March 31, 2011
When I went to pick my kids up from art today, there was purple paint everywhere. They were covered in what looked like Barney beside a hand grenade– and the art teacher was, too. Purple on her face, blood red in her cheeks, and thick black smoke coming out of her ears.
And I did not laugh. Not at all.
Where any of them could see it.
So, we marched single file and “I SAID SI-LENT-LEE, boys and girls!” back to our classroom.
And then I went old school on those heathen chi’ren.
Twenty lines by twenty students entitled, “Characteristics of Mature Fifth Graders.”
Spelling and word choice unedited for your reading pleasure! You’re welcome.
1. Mature fifth graders now how to work.
2. Mature fifth graders will keep their hands and feet to others. (he really got the gist of that one!)
3. We show respect when no one’s watching.
4. Mature fifth graders stay by each other side.
5. We never bagout. (what?)
6. Mature fifth graders walk with pride.
7. We always post to be a team.
8. We now not to panek ina kriset. (That’d be “we know not to panic in a crisis.”)
9. We never never never be a big gark (jerk) to won another.
10. We always post to be rollmodlles.
Happy Friday!
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March 30, 2011
I remember when I worked in Oxford (back in da day). I was a blubbering-first-year-teacher-mess the biggest part of the time. The sweet lady at Handy Andy even started giving me free banana pudding by sometime in late September– I mean, things are getting ugly when you’re going to a hole-in-the-wall barbecue joint to pig out at 3:30 in the afternoon—It must’ve been obvious; I NEEDED that banana pudding.
Anywho, while I was teaching there, Ms. Peggy and Ms. Sherry– two teachers I forever want to be like when I grow up–were always talking to me about: THE BOX.
This year I met THE BOX for myself.
I’ve spent the last year of my life writing about the students I teach, reading about what I teach, watching horrendous videos of myself as I teach, and writing– you guessed it– about the way that I teach.
All of this in the hopes of obtaining The National Board of Professional Teaching Standards certification. Big whoop to most of you, I’m sure, but I’ve got my fingers crossed and my thumbs up anyway!
That’s me and the mentor I nearly drove mad through this process. Cute, right?
And here’s the picture of us that I wouldn’t be embarrassed for my daddy to show to his friends.
Now, I just have to wait until November to see if I passed! Y’all cross your fingers, too, okay?
(’Cause if I fail, I’ll have to pay Sweet Husband back for all of those little white donuts and Diet Cokes he bought to keep me happy!)
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January 25, 2011
She is absent again today.
No eager hand raised at table one. No sweet, patient spirit to work with Quinn at table two. No look-at-these-new-earrings-I-got greeting at the door this morning.
Because she isn’t here.
She’s at home with her baby sister. Her brother is there, too. “He just turned four!” she told me one day last week.
Her mother got called into work. She’s doing all she can to feed them– Angel and her six siblings– days at the cleaners, nights at the Quick Stop down on Eighth.
She’s feeding them and Angel’s raising them.
“I just turned twelve!” she told me one day last week.
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January 11, 2011
I just finished reading House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. It’s been on my to-read list forever and I finally scratched out some time to make it happen. It didn’t take much; the book is a collection of short stories, some of which aren’t even a full page long.
The stories were easy to read and passed the time quickly and I was grateful that I got some of the cultural references that other readers undoubtedly miss. Here’s the thing though, the stories were the second best part of the book.
The introduction was killer.
It starts with a picture of a young Cisneros sitting at her desk– a desk where she doesn’t write. Cisneros goes on to describe what life was like as she was writing the vignettes that ended up in House on Mango Street.
And about what she learned in the process of putting them there.
One thing that she includes is learning that “writers need long stretches of solitude”.
I guess I’d never considered it, but I think it must be true.
You should read it. (Especially you, Ames.)
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-House-on-Mango-Street/Sandra-Cisneros/e/9780679734772/?itm=1&USRI=house+on+mango+street
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January 7, 2011
Once I ran away and found one million songs.
Of hurts and joys and memories
of loves who’ve come and gone.
Mountains in the mist
and rivers running free.
Crashing waves and ebbing tides
and trails that climb on endlessly.
Open pastures, fields of green,
shifting sands, and tinkling streams.
All the sights and sounds that play
in the songs I found when I ran away.
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January 4, 2011
To breathe deeply and freely.
To reconnect with friends.
To seek out solitude.
To run and read and write.
To pick up pennies in parking lots.
To use only Papermate Classic Mirado pencils– the ones with the red stripe on the eraser.
To never resolve to give up Diet Coke again.
To sleep in on Saturdays.
To enjoy movies and music and more of my Momma.
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January 2, 2011
I used to be really good with transitions. I just rolled right through them without checking up.
From English to Spanish and back again. From sidewalk runs to trails. From oceans to rivers to creeks out by the barn. From country to country, continent to continent. From one-bedroom apartments to log cabins to tents in the woods. From teacher to camp counselor and from all grown up to Daddy’s little girl.
Thoughtless.
Effortless.
Tearless.
It’s different now.
I butcher conversations. In English. In Spanish. In teacher speak.
I stutter step in feet that seem too heavy for running.
I wear teacher clothes. Even on the weekends.
And I cry sometimes.
It’s obvious that I haven’t transitioned well.
It’s slower than I’m accustomed to and not anything like as graceful as I’d hoped it would be, but it’s coming. The full circle of this transition is coming.
I can just feel it.
And I’ve always had a thing for feeling good things coming.
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October 12, 2010
I think I left the womb a dreamer and I haven’t let up since.
When I was too little to remember my age, I dreamed that I could live off of chocolate milk alone. When I was in kindergarten, I dreamed that Robin and I would be dancers on the Vaudeville stage. At the ripe old age of seven, I dreamed of riding my bicycle with the banana seat as fast as my little brother rode his Street Flyer.
In second grade, I dreamed of writing a poem that had more than eight lines and of moving to Australia. In the fifth grade, I dreamed of living in the mountains with my grandfather a la Heidi. As an awkward adolescent, I dreamed of the day when braces would give way to a Kelly Kapowski grin; I already had her bangs.
As a training-bra-sporting eighth grader, I dreamed of going on a date with a football player and not having to ask my dad for permission first. At sixteen, I dreamed that young love would conquer all and as a where-did-the-time-go senior, I dreamed of living next door to Ada in Pontotoc forever.
My freshman year in college I dreamed of being obscure and by the following fall, I was dreaming of far off places and starting a two-man band with Pat. At twenty-two I dreamed of changing the world one child at a time and by twenty-four I was writing letters to Lex on Post-It notes and dreaming of far off places again.
When I was twenty-seven I dreamed of coming home.
And at the ripe old age of how-old-I-am-today, I realize that I dream myself around this world a thousand times and I can’t get out of this place.
So rather than move or leave, I look back at that List o’ Dreams I made so very long ago and I smile at the memories there. And as I reminisce and read, I feel the teensiest bit of something strangely familiar move in my stomach and I realize that I’m dreaming things all over again.
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August 5, 2010
Running has always been a getaway of sorts for me, my exercise of choice. A routine that requires nothing more than a decent pair of tennis shoes and a ponytail holder.
Cheaper than a gym membership. More skin covered than swimming laps. Less annoying than “Five more, ladies, feel it burn!”.
I run for all of those reasons and so I can eat whatever I want. Seems like a fair trade off because, let’s be real here, I like to eat.
So, there’s this 14.2 mile race I’ve been wanting to run for years where the motto is “Hurdle the weak. Trample the dead” and every finisher gets this rad tie-dyed t-shirt with a skull and crossbones on it at the end. Call it a throw back to my wanna-be-punk-rocker stage if you want or motivation to up the running ante, but I suckered a friend into committing to it with me and paid the entry fee. (Gotta have that tie-dyed t-shirt!)
I bumped my weekly mileage a touch and tried to put forth more than my usual efforts so as not to embarrass myself come race day and to be able to eat more peanut butter. All was going well until… (enter creepy drum rolly thing here)
My knee started hurting. No biggie. Couple of days off. Ice. Advil.
Like I said, no biggie. All part of the running.
9 miles on Saturday.
Knee hurts a lot. Couple of days off, ice, Advil, still hurts– probably more than it should.
Better check it out.
So, The Hubs calls in a favor and this morning at 10:00 a.m. I’m in a physical therapist’s office. He asks the general questions and pokes around on my leg a little. Stretch here. Stretch there. Does this hurt? How about that?
Yadda yadda, you get the picture.
I handled it all pretty well I thought, until he asked me to sit up and said, “So, Emily, how old are you?”
“Um, 29.”
“And you doubled your mileage to train for this race? Hmmm…” (head shaking, finger wagging, frown from the uber fit prepubescent marathoner in front of me.)
“You know, you’re not 20 anymore. It’s probably time to slow it down a little, Ma’am.”
Well, thank you. Thank you very much.
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August 3, 2010
I feel it. That river of sweat rolling down my spine, veering just to the left before it cascades over my meaty waist line. Nice.
That guy with the weird voice– the one on the radio– says it’s 102 degrees outside today and I believe him.
There’s another river in the making. This one’s starting from my forehead, end of my nose, down my chin, curve, curve, curving, tumbling. Yep. Right between ‘em. Gross.
This is ridiculous.
There’s an air conditioned room not five feet from me. There’s a Diet Coke in the refrigerator and it’s probably got little chunks of ice on the top.
For cryin’ out loud, what am I thinking?! Why can’t I stop this?
You know, too, don’t you?
We all know it.
If you can’t lose it, tan it.
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