Okay, I’ll Play

So everyone’s talking about Di today. I admit to succumbing to tonight’s Dateline special and even that absurdly bad Lifetime movie. The latter, though, to be fair to myself, was just background to grading papers. And yes, I know I said that’s what I’d be doing tonight, but I lied. It’s Friday. I may not have a life here in The Land of Parched Corn, but I don’t have to grade papers on a Friday night.

Back to Princess Diana. Confession: I’ve always had a fascination with British royalty. I started reading Victoria Holt novels at a very early age, which led to checking out every biography I could find for the kings and queens and princes and princesses and mistresses. I also loved reading about other royals like Princess Grace. Thus, when I was a girl and there was this still-young and so pretty embodiment of the royal tradition always in the news, I wanted to know all about her and what it must be like to be her. I read the Morton biography and watched the mini-series.

I guess at some point I grew away from my interest in the princess; at some point in coming of age you realize that even famous people are just that–people. I think I always respected that she really seemed devoted to just being a mom and that she didn’t just give lip service to her charities–she held the baby with AIDS and walked onto the uncleared field of landmines.

Of course I remember exactly where I was when I heard of her death. It’s weird–that was an eventful time for me anyway, as it was just a couple of weeks into my freshman year of college. I was in my dorm room having a frustrating phone call with an old high school…friend, I guess, possibly flame, depending upon whom you ask. He was being all snotty about how I hadn’t kept in touch as I should have and how all my “friends” were mad at me because of it.

On the television was an episode of Early Edition. I think my “friend” and I had reached the benign-chatting portion of our conversation when the news feed began scrolling across the screen that Diana had been in a wreck in Paris and that Dodi was dead. I sat up, said, “hey, wait a minute, have you seen the news?” and read the headlines out loud. He said something to the effect of, “I’m sure she’s fine” and we hung up shortly thereafter.

Later that evening, another now-erstwhile friend came to visit me in the dorm. She was still in high school, but she lived in the area and would sometimes come see me and try to wreak as much havoc with my life and the campus of my college as possible. That night, she was there to give me my belated graduation present and spend the night before we went to Nashville for a James Taylor concert the next day.

We departed for Pizza Hut (how I remember all these crazy details, I’ll never know), and by the time we got back and switched on the TV, it was finally being reported that Diana was dead. I remember feeling really dull about it and not really knowing how to react.

I also remember thinking in the aftermath that it was the most shocking thing I’d ever heard. This was, of course, before 9/11 and its subsequent horrors pretty much took care of our ability to be shocked. She was the most famous woman in the world, she was in her prime…and she was all of a sudden dead. To my 18-year-old sensibilities, there probably wouldn’t be a bigger news story than that.

Now, a decade later, I’m not that much younger than she was when she died. While I’ve not suffered the degradation she did during her life–I’ve never been divorced or had an eating disorder or been hounded by paparazzi–as a grown woman, I have a different perspective on her than I did as an admiring little girl. In her, I recognize that longing–for love, for security, for stability for those she cared most about. I see it in myself all the time these days.

Even a princess isn’t immune to the heartache–the adventure–of being a woman…nor is she above a tragic end. My hope for her was that she really was happy, that she really had finally found love, before her life ended. Then again, I guess that’s all any of us mortals can hope for.

I’m now in love with my Mac; or, Confessions of a non-hipster

Dude! I get it now. I spent all day being trained on its educational capabilities and was inadvertently schooled in why it’s just better. The things I’ve complained about–not being able to right-click, for example–are actually non-issues.

So anyway, I’d wanted a Mac for a long time, mainly out of curiosity and that little remaining piece of counterculture in me that has faded but not completely gone away since I was in high school. Then I learned that the school system I had just signed a contract with provides each teacher with an iBook (though you have to pay for things like markers for the whiteboard in your classroom out of your own pocket–but that’s another story). I was pretty psyched.

Tangent: I have this weird thing about being fascinated by hipsters (see video below) but utterly offended if you try to accuse me of being one. (Same with hippies/intellectuals/whatever other label I’ve been stuck with at different times.) Yet, though it’s not my intention, I often show all the signs of trying to be one–the tortoiseshell glasses, the obscure band t-shirts, the little bobby pins securing my deeply-parted long bangs on the other side of my face. And, I’m admittedly not as mainstream in a lot of my tastes (though, really, a real indie-hipster type would apathetically sneer at my CD case).

Thus, when Macs became known as the “alternative” choice in computers–the ones sticking it to an evil corporate empire–I of course really wanted one. Then, though, I overanalyzed my desire and wondered if I really just liked the idea of being different–of being individualistic and non-conformist.

I’ve done this with many things–bands, for one. Usually a few months will help me sort out what I really like and what I just think I’m supposed to like. For instance, I still haven’t jumped on the Bright Eyes bandwagon, though I know, based upon my other tastes, that he’s supposed to be my anti-hero. I must admit that there was usually a little internal satisfaction experienced when I lived in Alabama and no one had heard of the artists I liked, and when someone did, they were usually pretty cool. Ironically, once I hit the Nashville scene, my tastes were hopelessly mainstream.

And I still don’t own a Pink Spiders CD.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve grown more comfortable with just liking what I like. Now, it’s only slightly annoying that I can’t talk about my favorite music with people who live in my area. I have to pick the more well-known artists to discuss, which is fine.

Back to the Mac. (I truly love blogging, because I can relate whatever I want to relate no matter how murky the connection may be to the reader.) Thing is–I just really like its features. I can’t believe how seamlessly everything is integrated, and how everything is drag-and-drop. Once you re-train yourself away from the PC it becomes very obvious how user-friendly it is, regardless of any ideologies/attitudes one might connect with the corporation.

Anyway. I should probably go sip some pinot noir and ponder how to save Darfur now, but instead I think I’ll watch some network television and grade some quizzes.

A Week in the Life

My week:

Monday was horrific, at least the morning was. I had my first breakdown right before school. It went a little something like this:

Me (walking to the teachers’ work room to put my Michelina frozen dinner in the freezer): doh dee doh

[Assistant Principal calls me over.]

Me: mm-hmm?

AP (perpetual “I’m about to roll my eyes” look firmly in place): We have you down for the Mac training Friday, but we can’t hire subs for everyone who’s going, so you’re going to have to help us find people to cover your classes…[insert some more loudly-articulated demands here, but I was already going into avoid-anxiety-attack mode because she scares the crap out of me]

Me: Oh…well, I don’t really know anyone, so if it’s a problem, I can just not go…

AP: NO! I’m NOT trying to make you NOT GO, I’m just telling you that…{again, I’ve tuned out, as I’d been on the verge of tears all morning and am now shifting into must-not-cry mode]

Me: No, really, don’t worry about it, I’ll be here Friday [and please take no notice and let me go because I really need not to cry in front of you and this frozen spaghetti is really cold]

AP: NO! Listen, I WANT you to be able to go, we just need you to find people to COVER your CLASSES because…[insert some more stuff I ignore as I fight the more-urgently-approaching tears and try to think of what I can say to make her leave me alone]

Me: Thank you, I’m really sorry, but I don’t know who I would ask, so I just won’t go, thank you [and if you were actually a woman--yea, even a human--you would HELP ME avoid what is about to be an EXTREMELY awkward situation for both of us, ignore the quiver in my voice, and LET ME WALK AWAY, FOR THE LOVE]

AP (grabbing my arm): WHAT’s the MATTER? I didn’t MEAN to UPSET you! Come here with me!

Me: Oh, it’s okay, and I really have a lot to do before class this morning, so I should just–

AP: Come on BACK to my office, let’s TALK.

Sigh. And talk we did. Basically, it amounted to my sobbing and her trying to make me feel better. She softened up quite a bit and apologized and said she should have known I wouldn’t know whom to ask to take my place Friday and that she’d take care of it for me. Now WHY couldn’t she have said that in the first place?

Anyway, it was good because that’s been coming for a long time. Afterward, besides the standard headache that accompanies a good cry for me, I felt much better the rest of the day. Something about confessing my misery felt very true–as if it were some sort of full disclosure for my employer. Plus, she said she had been impressed with me because I’ve been calling parents. She also said I was sweet and naive, and while she wanted me to keep some of the naivete, I have to be firm and strong.

Whatev.

Tuesday and Wednesday I missed Nashville a lot. I fantasized about what I would do if I were there. I envisioned a day in which I would wear a flowy skirt and walk around Hillsboro Village. Lightning 100 would be playing in the car and I could go spend too much money at Grimey’s. I’d work a late shift, dance around and make myself clandestine beverages at the bar all night, and plan on going home immediately thereafter, but Kelli would call me and persuade me to eat sushi with her and friends at PM instead.

And lots of other stuff.

Today was good. First block is always meh, third is a constant battle for control, and fourth vacillates. Today was a playful day for the seniors. While they did some group work on Beowulf, one of the more mischievous ones came and talked to me at my desk. It was odd, as he’s one I’ve had to send to the office more than once for being disruptive and I even had to call his dad the other day because I simply can’t get the kid to hush during class.

He’s an absolute doll with a completely winning personality. He’s just infuriating–he won’t stay in his seat, he won’t stop talking, and any request to do any of the above is met with major mouth…and a twinkly little smile. It’s hard not to laugh sometimes, and that’s frustrating too. Anyway, I’ve made him mad enough on more than one occasion to go to the guidance office and try to get his schedule changed.

So, today, he came and sat at the stool beside my desk and told me he had something to say. He had decided, he said, that when he came back from Labor Day he would be a new man. He wouldn’t “give me hell,” as he put it, in class anymore. He then said that since that wasn’t in effect until after Labor Day, he still had the right to act however he wanted until then. I agreed with him and reminded him that whatever he decided, I was still in charge of how many points came off his daily grade for disruptive behavior and that he would have a sub the next day anyway.

We agreed on those terms, and one of his buds, another complex character I’ll get into some other time, joined us. For the first time, I really got to see into the real personalities of a couple of my chi’ren. They’re so cute, and so unaware. They asked me some stuff and I answered as much as I felt comfortable revealing to them (I stopped them short of offering to “hook me up” with someone). They told me more about themselves and their families, and though I was constantly having to tell the other kids to lower their voices, I felt like there was at least a little bit of trust established.

One problem I’ve always had is letting people into my heart too easily. I’ve done it with lots of boys, and I did it with students at my last teaching job. Thus, I came to this job determined to keep a healthy distance between me and my students (and between me and my coworkers, for that matter). I get extremely emotionally involved, then I’m left to pay the awesomely painful price of disappointment. I cannot let that happen with these kids–there are too many of them, and so many of their stories are so much more tragic than anything I’ve dealt with before. I can’t help but think that moments like today’s, though, might just be what I’m actually here for.

Because goodness knows I’m not getting much taught otherwise.

So anyway, I’m excited about my Mac training tomorrow. I like this thing, I just get frustrated at its quirky differences. While I haven’t completely converted, I’m beginning to understand the unearthly obsession so many have with their Macs.

Mmkay. Week’s still not over. Have a good one.

Hipster Olympics

Hee hee.

Dear Mr. Holland, Mr. Keating, Mr. Forrester, and Chick Played by Hilary Swank in "Freedom Writers,"

Y’all are dead to me. All y’all.

Sincerely,
Holly

Borkin’ Blog Readers

Okay, I’m officially over Technorati as of right now. I don’t want to go back to Bloglines, as it’s what Technorati was supposed to replace.

And I STILL don’t know how to link either of those on the iBook.

Help me, someone.

Friday Night Recap

I really miss blogging every day. It’s rare that I feel like it or have time in the evenings these days. I’m hoping things will even out soon and I’ll establish a better routine. As it is, I’m already behind. This week’s high/low-lights:

1. Not only will I not be making it to see Ryan Adams at the WMB, I will not be making it to see Bob Dylan at the Ryman. Let’s recap. In Holly’s musical world–her Mount Olympus of music, let’s say–Bob Dylan is the supreme deity. Directly below him on the mountain are the Zeus and Hera, Ryan Adams and Gillian Welch. It has been my dream, as I’ve mentioned a gazillion times to a.) see Gillian, period, b.) see Ryan at a non-Ryman venue, and c.) see Dylan again anywhere, but especially at the Ryman.

So, naturally, within three months of my leaving Nashville, in said town Gillian will have played, period, Ryan will have played the War Memorial Auditorium, and Dylan will have played the Ryman. I’m honestly too tired to write much more about it, but because of circumstances, I’m not seeing any way I can make the latter two, and the former has already occurred. At least I’m not physically ill thinking about it for the first time in days.

2. Teenagers do not get my humor. Oh, yes, they laugh at me. Just not when I want them to.

3. This week was my first experience in real, actual lonely. I’m such a big-idea person (my dad always says me, him, and Ronald Reagan have that in common) that I tend to gloss over the details when I’m making my grand idealistic plans. I saw myself coming to this new place and really getting to the heart of writing and reading for some kids who needed hope of a way out–in one way or another.

Thing is, they don’t want out. They claim they do, but they’re not willing to adopt any behaviors or sensibilities that might help them do so. Okay. We’ll figure that one out later. Anyway, point is–I got caught up in my heady hopes for myself as a teacher and my future students that I didn’t allow myself to think about the specifics of being in a place where I knew no one within 1.5 hours and didn’t really even truly know what I was doing. Thank God, quite literally, for church–at least a couple of times a week I am able to see some friendly faces and even score a couple of hugs.

Don’t get me wrong–I’m happy here. I’m just a little starved for interaction. Non-teenage interaction.

4. I really want the DVD set of “My So-Called Life.” (And while I love my new iBook, I still don’t know how to link in blogspot. Google it or whatever.) I’m just afraid I would still relate too much. Back in the day, when the show was first-run, I was the same age as Angela Chase. I also had hair the same length and style (though mousy brown instead of red), and every once in a while people would tell me I looked like Claire Danes (though that was 40 pounds ago, and even then I still had a good 50 or so on her anyway).

My favorite line of the series was Angela’s describing the yearbook-making process and saying something to the effect of, “they spend all this time trying to make this book about how they wish it had been–if they made it the way it actually is, it would be a really depressing book.” At 15, there was no greater truth than that.

5. Teaching high-schoolers continues to be, for severe lack of a more original term, an emotional roller-coaster. It’s as if they get together and decide to be cute and playful and alert one day, then brooding and rebellious and just plain mean the next. I’m learning not to get too caught up in either swing. And, this morning, I felt like I TAUGHT someone something for the first time. They actually had some response to a Langston Hughes story. Of course, my seniors later in the day had to ruin the whole thing for me, but next week I’m sure they’ll switch roles again.

6. Okay. I just swilled some Nyquil, so let’s go ahead and say good-night. My best for your weekend.

Sick Days

So I pathetically took my very first sick day yesterday. Yes, two weeks in, and I’m already calling for a sub. It nagged at me all day yesterday, building up this nasty cloud of worry that broke in a tearburst this morning on the way to school.

It just feels like such a failure. If I REALLY loved my students, I’d find a way to be there–to fight the fog of prescription meds and somehow create a voice to speak over their teenage chatter. If I had a REAL work ethic, I would make sure I was not only at work, but that I stayed for hours afterward to adequately demonstrate my dedication.

Right?

At the beginning of the year, when I would overhear discussions about sick days and personal days, I heard more than one teacher make a statement like, “oh, and of course I don’t use my sick days, so…” which would automatically be hurriedly met with a chorus of, “oh no, I never do either” and the accompanying shudder–as if the thought were just simply below them. I resolved then not to take any sick days. At all, ever.

That was before the Upper Respiratory Infection O’ Death. Thinking I was just getting a cold toward the end of last week, I decided to make a clandestine visit to the ‘rents’ house in the north of Nashvegas so my mommy could take care of me. I alerted them to my intentions, the mom went into a cooking frenzy, and I staggered in Friday night. I had a wonderful weekend in which I got a lot done (between coughs, sneezes, and bouts of exhaustion) and got to hang out with my favorite people. By Sunday morning around 4:00, though, all was not well.

Side note–are you aware of the CVS phenomenon known as the Minute Clinic? Brilliant, I say. (And I’d link to it if I knew how to do any kind of formatting in Blogspot on a Mac.) Anyway, the folks there told me it would be best if I didn’t go to work the next day, the mom concurred, and I didn’t feel like driving three hours anyway after having awakened the entire house that morning with my incessant coughing.

Apparently my kids survived. A couple of them even asked if I felt better. I couldn’t believe it. And I DID get better, and I was in much better shape to start my week of teaching than I’d been had I dragged myself to work Monday.

At one of my old places of employment, I had a boss who flaunted his martyrhood on a regular basis. Snow day scenario:
“Are we going home early today, Mr. _______?”
“Well, the county and city schools are out, and it’s sleeting, so we have to let you go, but I’LL be in my office the rest of the day.”

Was he noble? Am I just lazy and bitter? I have this complex. I don’t know what it’s rooted in, but I am acutely defensive of my work ethic. I think it’s because I’m a born procrastinator and have always surrounded myself with amazing go-getter types. The aforementioned place of employment fed this complex, as what I had to offer the institution was not as valued as other positions, and that fact was always made very clear to me, implicitly or explicitly.

Back to sick days. After what I put myself through yesterday about my obvious weakness, I went back to school today and realized things were pretty much exactly the same as I left them, no one had died or experienced a loss of self-esteem in my absence…and that the worry wasn’t really something I actually felt. It was something I thought I was supposed to feel as a person with a dedication to her job.

But, what if taking care of myself at a crucial time in my sickness for one day saved me several days in the future of having to be absent for bronchitis (which is where the nurse practitioner said I was headed)? I learned that lesson in college–I spent four years in undergrad refusing to sleep or eat properly until I’d finished everything I was “supposed” to do, whether it was homework or paper or social activities or church stuff. As we all know, you don’t finish that stuff until the day you graduate–then you just take on a new set of it. With that mistaken mentality, though, I landed myself at home with walking pneumonia one semester.

I guess my thesis here is that it may be self-serving, but I really don’t find people who are at work at all costs any more noble than those who use their rightfully-alotted days when needed. I’m sick of automatically apologizing for taking care of myself.

That has to be it for now. I’ve sort of put off working on some stuff all afternoon.

Fate, the Cruel Wench, Part the Twelfth or So With Regards to Mr. Adams

Silly me. I thought I was only up in the middle of the night for some pretty standard reasons: I’m sneezing and coughing; my ears keep alternating between vacuum-like sensations and this freaky feeling like there’s a lava lamp in there; my throat and tongue are completely raw, the latter because of efforts to help the former; my head feels like so much lead; and my gastrointestinal system has decided to react to all of the above (and the meds used to treat all of the above) with sleep-interrupting violence.

No, no, apparently I am actually up to read that Ryan is coming to Nashville in October. When I lived in Nashville, why, this would have been the greatest news ever, especially since he’s playing the War Memorial (thought it’s not my favorite venue) instead of the Ryman (though it IS my favorite venue), which has intruded upon the atmosphere of his shows there because of all the “Summer of ‘69″ baggage.

Two weeks earlier, and it would be smack dab in the middle of my fall break. I’d have a gazillion places to stay that night and I could come back the next day. But no, it has to be on a school night. Three hours away. Ryan, I love you. Why do you hate me?

Add despondent nausea to the above list of middle-of-the-night ailments.

Call me bipolar…

…but I’m not going to wax inspiring today. I’m sick. Yicky sick. My throat is all itchy and sore, I’m sneezing and coughing, my nose is a faucet, and I sound like a decidedly unsexy Lauren Bacall.

Thus, I really had no choice today but to treat my students to nothing but worksheets and group work–anything to save the teacher’s voice. It worked well with my first block, okay with my third, and not at all with my fourth.

Fourth block is seniors. Mind you, my first group of freshmen did their review activities and reading out loud with nary a peep. Put a bunch of 17-year-olds together for nearly two hours during the last class of the day, add a teacher they’re not sure they respect yet, subtract her voice (and, by that point, will to live), and forget about any kind of “classroom management,” as they call it these days.

Or, as one of them so sensitively put it today, “this class is long and boring. I know you don’t want to hear that, but…”

Not that I get much from the Anglo-Saxon poetry we’re studying, either, but I can’t just dump them straight into Beowulf. They should be thanking me, right? And I’m not a homework-giving teacher–I’ve just never seen the point–so I would think they could give me that much of their time if it means not having to devote any more effort to it for another 24 hours.

And doggonit, I’m sick and far from home and I missed Gillian Welch to teach their sorry tails.

***

Meanwhile, I said the weirdest thing last night. A lady came and introduced herself to me and sat by me in church. I asked what she did, and she said she once taught school but now stayed home to raise her little girls. Without even thinking about it, I smiled and responded, “well, that’s the job I really want, myself!”

Wha…? Okay, so I’ve known for a while that despite my fear of chi’rens (and commitment, for that matter), my dream life really is with my husband and kids, going on whatever adventures life hands us. But since when do I just out with sentiments like that to nearly-complete strangers? (And since when do I tell the world wide web the same thing?)

It’s so weird. I was so embarrassed. But not really ashamed…it was almost a relief in some ways to verbalize it. I think we single chicks feel awkward at times confessing we actually do want marriage and babies–we’re inevitably met with “oh, you’ve got plenty of time” or some other remark intended to comfort, when we’re not usually expressing sadness over our current situations. Wanting it, hoping for it, even planning it does not in any way detract from our intentions to do the best we can with what we have at the moment. It also does not mean we want it right this moment. Some of us know we’re not ready yet. And even those of us who feel ready can still be perfectly content with our lives as they are.

In my case, I knew taking this job would most likely mean going relationship-less for another 3 or so years, or however long I decide to stay here. I’ve tossed around the “3 year” figure for a while now–it was how long I stayed at my last teaching gig, and it will give me plenty of time to pay off the car, get the next degree, and get some valuable experience under my belt.

Anyway, all those things were a worthy investment to me. I’m definitely willing to trade a few more years of alone time for the stability–financially, career-wise, and otherwise–they will bring me. Sitting around in supposedly one of the hottest towns for singles waiting around for one of them to be the right one of them for me while I also waited around for a job to be the right job for me? Not a worthy investment. (Although I must say I did enjoy the view, and often.)

What am I trying to say? Well, I know for sure I need to hit the Nyquil soon. Beyond that, though…I guess I want to urge those who feel sorry for me not to. I am a healthy woman with a healthy grasp of what my heart truly wants. On the flip side, though, do not assume that because I am currently choosing more job-oriented pursuits over the pursuit of a fella that I have condemned myself to eternal old-maid-hood. Goodness knows I’m always up for change, in case you haven’t learned that about me yet. Especially that change. I just can’t count on it, and there are other, definite things I can be devoting myself to in the meantime.

Besides, if you’re going to feel sorry for me, pity me for this cold and the bad day I had. You should feel very, very sorry for me about that. I know I do.