Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

It’s Still Snowing in Northern Virginia

I just finished the one bag of potato chips that I bought yesterday in my harrowing journey to the supermarket, where the supermarket parking lot was the most harrowing aspect since it does not seem to have been plowed except by the tires of cabin-fever suffering adults in need of milk, bread, butter, yogurt and Cheese Puffs, and am about to embark on my first cup of hot chocolate since I forgot to buy coffee beans and am getting anxious that I will not have enough for my morning cup until I can next exit the cabin. It’s a blizzard outside, as it’s been for hours, and I’m now on my fourth day of school closure (not counting last Wednesday for a mere three inches of snow). For a week, until Monday, my older daughter was here, as was my younger daughter and my dog. Now I am home alone. No one is watching me snack, and watching junk tv, and napping, and reading the weather report over and over, and looking to see it the moment it is posted: the announcement that school will be closed tomorrow. (They just made the announcement: school will be closed on Thursday and Friday.)

In the midst of all the busy-ness, I have had some time to reflect on a number of things. One of the things that kept me most occupied (other than Sarah Palin and the fact that this is a woman who garners an incredible amount of attention as opposed to the countless intelligent, caring women who are not heard from because our media and far too many people are incredibly stupid and selfish—sorry) is hearing that some Republican senators say that Don’t Ask Don’t Tell should stay in place because otherwise unit cohesion will be at stake. Mind you, I have never been in the military and I am not a lesbian, so my response comes from who I am: a woman who lives in this country, and in this world. A country and a world still dominated by far too much violence, especially against women. So tell me, how is it that lying about your sexual orientation will rip at the effectiveness of our military while the unprecedented number of suicides, and attacks and harassment of females in the military don’t do that? I don’t get it.

I know, putting suicide and rape in the same sentence is a bit of a stretch, but seriously, if they really cared about each and every soldier and not some inane pandering to people who have stored their compassion in toe nail clippings boxes, wouldn’t they get up and cry for change that will help soldiers deal with their internal and external wounds? (Never mind stopping the wars and every drum call for war—including the latest Palin inanity of suggesting that going to war with Iran would be a way for Obama to definitely get re-elected. Why is anyone listening to this incredibly mean and stupid woman? Is it because she is a woman? I really don’t get it.) And wouldn’t they call for doing something—I know, this is a tall-order societal thing—to stop men’s abuse of women as some sort of ritual for proving masculinity the world over.

How is it that knowing that someone in your unit is gay and dealing with that is worse than thinking that maybe someone in your unit is gay and having to be overly cautious because you don’t want to offend him? I, of course, am going on the assumption that people who need to work together can actually work together, and do their utmost to make for a positive environment where everyone can work and be valued. Oops, not talking about the Senate. Rather, I'm talking about everyone else who has learned to act grown-up at work, because that’s the only way to potentially keep a job and a paycheck coming.

I don’t have the statistics at hand and I’m not going to get side-tracked by Googling it or asking my friend who is writing about violence against women in the military, but it is unprecedented. Shouldn’t this have an enormous effect on unit cohesion or military might? And not just for the women who are scared and degraded and hurt, and not just for the men who are the perpetrators. But what of the men who find it offensive, wouldn’t their unit cohesion be demoralized knowing that they are living with rapists and abusers?

Can’t the hypocrisy ever end? What kind of world could we possibly be trying to create if the “enforcers” of that philosophy are not able to be free? Free to express their sexuality. Free to go to the bathroom at night without fearing of being raped. Free to express their nightmares without worrying about appearing weak.

Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. How about working to create a society that values an open dialogue of non-ideologues? How about limiting the number of times stupid ideas and stupid people are quoted in a day? Yes, I know, who is to decide? How about this: If what you say hurts people for no reason other than self-aggrandizement, then what you said is stupid and you might be as well. Is that hypocrisy? I’m not sure. For goodness’s sake, isn’t there a way to treat everyone with respect? You would think it’s a basic human right: Be respected and valued. Does that really infringe on someone else’s right to be respected and valued? I would say only if your values infringe on other people; in that case I would say that your values are the ones that need to be clipped.

I think the snow needs to stop and I need to get out of here for a while.

More Thoughts on People

I’m still mulling people’s reactions to each other, or perhaps I am still mulling how people live their lives so separate from each other. Or maybe I’m mulling how I’m still disappointed in people, but I'm coming out of that into a disappointed acceptance.

The other day I received in the mail a condolence card from my colleagues. I cried as I read through their comments, touched that were sending out their thoughts to me and that they had made this gesture. But then I caught myself: so, they all knew that my father had passed away and yet they hadn’t said anything to me face-to-face. At first they got a sort of pass because it was possible that they hadn’t known that he had died, but now I know that they had known and yet they thought that “I’m sorry for your loss” on a card was sentiment enough. Maybe it is—in their worlds—but not in mine.

Yes, I know. My father died and your life goes on unaffected. Well, if my father hadn’t led by example never to curse I would say “f%#* you” to all those who are so callous. I’m in an angry mood, maybe it’s a stage of reacting to people’s reactions when called to rise to the occasion. First, disappointment, then anger. What comes next? Maybe, as a few of you suggested, cut the dead wood. Forget about those people who don’t want their lives to intersect with mine or who don’t know how to intersect with other people.

Yes, I should focus on my one colleague who gave to me a bottle of wine with a smiley face on it—Happy Wine—because she knew I’d “been having a tough time.”

I am going to resist retreating again from people. And I am going to try not to absorb the lesson “not to expect anything from people.” I am going to try to continue living my life according to the rule “What is hateful to you, do not to your fellow man,” because I prefer some tears of disappointment in others over tears of disappointment in myself.

Life lessons. Is that what life is all about? Is life like a billboard on a busy road? We keep passing the signs displaying the lessons, but only after we’ve driven by them countless times do we finally understand what they’re saying. Unfortunately, there are lots of drivers who are so focused or distracted or inept that they never look around, and so they never see the signs.

The latest sign: I’m going to stay focused (and not feel bad about it) of comprehending the signs and not letting the sign-less distract me.

Generation Some-Random-Letter

The other day I came to the very disheartening realization that the end of endless wars or the end of periodic wars does not seem to be in the future for this “great” nation. That is if I can take what I see of my students and use them as a tiny sample of this generation and extrapolate into a giant generalization. Two anecdotes are, to me, very telling.

In the school’s career center the other day, my ninth graders were asked if they know what they want to do or be. Only a handful raised their hands. Army. Air Force. Marines. Lawyer. Doctor. Army. Dentist. Pediatrician. Notwithstanding the fact that only one girl (pediatrician) raised her hand, I was horrified that so many of the boys see the military as a career. Granted, in this area in northern Virginia there are a lot of military bases and the Pentagon and enough Department of’s for just about every retired military person to get a chance to retire from another government job, and I grew up in New York City where only those kids who were heading down the wrong path went into the military, I was horrified. As I said to a friend later, “the military-industrial complex has won.” I’m not completely naïve, I lived in Israel for a long time, I recognize the need—unfortunately—for a strong military. But the military being a career choice just strikes me as sad for them and sad for us as a nation.

So many times you hear people say that someone was lost until s/he went into the military which straightened her/him out. Such a sorry sentence for our country, for ourselves. Shouldn’t there be another avenue for the kids who don’t have a direction and are seemingly lost by the need to decide at 18 what they want to do with their lives—both if that kid can afford college and not? Why don’t we have service to country that doesn’t involve learning how to shoot a rifle and “defend” our way of life in far-flung deserts and shores? I know there has been talk of a national service, but there isn’t one. Even in Israel, many of the kids who don’t want to go into the infantry can teach or do social work, or some other service to the society. Why are those who in another time would have just followed in the family business or livelihood not aware that there are other “safe” careers other than supporting the never-ending wars? What came first, the never-ending wars or the need to have a large military that must be kept busy?

And then there are two of my students, who are seniors, who just got engaged to each other. He will continue the family job of going into the military and she will continue the family job of supporting her man in the military. But their getting engaged at 18 is not what stands out so much to me, rather it is her engagement ring. She wears distinctive clothes and jewelry often adorned with skeletons and skulls as well as her ubiquitous spiky collar around her neck. He has counter-culture messages on his tee-shirts and sweatshirts. And her engagement ring. Well, it has tiny diamonds. Why can’t the rebels really keep it up? Why are they relenting, why are they abandoning the rebellion to go with the flow? Why have they succumbed so quickly? Is that it? Up to 18 to rebel, and then get in line: join the military, get married, be a continuer and not a questioner.

It made me sad seeing the 9th graders’ responses and the engagement ring on the same day. Maybe I should be happy that they know what they want instead of bemoaning their cattleness, but I am not. I want “question authority,” and I don’t want it to be just us midlife women chanting to ourselves about feminism and against war. Obviously, we have failed. We have our lovely choir, but where is the audience?

I wanted to yell out—THINK, think for yourselves! Yes, you’re confused and you don’t know what you are good at and you want someone else to decide everything for you because it’s so much easier than being confused, but TRY to THINK for YOURSELF—you can do it! Don’t think that might is right! Don’t you read the papers—don’t you know that we are belligerent? That a soldier is a warrior before he is a peacemaker! Believe in yourself. But I didn’t. I sat there thinking of the members of the military who have been injured or killed, or will be. And I thought about those who send them into battle, whether they dither over it or take longer to decide what kind of cigar to chomp on than when to send troops into battle.

I thought life was about valuing life—each other’s—and not just the life of the nation. But perhaps this is what we deserve, after all we live in a country where a company has personhood and is, apparently, more important than an individual’s life. 

But at least I know there is a choir out there. Those of us in the choir must continue to raise our voices, otherwise we will be shufflers. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to bring my shoes in to get fixed, the heels are beginning to show slight signs of wear.

Friday Night, Alone

When I got home from work yesterday afternoon, there was no fourteen-year-old who greeted me by closing the door to her bedroom but then popping out a few minutes later to ask what’s to eat, nor was there a Maltese named Poops who jumped up and danced on his hind legs when he saw me. There was only the dining room table with its self-created collection of piles to greet me. It's his weekend with them both.

I unpacked the bag of groceries that I bought for my evening at home, trying to ignore the silence by turning on the radio. I put away the frozen pizza and the two bottles of beer. After I responded to some emails, I went into my daughter’s room, piled her clothes on a chair as I had done when I was her age instead of the floor mounds that she prefers, arranged her five pillows on her bed, lay down, and lifted up the remote for what would be hours of unending numbness. It’s not that my job is so hard that I need to unwind so intensely, perhaps it’s because I don’t watch tv other than those Friday nights (okay, the occasional Saturday night if I’ve been grading or on the computer for too long—I think I need a “life”) but it is time that enables me to detach from my mind. Perhaps this is how I meditate. Sometimes it gets hard to think and be aware.

So there I was, on a hot pink sheet for hours watching Say Yes to the Dress and House Hunters International. The thought of why it is always those two programs that I return to kept trying to break into my mindlessness. Is it because I like to see people so happy, so ready to step into another phase of their lives, that I want to become a voyeur? Is it that I wish that for myself and so I live vicariously through them? Maybe it’s a bit of both; maybe I’m anticipating more change. But it’s also that there is nothing else that I can settle my mind onto. I cannot watch the news or opinion shows because I’m tired of listening to people open and close their mouths repeatedly without saying anything. (I don’t ignore the news, I still read mine.) I know, I know, I’m sure some of my students say that about me [especially the ones who wrote “I hate this class” on my “What I Want to Do This Year” sign on the backboard before I ripped it off in a moment that combined hurt and bitchiness (no one was there to witness this act)]. And I can’t watch scripted programs because everything is so fake and contrived that I don’t see how I could ever have been compelled to watch so much falsity in writing and acting.

How bare can I make my life? Is that why I need to watch tv every once in a while? How much can my life, a life, revolve around one’s actions and thoughts and the people one encounters? Is that why we read and watch? Is that how we expand our circle if we need it to be larger than it is in reality? Or do we need to incorporate ideas and people and images that don’t always challenge us and demand attention from us on a personal level? Do I need the numbness because there are so many people I need to care about everyday that I need to just stop sometimes? In a week I have about 185 students, each is an individual who I need—want—to understand and reach, and who I care about. Maybe it is about the job. Maybe it’s more draining than I realized. I get up in front of my classes three times a day and on religious school days, four or six times a day. And each time I’m on stage; I need to sense the audience and project, and thrust my personality out so that it meshes with the instruction. Is that why I don’t watch dramas? Not because of the corny stories and plasticine acting, but because I have too many lives to care about that I cannot expand my heart anymore?

Is this about self-preservation? Do I need to return my thoughts and cares to myself instead of always extending them and sharing them? Do I need to come back to myself at the end of the week because if I didn’t there wouldn’t be anything to share the next week? When I walk, I think. When I read, I think. When I watch, I detach. Maybe it’s not as much of a time-waster as I thought.

Where’s the remote?

Bomb Scare

The other day there was a bomb scare at my school. That means that the entire school body of about 2,200 13- to 18-year-olds and 300 staff members had to evacuate the building as soon as the rather overbearing voice of the principal came over the PA system at about ten in the morning. We were simply told to leave our rooms immediately—we were not told why (I, of course, thought that they were springing a new kind of a drill on us and left all of my things in the room and told the kids to leave their things on the desks—we were in the middle of going over a quiz)—there was no indication of a bomb scare on the PA announcement. The kids were told not to look at their cell phones. (Sounds dumb because it is a dumb thing to say.) In the announcement the teachers were told to read our emails in a tone that seemed to indicate we were amiss for not having read them already. This last comment bothered me, and I said outloud, “I couldn’t read the email because I was busy teaching.” When I checked, I didn’t see an email. It turned out later, in the rumor mill, that the email was being sent as we were leaving the building.

Rumor has it that the amount of time from when the bomb scare was made known until we were evacuated from the building was about twenty to twenty-five minutes, because the principal, who has a virtual presence most of the time, had to be located. Me, in my naïveté, noted (before I heard the rumor) that it was good that he was finally there when he was needed.

In a huddle around the principal about ten minutes after going onto the football field, we were told that there had been a bomb threat and not to tell the kids—only to tell them that the school was being checked and cleared. Okay, so a helicopter is flying over-head (I finally made the connection as to why I had been hearing a helicopter while I was still teaching and not that it was some kind of drill or Obama is in town), the school population is evacuated far from the building with everyone in one area (unlike in a normal fire drill when we are allowed to leave from various exits and could be much closer to the school), and we are not allowed to tell the kids the truth? And what about establishing trust with our students?

A student of mine, who had been in my classroom when we were evacuated, asked me if it was a bomb scare as he had heard. To a colleague’s dismay, I responded, “Well, that’s a good thing to hear.” I know, dumb thing to say, but I didn’t want to say, “No.” I wanted him to realize it was right without saying it. She repeated the party line about the building being checked and then we will be able to go back in. And then, another colleague read aloud from her iPhone the email announcement that had come from the county about a bomb scare—the email that was being sent to parents and anyone on the e-mailing list—while the student stood there. Why and how did they think it would be okay not to just tell the truth to these teens?

We spent an hour and a half in the football field (I got a nice tan—it was, gloriously, an amazingly warm fall day) when the announcement came that we will be able to start letting the students go home, and then we, the teachers, would be able to go home too.

Being the eternal optimist that I am, the truster in the powers that be, and not having a lesson to have learned from, I had left everything, except my student roster and emergency info packet, including the orange emergency teacher vest, in my classroom—which was now off-limits. I got a lift home, then found the spare key in the busy-body neighbor’s apartment. At around three another email announcement was sent that said that the school had been cleared and we could come and get our things. As luck would have it, my parents came in that day to visit, so they drove me back to school to get my pocketbook, cellphone, computer and car.

There was a lovely, relaxed atmosphere around the school. Perhaps it was relief. Perhaps it was the joy of getting most of the day off—for students and teachers. Perhaps it was seeing that nothing bad had happened. Perhaps, too, it was because the students had been so wonderful and calm, with no (observed) inappropriate behavior—we spied what we thought was a spitting contest and one very in love/lust couple who kept inching closer to each other. Besides that I saw a Frisbee game and a round of duck-duck-goose. What a great group of kids. There was no need to babysit them or stand guard over them.

I feel sorry for the obviously damaged person who sent the bomb scare, because his (her) life has irrevocably changed. Rumor also had it that the bomb scare was tied to a football game and an intense school rivalry. Sounds like some kind of patriotism gone bad.

In a totally unrelated event, the other day I found that an unknown student of mine—as in a student who sits in my classroom and who I spend my time trying to reach and teach—drew a large swastika and wrote the words "Heil Hitler" on the back of a handout that I gave out. I kept it for a day, thinking that I would try to discover who did it, but then I decided that I don’t want it or to have to think about and ripped it up and threw it out. I had confronted a few kids and they said that they didn’t do it, that they hadn’t even seen it.

You just wonder.

And then I think about the boy, Derrion Albert, who was beaten to death in Chicago less than two weeks ago. And you wonder how is it that so many kids seem to get the messages they are given about bullying and respecting each other, but there are still those who go as untouched by the onslaught of positive messages. Yes, maybe their home lives are not positive. Maybe they don’t feel that the messages touch them. Perhaps they never felt that anyone cares about them.

And a student was talked to by my co-teacher the other day because he thought that because he is a senior in high school he is allowed to be rude to his teacher—me.

And my daughter’s friend, who was nominated as a homecoming princess—as a joke, what of her? Her "crime" from what I can see is that she is chubby, or rather not skinny.

And you just keep wondering.

What of the children who hear the message, but get derailed by those who don’t?
I’m thinking that I will do a short lesson on hate and respect and self-respect. But will the kid who drew swastika hear me? And will the kid who is so full of disdain for me and “the system” hear me? I guess it doesn’t matter—because I will not let them defeat me—or let them think that they can defeat those of us who care about more than the negativity that swills through them.

Are we giving them mixed messages? When we deny them information, are we respecting? Are they, some of them at least, responding to the mixed messages they receive by responding to the negative messages?

Lots of wondering to do.

A New School Year

To all of us heading back to school, whether as teachers or students (and perhaps parents of students, parents of teachers, and even friends of teachers and students), let’s take a moment to pause and remember why we go to school. It might be something that we have to do. It’s a job for teachers and considered a job by many students. But beneath that reality (cynical or not), we still get to spend hours a day learning, instructing, discussing, reading, thinking, growing, developing—is there a better way to spend our time?

May this year be a joyous one filled with learning and sharing experiences.

May this year be one filled with the joy of epiphanies and conquests.

May this year fill your life with joy.

More ENOUGH Beads

Yesterday at seven in the morning my boss came into my classroom to tell me that students have been complaining about me to their counselors. A number of students have said that I am mean and they think I hate them. She then asked, “Do you hate them?” Wow. Glad to see that she knows me. Then she said that they think I’m brusque. To which she added as a statement of fact, "well, you are brusque." Thanks for that support, lady. Some more words of how horrible I am and onto the next topic. Oh, but she did say, in a I-can’t-believe-this tone, that she knows some students like me because they give me cards, but really, what are you going to do to make them think you love them?

Honestly, I have no idea. Some days I feel like a snapping turtle; there I am, calm in my mud and then all of a sudden someone says something, or does or doesn’t do something and SNAP. I know that it is not professional to bring my outside life into the classroom, and I don’t, I don’t talk about my life, but sometimes my nerves don’t realize where they are and SNAP. The SNAP could be a tone that is not the most loving or a comment that is not the most supportive. I’m sorry kids (you boys especially) but honestly can’t you just sit down, stop talking, stop chewing gum like cows, start doing your homework, start doing your classwork, stop talking, stop interrupting me when I’m talking to ask irrelevant questions, stop talking (oh, I said that, but did you hear me say that?), start caring about more than getting out of class to talk to your friends, stop thinking that you know more about everything than me, start paying attention. (That could be an example of a SNAP.)

The next topic was about my colleagues and how she says they feel that I don’t shoulder my weight or I’m not committed enough to the cause. This stems from the fact that I had to cancel helping out at a workshop one afternoon because I had a parent-teacher conference (not for my own child mind you, but at school for a student), and instead of going from person to person to see if someone would cover for me, I just sent out an email. Now I know that that is a big no no. Thanks everyone. One slip-up and you’re on the bad colleague list. Oh, and I came late to the last department meeting, or should I rephrase that as saying I was late to one meeting and poof, I am not a full member of the team.

And with that she left.

At that moment a student walked in (can’t you hang out with your friends and not come to my classroom 20 minutes before class starts?), so I had to pretend that I wasn’t as weak as a 14-year old inside. Then a student, whose sister I had last year and who often comes to visit me, came by herself to visit me. But I was about to cry, especially after I told her that I’m having a bad day and she asked me if I wanted a hug. (I saw her today, and she asked me if I was feeling better. Sweet, sweet girl.)

Then I read an email that notified the staff at school that the mother of two students had died. (I had her daughter two years ago. Another sweet, sweet girl.) I thought, oh no, not another woman dead from breast cancer. But no, I was to find out during my break, this mother of three committed suicide. That information just made me sit, sit with new tears brimming thinking of this woman and how horribly horrible the pit she was living in must have been. Then I just sat some more, unfolded. And there I was, at the wall of ENOUGH, unable to do anything but sit in stillness.

In the afternoon I went to see two short-term rental apartments. One was nice, in that it wasn’t expensive and there was no need to sign a long-term lease. But it really was for a single person, and not one with two teenagers. I imagined the reaction of my daughters if I would take them there: it would be that mom doesn’t want us. It was so obviously a place for one. And it was far, so far from the house, and more importantly from my younger daughter’s school that I wouldn’t be able to drive her in the mornings to school and get to my job on time which would be essential since the house was not in her school district. And the second apartment was actually a wing in a lovely woman’s home. I wish I could have taken it because it seemed that we would get along so well and her daughters are the same ages as mine. But it was too expensive to seriously consider.

And today I am back to wondering how I can save myself and leave them? Yes, I know this situation is unhealthy, but the price that my daughters would have to pay unless I find a place that is really suitable for them would be too high. How good would I feel sitting alone in a basement without exman around if I feel that I abandoned them to him? Would I really be able to start healing? And, would I really be able to start losing weight (thanks for the reminder that I have gotten heavy, mom) and exercise and get my life in order if I thought about them, alone in the house or with his toxic presence.

So this weekend I will be doing the realtor’s “to do” list, and she will help organize some repairs that she thinks will help sell the house. I’m still looking for a short-term rental, but it has to fit us all, hopefully I will find it before my birthday or we will have a contract by then.

Lastly, please drive carefully. In the past two days I have passed three accidents. 

Writing about Loneliness

At the beginning of class the other day I had my students write in their journals about being lonely. What does it mean to be lonely? When were you lonely? What does it feel like to be lonely? So you don’t think that I am a prying teacher, this is because we are reading Of Mice and Men and loneliness is a pervasive theme in that very sad book.

My students are all 14- or 15-year olds so I would have thought that by this time in their lives they would understand what it means to be lonely. But most of them wrote about being alone, and they certainly did not talk about what loneliness felt like. Most of them wrote that they had been lonely when they were left alone for four hours at home (oh, mom was home, but she doesn’t count), when what they were really talking about was boredom. One kid wrote about getting lost on his way home from a friend’s house in the dark and feeling lonely; of course, he wasn’t lonely, he was scared. One boy wrote about how he and his friends were hanging out together and only his girlfriend wasn’t there, so he felt lonely; this, it seems, is jealousy and not loneliness. Are kids so un-self-aware? Do they not even recognize what it feels like to not have anyone who understands what they are experiencing? Not having someone with whom to exchange ideas? Not having someone who “gets” them? Not having someone whose company they can take for granted?

There were a few who got it, especially the military kids who have moved so often that every three or four years they must revert to being the new kid at school walking in the loneliness of knowing no one in a building with hundreds of people. But the other kids, there was no real cognition of what it means to be lonely, which makes me think that perhaps they really don’t know what it is to be lonely. Perhaps they are so busy with their I-whatevers, and texting, and Facebook that they are never alone—they really don’t know what it means to be lonely. And even if they are physically alone, they have so many avenues to “call up” people and “meet” people, that the sinking feeling of being the only person in the universe to be so devoid of company never hits them. Even the least gregarious of children can find company somewhere.

Which makes me wonder: If these children never let themselves step outside of the hustle and bustle of interactions, do they know what it feels like to be themselves? Are their very minds being wired to only operate within a group? Can these kids be individuals?

Me, the woman who has known loneliness create a cavity of separation that all unknowingly step around, thinks that this is not good. From the depth of solitude (which is certainly an aspect of loneliness) so many thoughts finally have a chance to bubble up. Thoughts that aren’t able to come to fruition amidst the clatter of conversation. How can thoughts rise like dough if you haven’t even added flour? If you haven’t had the opportunity to have a thought that isn’t just in reaction to what someone else said or did, then what creativity and innovations can come to you? And if your life is always lived in company, or seeking company, then when do you have time to expand your understanding of yourself? Empathy is good, but how can you truly feel for someone else if you don’t even recognize yourself?  
But someone else, not me, who is forward thinking may see that perhaps society—people—will be able to create a better society, a more successful society than the one we have now that is always warring and contentious and competitive and grasping and materialistic. Perhaps this converging of selves might point to a society evolving, and not one that is devolving. Perhaps.

It’s still disconcerting that they don’t recognize that alone, lonely, scared, bored, and jealous are not the same thing. Truly, any society needs citizens who are introspective, at least to recognize what it feels like to be human. And to say that to be sad, happy, or lonely are the only emotions you recognize from within surely reflects paucity of thought.  

Lesson Plan for Monday: discuss emotions.

Problems Brewing

The man who must see me smile everyday came over to where I was sitting at the big table in the teacher’s lounge working on my laptop and gave me a from behind hug and then put his cheek next to mine. (I was actually working so I didn't notice his approach.) Uh oh. That surely went past the boundaries of our little dance: hello, chat, smile, goodbye. Have I mentioned that he’s a retired police officer? I think I’ll confront him by going to the library during my planning period for the next few weeks.

(Clarification: heading to the library is hiding, not confronting, of which I have a sad history of avoiding. I think that I will try just telling him that I was uncomfortable.) 

Note to Parents

Parents, please note:

• your child’s teacher does not hate your child;

• your child’s teacher does not have it in for your child;
• your child’s teacher is not failing your child;
• your child’s teacher does not purposely NOT tell the homework assignment to your child;
• your child’s teacher does not purposely NOT pass handouts to your child.

Parents, if your child is telling you those things:

• maybe it’s in your child’s mind;
• maybe your child has done something to disturb the teacher;
• perhaps your child talks during class;
• perhaps your child sleeps during class (oh, sorry, rests his head on the desk and closes his eyes so that he can better concentrate);
• perhaps your child does not pay attention (oh, sorry, focuses well but the way the teacher expresses herself is not understood by your child);
• perhaps your child left the handout in class;
• perhaps your child did not: do the homework, take the homework from home, take the homework out of the backpack, and/or pay attention when the teacher collected the homework.

Does your child clean up his/her room when you ask him/her?

Hmmm, maybe there’s a pattern here that is repeated in school.

But wait, how many children do you have and do you ever get upset with them?

As a high school teacher I have approximately 125 students. Guess what?

• It bothers me when they don’t do their work.
• It bothers me when they don’t pay attention.
• It bothers me when they mock me.
• It bothers me when they try to annoy me.

Yes, it’s true, I am a person.

So next time you want to accuse a teacher of sabotaging your child’s future, go find your kid in his room and speak to him—honestly—about what is really happening in school because it generally is not the teacher’s fault that he got an F, D, C, or B (if you are so grade-greedy).

Signed,
A caring but annoyed teacher.

Mother-Daughter Conversations

“I don’t have a tone.” Pause. Continuation, “You’re just calling me to take out your anger on me.”

No, that was not part of a conversation that I had with one of my daughters, that was the part of a conversation I overheard in the school parking lot on Friday afternoon. A girl, together with five of her friends, was walking across the parking lot, as I was walking to my car. I couldn’t help but smile when I heard her talking to, I am sure, her mother; it was such a typical-sounding discussion, one that I could be having later in the same day.

Aren’t we supposed to take our anger out on our spouses? Isn’t that part of the traditional role of a spouse: mood deflector? I wonder if this girl’s mother is a single mother. Geez, the more I get into single motherhood, or the more their father steps out of the picture except to yell at them to clean their rooms, I realize how draining it is to be (or attempt to be) a positive influence on your children when you are mentally and emotionally drained. It’s hard to be understanding when you need someone to coddle your ego and body. It’s tough to get the tone out when you have no one with whom to decompress.

On Friday I came home from work, after picking up my older daughter and buying another box of invitations for my younger daughter, and just collapsed on the couch. This was after a confrontation with one of my more difficult behavior-wise students who gets extremely defensive when you ask her to stay on task and who has not learned not to talk back, and I have not learned to let that go, with anyone, especially not my students.

A few minutes after we got home my older daughter went to a friend’s house—she drove herself; my younger daughter went straight from school to volunteer at a haunted house at the local high school. So I was home alone and should have used that time as my time to decompress, but it’s hard to do that by yourself all of the time. It’s hard (yes, I am whining) to be your main support system. And so when they both got back and wanted something to eat and all I had to offer was the noodles and chicken cutlets from the previous night’s dinner I was not up to their complaints. I was actually talking to my mother while yelling at my daughter that that’s what there is and what do you mean you don’t like chicken cutlets you told me last week to make them!? On the phone my mother is telling me to calm down, and in here, at home, I am losing it. Eat the damn cutlets.

Why, why can’t they acquiesce? They have no documented behavioral issues, so what’s the deal here? Someone eat the food I prepared with care, love and thought. Someone say thank you. Someone remember that I am trying. Someone please tell me that the cutlets are great. No, not you mom.

The Week in Review

Home: The “For Sale” sign is still in front of the house, although the price has been reduced. slime finally agreed to reduce the price by about half of what I wanted (which is what the realtor recommended minus a bit)—and that was before the economy tanked even more. His agreement was probably just a ploy to show the judge that he is cooperating in the sale of the house. Let’s just reduce the price to practically foreclosure level and be done with it. No one has been by to visit, and I have gotten very lax in keeping the cleaning up to ready-to-show-in-a-half-hour status. Who wouldn’t be tired of maintaining a home at show quality for almost a year and a half?

I dread the idea of having to clean again because I detest living here. I detest that things have worked out so that I have lived in the same house with a man from whom I have been separated since March 2004. I don’t want to rant about my fault, or his fault, or my lawyer's fault, or the economy’s fault, or fate’s fault, all I want to do is rant at the injustice of this living arrangement.

Court: The court date is coming, it is November 6th. My lawyer (who needs to rise to bastard level) suggested that I write a letter to the judge to explain what it is like for me, and especially my daughters, living in this house, all of us together. I am beginning to compose that letter. Maybe threads are starting to show here.

slime: I think he gained weight because every time he walks around I hear the floor responding with a creak. So even when I don’t see him, I hear him. And if it’s not the floor, it’s his throat clearings because he never gave up cigarettes even though he promised me that he would before we got married many years ago.

Oh, and if I have to be exposed to the way he disregards his daughters, especially his younger daughter, anymore I think I will finally break down. It was her birthday the other day, I did not see a gift nor did I see a cake from him. Not that my cake was the best ever: it was a delicious defrosted Strawberry Shortcake from Trader Joe’s with imaginary candles. She is so sweet, she even made a wish and blew out the candles, and my older daughter held back and did not mock me and my candle improvisation.

But worst of all for me is when he calls my older daughter into his room, and then has her close the door so that they can have a private conversation in his bedroom (the master suite). It seems to me that this is a monologue, since I rarely hear the mumble of her voice through the closed doors. This arrangement feels weird and makes me uncomfortable for her—and me. It feels unseemly, because it feels as if he has made her his surrogate wife, in the talking aspect of things. And that is unsettling.

School/Work: One colleague recently resigned for an unspecified reason, but apparently she is an alcoholic. It is so upsetting to see someone you know and respect having such a hard time; I wish her complete healing and a successful recovery.

I’m getting a bit overwhelmed with all of the data we English teachers need to collect for the higher-ups. I broke the silence at a meeting today and said that I “philosophically oppose a test for Night” and that “we are supposed to be focused on writing, which is what everyone says the students need to improve.” But really, who cares about my protestations, my students need to be bubbling scantrons to prove that they have learned something from the stream of teachings that comes out of me on a non-stop basis.

My students are now writing essays on something important to them. I am so looking forward to reading their essays, especially since I only need to read 50 of them since my co-teacher will be reading our joint classes’ essays. A few were on tee shirts, and stuffed animals, and trophies. I explained the assignment discussing the rocks I collected on my spring break vacation to visit my friend in Monterey; what a joy it was to walk on a beach in the company of a friend without any responsibilities for a week; no wonder those stones make me feel good. I hope this assignment makes them feel good too. I mean who wouldn’t want to spend a few hours thinking about your favorite tee shirt and where you got it and what it means to you?

Dating: No boys on the horizon. Apparently someone emailed me from match.com, but I didn’t want to spend $30 to sign up to read the email that I have already decided would not be worth the investment. And may I say that I posted on match more than a year ago and this is the first email in just about forever. It could be a good sign, but it could also be a waste of time, hope and money and I don’t feel like wasting two of the above. I broke down and checked out Craig’s List, and emailed one man; but it turned out that I had met him for one coffee date. His response to my repeat email was that I should be ashamed of myself. (He knew of my blog, where I had written that he had been nice but in a worse home situation than mine, so no thanks.) So I really think that I shall stay away from there. Lurkers, there are too many lurkers.

And that is about a week in the life of.

Third Week of School

Another year has begun, and with it another notification that a student’s father has cancer. Another year and another family drama that should be the purview of a soap opera and not the stuff of a child’s life. Another year and another student with a father deployed in a war zone, and another with a brother deployed. And yet, another year of kids who come to school everyday, leaving aside their family dramas, big and small, and expecting to be met with respect, every day. Resilience, it’s putting on the happy face and trying to let it permeate the soul without even trying. Resilience, it’s believing, no, it’s knowing, that tomorrow will be a better day.

* * *

Pause for Concern for a 14-Year Old Boy

Now that the school year has started, there will naturally be more posts about school and my students. I would in no way mention any child specifically and, as always, the reason why I write about these things is because (what an ego) I don't think that these kinds of things touch just me, but many of us. And I for one love to feel that I am not alone in my thoughts, concerns and interests; moreover, I love when people comment with their insights and observations, which enriches my life and understanding.

One of the first things that I have my students do at the beginning of the year is fill out a student information form so that I can get an idea of their interests, lives, and goals (whether formulated or not). It helps me, as an English teacher, know if a child wants to be a writer or an architect. So, the other day I was stopped in my tracks--literally--when I read one boy's responses. To the questions regarding what college he wants to go to and what he wants to study he talked about military college and military strategy. Okay, in this area many parents are in the military. But, in response to "what do you want to do when you finish school and work" his answer was just too blunt and too upsetting. He responded that he wants to shoot people. His response jolted me. Another teacher was in the room and after I read it to her, she said that I need to contact his counselor, which I did immediately.

I live in Virginia, and the shootings at Virginia Tech a year and a half ago impacted my school community. But it’s not just the proximity to that shooting tragedy that made his response so upsetting, it’s that this boy somehow thinks that it’s a valid career choice to kill people. Now maybe he is one of the few students who is aware that we are fighting a war in Iraq and a war in Afghanistan, or maybe he plays a lot of video games, or maybe he does have a parent or a sibling in the military who needs to shoot people, but my goodness, doesn’t he want to at least consider something more positive for himself? I had a discussion last year with some students (whose parents were in the military) who emphasized how much good they were doing helping people in Iraq. He does not, however, seem to be coming from this vein of understanding that the military is a service organization.

Hopefully it will come to pass that this was a taunt of a response, or that he really does need to work on his writing because this is not what he meant to say. I will keep my sensors up with his writing and in-class responses. And, perhaps, his vision of himself will change, and he will see himself in a more positive light.

So what do we read first this year? We start off with a short story about killing people for sport. Hmm, maybe I should change that. 
* * *