I love this time of the morning. It's so dark, so quiet, as if I'm the only person awake in the whole wide world. I've always loved the very early/dark morning time, especially in the winter when it's cold and dark and ever so slightly beginning to get light until just the faintest glimps of the morning sunrays are visible.
This will always be my favorite time of day.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
What is it about working with the wee short ones that makes me so tired?
Last week was the week that would never end, and I loved almost every moment of it. Monday - Friday I worked with the first grade class, who are ever so wonderful. We worked with reading, writing, math, music and on Friday, had a class pajama party. For the first time every, I wore my pj's to school. And gosh, it was comfortable.
But of course, there was more to the week. Monday and Tuesday had regular classes and night classes. Thursday had regular classes. Wednesday's class was cancelled, but I did tutor Wednesday and Thursday afternoon.
Friday after school I came home and slept until Saturday. Literally--asleep by 3:30 p.m. until 2:00 p.m. Saturday, minus little times I would wake up for an hour here, two hours there. It was bliss.
Were it not for the working with the kids part, I'd not think school was worth it. How very sad that the one place that is supposed to motivate us to be better is the place that really is demoralizing and, in some cases, useless.
Last week was the week that would never end, and I loved almost every moment of it. Monday - Friday I worked with the first grade class, who are ever so wonderful. We worked with reading, writing, math, music and on Friday, had a class pajama party. For the first time every, I wore my pj's to school. And gosh, it was comfortable.
But of course, there was more to the week. Monday and Tuesday had regular classes and night classes. Thursday had regular classes. Wednesday's class was cancelled, but I did tutor Wednesday and Thursday afternoon.
Friday after school I came home and slept until Saturday. Literally--asleep by 3:30 p.m. until 2:00 p.m. Saturday, minus little times I would wake up for an hour here, two hours there. It was bliss.
Were it not for the working with the kids part, I'd not think school was worth it. How very sad that the one place that is supposed to motivate us to be better is the place that really is demoralizing and, in some cases, useless.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
I really need to vent.
Thanksgiving is coming up. It's my least favorite holiday, full of family-strife, to say the least, and bad memories for everyone. My birth father was killed on Thanksgiving, long before I can actually remember him. Now that I'm no longer on speaking terms with the rest of my family for reasons far more involved to be able to discuss at the moment, I don't really have anywhere to go for the "holiday." Since my grandmother's death in '99, Thanksgiving has been a bust, anyway, so it's not like that matters.
But I miss being around people on Thanksgiving. I miss the sharing, the talking, the laughing, watching the parade as my grandmother puttered around the kitchen and the girls worked washing pots and setting the table while the boys did whatever it was they did in the living room. Sure, it sounds sexists, I suppose, but there is a lot to be said for being able to bond with living people across the generations, and I miss that. A lot.
So...last Thanksgiving, I spent at the neighbor's house, having a very small gathering with other displaced souls. The year before that, I stayed home and watched the parade and slept the day away. The year before that, I think I went home. If memory serves, we went to a restaurant (I think). I seem to remember not being happy that we were at a restaurant for Thanksgiving. The point of the holiday isn't the food. The point of the holiday is to be around people you love, or at the very least, get along with on a tolerable basis.
The year before that (that's three Thanksgivings ago, for those keeping score), Tom and I went to my parents for the day. It was actually ok, as far as that goes, and we didn't stay too long, opting to do the dishes (I always do the dishes. It's my thing.) and leave to attend a friend's get-together in our home town. Since that year, Tom has been deployed every Thanksgiving since. That's the last two Thanksgivings apart. Christmas we've had together, but barely. This past one was a blur for him, as the military thought it appropriate to send him to school on another coast ten days after he returned from another country, but at least we were able to see one another.
So Thanksgiving. I don't want to spend it alone this year. It's depressing, y'know? And it just holds too many bad memories of late, something I want to change. I'm debating on flying to be with Tom over the holiday, since my schedule is more flexible than his and he will need to do school stuffs, but there's a problem. He's as reclusive as I am at times, especially when things get difficult. This week has seen the deaths of two people we know, though I'm not sure if he knows about both of them. There's school to contend with, as he's in a very difficult program and placing a lot of pressure on himself.
And when he decides to isolate himself, he does so in full force. No phone calls, no email, nada. If we were only friends, it wouldn't be so difficult. Having dated for over three years, it's becoming habitual. I've learned that it's him, not me, and I let him have his space.
But when airline tickets are going up $120 for a plane ticket overnight, I need an answer. It's a simple yes or no, this is a good time or it's not. I'll understand; despite the stereotype that when women say they understand and don't mean it, I actually do mean it. I've been there. I'll understand.
But no answer? At all? It's annoying as hell.
And on the other side, it's really getting on my nerves that I'm letting him be the one to dictate when we see one another. I'm annoyed that I'm beginning to feel as if I'm taking up too much of his time when we've seen one another for a grand total of 22 days since January, and those were not consecutively.
I'm angry that Michelle's mom killed herself. I'm angry that Tonto died this morning, even though I didn't know him personally. I'm pissed off that Duece killed himself and left two daughters and a wife. I'm pissed that I'm in a school program where we're left to learn like robots with no external emotions or independent thought. I'm pissed that the moaners and bemoaners are the ones garnering all the praise, and I'm really freakin' disappointed that the world is run by money. It's an arbitrarily assigned system of value.
I feel as if this is the ranting of a goth teenager with self-esteem problems instead of the venting of a grown woman. Such is life.
But what do I do? I get up, do homework, clean a room a day, read, pretend everything is great while keeping my mouth shut, and try to pretend it doesn't matter. I've willingly placed myself in this situation, so I'll of course go on. And wait for the phone call that will not come.
I'll try to be a better person while convincing myself I'm not a terrible person to begin with. And continue to watch airline ticket prices rise and fall.
Thanksgiving is coming up. It's my least favorite holiday, full of family-strife, to say the least, and bad memories for everyone. My birth father was killed on Thanksgiving, long before I can actually remember him. Now that I'm no longer on speaking terms with the rest of my family for reasons far more involved to be able to discuss at the moment, I don't really have anywhere to go for the "holiday." Since my grandmother's death in '99, Thanksgiving has been a bust, anyway, so it's not like that matters.
But I miss being around people on Thanksgiving. I miss the sharing, the talking, the laughing, watching the parade as my grandmother puttered around the kitchen and the girls worked washing pots and setting the table while the boys did whatever it was they did in the living room. Sure, it sounds sexists, I suppose, but there is a lot to be said for being able to bond with living people across the generations, and I miss that. A lot.
So...last Thanksgiving, I spent at the neighbor's house, having a very small gathering with other displaced souls. The year before that, I stayed home and watched the parade and slept the day away. The year before that, I think I went home. If memory serves, we went to a restaurant (I think). I seem to remember not being happy that we were at a restaurant for Thanksgiving. The point of the holiday isn't the food. The point of the holiday is to be around people you love, or at the very least, get along with on a tolerable basis.
The year before that (that's three Thanksgivings ago, for those keeping score), Tom and I went to my parents for the day. It was actually ok, as far as that goes, and we didn't stay too long, opting to do the dishes (I always do the dishes. It's my thing.) and leave to attend a friend's get-together in our home town. Since that year, Tom has been deployed every Thanksgiving since. That's the last two Thanksgivings apart. Christmas we've had together, but barely. This past one was a blur for him, as the military thought it appropriate to send him to school on another coast ten days after he returned from another country, but at least we were able to see one another.
So Thanksgiving. I don't want to spend it alone this year. It's depressing, y'know? And it just holds too many bad memories of late, something I want to change. I'm debating on flying to be with Tom over the holiday, since my schedule is more flexible than his and he will need to do school stuffs, but there's a problem. He's as reclusive as I am at times, especially when things get difficult. This week has seen the deaths of two people we know, though I'm not sure if he knows about both of them. There's school to contend with, as he's in a very difficult program and placing a lot of pressure on himself.
And when he decides to isolate himself, he does so in full force. No phone calls, no email, nada. If we were only friends, it wouldn't be so difficult. Having dated for over three years, it's becoming habitual. I've learned that it's him, not me, and I let him have his space.
But when airline tickets are going up $120 for a plane ticket overnight, I need an answer. It's a simple yes or no, this is a good time or it's not. I'll understand; despite the stereotype that when women say they understand and don't mean it, I actually do mean it. I've been there. I'll understand.
But no answer? At all? It's annoying as hell.
And on the other side, it's really getting on my nerves that I'm letting him be the one to dictate when we see one another. I'm annoyed that I'm beginning to feel as if I'm taking up too much of his time when we've seen one another for a grand total of 22 days since January, and those were not consecutively.
I'm angry that Michelle's mom killed herself. I'm angry that Tonto died this morning, even though I didn't know him personally. I'm pissed off that Duece killed himself and left two daughters and a wife. I'm pissed that I'm in a school program where we're left to learn like robots with no external emotions or independent thought. I'm pissed that the moaners and bemoaners are the ones garnering all the praise, and I'm really freakin' disappointed that the world is run by money. It's an arbitrarily assigned system of value.
I feel as if this is the ranting of a goth teenager with self-esteem problems instead of the venting of a grown woman. Such is life.
But what do I do? I get up, do homework, clean a room a day, read, pretend everything is great while keeping my mouth shut, and try to pretend it doesn't matter. I've willingly placed myself in this situation, so I'll of course go on. And wait for the phone call that will not come.
I'll try to be a better person while convincing myself I'm not a terrible person to begin with. And continue to watch airline ticket prices rise and fall.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
Classes are better, for the most part. Minus one, where all of the students:
- Agree we're not learning anything
- Agree we're not being taught
- Are bored to tears.
Last class I spent an hour playing tic tac toe because there was nothing else to do. Sadly, I learned that I can't really beat myself at that game. It's pointless. Kind of like the class.
Began observations yesterday, three hours in a first grade class. One potential trouble maker was quite cute, especially when I asked if he would be my special library buddy and show me how to choose and check out books. He then sat beside me instead of getting in trouble. Back in class, he told me, "I like you. You're nice."
Very sweet.
It's great and I'm loving the teaching. But I'm so damned tired.
So tired.
Goodnight.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
It's probably not a Very Good Thing that I continually want to cry after all of my classes.
I could blame the depressive state I seem to be stuck in. I could blame my low blood sugar, or the weather, or the joblessness I'm not enjoying.
I could, but I won't, because those aren't the reasons.
(Reminder to self: next entry--the state of special education as a philosophy and career).
It started when I entered the Curriculum for Students with Mild Disabilities class. The instructor is finally taking ownership of the class, but at a month into the session, I fear it might be too late. An hour and forty-five minute class was spent discussing first the syllabus (we should have it by Thursday? Maybe?), then spent discussing three power point slides.
Three.
I suppose this would be barable were it not for the fact that there is a student in the class who is utterly detestable. It's very rarely that I feel such immense dislike for someone, but I did upon meeting him the first time, when he called "no takesy backseys!" during a group assignment. I didn't like him much more when he spent the rest of the group assignment discussing his static line experiences with the instructor rather than actually doing the assignment.
I liked him even less when he began prefacing every statement with, "In my wife's class..."
Last week, during another group assignment, he bragged that he had not even read an article to review, yet he had an ever present opinion. The data in someone's article suggested that special education students have, typically, a lower IQ Score than their peers.
I pointed out to him that the article was stating it's the score that is lower and not the actual Intelligence Quotient itself, which may be difficult to test for depending upon circumstances.
I should have quoted Nietzsche's statement, "God is dead." Both statements would have received the same response from this fellow peer o' mine.
Instead, it took an explanation from a fellow classmate, Brian, and an explanation using the exact same wording that I had used, for this peer o' mine to accept the difference in semantics.
Today, the discussion from peer o' mine took a different turn. In discussing Free and Appropriate Education, peer o' mine said something about not allowing children with Down Syndrom in the traditional classroom, especially if they were nonverbal, because...and follow this reasoning?...their IQ is less than 50.
The instructor was the only one who responded. "No. You're wrong. And don't fight me on this one, because you'll lose."
Score 1 for her.
See, I quit listening to peer o' mine when he first demonstrated that he will not listen to me. I quit listening to him when he bragged that he hadn't even attempted the homework, yet had a valid opinion, which, by the way, was not the point of the assignment. The assignment was to view other people's opinions. I quit listening to peer o' mine when the braggart boasted, during a test study session, that despite not reading the assigned chapters, he knew all of the answers.
He was disputing the answers because he marked them wrong, of course, but trying to argue his way out of them.
I hate that this person is crawling under my skin this much but even more, I hate that he will, as of January, be in the classroom. With students. Real live people.
And tonight, sitting in the BED (behavior/emotional disorders) class tonight, I wanted to cry out of frustration. The professor let us out early; she couldn't make the computer work right and had the entire lesson on Power Point. We sat for two hours while she read to us multiple papers ver batim, then listened to her again while she complained about being "thrown" in our classroom. There is no discussion, which I would be perfectly understandable about, were there any education at all.
There is none.
I've been so worried that all of this was just me, until I saw the lady behind me make a gun with her finger and place it at her temple, then whisper, "boom!" It's not just me.
It's not just me regarding peer o' mine, either. Walking to our cars from class, the same lady said, "You know, I want to ask him what it's like to be the smartest person in the world!"
You and me both.
I could blame the depressive state I seem to be stuck in. I could blame my low blood sugar, or the weather, or the joblessness I'm not enjoying.
I could, but I won't, because those aren't the reasons.
(Reminder to self: next entry--the state of special education as a philosophy and career).
It started when I entered the Curriculum for Students with Mild Disabilities class. The instructor is finally taking ownership of the class, but at a month into the session, I fear it might be too late. An hour and forty-five minute class was spent discussing first the syllabus (we should have it by Thursday? Maybe?), then spent discussing three power point slides.
Three.
I suppose this would be barable were it not for the fact that there is a student in the class who is utterly detestable. It's very rarely that I feel such immense dislike for someone, but I did upon meeting him the first time, when he called "no takesy backseys!" during a group assignment. I didn't like him much more when he spent the rest of the group assignment discussing his static line experiences with the instructor rather than actually doing the assignment.
I liked him even less when he began prefacing every statement with, "In my wife's class..."
Last week, during another group assignment, he bragged that he had not even read an article to review, yet he had an ever present opinion. The data in someone's article suggested that special education students have, typically, a lower IQ Score than their peers.
I pointed out to him that the article was stating it's the score that is lower and not the actual Intelligence Quotient itself, which may be difficult to test for depending upon circumstances.
I should have quoted Nietzsche's statement, "God is dead." Both statements would have received the same response from this fellow peer o' mine.
Instead, it took an explanation from a fellow classmate, Brian, and an explanation using the exact same wording that I had used, for this peer o' mine to accept the difference in semantics.
Today, the discussion from peer o' mine took a different turn. In discussing Free and Appropriate Education, peer o' mine said something about not allowing children with Down Syndrom in the traditional classroom, especially if they were nonverbal, because...and follow this reasoning?...their IQ is less than 50.
The instructor was the only one who responded. "No. You're wrong. And don't fight me on this one, because you'll lose."
Score 1 for her.
See, I quit listening to peer o' mine when he first demonstrated that he will not listen to me. I quit listening to him when he bragged that he hadn't even attempted the homework, yet had a valid opinion, which, by the way, was not the point of the assignment. The assignment was to view other people's opinions. I quit listening to peer o' mine when the braggart boasted, during a test study session, that despite not reading the assigned chapters, he knew all of the answers.
He was disputing the answers because he marked them wrong, of course, but trying to argue his way out of them.
I hate that this person is crawling under my skin this much but even more, I hate that he will, as of January, be in the classroom. With students. Real live people.
And tonight, sitting in the BED (behavior/emotional disorders) class tonight, I wanted to cry out of frustration. The professor let us out early; she couldn't make the computer work right and had the entire lesson on Power Point. We sat for two hours while she read to us multiple papers ver batim, then listened to her again while she complained about being "thrown" in our classroom. There is no discussion, which I would be perfectly understandable about, were there any education at all.
There is none.
I've been so worried that all of this was just me, until I saw the lady behind me make a gun with her finger and place it at her temple, then whisper, "boom!" It's not just me.
It's not just me regarding peer o' mine, either. Walking to our cars from class, the same lady said, "You know, I want to ask him what it's like to be the smartest person in the world!"
You and me both.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Dear Madam Professor,
A "mare" is a female horse, not a male horse as you told the class. A male horse is known as a stud or gelding, depending upong if its anatomy is intact or not.
Zephyr is spelled "z e p h y r." Not "z e p h e r."
You have not even tried to learn our names, so the countless threats about class participation mean absolutely nothing.
When teaching anything, it is absolutely essential that you model what TO do. Not what NOT to do.
We are in college. If you give us homework, it is assumed that we will actually do said homework. Therefore, it is not necessary for you to spend an entire 50 minute class reading to us ver batim what is on a worksheet you hand to us.
Though, it would be nice if we could actually either turn in or demonstrate our homework at some point. I'm just sayin'.
A "mare" is a female horse, not a male horse as you told the class. A male horse is known as a stud or gelding, depending upong if its anatomy is intact or not.
Zephyr is spelled "z e p h y r." Not "z e p h e r."
You have not even tried to learn our names, so the countless threats about class participation mean absolutely nothing.
When teaching anything, it is absolutely essential that you model what TO do. Not what NOT to do.
We are in college. If you give us homework, it is assumed that we will actually do said homework. Therefore, it is not necessary for you to spend an entire 50 minute class reading to us ver batim what is on a worksheet you hand to us.
Though, it would be nice if we could actually either turn in or demonstrate our homework at some point. I'm just sayin'.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Today is a really not good day.
I didn't create this blog to discuss my depression. I had hoped I had beaten it, that if I were busy with everything else, it wouldn't become a problem.
Sometimes I really am a very stupid little girl. How can I think I've beaten something I've never even stood up to?
I hate this feeling. It's hopelessness and loneliness and the desire to just Go Away from everything but with the feeling of failure because I know I won't Go Away. I'd love to just get in my car and leave, but as cliche as the cliche is, no matter where I go, there I am. I've lived with this thing my entire life, and it's been my constant horrible companion throughout the moves, relationships, jobs, births, deaths.
Does that mean it's a part of me? I don't know.
I do know that when I take the prescribed medicine, I feel, for lack of a better word, Happy. Of course, I'm not entirely sure if that's the correct word, because I honestly don't know what Happy is. Is Happy the lack of feeling Sad? If so, then when I take the medicine, I do feel a little Happy. Is Happy the lack of feeling like I want to die? If so, then when I take the medicine, I'm not Happy. I'm Ecstatic.
But I've not been taking the meds because I don't like the feeling of disconnect. When I take the stuff, my brain is on a high. I'm cheerful and talkative and feel like a separate entity from my body. I have trouble remembering things, little nuances that I'm normally extremely intuned to. I don't like the fogginess that the meds provide.
Maybe the fog is the meds battling the rather large part of my brain that is depressed. The battle is waging and my brain, unsure of what to do, shuts that part off. Whatever it is, I hate it.
But I equally hate the feeling I have right now, the feeling where I just want to curl up and not see the rest of the world ever again. There seems to be no happy medium. Or Happy medium. Or any medium.
And at times like this, I really don't know what to do.
I didn't create this blog to discuss my depression. I had hoped I had beaten it, that if I were busy with everything else, it wouldn't become a problem.
Sometimes I really am a very stupid little girl. How can I think I've beaten something I've never even stood up to?
I hate this feeling. It's hopelessness and loneliness and the desire to just Go Away from everything but with the feeling of failure because I know I won't Go Away. I'd love to just get in my car and leave, but as cliche as the cliche is, no matter where I go, there I am. I've lived with this thing my entire life, and it's been my constant horrible companion throughout the moves, relationships, jobs, births, deaths.
Does that mean it's a part of me? I don't know.
I do know that when I take the prescribed medicine, I feel, for lack of a better word, Happy. Of course, I'm not entirely sure if that's the correct word, because I honestly don't know what Happy is. Is Happy the lack of feeling Sad? If so, then when I take the medicine, I do feel a little Happy. Is Happy the lack of feeling like I want to die? If so, then when I take the medicine, I'm not Happy. I'm Ecstatic.
But I've not been taking the meds because I don't like the feeling of disconnect. When I take the stuff, my brain is on a high. I'm cheerful and talkative and feel like a separate entity from my body. I have trouble remembering things, little nuances that I'm normally extremely intuned to. I don't like the fogginess that the meds provide.
Maybe the fog is the meds battling the rather large part of my brain that is depressed. The battle is waging and my brain, unsure of what to do, shuts that part off. Whatever it is, I hate it.
But I equally hate the feeling I have right now, the feeling where I just want to curl up and not see the rest of the world ever again. There seems to be no happy medium. Or Happy medium. Or any medium.
And at times like this, I really don't know what to do.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
The Cliche
I visited my best friend's family Monday for Labor Day; I had promised to take her two daughters to the park and generally wanted to spend time with the parents, too. Lives become busy. To keep friendships, we have to work at it.
We had offered to do anything the girls wanted to do--visit the zoo, the petting zoo. I would have been willing to drive to an amusement park. They wanted a picnic at a local park. Our total costs: bread and peanut butter. As a poor nontraditional college student, I can't afford to say no to those prices.
After the park and many, many coloring books later, the adults decided to watch a movie. Because two rugrats were around, and because apparently watching High School Musical is no more fun the 800th time than it is the first, our options were somewhat limited. The parents decided they wanted to watch "Freedom Fighters." I settled in for yet another movie about how wonderful it is to teach, about all the perils of teaching kids who don't want to be there, and for becoming victorious despite the odds.
I was right and wrong.
See, we've been inundated thanks to movies like Mr. Holland's Opus (which really isn't that great, thankyouverymuch) and Dangerous Minds that a great teacher will swoop in and beat the odds, showing kids that he or she really loves them while sacrificing everything near and dear to the teachers' hearts. It's become cliche.
But the cliche is true. That's why it works.
A few years ago, after my divorce, I was dating this guy, Tim. Tim was separated or divorced; I never really heard the whole story. He was doing military school for becoming an Army medic while we were dating and would, once in a while, visit me while I was at work to do some studying of his own. His schedule was tight, my schedule was tight, but we tried, as much as two screwed up invididuals could.
One week prior to a Saturday he had off, he mentioned some plans he was making for the two of us. I told him that because finals were coming up, I had told my students I was going to be on campus from 9 a.m. until 1 p.m. should any of them want or need me to look at papers, answer questions, help them with anything, etc. After that, I needed to do some work for preparing for the next week's classes.
"That's ridiculous! You shouldn't do that."
To say I was confused would be an understatement. "I shouldn't do what?"
"Your job isn't that important."
"Uh...what?"
"My job is more important than yours."
"Ok. But I'm not available Saturday, since I'll be in the library. If no one shows up, fine, but I'll be there. And if someone does show up, great, because I'll be there and that one person will know that someone cares. If you don't like it, you can leave. Of that, I do not care."
As it turned out, only one student did show up, around 11 a.m. on a cold December Saturday morning. But One Student Did show up, and I was there. My relationship with Tim didn't last much longer; we had problems outside of weird work schedules, but telling me that because he held a gun, his job was more important than mine was definitely the beginning of the end.
My job isn't going to ever pay me as much monetarily as the actors who portray teachers make. I've lost two relationships because of teaching--one with my ex husband, who was jealous that I made more money than his blue-collared job offered him, and Tim, who was jealous that he would not have all of my attention. I don't always get enough sleep, especially when I'm grading papers at 4 a.m. because I want to write comments to all of my students so they understand what they did right and how they can work on improving for the future.
But what I get out of this job is more special to me than anyone will ever know.
Elizabeth is a student I taught this summer in a remedial class; she's a cute little blonde with blue eyes and a sweet, shy smile. Her first essay was so difficult to read that I spent two hours on it alone, trying to decipher what she meant and what I could direct her to work on first, as there was so much to work on. There was no thesis, no organization. Worse, every sentence was an incomplete sentence. Worse still, her spelling indicated someone who had severe dyslexia.
I was only to be teaching her for five weeks; should she not pass my class, she would not be returning to school.
She also had a reading class that she had to pass in order to stay in the program. Because she was having such problems with writing, I had a very bad feeling about her reading comprehension. Sadly, I was correct in my assumption.
Instead of giving up on her because it wasn't my problem, I decided to combine the reading class into the writing class, work on a lot of individual skill sets, set up peer tutoring groups, and work with students on a one-on-one basis in class. This was not easy and for five weeks this past summer, I never did sleep more than four hours a night.
At the end of the summer, after assigning the last writing assignment for the session, we were sitting in class, me reading while they were working on portfolios/last minute corrections/the last writing assignment. An hour into the class, Elizabeth walked over to me with a two page essay she had hand written; it still needed work, and she knew this, but she wanted to make sure this draft was on the right path.
I read the two page essay; the introduction grabbed my attention because it was interesting and had a thesis. The paragraphs were organized and stayed on topic. Each sentence was complete and I did not see any misspelled words.
I looked at Elizabeth, trying to hold back my tears. "My God, Elizabeth. This is beautiful."
She smiled, took her paper back, returned to her seat and continued to work.
Monetarily rich, never. But I never wanted money to begin with.
We had offered to do anything the girls wanted to do--visit the zoo, the petting zoo. I would have been willing to drive to an amusement park. They wanted a picnic at a local park. Our total costs: bread and peanut butter. As a poor nontraditional college student, I can't afford to say no to those prices.
After the park and many, many coloring books later, the adults decided to watch a movie. Because two rugrats were around, and because apparently watching High School Musical is no more fun the 800th time than it is the first, our options were somewhat limited. The parents decided they wanted to watch "Freedom Fighters." I settled in for yet another movie about how wonderful it is to teach, about all the perils of teaching kids who don't want to be there, and for becoming victorious despite the odds.
I was right and wrong.
See, we've been inundated thanks to movies like Mr. Holland's Opus (which really isn't that great, thankyouverymuch) and Dangerous Minds that a great teacher will swoop in and beat the odds, showing kids that he or she really loves them while sacrificing everything near and dear to the teachers' hearts. It's become cliche.
But the cliche is true. That's why it works.
A few years ago, after my divorce, I was dating this guy, Tim. Tim was separated or divorced; I never really heard the whole story. He was doing military school for becoming an Army medic while we were dating and would, once in a while, visit me while I was at work to do some studying of his own. His schedule was tight, my schedule was tight, but we tried, as much as two screwed up invididuals could.
One week prior to a Saturday he had off, he mentioned some plans he was making for the two of us. I told him that because finals were coming up, I had told my students I was going to be on campus from 9 a.m. until 1 p.m. should any of them want or need me to look at papers, answer questions, help them with anything, etc. After that, I needed to do some work for preparing for the next week's classes.
"That's ridiculous! You shouldn't do that."
To say I was confused would be an understatement. "I shouldn't do what?"
"Your job isn't that important."
"Uh...what?"
"My job is more important than yours."
"Ok. But I'm not available Saturday, since I'll be in the library. If no one shows up, fine, but I'll be there. And if someone does show up, great, because I'll be there and that one person will know that someone cares. If you don't like it, you can leave. Of that, I do not care."
As it turned out, only one student did show up, around 11 a.m. on a cold December Saturday morning. But One Student Did show up, and I was there. My relationship with Tim didn't last much longer; we had problems outside of weird work schedules, but telling me that because he held a gun, his job was more important than mine was definitely the beginning of the end.
My job isn't going to ever pay me as much monetarily as the actors who portray teachers make. I've lost two relationships because of teaching--one with my ex husband, who was jealous that I made more money than his blue-collared job offered him, and Tim, who was jealous that he would not have all of my attention. I don't always get enough sleep, especially when I'm grading papers at 4 a.m. because I want to write comments to all of my students so they understand what they did right and how they can work on improving for the future.
But what I get out of this job is more special to me than anyone will ever know.
Elizabeth is a student I taught this summer in a remedial class; she's a cute little blonde with blue eyes and a sweet, shy smile. Her first essay was so difficult to read that I spent two hours on it alone, trying to decipher what she meant and what I could direct her to work on first, as there was so much to work on. There was no thesis, no organization. Worse, every sentence was an incomplete sentence. Worse still, her spelling indicated someone who had severe dyslexia.
I was only to be teaching her for five weeks; should she not pass my class, she would not be returning to school.
She also had a reading class that she had to pass in order to stay in the program. Because she was having such problems with writing, I had a very bad feeling about her reading comprehension. Sadly, I was correct in my assumption.
Instead of giving up on her because it wasn't my problem, I decided to combine the reading class into the writing class, work on a lot of individual skill sets, set up peer tutoring groups, and work with students on a one-on-one basis in class. This was not easy and for five weeks this past summer, I never did sleep more than four hours a night.
At the end of the summer, after assigning the last writing assignment for the session, we were sitting in class, me reading while they were working on portfolios/last minute corrections/the last writing assignment. An hour into the class, Elizabeth walked over to me with a two page essay she had hand written; it still needed work, and she knew this, but she wanted to make sure this draft was on the right path.
I read the two page essay; the introduction grabbed my attention because it was interesting and had a thesis. The paragraphs were organized and stayed on topic. Each sentence was complete and I did not see any misspelled words.
I looked at Elizabeth, trying to hold back my tears. "My God, Elizabeth. This is beautiful."
She smiled, took her paper back, returned to her seat and continued to work.
Monetarily rich, never. But I never wanted money to begin with.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Schedule
My main focus in this blog is twofold.
One, I did not record any of my previous educational experiences. Most of it I remember, minus the sleep deprived years of grad school, but I know now that I'll later want to look at what I did during this time in my life. Ergo, write a journal.
Two, though, if someone else is trying to decide whether it's worth it to drop everything and go after a dream, maybe I can help answer that question. My hope is that the answer will be positive, but as this is a work in progress, who knows?
Having said that, I've been in class for two weeks now. Most everyday, I want to leave crying. It's not that I can't do the work--quite the contrary. It has nothing to do with the professors, who all seem like really nice people. Most of the classmates are really cool, despite my description of a couple of the more noticeable ones. No, it's none of the above, but is in fact the classes themselves that are becoming the problem.
My Mondays:
K-6? Literacy:
Class begins at 11:30, after the prof, Dr. S, has placed bowls of candy on the desks. At first, I thought it was very sweet of the old lady to provide candy; now I realize it's to keep us awake during class. In four of the last seven classes, we have watched a video tape on phonemes. Not several video tapes--ONE video. She provides the paper with headings for which we are to take notes on said video. Despite providing the paper for notes, we did not receive a syllabus until Monday of this week, which she spent all of Monday reading to us. When trying to have a class discussion, she dominates the conversation with tales of how she has fought the system; sadly, I think the system she is referring to was in the 1950s, which would be when she last taught in a classroom other than college setting.
Her biggest pet peeve is seriously the lower case letter k not being written correctly and the class not participating. My biggest pet peeve, other than being treated like a five year old, is the fact that she has yet to even ask our names and refuses to call on those of us who raise our hands--I should really start yelling out answers to her rhetorical questions in order to gain some attention. Of course, she's already proven that, despite her "warning" that class participation is a big part of the grade, she doesn't care about our participation. Or us.
Class: Teaching math to students with mild learning disabilities.
Ms. D assigned a lesson plan for the first homework assignment on the first day of class. Since she has only learned she would be teaching the class the day before, I remain impressed with her preparation. Granted, there were no comments on the assignment, but we are using them to learn how to write IEP (individual educational programs).
Wait! We're learning in that class. There's a concept. While the class isn't overly challenging to me, I have to remember that I'm not the new teacher this class is designed for and give her a little slack.
The real challenge is going to be dealing with BJ, who gasped when she realized that, oh noes!, she has to write a different IEP for each discipline the student needs one for, as well as a separate IEP for any behavior or emotional issues. She was visibly not happy.
I missed the memo that special education did not require paperwork; in fact, I thought it was partly responsible for the Amazon's decreased tress.
Next up: Behavior/Emotional Disorders.
Dr. D's first day of class met her with a meeting that ran into class time and no ordered book. As she had only been employed here for a week, she had not had time to order a book and was frustrated that one had not been ordered. That's understandable. Having an attitude with her class and verbally chastising us for this, however, is not. Homework was to read a power point presentation that she had printed out for us.
This week's class, she seemed to be in a better mood. Books arrived 30 minutes prior to class, so while few of us had them, at least they're available. She tried to learn names when she spoke with us. She seemed a little friendlier.
Then she opened the power point presentation, the same one we had read for homework, and proceeded to read it to us slide. by. slide. Why should I spend time reading and doing homework if I'm going to be doing the same thing in class? I could be doing so many other more interesting things, such as washing my hair or returning videos.
Somewhere in between page 4 and 5 of the 3-slides-per-page presentation, she sidetracked into her own experiences. At least this gave me the opportunity to wake up and quit hitting my hand with an open pen to stay awake. She told a story of a student with an emotional problem whose IEP had stated he was too dangerous to actually be in school; the school allowed him in and during the school year, he stabbed another student in the ear with a pencil, causing severe damage.
Wow. She caught my attention, but I did have a question: Where is the system of checks and balances for school systems that do not follow an IEP?
Her answer: She told a story of a student with an emotional problem whose IEP had stated he was too dangerous to actually be in school; the school allowed him in and during the school year, he stabbed another student in the ear with a pencil, causing severe damage.
No, I did not make a mistake in repeating that. She repeated the story for an answer. Maybe my question wasn't clear (though, "checks and balances" is pretty clear language): I asked the same question but in a slightly clearer way.
Her answer: She told a story of a student with an emotional problem whose IEP had stated he was too dangerous to actually be in school; the school allowed him in and during the school year, he stabbed another student in the ear with a pencil, causing severe damage.
I gave up.
Next time: Reading, Curriculum, and LD.
One, I did not record any of my previous educational experiences. Most of it I remember, minus the sleep deprived years of grad school, but I know now that I'll later want to look at what I did during this time in my life. Ergo, write a journal.
Two, though, if someone else is trying to decide whether it's worth it to drop everything and go after a dream, maybe I can help answer that question. My hope is that the answer will be positive, but as this is a work in progress, who knows?
Having said that, I've been in class for two weeks now. Most everyday, I want to leave crying. It's not that I can't do the work--quite the contrary. It has nothing to do with the professors, who all seem like really nice people. Most of the classmates are really cool, despite my description of a couple of the more noticeable ones. No, it's none of the above, but is in fact the classes themselves that are becoming the problem.
My Mondays:
K-6? Literacy:
Class begins at 11:30, after the prof, Dr. S, has placed bowls of candy on the desks. At first, I thought it was very sweet of the old lady to provide candy; now I realize it's to keep us awake during class. In four of the last seven classes, we have watched a video tape on phonemes. Not several video tapes--ONE video. She provides the paper with headings for which we are to take notes on said video. Despite providing the paper for notes, we did not receive a syllabus until Monday of this week, which she spent all of Monday reading to us. When trying to have a class discussion, she dominates the conversation with tales of how she has fought the system; sadly, I think the system she is referring to was in the 1950s, which would be when she last taught in a classroom other than college setting.
Her biggest pet peeve is seriously the lower case letter k not being written correctly and the class not participating. My biggest pet peeve, other than being treated like a five year old, is the fact that she has yet to even ask our names and refuses to call on those of us who raise our hands--I should really start yelling out answers to her rhetorical questions in order to gain some attention. Of course, she's already proven that, despite her "warning" that class participation is a big part of the grade, she doesn't care about our participation. Or us.
Class: Teaching math to students with mild learning disabilities.
Ms. D assigned a lesson plan for the first homework assignment on the first day of class. Since she has only learned she would be teaching the class the day before, I remain impressed with her preparation. Granted, there were no comments on the assignment, but we are using them to learn how to write IEP (individual educational programs).
Wait! We're learning in that class. There's a concept. While the class isn't overly challenging to me, I have to remember that I'm not the new teacher this class is designed for and give her a little slack.
The real challenge is going to be dealing with BJ, who gasped when she realized that, oh noes!, she has to write a different IEP for each discipline the student needs one for, as well as a separate IEP for any behavior or emotional issues. She was visibly not happy.
I missed the memo that special education did not require paperwork; in fact, I thought it was partly responsible for the Amazon's decreased tress.
Next up: Behavior/Emotional Disorders.
Dr. D's first day of class met her with a meeting that ran into class time and no ordered book. As she had only been employed here for a week, she had not had time to order a book and was frustrated that one had not been ordered. That's understandable. Having an attitude with her class and verbally chastising us for this, however, is not. Homework was to read a power point presentation that she had printed out for us.
This week's class, she seemed to be in a better mood. Books arrived 30 minutes prior to class, so while few of us had them, at least they're available. She tried to learn names when she spoke with us. She seemed a little friendlier.
Then she opened the power point presentation, the same one we had read for homework, and proceeded to read it to us slide. by. slide. Why should I spend time reading and doing homework if I'm going to be doing the same thing in class? I could be doing so many other more interesting things, such as washing my hair or returning videos.
Somewhere in between page 4 and 5 of the 3-slides-per-page presentation, she sidetracked into her own experiences. At least this gave me the opportunity to wake up and quit hitting my hand with an open pen to stay awake. She told a story of a student with an emotional problem whose IEP had stated he was too dangerous to actually be in school; the school allowed him in and during the school year, he stabbed another student in the ear with a pencil, causing severe damage.
Wow. She caught my attention, but I did have a question: Where is the system of checks and balances for school systems that do not follow an IEP?
Her answer: She told a story of a student with an emotional problem whose IEP had stated he was too dangerous to actually be in school; the school allowed him in and during the school year, he stabbed another student in the ear with a pencil, causing severe damage.
No, I did not make a mistake in repeating that. She repeated the story for an answer. Maybe my question wasn't clear (though, "checks and balances" is pretty clear language): I asked the same question but in a slightly clearer way.
Her answer: She told a story of a student with an emotional problem whose IEP had stated he was too dangerous to actually be in school; the school allowed him in and during the school year, he stabbed another student in the ear with a pencil, causing severe damage.
I gave up.
Next time: Reading, Curriculum, and LD.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Real world expectations vs. Real world time wasters
I spent my afternoon with a nine year old and a six year old playing Scrabble and reading books. The youngest is learning phonemes and how to use sounds to read; the oldest is trying her hardest to not learn multiplication tables. The girls wanted to play, so after telling the oldest she would be the score keeper and that I would help out the youngest, we were set.
The oldest dominated the game (I helped both of them), and the youngest was bored after an hour (that was 30 minutes longer than it took me), but it really was successful. "Tines" turned into an opportunity to teach the youngest about forks; an extra "ge" became an opportunity for the oldest to morph "tin" into "tinge." Double and triple word scores? A chance for our stubborn score keeper to use multiplication.
This isn't that exciting to others, perhaps, but it's cool to see the different ways little things we as adults enjoy doing can be used to help the little ones learn. And honestly, it's a helluva lot more exciting than 4 of my 5 classes (online doesn't count). In the last week, one instructor has read straight out of the book ver batim. Another has read to us from a power point presentation she gave us to read for homework the week before--ver. batim.
I'm accustomed to real conversations, analyzing essays and authors and questioning procedures, infering consequences, and asking a lot of "Why?" So far, no go. If this is the instruction that teachers are receiving, then I better understand why our educational system is going to hell in a handbasket, NCLB be damned. For the record, I don't think it's all the students' faults.
Tomorrow I'll go into more detail; for the moment, I'm going to bash my head against a wall to prepare for tomorrow's "lecture" that will probably be more of the same anecdotal evidence that so far has done absolutely nothing to assist any of us. I'm not the only one feeling this way, as evidenced by the student sitting two desks behind me who, upon exiting the row, threw her books down and hissed, "This class is a waste of time! We've been talking about the same crap for the last two weeks."
She's not exaggerating. I know there's lots to be said for theory vs. practice, but in this case, I think we all want more theory before we are, in a few short weeks, thrown into the practice.
The oldest dominated the game (I helped both of them), and the youngest was bored after an hour (that was 30 minutes longer than it took me), but it really was successful. "Tines" turned into an opportunity to teach the youngest about forks; an extra "ge" became an opportunity for the oldest to morph "tin" into "tinge." Double and triple word scores? A chance for our stubborn score keeper to use multiplication.
This isn't that exciting to others, perhaps, but it's cool to see the different ways little things we as adults enjoy doing can be used to help the little ones learn. And honestly, it's a helluva lot more exciting than 4 of my 5 classes (online doesn't count). In the last week, one instructor has read straight out of the book ver batim. Another has read to us from a power point presentation she gave us to read for homework the week before--ver. batim.
I'm accustomed to real conversations, analyzing essays and authors and questioning procedures, infering consequences, and asking a lot of "Why?" So far, no go. If this is the instruction that teachers are receiving, then I better understand why our educational system is going to hell in a handbasket, NCLB be damned. For the record, I don't think it's all the students' faults.
Tomorrow I'll go into more detail; for the moment, I'm going to bash my head against a wall to prepare for tomorrow's "lecture" that will probably be more of the same anecdotal evidence that so far has done absolutely nothing to assist any of us. I'm not the only one feeling this way, as evidenced by the student sitting two desks behind me who, upon exiting the row, threw her books down and hissed, "This class is a waste of time! We've been talking about the same crap for the last two weeks."
She's not exaggerating. I know there's lots to be said for theory vs. practice, but in this case, I think we all want more theory before we are, in a few short weeks, thrown into the practice.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Dear Fellow Student who feels the need to bring her child to class,
I appreciate that it must be difficult to have children and be in school while your child's school has not yet begun. I understand that sometimes there is a need to bring your child to class because of this and honestly, I don't have a problem with that.
However, is it necessary to be ten minutes late to class every single day? I'm amazed that you accomplish this for almost every class; you were late for the 11:30 class, which may be because you had to drive behind a tobacco truck or someone who mistook the 55 mph speed limit sign for 25. Why, though, were you ten minutes late for the 4:00 class that was postponed until 5:00? Did you drive the hour long commute home? Or is it planned?
It's your grade, though, so I shouldn't be too harsh, except when you're late, you pull your suitcase/backpack into the room, causing more noise than should be possible. And you have your child, who you then need to settle in. He's in the 3rd grade, but still you find it necessary to give him coloring books and crayons from your backpack.
Here's an idea. Give him a backpack and let him be responsible. Cut the apron strings. His future wife will appreciate it. Seriously, I've had parents with children younger than him attend classes and they were responsible for their own entertainment. Guess what? It worked.
But your excuse is that he's dyslexic. How do I know this? Why, you've felt the need to discuss this in every. single. class. We have five classes on campus together and you've mentioned this, in detail, in every single one. Listen, I understand that he's your inspiration for entering the field of special education and that you're proud of him. Here's a secret, though: all of us entering this field have something for inspiration. You are not special in this. Special education is not a field someone enters because it seems easy, or because it pays so well, or because there is no paperwork involved. On the contrary. But there are at least 8 other people who have to listen to you tell the same story over and over and over, every day, in five different classes. We're tired of it.
(You have yet to post on the online class's discussion board. The instructions tell us to use our own experiences as well as what the book writes. Experiences in this case refers to in the classroom, not what classes and special schools your son has attended.)
One more thing. Remember that there are 8 other people trying to achieve this same degree (though sometimes the classes have 25 students)? This means that maybe, just possibly, we'd like to hear about something other than your son and his experiences. We probably are more interested in hearing about, say, how to teach math than we are interested in hearing you discuss that you didn't know your son knew where the year is located on a penny. I know I'd love to learn more about mathematics in particular because that is the one subject I have the least amount of experience in. If you monopolize all the time, though, you're shortchanging us and really, that isn't fair.
You don't need to get a babysitter; feel free to bring your kid to class. He seems nice and he's fairly quiet. But really, all of the attention does not need to be on you.
Signed,
The chick who wants to learn about something else.
I appreciate that it must be difficult to have children and be in school while your child's school has not yet begun. I understand that sometimes there is a need to bring your child to class because of this and honestly, I don't have a problem with that.
However, is it necessary to be ten minutes late to class every single day? I'm amazed that you accomplish this for almost every class; you were late for the 11:30 class, which may be because you had to drive behind a tobacco truck or someone who mistook the 55 mph speed limit sign for 25. Why, though, were you ten minutes late for the 4:00 class that was postponed until 5:00? Did you drive the hour long commute home? Or is it planned?
It's your grade, though, so I shouldn't be too harsh, except when you're late, you pull your suitcase/backpack into the room, causing more noise than should be possible. And you have your child, who you then need to settle in. He's in the 3rd grade, but still you find it necessary to give him coloring books and crayons from your backpack.
Here's an idea. Give him a backpack and let him be responsible. Cut the apron strings. His future wife will appreciate it. Seriously, I've had parents with children younger than him attend classes and they were responsible for their own entertainment. Guess what? It worked.
But your excuse is that he's dyslexic. How do I know this? Why, you've felt the need to discuss this in every. single. class. We have five classes on campus together and you've mentioned this, in detail, in every single one. Listen, I understand that he's your inspiration for entering the field of special education and that you're proud of him. Here's a secret, though: all of us entering this field have something for inspiration. You are not special in this. Special education is not a field someone enters because it seems easy, or because it pays so well, or because there is no paperwork involved. On the contrary. But there are at least 8 other people who have to listen to you tell the same story over and over and over, every day, in five different classes. We're tired of it.
(You have yet to post on the online class's discussion board. The instructions tell us to use our own experiences as well as what the book writes. Experiences in this case refers to in the classroom, not what classes and special schools your son has attended.)
One more thing. Remember that there are 8 other people trying to achieve this same degree (though sometimes the classes have 25 students)? This means that maybe, just possibly, we'd like to hear about something other than your son and his experiences. We probably are more interested in hearing about, say, how to teach math than we are interested in hearing you discuss that you didn't know your son knew where the year is located on a penny. I know I'd love to learn more about mathematics in particular because that is the one subject I have the least amount of experience in. If you monopolize all the time, though, you're shortchanging us and really, that isn't fair.
You don't need to get a babysitter; feel free to bring your kid to class. He seems nice and he's fairly quiet. But really, all of the attention does not need to be on you.
Signed,
The chick who wants to learn about something else.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Cell Hell
I do not want to hear a stranger's phone call.
This is not to say that there are no appropriate times to have cell phone conversations. Outside? Check. In the privacy of an automobile? Check.
In a class while I'm trying to work? Please, no.
I have two classes Monday afternoon and one Monday evenings, which leaves me with a two and a half hour break between classes. Since I commute thirty miles, there's really no reason to drive home only to turn around. Besides, why do that when I can use the wonderful resources the university provides and prepare for classes at school instead of taking time away from my night?
After my second afternoon class, I went to a resource room to write notes on the reading. It's how I study. There were seven tables in the room, six of which were free. I took one, which left five free. These are large tables with the very uncomfortable wooden chairs schools are so widely known for.
I had barely had time to start reading when a rather large woman entered the room and sat down at the same table as I. Now, I don't claim to own the tables in this room. Were the room full, I'd have shared my seat with her, had that been possible. But sitting down almost next to me, when there were clearly so many other tables available in the large room, when I was clearly trying to work? This I did not understand.
To make matters worse, she was talking on her cell phone. Loudly.
I'm normally a nice person. I'm quiet, keep to myself, and have a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor that, if I'm not careful, will quietly attack a person before he or she realizes it. I also have a look I can give. Everyone knows the look; it's the look that begs the person to please, explain what drugs was Mom taking when she decided to not continue with the abortion that was so obviously in progress. Because really, what else can explain your existence?
Apparently, I gave her that look, the one I'm usually so careful to conceal unless it's warranted. Since I had just run a mile in 100 degree weather because the computer center decided it needed to see a photo identifation simply because I dared to walk in rather than call, then so be it. I'm not going to hide my frustration.
To her credit, this rather large woman did stop her conversation long enough to quietly (?) ask me if someone was sitting where her belongings were located. When I shook my head no, she continued on with her conversation, even more loudly than before. After a few seconds of my staring at her, she took her books and cell phone conversation and left the room.
Of course, this probably would not have bothered me so much had it not repeated itself once I was in the classroom for my evening class. I was deeply involved with my notes when my classmate came in and threw her books down; this was only an introduction as she, too, decided to share her phone conversation with everyone else in the room.
How lucky I was that I was the audience.
This is not to say that there are no appropriate times to have cell phone conversations. Outside? Check. In the privacy of an automobile? Check.
In a class while I'm trying to work? Please, no.
I have two classes Monday afternoon and one Monday evenings, which leaves me with a two and a half hour break between classes. Since I commute thirty miles, there's really no reason to drive home only to turn around. Besides, why do that when I can use the wonderful resources the university provides and prepare for classes at school instead of taking time away from my night?
After my second afternoon class, I went to a resource room to write notes on the reading. It's how I study. There were seven tables in the room, six of which were free. I took one, which left five free. These are large tables with the very uncomfortable wooden chairs schools are so widely known for.
I had barely had time to start reading when a rather large woman entered the room and sat down at the same table as I. Now, I don't claim to own the tables in this room. Were the room full, I'd have shared my seat with her, had that been possible. But sitting down almost next to me, when there were clearly so many other tables available in the large room, when I was clearly trying to work? This I did not understand.
To make matters worse, she was talking on her cell phone. Loudly.
I'm normally a nice person. I'm quiet, keep to myself, and have a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor that, if I'm not careful, will quietly attack a person before he or she realizes it. I also have a look I can give. Everyone knows the look; it's the look that begs the person to please, explain what drugs was Mom taking when she decided to not continue with the abortion that was so obviously in progress. Because really, what else can explain your existence?
Apparently, I gave her that look, the one I'm usually so careful to conceal unless it's warranted. Since I had just run a mile in 100 degree weather because the computer center decided it needed to see a photo identifation simply because I dared to walk in rather than call, then so be it. I'm not going to hide my frustration.
To her credit, this rather large woman did stop her conversation long enough to quietly (?) ask me if someone was sitting where her belongings were located. When I shook my head no, she continued on with her conversation, even more loudly than before. After a few seconds of my staring at her, she took her books and cell phone conversation and left the room.
Of course, this probably would not have bothered me so much had it not repeated itself once I was in the classroom for my evening class. I was deeply involved with my notes when my classmate came in and threw her books down; this was only an introduction as she, too, decided to share her phone conversation with everyone else in the room.
How lucky I was that I was the audience.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
"Why?"
Since I've told only a few people about my decision to return to school after a decade layoff, I've had to herald only a few questions.
The most popular is, of course, why?
Well, why not? I want to teach special needs kids, and this is the next step in that process. Fortunately, it's a rather short step, too. I'll be teaching next August.
But you could be teaching already! True. I could also be climbing Mt. Everest. Despite the evidence to the contrary, there is a correlation. To be a better climber, I would need to spend time preparing. Think of school as my preparation time.
But you already have a graduate degree! Yeah, and? Still need the certification. Plus, that whole wanting to be better at my job thing.
What about money? You need money to do [insert any amount of things that I don't do and only a few that I do].
Ok, let's talk money. My boyfriend is currently deployed, which means, much to his dismay because he doesn't understand, that I do not go out on weekends. Sure, I could go out to clubs, and once in a while I go to the dive bar across the street if it's early enough that the locals aren't there, but c'mon. I live in a military town; for a female to go out and about when her other half is deployed is basically an announcement to the rest of the military that there is fresh meat on the market.
And even if I did go out, and unlike the rest of Ft. *****, behaved, it wouldn't matter. The rumor mill is strong here and although he and I have discussed not believing rumors and what not, he would hear from a friend that a friend of a friend saw me doing something with someone in a bathroom at one of the clubs. He probably wouldn't believe the rumor but really, I don't want to take the chance.
(When I was still single, right after my divorce, I did go out to the clubs. One night in particular a soldier offered to buy me a drink; who am I to turn down a free drink? We started talking and he mentioned that he was just back from a country in South America. About the time the conversation became really interesting, a woman in her 30s walked over to us and whispered in my ear, "The guy you're talking to? He's a great fuck. I get with him every time my husband is deployed." I decided to buy my own drinks the rest of the night.)
This line around me? It's the partition for the start of the drama free zone. If I want to drink, I'll grab a bottle of wine or a case and divvy it up with my friends outside. I'm not about to take the risk that just because I was bored and decided to go to the local meat market, all hell would break loose. It's my decision, and mine alone, and I support this decision.
Moving along. The boyfriend is deployed and I'm taking care of his place until he returns next year. This means that I actually have room and board and electricity and Internet paid for, courtesy of Uncle Sam, for the next year. All I have to worry about are my own personal bills, and I've saved up for those.
And another thing? The money issue really isn't anyone's business. Why complete strangers feel the need to ask me, "How are you going to go to school and not work and pay for things?" is beyond me. My only retaliation is to ask them how they manage to pay for their cars and homes and guns and whatnot while living on a blue collar salary.
That actually segues nicely to the next point. This area is a crime-infested, drug-addicted, meth-making hellhole that will suck the soul out of anyone who lets it. The only jobs available to the non military are in factories, convenience stores, or the local prisons.
Yes, prisons is plural. When I drove through Arkansas, there was a billboard I passed advertising for prison guards. In the picture was an attractive brunette and the words, "Prison Guards: Job Security" written beside her. The pun was cute but the message? That could apply here.
On occasion, I go online and search the state prison website to see who I might know. I've found quite a few people I went to high school with, which explains why they missed the high school reunion. I'm still looking for my brother's picture; he's been to prison at least four times in the past five years, but his picture isn't online. He must have one heck of a lawyer.
So that would be the other reason, as two fold as it is. I do not want to work in a factory, or a convenience store, or a prison. I also want to help students stay out of the latter, if that is at all possible in this area. If they choose to work in a factory or convenience store or even work in a prison, then so be it. Those are respectable jobs.
Most importantly, though, this is what I want to do and I'm going to do it. If I were to wait until a "better" time, I might never go. There's no such thing as a "better" time if there is something a person wants. There might be preparation needed, and there might be planning, but if there's something to go after, we might as well take a risk and go after it. Even a risk not taken is still a risk.
The most popular is, of course, why?
Well, why not? I want to teach special needs kids, and this is the next step in that process. Fortunately, it's a rather short step, too. I'll be teaching next August.
But you could be teaching already! True. I could also be climbing Mt. Everest. Despite the evidence to the contrary, there is a correlation. To be a better climber, I would need to spend time preparing. Think of school as my preparation time.
But you already have a graduate degree! Yeah, and? Still need the certification. Plus, that whole wanting to be better at my job thing.
What about money? You need money to do [insert any amount of things that I don't do and only a few that I do].
Ok, let's talk money. My boyfriend is currently deployed, which means, much to his dismay because he doesn't understand, that I do not go out on weekends. Sure, I could go out to clubs, and once in a while I go to the dive bar across the street if it's early enough that the locals aren't there, but c'mon. I live in a military town; for a female to go out and about when her other half is deployed is basically an announcement to the rest of the military that there is fresh meat on the market.
And even if I did go out, and unlike the rest of Ft. *****, behaved, it wouldn't matter. The rumor mill is strong here and although he and I have discussed not believing rumors and what not, he would hear from a friend that a friend of a friend saw me doing something with someone in a bathroom at one of the clubs. He probably wouldn't believe the rumor but really, I don't want to take the chance.
(When I was still single, right after my divorce, I did go out to the clubs. One night in particular a soldier offered to buy me a drink; who am I to turn down a free drink? We started talking and he mentioned that he was just back from a country in South America. About the time the conversation became really interesting, a woman in her 30s walked over to us and whispered in my ear, "The guy you're talking to? He's a great fuck. I get with him every time my husband is deployed." I decided to buy my own drinks the rest of the night.)
This line around me? It's the partition for the start of the drama free zone. If I want to drink, I'll grab a bottle of wine or a case and divvy it up with my friends outside. I'm not about to take the risk that just because I was bored and decided to go to the local meat market, all hell would break loose. It's my decision, and mine alone, and I support this decision.
Moving along. The boyfriend is deployed and I'm taking care of his place until he returns next year. This means that I actually have room and board and electricity and Internet paid for, courtesy of Uncle Sam, for the next year. All I have to worry about are my own personal bills, and I've saved up for those.
And another thing? The money issue really isn't anyone's business. Why complete strangers feel the need to ask me, "How are you going to go to school and not work and pay for things?" is beyond me. My only retaliation is to ask them how they manage to pay for their cars and homes and guns and whatnot while living on a blue collar salary.
That actually segues nicely to the next point. This area is a crime-infested, drug-addicted, meth-making hellhole that will suck the soul out of anyone who lets it. The only jobs available to the non military are in factories, convenience stores, or the local prisons.
Yes, prisons is plural. When I drove through Arkansas, there was a billboard I passed advertising for prison guards. In the picture was an attractive brunette and the words, "Prison Guards: Job Security" written beside her. The pun was cute but the message? That could apply here.
On occasion, I go online and search the state prison website to see who I might know. I've found quite a few people I went to high school with, which explains why they missed the high school reunion. I'm still looking for my brother's picture; he's been to prison at least four times in the past five years, but his picture isn't online. He must have one heck of a lawyer.
So that would be the other reason, as two fold as it is. I do not want to work in a factory, or a convenience store, or a prison. I also want to help students stay out of the latter, if that is at all possible in this area. If they choose to work in a factory or convenience store or even work in a prison, then so be it. Those are respectable jobs.
Most importantly, though, this is what I want to do and I'm going to do it. If I were to wait until a "better" time, I might never go. There's no such thing as a "better" time if there is something a person wants. There might be preparation needed, and there might be planning, but if there's something to go after, we might as well take a risk and go after it. Even a risk not taken is still a risk.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Welcome to the Jungle. I'm going to make you bleed.
Today marked my first foray into the classroom as a "real" student in ten years. I knew it would be an exciting adventure filled with moonbeams and brilliant colors of the rainbow and fireworks when I began this wonderful experience of learning.
Or not.
Fortunately, I decided to leave an hour earlier than I needed to, just in case. This happened to be the very best idea of the day, as I found myself traveling behind a tobacco-filled truck at 40 miles per hour in a 55 miles per hour zone for fifteen miles. The incoming traffic ensured there would be no passing but that's ok. I was calm. I was early.
The multiple roads closed around the school due to road work proved another hurdle, but still, I'm cool. I'm early.
I had to park in the new parking area, across the street at the new football stadium because, at 11 a.m., that was the only parking space available, but still, it's all good. I'm early. Besides, it's only 95 degrees outside and two weeks ago, in a fit of adventurous moxie, I was driving through the Mojave Desert when it was 120 outside. It's not temperature cool, but I'm still feeling like this is the best day ever.
Then I noticed that I would be forced to jaywalk. See, when the school decided to expand to the area across the street, they spent an entire year building side walks for students so they could safely walk to the football stadium and to the apartments that are less than half a mile away. What the school failed to do at any point, however, was place cross walks anywhere that connect the football stadium and parking lot to the main campus. I suppose this isn't really a big deal; I was only attuned to the lack of crosswalks because every other city I've been in lately has them and enforces their use. Besides, I'm sure the school will one day decide they're actually needed and will spend a couple of years putting them in place, right after a student is hit by a car doing 60 on the road that divides the two areas of campus, what we from the country call a back country road.
This is when I resigned myself to the fact that no, I'm not in Kansas anymore. Or even Birmingham, Alabama, which I swear has crosswalks.
After arriving in class twenty minutes early, I sat and started taking down the notes the professor had on the board. It seemed like a good idea at the time, I knew I would need the information sooner or later and besides, I was bored and didn't know any of the students coming in. Class began, yadda yadda. We've all been to a class before, so we all know that the first day of class is boring, filled with initroductions and silly games that teachers use as time fillers until the real work begins.
Still, despite the fact that this was only the first day of class, there were quite a few gems.
There were the other two ladies sitting at the same table as I, probably early 20s, who decided to talk about their summer vacation and book buying experience and text message while Dr. S. was doing a class activity. At one point while I was trying not to listen, I heard one of them ask the other in a loud whisper, "Girl, is you telling the truth?"
Did I mention this is a 300-level literacy class for elementary education majors?
Then there was the activity we did, which was to use scissors to cut out a character Dr. S. had already photocopied and then write the title of a children's book and the author's name. One this was done, we would tell the rest of the class what book we had chosen and place it on the board in the area with its corresponding genre.
For example, I wrote Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself, by Judy Blume, and placed it in the realistic fiction genre. Simple, right?
Three students out of the twelve did not choose Dr. Suess. The professor felt it necessary to explain the difference between fiction and non fiction.
This is a 300 level literacy class for elementary education majors, people who have had to have taken other education classes and have, the hope is, actually observed in a classroom at some point during their college career.
We would have been dismissed from class early, but the professor decided to let us know her biggest pet peeve, which involves the letter k. Apparently, elementary teachers are teaching children how to write the lowercase letter "k" wrong. It should be (imagine the lines are lined paper):
___________
_________
_/
_\________
Not:
_________
__/
_/____
_\
__\____
I'm sure I haven't thought about this in quite some time. I can't say it was 20 minutes, let the students out of class late interesting, however.
The next class had even more in store for me. Is I serious? You bet I is. One of my fears in returning to school was being "that" student. Everyone knows "that" student. She's the one who asks a million questions and shares her life history while annoying the professor and taking time away from the actual goal of the class--talking about anything but her.
I should not have feared.
The class is a methods of teaching math to students with mild disabilities. I love math but I'm horrible at teaching it, so I'm quite interested in this particular subject. Plus, I've paid a lot of money to be here. Give me my education, please.
The professor for the class is not the one scheduled, as the original professor was in a car accident and is in ICU for the next few weeks. Since this all transpired yesterday, Dr. T. was a little frazzled but, as she explained, she loves math, she loves technology, and this will be a fun class for as long as she's in there.
Then, "she" started. "She" looks like Bette Davis's character from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, complete with the very pale skin with white powder covering and hair that is only missing a bow. BJ was only two seats over from me and I was still scared to look at her too closely, afraid I would be either blinded by the paleness of her skin and hair combo or would be sucked into the vortex that is her mind.
BJ exclaimed, after learning that we would be using, gasp, computers!, that she didn't need to learn any of that math stuff, since she would be teaching kindergarteners and they don't need to be tested on math, which somehow apparently translates to kindergartners would not need to actually learn math, either. And computers? Pshaw. BJ is a non traditional student and hasn't used a computer since, well, ever, as she was last a student in the Dark Ages and they didn't have those confounded machines around then.
This is about the time BJ and Dr. T began the "I'm older than you," "No, I'm older than you" conversation. Sorry, Dr. T., but I think BJ wins this round.
After calmly explaining that just because children are not tested on a subject does not mean they should not learn the subject, because there is this thing called base-learning, BJ fought it some more. The rest of the class had a blank look on its collective face. Dr. T. remained quite calm, but I could hear more of her northern accent escaping as she politely explained what a standard course of study is and that there are still goals for children. Even in kindergarten.
I doubt BJ believes her.
Basically, I learned two things today:
Conjugating verbs is subjective.
Computers is the devil.
Or not.
Fortunately, I decided to leave an hour earlier than I needed to, just in case. This happened to be the very best idea of the day, as I found myself traveling behind a tobacco-filled truck at 40 miles per hour in a 55 miles per hour zone for fifteen miles. The incoming traffic ensured there would be no passing but that's ok. I was calm. I was early.
The multiple roads closed around the school due to road work proved another hurdle, but still, I'm cool. I'm early.
I had to park in the new parking area, across the street at the new football stadium because, at 11 a.m., that was the only parking space available, but still, it's all good. I'm early. Besides, it's only 95 degrees outside and two weeks ago, in a fit of adventurous moxie, I was driving through the Mojave Desert when it was 120 outside. It's not temperature cool, but I'm still feeling like this is the best day ever.
Then I noticed that I would be forced to jaywalk. See, when the school decided to expand to the area across the street, they spent an entire year building side walks for students so they could safely walk to the football stadium and to the apartments that are less than half a mile away. What the school failed to do at any point, however, was place cross walks anywhere that connect the football stadium and parking lot to the main campus. I suppose this isn't really a big deal; I was only attuned to the lack of crosswalks because every other city I've been in lately has them and enforces their use. Besides, I'm sure the school will one day decide they're actually needed and will spend a couple of years putting them in place, right after a student is hit by a car doing 60 on the road that divides the two areas of campus, what we from the country call a back country road.
This is when I resigned myself to the fact that no, I'm not in Kansas anymore. Or even Birmingham, Alabama, which I swear has crosswalks.
After arriving in class twenty minutes early, I sat and started taking down the notes the professor had on the board. It seemed like a good idea at the time, I knew I would need the information sooner or later and besides, I was bored and didn't know any of the students coming in. Class began, yadda yadda. We've all been to a class before, so we all know that the first day of class is boring, filled with initroductions and silly games that teachers use as time fillers until the real work begins.
Still, despite the fact that this was only the first day of class, there were quite a few gems.
There were the other two ladies sitting at the same table as I, probably early 20s, who decided to talk about their summer vacation and book buying experience and text message while Dr. S. was doing a class activity. At one point while I was trying not to listen, I heard one of them ask the other in a loud whisper, "Girl, is you telling the truth?"
Did I mention this is a 300-level literacy class for elementary education majors?
Then there was the activity we did, which was to use scissors to cut out a character Dr. S. had already photocopied and then write the title of a children's book and the author's name. One this was done, we would tell the rest of the class what book we had chosen and place it on the board in the area with its corresponding genre.
For example, I wrote Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself, by Judy Blume, and placed it in the realistic fiction genre. Simple, right?
Three students out of the twelve did not choose Dr. Suess. The professor felt it necessary to explain the difference between fiction and non fiction.
This is a 300 level literacy class for elementary education majors, people who have had to have taken other education classes and have, the hope is, actually observed in a classroom at some point during their college career.
We would have been dismissed from class early, but the professor decided to let us know her biggest pet peeve, which involves the letter k. Apparently, elementary teachers are teaching children how to write the lowercase letter "k" wrong. It should be (imagine the lines are lined paper):
___________
_________
_/
_\________
Not:
_________
__/
_/____
_\
__\____
I'm sure I haven't thought about this in quite some time. I can't say it was 20 minutes, let the students out of class late interesting, however.
The next class had even more in store for me. Is I serious? You bet I is. One of my fears in returning to school was being "that" student. Everyone knows "that" student. She's the one who asks a million questions and shares her life history while annoying the professor and taking time away from the actual goal of the class--talking about anything but her.
I should not have feared.
The class is a methods of teaching math to students with mild disabilities. I love math but I'm horrible at teaching it, so I'm quite interested in this particular subject. Plus, I've paid a lot of money to be here. Give me my education, please.
The professor for the class is not the one scheduled, as the original professor was in a car accident and is in ICU for the next few weeks. Since this all transpired yesterday, Dr. T. was a little frazzled but, as she explained, she loves math, she loves technology, and this will be a fun class for as long as she's in there.
Then, "she" started. "She" looks like Bette Davis's character from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, complete with the very pale skin with white powder covering and hair that is only missing a bow. BJ was only two seats over from me and I was still scared to look at her too closely, afraid I would be either blinded by the paleness of her skin and hair combo or would be sucked into the vortex that is her mind.
BJ exclaimed, after learning that we would be using, gasp, computers!, that she didn't need to learn any of that math stuff, since she would be teaching kindergarteners and they don't need to be tested on math, which somehow apparently translates to kindergartners would not need to actually learn math, either. And computers? Pshaw. BJ is a non traditional student and hasn't used a computer since, well, ever, as she was last a student in the Dark Ages and they didn't have those confounded machines around then.
This is about the time BJ and Dr. T began the "I'm older than you," "No, I'm older than you" conversation. Sorry, Dr. T., but I think BJ wins this round.
After calmly explaining that just because children are not tested on a subject does not mean they should not learn the subject, because there is this thing called base-learning, BJ fought it some more. The rest of the class had a blank look on its collective face. Dr. T. remained quite calm, but I could hear more of her northern accent escaping as she politely explained what a standard course of study is and that there are still goals for children. Even in kindergarten.
I doubt BJ believes her.
Basically, I learned two things today:
Conjugating verbs is subjective.
Computers is the devil.
Firsts, or On new beginnings, new associations, and being thrown to the fishes.
It's 7:30 a.m. I'm on my second cup of coffee, having been awake since 0430, and I'm wide awake and a more than a little nervous about my upcoming day when, after having secured an undergraduate and graduate degree and after having been employed as a college instructor for the last six years, I will, in less than four hours, be a non-traditional college student. There are so many things wrong with that previous paragraph, the least of which is, I'm sure, the grammar. It's early and I'm cranky. So be it.
Allow me to backtrack for a moment. A few months ago, the department where I had worked since 2001 decided it no longer wanted to employ those of us who "only have M.A. degrees" and set about unemploying a few of us. I was one of the few. Instead of drowning my sorrows in rum and coke for the rest of the semester, I decided to only drown my liver for a week, then set about deciding what path I wanted to follow. Since I had graduated with nine hours more than I needed and had taken education courses while I was teaching, and had decided while teaching that I really enjoyed working with students, my heart told me that the next logical step would be to go ahead and finish my teaching certification.
My brain has had serious reservations about all of this, by the way, but I'll return to that in a moment.
My Heart knows that I've really, really enjoyed working with the, shall I say, less advantaged students, those also known as disabled, learning impaired, behaviorally/emotionally handicapped, and sometimes, in the dark of night when I'm alone and can say it aloud, the "How in the holy hell did this kid ever get accepted into college?" I've loved every moment of it, I write in retrospect, and I know I've learned a lot from these students, so I've decided to become certified to teach Special Education Students.
Unlike my heart, which a former boyfriend once called ice-cold for some reason he never explained, my brain has very serious reservations about all of this. Among the reasons include a lack of insurance, a lack of income, and a lack of familial support.
The most important reservation? I'm attending the very same school that just unemployed me after six years of teaching. Not only am I going to place myself into a new situation in a new discipline in a new department, but I'm going to do it while on the same land as the department I formerly worked for. Fortunately, the brain has been overruled on almost all points, except the last one. In that case, my brain and heart both agree that the best course of action is to avoid seeing anyone from that department at all costs. There are trees located on campus and I have no problem hiding behind them should I see someone I recognize walking along the sidewalk. To say our parting was acrimonious would be an understatement. *1
One last parting word: I've worked with many of the same students who will, in less than three hours now, be my peers. Now, as an education major in this state, students must take and pass the Praxis I text (I don't because of my degrees). A lot of the students who are my new peers have trouble passing this test, with its three sections: math (basic algebra), reading/grammar (basic comprehension/subject and verb agreement) and writing (basic thesis and two supporting paragraphs, with an introduction and conclusion and all the pretty grammar and spelling one would expect of a teacher). This section of the state is one of the poorest, worst educated areas. The county's claim to fame a few years ago was being ranked number one in number of syphylls cases. I expect to be highly amused.
So today is the day. This is the introduction and while I'm not yet a certified teacher, I will be writing about my fellow peers as well as my own journey on this road to certification. Expect some laughter, some tears, and some comments when I do my school observations.This should be an interesting ride.
1. I'll explain this at a further date.
Allow me to backtrack for a moment. A few months ago, the department where I had worked since 2001 decided it no longer wanted to employ those of us who "only have M.A. degrees" and set about unemploying a few of us. I was one of the few. Instead of drowning my sorrows in rum and coke for the rest of the semester, I decided to only drown my liver for a week, then set about deciding what path I wanted to follow. Since I had graduated with nine hours more than I needed and had taken education courses while I was teaching, and had decided while teaching that I really enjoyed working with students, my heart told me that the next logical step would be to go ahead and finish my teaching certification.
My brain has had serious reservations about all of this, by the way, but I'll return to that in a moment.
My Heart knows that I've really, really enjoyed working with the, shall I say, less advantaged students, those also known as disabled, learning impaired, behaviorally/emotionally handicapped, and sometimes, in the dark of night when I'm alone and can say it aloud, the "How in the holy hell did this kid ever get accepted into college?" I've loved every moment of it, I write in retrospect, and I know I've learned a lot from these students, so I've decided to become certified to teach Special Education Students.
Unlike my heart, which a former boyfriend once called ice-cold for some reason he never explained, my brain has very serious reservations about all of this. Among the reasons include a lack of insurance, a lack of income, and a lack of familial support.
The most important reservation? I'm attending the very same school that just unemployed me after six years of teaching. Not only am I going to place myself into a new situation in a new discipline in a new department, but I'm going to do it while on the same land as the department I formerly worked for. Fortunately, the brain has been overruled on almost all points, except the last one. In that case, my brain and heart both agree that the best course of action is to avoid seeing anyone from that department at all costs. There are trees located on campus and I have no problem hiding behind them should I see someone I recognize walking along the sidewalk. To say our parting was acrimonious would be an understatement. *1
One last parting word: I've worked with many of the same students who will, in less than three hours now, be my peers. Now, as an education major in this state, students must take and pass the Praxis I text (I don't because of my degrees). A lot of the students who are my new peers have trouble passing this test, with its three sections: math (basic algebra), reading/grammar (basic comprehension/subject and verb agreement) and writing (basic thesis and two supporting paragraphs, with an introduction and conclusion and all the pretty grammar and spelling one would expect of a teacher). This section of the state is one of the poorest, worst educated areas. The county's claim to fame a few years ago was being ranked number one in number of syphylls cases. I expect to be highly amused.
So today is the day. This is the introduction and while I'm not yet a certified teacher, I will be writing about my fellow peers as well as my own journey on this road to certification. Expect some laughter, some tears, and some comments when I do my school observations.This should be an interesting ride.
1. I'll explain this at a further date.
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