Don't Stop Believing?

Guilty pleasure time: I still watch Glee. I also still watch Grey's Anatomy, I watched every episode of Private Practice until it was finally and mercifully cancelled, and I love The Office and will probably cry when it's over even though it jumped the shark long ago... but none of those are relevant right now. This is about Glee.

In all honesty, I don't really *enjoy* Glee anymore; I listened to the episode I watched tonight more than I watched it, and there are many points (last month's ridiculous "school shooting but not" episode would certainly be one) where I should have bailed. But I have a crippling inability to give up on anything once I've started, and that particularly applies to stories. I finish every book I start, I can't leave a play or movie before it's over regardless of how bad it is, and I watch every episode of every show I begin. (This is why I don't take starting a new series lightly - if/when I start Mad Men, Dr. Who, and/or Parks and Recreation, each one will consume a significant chunk of time.) I like to think that this is what makes me a good teacher, too - it is a *rare* thing for me to give up on a student, and even when I do, it plagues and pains me every time I see them.

But, I've been thinking a lot about giving up lately. I've thought about giving up on job applications that seem fruitless, giving up and phoning in my job that isn't my job anymore, and giving up on teaching altogether. Why should I keep subjecting myself to this? A profession where on a DAILY basis, I deal with students criticizing me, parents questioning me, and virtually NO ONE outside my direct peers praising me? The bathroom I use at work is constantly covered in phrases like, "I love penis" and "F**k this school and this town." It's still got zip ties in it from the senior "prank" earlier this week. I bring hours worth of work home with me every night, and then I feel guilty if/when I don't do it because I choose to *gasp* spend time with my fiancee or treat myself to a longer bath than necessary. If I had chosen any other profession, I'm sure I would have other problems to complain about, but I'm pretty sure I would feel (and be compensated) more like a professional while dealing with them.

But this is about Glee.

I realized this evening that tomorrow night is the season finale of Glee for this year. I immediately remembered, with terrifying clarity, where I was when I watched the first season finale of Glee three years ago (you know, when I really did enjoy it because the writing was more clever and the singing was still novel). I was watching in my "ghetto apartment" about two weeks after my student teaching had ended, on my 14" television which was dependent on the digital-age version of an analog antenna (which still worked better covered in aluminum foil than not and depended far too much on the direction and intensity of the wind) in the recliner I took from my parents' house, in the DARK because I was trying to save on the electricity bill.

And as those kids sang their reprise of "Don't Stop Believing" for what already felt like the billionth time, after utterly failing at regionals... I bawled my eyes out. In that cruddy old recliner, in the dark, I bawled my eyes out because their teacher was watching them with utmost pride, and that resonated with me.

That all seems so long ago. I was poor as sin, tragically single, and nearly devoid of friends (or so I thought at the time). Now I'm marginally less poor, getting married in 43 days, and the one thing I'm sure of is that there are people who care about me. But I'm not sure if I'll even so much as tear up this year when Mr. Schue inevitably gets misty-eyed over the performances and prospective futures of his students. I'm not sure if I have any tears left for anyone other than myself, or if I have enough idealism left to believe the same way those overgrown fictional teenagers or their teacher do...

... but I'm trying not to stop.

Losing It

Hi, blog. It's been awhile. Probably too long. I certainly wish it was under better, more creative circumstances. You see, about 11 days ago now, I found out I am losing my job. (That present progressive verb is used on purpose here because I have to keep DOING my job - my ridiculously difficult, emotional, and overwhelming even on a good day job - for another two months. All is not yet lost.) Needless to say, that was pretty devastating news for me, seeing as I absolutely love my job and I've been assured by everyone (including the bearer of bad news) that I am very good at it. Even though my love for my work had kind of been in doubt for awhile now (I had seriously thought about what it would be like to pursue a different career, even fantasizing at times about the "luxury" of working a desk job where I could listen to my own music, work at my own pace, and go to the bathroom whenever I damn well pleased), I remembered precisely how much I love my particular job the instant it was taken away from me.

I've already spent way too much time thinking about all my regrets, the people I will miss, the graduations I contributed to but won't see... so I won't use this space to cry about that. I'm done crying. Besides, I came here this evening for a different reason. Obviously, I'm applying for new jobs (I am definitely not marrying a sugar daddy... mama's gotta work), so even though I don't use my full name there and I'm practically unsearchable, I checked my Facebook privacy settings. Upon viewing my profile as the general public would, I noticed something odd - the only thing they have access to is the notes section of my profile. I haven't posted a note to Facebook in years. A. and I weren't even dating yet when I posted the last one, and we're getting married in 87 days, if that tells you anything.

Anyway, I naturally started reading through some of those old posts to see whether I should delete them or if they were safe to leave. It's mostly innocuous; lots of those dumb surveys that were popular back when Facebook was first really taking off, a few observations of daily college life, and one particularly feisty rant about Kansas' inability to clear snow properly (in my defense, KU had just lost, so I was quite irritable already). The most interesting thing I found, though, was a writing exercise I used to make myself do when I was feeling stressed and had time to kill at my reference desk work-study job. I would force myself to make (and publish, via notes) two simple lists: the things that made me happy at that moment, and the things that didn't. The goal was to list more happy things than unhappy things. Simple, yet effective. It nearly always worked to put things in perspective and forced me to look on the bright side. I can't think of anything I need more than that right now, so here goes. Indulge me, if you will.

Things that make me happy this evening:
Our incredibly warm and snuggly couch, a warm blanket, a stomach full (and relatively settled, thank goodness) of white chicken chili, leftovers of said chili packed and ready for lunches, an evening of good re-runs of Top Gear on BBC America, a cold beer, Cadbury Mini-Eggs (a surprise from A.), good news today on the job search front, A. getting really excited about Dr. Who commercials on BBC America, goodnight kisses, literally everything about my dear fiancee including how he just glued his fingers together while assembling his nerdy dudes, remembering words of encouragement from dear colleagues, my students were more pleasant than normal after a week's rest, a load of laundry is running, ridiculous Buzzfeed articles (seriously, I'm a sucker for a good set of autocorrects, and today's is gold), knowing I was strong enough to not tear up in front of students today, @FakeJoeDooley and his ridiculous tweets, my Jayhawks are in the Sweet 16, my ring is still extra sparkly from a spring break cleaning, texts from my BFF checking on me, and Pinterest!

Things that make me unhappy this evening:
Having to look for jobs at all, being nervous about going to work every day because I don't know how I'll react, being worried that I'll get another poor night's sleep, feeling like a failure despite everyone's best efforts to convince me I'm not, the gigantic pile of grading that should have been done over break but wasn't because of all the crying/staring/sleeping/puking etc. that happened instead, the draft that perpetually runs across our living room, job websites that won't load properly, a generally unclean apartment (see previous crying/staring...), an unfinished book I know I'll love but still can't concentrate on due to previously mentioned worries.

Well, the unhappy list has some seriously heavy hitters on it, but the happy list is still longer and prominently features the ultimate trump cards: my friends and my family. Time to focus on that and let them help me hope for the best.

Silly poem is silly

In American Lit 2 yesterday, we were reading Imagist poems to kick off our Modernism unit. While our textbook can be the bane of my existence at times (I can't wait until I have time and energy again to go out on my own and supplement that sucker!), it does have a fun little selection from Des Imagistes. The kids enjoyed the short and sweet (and accessible!) images of poems like "In a Station of the Metro" and "Heat," and they got a good laugh out of my personal favorite, "This is Just to Say." One class finished a bit earlier than the others (that will happen when there's only ten enrolled and six who show up regularly), so I had them try to write their own "non-apology apology poems." Here is mine, lovingly dedicated to A. :)


This is just to say

The computer froze
While you were out
I'm sorry
I thought I was fixing it
But it deleted all your games

Silly thing

-February 7, 2012

Yoga + Poetry = Yogetry?

15 years of dance classes in my (relative) youth may not have provided me with any kind of lasting coordination or grace, but they instilled in me a need for my exercise to be scheduled. Despite the fact that I can see the apartment complex workout room from my couch and there is a TV in there that can show me Modern Family just as easily as mine can, I can never motivate myself to work out unless I know someone is expecting me to show up (even if they're really not).

So, I bought myself a Groupon for Yoga classes (75% off!) at a studio less than three minutes from my apartment and convinced myself I could carve out the time to throw on stretchy pants and attend the 10 classes by the end of the semester. Tonight, I went to the first one.

Tonight's class was a combination of Yoga and creative writing, and although I was skeptical (possibly rightly so) about the quality of both the writing and the Yoga I was about to do, it was a peaceful way to spend an afternoon and I got the teeniest bit of writing out of it.

After working (and wobbling) through Warrior poses, we stopped to read William Stafford's "Being A Person" and write whatever came to mind. Unsurprisingly, even in the barefoot earth mother atmosphere of the Yoga studio, work was still on my mind when I read the line, "suddenly this dream you are having matches Everyone's dream," and the result adds a bit of Emily Dickinson and a lot of my current stress level to Stafford's earthy nature scene. It's completely scattered and unedited, but it entertained my fellow barefoot earth mothers, and that's got to be worth something.

Matching Everyone's dream

Everyone thinks they know
how to teach; Everyone
went to school, so
Everyone is clearly an expert.

Everyone has an expectation
of finding Everyone's dream teacher -
well, good morning, Everyone,
it's time to wake up.

This isn't just Someone's job -
it's everyone's job.
Everyone must also help themselves.
Our dreams can't match if I get no sleep.

October 5, 2011

Change: 24,001; Amanda: 0

The time has come, friends. As much as I loved the original title of this blog (“Tales of a Sixth Grade Something”) and am naturally averse to change, I am now preparing for my new role as high school teacher (yay!), so it is no longer accurate. Frankly, I’m not sure it was ever a great name for the blog since I wrote far less about my first year of teaching than I might have liked or originally intended. But the nice thing about the transitory nature of the intertubes is that the title can continue to change to reflect my ever-changing life and authorship (I feel myself heading in a much more prose-y direction… stay tuned).

I puzzled and stewed over the new name for awhile, as I never have much confidence in my naming abilities (God help me if/when I’m a mom-to-be), but like with all good names, I knew it when I heard it. At the end of a largely silly but mostly reassuring meeting with my new co-workers (SO EXCITED TO CALL THEM THAT), the phrase “middle of the middles” was tossed about. The comment was made somewhat in jest and in relation to curriculum-mapping strategies - not any kind of deep or particularly inspiring discussion - but it hit me as an oddly perfect way to sum up the stage of life I find myself in.

A. and I joke about having our respective quarter-life crises, and I’ve read a plethora of new studies showing that “millenials” (or whatever the hell we’re agreeing to be called) are having difficulties transitioning into adult life in any of the ways an older society expects us to… and I can’t say I’m immune to all that. Everything about my life feels middle-esque right now. I’m no longer in my first job, but most likely not in my last either, so I’m about to begin a middle job (where I do plan to stay for a relatively long time, believe me). I’m no longer an ever-present part of my immediate family, but haven’t yet created my own, so I’m doing my own thing here inbetween. This is neither my first apartment nor my dream home; one year into a no-longer “new” relationship but not moving forward just yet; still feel like a kid but expected to be the adult… you get the idea.

So, “Middle of the Middles” it is, at least for now. Try not to get Jimmy Eat World songs stuck in your head every time you visit.

Mission Accomplished

Today's read-around activity was a great success. So great, in fact, that I am now exhausted and consider my poetry-sharing duties fulfilled for the day. 123 kids read as many poems as they could in 25 minutes, which was usually between 6 and 10... so you do the math. I'll be checking out the insides of my eyelids.

Undone

I'm sure I'll be returning to this one since there's really a lot more to it and it's been lurking in my notebook for some time... but I'm oddly drawn to this short, ambiguous, unedited (slightly e.e. cummings inspired?) version that just came out. So I'll throw it to the wolves and call it an entry for today. Look for some edits after 27 more commutes are done (who's counting?).


coulda woulda shoulda

funny how things work out –
the universe has a way of taking care
of itself, its inhabitants
call it karma, fate, faith, what have you
but don’t pretend for a second
that we hold the reins

April 18, 2011

Learn something every day

Did you know/realize that rubber bands get hot when you stretch them out? I feel like I'd noticed that before but always assumed I was just crazy. It's usually a safe assumption, but it turns out there's some kind of bizarre thermodynamics involved based on the way they're made.

Although I'm not experiencing that heat on this chilly evening, I am feeling decidedly rubber band-like. I've been stretched a lot this year, in many ways, so this particular metaphor has been in the back of my mind for awhile. I'm not sure one evening has done it any justice, but here goes.



rubber band

distance between two points stretches,
tension increases, fibers flutter under stress

when sides snap back together,
resistance relaxes, evaporates with the heat

April 15, 2011

Going hunting

I started researching today for a poetry activity I'm going to do with my kiddos in a few weeks - I'm straight up stealing a WCP lesson where you just continually throw poems at kids almost all hour and then ask them what they did and didn't like. Very simple, but when you're dealing with kids and poetry, especially with 6th graders who think poetry always has to rhyme, it's all about exposure. Anyway, I realized I would need to find a LOT of poems that are appropriate for this age group, and I didn't want to be all lame and obvious about it by photocopying a bunch of Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss. So I hit up the Poetry Foundation. I'll be gathering things from there (and taking suggestions! hint, hint!) for another week or so until I'm ready to kick off our big poetry unit, but this is my favorite that I found today. It immediately reminded me of a Rilke poem I read on the very first day of my internship last year, and that made me smile.



Blueprints?
By Sara Holbrook

Will my ears grow long as Grandpa's?
What makes us look like kin?
Tell me where'd I get long eyelashes
and where'd I get my chin?

Where'd I get my ice cream sweet tooth
and this nose that wiggles when I talk?
Where'd I get my dizzy daydreams
and my foot-rolling, side-step walk?

Did I inherit my sense of humor
and these crooked, ugly toes?
What if I balloon like Uncle Harry
and have to shave my nose?

How long after I start growing
until I start to shrink?
Am I going to lose my teeth,
some day?
My hair?
My mind?

Do you think
I'll be tall or short or thin
or bursting at the seams?
Am I naturally this crazy?
Is it something in my genes?

I'm more than
who I am,
I'm also
who I'm from.
It's a scary speculation--
Who will I become?

Another day, another cop-out...

Better day at work, good (hard!) workout after, then a delicious dinner and movie night w/A. means no time for poetry. I feel a bout of inspiration coming on this weekend, though. :)

Speaking of movies, we shared one of my favorites tonight: American Psycho. It was a big part of my high school years, so it was fun to re-visit. I think it's quickly become a favorite of someone else's, too. Movies are a big thing for us, so I did a speedy search and found this poem. I rather liked it, so I'll share it with you.

The Film
by Kate Northrup

Come, let’s go in.
The ticket-taker
has shyly grinned
and it’s almost time,
Lovely One.
Let’s go in.

The wind tonight’s too wild.
The sky too deep,
too thin. Already it’s time.
The lights have dimmed.
Come, Loveliest.
Let’s go in

and know these bodies
we do not have to own, passing
quietly as dreams, as snow.
Already leaves are falling
and music begins.
Lovely One,

it’s time.
Let’s go in.

See Spot Read

I needed something goofy tonight. I needed something to remind me of good, warm, happy things tonight. Work is becoming almost more than I can bear right now, but after A. reminded me about his favorite poet, I discovered this and was reminded that if nothing else, I can count on enjoying my new metaphorical puppy, and that's enough to get me through.


Falling in love is like owning a dog
an epithalamion by Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com

First of all, it's a big responsibility,
especially in a city like New York.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you're walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain't no one going to mess with you.
Because crooks and muggers think love is unpredictable.
Who knows what love could do in its own defense?

On cold winter nights, love is warm.
It lies between you and lives and breathes
and makes funny noises.
Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs.
It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy.

Love doesn't like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.

Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.

Love makes messes.
Love leaves you little surprises here and there.
Love needs lots of cleaning up after.
Sometimes you just want to get love fixed.
Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper
and swat love on the nose,
not so much to cause pain,
just to let love know Don't you ever do that again!

Sometimes love just wants to go for a nice long walk.
Because love loves exercise.
It runs you around the block and leaves you panting.
It pulls you in several different directions at once,
or winds around and around you
until you're all wound up and can't move.

But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.

Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.

It's still the 8th somewhere...

Poetry challenge fail. But, today was not a fail. I gave this day to myself, and though I spent part of it grading and part of it reading work emails (they seem so much more ridiculous when you're not actually there...), I needed this day. Time spent at a coffee shop, grocery shopping while it's still light out, and an EXCELLENT show by my beloved Hearts of Darkness (you all missed out), amongst other fun things, filled my day.

So, poetry took a little backseat, but I have a feeling it will return with a vengeance tomorrow. The forecast says 90 degrees, and my schedule is nearly empty. Awesome.

To quickly fill today's (yesterday's) slot, here is what I got as the first result when I googled "poem." It's actually pretty fitting for what I hope tomorrow will bring. For now, good night.


"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

It's the little things...

Crazy day at work... I don't want to get into it. But it means I brought a lot of work home tonight, so today's poem has to be short, sweet, and already finished. This idea and half a line had been sitting idle in my notebook since around this time last year but had never developed, so the other day I set it free by turning it into a haiku.

Basically, I'm a big dork. Duh. And when I dorkily worked at the library, I would oftentimes have to take big carts of books upstairs and put them away. This required using an elevator. By myself. And what does a dork like me do in an elevator on her own? Crank up the iPod and DANCE.


Elevator dance -
book truck will never tell, but
makes a poor partner.

April 1st, 2011

Country Mouse and City Mouse

The third picture could have taken me in many different directions; remembering my past as a child of the Dakotas, or speaking about being drawn back to my Kansas roots, or some combination of the two. But when I sat down to really look at this picture, I couldn't help but feel like the farmer was experiencing a moment of blissful freedom - and that was certainly something I could relate to.

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, A. and I made the decision that I should keep my apartment in Lawrence for another year. Many of my friends and co-workers have stared at me, wide-eyed, insisting that this is a huge mistake, and do I really want to keep making this ridiculous drive, and I could be so much closer to work and to A. ... but sitting here in the quiet of a warm and windy spring morning with windows open wide, I know I made the right choice. Although my second home is in midtown KC, Sunday mornings there never smell this amazing or feel this peaceful. Maybe I should just show the naysayers this poem.


Metropolitan Claustrophobia

You have taught me to appreciate
being wrapped, not only in your arms,
but in the busy, noisy rhythm
of your beloved city.

I see, now, how a place so tightly packed
can also be open and loving,
and that sounds of happiness
can drown out the sirens.

But like a northern Dixie Chick,
I need my wide open spaces

where, eating breakfast,
all you can hear is the wind
and the crunch of granola.

I breathe easier
when my left elbow hangs out the window
(far more naturally than yours)
and my bass beats loudly –
not to impress, but because
I assume no one else will hear.

I am from the city, too,
but in my city, I could always see the sky,
smell the earth, and hear the changes of the weather.
Open prairie is an undeniable part of me, even now.
So though it pains me each time I leave you,
nothing beats the freedom of coming home.

April 3rd, 2011

A night at the K

I chose the second picture in an effort to reach some of my sports-obsessed boys, and sure enough - there were happy exclamations and looks of relief on many faces in my 5th hour, which I regularly compare to a frat house. (19 boys and 6 girls, right before lunch. There is a lot of discussion centered on food, action movies, and Call of Duty. Heaven help me.) There was also a lot of eye rolling from those who initially saw no way to relate to the picture, but I encouraged them to think about what else could be going on in the stadium or to write about how they DON'T like sports. I thought that I, too, might struggle with this one since I don't particularly care for baseball, until I remembered...

Last summer, I moved. Goodbye craphole student ghetto apartment, hello palace on the west side. (I'm very happy to report that I signed an extension on my lease last weekend, so the palace and I will have another year together and I'm guaranteed another TWO summers in Lawrence!) Obviously, I was going to need some help moving, so my dad drove down to assist with the heavy lifting. It's a long drive, so he stayed for several days and there was the obvious obligation to spend some of that time with the grandparents as well. So Grandma hooked us all up with cheap Price Chopper tickets to see the Royals because Grandpa wanted to show off the new renovations at the K (as if he had done them himself or something...).

It was mid-July, and I had only been dating A. for a little over a month at this point. But being the patient, open-minded good sport he is, he was completely willing to come along for the crazy ride that is an evening with my relatives. So Grandma Price Choppered an extra ticket, and we all had a great night watching the Royals do their thing (lose). It was buck night AND fireworks night, and the peoplewatching was truly excellent. It's a special memory for me because it was one of the first (of many) times that A. and I discovered our ability to make ANYTHING fun when we're in it together (ask me about our UFC fights experience sometime). So, I'm happy to remember a bit of that evening in a poem.

Anticipation

Players perch on the edge of their collective seat,
expectantly eyeing the pitcher
whose back is turned to the runner
sneaking onto third.
High above, where noses are meant to bleed,
we lean back and laugh at our surroundings
as my hand sneaks into yours,
hidden from less sharp yet equally expectant eyes.

April 2nd, 2011

National Poetry Month

Alright, folks. Now is as good a time as any to jump back on the poetry horse. It's the first day of April, so in addition to being a day where students try to put rubber mice on my desk and electrocute me with "broken" pens, it is the first day of National Poetry Month. It has also been one year (minus a few days) since I first started this blog and one year (plus a few days) since a good friend pushed me back into the poetry pool. This year, another good friend has challenged herself to write a poem every day this month, and I think I'm going to crash that party and attempt to do the same.

Looking through my notebook, there are lots of ideas and half-poems I could finish if I gave them the time and attention, so that's a good place to start. If my crazy life overwhelms me again, I am at least going to fall back on posting a new (to me) poem I like on here each day so that I'm reading more. I may live to regret these words 30 days from now.

Here's a start: Today was scheduled to be a Writer's Workshop day in my classroom, so I made today's topic poetry. I told the kids about National Poetry Month, told them my personal goal of a poem every day, and read a few poems out loud. Then, we (yes, WE this time; I got to write too!) wrote three poems, each based on a picture. I told them to start with something easy like an acrostic poem if they didn't think of themselves as much of a poet, but many of them went above and beyond with free verse, limericks, haiku, etc. That's characteristic of this group (which has been wonderful for me as a first-year teacher), but it's still refreshing whenever it happens. Overall, today was a resounding success, so if nothing else, I can fill this weekend's slots with these three quick poems.

The first picture:

The first poem:

Crabby

Speckled carpet beneath my toes
doesn't stick like wet sand.
A feeble lamp is no replacement
for an absent sun,
and the smell in here
is far from fresh sea salt.
Freely wandering the patch of beach
on my whiteboard...
I envy the crab.

April 1st, 2011

Following Dr.'s Orders

I don't like the way this turned out at all, but this is the first list of things I thought of, and I'm not one to ignore directions. 50 miles is starting to feel a lot longer than it used to, especially with these reminders all around.


Traces

Driver’s seat still pushed back too far in the morning
Headlights expose flat tires on a men's bicycle
A borrowed pen travels atop half-graded papers
(1) waits patiently in Gmail inbox
Grows to (11) throughout the day
Smiling eyes and stifled giggles
Curious looks on little faces

Radio man complains for 33 miles
A different smart-ass voice echoes silently
Neglected houseplants beg for water
2 bottlecaps rest where arms belong
Dinner for one, amateurly made
A single ceramic plate hides amongst the plastic
TV squawks to fill the silence

Forgotten overnight bag lies full of Sunday
Poorly-aimed Kleenex loiters near its destination
Glasses rest on shared books under a darkened lamp
Old Spice drifts faintly across suddenly spacious blankets
Another day spent alone ends, but
A promise still lingers in my ear for tomorrow –
See you soon.

January 18th, 2011

Test day leaves time for thinking

I am frustrated.

I want to write. I want the feeling of creativity and inspiration that comes when I write. I feel like a hypocrite every day when I ask my students to write while I do not.

But I’ve got nothing.

It’s a goal of mine (call it a Resolution if you must) to both read and write more this year. I’ve been reading (We, The Golden Compass – both are excellent so far), which is a start, but I can’t write.

I feel like my brain is constantly on overdrive, and every time I think of something vaguely creative or meaningful, it immediately gets shoved out of the way by the never-ending deluge of more pressing, practical problems and tasks. Have I filled out that form yet? Did I ever make it to the printer this morning? I’m running out of clean clothes. And gas. What am I going to do about my student who is tardy every single day? When’s the last time I went to the grocery store? Oh crap, my phone is dying again. What am I going to do in class tomorrow? Should I take K-10 or I-70 to KC today? Hey, that would be a cool idea for a poem… wait, where did I leave my to-do list?

And so on.

Everything comes in fits and starts, like an engine that won’t turn over. I feel like my days are choppy, and my thoughts reflect that. When inspiration does hit, it stops short of completion, and I suddenly lack the time and patience to work and follow through. My notebook is full of half-ideas and clipped phrases, and that’s when I bother to grab it at all.

Try as I might, I can’t push down the nagging fear that I might not be challenging myself intellectually right now; that the unavoidable boredom of constructing basic sentences and simple paragraphs 5 times a day every day could be a contributing factor to the increasingly basic nature of my thoughts. It's not the only distraction or the only possible cause, but it’s always been in my nature – get bored, get comfortable being bored, settle in. Don’t rock the boat. Change is scary. Change takes work. Sigh.

Like everything else I’ve tried to write lately, I don’t know where I’m going with this, how it ends, or what I want out of it. I think I just needed to… write.

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.

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.