"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.

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.

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.