One Does Not Love Breathing...

I read this awesome post, by The Bloggess today which let me know that this week is Banned Book Week.  I don't know if that's for sure.  I mean, it's not marked on my calendar or anything, but Jenny doesn't typically steer me wrong.  (Yes, I refer her to as Jenny.  She follows me on Twitter.  Well... me and like 13,000 other people.  It's a minor detail.) 

And it did what all awesome writing does.  It made me think.  And reflect.  And smile.  And feel inspired.

Man, words are totally effing incredible sometimes.

I think I've made it clear that I love books, yes?  I love them here, or there, or anywhere.  So the idea of banning books makes my skin crawl.  Even a book that I hate (although, off-handedly, I can't think of one of those).  Maybe it's because I don't have children to shelter from the cold, cruel, sex-crazed, profanity-laced world.  Or maybe it's because I hope that, even if I did have children, I'd own up to the fact that we all live in a cold, cruel, sex-crazed, profanity-laced world... and then TEACH them how to NAVIGATE it rather than fear it.

The closest I've ever been to a banned book is my elementary library.  And by "elementary library", I mean the school library I used from 1st through 12th grade.  (Don't forget that my first grade classroom and my Senior English classroom were only like 150 yards apart and connected by a couple of breezeways).  But the library was separated into some clearly defined shelving systems.  The end closest to the door and the check-out counter was for the elementary school kids.  Then biographies (which were open to all).  Then, in the middle of the room -- and, yes, I said "room" as in singular -- was the Holy Grail in my eyes.  The Young Adult shelves.  That section was both the metaphorical and literal barrier to grown-up books. 

Well, truthfully, it was the barrier to the reference section, but that just doesn't have the same ring, now does it?

But my flirtations with the Young Adult Shelves doesn't begin with me.  It begins with my brother, the local boundary pusher in my family.  My brother is four years older than me.  He is a voracious reader who imparted both the skill and love for reading to me when I was merely 5.  When he was in the early stages of junior high, he decided that he'd had enough of the elementary section, waltzed over to the YA section, picked up a forbidden book, and plopped it down on Mrs. Stavenhagen's desk. 

She promptly told him to put it back.  And what Mrs. Stave said... you did.

I don't know if there was much of a fight put up at the time.  All I know is that later that evening, my mom was presented with some pen and paper and asked to write a note declaring that she was perfectly okay with my brother checking out books from any and all categories.  In truth, I think it was as much about knocking down a seemingly stupid rule (my brother absolutely detests stupidity) as it was about which book he wanted.  Nevertheless, the next day, my brother crossed the threshhold.  More than anything though, he blazed the path for me.  For that, I will be thankful.

By the time I was in the 4th and 5th grade, Mrs. Stave would simply stand aside and watch me go, knowing full well that my brother's note from so long before served as my note as well.  My goal was to read every book in that library, no matter which shelf it lived upon.  I fell short, of course, but the lessons I learned within those bindings live with me still today.  No other reading has affected me like the reading I did as a pre-teen/teen.

The first book that ever grabbed hold of me was "To Kill a Mockingbird".  I have probably read it 20 times, and there are still moments that I have to close its cover and breathe a deep breath or throw it down in anger or hold it to my heart and weep.  It made my cheeks burn with shame and put the microscope on humanity.  Then it held my eye to the lens.  But it wasn't just the acknowledgment of injustice and prejudice, it taught me about courage.

"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand.  It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.  You rarely win, but sometimes you do."

It taught me about  love.  It taught me that friendship knows no boundary of age or class or color.  It taught me that growing up is neither graceful or delicate.   And most certainly, it was not easy.

"Neighbors bring food with death and flowers with sickness and little things in between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a pair of good-luck pennies, and our lives. But neighbors give in return. We never put back into the tree what we took out of it: we had given him nothing, and it made me sad."


There it is.  The lump.  In my throat.  Oh, God.  Talk amongst yourselves.


I had probably read this book 5 times before I ever heard that someone wanted to ban it.  And, honestly, I am still unsure why.  Each time I re-read it, that thought, the thought of it perched on the top of a madman's bonfire, makes my stomach ache.

But there were many books that changed me, some controversial, some not.  Yet their importance in shaping who I am, how I view the world, and what I believe is true and necessary has never faded.  The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank. (I still cannot re-read this book. I wept for days. I weep still to think of it. This reason alone, I think, is why I will never teach the 8th grade.) Fahrenheit 451... Brave New World... 1984... Animal Farm... Catcher in the Rye... Where the Red Fern Grows... Bridge to Terabithia... The Outsiders... The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn... Charlotte's Web... Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret... The Red Badge of Courage...  The Pigman... Carrie... Flowers in the Attic... Lord of the Flies...

The list could go on forever, and I find myself -- even at the elderly age of 35 -- still adding to this list of important Young Adult literature.  The Hunger Games Trilogy... Speak... The Harry Potter Series... The Book Thief (oh, how I cheered her on.)... Only now, it's the for the Young Adults in my classroom.  And there's no age limit upon my little bookshelf.

So in honor of Banned Book Week, I leave you with an invitation to tell me about your own life-changing books -- controversial or otherwise, YA or otherwise -- for I'm always on the look-out for a good book... and with one last quote from the smartest narrator I've ever known, Scout Finch.

"Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing." -- To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.

Tim Gunn, Hawaiian Jams, and Amateur Psychology

I am hopelessly addicted to Project Runway.  Hopelessly.

It's quite laughable, really, as my outfit of choice is usually jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops, and a ponytail.  Even Tim Gunn couldn't "make it work".  Still, I enjoy the hell out of it.  And Tim Gunn?  I want him to be my gay Yoda.  I like the bitchiness of Michael Kors, and I love the black t-shirt uniform.  But he cannot measure up to a man in a suit with a red and white gingham button-down shirt.  Ever.

The amateur psychologist in me says that my obsession might all stem from my first-ever failing grade in Home Economics.  Mrs. B, my teacher and StuCo advisor, pushed me to my very limits. Oh, bless her heart.  I do not understand how she dealt with my 15 year-old drama.  I started strong with a blue walrus pillow (which is still in my childhood bedroom, thank you), but the slow coast to Flunksville kicked off with an apron.  Oh, that mother-effin' apron.  Black and white toille with a black edging.  Damn you, edging.  Damn you.  By the time we moved on to a very happenin' set of jams, I was on red-alert nervous breakdown watch.  Seams?  Patterns?  That little wheelie, marking thing?  I have to cut the fabric so that the crazy yellow flowers match up?  POCKETS??   It kind of gives me the cold sweats to think about, and it's been 20 years.  I think I cried myself to sleep for a straight week.

In true fashion, however, my mom pulled out her sewing machine (What?  You have a sewing machine?), gave me a 10 minute tutorial, and TA-DAH, a slightly janky pair of Hawaiian print jams appeared.  No pockets, but I was just happy to survive.

(This is totally my mom, by the way.  Full of ninja-like skills that she has absolutely no interest in pursuing further.  *sigh*)

The fact that I was only slightly more adept at the cooking semester might be the birth place of my addiction to "Top Chef".  And the fact that I've never been within a hundred miles of any border might explain my dreams of competing on the "Amazing Race".  It doesn't seem like a good thing that all of my t.v. favorites just reality versions of all my past-life failures. 

Except "Hoarders".  Which is somehow a creepy flash forward fall-apart.  *shudder*

I have yet to diagnose my inordinate fear of Nina Garcia, however.  Maybe next week's episode.

Spread the Word, Please...

It's been like 3 weeks since I last sat down to write.  It's because my job kicks ass. 

Literally, it's kicking my ass.

The first part of this post is probably going to be sort of whiny and "Holy geez, I'm beyond tired", so if you want to scan ahead to the other way that my job kicks ass, feel free.  I'll even bold and subtitle the part that is at least slightly funny.  Hopefully, funny.  Well... it's funny to me.

For real.  The new schedule (from 11 years on block scheduling -- 4 classes for 80 minutes each + a 45 minute end o' day class -- to 6 classes at 51 minutes each) is killing me.  The pace is unreal.  I feel like I never sit down from 7:30 AM until my conference period at 3:00.  And even then, I don't just sit down, I melt into my chair and proceed to rest my head on my desk for 10 solid minutes.  How did all of my former teachers do this for basically their entire careers?  They were OLD when they were my teachers.

Oh, wait.  Now I'm OLD.  Ahhh... THIS is how you get to be OLD.  No wonder.  I apologize to all my teachers. 

Don't get me wrong.  I love seeing my kids each day now.  I feel like I know them so much better, and they know and remember me (and my expectations) day-to-day.  But daaannnngggg.... there's a lot to do in that day.  Then, between 7th grade volleyball and lesson planning and grading, I have been working 60+ hours each week.  If I was the super-politico type, I'd insert some rhetoric about my paycheck here.  Luckily for you, I'm not.

END OF SOB STORY

But in case you think I've fallen out of love with my job, you'd be wrong.  I've known my students for just under a month, but they've already doled out 2 months worth of whacked-out good times.  My theory is: if you teach 12 and 13 year old kids and they don't make you bite the inside of your mouth to keep from laughing on a daily basis... you're not doin' it right.  Mind you, we get LOTS done in my class.  It's just that stuff isn't always very funny.

Case in point:

1.  I have a student.  His name is very different.  When I called roll and asked that students tell me what they'd like to be called (you know... like "Bob" instead of "Robert"), he replied with "Boosie".  Now, I'm no old, unhip white lady like some might suspect.  I do happen to know who Lil Boosie is.  And normally, I'd refuse this request, but I was feelin' sassy this particular day.  I agreed.  It's "Boosie" as long as you're doing your work and staying out of trouble.  He knows when he hears his real name, the show's over.  I do, however, call him "Bootsy" just to eff with him though and let him do the "crazy ol', unhip white lady slow head shake" at me.  It also makes my co-worker laugh because it reminds him of Bootsy Collins and the Parliament Funkadelic.

2.  Today, while learning about appositive phrases, another of my students wanted to write about another rapper, Wiz Khalifa (and I fully admit I did not know this one).  When I asked him to give me some extra info to rename/describe him, the student hesitated.  So, I clarified by saying, "Give me a school-appropriate noun to rename/describe him".  To which he replied, "Wiz Khalifa, a P-O-T-head, is my favorite rapper".  And, yes, he did spell out the P-O-T in "pot head".

Cut to me, biting the inside of my cheek and reminding him that just spelling something out does not, in fact, make it school appropriate. But way to go with the appropriate punctuation of your appositive phrase.  Both of those stories are from the same class.  Tomorrow we're going to talk about how to pick role models.


3.  One of my students announced that her parent is a manager for my all-time favorite store, Target.  I replied with a bewildered face.  When she asked if I was okay, I replied, "This is a miracle.  Seriously.  It's like seeing Jesus's image in my morning waffle."  Her reply?  "You're weird, Naz.  Funny.  But Weird."

4.  In my Pre-AP class, we were working on a lesson about inferencing and developing a theme.  We used some of Norman Rockwell's paintings which are abundant in detail that help tell a story.  In one painting, one of my student's announced that the woman looked "bougie".  To which, 70% of my class went, "uh... what?" while the other 30% nodded their heads furiously.  It made me deliriously happy to hear her describe, accurately I might add, all the text evidence that supported her claim that this woman was uppity.  It also gave me the chance to explain how "bougie" is derived from "bourgeois" and what that means.  It didn't matter.  By the end of class, I overheard some skinny white kid throwing down that "So-and-So has a real bougie attitude".  

5.  Actual conversation:
Student:  Can I draw a picture of a woman giving birth for the vocab word "neonatal"?
Me:  *seven solid seconds of cold staring*
Student:  Because I wasn't sure if it would be school appropriate.
Me:  *seven more seconds of deadpan staring*
Student:  How about I just draw the baby... you know... afterward?
Me:  *seven more seconds of staring.  And a deep sigh.*
Student:  Or just a picture of, like, the cutest baby ever.  No mom.  Anywhere.
Me:  Good idea.

6.  When teaching kids to serve a volleyball, it's important for them to step with their left foot (as most serve with their right hand and this is BASIC SCIENCE, and EVEN I understand BASIC SCIENCE) in order to avoid shoulder strain as well as avoiding looking cray-cray.  I say the phrase, "Step with your left foot" approximately 53 times per practice.  So, today, while the kids worked on serving, things went like so:
Kid:  *serve out of bounds*
Me:  Step with your left foot.
Kid:  *serves into the net*
Me:  Step with your left foot.
Kid:  *serves into the back of someone else's head* and then complains, "My arm hurts.  Can I stop?"
Me:  For the love of all that is good and holy in this world, when will you believe me when I say that you should STEP. WITH. YOUR. LEFT. FOOT?  For real.  Not to brag or anything, but I'm like a genius at this stuff.  After 12 years, I'm practically the Mother Teresa of B-team volleyball serving.  I'm pretty sure there's, someday, going to be a scientific study about how much more awesome you will become when you STEP WITH YOUR LEFT FOOT.
Kid:  *steps with the left foot and serves it over the net, in-bounds, center of the court.*
Me:  *deep sigh*
Kid:  I think you really might be a genius.
Me:  Spread the word, please.

How You Can Save a Life. And My Sanity.

Last night, on my way home from a super-long day at work, I saw a little kitty cat racing across a busy street.  I won't go into details, but to put it lightly, Little Kitty met a terrible fate, courtesy of two cars that didn't even tap the brakes.  Luckily for me, through the waterfall of tears pouring down my face, I saw a car pull over to scoop said kitty up.  Thank goodness there are still kind and non-hysterically crying people in the world.

In my heart, they went straight to the Animal Emergency Room.  There was some emergency life-saving surgery performed by a brilliant cat surgeon who happened to stop in to leave some fliers for his new pro-bono stray animal surgery foundation.  At worst, said kitty might have to use one of those carts that carry around their hind legs. 

In my head, I know that most of that is not true.  Okay.  Probably none of that is true.  *sigh*

And then I panicked and thought the worst.  I am a kitty owner.  What if that had been my cat?  What would I do?

Not that it was any of my kitties.  Nope.  My kitty cats are fat and lazy and would shit their pants if they were ever even on the front porch (or if cats wore pants).  They hiss a mean game at each other, but in truth, they simply are not cut out for the street life.

See what I'm sayin'?  There's no napping on the street, bitches!

No.  I was worried about my PK.  My Porch Kitty.  I call him Jake.  I don't know why.  It just fits.

"I'm Jake, and I'm not good at sitting still for pictures!"



Several months ago, I was adopted by this kitty and his brother.  Word from one neighbor was that they belonged to someone down the street who just never fed them or let them in the house.  Jackholes.  I took pity (I'm genetically pre-disposed to the need to take in all strays) and began feeding them.   Jake's little brother, Boo, was miraculously adopted (in my heart -- adopted) by a kind stranger who has a catnip farm.  Thus, Jake has become a bachelor... living it up in the shed or the back porch or even the lid of my recycling bin.  He even found a way to survive the long weeks this summer when I was at camp.

Each morning, when I open the screen door, he races around the corner to the front porch.  In the evenings, when my car pulls into the driveway, he is at the door to greet me.



"I love you.  And your Meow Mix."

It might have a little something to do with the Meow Mix I serve up each day, but I prefer to think our friendship runs much deeper. 

 

Food = easy to photograph



You'll also notice that Jake is super skinny.  Now, I don't have much knowledge of "normal-sized" cats, but he seems a bit on the supermodel-lean scale.  I also worry -- even more intensely after last night's episode -- that I'll come home one day to find a roadside tragedy.  

I cannot take another cat into my home.  A) My cats don't even like each other, let alone other animals and 2) I have FURniture.  Seriously.  I cannot wear black pants ever again.

I also cannot continue to just leave Jake on the front porch.  I mean, I already gave him a name.  I buy him his own food.  I'm attached, and I've been down this road before.  I once had a Porch Kitty named Buster.  He showed up one day, sweet as can be.  I fed him and watered him and even nursed him back from a snake bite on the foreleg with some old dog antibiotics.  Buster was a total badass.  And then, one day, he was gone.  I cried for weeks.  

I can't do that again.

So here's my offer, America.  If you are interested in a really sweet and loving kitty, I know one.  I cannot testify to whether he claws furniture or will live inside or gets along with other animals.  I don't know if he loves kids or will chase your robot vacuum.  But I can tell you, with all confidence, that he is loyal.  He is tough.  He doesn't bawl and squall.  He can make do with just a trash can lid for a bed, and he eats fast and cheap.  I will corral him in a carrier and bring him wherever you are, and I will even share in the cost of vetting and neutering him.  This is how much I like this crazy cat.  All you have to do is give the go-ahead.  I think that good ol' Jake would make a wonderful addition to any household, and I'll even let you change his name.

But might I suggest "Buster"?

The End of an Era

Yesterday, I said good-bye to an old friend. I'd avoided it for a while, pretending that the end wasn't near. But not wanting to let go, while human, is futile. All good things must come to an end.

The Boy Under the Stairs is no more.

That's right. I finally saw the last Harry Potter movie yesterday. I had hoped to wait long enough to find myself in an empty theater, sitting alone so that I could grieve in peace. Alas, 12:55 PM, 8 weeks after release, is still not enough time as I found myself weeping quietly with at least 80 other people.

I'm no idiot. I knew what I was getting myself into. I've read the entire series at least 3 times. I harbored no illusions that things would change.  It didn't matter.  From the opening scenes at Dobby's little hand-dug grave, I was a puddle.  Damn elves.  Sheesh.

I am usually the harshest critic of books becoming movies... as my friend Kit said (after seeing Charlotte's Web in the theater), "It can just never be as clear on a screen as it was, listening to your 3rd grade teacher read it aloud while you laid your head upon your school desk".  I have to admit, however, that while I found the first couple of movies to be somewhat simplistic and surface valued, as the actors matured, directors changed, and the darkness of the storyline intensified, the movies became sensational with the two covering Book 7 being, by far, my favorite.  My interest in the films' progressions mirrored my own fascination with the books and awe at Rowling's skill at weaving together story lines that grew up along with her readers.  Unlike some of the latest young adult literary crazes (that started strong and fell apart in the end), the reader can't feel the deadline on the author's shoulders or the cash cow nipping at her heels.

And that's how these last movies felt.  They just felt... right.  Appropriate.  Timely, even.  But "timely" and "appropriate" are poor excuses for Kleenexes in a darkened theater.

And in response to another blockbuster, young-adult, the end is nigh movie premiere coming to a theater near you soon, I give you one of my new favorite Stephen King quotes.

"Harry Potter is about confronting fears, finding inner strength and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend."



— Stephen King

First Day of School: 2011 Edition

Tomorrow is the first day of school.  Again.

You'd think that after 30 of these the newness of it all would wear off.  It hasn't.  And I fully realize what a huge nerd that makes me.  So be it.  I cannot remember a time when I wasn't a huge nerd; it just took next to forever to accept that fact.

"Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms."  Name that movie. 

I wish someone would send me a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils.  I wish I lived in a state that had an actual, visible "fall" season. *sigh*

But the first day is exciting.  As a child, it meant donning my new shoes or grabbing my fancy lunch box (which I would carry once and then eat in the cafeteria for the other 186 days), but as a teacher, it's something different.  It's the beginning of an adventure.  It makes me nostalgic about the past and hopeful for the future.  Anxious but hopeful.

"Remember, Red. Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."

Bonus points for naming that movie (although quoting a prison movie in regard to school is kind of funny).

• I hope my alarm(s) go off in the morning.  My alarm(s) cause me great anxiety.  Specifically my knack for turning off my alarm, hence why I have alarm(s) -- plural.
• I hope I remember my lunch in my brand new lunch box as I rush out the door.  And, yes, I bought myself a brand new lunch box.  It's a hard habit to break.
• I hope I use my lunch box for all (or at least most) of the next 187 school days.  Sucker cost me $9.00. 
• I hope I remember to take roll and take it the right way.  The first days are like no other when it comes to taking roll, and someone is bound to screw it up.  Just please, Lord, don't let it be me.
• I hope I can learn all 120 names in a week or less. 
• I hope they learn mine in a week or less.
• I hope that every kid will understand how to work his locker on the first day/week/month.  This will most likely not happen, so I hope I can keep my deep sighs to a minimum when they ask for help for the 900th time.
• I hope that at least one kid laughs at my corny jokes.
• I hope that I make at least one kid feel more at ease by the time he leaves my room tomorrow.
• I hope that I help them learn to plan.
• I hope that I help them learn to complete.
• I hope that I help them learn to succeed.
• I hope to keep my voice calm and my face blank when I am frustrated with a student.
• I hope that I have the courage to speak up when I am frustrated with a co-worker.
• I hope that I lead by example. 
• I hope that I lend a positive atmosphere throughout my school.
• I hope that my lesson plans are both effective as well as turned in on time.
• I hope to have my good days outnumber the tough days and for the great days to outnumber the good.
• I hope I bought enough paper and supplies to last the year.  I didn't.  I never do, no matter how much I buy.
• I hope I get kids who care and that I can make them care even more.
• I hope that when I get kids who don't care I can make them care even just a little.
• I hope that when I feel like giving up, that I cannot go any further, there's someone to talk me off the ledge.
• I hope for calmer hallways and cooler weather.
• I hope I can see the top of my desk again sometime before Christmas. 
• I hope that I am up for all of the challenges that face me this year. 
• I hope I make the same kind of difference that my own teachers made for me.
• I hope.

On Emotional Melting Points

Well today was the day. Mark your calendars. Today was my first fall-apart of the school year.

And I do so love me a semi-public fall apart.

Please re-read the above line with an appropriate amount of sarcasm.

All of a sudden, there I was, grumbling to a co-worker about a schedule choice I didn't agree with and my inability to complete a task, and BOOM. My anger and frustration about a hundred things I could not control came spilling out into streams of frustrated tears. And then one of my supervisors walked in.

Because it's not enough to lose my shit in semi-public. I had to lose my shit in semi-public, in a big teary mess with the boss as a bystander. And I say "semi-public" because although we were in my classroom, the door was still open, inviting people (such as my supervisor) to come in/gawk at the door.

*sigh*

In my head, I know that release of emotion is a positive thing; it's healthier than keeping everything bottled up until an eruption point. But, deep down, it still feels so... so... shameful. So out of control.

It's interesting since just yesterday, my best friend called me, exhausted and nearingthe edge of her controlled grip on sanity, to ask for help. Help. Something big? Hide a body? Launder some money? Scoop poop from the yard? Install a new carburetor? Ummm.... No, no, no, and hell-to-the-no. She needed me to play with her 2 and a half year old son, so she could get some much-needed sleep (since she also has a 12 week-old baby girl).

Yep. That's it. Babysitting a child that I absolutely adore. And then she resisted going to bed, instead putting laundry in and folding clothes until I reminded her that,"Hey. You should be NAPPING". And she looked at me and asked me, "Why is this so hard? To ask for help?".

I answered her as simply as I knew how. "Because we were raised to just 'handle it'. And all of our lives, we did."

Her reply? "But we didn't handle it well."

And this is why asking for help and finding new ways to de-stress are top priorities for me this year.