Language Barrier

I wasn't sure if it would work out to seat Luis next to Francisco, but I gave it a shot. Luis doesn't connect well with other students and I figured it would help him to have a friend nearby, even if that friend is rather scattered most of the time. When it came time to finish the notes on literary terms that we had started the class before, I checked in with Luis. "Do you have your notes on story terms?" I asked.

"Huh?" he replied. Clueless.

"Your notes. From last class."

Nothing.

"The notes. In your notebook."

Nothing.

"Notes," I tried again.

Nothing.

Then, Francisco decided to help me out. "Las notas," he explained to Luis.

"Ohh. Las notas. Right here," Luis exclaimed and pulled them out.

Now Francisco translates all of my instructions into Spanish for Luis. Notes into notas. Page into pagina. These translations crack me up for obvious reasons, but they also help me realize that sometimes the speaker matters more than the words spoken.

Essential

I just drove eighteen minutes from my new house to arrive at a Dunn Bros. where I could use wireless access to read blogs and maybe write one of my own. Then, on my New York Times homepage, I read this, "President Bush today called on Americans to avoid non-essential driving as the average national prices climbed higher."

In the name of patriotism, it's time to contact my local cable internet carrier and get on with my life.

Ken Barlow, my favorite meteorologist, told me to go the basement during the storm; so I immediately grabbed my flashlight, battery radio, and cell phone. Then, I paused.

Should I take that article I'm still reading for the Big-Ass Paper? Or better yet, my laptop so that actual writing might happen? What about the novel I haven't finished for book club this weekend? Or the writing assignments I collected from my students today and my favorite grading pen?

The thought of any of these items alone with me in the basement was horrifying.

Instead, I braved the weather on the couch and watched TV for the first time in weeks. I deemed it necessary storm-tracking. And while the rainbow display of atmospheric activity on the Doppler radar isn't usually my first choice for viewing enjoyment, tonight, it was glorious.

In the beginning. . . the page.

It's official. I am writing a thesis. Not just talking about it anymore. I put pen to paper last night. . . well . . . fingers to keyboard.

It's much less intimidating this way. Sure, I have miles to go before I rest, but that first step feels pretty good. I've spent so much time being afraid that I had forgotten how satisfying it can be to compose. To create. To make something out of nothing.

It's crap, don't get me wrong. But it's my crap. I wrote it.

Angela and I used to keep paper-o-meters in college. We'd mark off pages on our white board like notches on the United Way thermometer. I don't plan to keep one for this baby, but if it matters to anyone else: one page down, seventy-ninish to go.

Control

I spent most of my teaching day yesterday trying to convince myself that I had everything under control. That I was an island of calm.

When I did get mad, the kids laughed at me. One boy laughed so hard he had to gain control of his own self in the hallway.

It is pretty funny when I get mad, all red in the face, all loud in the voice -- but there's certainly no control involved. And it's no way to start the year.

Even though I'm not having so much luck controlling them, nor do I want to be a soldier of the institution as Lee has me convinced we all are, I'm NOT giving up on controlling my own reactions to them. It's all I've got.

So when I finally had their attention and was reading to them from the novel Double Dutch, I wasn't feeling too badly about the "your mama" jokes they were collecting from the story. When they tell each other later that "Your mama is so dumb she gets tangled up in the cordless phone," I'm not gonna care.

Besides, that's pretty funny, and trust me, I have larger issues to worry about.

I teach them...they teach me...

When you Google the word FAILURE, the first hit you get is the biography of George W. from the official White House website.

Not kidding. Try it.

I learned this from a student today. He's totally getting an A+.

When You Know You Haven't Seen It All

One of Greg's students didn't return from lunch with the rest of his class today. This isn't surprising in middle school. Kids find ways to get out of class and usually turn up with a pass from somewhere after a while.

When he did return, Greg asked if everything was okay.

"No," the boy replied, blue nurse pass in hand. "I'm going home."

Greg didn't have to inquire too much. The boy looked sick in a way that told the whole story.

"Well," Greg started to say, arms opened to demonstrate his understanding, "let me help you get your stuff."

But before Greg could finish this statement, the boy moved into Greg's open arms and hugged him. In front of the entire class.

The other kids stared. Said nothing.

Greg, once he got over his own surprise, patted the boy on the back, told him to feel better, and sent him on his way.

Now, I've never met a 7th grade boy who would dream to interpret partly opened arms as a "hug me" gesture, but I've been smiling all day over the fact that this one did.

A Mortgage and So Much More

I'm not living in my new house yet, but I feel compelled to check on it every day to make sure that

a) the new paint is not peeling off the tiles in the bathroom,
b) the basement has not flooded,
c) the old stove is not leaking gas (pretty sure Jesus used a similar model), or
d) someone has not broken in to steal the four boxes of books, used paint cans, and toilet paper that maintain sole possession of the house.

Is it normal to worry so much about something nonhuman?

It Seemed Like a Good Idea At The Time

After a long day of painting in my new house, I was exhausted and punchy. Unfortunately for little sister Cassie, it has long been her role in my universe to be on the receiving end of all punchy gestures.

While waiting for that last coat of paint to dry, Cassie stood on the toilet while I stood below staring at her crotch. It seemed so logical at the time to do this...



Later, as we drove back to my apartment so she could change before going out for dinner (necessary, as you can see), this was our conversation.

"Cass, there's paint in my hair. Why didn't you tell me?" She had. Several times.

"Oh really. There's paint on my crotch. Why didn't you tell me?"

Touché.

Everyone should have a little sister.

Just this...

Something I've Always Wondered...

If you remove the part of the cheese that's moldy, is it okay to eat the remaining, without-mold part?

I put my hypothesis to the test with dinner tonight. Accidentally.

I'll let you know how it all comes out. Pun intended.

Paddling Upstream

I am always a little disgusted and torn by the magazine drive that my school hosts at the start of each year. Students sell magazines to win fabulous prizes and the school gets money for student activities -- money that doesn't otherwise exist for many of our students. What bugs me, though, is that the magazine company cleans up. Big time. They entice the kids to sell by giving away iPods, XBoxes, TVs, stereos, remote control helicopters, and much, much more. Meanwhile, they sit back and collect the dough. Some serious dough from what I can tell. Is this fundraising or child labor?

And then, as I'm sitting there listening to the spiel in the auditorium, all I can think about are the survivors of the hurricane who don't give a damn right now about iPods, XBoxes, TVs, stereos, remote control helicopters, and much, much more that their capitalist country tries to make them think matters most. Instead of having students sell crap no one needs so they can earn crap they don't need, why not fundraise for the hurricane victims? Why not teach our students that human lives matter more than things, and while we'd all like to have cool shit, we have more important work to do?

I am stepping off of my comfortable little soapbox now, but it is not lost on me that I am lucky enough to have dry ground below.

Testing My Tenure

As it is time to update my classroom poster collection, I Googled social justice posters and found this.

Love it.

Just wondering, since I'm not too keen on saying the pledge to our country's flag every Monday during the news show like I'm supposed to, will I get in trouble for having this up instead? Or for saying the words printed on it?

Only one way to find out.

"It knows what will be, and is willing to share this with you."

My new philosophy of decision has been going well. I had one minor setback and watched a romantic, but not-so-funny comedy on the WB tonight. Saturday night with nothing to do except study always turns out this way.

Even though I am committed to this new plan, I have to admit that I am drawn to my little sister's approach to the future.

"I had a discussion with the Magic 8 Ball," she told me on the phone this afternoon.

"Really? What did you talk about?"

"Marriage. For you and Becky It Is Certain. But for me," she continued,"Don't Count on It. "

"Ouch. You know, those things aren't scientific. Besides, you probably got the best answer. Ask it again if I'll be happily married. Actually. No. Don't." There are some things that I don't need to know right now. "Ooh. But do ask it what color to paint my bedroom."

Damned 8 Ball. Yes or no questions only. I can't live my life that way. Besides, the vibe I'm getting from the universe says that "green knoll" is the way to go.

The Decision

I found my first gray hair when I was twenty-six and have been pulling them out ever since. Yet when I consider plucking the most visible silver hair I've ever had, right in the front of my part, I just can't do it. What does that mean?

Best girlfriend Jodi pressed play on this mantra in my head: I am what I decide.

Every time I look in the mirror, I am faced with the decision. It only takes a moment to tug it out. Gone.

What I've realized, though, is that the moment of my decision would be gone too. And it is that moment that I have grown to appreciate more than youth or beauty.

So everyday, instead, I decide to decide.