JUST WRITE: Alone and observing

PERIOD THREE 4.20.12
Sitting. Yet again procrastinating. At my foot, projects beckoning me to grade them. Inside should be poetic genius. I’m in search of greatness with every verse I read. Isn’t that a teacher’s dream – to inspire creativity in her charges? But alas, I’ve moved this box of poetic possibility from the left to the right. It’s been my foot rest, as it is now.

The smell of now-soggy hash brown circles churns my weakened stomach. But that best part of waking up combats the fowl grease with coffee goodness in sweetly wafting oscillations of fairly still air. I wonder how that is? I wonder how I’m surviving on decaf. Sweet caffeine, I miss you.

Perhaps it is odd that there, just a little beyond the fritters and café, is a “I Can’t Believe…” container. Recycle plastic, save the earth. My banana peeks out and my can of ravioli hides next to a still-wrapped spork (which will no doubt melt in the gooey goodness that will be my piping hot lunch).

The desks of this classroom are empty. They’ve been shifted from their precise rows haphazardly. Over there, a discarded assignment waits in vain for his pupil to reclaim it (and take responsibility for his work). It won’t happen and shortly, I’ll salvage the copy for someone else. Brown dictionary is under one desk, its binding still creaking forlornly when the rare user opens it.

The chortle of student laughter seeps through the cinder. But I am alone. Keys click and occasionally, the printer roars to life , takes a deep breath and a stretch, and then falls silently asleep again. I’m not ready for it yet.

I really ought to do something productive. Read The Book of Jonas, perhaps. A review was, after all, due on Tuesday… or Monday… but wait, that’s slipped past me. And the book is at my beside – waiting, probably, for some attention.

The little window of my orange door shows only more cinder. No clue what the weather has become as the hours tick further from the early morning dew time when I arrived. Occasionally, a passing shadow: a person unaware of me, destination determined, pace set.

I think, now, I might be lonely. Strange, this building surges with life, with the future counting down the days to their assumed freedom post cap toss. But I am well past that point. I’m alone.

This is an installment of Just Write, an exercise in free writing your ordinary and extraordinary moments. It's my first.{See the details here.}

Fire Taco!

I've no idea what exactly this expression means, but Ya insisted it was the thing to say as the boys posed and pounced on and off this sewer drain. Perhaps I consumed one too many tacos while pregnant?

While at our last playdate, I shot a quick couple of family photos for Jack's family to have (holidays are looming and cards are needed for everyone). We'll see if Mom picks one of these horizontal portraits. My favorite, though, is a vertical shot that is totally unposed and an absolutely precious moment captured.

Let me remember

When he died, they swarmed the stores.
Memorials to him cluttered streets.
Cancer is a wicked beast, they said.
Advocates for research stood up.
On soap boxes, they begged for money,
lamented the slow progress of research.
When he died, twitter trended.
Rest in peace, visionary. We’ve lost genius, they said.
When she lived, we loved her.
Spitfire.
Tell it like it is,
but also how it should be.
One tough cookie, with strength to move mountains.
She did it every day in her classrooms.
When she lived, she fought hard.
There was no battle she’d give up fight on.
She determined her own path,
and paved many for others who faltered.
Hers, a spirit of determination.
Those who know her closely knew
The beast wasn’t going to dowse her fire.
A single finger salute she gave it.
Cancer, you may be my death, but I live.
She demanded for no monuments,
No services on her behalf.
Shed your tears, but not for me, she said.
And when she took her last,
I see her smiling, ever the winner.
Waste no time in memoriam, nope,
Pick up those paving tools.
Fight for those who won’t defend
(that beast won’t comprehend).
Our own visionary in this place,
who saw genius where others saw disgrace,
will be remembered long past the other guy’s trend.
Her importance continues to change lives beyond her end.

{for JJ}

Time... luxury... loss

Right now, as I sit watching the clock during my stint as a test proctor, there's a song playing on repeat in my head. I've forgotten the real lyrics and I hear it wrong, but the sentiment is there (don't ever drop my name for Don't Forget the Lyrics, okay?).

For the sake of accuracy (and to reduce embarrassment for my ad lib), I looked up the lyrics. Would you believe that even typing in my mistaken line, it produced the correct Steve Miller Fly Like An Eagle lyrics?

"Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future"

I think the funk I'm in has become ubiquitous - spreading through the internet like a dastardly virus with no cure and no way of containing it. Blame it on the weather - late sunrises, rain storms, gloom. Heck, blame it on the a - ah- ah- alcohol (or lack of it, in my case).

Did I mention my thoughts are surging like a BING search commercial that I can't escape.? I think 'funk,' and next I'm thinking Michael Jackson's Thriller (insert creepy narrator voice).

Anyway, now that I seem totally bonkers, I should find a point and stick to it. Or stick myself with it? Hmmm.
I'm thinking that time is a luxury that I'd really like to possess. I miss the lazy, carefree days of summer. We're a month into my work year, and I'm exhausted. And yes, I know that as a teacher I'm blessed to have that "extended vacation" with my kids.

I also know, firsthand, that there's a lot of sacrifice during the year that my children make - when I'm stressed with the operation of my classroom, with the feelings of failure I often am plagued with, or with the burden of being an inadvertant counselor (and praying that I do the "and other duties as assigned" role justice). I come home often feeling both terribly guilty and blessed. I'm sometimes so emotionally drained that I feel I fail as a parent, and I'm the only 24-7 parent my kids have.

There's also a monetary sacrifice being made. With my education and abilities, could I be pulling in some six-seven figures? I choose not to explore other options because I enjoy teaching. I also greatly value my precious, uninhibited time on breaks. I can't help but wonder, however, if the coexisting, constant struggle with finances is a good trade. And to do my job well, there are hours outide of my seemingly lovely "contract hours" spent planning, studying, training, reading and editing. With an average of 150 students on my roster, I read a book of essays every time I have a writing assignment - and we're not talking pretty, polished prose or carefully crafted and meticulously researched nonfiction.

My funky mood must be projecting, because I'm at war with my child's daycare. They've a seemingly personal vendetta against me concerning allergies and EpiPens that is both unnecessary and unnerving. When all is done, I suspect I'll be paying significantly more for care where my child is not being forced to acquire prescriptions for an allergy that has never been confirmed by medical officals. If someone had ever mentioned that playing precautionary mom and requesting that a child not be exposed to allergens known to cause issues to a good number of children would mean forever supplying medications I would never use at home for treatment, I'd have avoided this current ridiculous endeavor of Catch-22 type absurdities. I should've known not to Cliff Notes my way through that blasted novel in high school AP English. It might've warned me...

Alas, I find a little peace in venting in poetry and prose. Poor, poor unfortunate readers herein must now understand why I ramble on and on (redundancy purposeful) about topics no one but I truly care to know about.

And, once freed from the confines of the testing classroom, I shall seek further to loose this foul demeanor's hold by returning to those uber cool mushrooms growing in prosperity and abundance along the morning commute route. I hope they're still standing in little defiant bursts on that lawn. My camera and I need a little time to reconnect.

Signed,
Melancholy Mooded, Morose Mother.

i HEART Faces: White

Iheartfaces is challenging photographers to conjure up their images of white in a color capture.

During my photojournalism teaches at the high school I work at, I sometimes take my students outside and use them as models as I lecture [ramble]. I don't look for them to pose - actually preferring that they be oblivious to my camera. My shutter never stops working as I talk about composition, backgrounds, filling the frame, and telling a story. I love the results after a teach like this... always amazing captures of my beautiful and unique teenage charges.

This particular photo is one of my absolute favorites because I took it right around the same time that the student was working on a column about choosing to wear her hijab and dressing herself in clothing that kept her modestly covered all year. She's such a wonderful, intelligent girl, who has dealt with the stares of inconsiderate peers who don't get her "fashion" and don't bother to simply ask her the significance of her dress. I adore her strength. I envy the light she brings into the classroom. I love her naturally-beautiful outward appearance that matches so well with her soul.

{Sweet} Class of 2011

I got an opportunity to shoot some of the graduates in a spontaneous photo shoot on the loading dock of our school about three weeks ago. Thirty minutes later, I had quite a collection of pictures. 

What I wouldn't give for a little more time with them!

Work reflectin'

Graduation is this week, Saturday.  Two days from an hour from now. I send some of my former "kids" off into the real world.  It is exciting, it is sad, it is a joyous occassion.  I hope they'll remember their time in class.  I hope I've shaped them into better people - that something I said, demanded, or did resonates with their future selves.  It matters not if they remember thesis statements, themes, or sonnets (though I think some might be surprised how often they come up in real life).  What matters at this point is that each young adult, when given his autonomy with that diploma in hand, remembers that giving one's best work, best effort, best attitude is the only way to be successful.

Oh! So blessed

I received this poem from a dear friend at work today:

Your natural children are blessed to have your love envelop them daily;

Your knowledge poured into them in bountiful quantities;

Your creativity presented wrapped with expectation is given to them in hope;

And your prayers -- whispered or shouted  -- cried for them for a future that far exceeds your own

The Lord hears --- Oh what a mother!

Your adopted children are blessed to have your enduring devotion to their learning;

Your push even when they don't care;

Your words --soft or hard always needed-drive your children to give you their best;

Your best leads their best -- Oh what a teacher! 

Happy Mother's Day

And I am reminded that God places people in our lives that make each day so much sweeter.  My God, I love this woman! 

Countless times have I run to her room seeking consolation.  Others, I've come to lament about some trivial inconvenience of the job.  I've dragged her to a photo session knowing her strength would alleviate any apprehension I felt.  I've confided in her, laughed with her, shared memories. 
She has become a friend, and that is not a title I dole out loosely.

Work & Vaykay: a morning ramble

Tetra Terabite is feeling a bit full these days... replete with images (most unfiltered because I'm a photo hoarder).  She's going to need a sibling soon, for sure!

I'm so excited for Spring Break next week that I'm feeling a frantic urgency to be DONE right now - with everything - immediately. I realized with a startling jolt - that if I hope to leave immediately after work, I have to pack tonight.  Argghhh. 

Today, Thursday, is doom's day for the research papers to be polished and sent away for outside evaluation.  Students have a great task in writing this four page paper that is a graduation requirement.  They've never been tasked with proving a point with evidence.  Look at the raw results of one student's writing: "communities must convince teens not joining gangs and teens must real eyes  how gangs really are... (sic)".  I'm certain we'll be successful in our finalizing, but...

Oh, and the birds are back in the area.  The feathers are floating in the breeze.  And yesterday, we saw a cardinal in vibrant red splendor singing this catchy kee-haw chant that carried on the wind and lingered in the ears.  Ya and I stopped to search for him because each time he called it was mezmerizing -- and then a little one answered somewhere below with delicate chirps of a young hatchling. 

Welcome Home, Mommy

I'm taking a class right now.  It was free courtesy of a government grant. Aside from the cost benefit, it promises to inspire my efforts with my English Language Learners (or ELL, aka ESL, aka ESOL).  Thus far, the class has proven just how small this world really is.  A classmate taught at the elementary school I attended and remembered my name from a yearbook cover contest I won when I was ten.  The teacher found out a guest to the class (a school board member from the area) graduated from the same New York City high school.  And one student found out she is the replacement teacher of another at a local high school.  WOW.

Oh, the workload is killing me... It's been a long time since I've had homework. Lots of homework. Yadon says nightly,  "You have homework Mommy? It's too late for homework."  And most nights, I want to agree, close the lap top and just relax. 

I do, however, enjoy being a student again.  I appreciate the intellectual conversations.  I enjoy being in the midst of research on academic topics.  I like hearing the "trench stories" of teachers dealing with many of the issues I struggle with daily at work.

Oh, but coming home after class is also so sweet - - especially when the menfolk and my lass decide I can subject them to my camera.

It's rare when they go "on location" for me... MD doesn't much like the free spirits that are our children and he is easily frustrated by the relaxed chaos of any attempt at a family photo.  I think he purposely faked sick the last few times I tried to schedule photos, so I was shocked when he suggested we take some this weekend. [Nevermind that my hair was a mess, my clothes not ideal, and my make up non-existent.]  We were taking photos together!

It took a dozen shots to get one image we really liked. 

(Yadon insisted on holding the remote.) 

The bloopers are a crazy, silly mess - - especially since divalicious kept throwing funny faces and poses.  Occassionally, they were all "behaved."

My family

I'll pretend we were coordinated. There's always next time, right?  Maybe I should just buy solid clothes for the kids and I so we're always prepared?

Six Word Friday: Novel

It was a truly novel idea

Quite my seemingly dead end job

Begin on the career path now

I had dreamed I'd be walking

Dreams, in fact, that should be

no longer imagined, but becoming truth

It was a truly novel idea

Stop right now, and begin anew

Reach beyond my present reach

Be who I hoped to become

Now, not later – no more waiting

tomorrow may not be for me

Isn't it novel, this next action?

Taking the risk to make reality

trudging on a path that isn't

yet, but will be quickly laid

It is a truly novel idea

one that will not wait anymore.

Feelings, nothing more than...

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what

you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel". -Maya Angelou

It's September.  My classroom is emaculate - the only time it'll appear so all year.  I've got the opening day materials photocopied, sorted, and ready.  My rosters are sitting on my desk, a pen ready to play the phonics game with the assorted spellings parents have conjured.  Butterflies are dancing around in my stomach.  I am ready for the beginning.

Slowly, my students trickle in - the Beta versions of their future selves.  Some are dressed to impress, having carefully selected their digs from carefully planned school shopping purchases.  Others have determined that no fanfare is necessary, their reps are set. And a growing number wear neatly repaired, laundered, and pressed clothing that bears a history of its own. 

I begin my schpeal, something like this is my philosophy of mastering practical language arts. 

And the nitty gritty of curriculum, assessments, and administrative initiatives quickly takes over.

Somewhere between that first day and the first holiday break, my students become my kids.  Their lives become part of mine and their issues attach themselves to my thoughts, my psyche.  Some begin to confide in me and I hear of the family matters big and small that consume them.  And within their writings and their side of the desk confiding, we weave a community cord that doesn't seem to unravel when they leave my class at the course's end.

Yes, there are assignments.  H doesn't do any of them.  In fact, I see the top of his spiked-hair head far more often than I see his dimpled face.  B tells her mom she does everything, but it's too hard and she can't figure it out, so nothing is turned in - - we've got a dialogue that spans pages of e-mail and yet, there is nothing indicating we've resolved anyone's frustration.  She, by the way, wrote a lovely sonnet (complete with perfect rhyme and iambic pentameter) about hating English.  E, of whom I've spoken before, is determined to make me work for every bit of effort I expect him to make.  I suspect he likes the one on one, and his shy smile and moments of sparkle in his eyes has confirmed this more than once when he sits through a second class for help. 

Countless other students work consistently to turn in something - even if it's not complete, correct, or on time. These students, when they leave my class at year's end, offer passing hellos in the hall, but they move on.

It's my unsuccessful students that surprise me.  M, for example, is this handsome young man who thought of school as a social experiment. All the way through the year I urged him to help me help him.  Grade print outs, number crunching (you need at least this to get the "D" that gets you out), etc. were continual. But M gave me nothing.  And then we had a conversation at the end of the year.  I told him it was too late to fix his grade.  We talked about his baby sister (because he never wrote anything, I didn't know there was one).  He was going to have to escort little sister to summer school each day.  M lit up as he talked about this darling little girl he's determined to protect from the evils of the world.  And I asked what example he was setting for her.  A frown wrinkled his nose and tensed his mouth.  I think there was an explosion of understanding.  He promised to do better. 

This year, I met baby sister - a sweet little girl with long wavy black hair, a shy smile, and eyes, shaded in thick lashes,  that glow with promise.  M hunted me down to introduce me and baby sister stood shyly behind his back clinging to his hand.  He's keeping that promise, the one he made to be the example for her.

In between the assignments, I see the Beta versions evolving into 2.0 and beyond.  New hairstyles, new accessories, new outlooks.  Moods shift like the weather, and the forecast sometimes looks pretty bleak.  There are hellos on some days, nothing more than grunts on others.  And sometimes, there are confessions, speeches, pronouncements, and lamentations.  And groans; lots and lots of groans (sometimes they come from the students).

I don't remember half of what I say during my lessons every year and it's clear the students don't either.  No doubt it is a jumble of anecdotes about raising my two blessings, my crazy nerdom of my school years, and my sarcastic humor that I can't seem to contain.  Sometimes I dance - badly.  Sometimes there is singing (also bad).  [I once recited the Pharcyde's "Ya Mama" in a lesson on hyperbole...]

I'm grumpy, I'm elated, I'm leery of hugs that some kids insist on giving.  I'm the only me I can be; real, weird, and clear about my expectations for success beyond my class.  When I lecture, it's not about curriculum, it's about life outside the classroom - school as the means to the end, and the end being the success they hope to attain for themselves. So even if M, B, E, H, or any other of the students I have the privilege of working with aren't successful in my class, they know I care. 

I hope they know I've got their best interest in my heart.

* Written for MamaKat's Pretty Much World Famous Writer's Workshop

Sleep...lazy...too hard

The students today are working on cinquain poems (which, I've learned, are also called Diamante poems because of the shape the words form).  Yes, it's poetry time again.

I've always thought that poetry - whose only requirement is that it convey experience or recreate emotion - is a freeing art.  It's one of those genres of literature that accepts flaws and perfection without bias.  Rules can be closely followed or tossed aside with carefree disdain.  There is no real right or wrong - and words give light to the human experience. Ahhh.

To the point with it. Wait.  Was there a point?

Oh, yeah.

Today I modeled several cinquains to my students.  I wrote off the top of my head. They're rough, and certainly not amazing, but how many drafts are?

Children

our future

dreaming, growing, learning

bounding with great potential

gifts

Camera

third eye

capturing, freezing, preserving

remembering what minds forgot

historian

Now the interesting thing about this form of poetry is that each line has guidelines - albeit loosely adhered to by poets, but they exist.

The first line is one word, the subject of the poem.

The second line, two words describing the subject.

The third line, three action words (verbs).

The fourth line is a phrase of four words.

The fifth, and final, line is a synonym or figurative reference to the subject in line one. 

Simple enough? Nope.

Typically five of every 30 students botch line three.  They're in high school and don't know what a verb is...

Another two or three mess up on line four, as they've no clear concept of a phrase.

And then several eliminate the fifth line (probably satisfied with figuring out the whole verb Identification process).

E., who sluggishly wanders into class in a trance, long legs barely contained under his desk and backpack still on his back when he sits down for his 60 minute first period nap, has to be told directly to take notes.  He then scribbles the first subject (line) down, as I required everyone to use "school."  He then spends the next 20 minutes sketching flowers and rockets in the margin of his paper.  When I get a chance to pull him aside for one on one, we slowly finish the poem by me feeding him words to choose from.  Poem two? I tell him to write about something he likes to do.  Topic: SLEEP.  Oh yeah, I said he was a lively one.  Third poem? He's the subject.  For line two he writes one word: lazy. 

At this point I'm thinking, "Give it up, teach. He's just not planning to try."

But I'm stubborn, so I force him through all four poems.  Then I ask about yesterday's assignment, couplets and quatrains.  "Too hard." Ohhh-kaaaay. Fifteen minutes later, we've got several lists of rhyming words. And he's not willing to help me get further.  I make him pick two that rhyme. Play. Day.  And then, he's done. "E., what do you like to play?" Now, I'm waiting for him to say "catch up on my sleep," but he says, instead, "basketball." And nothing else. I push him through two couplets before daring myself to re-explain quatrains and rhyme scheme. I see a coy smile in the corners of his mouth and realize he's getting it. He leaves, then, with my directive to work on the (now late) quatrains and share his difficulties and successes tomorrow.

We shall see...

And later, following my sheltered ESOL English class (after a student is stopped from pulverizing her male classmate as she walks out of class): "But miss! Ugghh! He gets into my nerves !

(oh, I love fractured American idioms).

A pondering from the throne

copyrighted sometime in 2003... while in the midst of my first year teaching journalism.

---

I was visiting a restroom the other day and happened to look at the stall lock. On a small silver hinge was the word "Hiny Hider." It made me chuckle as I thought 'who would think to have a company with the word hiny in it?'


Can you imagine that business proposal?

We're going to sell bathroom stalls and we want a politically correct title for "gluteus-maximus." It has to be catchy, of course, otherwise no one in the market would remember it.

As a journalist, I'm constantly reminded of trademarks and their importance. This cute "Hiny Hider" conjured up memories of my college days. Back then, I knew a kid, a boisterous, chummy guy with a large frame reminiscent of Santa Claus. He was known simply as "Beamus" – his last name. His family was wealthy - - they owned a self-named company that marketed (of all things) toilet seats and commodes."


How fitting" I thought when he proclaimed this; here was a guy who prided himself as being a slinger of muck. You know, journalists were once considered muckrakers, and his news style was that of digging up dirt. Lo and behold, his family made and sold receptacles for human waste.


It got me thinking about these "Hiny Hiders" people. What were they like as children/young adults in college? And what will their children do? If their business is any indication of personality, will they be introverted and soft spoken? Are they old fashioned ladies who hold tea parties promptly at 4 p.m.? I know, they must be covert operatives with some shady business that must be kept out of the public view.


I wonder… I wonder...

Ain't It A Shame?

It's the last day of the quarter for students.  Grades are essentially compiled, and with the exception of a few last minute assignments and make up work, nothing is being accepted.  It's too late to "fix" grades by turning in work should you be the student who suddenly discovers you've done nothing the entire nine weeks [note: I am being facetious here - - every student was provided grade updates all through the quarter]. 

And so, I've set students to their own devices today.  Overheard in their conversations were several teenage gems. Oh, I am getting old.

Here's the one that had me shaking my head:

Student A: "Hey does anyone know when Lil Wayne is gettin' outta jail?"

several "uh..."s as eyes roll up in heads in attempts to recall the artist's social calendar.

Student B: "Yeah.  The 4th [of November]."

Me: "[Student B] And when is your book report due?"

Student B: "Uh..." looks at chalk board where calendar is posted "November 18. No, 19."

Me (appalled, but not shocked at the expected reply): "Really?  You know Lil'Wayne's release but not when your four grade assignment is due?"

Student B: "Sorry, Ms. J..."

***

And because I need -- yes, need -- a photo in every post, here's a shot of my growing books to read pile...

...if I ever finish The Postmistress.

Wisdom Gem of the day

From a very serious student today: "Wait. I deserve some points on that quiz.  I mean, you have to know the material to get all the questions right.  And, I obviously know the material to get them ALL wrong. Right?"

Somedays there just aren't any words of reply to muster...

Vignette: Ya

I've been meaning to type this up for some time, but every time I sit down at the computer, my man interrupts me - - tugging at my arm and insisting I put him in his bedtime pants and help him get to sleep.  And when Ya wants something, he's pretty insistant on getting it in an instant.

"Seatbelt off!" he says in a voice that is somehow both raspy and forceful at the same time.  And as soon as the button is pushed to free him, he bounds out his car seat with seemingly endless energy ready to be released.  "Mommy, keys?" he begs, reaching for the half dozen on the key ring, selecting one at random, and forcing it into the door lock while pushing himself taller by standing up on his tip-toes.

In the house, he proclaims, "Shoes off!" and proceeds to plop down on the floor, rubbing one heel against the edge of a shoe to wrangle it off.  He plucks off his socks, crams them into his shoes in little balls, and discards both with a toss toward the wall. 

Free of it all, he climbs the stairs slowly, one hand tracing along the wall and leaving a trail of tiny prints with remnants of who-knows-what on his fingers.  And then he's off to play - first with blocks, which he stacks and then karate-chops, delighting in how they scatter.  He moves next to trucks and trains, beeping or chugging as he presses the vehicle into the rug and drags it along the rug as he crawls around.  Quickly boring of these novelties, he quickly passes through dozens of other momentary activities, leaving a record of discards aroung the room.  Then, finally, he is tired.

He calls "Need night-nights," and climbs into bed, pulling up the covers as he says, "Come on, Mama."

-- classroom exercise, 10.7.10

In the Closet

Okay, perhaps this isn't the best title for this post.  I mean, you really can't get in my closet – even though it is a walk in and it's designed for two.  Yes, I know where my daughter gets her clothing storing habits from (though my clothes aren't on the floor, they're in little folded piles or on hangers on the door knobs).

But metaphorically speaking – and I can, because I teach what I prefer to call the art of language - I'm in the closet. 

What closet, then, if not the one in my bedroom?  I'm a closet writer.  Yes. I've said it.  I'm a writer.  Churning in my head at this precise moment are at least 10 unwritten story ideas, some started in classroom examples for my students, some just in the "grey matter" waiting anxiously to be penned.

The problem is that I'm stuck in the closet.  Confused yet?  I mean I just finished saying one could not get in my closet and now I'm saying I can't get out. 

My closet is big, it is full of ideas, and it is comfortable.  I sort of like hiding inside, buried under the suites of responsibility, the shoes of deadlines, and the scarves of other people's needs and activities.  Sometimes, though, I play peek-a-boo.  I dabble a bit in class, showing my students it [writing] can be done in the time allocated, at least in draft.  Occasionally, I even share with the outsiders of my "blog-universe."  Most often, though, I share ideas verbally in bursts of conversation embellished just so and lovingly thrust at the unsuspecting person who dared to talk to me. 

(Is it any wonder that my brother sweetly replied to my daughter's 'Mommy, are you gonna let me talk now?' with "Do you know your mother?")

I digress.  I'm a rambler.  A rambling writer.  Ooh, that has a ring to it.  And I think I'm making an October 12, 2010 resolution (because it is neither a new year or a new month or a new season).  I'm going to share more often here.  I mean, why not?  It's not like my blog is required reading.  Browsers can easily jump to another website when my blahblahblah becomes (or continues to be?) tedious. 

Oh my, I'm jumping out of the closet.  I hope it doesn't scare you.

(photo by Chi, 10.01.10)

Rough beginnings at school

DAY ONE: He beat the alarm clock by nearly an hour on Monday, bolting out of bed and into his sister's room (where the TV was watching her sleep).  He came back moments later disgruntled. "La-ah sleep." A slender little boy finger reached out to push on the TV in my room and then he waited for me to spring into action.  Through shielded, foggy eyes, I saw the blurry clock blinking 5:05 a.m.

And so the first week back at work for inservice began.

It was a battle to get my hair done and my clothes straightened while Ya clung to my legs, arms, anything to get my attention on him.  Chi was groggy when I woke her and slowly trudged around her room trying to identify the clean from the worn clothes strewn on her bedroom floor  - - the same clothes that she was to have hung up in their proper places days prior.

Ya happily walked into the new daycare, holding Chi's hand.  I locked the car door and followed the kids inside.  We arrived at the tail end of breakfast and sat Ya down to eat his waffle.  And as the other kids assembled on the circle time mat, Ya was intrigued by the singing of "silly clown" and the dancing crazies each child brought as one by one entered the circle's center.  Chi and I slipped out and as the sun hit my face outside, I began to search for my keys.  Not attached to my belt loop, not on the purse strap.  Another parent saw me searching and called sweetly, "Excuse me?  Is this your car?"  And as I looked up to give her my attention, I saw them - - the keys were still dangling from the door lock, which I had, indeed, engaged.  My face must have shown my state of mind because another parent encouraged me to "breathe, just breathe a minute. It'll be ok."

I got in the car and collected myself.  Not even 10 minutes later, my cell phone rang with an unfamiliar number.  Ya's school.  He'd run out of class looking for us and was now uncontrollably sobbing.  I made a U-turn and went to console him. 

At this point, Chi was not at all confident about leaving her brother.  As we were leaving for the second time, she lingered in the hallway clearly concerned about his well being.

And then I went in to work for a lengthy all-staff meeting and to plan my classroom's set up. 

When I picked Ya up, it was nap time and he was sleeping on his floor mat - his blanket a disheveled heap next to him.  I drove him home and he woke as I was parking.  "Don't want home. No," he said as I unbuckled his seat belt and tried to usher him into the house.  I guess that meant he had a good day...

DAY TWO: He allowed the alarm clock to do its job this time... but Mommy's internal clock roused her at 5:15.  I tried to go back to sleep, but I'd close my eyes and drift off only to open them and see the time had elapsed only minutes.  I got up.  Minutes later, Ya was standing at the top of the stairs hollering, "Mama where are you?"

At daycare they were having cereal.  He ate.  He let us leave (still whimpering, but consoled by a teacher).  I didn't get a call.  He was allowed to hold onto his tractor truck that he'd carried into the class.

I picked him up after nap time and snack.  When I arrived, he was cleaning up his kitchen toys and was content.  He said, "Bye," and rushed toward the door.

DAY THREE: Ya insists on unlocking the car by himself.  Pancakes at daycare.  He crams the pancake pieces in his mouth realizing that Chi and I leave as he finishes his meal.  He spins in his chair so that he can make a quick exit.  We leave, as he hurls himself to the floor in a fit of saddness.  He's still sobbing when I pick him up in the afternoon and all the teacher assistant says is, "All day.  He only stopped for a little while because I told him you'd be coming soon."  She then inquired about the slew of names he'd called all day: Mama, Daddy, Oma, PopPop, Laura, Arthur... all the people he sees often and loves. And my heart broke.

DAY FOUR:  Mommy's not eager to go in to work.  Ya sees his school in front of him as we pile out of the car.  He stops in the middle of the parking lot, "no want schoo'."

"I'm only going to be gone a little while.  I'll be right back Ya."

"No go."  And when I picked him up (because he refused to walk any further), he clung to me tightly.  I led him to his class, attempted to put him down, and he swept his legs up so he couldn't be placed on the floor. "No."

I insisted he go in and eat.  He was served his French toast.  He ate on auto pilot.  He refused to drink his juice and began to whimper.  He kept his eyes trained on Chi and I and said, "Sit down."  He refused to move more than a foot away from us.  We tried to distract him with the cars and kitchen stuff.  He watched Chi play from a distance, but would not pick up a toy.  After 15 minutes of trying to draw his attention to play, I gave up and we left him bawling.  The door to the class closed because he tried to follow us.

I heard him before I arrived to his classroom to pick him up.  His voice, hoarse from crying, carried through the halls. "La-ah."  He wanted his sister. Desperately.  "La-ah. Peez?"

He saw me, heaved a few times to collect himself as tears continued to well in his red, swollen eyes.  "Peez, bye bye?"

DAY FIVE:  The plan was to go in early.  Perhaps if he was still groggy with sleep, he'd simply nod back off and have a better day.  No luck.  He ran to catch us, kicked his legs as his care giver caught him, and wailed as we left him in the community room of his daycare - tears flowing from his eyes.  He was crying still when I came to pick him up.  His classmates were contentedly sitting at the small table eating birthday cake and wearing the birthday cone hats.  Ya's hat was on the floor and he stood reaching for his teacher, while she tried to snap pictures of the celebrating toddlers.  Upon seeing me, he collected himself enough to say (incredibly clearly): "I ready go home now. Peez? I ready go byebye."
I don't know what to do. My baby is miserable.  He misses his sister.  And school officially begins next week.

A poetic example created for my students...

I'm gearing up for the new school year.  I'm told I'll have five classes of 10th graders.  Oh, it's that lovely age of about 16 years - where most students exemplify their sophomore status [wise fool].  They're all used to the school and think they have the teachers pegged.  They know the disciplinary system (and often know how to avert reprocussions).  It's quite an interesting school year for most of them, and as their classroom teacher, it's always a 9-month melodramatic sitcom. 

So here's one of the poems I penned as an example for my new charges:

Her laugh is quite a bit haughty

Most often when she is naughty

The tricks she plays on enemies

Then prays "forgiveness my Lord, please."

And hopes at her end for mercy.

Her games continue until she

Went on attack vindictively

Spreading lies with such careless ease –

Venomous lies. Only truth frees

But her damages dealt harshly

And victims seek justice, you see?

Fought her words victoriously

Labeled her lies, shunned her comp'ny

Gave her not one shred of mercy

Venomous lies - - only truth frees.

The idea is that they'll write their own poetry with focus on one or two techniques for each piece they craft.  It doesn't have to be perfect, but it's a lot easier to show a student's voice than jumping into essay writing is...  We'll fumble through several specific forms of poetry and each student will develop a portfolio of their work.