Bad Day

The air stinks of defensive dialogue.

The stench isn't new; for some time now, tension and criticism--both constructive and destructive--have been acquiring their armies, building with each passing day. I've felt it in pockets, here and there, but lately, it feels like its getting heavier. It feels thick and pungent like smoke.

Fear feasts on our toes, impeding our steps with each nagging nibble. Comments carry unintended connotations, questions inspire angst.

Today, when I finally got ahold of someone at the senior center, defensiveness seeped through the phone. Leaking from the mouth of a perfect stranger--a woman I thought would appreciate my call--it gushed directly into my ears.

"Many people don't understand what happens here," she said curtly. "They think the seniors sit around and visit all day long. In reality, they are scheduled for events throughout the day. This is not residential, so when they're here, they are taking yoga, or strength training, for instance. They are busy. If you have students come over during the school day, those seniors are going to be annoyed."

She paused.

"If you want to send them over at lunch to wander around and see if they can find someone to talk to, then I suppose it might work, but we're only free from 11:30-12:30, so it would have to be during that time."

She left no room for discussion.

"I promise I won't send students over during the school day. I wasn't planning to do that," I tried to assure her. "I think it's great there are so many activities. I was just wondering if you had any leads. I have three students who can't find partners for their project, and I would just like to pair them up with someone who is over 70 years old. Unfortunately, I don't have anyone to match them up with. I was hoping you might have a lead for names of people who might be interested. Then the students can work with the senior to pick a time that works," I explained, a bit flustered by what seemed to be a passive aggressive suggestion that I was under-estimating what the senior center had to offer.

"I think you probably should call a retirement home for that," she instructed me and then she proceeded to list off a dozen different establishments. Returning again to her speech about how busy the seniors were with activities and how little idle time they had, she went on to assure me the nursing home residents were much more sedentary.

Slightly bothered by her unwillingness to help, given the fact that I'm sure there must have been dozens of 70 year old seniors who would have loved to tell their story to a high school student, I remained seated in an agitated state for several long moments.

Then, attempting to follow Atticus Finch's advice, I put myself in her shoes. I put myself in the position of an over-worked person who has budget restrictions, funding threats, and a public perception to manage.

As I sat in her shoes, I realized they weren't much different than my own. Beneath her edgy voice, I recognized fear, a need for validation. And I realized that she, like me, probably has piles of expectations, and gallons of fear.

Her defensiveness was simply survival.

As my day went on, I felt the same emotions well inside me. My students told me they wanted a more creative assignment, so I restructured everything so I could deliver one. I worked hard to teach them tricks of the descriptive trade. I opened up boundaries; I gave them choice.

Some of them seemed excited, but still, the same few who fail to grow excited about anything slouched in their seats and sighed. Their slouches jabbed at my fear, at my defensiveness. Their slouches make me tremble a bit.

I am fully responsible for engaging all of them, for pushing all of them to their potential; if I don't, their failure is mine.

Now, not only is that my personal motto, my personal goal, my muse for rising out of bed in the morning, and staying up late into the night, it is the law.

I work really hard; I tear open my heart and give it to my kids. I don't rely on packaged lessons or pull out binders laden with neatly organized lecture notes. I answer emails from kids late into the night. I give up every free minute I have if a kid needs help. I listen to their fears, to their joys, to their "totally random" stories. I give them practice interviews, I write letters of recommendation, I read their personal writing, I help them with college essays, I volunteer to support their causes.

While no one ever reaches a state of perfection, and each day offers opportunities to grow, just like 99% of the teachers I know, I can say that there are very few minutes each day when I am not doing the very best I can. There are few minutes in the day when I am not thinking about students and what will help them become better people.

But I worry sometimes. I worry in meetings, I worry when I hear the news, I worry when I try and try and try and I still cannot get certain kids excited about school work. I know that is my job, and it is certainly something I strive for, but sometimes it feels like I'm the enemy.

How many adults get excited about going to work? How many adults enthusiastically chose to create spreadsheets instead of hanging out with their family, playing games, watching TV or going out to dinner? How many jump with glee when they must stay up late into the night or work over the weekend on something major and unfamiliar and worth a lot of points?

I'm lucky, because I do. I'm lucky because most of my day is rewarding. Most of my day fills me with purpose. Most of my day is spent in worthy cause. I wouldn't stay if it didn't. But sometimes I have to do things I don't agree with or things I don't like. Sometimes I have to do things that don't engage me or interest me or make me believe in something important.

And sometimes when I'm knee-deep in all of those things, and I still hear that it isn't enough, I feel the gurgle, the bubble, the rising stench of defensiveness eroding the walls within me. And it makes me curl up my nose, clutch my stomach and dig deep to figure out how I can be better. How I can smile when all I want to do is cry.

Ragging on Radio

"Fireside Chat"

http://www.trekearth.com/gallery

I'm in Italy right about now.

Two classes of students are smack dab in the middle of a memoir unit, and I'm nose deep in love. Monday morning ushered in a Stephen King interview, and I thought my students would love it--the gruesome details of his accident, how the person driving the van seemed eerily similar to a character from one of his novels, and what the book itself means to him. The only reason I wasn't fully submerged in love was because I had to keep my eyes above the surface. If I didn't, I wouldn't have been able to see their reaction.

After providing a bit of background information, I pranced over to the speaker. Sadly, this prancing was met with sighs and slumps and "radio interview?"

"Just give it a chance I promised them...it's really good."

I lost nearly all credibility.

A few indulged me, and I actually believe they liked it. Most, however, seemed totally bored by the slow, steady voice, the lack of visual images, the rhythm of oral story-telling. To be perfectly blunt, the notion of a radio seemed as uninteresting to them as a Game Boy would. In their life, any sort of audio streams through earphones, and that audio has already been carefully sifted and selected. There's no fast forwarding through songs they don't like or listening to commercials or having to wait to hear whole interviews. Their life consists of their favorite songs--commercial free--and sound bites updating them on juicy details. It seems crazy to imagine anyone would actually sit and listen to an interview when you could search for the important parts later.

None of this occurred to me until I watched them suffer through every single syllable. I thought sharing this interview could help them conduct their own. I thought the story telling might entice them. I thought that maybe I could convince them there was some value in patiently listening to a radio show. But unless it was the Monday morning blahs, I'm pretty sure I thought wrong. By the looks on their faces, I'm pretty sure most of them disliked every minute, and I'm pretty sure that brief exposure to NPR resulted in 46 fewer potential listeners.

When school ended, when boot camp came to a close, and when my evening errands all fell off the list, I reflected on my interview. I know it won't be a good idea for next year, but it was a good idea for me tonight.

As King's words dwindled to nothing, I decided to go back to Italy. I decided to think about my memoir, to drink my water of life. To plan the steps I need to take to carve out the time I need to edit and to submit my work.

With such plans, came images of a fire, a radio, and a tiny little notepad. And for one brief moment, I thought that perhaps I understood why FDR's sea of Americans gathered around and waited, and listened, and imagined. And in the next moment, with the streetlight blazing beside me, I pried open my computer and began to chat.

Drink and be Filled up

I've lived under a rather dense pile of heavy, air-tight dirt for the last seven days. It's the kind of dirt that clumps inside your mouth, presses on your shoulders, and inspires you to dive head first into second base, beating--of course--with the potential of rounding third and heading home.

Adolescent performers shuddered a bit as they trudged to the front of the room, breath all out of whack until they pulled it in, focused their energy and delivered magic from the tips of their toes and the ridges of their tongue. As a judge, I sat and listened to them. I watched their nervous antics, I witnessed transformations, I observed a few tragic collapses.

Words pelted my skin like rapid fire and inspiration bled like an open wound. I wanted so badly to soak it up, but in the end, time didn't allow for any sort of manifestation. Instead, I replayed poems in my mind, and I looked a few up on the computer. Then I gazed up at a clock that informed me it was time to get to work.

I wiped stainless faucets with rubbing alcohol, I scrubbed an already clean toilet and then I dusted books on my bookshelf. My fingers tingled a bit as I pressed them back and then forward, wiping away particles that clung to the bindings with determination. As my fingers pulled those particles away, they gloated a bit over their victory, over the moments they knew they'd one day get to press their pads on the pages and open worlds of magic.

Those books made me want to write. Those books made me want to create something that moved people as much as so many of those precious papers moved me. I wanted to pour, to explode, to wander, to dive back inside my ideas and press them into reality.

The clock told me it was time to do school work. And I walked to my bag and pulled out the materials.

Marlene, one of my team members, reserved Fresh Air recordings from the library and Stephen King was one of the interviewees. I plugged him into my laptop and listened. He read from On Writing in the interview. I wanted to read the story for myself and so I walked back to the shelves. Stephen King peered up at me from his rightful spot, nestled tightly between Maxine Hong Kingston and John Knowles.

I've had that book on my self for a few years, but I have only read the back. I meant to dive inside it--in fact, I have wanted to devour it since I knew it existed--but I let life get in the way. I let the dust grip it as tightly as I would have gripped it had I opened my fingers and freed the words.

I lost myself in the couch cushions as Stephen King wrenched open his skull, and sliced open his heart, telling me why he writes, how he writes, and why I need to get reacquainted with my computer. Suddenly, time didn't matter so much.

"Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. Some of this book--perhaps too much--has been about how I learned to do it. Much of it has been about how you can do it better. The rest of it--and perhaps the best of it--is a permission slip: you can, you should, and if you're brave enough to start, you will. Writing is magic, as much as the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up" (King 269-270).

I will.

The Isms

I started with my idea list from last night, but my mind was elsewhere.

"I don't like that the article you gave us draws a link between racism and sexism" he said very matter-of-factly. "If women are good enough to get a job they'll get it. If not, then men will. Sexism doesn't exist anymore. I shared the article with my parents and they agree," he informed me and then he sunk in his seat, held up his fully annotated article, and glared at the floor.

I swallowed.

Then I told him that both he and his parents were absolutely allowed to believe that McIntosh was "making a big deal out of nothing and pointing out problems that didn't exist."

A few girls sat up tall in their seat and burned my eyes with their's.

"But there is a lot of evidence that does suggest men and women have not been treated equally," I continued. "Things are certainly better, but the moderators in the Democratic primary debates never asked the male candidates if they preferred pearls or diamonds. And as far as I've heard, in the Republican debates, male candidates have never referred to their opposing party colleagues as "prince" Joe instead of Speaker Schmo. Those are somewhat trivial examples, but the point is that we certainly still have some reason to think about gender. As we begin To Kill a Mockingbird, I want you to keep race and gender and socioeconomic status on the tip of your mind."

I swallowed again; he wasn't listening.

"Opinions are what make our country what it is. We just have to respect the fact that other people don't always share the same beliefs. We can disagree with each other, but we need to respectful."

I focused on each syllable as it escaped my lips, attempting to cover the rage boiling in my gut, attempting to be open and accepting and respectful of his beliefs too. I thanked him for speaking up. I granted him the same air time that I granted everyone else. I asked him follow up questions; I attempted to get him to think deeper just like I pushed everyone else.

Then, a brave female in the back raised her hand. "I like that the article talks about both sexism and racism. I still see many examples of both," she said. Then she went on to talk about her experience in a more urban, more diverse school district. She referenced lyrics to rap songs. She confidently asserted that she found many truths housed in the 1988 article by Peggy McIntosh called "White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack."

Others shared their opinions, none quite as strong as the first two. I offered a few anecdotal accounts from my own life, I quoted shared stories from previous classes, and I explained that the existence of laws did not always equate to equality.

After discussing "flesh" colored band aids, stereotypes on TV, and a black man who was pulled over for simply driving in a primarily white suburb, the bell rang.

I asked the first young man who spoke up to stay after class. I explained that a lot of people have different theories and beliefs about the "isms." I also told him that even if he disagreed with the article, it was good that he read it; it sparked discussion and it made him think.

"Racism still exists," he said. "I agree with most of the statements about that. I just don't believe males and females are treated differently."

"You are entitled to that belief," I told him. "I just want wanted to get you thinking."

"Okay, thank you, Mrs. M" he said, and then he walked out of the room.

I sat and stared at the floor. Piles of planning plagued me, and emails decorated my inbox. I couldn't tend to either. I wanted to give him example after example of why sexism is still worth talking about. I wanted to explain that the battle for equality has not been reached. I wanted to assign him research, case studies, interviews with women who could provide a different vantage point.

But I didn't do any of that.

I questioned him, but ultimately, I gave him the courtesy I suggested he needed to give to the other side. And then I let him walk out of the room. I let him go...and I had to. We live in America after all. We are free. And as long as we are not hateful, we can believe anything we choose to believe.

When enough time passed--when I replayed the discussion enough times in my head--I pulled up my email, I retrieved my calendar, and I tweaked my plans. Then, sick to my stomach, I walked out of the room and headed off to boot camp.

Teaching is so hard sometimes.

Distracted

It's tremendously easy to get distracted.

My husband and I sat in a booth, waiting for our food to arrive. He chatted with my dad on the phone; I played words with friends until the battery in my phone went absolutely dead. The TV hovered far into the distance; I could hardly make out the speck of pixels running down the hardwood. The nearest table seemed far too absorbed in their conversation to take interest in conversing with me. I took a bite of my chicken wing and as I snapped the bone from my teeth, it flew across the table, ricocheted against the wall, and sunk behind the booth. Locating the errant wing occupied my attention for a solid five minutes, then I decided to glance across the room at the wall paint. This seemed interesting for a moment, but ultimately, after counting 8 sets of drips and fifteen smudges, I decided to come up with plan B.

I retrieved a spiral pad of paper from my bag. Frayed edges and several coffee stains greeted me. I bid them hello, before fetching a pen and making my correspondence.

"Ideas" I wrote at the top of the page. Then I listed airport travel, Jared's grandma, and back pain. Beneath my initial list, I tossed in some bulleted points and decided that once we made our way back to the condo, I'd have plenty of material from which to choose. Then my husband hung up the phone.

Two hours of conversation later, I walked into my condo, flipped open my computer and realized it was past 10 pm. My ideas seemed to deserve more than the time I had to write, and if I gave those ideas that time, I'd be absolutely exhausted in the morning.

And so alas, I found myself staring at the blank screen I tried to avoid by covering my small, spiral notepad with strained streaks of waning black ink.

Sometimes, our plans don't plan out. Sometimes, our ideas have to wait. Sometimes, suspense lives in real life. Sometimes, you just need to spend time with your husband.

I promise tomorrow will be better.

A Bucket of Smooth

I heard it from the bathroom.

J tried to talk above the morning show buzz, but the words rose above him, skirting through the air like fumes from the oven.

"Starbucks is giving away free coffee today through Saturday."

I couldn't make out the details, but I heard the initial announcement loud and clear. My runny nose paused, my headache sighed, my eyes opened the remaining centimeters necessary before I could safely operate a motor vehicle.

"Shhhh!" I told J, popping my head out, straining to see past a half-open door. Clearly not hearing the same words, he kept talking a little; I ignored him. "Starbucks..." I explained in general caveman talk, and then I dropped to the couch and tried to extract details from the pixels, instructions from the words.

Spending $2 on coffee is absurd--but I love Starbucks. I love the thick, dark roll of smoothness. Like gasoline to my brain, I cherish the caffeine like an empty tank cherishes petrolium.

"We have DVR; we can rewind it," he said, laughing a little at my alertness, my intense focus, my commitment to block out every other competing temptation.

I shook my head decidedly, then sent my eyes from the remote in his hand to the TV. He sent us back in time, cuing up the magic words, the precious directions, the details I needed in order to obtain the object of my morning affection.

"I'll go at lunch," I declared. "I'm usually finished with my coffee by then. I've been up late four nights in a row; I'm exhausted. This is perfect timing," I rationalized; then I got up and completed my routine.

When lunchtime arrived, I set out for my Shangrila. A line of cars bent around the parking lot. I patiently awaited my place, and then I pulled into a spot. Prancing across the asphalt, I made sure to thank God for this small, brilliant blessing.

Then, I walked inside.

Two girls stood behind a stand decorated with paper shot glasses and pumping coffee carafes.

"Would you like to participate in the taste test?" they asked, inflecting their voices at all of the wrong syllables.

"Sure," I conceded, still believing my participation would usher in the gold at the end of the rainbow. They poured the new stuff first and handed me a paper cup. I pulled the cup to my lips, but steam tickled my skin and warned me not to proceed.

"It's too hot," I informed them. The woman next to me asked if she could take it to go.

"Of course," they replied, but instead of handing her a cup of blonde coffee like the news suggested might happen, they gave her a small bag of coffee grinds.

Really? We have to brew it ourselves?

Then they turned to me. "Throw it over your tongue to the back of your throat and gulp," they instructed. "This is called slurping, and that's the best way to drink hot coffee. It won't burn your tongue at all."

I couldn't help myself. Most of the thoughts in my brain gripped the "censor" bars in my personal filter, but I simply could not stop the scrunching of my eyes or the tilting of my head or the "yeah, but then I'd burn my throat and I'm pretty sure that would still hurt a lot," that came out of my mouth. I didn't even mention that my taste buds were actually located on my tongue and not along the walls of my esophogus.

"Oh you'll be fine," they said assuredly. "We drink like that all of the time." A few puffs escaped through my nose in place of a full-on laugh.

Then, my mind went crazy.

Thoughts ranged from the news broadcasting a flurry of throat burns resulting from the "blonde" taste tests at Starbucks, to images of the ditzy girls "slurping" coffee at 4 am in the kitchen of their off-campus house. This 4 am coffee episode was of course followed by an emergency room visit, and a subsequent explanation that they "do it all of the time" so they don't understand what went wrong with this instance of throwing scalding fluid to the back of their throat. Then I pitied future, unsuspecting customers--at least the ones who don't think. The people who are perfectly happy listening to the expert advice of their neighborhood Starbucks girl.

Once all of those thoughts took their final curtain call, I tuned back to the display in front of me--the now cooled shot of blonde coffee and the girls waiting to see if I liked it. I took a sip. They handed me a slightly cooler Pike Place and an equally as cool Italian Roast.

"Which do you like better?" they asked, bouncing a little on their toes. The girl to my left pointed to the sheet of stickers resting beside a tray of shot cups and explained that once I told them which coffee I liked best, she would give me a sticker. I like the stickers they give you at the voting booth; walking away from Starbucks with a sticker is just disappointing.

"'I'm mellow' is for the blonde, 'I'm smooth' is for the Pike Place and 'I'm bold' is for the Italian roast," she told me as I read the stickers right along with her. Then, as if I couldn't have guessed, she pointed to her chest and declared that blonde was her favorite.

Truthfully, I found myself on the fence between Pike and Italian, between smooth and bold. Forced to make a clutch decision though, I decided it was less necessary to announce my boldness than it would be to announce my smoothness--that is if the sticker is supposed to serve as some sort of personal trait advertising.

"I'm going to have to go with Pike," I told the girls, and then they handed me my sticker, a packet of blonde grinds and a coupon for $1 off a bag of coffee.

Disappointed, but too embarrassed to leave without buying anything, I walked up to the counter and ordered a tall Pike Place, a tall bucket of smooth. I held the sticker on the tip of one finger, as I fished through my wallet for two $1 bills. As I surrendered the money I didn't plan to spend, I felt my cheeks flush with a rush of annoyance. I gazed down at my sticker, and then I decided that maybe I should've gone with the blonde.

H-anger

I saw the steam rise from the center of the cast iron skillet.

Plain and clear.

Fumes of pepper and charred red wine wrestled with the stale air. All the while a pot of soaking potatoes gurgled into my ear drums, softening slowly beneath an explosion of starchy bubbles.

The meat sat for a moment, spitting and hissing. I watched it. As I gazed, the crust of burnt wine beckoned me. Imagining how delicious it would taste if I smeared it across exposed ridges of meat, I prodded my steak with a fork, moving it around, coating the bottom. Desiring more, I reached for the handle.

I knew not to do this--mostly, because I've done it before. Mostly because I've felt the scorching sting rip through my delicate fingertips like the candle beside me melts through string.

Time stood still in the delay. The steam gasped, clinging to the inferno holding it. My taste buds froze; the beckoning stopped.

One slow heartbeat boomed from beneath the surface; a pricking tingle followed. Growing in intensity, the pain eventually burst into the roar of a lion who just discovered his voice. My entire hand snapped back, back away from the skillet, back away from the counter, back away from the moment of absurdity. I jerked time into motion as I waved my angry hand, gritting my angry teeth.

I knew not to do this. I knew to wait patiently. I knew to use the towel beside me, the towel that wanted to help.

Instead, something erupted inside, bleeding illogical lava all over my brain, driving me to behave in ways a "sane" instinct would reject.

"I'll let you take a few bites before I talk to you," my husband said when he sat down at the table, knowing full well my hunger reached its threshold and my patience had worn thin. He knew nothing about my hand, about my burn, about my silly, stupid decision to clutch a "broiled" cast iron skillet.

I shoveled two spoonfuls into my mouth and everything relaxed.

"Did you hear that NPR story about ADHD?"

"I heard the tail end," I informed him.

"Well, I guess kids with ADHD burn so many calories they get hungry fairly often. And when they get hungry, this makes them pretty angry."

I smirked.

"They call it h-anger," he said, smiling.

I smiled back as I gazed at my middle finger, throbbing like a cartoon caricature, growling at me each time I pressed it against the cool metal fork, and drew it up to my mouth.