Finding My Way: Day 3

Remember when I said that Vacation Day: Numero Uno was D-Day (as in "Deana, get off your ass and clean up this house" Day)?

Well... it took a little bit to get going, but I went to the store, stocked up on grub for my solo Thanksgiving, weatherproofed my back porch for the impending cold front, started the mountain of laundry, and did some loooonnnnggg overdue dishes. It was all pretty gross and tiresome, but just the act of moving helped a bit.

I even washed the old cat bed for my foster kitties, and I cut a little hole in the weatherproofing so they could still use the back porch to escape the wind. I felt a little stupid doing it, but everybody needs somebody every once in a while. Even an old scraggly, stray cat.

P.S. One foster kitty tends to sleep on the back porch each night. His brother, who I (perhaps) call Boo Radley, tends to roam. But on blustery cold Thanksgiving morning, I found them curled up together in one tiny cat bed. It was pretty sweet until Boo Radley stormed the inner sanctum and sent Alpha Kitty into a hissing, spitting stroke. Biggest fail of the day -- not having my video camera out.

What Was God Thinking?

I went to the freezer today. There was no bottle of vodka in there. This is either tough news to take or just another example of God saying, "Ummm... no. Not today."

I guess it depends on who you ask.

Why Hoarders is Going to Put a GPS on Me and Just Wait Patiently

You know that show, "Hoarders"? The one where some crackpot with 1800 baby outfits (but no baby), closets full of leftover pizza boxes, and an R.V. museum of vintage beer cans and fishing lures allows a film crew and a psychiatrist (and a nation full of judgment) into their home to document their out-of-control lives? The one where they lead us into the eye of Hurricane Nutso and allow us to gawk openly and unashamedly?

Well, I am scared of that. damn. show. Mortified. Terrified. Stupefied. Because, in my head, I keep wondering, "Could that be me?". You think I'm kidding, but every day, I am watching for signs. See, I come from a long line of hoarders. Seriously, it's a sickness. My dad has 3 storage sheds, chock full of "treasures", and when he and my mom bought the house next door, they simply left all their stuff and bought more stuff and moved in. And, now, my childhood home is literally overflowing with tangible memories of my past. Stuffed animals. Trophies. Couches. Broken television sets from 1982. Some of my friends think it's hysterical and possibly even kind of quaint. Some of them would give their left nut to go rummage through all of that. Me? It just makes me have nervous tummy. I have just a touch of the disease, but combined with my laziness and unwillingness to peel myself from the couch lately, things are beginning to spin out of control.

Between the stacks of junk mail, books, and empty Diet Coke cans, my sanity mills around, thinking, "You know, you should really clean this shit up." But then I realize that it takes cleaning and multiple trips to Salvation Army to even make a dent, and make a plan for another day. Making a plan makes me feel better... until it's time to put the plan in action. I then quickly talk myself out of it. I'm really quite persuasive. The newest D-Day is Wednesday. I have a systematic plan of attack in my head, and I have been visualizing what it will feel like to come home to a nice, clean home. I smell the lemony freshness of it all. I see the floor. I see the windows shine. I see all of the light bulbs replaced. I see the vaccum, the folded laundry, the closet in order. We'll see how it all pans out when the alarm goes off on Holiday Vacation: Day Uno. In truth, what you'll probably see is me nursing a vodka tonic on my couch and weighing the idea of writing a hot check to Merry Maids.

In further crazy lady news, the two stray cats that I (perhaps) have been feeding, are becoming quite at home. The little black one strolls right through the front door any time it is open more than a quarter of an inch. Tonight, I picked him up and (perhaps) hugged him a little. Stray Cat Numero Dos has taken up residence on my back porch. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the old cat bed that I (perhaps) put out there when the temperature started to drop. Picking up strays is also one of the many genetic gifts my family blessed me with. I'm fairly certain that they have been planted as feline spies by those rat bastard executives at A&E.

Well-played, A&E. Well-played, indeed.

Finding My Way -- Day One

It's been a while since I've written. I hate that since I started this blog in order to be able to write more often. Daily, if possible. I could blame it on the fact that I'm overwhelmed at work. I could blame it on the fact that the holidays are coming up and things are always crazy at the holidays. I could blame it on the fact that this last 8 days has been a roller coaster for those closest to me. But, in truth, I just haven't felt up to it. Strangely enough, I don't think I've really felt anything for a few days, and to write... to write well at least... it's important to feel.

I know all the things I'm supposed to have been feeling. I only know that, however, because I'm smart and observant of others. I'm good at taking social cues. I smile in all the right places. I can shed the appropriate amount of tears. I can tilt my head at all the correct angles... to show interest or empathy or confusion. And I remember what it was like to feel, so I draw from that.

I have glimpses. Flutters that happen. Moments where I feel something, but it never encompasses me anymore. Then they're gone, and replaced with nothing but hollowness. And this isn't me; I've always been the one with too much emotion... too much feeling... too much passion. I seem lost, more so than usual, and afraid, again -- more so than usual... and it's tough.

I should feel...
...happy that one of my best friends has found the love of her life and that another is busy creating yet another beautiful child for me to snuggle.
...grateful that two important people, through foster care and adoption, are preparing to accept the challenge of loving and caring for children the system has failed.
...proud that my students are continuing to succeed despite the chaos that surrounds them daily.
...angry that I feel alone in caring for my family.
...faithful that other friends will be taken care of in perhaps the most trying journey they have ever known.
...embarrassed that I feel so clueless and whiny.

But I don't know if I do, and the not being able to identify my emotions is almost as bad as not having them at all. So, I'm back to square one. Here on this little place on the internet, doing what I promised myself I would do when I started this 8 months ago. To write, no matter what, because writing makes me alive. And I need to feel alive if nothing else.

So, if you're here now, bear with me as I try to find my way back to a place that's more familiar. And thanks for staying. But if you can't, if it's all just too much for you to take, then it's okay to walk away. The best part of this whole medium is that I won't even have to watch you do it, and you won't have to feel bad about it.

It's Just a Moment

Have you ever wondered what your life would be like if you'd made one different choice?

Shown up 12 seconds later?

Went left instead of right?

Picked heads over tails?

These are things I can never stop thinking about. I obsess about each moment and how it came to be because I cannot for the life of me grasp the concept of how things just always seem to work out, flow into one another, and transform your existence before you can even take notice. I took notice tonight. As I sat at dinner with some of my darling friends, I tried to trace back how this moment, over a plate or tortellini and a basket of bread, even came to be. But there are a million moments... a million tiny, seemingly inconsequential choices... that led to that table, and along the way, wonderful things happened as a direct result. Jobs I've loved. People I've met. Stories I keep in my heart. The comfort I have known.

I try to trace back to that moment that kicked it all off so that I can relish it, be proud of it, whisper my thanks for it. But each moment is triggered by another and so on and so forth until I find myself in a space I cannot remember anymore , and I realize that each step of my life, each decision no matter how trivial, has led me here to this little plate of tortellini and basket of bread, surrounded by laughter and warmed by the love of my friends. And I remind myself that although I may never fully know that first moment, I do know this one, and I can cherish it just the same.

The Mediocrity Marathon

Yesterday, during my toughest class I was struck dumb. Literally... dumb. But only for a moment.

While discussing their recent "Standardized Testing -- The Preview" scores, I told them that of all my classes, they, as a class, had the lowest overall passing percentage. For real, just over 50 percent (and of those that "passed" did so with the lowest score possible. Only one student scored above a 60). I also took a moment to try to help them make the connection that behavior relates to academic performance as they also have the highest rate of misconduct slips of all my classes. That my need to manage behavior makes it nearly impossible to disseminate the information necessary to them. Because they. are. wild.

I knew that they might take the news poorly, but I had no idea. And that's when it happened.

Little Miss Sassafrass stood up, crossed her arms and retorted, "You're so rude. Why do you gotta be putting us down like that?"

Uhhh... exsqueeze me? Baking powder?

I stood there for a moment, choosing my words carefully and asked her how exactly I was being rude if I am simply stating a fact.

"Because you are our teacher, and you should be making us feel better about this. You should be telling us that it's alright. That we can do this. You shouldn't be telling us how we failed." This, of course, was met with lots of furious head nodding and angry muttering agreeance.

C'mon now. Really?

Hello world. It's Entitlement and Mediocrity at your door, and we're here to sell you some more of our bullshit. At that moment, I wanted to punch something. Hard. Not a child... more like their parent.

Since when is speaking the truth and pointing out NECESSARY improvement a bad thing? I did not throw my hands up in disgust and announce that I was through with their effing apathetic, righteous load of horseshit. I did not call them losers. I did not say things like, "How the eff can you make a 27 on a multiple choice test? I could train a brain-damaged chicken to make a 27! (And I could. I truly think I could, by the way.) I did not sit down at my desk, pick up my Diet Coke, and write them off. Because, believe me, THAT would be a less troublesome choice. Letting someone fail is only about a billion times easier to accomplish than pushing someone to not only succeed but also to push past a limit they never thought possible.

So there I am, struck dumb as I told you before, processing this load of nonsense. But like I said, that moment didn't last long. It never does really. My righteous indignation has a fairly quick on switch, and it takes a while to burn out.

"Whomever has told you that your feelings and self-esteem is more valued than your need to work hard, pay attention, and learn from your mistakes has done you the biggest disservice possible. People who claim to love you, but never push you, are cowards who are holding you back from your own success. People who ignore your mistakes and failures because they don't want to hurt your feelings are afraid of you. They are afraid that you'll stop loving them. They're terrified that you will leave them. They are convinced that pacifying you is the only way to keep you. They strap you into a straightjacket of politeness.

We have become a society that has swung too far on the pendulum. In order to combat segregation and degradation, we've developed a passivity toward the truth. We've made everyone feel so special that it's become difficult to spot the truly extraordinary. We live in a time where we hand out ribbons and trophies simply for participation. What? In truth, that means you are being recognized just for showing up. We've shot ourselves in the foot with the need to be politically correct, socially equal, and FAIR.

(Oh, dear Lord, do I ever hate that word. I practically spit it out like expired milk.)

Do I want people to be mistreated? No. Do I want people to feel unloved or unnecessary? By no means.

Do I want people (i.e. you) to understand that success is a goal? That your happiness and self-worth can't be handed out like mashed potatoes on a serving line? That although you and I are not perfect, the quest to attain the best can be both exhausting and exhilarating? Absolutely. "

And then I breathed. And I breathed some more. I took a quick check of my mental faculties and tried to gauge whether I was about to have a stroke right there in the middle of room 207 (sometimes my rants are like an out of body experience, and I'm a little light-headed from the sudden rush of anger flooding out of my mouth). And I looked out into my class of 19 miscreants and mouth breathers who were finally shocked into silence and told them one last thing. "You might not like me right now. Heck, you can go ahead and hate me for all I care. But understand this - I have dedicated my life to making you better. I've dedicated my life to being the best teacher I know how to be. I'm not there yet, but I know for sure that I am not satisfied with being a teacher of a class with a 50% passing rate on this test. Getting better, being smarter, has no quick fix. Education is not a sprint; it's a marathon. But I plan on all of us crossing that finish line in June, and you can either stand up alongside me, or I can drag your lazy butt across it, but you will finish it. The truth hurts, but I'm not going to stop telling it. So, suck. it. up."

And they did. And it was exhausting and exhilarating all at once. But after class, one kid did ask me, "Is there really a marathon in June?"

*Sigh* Note to self. Tomorrow's lesson -- metaphors.

Suck It, Yankees

It is well-documented that I love a good underdog story. I bawl my eyes out when Rudy finally takes the field. I get choked up when Jimmy Chitwood steps up at the town meeting in "Hoosiers". The Miracle on Ice. David vs. Goliath. The Spartan stand. Rocky. The Bad News Bears.

My undying loyalty for the Duke Blue Devils is my only real trek into the world of the perennial powerhouse lifestyle, but my lifelong love of the Chicago Cubs surely balances that out 10 times over.

Lately, my attention's been caught by a local underdog story... the Texas Rangers. Over the last eleven years, I have worked just across the freeway from the Ballpark. I've gone to (and thoroughly enjoyed) a few games. I've cheered when they won, and I paid little attention when they fell apart. I heard tell that this was the norm. Continually overshadowed by Mark Cuban's antics, the Stars, and the House that Jerry Built (literally overshadowed now), the Rangers are rarely ever the top story in a sports broadcast. Until now.

With a blue-collar work ethic and drive, team effort, and some additional spark in the pitching rotation, the Rangers have done the previously unthinkable -- won a division series and have now won a post-season home game. Although I am excited for the team and for our city, it is my friends I am most excited for. Every spring, I am subjected to endless conversations about trades and lineups and schedules. I am in the midst of the purest form of anticipation -- like Christmas morning -- but inevitably, by the beginning of the next school year, sadness has set in and made its home in the hearts of people I adore. I have to admit, it was nice to see them finally smile in September.

I, by no means, consider myself a true Rangers fan because if there's anything I detest, it's a Johnny-come-lately who jumps on just as the ride gets good. Yet I've found myself pulling for this hometown team not for myself but rather for my hometown friends. So it is for them that I have cheered and cussed and cried and shouted. For all those who loved something or someone, even through the darkest of days, I cheer for you.

So, come Monday, when the Rangers step up to the plate in the House the Babe Built, I will throw on my Rangers Red, stand up for the national anthem, and flip the bird at the t.v. screen.

Because if there's anyone that any true Underdog hates, it's the mother effin' Yankees.