,
memories tossed about like Frisbees on an early summer afternoon;
no performance to consider - we can just be.
Prepare for the day, accomplish routines and tasks -
dishwasher full, contacts in, did you find your phone?
Domesticity is false and fleeting, but no less comforting.
Grab shoes, keys, and each other as we walk out the door.
May 28, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
...aaaaaaand, we're back!
I just finished writing 36* pages of reflections and explanations and justifications… and I’m exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally, “spiritually, ecumenically, grammatically…” (Name that movie!) and so on.
As I struggled to find new words to say the same things in seemingly different ways and made tenuous connections between what actually happened and what some far-removed executive body envisions as “ideal,” I found that my growing fear and aggravation had nothing to do with the impending deadlines. Despite the massive amounts of work and the absence of a social life, my internship gave me a great gift that I am now terrified of losing: I’ve been reminded of how much I truly love to read, love to write, and love to be smart with other smart people. These things had nearly been beaten out of me by years of reading drivel (“academic” drivel, but drivel just the same), writing hundreds of pages of b.s. that could be summed up in about five sentences, and being forced into artificial discussions with disinterested interlocutors. I still identified myself as a reader and a writer, but I wasn’t bringing the goods anymore. This spring, LHS happily re-awakened the beast, but the last two weeks threatened to shoot it with horse tranquilizers as the familiar headache slid back into place like the lid of a roll-top desk.
The work was torturous. Each sentence felt more painful than the one before; I had to stop and rest for a few minutes after each mental contraction as if I was giving birth, but to someone else’s child. There is nothing of me in those lines, and yet I feel empty. The page count grew, and I could feel the numbness and apathy creeping back into my writing as the newly-resuscitated joy seeped away. Books that had unrelentingly captivated my attention just a week before remained nearby, but their pages held little comfort as my eyes strained and my mind failed to focus. I wondered if this experience might once again bury my creativity and curiosity under the weight of a bureaucratic academia, but even in the darkest hours at the library, there were moments – moments where a happy turn of phrase was woven in amongst the tedium, or half an idea for a poetic line was scribbled on scratch paper before it was lost in the fray.
Now it is done. Now it can be summer. My first – perhaps of many – in Lawrence. I plan to take a few days, or maybe a week, to recuperate from my battle with the printed word; movies and TV shows will be watched, an apartment will be cleaned, and celebrations will be had. But as I settle into new, less strenuous routines, I expect myself to come back to those books left unfinished and to come back here often to read and write and exercise my smarts. Right after I catch up on LOST.
*Yeah, I didn’t fix it when Word 2007 set my margins at 1.25” and I might have spent more time intently looking for adjectives and adverbs just lengthy enough to bump each paragraph to one more line than the time it would have taken to develop one more original idea, but it can’t be argued that I just completed a ridiculous task. Let’s just say that the next time I write something the approximate length of a thesis, it had better be far more interesting and I had better take more than two weeks to do it.
As I struggled to find new words to say the same things in seemingly different ways and made tenuous connections between what actually happened and what some far-removed executive body envisions as “ideal,” I found that my growing fear and aggravation had nothing to do with the impending deadlines. Despite the massive amounts of work and the absence of a social life, my internship gave me a great gift that I am now terrified of losing: I’ve been reminded of how much I truly love to read, love to write, and love to be smart with other smart people. These things had nearly been beaten out of me by years of reading drivel (“academic” drivel, but drivel just the same), writing hundreds of pages of b.s. that could be summed up in about five sentences, and being forced into artificial discussions with disinterested interlocutors. I still identified myself as a reader and a writer, but I wasn’t bringing the goods anymore. This spring, LHS happily re-awakened the beast, but the last two weeks threatened to shoot it with horse tranquilizers as the familiar headache slid back into place like the lid of a roll-top desk.
The work was torturous. Each sentence felt more painful than the one before; I had to stop and rest for a few minutes after each mental contraction as if I was giving birth, but to someone else’s child. There is nothing of me in those lines, and yet I feel empty. The page count grew, and I could feel the numbness and apathy creeping back into my writing as the newly-resuscitated joy seeped away. Books that had unrelentingly captivated my attention just a week before remained nearby, but their pages held little comfort as my eyes strained and my mind failed to focus. I wondered if this experience might once again bury my creativity and curiosity under the weight of a bureaucratic academia, but even in the darkest hours at the library, there were moments – moments where a happy turn of phrase was woven in amongst the tedium, or half an idea for a poetic line was scribbled on scratch paper before it was lost in the fray.
Now it is done. Now it can be summer. My first – perhaps of many – in Lawrence. I plan to take a few days, or maybe a week, to recuperate from my battle with the printed word; movies and TV shows will be watched, an apartment will be cleaned, and celebrations will be had. But as I settle into new, less strenuous routines, I expect myself to come back to those books left unfinished and to come back here often to read and write and exercise my smarts. Right after I catch up on LOST.
*Yeah, I didn’t fix it when Word 2007 set my margins at 1.25” and I might have spent more time intently looking for adjectives and adverbs just lengthy enough to bump each paragraph to one more line than the time it would have taken to develop one more original idea, but it can’t be argued that I just completed a ridiculous task. Let’s just say that the next time I write something the approximate length of a thesis, it had better be far more interesting and I had better take more than two weeks to do it.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Repeat Track
I don’t know how driving has so quickly become a form of therapy for me – I’ve been doing it for less than a year. Somehow, I went for 22 years without any desire to get behind the wheel; this seemed rational at the time, but I no longer understand. I suppose I was driven by the fear and intimidation bred by avoidance. Nowadays, I rely on the point in each day where I slide into the familiar grooves of leather, adjust the windows and vents to bathe in the proper mixture of fresh and manufactured air, and find just the right track (be it via radio, disc, or auxiliary) to free something within me as I fly over hills and careen around corners.
I abused my beloved car pretty badly this evening after an atrocious shift at work. I slammed the pedal to the floor at every green light and onramp – 6000 rpm borders on the red zone. 64 maxes out the stereo volume and the subwoofer dangerously shakes the rear windshield – I half expected it to shatter like my sanity as I screamed angsty lyrics with the window down, unseasonably frigid air rushing through my hair and lungs. Thankfully, Maria spent her formative years in the tender care of a nun, so she’ll have no choice but to forgive me, especially when I take her for a spa day at Crown Toyota next weekend.
This is the first, very rough draft – please suggest changes. I’ll appreciate them in the morning.
“the scene ends badly, as you might imagine
in a cavalcade of anger and fear”
- The Mountain Goats, "This Year"
Relief
floats
like a balloon,
nowhere to go but up -
swelling,
seemingly invincible,
but always so fleeting and fragile.
A sideways look, an ill-placed word…
the outside pressure overwhelms again and
collapses back to a more natural state.
Tension wrinkles what once was smooth;
anger tingles just beneath the surface.
Goosebumps rise as
pores tighten to keep it all inside.
Minute hand delivers on its promise -
leather and plastic absorb the curses
as rhythms of the road and
rhyming rants
coalesce -
building toward
release.
May 7th, 2010 (edits May 9th, 2010)
I abused my beloved car pretty badly this evening after an atrocious shift at work. I slammed the pedal to the floor at every green light and onramp – 6000 rpm borders on the red zone. 64 maxes out the stereo volume and the subwoofer dangerously shakes the rear windshield – I half expected it to shatter like my sanity as I screamed angsty lyrics with the window down, unseasonably frigid air rushing through my hair and lungs. Thankfully, Maria spent her formative years in the tender care of a nun, so she’ll have no choice but to forgive me, especially when I take her for a spa day at Crown Toyota next weekend.
This is the first, very rough draft – please suggest changes. I’ll appreciate them in the morning.
“the scene ends badly, as you might imagine
in a cavalcade of anger and fear”
- The Mountain Goats, "This Year"
Relief
floats
like a balloon,
nowhere to go but up -
swelling,
seemingly invincible,
but always so fleeting and fragile.
A sideways look, an ill-placed word…
the outside pressure overwhelms again and
collapses back to a more natural state.
Tension wrinkles what once was smooth;
anger tingles just beneath the surface.
Goosebumps rise as
pores tighten to keep it all inside.
Minute hand delivers on its promise -
leather and plastic absorb the curses
as rhythms of the road and
rhyming rants
coalesce -
building toward
release.
May 7th, 2010 (edits May 9th, 2010)
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Re-public
As we discussed the general awesomeness of the infamous Jon Harrison scissor-kick picture over coffee and Pink Box baked goods at the generally awesome LHS Focus Film Festival this afternoon, the idea of making things from our pasts public again was humorously pitched – and I’ve decided to take a break and have some fun with it in the form of a quickie photo essay.
Last year in Methods class, we started the semester by telling the story of our “literacy history,” so I had my mom scan and send me these pictures, which I will now "re-public" here. They are also the only truly good pictures of me in existence, I believe; sometime after this, I transformed into the least photogenic person on the planet (don’t ask about the “Kid Rock face” pictures).
8 months - Dang, that's a cute baby! And no, this wasn't posed - I really did pretend/attempt to read, and I really did lay around holding the books with my feet. The weirdness started early, folks.
1 year-ish - This one has nothing to do with reading, it's just ridiculously adorable (except the Mizzou hat... I was obviously being brainwashed at the time). We refer to this time period as the "Cindy-Lou Who" years.
Just shy of 2 years - I've got my parents to thank for my frequent and early exposure to the wonderful world of words. More than just about anything from my childhood, I remember the books. I remember the library. I remember being read to and loving it. My mom remembers me reciting the alphabet at 15 months, recognizing new words at the grocery store at 2 years, reading the pool rules off the wall at 3 years, and reading Charlotte's Web to her (without seeing it before) at 4 years. I don't know exactly how it happened, but I literally cannot remember what it feels like to not be able to read. Thanks, Mom.
5 years - Once an English teacher... always an English teacher. My stuffed animals knew their Dr. Seuss backwards and forwards, let me tell you.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Blue Moon rising
You’re not here.
You’re not going to be here.
I knew that coming in, really.
You’re not the kind of guy
a girl like me
would meet in a place like this.
You’re waiting
in some laundromat
or grocery store
or maybe a coffee shop,
although we both know
that’s a little pretentious.
“Tonight’s gonna be a good night,”
we chant in unison with the canned legumes –
but those words taste bitter in my mouth.
Hold on –
is that you hiding behind those emo bangs?
Nope, false alarm again.
Wait out the buzz amongst the masquerade –
silently begging sluggish metabolism to wake up.
Car keys rustle impatiently within a purse’s depths.
My better judgment begrudgingly takes the keys from others;
well-earned rest is delayed a few hours more
as I seek sober refuge scribbling verse in a bathroom stall.
May 1, 2010
Suggestions are welcome as always - it still feels pretty rough to me, but so did last night, haha.
You’re not going to be here.
I knew that coming in, really.
You’re not the kind of guy
a girl like me
would meet in a place like this.
You’re waiting
in some laundromat
or grocery store
or maybe a coffee shop,
although we both know
that’s a little pretentious.
“Tonight’s gonna be a good night,”
we chant in unison with the canned legumes –
but those words taste bitter in my mouth.
Hold on –
is that you hiding behind those emo bangs?
Nope, false alarm again.
Wait out the buzz amongst the masquerade –
silently begging sluggish metabolism to wake up.
Car keys rustle impatiently within a purse’s depths.
My better judgment begrudgingly takes the keys from others;
well-earned rest is delayed a few hours more
as I seek sober refuge scribbling verse in a bathroom stall.
May 1, 2010
Suggestions are welcome as always - it still feels pretty rough to me, but so did last night, haha.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Excuse me, can you direct me from Venus to Mars?
I've gotta be honest. When I finally got the official notice about my spring internship placement last October, I was a little freaked out. Not about the location - I had known for a long time that I would be at LHS because of my ESL practicum. No, it was a different proper noun that initially set off alarms in my head:
"William"
Wait... my new cooperating teacher is a guy?!? I looked at Katie (my first cooperating teacher) with an expression of mild panic. She and I had gotten along so *fabulously* well, and it was because we had so much in common! Working together was a breeze because we liked the same music, squee'd about Glee while we planned lessons, and talked about all sorts of girly things whenever we wanted. For two months, we were BFF, and life was great. While I hadn't imagined that the spring could ever be exactly the same, I hadn't really considered the possibility of working with someone so fundamentally different from myself.
As I tend to do, I worried. For 3 months. I worried when emails went unanswered ("Oh no, he's an old guy who's computer illiterate!"). I worried when I did get an email and it didn't answer all of my neurotic questions ("Oh no, he's a disorganized slob!"). I worried about having things to talk about. I worried about how to work femininity into a man's environment. I worried about differences in classroom management and interacting with staff. I worried about having to put on my shiksa feminista pants and hold my own in some sort of Good Old Boys' club.
I worry a lot.
And as is usually the case, I didn't need to. From the very first time my high heels crossed the threshold, I have felt nothing but comfortable in room 231 and with all those who inhabit/frequently visit that space. As it turns out, William isn't old, computer illiterate, or a complete disorganized slob. Bill's just a busy guy who is a lot more laid-back than I am. (Therefore, he knows when to ignore my neuroses, which has actually been a blessing.) He's the polar opposite of Katie, yet we somehow still have just as much in common. I've been reminded of my loves for indie/folk music, reading great literature/poetry, and most importantly, writing.
Sure, there were awkward moments and issues with students who couldn't appropriately navigate the differences between a male and female teacher, and not every day was perfect, but I've loved the whole thing, and it's going to be difficult for me to not be a girly mess on Friday. And as for the Good Old Boys... there have been plenty of occasions on which I have been the only one present without a y-chromosome to my name, but those fears were unfounded as well. At a time in my life when I needed good male role models more than I even realized, the men of the LHS English department swooped to my rescue, made me feel welcome, and reminded me what it's all about.
So, as a somewhat cheesy but entirely heartfelt token of my appreciation, here is my parting gift:
(Blogger doesn't allow me to channel my inner e.e. cummings, so wherever you see a list, imagine it tabbed out and looking like stairs.)
Real Men
(for Bill, Jeff, Jon, and Mike)
It’s easy for a girl to lose sight of what a real man is;
images of Disney princes with kingdoms by the sea
and boyishly handsome TV stars with lovesick eyes
are incongruent with the
cold,
self-absorbed, and
immature game players she’s exposed to daily,
and they all seem artificial.
But Real Men do exist.
I’ve seen them.
Real Men talk about books.
Not just because they have to for their jobs,
or because they want to impress other guys
or themselves
or women.
No, Real Men talk about books because they need to…
because Real Men are poets.
Their insight and clever word play
makes you feel smarter (never dumber) for listening and reading.
No poetry is excluded from their anthologies:
music, film, and television are cherished friends.
Keeping company with the likes of Berryman, Whitman, Zimmerman, and Hoffman,
Real Men are brilliant.
Chivalry is not dead!
Real Men hold doors open
and practice “ladies first.”
But unlike those fake tools, their simple kindnesses
make you feel valued,
not weak or inferior or insulted.
No, Real Men are graceful and genuine with their manners.
Real Men boast of vanquishing an entire fleet
of cholesterol-laden sandwiches,
but they aren’t ashamed to admit
the inherent humor and stupidity of such a quest,
and their assertive posturing is confined to lunchtime conversation.
Real Men have no use or abuse for foolish pride.
Real Men can be “squishy.”
Whether it’s the sexy lead singer, the mysterious poetess,
or the patient wives in their own homes,
Real Men aren’t afraid to be rendered vulnerable
by a strong woman from time to time.
Real Men do not wear masks of hard indifference.
They are passionate about
their work,
their art,
and justice therein.
Societal standards of detached “manliness” don’t restrain them:
confident in their own skins, they care for their
friends,
wives,
children,
students,
and even student teachers.
Real Men inspire hope –
hope for the Real Girl looking for her Real Boy.
She can keep searching now,
knowing her quest is not in vain, because
Real Men do exist.
I’ve seen them.
April 22, 2010
"William"
Wait... my new cooperating teacher is a guy?!? I looked at Katie (my first cooperating teacher) with an expression of mild panic. She and I had gotten along so *fabulously* well, and it was because we had so much in common! Working together was a breeze because we liked the same music, squee'd about Glee while we planned lessons, and talked about all sorts of girly things whenever we wanted. For two months, we were BFF, and life was great. While I hadn't imagined that the spring could ever be exactly the same, I hadn't really considered the possibility of working with someone so fundamentally different from myself.
As I tend to do, I worried. For 3 months. I worried when emails went unanswered ("Oh no, he's an old guy who's computer illiterate!"). I worried when I did get an email and it didn't answer all of my neurotic questions ("Oh no, he's a disorganized slob!"). I worried about having things to talk about. I worried about how to work femininity into a man's environment. I worried about differences in classroom management and interacting with staff. I worried about having to put on my shiksa feminista pants and hold my own in some sort of Good Old Boys' club.
I worry a lot.
And as is usually the case, I didn't need to. From the very first time my high heels crossed the threshold, I have felt nothing but comfortable in room 231 and with all those who inhabit/frequently visit that space. As it turns out, William isn't old, computer illiterate, or a complete disorganized slob. Bill's just a busy guy who is a lot more laid-back than I am. (Therefore, he knows when to ignore my neuroses, which has actually been a blessing.) He's the polar opposite of Katie, yet we somehow still have just as much in common. I've been reminded of my loves for indie/folk music, reading great literature/poetry, and most importantly, writing.
Sure, there were awkward moments and issues with students who couldn't appropriately navigate the differences between a male and female teacher, and not every day was perfect, but I've loved the whole thing, and it's going to be difficult for me to not be a girly mess on Friday. And as for the Good Old Boys... there have been plenty of occasions on which I have been the only one present without a y-chromosome to my name, but those fears were unfounded as well. At a time in my life when I needed good male role models more than I even realized, the men of the LHS English department swooped to my rescue, made me feel welcome, and reminded me what it's all about.
So, as a somewhat cheesy but entirely heartfelt token of my appreciation, here is my parting gift:
(Blogger doesn't allow me to channel my inner e.e. cummings, so wherever you see a list, imagine it tabbed out and looking like stairs.)
Real Men
(for Bill, Jeff, Jon, and Mike)
It’s easy for a girl to lose sight of what a real man is;
images of Disney princes with kingdoms by the sea
and boyishly handsome TV stars with lovesick eyes
are incongruent with the
cold,
self-absorbed, and
immature game players she’s exposed to daily,
and they all seem artificial.
But Real Men do exist.
I’ve seen them.
Real Men talk about books.
Not just because they have to for their jobs,
or because they want to impress other guys
or themselves
or women.
No, Real Men talk about books because they need to…
because Real Men are poets.
Their insight and clever word play
makes you feel smarter (never dumber) for listening and reading.
No poetry is excluded from their anthologies:
music, film, and television are cherished friends.
Keeping company with the likes of Berryman, Whitman, Zimmerman, and Hoffman,
Real Men are brilliant.
Chivalry is not dead!
Real Men hold doors open
and practice “ladies first.”
But unlike those fake tools, their simple kindnesses
make you feel valued,
not weak or inferior or insulted.
No, Real Men are graceful and genuine with their manners.
Real Men boast of vanquishing an entire fleet
of cholesterol-laden sandwiches,
but they aren’t ashamed to admit
the inherent humor and stupidity of such a quest,
and their assertive posturing is confined to lunchtime conversation.
Real Men have no use or abuse for foolish pride.
Real Men can be “squishy.”
Whether it’s the sexy lead singer, the mysterious poetess,
or the patient wives in their own homes,
Real Men aren’t afraid to be rendered vulnerable
by a strong woman from time to time.
Real Men do not wear masks of hard indifference.
They are passionate about
their work,
their art,
and justice therein.
Societal standards of detached “manliness” don’t restrain them:
confident in their own skins, they care for their
friends,
wives,
children,
students,
and even student teachers.
Real Men inspire hope –
hope for the Real Girl looking for her Real Boy.
She can keep searching now,
knowing her quest is not in vain, because
Real Men do exist.
I’ve seen them.
April 22, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
In Memoriam
I recently heard myself described as a ball of "glowing light... but solid," which is so amazingly awesome but made more sense when spoken out loud and accompanied by a fantastic gesture/facial expression combo, but anyway... for my first four months in Lawrence, that light was more like Tinkerbell when nobody believes in her: fading away and all the kids are supposed to clap to bring her back.
I was nearly unrecognizable that first semester.
I was quiet. Unnaturally so. I don't remember laughing much at all, and if I made any friends that semester, I don't remember who they were or what we did (No illegal substances were involved, either... I just wasn't there.). I've always had introverted tendencies, but not like this. I stayed in my dorm room a lot, praying every second of every evening that my roommate would stay out all night getting wasted and grinding up on questionable men instead of bringing them back to our room while she passed out on the communal bathroom floor. I threw myself into my overloaded schedule (6 courses, 2 had extra discussion sessions, plus marching band and my new job at the library), kept myself purposefully busy at all times, and relied on my iPod and the final season of The West Wing to shut out the world. I was so miserable, a blizzard literally had to chase me back to Kansas after Thanksgiving or I never would have left my bed, and by the time winter break arrived, I was seriously considering a transfer to Northern State University back in Aberdeen.
It would be easy to brush this off and assume it was typical homesick behavior for a college freshman living 584 miles away from home for the first time, especially when said freshman was deposited in a 12x14 box alongside the greatest waste of human life she'd met until that point... but that doesn't tell the whole story.
On August 12th, 2005, my debate partner from senior year was killed in an alcohol-related single car accident near Richmond Lake just outside Aberdeen. He was 17; just weeks away from his 18th birthday and the start of his senior year.
Matt was a special kid, so indulge me in telling a few stories. He was a great storyteller - whether he was rehashing the events of an intense round or reading the embarassing confessions from the latest Cosmopolitan out loud, the attention of the entire bus was captivated. In that last wonderful year, Matt was the comic relief and heart of our team. Sure, he could be infuriating (like the time he put an entry slip covered in obscenities into a *clear* raffle box at a Taco John's in Minnesota and got himself - and therefore, me - suspended from debate tournaments for two weeks), but by and large, he made everyone laugh, even our opponents.
He was constantly a mess. It took me until January to decipher his handwriting reliably, his hair was always unkempt, and his frequently neglected glasses were woefully crooked. He only had two modes of fashion: suit and tie for debate, sweatpants for everything else. (You can understand my surprise when Matt came out and became my first openly gay friend.) He took ceramics for his fine arts requirement his junior year, and on the last day of the quarter we each got to choose one of his pitifully deformed projects to take off his hands. The guys made cracks about using them for target practice, but I still have mine - it holds quarters for laundry in all its misshapen, unevenly polka-dotted glory. Another piece still survives in the debate room: the "Pomo Pot." Matt had painstakingly painted the names of postmodern thinkers (Foucalt, Heidegger, etc.) onto the sides of what looked like a caveman's cereal bowl as a form of protest for being forced to waste his time on ceramics when he could be researching.
Matt lived and breathed for debate. He saved my ass in rounds more times than I can count, and he dreamt of being a national circuit debater, despite being confined to a non-circuit team and a partner who obviously cared more about Oratory than Policy. He loved the strategy of it all: during prep time or while we waited for judges to show up, he would predict the winners on every schedule, overanalyze each match-up to determine whether the tab room was using straight, random, or high-low pairings, and doodle lists of circuit tournaments (or the richest people in the world according to Forbes - he had the list memorized).
Thankfully for me, Matt loved Extemp as much as he loved debate, so we struck up a deal that made our partnership work: we knew we both had better chances to qualify separately in our I.E.s than together in debate, so we worked hard to keep him improving, and we had a lot of fun along the way knowing that we could both go to Philly and he could grab a ride to nationals in debate the next year. So there were crazy rounds where Matt convinced me to kick our entire Affirmative case and go for the kritik just to piss off our coach, rounds where timers flew through the air when his piece of crap timer (which I now own and still curse at regularly) would give out and just beep incessantly, and rounds where he wore my glasses for entire speeches because he refused to wear his own and we had the same prescription. He used the word "extrapolate" too much and was always trying to convince the judges to "buy" his impacts, and in turn, I abused "conducive" and was always certain that my flawless analysis on Topicality should win the round every time. We had successes as well as a good deal of failures, but for every weekend of failure, Matt just let it roll off him and gave me a big bear hug to let me know that everything would be ok, although it must have been torture for him to watch other members of our team bring in armloads of Policy trophies.
I won't lie and say that he was my best friend in the world, or even that we were particularly close beyond the unique relationship formed by working in close proximity to each other. We took care of each other, learned to read each other's minds, and made the best of a partnership formed by outside forces. (For those of you who need a reference point - the student teacher/cooperating teacher relationship is the closest thing I've experienced since.) Now, I like to think we would have stayed in touch despite the fact that we seldom socialized outside debate-related activities, and we knew relatively little about each other's personal lives. But at the time (and to this day), Matt's death affected me in a way that no one, including myself, could have predicted. I think this is partly because his age and the circumstances of his death made it heartbreakingly tragic, but also because it was the first time anyone I actually knew had died.
Combine this with my inability to return home to attend the funeral or to simply grieve with my debate family, and that lack of closure (I've still never even visited his gravesite - something I plan to change this summer) explains it all. August 12th was the day I arrived at KU, so as soon as I got my phone charger back from Grandma's on the evening of the 13th, the semester was already doomed. Who wants to be friends with that quiet girl who's always gone for band and when she is here she looks like she's been crying all the time, and she seems to be having some kind of existential crisis? Freak.
As they tend to do, things got better. I decided to give KU one more try with a new roommate and a more cohesive schedule that spring, and boy am I glad I did. It hasn't all been easy; friends and roommates have come and gone, but I wouldn't change a thing from the past four and a half years. I've learned a lot about myself and about other people, and this year alone has been worth every bit of the crap that preceded it.
I'm ready to move on to new and exciting things now, but I think I needed to do this - to write this - before I truly could; a bookend, if you will. So if you're still with me, thanks for reading this novella, please stay just a bit longer for the poem I've been wrestling with over the last week, and thanks for providing an audience for what I should have done to cope with this years ago.
Richmond Road Farewell
I.
Under a clear, bright, South Dakota sun
minivans purge themselves of their heavy burdens.
After ten long days filled with longer hours,
a team navigates the awkward transition
from ever-present family (for better and for worse)
to scattered individuals
for the last time.
The moment has a weight felt but denied by everyone present.
A well-known hug and a stubbled cheek stand out amongst the others -
“take care of yourself.” A final command
from one partner to another –
a particular pleasantry never to be spoken again out of superstition and anger.
II.
Cell phone charger forgotten in the excitement of a new beginning,
voicemail overflows silently as a Kansas dorm room is filled, territory bargained for.
Listen to messages before the third Wal-Mart run
-hurry, rehearsal starts early tomorrow!
Familiar voices sound foreign,
weighted by distance and a guarded, ominous secret,
too monumental to be revealed via recording.
Heart simultaneously pounds and sinks as I hit ‘call’ and stare at the door.
News of an accident is cautiously conveyed.
This brand-new tiled floor is uneven – glad it’s not on my side.
The truth – my depression less than 24 hours old – erases innocence.
III.
Acceptance is a lesson learned alone,
dictated by distance.
Not all farewells are tragic. I know this. I’ve remembered this.
But each one carries for me a subtle, unconscious reminder.
Every time a dear friend walks away, I am compelled to gently assert –
imploring the powers that be to let it be true:
“I’ll see you soon.”
I’ll see you tomorrow… Monday… next weekend… in June…a month from the day after tomorrow’s yesterday… it doesn’t really matter when, but I will specify.
Because I will see you soon.
April 23rd, 2010
From left to right, top to bottom: Nisha, Shana, Tessa, Brenna, Molly, Paul, Me, Tyler, Matt, Chris
April 2005
I was nearly unrecognizable that first semester.
I was quiet. Unnaturally so. I don't remember laughing much at all, and if I made any friends that semester, I don't remember who they were or what we did (No illegal substances were involved, either... I just wasn't there.). I've always had introverted tendencies, but not like this. I stayed in my dorm room a lot, praying every second of every evening that my roommate would stay out all night getting wasted and grinding up on questionable men instead of bringing them back to our room while she passed out on the communal bathroom floor. I threw myself into my overloaded schedule (6 courses, 2 had extra discussion sessions, plus marching band and my new job at the library), kept myself purposefully busy at all times, and relied on my iPod and the final season of The West Wing to shut out the world. I was so miserable, a blizzard literally had to chase me back to Kansas after Thanksgiving or I never would have left my bed, and by the time winter break arrived, I was seriously considering a transfer to Northern State University back in Aberdeen.
It would be easy to brush this off and assume it was typical homesick behavior for a college freshman living 584 miles away from home for the first time, especially when said freshman was deposited in a 12x14 box alongside the greatest waste of human life she'd met until that point... but that doesn't tell the whole story.
On August 12th, 2005, my debate partner from senior year was killed in an alcohol-related single car accident near Richmond Lake just outside Aberdeen. He was 17; just weeks away from his 18th birthday and the start of his senior year.
Matt was a special kid, so indulge me in telling a few stories. He was a great storyteller - whether he was rehashing the events of an intense round or reading the embarassing confessions from the latest Cosmopolitan out loud, the attention of the entire bus was captivated. In that last wonderful year, Matt was the comic relief and heart of our team. Sure, he could be infuriating (like the time he put an entry slip covered in obscenities into a *clear* raffle box at a Taco John's in Minnesota and got himself - and therefore, me - suspended from debate tournaments for two weeks), but by and large, he made everyone laugh, even our opponents.
He was constantly a mess. It took me until January to decipher his handwriting reliably, his hair was always unkempt, and his frequently neglected glasses were woefully crooked. He only had two modes of fashion: suit and tie for debate, sweatpants for everything else. (You can understand my surprise when Matt came out and became my first openly gay friend.) He took ceramics for his fine arts requirement his junior year, and on the last day of the quarter we each got to choose one of his pitifully deformed projects to take off his hands. The guys made cracks about using them for target practice, but I still have mine - it holds quarters for laundry in all its misshapen, unevenly polka-dotted glory. Another piece still survives in the debate room: the "Pomo Pot." Matt had painstakingly painted the names of postmodern thinkers (Foucalt, Heidegger, etc.) onto the sides of what looked like a caveman's cereal bowl as a form of protest for being forced to waste his time on ceramics when he could be researching.
Matt lived and breathed for debate. He saved my ass in rounds more times than I can count, and he dreamt of being a national circuit debater, despite being confined to a non-circuit team and a partner who obviously cared more about Oratory than Policy. He loved the strategy of it all: during prep time or while we waited for judges to show up, he would predict the winners on every schedule, overanalyze each match-up to determine whether the tab room was using straight, random, or high-low pairings, and doodle lists of circuit tournaments (or the richest people in the world according to Forbes - he had the list memorized).
Thankfully for me, Matt loved Extemp as much as he loved debate, so we struck up a deal that made our partnership work: we knew we both had better chances to qualify separately in our I.E.s than together in debate, so we worked hard to keep him improving, and we had a lot of fun along the way knowing that we could both go to Philly and he could grab a ride to nationals in debate the next year. So there were crazy rounds where Matt convinced me to kick our entire Affirmative case and go for the kritik just to piss off our coach, rounds where timers flew through the air when his piece of crap timer (which I now own and still curse at regularly) would give out and just beep incessantly, and rounds where he wore my glasses for entire speeches because he refused to wear his own and we had the same prescription. He used the word "extrapolate" too much and was always trying to convince the judges to "buy" his impacts, and in turn, I abused "conducive" and was always certain that my flawless analysis on Topicality should win the round every time. We had successes as well as a good deal of failures, but for every weekend of failure, Matt just let it roll off him and gave me a big bear hug to let me know that everything would be ok, although it must have been torture for him to watch other members of our team bring in armloads of Policy trophies.
I won't lie and say that he was my best friend in the world, or even that we were particularly close beyond the unique relationship formed by working in close proximity to each other. We took care of each other, learned to read each other's minds, and made the best of a partnership formed by outside forces. (For those of you who need a reference point - the student teacher/cooperating teacher relationship is the closest thing I've experienced since.) Now, I like to think we would have stayed in touch despite the fact that we seldom socialized outside debate-related activities, and we knew relatively little about each other's personal lives. But at the time (and to this day), Matt's death affected me in a way that no one, including myself, could have predicted. I think this is partly because his age and the circumstances of his death made it heartbreakingly tragic, but also because it was the first time anyone I actually knew had died.
Combine this with my inability to return home to attend the funeral or to simply grieve with my debate family, and that lack of closure (I've still never even visited his gravesite - something I plan to change this summer) explains it all. August 12th was the day I arrived at KU, so as soon as I got my phone charger back from Grandma's on the evening of the 13th, the semester was already doomed. Who wants to be friends with that quiet girl who's always gone for band and when she is here she looks like she's been crying all the time, and she seems to be having some kind of existential crisis? Freak.
As they tend to do, things got better. I decided to give KU one more try with a new roommate and a more cohesive schedule that spring, and boy am I glad I did. It hasn't all been easy; friends and roommates have come and gone, but I wouldn't change a thing from the past four and a half years. I've learned a lot about myself and about other people, and this year alone has been worth every bit of the crap that preceded it.
I'm ready to move on to new and exciting things now, but I think I needed to do this - to write this - before I truly could; a bookend, if you will. So if you're still with me, thanks for reading this novella, please stay just a bit longer for the poem I've been wrestling with over the last week, and thanks for providing an audience for what I should have done to cope with this years ago.
Richmond Road Farewell
I.
Under a clear, bright, South Dakota sun
minivans purge themselves of their heavy burdens.
After ten long days filled with longer hours,
a team navigates the awkward transition
from ever-present family (for better and for worse)
to scattered individuals
for the last time.
The moment has a weight felt but denied by everyone present.
A well-known hug and a stubbled cheek stand out amongst the others -
“take care of yourself.” A final command
from one partner to another –
a particular pleasantry never to be spoken again out of superstition and anger.
II.
Cell phone charger forgotten in the excitement of a new beginning,
voicemail overflows silently as a Kansas dorm room is filled, territory bargained for.
Listen to messages before the third Wal-Mart run
-hurry, rehearsal starts early tomorrow!
Familiar voices sound foreign,
weighted by distance and a guarded, ominous secret,
too monumental to be revealed via recording.
Heart simultaneously pounds and sinks as I hit ‘call’ and stare at the door.
News of an accident is cautiously conveyed.
This brand-new tiled floor is uneven – glad it’s not on my side.
The truth – my depression less than 24 hours old – erases innocence.
III.
Acceptance is a lesson learned alone,
dictated by distance.
Not all farewells are tragic. I know this. I’ve remembered this.
But each one carries for me a subtle, unconscious reminder.
Every time a dear friend walks away, I am compelled to gently assert –
imploring the powers that be to let it be true:
“I’ll see you soon.”
I’ll see you tomorrow… Monday… next weekend… in June…a month from the day after tomorrow’s yesterday… it doesn’t really matter when, but I will specify.
Because I will see you soon.
April 23rd, 2010
From left to right, top to bottom: Nisha, Shana, Tessa, Brenna, Molly, Paul, Me, Tyler, Matt, Chris
April 2005
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
A song you should know
KU is stealing away my fun time tonight, so I don't have the time to give this the grand introduction and discussion it deserves (I'm sure there will one day be a lengthy essay on my love for Billy Joel... just not today.). But as I type artificial words about a highly artificial discussion (Why do I have to document conversation with my cooperating teacher when we talk every day? Oh yeah, because some people aren't quite as awesome as we are. And that's only slightly tongue-in-cheek.), iTunes gifted me with some authenticity by shuffling to my favorite Billy Joel song. It never fails to astound me in its poetics, so while some of my work spends some more time in the oven, please enjoy:
"Summer, Highland Falls"
They say that these are not the best of times,
but they're the only times I've ever known.
And I believe there is a time for meditation
in cathedrals of our own.
Now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover's eyes,
and I can only stand apart and sympathize,
for we are always what our situations hand us -
it's either sadness or euphoria.
So we'll argue and we'll compromise,
and realize that nothing's ever changed.
For all our mutual experience,
our separate conclusions are the same.
Now we are forced to recognize our inhumanity;
our reason coexists with our insanity.
Though we choose between reality and madness,
it's either sadness or euphoria.
How thoughtlessly we dissipate our energies;
perhaps we don't fulfill each other's fantasies?
So we stand upon the ledges of our lives
with our respective similarities.
It's either sadness or euphoria.
From Turnstiles, copyright Billy Joel 1976
(punctuation and line breaks are mine... I typed it out from memory because typing is soothing.)
Be sure to listen to the Songs from the Attic version - this song is meant to be played live. He broke my heart three years ago when he offered it as a choice but went with the rest of the audience and played "Vienna" despite my frantic, second-row screaming for "Summer, Highland Falls." I've held a grudge against "Vienna" ever since.
"Summer, Highland Falls"
They say that these are not the best of times,
but they're the only times I've ever known.
And I believe there is a time for meditation
in cathedrals of our own.
Now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover's eyes,
and I can only stand apart and sympathize,
for we are always what our situations hand us -
it's either sadness or euphoria.
So we'll argue and we'll compromise,
and realize that nothing's ever changed.
For all our mutual experience,
our separate conclusions are the same.
Now we are forced to recognize our inhumanity;
our reason coexists with our insanity.
Though we choose between reality and madness,
it's either sadness or euphoria.
How thoughtlessly we dissipate our energies;
perhaps we don't fulfill each other's fantasies?
So we stand upon the ledges of our lives
with our respective similarities.
It's either sadness or euphoria.
From Turnstiles, copyright Billy Joel 1976
(punctuation and line breaks are mine... I typed it out from memory because typing is soothing.)
Be sure to listen to the Songs from the Attic version - this song is meant to be played live. He broke my heart three years ago when he offered it as a choice but went with the rest of the audience and played "Vienna" despite my frantic, second-row screaming for "Summer, Highland Falls." I've held a grudge against "Vienna" ever since.
Monday, April 19, 2010
For Mom
I'm pretty sure this is still in my mom's top five favorite things I've ever written, and that includes award-winning essays, "published" poetry, and oratories that qualified me for nationals.
This is a limerick that I wrote in the seventh grade.
There once was a monkey named Fred
who had a very big head.
He slipped on a peel
and let out a squeal,
and now poor Fred is dead.
(Unknown date somewhere in the neighborhood of 1999.)
I think the accompanying illustration was really what did it for her. I could call her right now and read this to her and she would start laughing so hard she'd start wheezing. I bet she still has it stashed away in a rubbermaid container somewhere, because our family has just a touch of the hoarding. Although, I have to admit that I still have the awesome comics I drew that same year when I was bored in Language Arts. The Adventures of SuperBlob lives on in my file cabinet, and occasionally in the margins of my notes.
Anyway, I hope I can mine such brilliant gems from my writing students next year (who will obviously never have time to doodle awesome comic book characters because they will be completely engrossed in every earth-shatteringly amazing word I say). It's a high bar to clear, but I think we'll make it into a few more rubbermaid containers.
This is a limerick that I wrote in the seventh grade.
There once was a monkey named Fred
who had a very big head.
He slipped on a peel
and let out a squeal,
and now poor Fred is dead.
(Unknown date somewhere in the neighborhood of 1999.)
I think the accompanying illustration was really what did it for her. I could call her right now and read this to her and she would start laughing so hard she'd start wheezing. I bet she still has it stashed away in a rubbermaid container somewhere, because our family has just a touch of the hoarding. Although, I have to admit that I still have the awesome comics I drew that same year when I was bored in Language Arts. The Adventures of SuperBlob lives on in my file cabinet, and occasionally in the margins of my notes.
Anyway, I hope I can mine such brilliant gems from my writing students next year (who will obviously never have time to doodle awesome comic book characters because they will be completely engrossed in every earth-shatteringly amazing word I say). It's a high bar to clear, but I think we'll make it into a few more rubbermaid containers.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Procrastination Psychoanalyzation
Today is a whiny day, so I won't be writing an extensive post - I don't want this to become a place for me to come and vent/rant/rage, but that's all I feel capable of today thanks to...
The KPTP.
For all of you who are already licensed teachers or are not teachers at all (which is pretty much the entire readership of this blog), be thankful today that the KPTP is not a part of your life, holding you hostage when you'd rather be out aimlessly driving around singing showtunes too loudly with the windows down.
*ahem*
To close, and to bring it back to stuff I've written, here is a haiku I wrote during a three-hour training dedicated to having a handbook read aloud to a room full of college graduates (people who we hope can read, especially since they'll be teaching your children how to read).
The KPTP:
So much bullshit, it astounds.
Flaming hoops to jump.
January 13, 2010
***UPDATE***
After playing cat and mouse with this wily beast of a document all day, I think I've head-shrinked myself into figuring out why I really can't make myself finish it.
Finishing the KPTP means finishing my internship.
When I left on the last day of student teaching in the fall, I cried for the whole 40-minute drive home. That ended up being ridiculous because I was back just a couple of weeks later to substitute, and now I'll be back there with a classroom of my own... but this time, I know none of those options are possible. It really will be the end of something special. Hopefully, through the inevitable tears, I'll keep sight of all the inspiration I've gathered from these people and this place. I think in the end, more will be gained than lost... but that's easy to say with two weeks left.
The KPTP.
For all of you who are already licensed teachers or are not teachers at all (which is pretty much the entire readership of this blog), be thankful today that the KPTP is not a part of your life, holding you hostage when you'd rather be out aimlessly driving around singing showtunes too loudly with the windows down.
*ahem*
To close, and to bring it back to stuff I've written, here is a haiku I wrote during a three-hour training dedicated to having a handbook read aloud to a room full of college graduates (people who we hope can read, especially since they'll be teaching your children how to read).
The KPTP:
So much bullshit, it astounds.
Flaming hoops to jump.
January 13, 2010
***UPDATE***
After playing cat and mouse with this wily beast of a document all day, I think I've head-shrinked myself into figuring out why I really can't make myself finish it.
Finishing the KPTP means finishing my internship.
When I left on the last day of student teaching in the fall, I cried for the whole 40-minute drive home. That ended up being ridiculous because I was back just a couple of weeks later to substitute, and now I'll be back there with a classroom of my own... but this time, I know none of those options are possible. It really will be the end of something special. Hopefully, through the inevitable tears, I'll keep sight of all the inspiration I've gathered from these people and this place. I think in the end, more will be gained than lost... but that's easy to say with two weeks left.
Friday, April 16, 2010
My iPod is psychic
Today has been a very musical day. This is not an odd occurrence by any means because music has always been an integral part of my everyday existence, but today my thoughts have been acutely focused on and driven by music. In creative writing, I had my students listen to "Air (Dublinesque)" by Billy Joel and write some flash fiction inspired by the piece. I was genuinely curious to see what they would associate with the song because I have permanently associated specific imagery, storylines, and movements with it thanks to Movin' Out, and the kids did not disappoint. There were weddings, fancy parties, even a dramatic mouse tale (apologies to 717 for the mice reference and to everyone for the bad pun). If you're up to the challenge and the gods of embedding web content are on my side, take a listen and try your hand at it. Or just listen to the piece because it's gorgeous.
This seems like an appropriate segue to the poem I wanted to post today. Like yesterday's, it was written earlier this semester and has been read by just a few pairs of eyes. I wrote it all in one day, which is odd for me. I usually hack away at a piece for much longer if I actually care about it - I was simultaneously working on three different poems today (if they cooperate, you'll see them soon). But this one found it necessary to be completed in one day, across two time zones, on planes, trains, and automobiles (literally).
It was the last day of my spring break trip to Washington, D.C., where I had been visiting 3 of my favorite people in the world. At the time, my job search was at a point that felt like a crisis but in actuality was laying the groundwork for what turned into a perfect storm of employment opportunity. Not knowing that, however, made it very difficult to wrench myself away from these people who feel like home. I'm never good at goodbyes, but that day was particularly heartbreaking.
It didn't help, either, that my iPod was once again playing that game with my emotions where it shuffles to EXACTLY the songs that seem most appropriate/poignant for the moment (creepily enough, as I type this section, it chose REO Speedwagon's "Time for Me to Fly," which it thankfully did not pick on that awful day or I would have just had a breakdown right there on the train from D.C. to Baltimore). So I put down the Odyssey and picked up my notebook.
Here's what was revised and emailed for first review at the end of the day, back on my futon in Lawrence, waiting for an impending snowstorm:
Riding Backwards
Bumpy tracks disguise a shaking hand;
a broken fingernail provides distraction.
Outside, cars hurtle forward while I am forcibly pulled –
by the unseen forces of home.
iPod shuffles sights, sounds, and memories.
Familiar words come laced with extra meaning:
only on days like this
can Michael Franti and Annie Lennox elicit the same reaction.
Thoughts flash like the morning light between passing trees;
a flood of inside jokes and teasing grins – both past and future.
Synaptic overload leads to shutdown.
No work, but no tears, either.
Headache sets in, dull.
Merely a whisper of what’s to come.
Security hassles and pressure at 30,000 feet await;
the platform demands an about-face.
March 19, 2010
This seems like an appropriate segue to the poem I wanted to post today. Like yesterday's, it was written earlier this semester and has been read by just a few pairs of eyes. I wrote it all in one day, which is odd for me. I usually hack away at a piece for much longer if I actually care about it - I was simultaneously working on three different poems today (if they cooperate, you'll see them soon). But this one found it necessary to be completed in one day, across two time zones, on planes, trains, and automobiles (literally).
It was the last day of my spring break trip to Washington, D.C., where I had been visiting 3 of my favorite people in the world. At the time, my job search was at a point that felt like a crisis but in actuality was laying the groundwork for what turned into a perfect storm of employment opportunity. Not knowing that, however, made it very difficult to wrench myself away from these people who feel like home. I'm never good at goodbyes, but that day was particularly heartbreaking.
It didn't help, either, that my iPod was once again playing that game with my emotions where it shuffles to EXACTLY the songs that seem most appropriate/poignant for the moment (creepily enough, as I type this section, it chose REO Speedwagon's "Time for Me to Fly," which it thankfully did not pick on that awful day or I would have just had a breakdown right there on the train from D.C. to Baltimore). So I put down the Odyssey and picked up my notebook.
Here's what was revised and emailed for first review at the end of the day, back on my futon in Lawrence, waiting for an impending snowstorm:
Riding Backwards
Bumpy tracks disguise a shaking hand;
a broken fingernail provides distraction.
Outside, cars hurtle forward while I am forcibly pulled –
by the unseen forces of home.
iPod shuffles sights, sounds, and memories.
Familiar words come laced with extra meaning:
only on days like this
can Michael Franti and Annie Lennox elicit the same reaction.
Thoughts flash like the morning light between passing trees;
a flood of inside jokes and teasing grins – both past and future.
Synaptic overload leads to shutdown.
No work, but no tears, either.
Headache sets in, dull.
Merely a whisper of what’s to come.
Security hassles and pressure at 30,000 feet await;
the platform demands an about-face.
March 19, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Growing up is hard to do
I promise that not all of my post titles will be bad puns off of oldies songs. Just some.
I've been grappling a lot lately with issues of age; particularly this concept of "adult." I realize that this crisis is nothing new or unique to me and people smarter than me have made entire careers in psychology out of studying just this sort of thing, but I do find my particular blend of young and old to be especially puzzling.
I've always been a bit of an old soul. Not to the extent of my good friend, Rob, who we've been able to picture in a rocking chair with a pipe, a snifter of brandy, and a family-size bag of butterscotch disks (classic old-man candy) since we were 15, but in the way that I've generally always gotten on better with folks 1, 5, 10, 20+ years my senior. Even though I might not always know what they're talking about, I understand them, and they certainly understand me better than the bulk of my peers do. It's a phenomenon I'm currently experiencing, not for the first time and certainly not for the last.
But on the other hand... I don't feel like I've entirely earned my 23 years, either. I still have childish moments in thought and in action, and I abhor the idea of squashing the inherent joy of those moments in favor of erecting the facade of adulthood. And for some reason, I continue to see myself as somehow smaller (physically, mentally, emotionally, etc.) than true adults. Am I really about to be made responsible for the education and general well-being of over 100 6th graders? And wait... I own a car and rent an apartment and make my own dinners? I'm older than the speaker in "Theme for English B" now? Friends are getting engaged and talking about finding "the one" in non-hypotheticals and looking for jobs with benefits... When did all of this happen? Last time I checked, I still get excited about free candy.
So you see, I'm caught in the middle (cue Jimmy Eat World circa junior high) and I'm trying desperately to reconcile the long-established trajectory of my hopes and dreams with the here and now. Arthur Miller would say I'm setting myself up for tragedy and that I'm experiencing "the underlying fear of being displaced, the disaster inherent in being torn away from our chosen image of what and who we are in this world." It remains to be seen whether my end will be tragic, comic, or more likely tragicomic, but I have certainly connected with this and other sections of "Tragedy and the Common Man" more than most of the American Literature II students I've cajoled into writing about it have.
Anyway... (I warned you, I like to ramble)
This was supposed to be a quick introduction to a poem previously written, because adult responsibilities are calling and I figured I could easily use the space to debut some pieces that had only seen limited release while I try to wrap up the semester. Since I started this post over two hours ago... it looks like that idea is shot. But, I'll still share the poem with just a bit more introduction:
I wrote this toward the beginning of my internship based on one of our creative writing experiments - write an epistle to a future self. I wrote to the me of 2020. While the words are still true, the driving sentiment behind them has already evolved and I'm not sure this poem would have come out of who I am now, a mere two months later. Boy, they sure grow up fast.
2020-10
Do forget the giant crickets,
but not the craphole rooms they infiltrated.
They represent your humility.
Do forget the burgeoning loan balances,
but not how you accrued them.
They demonstrate your interest.
Do forget the selfish bastards,
but not how they made you feel.
They pale in comparison.
Do forget the failing grades,
but not the kids who earned them.
They teach you more than you can teach them.
Do forget the Lean Cuisines,
but not the lounges where you ate them.
They inspire and frustrate you daily.
Remember this advice.
It has given you everything.
February 25, 2010
I've been grappling a lot lately with issues of age; particularly this concept of "adult." I realize that this crisis is nothing new or unique to me and people smarter than me have made entire careers in psychology out of studying just this sort of thing, but I do find my particular blend of young and old to be especially puzzling.
I've always been a bit of an old soul. Not to the extent of my good friend, Rob, who we've been able to picture in a rocking chair with a pipe, a snifter of brandy, and a family-size bag of butterscotch disks (classic old-man candy) since we were 15, but in the way that I've generally always gotten on better with folks 1, 5, 10, 20+ years my senior. Even though I might not always know what they're talking about, I understand them, and they certainly understand me better than the bulk of my peers do. It's a phenomenon I'm currently experiencing, not for the first time and certainly not for the last.
But on the other hand... I don't feel like I've entirely earned my 23 years, either. I still have childish moments in thought and in action, and I abhor the idea of squashing the inherent joy of those moments in favor of erecting the facade of adulthood. And for some reason, I continue to see myself as somehow smaller (physically, mentally, emotionally, etc.) than true adults. Am I really about to be made responsible for the education and general well-being of over 100 6th graders? And wait... I own a car and rent an apartment and make my own dinners? I'm older than the speaker in "Theme for English B" now? Friends are getting engaged and talking about finding "the one" in non-hypotheticals and looking for jobs with benefits... When did all of this happen? Last time I checked, I still get excited about free candy.
So you see, I'm caught in the middle (cue Jimmy Eat World circa junior high) and I'm trying desperately to reconcile the long-established trajectory of my hopes and dreams with the here and now. Arthur Miller would say I'm setting myself up for tragedy and that I'm experiencing "the underlying fear of being displaced, the disaster inherent in being torn away from our chosen image of what and who we are in this world." It remains to be seen whether my end will be tragic, comic, or more likely tragicomic, but I have certainly connected with this and other sections of "Tragedy and the Common Man" more than most of the American Literature II students I've cajoled into writing about it have.
Anyway... (I warned you, I like to ramble)
This was supposed to be a quick introduction to a poem previously written, because adult responsibilities are calling and I figured I could easily use the space to debut some pieces that had only seen limited release while I try to wrap up the semester. Since I started this post over two hours ago... it looks like that idea is shot. But, I'll still share the poem with just a bit more introduction:
I wrote this toward the beginning of my internship based on one of our creative writing experiments - write an epistle to a future self. I wrote to the me of 2020. While the words are still true, the driving sentiment behind them has already evolved and I'm not sure this poem would have come out of who I am now, a mere two months later. Boy, they sure grow up fast.
2020-10
Do forget the giant crickets,
but not the craphole rooms they infiltrated.
They represent your humility.
Do forget the burgeoning loan balances,
but not how you accrued them.
They demonstrate your interest.
Do forget the selfish bastards,
but not how they made you feel.
They pale in comparison.
Do forget the failing grades,
but not the kids who earned them.
They teach you more than you can teach them.
Do forget the Lean Cuisines,
but not the lounges where you ate them.
They inspire and frustrate you daily.
Remember this advice.
It has given you everything.
February 25, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
My apologies to Judy Blume
I hesitate to venture for a second time into the world of blogspot for a multitude of reasons:
1.) Empirical evidence shows that when I attempt to write in an organized fashion (diaries, journals, blogs, what-have-you), it can become sporadic, forced, trite, or just disappear altogether.
2.) Do I really need to give myself another digital identity beyond Twitter, Facebook, Xanga, etc.? Not to mention the sheer timesuck of adding another site to regularly read/post to...
3.) Although the last three months have been a re-birth of sorts, it has been awhile since I have considered myself a true "writer." Nagging insecurities hijack my desire to be heard and convince me that what I bring to the table is narcissistic, shallow, and not worth sharing. Plus, I have a tendency to ramble, which is not always appreciated by reading audiences.
Fortunately (I think), I have decided that these reasons are all bunk. And in a typical ex-debater fashion, I will tell you why.
Off my 1: This blog will serve more specific purposes and have a much more selective audience than the other venues, which I hope will allow/cause me to be more productive. As the pirated and bastardized title suggests, this will at least partially be a place to document/discuss my first year of teaching (yep, signed a contract yesterday, pretty pumped about it). But because there are too many of those blogs, my musings as a novice educator will also be interspersed with more artistic wordplay - or at least that's the goal.
Off my 2: In a word, yes. My tweets are too flippant and fleeting, Grandma's eyes are on Facebook, and the schlock I post to Xanga is not only inane but isolated in its antiquity. Now that I've got a big-girl job, it's time to balance out the others with a big-girl virtual identity. No updates on what's for dinner or who cut me off on K-10 or who's macking on who on Glee. LOL speak will be kept to an absolute minimum (for realz), and no memes allowed. These things I promise to you and to myself.
Off my 3: I'd be a hypocrite if I let self-censorship stop me. Just last week (or maybe the week before... things are getting blurry), I advised my creative writing students (via William Stafford, via my personal Yoda, Bill) that, "a writer is not so much someone who has something to say as (s)he is someone who has found a process that will bring about new things (s)he would not have thought of if (s)he had not started to say them." Translation: "Amanda, stop claiming failure before you've even tried or nothing will ever happen. Some of it might suck, and some of it might be absolutely terrible, but because it's yours to say, it has value." It may have taken a team of Williams to convince me of this, but here goes.
1.) Empirical evidence shows that when I attempt to write in an organized fashion (diaries, journals, blogs, what-have-you), it can become sporadic, forced, trite, or just disappear altogether.
2.) Do I really need to give myself another digital identity beyond Twitter, Facebook, Xanga, etc.? Not to mention the sheer timesuck of adding another site to regularly read/post to...
3.) Although the last three months have been a re-birth of sorts, it has been awhile since I have considered myself a true "writer." Nagging insecurities hijack my desire to be heard and convince me that what I bring to the table is narcissistic, shallow, and not worth sharing. Plus, I have a tendency to ramble, which is not always appreciated by reading audiences.
Fortunately (I think), I have decided that these reasons are all bunk. And in a typical ex-debater fashion, I will tell you why.
Off my 1: This blog will serve more specific purposes and have a much more selective audience than the other venues, which I hope will allow/cause me to be more productive. As the pirated and bastardized title suggests, this will at least partially be a place to document/discuss my first year of teaching (yep, signed a contract yesterday, pretty pumped about it). But because there are too many of those blogs, my musings as a novice educator will also be interspersed with more artistic wordplay - or at least that's the goal.
Off my 2: In a word, yes. My tweets are too flippant and fleeting, Grandma's eyes are on Facebook, and the schlock I post to Xanga is not only inane but isolated in its antiquity. Now that I've got a big-girl job, it's time to balance out the others with a big-girl virtual identity. No updates on what's for dinner or who cut me off on K-10 or who's macking on who on Glee. LOL speak will be kept to an absolute minimum (for realz), and no memes allowed. These things I promise to you and to myself.
Off my 3: I'd be a hypocrite if I let self-censorship stop me. Just last week (or maybe the week before... things are getting blurry), I advised my creative writing students (via William Stafford, via my personal Yoda, Bill) that, "a writer is not so much someone who has something to say as (s)he is someone who has found a process that will bring about new things (s)he would not have thought of if (s)he had not started to say them." Translation: "Amanda, stop claiming failure before you've even tried or nothing will ever happen. Some of it might suck, and some of it might be absolutely terrible, but because it's yours to say, it has value." It may have taken a team of Williams to convince me of this, but here goes.
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