Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Dixon
There was a message on my machine when I got home from shopping last night-- great loot, $400 worth of clothes. I no longer have to start school naked. "Mrs. Snow, it's Dixon Crandall. I have a favor to ask you..."
In 2001, I was promoted to eighth grade along with 30 or so of my seventh graders, one of whom was Dixon, a rather surly young man prone to acne and sarcasm, and, according to some, defiance-- that instant blood pressure raiser among parents and teachers.
He sat in my first period class in seventh grade not saying a whole lot, just looking the least bit indignantly surprised all the time, as if someone next to him had left a really foul fart or a tack on his chair. I wasn't really sure how to take him. Like someone trying to balance a chair on only one leg, his style teetered between what was popular, what his parents wanted him to wear, what he actually wanted to wear, and what he could wear to make him stand out. He said little during those first few weeks of seventh grade, and I said little to him.
When our first Major Assignment, a personal experience narrative, was due, Dixon turned his in, a good sign! His topic was a family reunion he'd attended over the summer-- yawn-- but Dixon was able to make that topic (a favorite among middle schoolers, right up there with The Big Game) interesting, almost beautiful in places. Yes, there were mechanical issues, but this kid's writing was so unlike what I'd seen in my previous seven years' experience with 13 year olds.
So, as any good teacher would, I wondered if he'd actually written it.
For some reason, though, I swallowed my suspicion, telling myself-- you've known this kid for what, a couple months? Come on, give him the benefit of the doubt. When I passed back his paper, I told him quietly, "You're a writer. I'm looking forward to seeing more."
While other teachers commented on his "attitude," Dixon wrote for me: essays, book reviews, poetry, and research. He started to perk up in class, too, responding to classmates' statements and questioning their logic. He started to consider himself as having a skill, a talent even, maybe.
We were promoted to eighth grade together, and again we started the day together, first period. He wrote more and more, talked more and more. This is not to say that the rest of eighth grade was smooth sailing. Mr. Traditional Math across the hall rankled at Dixon's occasional defiant attitude. (Dixon cared not for algebra.) Mr. Snide Science commented, "You know, Dixon, you and I have a personality conflict, but you don't have to take it so personally." (Or science.)
"How can I not take a personality conflict personally? Isn't that, by definition, what it is?" Dixon reasoned.
A parent conference followed. I met Mr. and Mrs. Crandall, she sporting the exact same suprised/indignant expression (How did we get this kid?), he friendly, benign, and tall. Various chemical imbalances were suggested, measures were considered.
Okay, people, I thought. It's not fucking rocket science. We had here a kid, not unknown to the genus of American teenager: the Rebellious Young Person. The Rebellious Young Person's habitat is anywhere his parents don't want him to go. The Rebellious Young Person's grooming consists of anything his parents don't want him to wear. Whatever the teacher/parent hated about Dixon was what the teacher/parent got.
Dixon went on to high school, but we still kept in touch. He sent me short stories. I read them. They were in turn thought-provoking, haunting, disturbing. He sent me complimentary copies of a magazine he and his punk rock bandmates were working on. Again-- thought-provoking and sometimes disturbing. He sent me his term paper on the Beat Poets (what else?). Thought-provoking but not disturbing.
After an ill-conceived big-box store prank and subsequent legal near-miss, Dixon started to come around. His way. That meant no college for him. He'd had enough of the whole education establisment with its Pavlovian jocks and straight-arrows. (Dixon and I would not have crossed paths if we were in high school together, let me tell you.) He would play his music and do whatever it took to just exist, man. He told me this in a bar one evening at the beginning of his senior year. Dixon had come to hear another band perform, musical courtesy, I guess. He sat drinking Pepsi until shortly before midnight, when he left. (I stayed until 2, drinking beer.)
I didn't try too hard to convince Dixon to go to college. Tripper's family had been-there-done-that with his brother, a member of Teenagum-Rebellious himself. My in-laws insisted that Carlin go to college, and Carlin did go. He just didn't go to class. "You don't have to go to college, Dixon," I told him. "I think you'd really enjoy it, though. You can always go later. Or not. Whatever."
Dixon's favor is a letter of recommendation for a small liberal arts college (not one sports team) in a big Midwest city. THE Midwest City. He decided to go to college, I'm told, the night of high school graduation. It doesn't matter. He did it his way. He doesn't know it yet, but as he gets older, he'll have fewer opportunities to do things his way. That's the dirty little secret of adulthood.
In 2001, I was promoted to eighth grade along with 30 or so of my seventh graders, one of whom was Dixon, a rather surly young man prone to acne and sarcasm, and, according to some, defiance-- that instant blood pressure raiser among parents and teachers.
He sat in my first period class in seventh grade not saying a whole lot, just looking the least bit indignantly surprised all the time, as if someone next to him had left a really foul fart or a tack on his chair. I wasn't really sure how to take him. Like someone trying to balance a chair on only one leg, his style teetered between what was popular, what his parents wanted him to wear, what he actually wanted to wear, and what he could wear to make him stand out. He said little during those first few weeks of seventh grade, and I said little to him.
When our first Major Assignment, a personal experience narrative, was due, Dixon turned his in, a good sign! His topic was a family reunion he'd attended over the summer-- yawn-- but Dixon was able to make that topic (a favorite among middle schoolers, right up there with The Big Game) interesting, almost beautiful in places. Yes, there were mechanical issues, but this kid's writing was so unlike what I'd seen in my previous seven years' experience with 13 year olds.
So, as any good teacher would, I wondered if he'd actually written it.
For some reason, though, I swallowed my suspicion, telling myself-- you've known this kid for what, a couple months? Come on, give him the benefit of the doubt. When I passed back his paper, I told him quietly, "You're a writer. I'm looking forward to seeing more."
While other teachers commented on his "attitude," Dixon wrote for me: essays, book reviews, poetry, and research. He started to perk up in class, too, responding to classmates' statements and questioning their logic. He started to consider himself as having a skill, a talent even, maybe.
We were promoted to eighth grade together, and again we started the day together, first period. He wrote more and more, talked more and more. This is not to say that the rest of eighth grade was smooth sailing. Mr. Traditional Math across the hall rankled at Dixon's occasional defiant attitude. (Dixon cared not for algebra.) Mr. Snide Science commented, "You know, Dixon, you and I have a personality conflict, but you don't have to take it so personally." (Or science.)
"How can I not take a personality conflict personally? Isn't that, by definition, what it is?" Dixon reasoned.
A parent conference followed. I met Mr. and Mrs. Crandall, she sporting the exact same suprised/indignant expression (How did we get this kid?), he friendly, benign, and tall. Various chemical imbalances were suggested, measures were considered.
Okay, people, I thought. It's not fucking rocket science. We had here a kid, not unknown to the genus of American teenager: the Rebellious Young Person. The Rebellious Young Person's habitat is anywhere his parents don't want him to go. The Rebellious Young Person's grooming consists of anything his parents don't want him to wear. Whatever the teacher/parent hated about Dixon was what the teacher/parent got.
Dixon went on to high school, but we still kept in touch. He sent me short stories. I read them. They were in turn thought-provoking, haunting, disturbing. He sent me complimentary copies of a magazine he and his punk rock bandmates were working on. Again-- thought-provoking and sometimes disturbing. He sent me his term paper on the Beat Poets (what else?). Thought-provoking but not disturbing.
After an ill-conceived big-box store prank and subsequent legal near-miss, Dixon started to come around. His way. That meant no college for him. He'd had enough of the whole education establisment with its Pavlovian jocks and straight-arrows. (Dixon and I would not have crossed paths if we were in high school together, let me tell you.) He would play his music and do whatever it took to just exist, man. He told me this in a bar one evening at the beginning of his senior year. Dixon had come to hear another band perform, musical courtesy, I guess. He sat drinking Pepsi until shortly before midnight, when he left. (I stayed until 2, drinking beer.)
I didn't try too hard to convince Dixon to go to college. Tripper's family had been-there-done-that with his brother, a member of Teenagum-Rebellious himself. My in-laws insisted that Carlin go to college, and Carlin did go. He just didn't go to class. "You don't have to go to college, Dixon," I told him. "I think you'd really enjoy it, though. You can always go later. Or not. Whatever."
Dixon's favor is a letter of recommendation for a small liberal arts college (not one sports team) in a big Midwest city. THE Midwest City. He decided to go to college, I'm told, the night of high school graduation. It doesn't matter. He did it his way. He doesn't know it yet, but as he gets older, he'll have fewer opportunities to do things his way. That's the dirty little secret of adulthood.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Construction and News Reports
I live in Dogpatch, a small town of maybe ten to fifteen thousand people. My students go hunting. A lot. They ride dirt bikes and four-wheelers. They make mountain-pies at bonfires. They try to dress ghetto, but the truth is many of them really haven't seen many, if any, people of different races.
Right now, however, it sounds like I live in a city. There are construction workers on Main Street outside my door. I woke up to jack-hammers and the beep-beep-beep of vehicles backing up. Right now a tough construction lady is directing impatient drivers, their cars backed up for three blocks on Main Street. I don't know how long this is going to go on, but the rumblings indicate that a Major Construction Project is beginning. (Hopefully, it won't result in violence. Tripper was sanding the porch yesterday late afternoon, and when he stopped the sander for a moment, he distinctly heard the tough construction lady say, "Thank god!" He was not amused. I said maybe she was referring to something else, was saying something in her headset to someone else... If she DID say that, well, it takes a lot of nerve.)
Luckily, there's an alley behind my house, and we can scoot down said alley to attempt to enter Dogpatch thoroughfares surreptiously. I don't know how long that will work, either, as this IS a small town, and no doubt the denizens know of my alley. I imagine the alley will become fairly busy, too, before very long. Grr. Fortunately for me, much to Tripper's confusion, I often don't care if I leave my house during the summer. Just last week he came home from work and had to use his key. "Why are you locking me out?" he asked, exasperated. "Oh, wait, you didn't go anywhere today." And what's your point, hon?
I haven't gotten dressed or brushed my teeth yet, and it's 11 am. My daily routine (and I love routines) was interrupted by Steel City doctors AGAIN. I like to watch Dr. Phil and drink coffee (after checking email and blogs), and several times this summer, the Doctor was interrupted by the Steel City doctors updating Steel City (and hunreds of thousands of people who don't live in Steel City) on their mayor's colon. I don't have many days of the Doctor left. School starts for me next Wednesday, one week from today.
I'm not as ready to go back this year as I have been in others. It's probably because I taught three teacher-classes this summer. I also didn't bring home a single paper, book, or list from school last June. That was a first, too. Am I slipping? Am I doomed to say things like, "These kids" or "We never used to do this!" I hope not.
A "first" of another type occurred Monday, and though it's a small, small victory, I hope it gives birth to future victories. No, I didn't turn down a beer, cigarette, or cookie. I challenged one of my mother's passive-aggressive jabs.
She was ripe for one. My grandmother had two surgeries in a week and before that had been living with my mother for a couple of weeks. My mother was exhausted, feeling guilty, worried. What's a girl to do during these trying times? Well, pick on her daughter, of course. Now, I must report that she wasn't in her best fighting form, that this occasion didn't showcase her best work. Still.
After babysitting I stopped to see her and my stepfather, and they fed me some dinner. When I was finished, I set my plate in front of my mother to get it out of the way of the Rust Belt Times I was reading. I immediately thought better of it, and got up to put it in the dishwasher, as it looked like I had given it to her to take care of. We all had a chuckle over it.
"Oh, Chrissy, you're just like your Aunt Lillian." This is rarely a good comparison to make. (Aunt Lillian is going to pray me into an unwanted pregnancy. She's a godhead. She thinks schizophrenia is merely demon possession.)
"How so?" I asked, sitting back down at the table.
She proceeded to tell me that when Aunt Lillian lived with us for a summer when I was a little girl, she would never help with all the dishes. She'd get up from the table after supper and wash her own plate, silverware, and glass, put them away, and go do her thing. "Yep, Lillian thought, You don't have to clean up after ME," my mother mused. "She never offered to clear the table, scrape, or dry anything."
Okay. I got up and began to load the dishwasher with dishes from my mother's earlier meal.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Clearly, your comment implies that you'd like me to help you out. I'd be glad to."
"Oh, no, no, no. You don't have to do that. That's not what I meant."
"Then why did you say it?" I asked calmly.
She was at a loss. She reaffirmed that I didn't need to do anything. She didn't know what she meant. We chatted a little while longer, and then it started to storm a little, so I thought I should hit the road. (I've stopped staying overnight every time I go. Another small victory.)
That was easier than I thought. Chrissy: 1. Mother: 35 years.
Right now, however, it sounds like I live in a city. There are construction workers on Main Street outside my door. I woke up to jack-hammers and the beep-beep-beep of vehicles backing up. Right now a tough construction lady is directing impatient drivers, their cars backed up for three blocks on Main Street. I don't know how long this is going to go on, but the rumblings indicate that a Major Construction Project is beginning. (Hopefully, it won't result in violence. Tripper was sanding the porch yesterday late afternoon, and when he stopped the sander for a moment, he distinctly heard the tough construction lady say, "Thank god!" He was not amused. I said maybe she was referring to something else, was saying something in her headset to someone else... If she DID say that, well, it takes a lot of nerve.)
Luckily, there's an alley behind my house, and we can scoot down said alley to attempt to enter Dogpatch thoroughfares surreptiously. I don't know how long that will work, either, as this IS a small town, and no doubt the denizens know of my alley. I imagine the alley will become fairly busy, too, before very long. Grr. Fortunately for me, much to Tripper's confusion, I often don't care if I leave my house during the summer. Just last week he came home from work and had to use his key. "Why are you locking me out?" he asked, exasperated. "Oh, wait, you didn't go anywhere today." And what's your point, hon?
I haven't gotten dressed or brushed my teeth yet, and it's 11 am. My daily routine (and I love routines) was interrupted by Steel City doctors AGAIN. I like to watch Dr. Phil and drink coffee (after checking email and blogs), and several times this summer, the Doctor was interrupted by the Steel City doctors updating Steel City (and hunreds of thousands of people who don't live in Steel City) on their mayor's colon. I don't have many days of the Doctor left. School starts for me next Wednesday, one week from today.
I'm not as ready to go back this year as I have been in others. It's probably because I taught three teacher-classes this summer. I also didn't bring home a single paper, book, or list from school last June. That was a first, too. Am I slipping? Am I doomed to say things like, "These kids" or "We never used to do this!" I hope not.
A "first" of another type occurred Monday, and though it's a small, small victory, I hope it gives birth to future victories. No, I didn't turn down a beer, cigarette, or cookie. I challenged one of my mother's passive-aggressive jabs.
She was ripe for one. My grandmother had two surgeries in a week and before that had been living with my mother for a couple of weeks. My mother was exhausted, feeling guilty, worried. What's a girl to do during these trying times? Well, pick on her daughter, of course. Now, I must report that she wasn't in her best fighting form, that this occasion didn't showcase her best work. Still.
After babysitting I stopped to see her and my stepfather, and they fed me some dinner. When I was finished, I set my plate in front of my mother to get it out of the way of the Rust Belt Times I was reading. I immediately thought better of it, and got up to put it in the dishwasher, as it looked like I had given it to her to take care of. We all had a chuckle over it.
"Oh, Chrissy, you're just like your Aunt Lillian." This is rarely a good comparison to make. (Aunt Lillian is going to pray me into an unwanted pregnancy. She's a godhead. She thinks schizophrenia is merely demon possession.)
"How so?" I asked, sitting back down at the table.
She proceeded to tell me that when Aunt Lillian lived with us for a summer when I was a little girl, she would never help with all the dishes. She'd get up from the table after supper and wash her own plate, silverware, and glass, put them away, and go do her thing. "Yep, Lillian thought, You don't have to clean up after ME," my mother mused. "She never offered to clear the table, scrape, or dry anything."
Okay. I got up and began to load the dishwasher with dishes from my mother's earlier meal.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Clearly, your comment implies that you'd like me to help you out. I'd be glad to."
"Oh, no, no, no. You don't have to do that. That's not what I meant."
"Then why did you say it?" I asked calmly.
She was at a loss. She reaffirmed that I didn't need to do anything. She didn't know what she meant. We chatted a little while longer, and then it started to storm a little, so I thought I should hit the road. (I've stopped staying overnight every time I go. Another small victory.)
That was easier than I thought. Chrissy: 1. Mother: 35 years.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Andy Hardy Takes a Poop?
Babysitting, Part Deux
The alarm went off this morning at 4:30 am. I roused my sorry ass out of bed to go to Rust Belt Town to baby-sit—it’s a new Monday thing, it seems. When I arrived at my sister’s, Miss Gabor and Young Andy Hardy (the world’s most pleasant baby) were both still sleeping, so I napped a bit on the couch and watched the Matt Lauer interview with Britney Spears, conveniently provided on the DVR.
Miss Gabor didn’t rise until almost 10 am, and then the fun began. I love her to death, and we had a good time, but, man, she’s bossy. She’s willful. I love it. We colored, and every time I said, “I like this color,” Miss Gabor liked it, too, and promptly commandeered it. We worked together on a lovely masterpiece from her Wiggles coloring book. We watched Calliou and Pinky Dinky Doo, two programs with which I wasn’t formerly familiar. (If I get DVR, however, I doubt they’ll make my “automatically record” queue.) With Calliou, the family adventures of a young boy with a tragically gay name, you get little intermissions interspersed, and these include various puppet skits and lessons on pre-school basics like colors and shapes. Miss Gabor doesn’t care for these. “I don’t like this part. Fast forward”. I did.
We also played Barbies. My doll was Snow White. Without legs or buttocks. Miss Gabor is a champion of the disabled, though, and she didn’t allow Snow White’s limitations hamper her active participation in the day’s activities, which included going to the other Barbie’s house for raspberry cake. Snow White is not a victim. The fairy tale gown helps to hide her affliction, which doesn’t hurt, either.
This, along with building block towers on the sun porch, took us through lunch. It was then that Aunt Chrissy somehow displeased Miss Gabor. It could have been Aunt Chrissy’s denial of a third pack of Welch’s Fruit Snacks. It could have been Aunt Chrissy’s attention to the young Andy. (Miss Gabor is still not sure about him. I think she’s hoping the studio will let him go when his contract’s up.) When I was attending to Andy’s lunch, Miss Gabor moaned, “No one wants to play with me. No one wants to hold me.” I tried to explain, but Miss G. is too two for that.
“Aunt Chrissy loves you and wants to play with you. I’ll be glad to play with you in a minute. ‘Kay?” I smiled warmly.
“Will you play with me?”
“In just a minute. It’s hard to wait, I know, but it’ll be just a little while.”
“Will you play with me?”
(My mother likened it to the old joke about the diner customer who orders a burger and fries, and is told there are no burgers today. “Okay, just the burger, then.”)
When Andy was taken care of, we headed upstairs to Miss Gabor’s suite, where I was cast as Baby Aunt Chrissy and told to take a nap. (Finally, something I was good at, something I understood!) I did as directed. “You’re not eating your eggs!” (The script hadn’t mentioned eating. It seemed we had moved on to improvisation.) I began to eat my eggs. “You’re supposed to be taking a nap!” I got it now. We were doing a revival of Niece Dearest.
It was almost time for their mother to return, so I headed downstairs to pick up toys. Miss Gabor was not into the change of plans. She robustly, seamlessly returned to her role as tragic heroine. I tried singing our theme song (to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star): “Miss Gabor and Aunt Chrissy, having fun all day long…”
“Don’t say that!!” she wailed/ordered though her tears.
I’m told Miss Gabor has reached that awful age where children no longer take naps although they really need to….
I know I’m ready for mine.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Technology
When I was a kid, I had a penpal. Her name was Sunni, and she hailed, not surprisingly, from Arizona. I don't know how she and I hooked up, maybe thanks to Weekly Reader or Scholastic Books. We exchanged pictures and a couple of letters, but the chemistry just wasn't there. My dream of becoming lifelong friends who roomed together at college and served as each other's bridesmaids was not to be. We wouldn't marry a pair of Malibu Kens and buy houses next door to each other. I don't have that kind of penpal now, but email is one technology that makes such an idea easier. Professor Girl and I pore over each other's blogs and email back and forth, but our relationship was cemented long before RAM, bitmap, and JPEG. Even without technology, we'd be part of each other's lives.
Last summer I happened upon a discussion board for the Rust Belt Town Times, and soon I had a screen name and new "friends," as it were. Every day I check in on the threads of the forum: Waterfall Park Memories, the Port-a-John Thread, Drug Testing for Teachers, What's the Best Indoor Dog to Get? and many, many more.
It's kind of like a neighborhood bar, really, a neighborhood bar in a very diverse neighborhood. Patrons come from all walks of life (teachers, independent consultants, rocket scientists who really want to be writers, emergency medical personnel, and retired secretaries who know all the secrets of the town); all walks of politics (bleeding heart, head-in-the-clouds, left-wing liberals who hate Bush and the neocons; tight-ass, money-hungry neocons who hate the common man). Out-of-work methadone addicts, stay-at-home moms, brainwashed KKK wannabes, that freaky kid from your 10th grade history class, way-past-their-glory jocks.... you get the picture, I'm sure. All they have in common is a connection to Rust Belt Town, a computer, and opinions.
In the year I've been frequenting this forum, I've often wondered who these people are. Do I know them from my youth? Did I like them in my youth? Did they like me? Did I wait on them at the grocery store? The pizza shop? Are they my friends' parents? Last week, then, I was pleasantly surprised by a post on one of the threads I always check out-- drug testing for teachers. Chrissy, it said, I'll be passing through Dogpatch Tuesday. Want to do lunch? I did.
And so, that's how I ended up meeting Sean-Minersburg, our forum's Papa Smurf, but youthful, beardless, and shirted. He had brought pictures of the thread people, as we call ourselves, from a reunion last October. With the wonder of technology he had superimposed their screen names over their bodies in the group picture. Newman's a lady? I gushed. We discussed the people whose words we read everyday, the people whose words we often disregard as the rantings of imbeciles (those who hold opinions we disagree with), the people whose words we praise (those who hold the right opinions).
Sean and I often don't agree. We're both fairly moderate, politically-- he's more right, and I'm more left-- but have vastly different religious views. He's a Catholic-turned-Baptist while I'm a Fundamentalist Godhead (the only ones actually going to heaven, thank you very much) turned agnostic. Or atheist. He's a successful businessman who feels schools could be run much better by CEOs. I'd like to keep my defined-benefit pension if at all possible. We do have some things in common-- we usually don't tumble into childish namecalling on the threads. We use capital letters and punctuation. His parents live three doors down from my sister. His sister probably went to school with my mother. Differences aside, we had a great lunch.
It's hard to fathom that whole communities of debate exist in which the participants really wouldn't know each other if they ran into each other at the grocery store or the pizza shop, yet they speak everyday. Of course, this isn't a new phenomenon, but it's the first in which I've participated.
Sean has met many of the people in our forum. We've disclosed where we're from (most no longer live in Rust Belt Town), and if he's going to be nearby on business, he asks us out for lunch. He's our elder statesman, our historian, our mediator. Now I have a face to go with the name and the avatar.
I also have lots of penpals. I doubt I'll be moving next door to them-- at least I hope not!
How the hell do I get pictures up here, Professor Girl?? Technology. Grr.
Last summer I happened upon a discussion board for the Rust Belt Town Times, and soon I had a screen name and new "friends," as it were. Every day I check in on the threads of the forum: Waterfall Park Memories, the Port-a-John Thread, Drug Testing for Teachers, What's the Best Indoor Dog to Get? and many, many more.
It's kind of like a neighborhood bar, really, a neighborhood bar in a very diverse neighborhood. Patrons come from all walks of life (teachers, independent consultants, rocket scientists who really want to be writers, emergency medical personnel, and retired secretaries who know all the secrets of the town); all walks of politics (bleeding heart, head-in-the-clouds, left-wing liberals who hate Bush and the neocons; tight-ass, money-hungry neocons who hate the common man). Out-of-work methadone addicts, stay-at-home moms, brainwashed KKK wannabes, that freaky kid from your 10th grade history class, way-past-their-glory jocks.... you get the picture, I'm sure. All they have in common is a connection to Rust Belt Town, a computer, and opinions.
In the year I've been frequenting this forum, I've often wondered who these people are. Do I know them from my youth? Did I like them in my youth? Did they like me? Did I wait on them at the grocery store? The pizza shop? Are they my friends' parents? Last week, then, I was pleasantly surprised by a post on one of the threads I always check out-- drug testing for teachers. Chrissy, it said, I'll be passing through Dogpatch Tuesday. Want to do lunch? I did.
And so, that's how I ended up meeting Sean-Minersburg, our forum's Papa Smurf, but youthful, beardless, and shirted. He had brought pictures of the thread people, as we call ourselves, from a reunion last October. With the wonder of technology he had superimposed their screen names over their bodies in the group picture. Newman's a lady? I gushed. We discussed the people whose words we read everyday, the people whose words we often disregard as the rantings of imbeciles (those who hold opinions we disagree with), the people whose words we praise (those who hold the right opinions).
Sean and I often don't agree. We're both fairly moderate, politically-- he's more right, and I'm more left-- but have vastly different religious views. He's a Catholic-turned-Baptist while I'm a Fundamentalist Godhead (the only ones actually going to heaven, thank you very much) turned agnostic. Or atheist. He's a successful businessman who feels schools could be run much better by CEOs. I'd like to keep my defined-benefit pension if at all possible. We do have some things in common-- we usually don't tumble into childish namecalling on the threads. We use capital letters and punctuation. His parents live three doors down from my sister. His sister probably went to school with my mother. Differences aside, we had a great lunch.
It's hard to fathom that whole communities of debate exist in which the participants really wouldn't know each other if they ran into each other at the grocery store or the pizza shop, yet they speak everyday. Of course, this isn't a new phenomenon, but it's the first in which I've participated.
Sean has met many of the people in our forum. We've disclosed where we're from (most no longer live in Rust Belt Town), and if he's going to be nearby on business, he asks us out for lunch. He's our elder statesman, our historian, our mediator. Now I have a face to go with the name and the avatar.
I also have lots of penpals. I doubt I'll be moving next door to them-- at least I hope not!
How the hell do I get pictures up here, Professor Girl?? Technology. Grr.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Babysitting
Tomorrow I'm going to baby-sit my niece, she who narrowly missed having an extra finger. I haven't babysat anyone since... well, not that long ago, really. (I've watched my niece in Rust Belt Town on days off from school.) Before that, though, it had probably been during the Reagan administration. I did a decent job. Most people asked me back, and I was glad, as babysitting was usually a good gig. I was introduced to lots of things from babysitting: Pink Floyd, Jackie Collins, Theodore Dreiser.
My dad worked shifts when I was a kid, and my mom worked evenings at a fabric store, so we often had babysitters. One was named Lori. She was slender, blonde, quiet, pretty. We liked when Lori babysat because sometimes her boyfriend Ron came over, and we got to see a show. No, Lori never let him come in, but she sat in his car parked on the curb right below our bedrooms. Lori and her boyfriend seemed to have a dramatic relationship-- what we saw wasn't heavy petting, it was a soap opera. My sister and I and a couple of neighborhood friends knelt on my sister's bed, as quiet as we could possibly be. We did our best to allow only our eyes to surface above the windowsill. We were little periscopes, searching for secrets of adolescence.
We were so clever! One time tears ran down Lori's face; she was a good crier. No crumpling of the features like a hungry newborn, no sounds. Just tears meandering down her questioning face and an occasional head shake. Ron was more agitated-- his hands and arms moved like a lawyer's, trying to make an important point there in his Duster. We clever ones on the second floor sensed the weight of the moment, knew Ron was breaking Lori's heart, knew he had to be punished, shamed, embarrassed. When the time was right, we stood on the bed, faces pressed on the screen, and sang at the top of our top-forty lungs: You're a heart-breaker, dream-maker, love-taker, dontcha mess around me! (Repeat chorus.) Ron looked up, confused and incredulous. He left soon after. I think Lori ended up pregnant within a year or so.
Sometimes my mom's friend Kathy watched us, and we loved that. She lived right up the street, and her daughter was one of my good friends. Kathy was a good cook. I know that now, but one time I wasn't so sure. She had made ham and bean soup, not exactly a kid favorite. My sister and I and Kathy's two daughters, one a small child of 3 or 4, sat around the formica dinette table staring at our meals, waiting for them to turn into Kraft macaroni and cheese or Happy Meals. No luck. We were plucky, though, and made the best of the situation by having a little fun. The part of meal we did like was the grape Kool-Aid, so, optimists that we were, we toasted the meal with our drinks. Time and time again our plastic cups met above the center of the table with a hearty, satisfying crash. Time and time again we sang, "Cheers!" with as much exurberance as you could find anywhere, even an Irish pub. Then the tide turned. Kathy's younger daughter, the baby, dropped her glass. Right into her soup. She didn't have to eat it, yet we still did. The injustice of the whole situation bore down heavily on our mirth. Silently we attempted a few bites of the gruel.
Tripper and I are childless by choice, a puzzling state of affairs to many people. No, we like kids. Really. Yes, I realize you felt the same way and can't imagine life without your kids now. Well, when I'm old with no one to check up on me I'll just stick my head in the oven. Sheesh. Just because we haven't had any contraceptive malfunctions doesn't mean we're communists. We speak pleasantly to other people's children. We buy them presents. We hand out candy on Halloween. What we don't do is chase them around Wal-Mart or spend 15 hours a week at the Little League field or pick up the same toy 75 times a day.
People have ideas for us, some pretty strange ones. My missionary aunt is going to pray me into an unwanted pregnancy. My mother, upon hearing my refrain of We don't want kids, has blurted out, "Well, Chrissy, NO one WANTS kids." Resounding praise for parenthood, indeed.
Make no mistake, though, we like kids. We've told our friends and family many times that we'd be glad to help them out by watching their kids. We haven't really had any takers, though. It seems that in our circles baby-sitters are taboo. Leaving your kids to go anywhere you might have a good time is taboo, too. I happened to mention this while visiting my mother one day. She's a master of matter-of-fact condescension. She didn't even look up from the lettuce she was tearing for salad, but I could see the delight on her face. Aha! She was going to be able to rub my nose in my own childlessness! "That's because you don't have any kids. I wouldn't have left you girls with anyone who didn't have kids."
"You left us with 15 year olds." I, too, can be matter-of-fact. She didn't have a counterpoint. Sometimes silence is melodious. Another good reason for not having kids-- being a parent compromises your ability to recall facts.
Here I come, Baby Niece! Please forgive your parents for allowing someone with no children of her own to watch you sleep for couple of hours. Everyone makes mistakes. They're doing the best they can.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Home Again, Home Again
It took a good half hour for me to find my way out, but I did it. I wanted to take a picture of an old theater near my hotel, but I didn't take enough time to reorient myself so I could get on the road expeditiously. Instead I took the scenic route. I was surprised that there are neighborhoods in Port City where all the businesses' signs are en espanol.
It had been a good ending to class. They were a riot! And many of them are so young! I don't, however, want to become like the rambling post office employee at the hotel bar one afternoon: How the hell did I get to be 50? 50! 50 fucking years have gone by! How?
Speaking of youth, Student Teacher Chick was hired at Big Time Steel City Suburban High School. I haven't had a chance to talk to her yet, but I can't wait to find out all the details.
One the last night in Port City, the Senora and I checked out West Side Story at the community theater. Very well done. We had a blast. It IS good to be home, though.
Now it's time to start thinking about school. I'm not sure I'm ready for that, though, but I'm sure I will be. We recently got our state reading, writing, and math scores back, and they were pretty damn good. The best news of all is that this year I decided I didn't care. I just taught them how I thought they should be taught, what I thought they should be taught about reading and writing. Hey, it worked out well. (7 out of the 10 students who scored advanced in writing were mine.) Unfortunately, though, this year in eighth grade we're doing an, ahem, program, and I'm not looking forward to it.
I'm also not really looking forward to returning all the phone calls that accumulated while I was gone, but I really should go and do that. Then, on to painting.
It had been a good ending to class. They were a riot! And many of them are so young! I don't, however, want to become like the rambling post office employee at the hotel bar one afternoon: How the hell did I get to be 50? 50! 50 fucking years have gone by! How?
Speaking of youth, Student Teacher Chick was hired at Big Time Steel City Suburban High School. I haven't had a chance to talk to her yet, but I can't wait to find out all the details.
One the last night in Port City, the Senora and I checked out West Side Story at the community theater. Very well done. We had a blast. It IS good to be home, though.
Now it's time to start thinking about school. I'm not sure I'm ready for that, though, but I'm sure I will be. We recently got our state reading, writing, and math scores back, and they were pretty damn good. The best news of all is that this year I decided I didn't care. I just taught them how I thought they should be taught, what I thought they should be taught about reading and writing. Hey, it worked out well. (7 out of the 10 students who scored advanced in writing were mine.) Unfortunately, though, this year in eighth grade we're doing an, ahem, program, and I'm not looking forward to it.
I'm also not really looking forward to returning all the phone calls that accumulated while I was gone, but I really should go and do that. Then, on to painting.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Hell is Other People
You can please some of the people some of the time...
The people in my class are great-- interesting and enthusiastic, some younger, some older. Not a bad week at all, really.
The problem, it seems, resides somewhere between theory and practice, corporate and the rest of us. I receive feedback every day, and that's good. What's hard is making everyone happy. Yeah, I know. Newsflash. Uh-huh.
Some feedback:
Lots of great examples today. I get it now!
Too many examples today. It's redundant.
Some of us were hoping to be 90% done by the end of class on Thursday. We're disappointed.
I DID cut some of the examples-- each group did one and shared it rather than do them all. What more can I do?
Here's the deal-- every year we have a corporate meeting where we're told things like: "Teach the course as written. We can't let class out early. This jeopardizes our accreditation." Right, sure. Unfortunately, I'm discovering that some of those same people who are telling us that are doing that very thing.
I, therefore, am at a loss, or at least in a somewhat precarious situation. If I do things the "right" way, no one takes my courses, and I make no money. If I do things the way some do, I risk my position. Drat.
Teachers are notoriously bad students in many ways. We act the exact same way that irritates us when it comes from kids: being late, talking when the instructor is talking (but our conversation is important and relevant....).
Tonight I'm not feeling very pithy. This morning was a little rough, but actually better than was to be expected. I did get to chat with Insurance Girl again at the bar. We weren't alone. There was this English guy, now a citizen, with really bad hair and really bad conversation skills. I told Insurance Girl he looked like my Mod Ken doll from the 70's. She agreed. He was one of those men who really want to talk to the girls at the bar, yet give them no chance to say anything. You might call him a blowhard, you might. One thing he said interested me, though. He used to teach in England years ago but got out because he couldn't make any money. "If you and your husband were both teachers, you could make six digits a year, but outside of education one person can do that." I asked him if he might do a seminar for my local taxpayers.
Tomorrow the Senora is coming up to see me. We're seeing, appropriately enough, West Side Story. Tripper told the Senora that it just wouldn't be his cup of tea. Like he'd ever drink tea. "We've moved on to movies," Tripper said on the phone tonight. "It's like sleeping in a tent. Why do it if you don't have to?"
I'm looking forward to it, and to going home, where we'll soon be having more company. Our former DINK friends are coming for a day or so with their K. Maybe that makes them DIOKs now. It'll be fun. Hopefully I'll finish the dining room painting so my decor is no longer neo-tenement.
The people in my class are great-- interesting and enthusiastic, some younger, some older. Not a bad week at all, really.
The problem, it seems, resides somewhere between theory and practice, corporate and the rest of us. I receive feedback every day, and that's good. What's hard is making everyone happy. Yeah, I know. Newsflash. Uh-huh.
Some feedback:
Lots of great examples today. I get it now!
Too many examples today. It's redundant.
Some of us were hoping to be 90% done by the end of class on Thursday. We're disappointed.
I DID cut some of the examples-- each group did one and shared it rather than do them all. What more can I do?
Here's the deal-- every year we have a corporate meeting where we're told things like: "Teach the course as written. We can't let class out early. This jeopardizes our accreditation." Right, sure. Unfortunately, I'm discovering that some of those same people who are telling us that are doing that very thing.
I, therefore, am at a loss, or at least in a somewhat precarious situation. If I do things the "right" way, no one takes my courses, and I make no money. If I do things the way some do, I risk my position. Drat.
Teachers are notoriously bad students in many ways. We act the exact same way that irritates us when it comes from kids: being late, talking when the instructor is talking (but our conversation is important and relevant....).
Tonight I'm not feeling very pithy. This morning was a little rough, but actually better than was to be expected. I did get to chat with Insurance Girl again at the bar. We weren't alone. There was this English guy, now a citizen, with really bad hair and really bad conversation skills. I told Insurance Girl he looked like my Mod Ken doll from the 70's. She agreed. He was one of those men who really want to talk to the girls at the bar, yet give them no chance to say anything. You might call him a blowhard, you might. One thing he said interested me, though. He used to teach in England years ago but got out because he couldn't make any money. "If you and your husband were both teachers, you could make six digits a year, but outside of education one person can do that." I asked him if he might do a seminar for my local taxpayers.
Tomorrow the Senora is coming up to see me. We're seeing, appropriately enough, West Side Story. Tripper told the Senora that it just wouldn't be his cup of tea. Like he'd ever drink tea. "We've moved on to movies," Tripper said on the phone tonight. "It's like sleeping in a tent. Why do it if you don't have to?"
I'm looking forward to it, and to going home, where we'll soon be having more company. Our former DINK friends are coming for a day or so with their K. Maybe that makes them DIOKs now. It'll be fun. Hopefully I'll finish the dining room painting so my decor is no longer neo-tenement.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
That's How People Get Kilt
I think I could be a city gal. I have the bitchiness. I have the alcohol tolerance.
I should be drunker.
I should be preparing for tomorrow. Maybe I will prepare later.
This morning I left a few minutes earlier than yesterday so I could go to a Port Town (maybe I should say Small Port City) post office. I needed to mail the students' registrations so they could get grades, etc. In Dogpatch I can access a post office at 7 am, and I mistakenly thought I could do so here. So, I finished my bagel and coffee and headed a couple of blocks out of my way to go to the P.O. I discovered that it didn't open until 8 am. Drat. Shit.
After class, I again approached the same P.O., only to find it closed at 4 pm. WTF??!! Okay, I thought, the "lobby" is open, and I can still mail this envelope. I decided to buy some stamps and mail the damn thing. It appeared I could only buy $7.80 worth of stamps. Were they kidding me??? Okay, stamps don't have an expiration date, so I purchased them and mailed the thing. As I walked out again into the 92 degree heat, I passed many people here in Small Port City-- strange looking people, many of whom were revving the small engines of Rascals, you know, those little scooters that disabled people ride. I saw lots of people who didn't resemble the run-of-the-mill derelicts I usually encounter in Dogpatch. But that was okay. Everything was okay.
Everything was okay until I saw a shiny, skinny man in his best polyester, leaning over tucking his pants into his socks. Interesting. I continued. As I passed him, I heard him speak: "That's how people get kilt!! Bein' nebbay!" He must have been speaking to me, but maybe he wasn't. I just kept walking, thinking, "You ain't in Dogpatch anymore, baby." I had thought that "nebby" was more of a Steel City phrase, and maybe this specimen hailed from that place. At any rate I kept walking. (That's how I know I could be a city gurl.) I also passed more sinister young teenagers. I think one of them said to another, "There goes your girlfriend," and I knew it wasn't a compliment. Onward.
By this time, after hiking several blocks, I wanted beer and cigarettes, and I forged ahead in search of the latter. Again, it was difficult to find an open store-- Nick's Newspaper, in the bottom floor of a seven or eight story building? Closed. I went a couple of doors down to another place, run by Mexicans.
I don't smoke enough. When the gentleman asked me if I wanted Salem 100's or Kings, I said, "Just 100's" and ended up with big long cigarettes that I'd waste even more than the normal-sized ones. I suck. I didn't even know what kind of smokes I wanted.
When I got back to the hotel bar, I was mad. Just yesterday I'd encountered numerous of the same post office employees at lunch AND dinner at the hotel restaurant/bar, and I was pissed that half of the working world couldn't mail a goddamn letter,but they were hanging out. How the hell were they able to take lunch at a restaurant and get back to work? Did they even go back to work?
So I greeted Political Bartender Boy from Nearby Glasstown, USA, and chatted with him until I met my new friend Cindy from Steeltown (in the area for an insurance seminar). I calmed down talking to them, glugging Port City Pilsner, until she had to go study. (There's a test on Thursday.) She and I had a lot in common-- hailing from the same area, being near the same age, not caring if we had kids or not.
Now I sit here. I really should prepare for tomorrow, like Insurance Girl-- she has a test this week. I should be drunker-- a few bites of crab-cake appetizer and 5 beers. Maybe I'll have another later.
That's how people get kilt?
I should be drunker.
I should be preparing for tomorrow. Maybe I will prepare later.
This morning I left a few minutes earlier than yesterday so I could go to a Port Town (maybe I should say Small Port City) post office. I needed to mail the students' registrations so they could get grades, etc. In Dogpatch I can access a post office at 7 am, and I mistakenly thought I could do so here. So, I finished my bagel and coffee and headed a couple of blocks out of my way to go to the P.O. I discovered that it didn't open until 8 am. Drat. Shit.
After class, I again approached the same P.O., only to find it closed at 4 pm. WTF??!! Okay, I thought, the "lobby" is open, and I can still mail this envelope. I decided to buy some stamps and mail the damn thing. It appeared I could only buy $7.80 worth of stamps. Were they kidding me??? Okay, stamps don't have an expiration date, so I purchased them and mailed the thing. As I walked out again into the 92 degree heat, I passed many people here in Small Port City-- strange looking people, many of whom were revving the small engines of Rascals, you know, those little scooters that disabled people ride. I saw lots of people who didn't resemble the run-of-the-mill derelicts I usually encounter in Dogpatch. But that was okay. Everything was okay.
Everything was okay until I saw a shiny, skinny man in his best polyester, leaning over tucking his pants into his socks. Interesting. I continued. As I passed him, I heard him speak: "That's how people get kilt!! Bein' nebbay!" He must have been speaking to me, but maybe he wasn't. I just kept walking, thinking, "You ain't in Dogpatch anymore, baby." I had thought that "nebby" was more of a Steel City phrase, and maybe this specimen hailed from that place. At any rate I kept walking. (That's how I know I could be a city gurl.) I also passed more sinister young teenagers. I think one of them said to another, "There goes your girlfriend," and I knew it wasn't a compliment. Onward.
By this time, after hiking several blocks, I wanted beer and cigarettes, and I forged ahead in search of the latter. Again, it was difficult to find an open store-- Nick's Newspaper, in the bottom floor of a seven or eight story building? Closed. I went a couple of doors down to another place, run by Mexicans.
I don't smoke enough. When the gentleman asked me if I wanted Salem 100's or Kings, I said, "Just 100's" and ended up with big long cigarettes that I'd waste even more than the normal-sized ones. I suck. I didn't even know what kind of smokes I wanted.
When I got back to the hotel bar, I was mad. Just yesterday I'd encountered numerous of the same post office employees at lunch AND dinner at the hotel restaurant/bar, and I was pissed that half of the working world couldn't mail a goddamn letter,but they were hanging out. How the hell were they able to take lunch at a restaurant and get back to work? Did they even go back to work?
So I greeted Political Bartender Boy from Nearby Glasstown, USA, and chatted with him until I met my new friend Cindy from Steeltown (in the area for an insurance seminar). I calmed down talking to them, glugging Port City Pilsner, until she had to go study. (There's a test on Thursday.) She and I had a lot in common-- hailing from the same area, being near the same age, not caring if we had kids or not.
Now I sit here. I really should prepare for tomorrow, like Insurance Girl-- she has a test this week. I should be drunker-- a few bites of crab-cake appetizer and 5 beers. Maybe I'll have another later.
That's how people get kilt?
