Don't know what's going on inside of me, but I'm so emotional today. Everyone is gone and I'm back from doing laundry and well, crying. I think it's the realization that I am in a precarious place: Doing what I need to do and accepting the fact that not everyone will understand it and that I must just keep going on.
It's a good cry. I guess I'm learning to turn away from fear and dive in. There's a scariness to risks, though, and only those who come out on the other side understand it. I am crying because I understand this.
I am home.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Hot Sauce and Beer
It's high noon in the East and I'm on my lunch break. Yep, I work on Sunday. My new line of work affords me no time off except for lunch, dinner, and some sleep. I'm listening to Bon Jovi on MTV Unwrapped as I type this to you. What a treat. I remember a colleague from UTEP who loved them. She is from Jersey, too. I often think of her when I hear them.
"It's My Life."
I've discovered a method to writing. I have a bag of tea candles. I figured it out: One candle lasts about three hours. So if I light two a day, I put in six hours of work. And so on. Today it's a three candle day.
I'm eating a quesadilla and the Chinese hot sauce and thick slices of onion make it pop. I'm drinking a diet A & W.
Reminds me of Dad taking us to the A & W on Trowbridge Drive in El Paso, and how good the root beer tasted. On lean days, he'd buy one burger to keep us looking like paying customers, slice it up six ways, yes he'd ask the server to do that, and even then, when we were young, we knew that was hilarious and rich.
I sip that root beer today.
"It's My Life."
I've discovered a method to writing. I have a bag of tea candles. I figured it out: One candle lasts about three hours. So if I light two a day, I put in six hours of work. And so on. Today it's a three candle day.
I'm eating a quesadilla and the Chinese hot sauce and thick slices of onion make it pop. I'm drinking a diet A & W.
Reminds me of Dad taking us to the A & W on Trowbridge Drive in El Paso, and how good the root beer tasted. On lean days, he'd buy one burger to keep us looking like paying customers, slice it up six ways, yes he'd ask the server to do that, and even then, when we were young, we knew that was hilarious and rich.
I sip that root beer today.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Silver Lining
The sky is clouding up. I put my new plant on the roof. Ever since Oscar died, it has started to die, too. I looked closely at it and there is a web like substance growing at the base of each Hydrangea cluster. I wiped it off, watered it good and took it to the roof where the overcast day is beating down on it, shoving health back into it as we process the loss of our sugar pie and continue to grow, too.
I am planning to invite my daughters to the roof tonight where we will speak and write and draw on the good things of Oscar, our beloved orange cat. I plan to paint the space on the ceiling where once we had a clear skylight during our first year in the apartment. I plan to paint it a soft, cheerful, tangerine. "We'll put a white stripe down it," said Sarah.
Absolutely.
I explained to her that when she and her sister leave the apartment for a time, I see the color go, too. To represent my women, I've learned to place enormous colors in the space, thus keeping those I love here visually and spiritually. When our black and white cat, Russell goes, I'll pull in a sculpture of a cow. This makes me smile.
Working steadily.
Three short stories have been born and the novel is bulging with pregnancy. I also am writing curriculum on the voice. Going to put together a grant, too, to gather the stories of the wise elderly in my neighborhood and beyond. Do the Brenda Ueland thing. I am going to ask my mother if she will do it, first, and I can use her stories as the prototype.
My daughters are at work right now. I went with Leila earlier today to a very popular glove maker in Manhattan. I stood there and looked at the great view from his desk. Enormously famous in the fashion industry, he sits there and makes gloves. He does what he loves.
And with the greatest happiness, strength, and fullness for life, I tell you, dear reader, that I, too, am at my work, as well.
I am planning to invite my daughters to the roof tonight where we will speak and write and draw on the good things of Oscar, our beloved orange cat. I plan to paint the space on the ceiling where once we had a clear skylight during our first year in the apartment. I plan to paint it a soft, cheerful, tangerine. "We'll put a white stripe down it," said Sarah.
Absolutely.
I explained to her that when she and her sister leave the apartment for a time, I see the color go, too. To represent my women, I've learned to place enormous colors in the space, thus keeping those I love here visually and spiritually. When our black and white cat, Russell goes, I'll pull in a sculpture of a cow. This makes me smile.
Working steadily.
Three short stories have been born and the novel is bulging with pregnancy. I also am writing curriculum on the voice. Going to put together a grant, too, to gather the stories of the wise elderly in my neighborhood and beyond. Do the Brenda Ueland thing. I am going to ask my mother if she will do it, first, and I can use her stories as the prototype.
My daughters are at work right now. I went with Leila earlier today to a very popular glove maker in Manhattan. I stood there and looked at the great view from his desk. Enormously famous in the fashion industry, he sits there and makes gloves. He does what he loves.
And with the greatest happiness, strength, and fullness for life, I tell you, dear reader, that I, too, am at my work, as well.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
"Teach Your Children Well"- CSNY
So it's Father's Day in the good old US of A. Dads around the Country will see their children, young and adult, today. There'll be picnics, dinners, parties, and lots of brew hahas. My daughter, Sarah, and I agree that there shouldn't be a Mother or Father's Day, period. Make it Guardian's Day.
Beyond that, I hate Father's Day, not really hate, hate, but it bothers me. My daughters' father has been gone for eight years and before that his illness kept him away for all but the six years before I divorced him. Sarah doesn't really know him well, only what she gathered as he held her those two or three times as an infant and when she and Leila sat with him on the porch of the foster home where he was preparing to pass - even if he never took another drop again - they gave him five years, but he went right back to the booze and got it over within a matter of months. When we heard the sad news, Leila ran into her room and curled up into a fetal position. Sarah said she just felt so bad to see Leila so upset. "I really didn't know him," she said.
So on Father's Day I get through the day. This year I've placed a candle at the photo of Ed and another candle beside my father's photo. But our light shines for them year round. This day is just a reminder that we don't have them anymore. But I know Ed watches his girls and I dream about my father and it is precious.
Priceless.
Sarah is headed to the beach with one of her friends. She is gorgeous and I see a darling college student but men will eye her, stare without grace or dignity and as I type this in my apartment, thinking of her walking to the train and later lying on the beach, I pray times will change one day. Those hungry men have daughters, too, and don't they know it is a sugar bear of a little girl who walks by them not an object to be possessed?
All the women who walk this World had a father at one time. That may change one day and I look forward to it. Until then, if you are a man and not yet awakened to the reality that who you stare at is a human being with feelings and a desire to be left alone- if only from your eyes- then know that my sterling daughters walk about today, on this day, without their father.
I used to poll my female students at the college where I taught and whenever I asked how many of them were sexually harrassed on the street, every one of them - from sexy to conservative - raised their hand.
Happy Father's Day.
Beyond that, I hate Father's Day, not really hate, hate, but it bothers me. My daughters' father has been gone for eight years and before that his illness kept him away for all but the six years before I divorced him. Sarah doesn't really know him well, only what she gathered as he held her those two or three times as an infant and when she and Leila sat with him on the porch of the foster home where he was preparing to pass - even if he never took another drop again - they gave him five years, but he went right back to the booze and got it over within a matter of months. When we heard the sad news, Leila ran into her room and curled up into a fetal position. Sarah said she just felt so bad to see Leila so upset. "I really didn't know him," she said.
So on Father's Day I get through the day. This year I've placed a candle at the photo of Ed and another candle beside my father's photo. But our light shines for them year round. This day is just a reminder that we don't have them anymore. But I know Ed watches his girls and I dream about my father and it is precious.
Priceless.
Sarah is headed to the beach with one of her friends. She is gorgeous and I see a darling college student but men will eye her, stare without grace or dignity and as I type this in my apartment, thinking of her walking to the train and later lying on the beach, I pray times will change one day. Those hungry men have daughters, too, and don't they know it is a sugar bear of a little girl who walks by them not an object to be possessed?
All the women who walk this World had a father at one time. That may change one day and I look forward to it. Until then, if you are a man and not yet awakened to the reality that who you stare at is a human being with feelings and a desire to be left alone- if only from your eyes- then know that my sterling daughters walk about today, on this day, without their father.
I used to poll my female students at the college where I taught and whenever I asked how many of them were sexually harrassed on the street, every one of them - from sexy to conservative - raised their hand.
Happy Father's Day.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Heaven
I had agreed to go to Jersey to be with my niece, Tori Quinn, and to help my sister in law, Melissa, and brother, James, prepare to move to their new home in a week. I was ready to pack up box after box and release my frustrations and sadness over Oscar. I left on the New Jersey Transit empty. Returning tonight, I am full.
When I got there we all were on edge, Melissa just getting over being sick and James now on his way. Then I saw Tori, sitting in the school van being delivered home on her last day of first grade. I tapped on the glass where she sat and she looked at me quizzically and then I said her name and she blushed and smiled. It dawned on her. Her Aunt Sheela was there as Mom and Dad had said she would be.
And somewhere inbetween boxing toys galore, deconstructing the hall closet and laughing with Tori as she played her interactive dvd's and spoke her delightful talk, I found myself starting to breathe again.
James and I drove the boxes to the new house in Lincroft near Red Bank. New Jersey calms the beast in me for its green lawns and rolling hills, quaint architecture, and small town feel. We turned down the street to his future home. I knew he was home. In this country essence, a place between rich and right, he was home.
We went up to the sweetest corner house, one that if I was cruising by would have looked at, imagined myself decorating before turning the corner to where I was really going.
We pulled up in the driveway. There's three bedrooms, a sun deck, basement, and fireplace. The color of the cabinet wood in the kitchen is like our family home, up for sale now. The bathroom has gray tile and it begs for the removal of sadness, only asks that you rest.
James and I each had a Brooklyn Lager Ale with the 55 label, the year I was born. This house was made in '56, the one they almost bought (but this one is superior) was made in '55. For some reason, everything last night was 55. About coming home.
This evening James and I drove to the train station. in the distrance measured in my arrival and now in my departure, good things happened. Communication sweetened between Melissa and me. James and I laughed, and talked of things to come; what was now. And I'd hung with Tori so long that she was ready for the normalcy of her life with Mom and Dad.
I got into Penn Station, and went upstairs to walk to 6th and catch the F. I soon found myself in the swirl of Herald Square. I remembered riding to the Jersey station earlier with James and seeing the lushness I was preparing to leave, returning to the bluntness of NYC. And then it hit me: If I'm going to wander and blindly stay in the moment, I should stay in the thick of an energy that keeps me alive. And that seems to be New York.
I walked toward the F, thankful to be in motion. My calling was that weekend. One weariness giving salve to the other. I still felt the pain of losing Oscar, but the whole of life had been shown to me. And I left feeling love.
When I got there we all were on edge, Melissa just getting over being sick and James now on his way. Then I saw Tori, sitting in the school van being delivered home on her last day of first grade. I tapped on the glass where she sat and she looked at me quizzically and then I said her name and she blushed and smiled. It dawned on her. Her Aunt Sheela was there as Mom and Dad had said she would be.
And somewhere inbetween boxing toys galore, deconstructing the hall closet and laughing with Tori as she played her interactive dvd's and spoke her delightful talk, I found myself starting to breathe again.
James and I drove the boxes to the new house in Lincroft near Red Bank. New Jersey calms the beast in me for its green lawns and rolling hills, quaint architecture, and small town feel. We turned down the street to his future home. I knew he was home. In this country essence, a place between rich and right, he was home.
We went up to the sweetest corner house, one that if I was cruising by would have looked at, imagined myself decorating before turning the corner to where I was really going.
We pulled up in the driveway. There's three bedrooms, a sun deck, basement, and fireplace. The color of the cabinet wood in the kitchen is like our family home, up for sale now. The bathroom has gray tile and it begs for the removal of sadness, only asks that you rest.
James and I each had a Brooklyn Lager Ale with the 55 label, the year I was born. This house was made in '56, the one they almost bought (but this one is superior) was made in '55. For some reason, everything last night was 55. About coming home.
This evening James and I drove to the train station. in the distrance measured in my arrival and now in my departure, good things happened. Communication sweetened between Melissa and me. James and I laughed, and talked of things to come; what was now. And I'd hung with Tori so long that she was ready for the normalcy of her life with Mom and Dad.
I got into Penn Station, and went upstairs to walk to 6th and catch the F. I soon found myself in the swirl of Herald Square. I remembered riding to the Jersey station earlier with James and seeing the lushness I was preparing to leave, returning to the bluntness of NYC. And then it hit me: If I'm going to wander and blindly stay in the moment, I should stay in the thick of an energy that keeps me alive. And that seems to be New York.
I walked toward the F, thankful to be in motion. My calling was that weekend. One weariness giving salve to the other. I still felt the pain of losing Oscar, but the whole of life had been shown to me. And I left feeling love.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Let it Rain
Watching "The Virgin Suicides" with Sarah as she paints her fingernails. I've just eaten a quarter of a pint of Ben & Jerry's Lite Rocky Road. Leila is asleep in the back and earlier we ate a small feast. I went into the refrigerator and cooked up the thin cutlets, made a salad with sunflower seeds and croutons, baked beans, red grapes, shrimp and corn bread. Eating is what people do after losing a loved one. I did the dishes and cleaned the bathroom before going out to write at The Promenade where I sat waiting for it to rain, not caring if it did.
I keep telling my daughters that when the next cat grows ill and needs to be put down, I shall not go. I am never doing that again. Call me a baby, but it hurt too much.
I know I need to be strong; he was the girls' cat afterall, but I was the Mama, and this Mama is eating tonight, each forkful easing the pain and telling me that I am with my daughters, and that we did the right thing for our precious baby.
I keep telling my daughters that when the next cat grows ill and needs to be put down, I shall not go. I am never doing that again. Call me a baby, but it hurt too much.
I know I need to be strong; he was the girls' cat afterall, but I was the Mama, and this Mama is eating tonight, each forkful easing the pain and telling me that I am with my daughters, and that we did the right thing for our precious baby.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Orange Sunshine
Back in grad school, I took this poetry class with Lesley Ullman, a great poet. A student in her class read a poem one night. It was about the student's cat, her beloved cat who through a freak accident jumped out of a moving car. The woman had a serious line in the poem which read, " Go to the light! Go to the light!" and then had written some pretty substantial lines after that but at our end of the table we were about to lose it with laughter. Lesley gave us a stern look but it was agonizing to refrain and I'm sure it showed on my face. Fits of hilarity.
Yet now, I have to tell my kittie to go toward the light and I envy the student poet. At least her cat was stupid and jumped. Mine has bone cancer. Our handsome cat, Oscar, is going to his resting place on Wednesday.
Russell, the bulked up little cow of a cat, walks around Oscar, our sick baby. Once skinny and on edge, Russell has learned to lolligag, to give loud noises a looksee first, and maybe, maybe remove himself from whatever trauma is brewing. Oscar is "the handsome boy," and his looks and brains are phenomenal. I mean, he lets the girls hug him. He hugs them! Wraps his bottom legs around their waists, his front paws about their necks and just hangs with them. He will not hug me and if he does it's for a few clawing seconds before he jumps away.
"Oh Mom, he's your little man," Leila says to me when I tell her of the biopsy.
So I will start the mourning and rejoicing tonight. I will. In honor of him and in order for me to get over him not being here anymore giving the girls those hugs. I hope he goes to Ed or my Dad. To Milly. Or MaKaye who probably has Barney with her right now.
God help Barney. Oscar's going to whallop him.
Yet now, I have to tell my kittie to go toward the light and I envy the student poet. At least her cat was stupid and jumped. Mine has bone cancer. Our handsome cat, Oscar, is going to his resting place on Wednesday.
Russell, the bulked up little cow of a cat, walks around Oscar, our sick baby. Once skinny and on edge, Russell has learned to lolligag, to give loud noises a looksee first, and maybe, maybe remove himself from whatever trauma is brewing. Oscar is "the handsome boy," and his looks and brains are phenomenal. I mean, he lets the girls hug him. He hugs them! Wraps his bottom legs around their waists, his front paws about their necks and just hangs with them. He will not hug me and if he does it's for a few clawing seconds before he jumps away.
"Oh Mom, he's your little man," Leila says to me when I tell her of the biopsy.
So I will start the mourning and rejoicing tonight. I will. In honor of him and in order for me to get over him not being here anymore giving the girls those hugs. I hope he goes to Ed or my Dad. To Milly. Or MaKaye who probably has Barney with her right now.
God help Barney. Oscar's going to whallop him.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Hola, como esta?
My tooth hurts and I am trying to cure it with green tea until I can get to the dentist next Friday. I think I'm going to up the appointment to Monday, if possible. It's not too bad, nothing a little Tylenol, Pro-Health mouthwash, Kanka, and green tea (switched to beer or wine if the tea doesn't help) will do to take the edge off.
I've been clutter cleaning my bill and paper basket and came upon a letter from my sponsored child, Evelyn from Ecuador. She has written to me twice now and I haven't replied yet, so tonight as I suck down this tea, I will print as legibly as possible, a letter to this sweet little girl from Guayquil.
What can I tell you about my first week of freedom? Tonight I had to laugh secretly in wondering if I concocted the tooth to go bad right when I am free? Nope, the dang thing was beginning to hurt last week. Just bad timing.
But what I have found this week is that timing within love and overcoming is magnificent. The only thing I have to fear is my mind, wigging out.
So if she has taken the form of my "mouth" I will now tell her to settle down. Everything is alright.
I have been writing for hours at a time. It feels like I stepped into another life. It feels good even when my mouth is on fire.
As long as I have green tea and paper, I'll be alright.
Se despide con carino,
Sheela
the free
I've been clutter cleaning my bill and paper basket and came upon a letter from my sponsored child, Evelyn from Ecuador. She has written to me twice now and I haven't replied yet, so tonight as I suck down this tea, I will print as legibly as possible, a letter to this sweet little girl from Guayquil.
What can I tell you about my first week of freedom? Tonight I had to laugh secretly in wondering if I concocted the tooth to go bad right when I am free? Nope, the dang thing was beginning to hurt last week. Just bad timing.
But what I have found this week is that timing within love and overcoming is magnificent. The only thing I have to fear is my mind, wigging out.
So if she has taken the form of my "mouth" I will now tell her to settle down. Everything is alright.
I have been writing for hours at a time. It feels like I stepped into another life. It feels good even when my mouth is on fire.
As long as I have green tea and paper, I'll be alright.
Se despide con carino,
Sheela
the free
Ventilation
I am appalled. Here I am on a lovely and actually chilly Thursday morning in Brooklyn scanning the Internet news when lo and behold I read that Paris Hilton has been released from jail after three days!
If you knew the hundreds of essays I have read from my low income students discussing their loved ones or themselves being put into jail and enduring it for months, years and coming out to try to make a life, well, I think you'd be as disgusted as I am right now.
Wow.
Money talks
the rest of us walk the bloody line.
What a baby. I say leave her in there for the entire time. It's Super Nanny time. No one wants to go to jail. I sure don't. But should it happen, then bite the bullet. If you are guilty, you are guilty. Paris is guilty.
I'd like to pistol whip whoever made the decision to let her out.
This is a racist, classist World.
I guess the truth is that Paris will have a hell of a time living this down so justice really has been served. If she had stayed in she could have come out with honor, now she only wears designer dishonor.
Fitting.
If you knew the hundreds of essays I have read from my low income students discussing their loved ones or themselves being put into jail and enduring it for months, years and coming out to try to make a life, well, I think you'd be as disgusted as I am right now.
Wow.
Money talks
the rest of us walk the bloody line.
What a baby. I say leave her in there for the entire time. It's Super Nanny time. No one wants to go to jail. I sure don't. But should it happen, then bite the bullet. If you are guilty, you are guilty. Paris is guilty.
I'd like to pistol whip whoever made the decision to let her out.
This is a racist, classist World.
I guess the truth is that Paris will have a hell of a time living this down so justice really has been served. If she had stayed in she could have come out with honor, now she only wears designer dishonor.
Fitting.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
First Day on the Job
Sarah has done the dishes the last three times and so I am taking today's stack and as soon as it is done, I am officially headed out for my first day of work as a writer.
Can you feel my excitement and delight?
I am going to traipse around, probably first to the library and I will stay there until the kids talking on the other side of the small brick building wear me down, and then I'll go to The Fall Cafe where you can sit forever...oh, I forgot! I can listen to my ipod at both places! Noises no more! Then I'll take a walk if it's not too grisly hot.
Then I'll figure out the rest, as said in Working Girl, as I go along.
All the begging and asking has produced this and I thank you, Mother. I thank you, Universe. I thank you, Sheela, for having the determination to keep going.
Now I'm going.
Can you feel my excitement and delight?
I am going to traipse around, probably first to the library and I will stay there until the kids talking on the other side of the small brick building wear me down, and then I'll go to The Fall Cafe where you can sit forever...oh, I forgot! I can listen to my ipod at both places! Noises no more! Then I'll take a walk if it's not too grisly hot.
Then I'll figure out the rest, as said in Working Girl, as I go along.
All the begging and asking has produced this and I thank you, Mother. I thank you, Universe. I thank you, Sheela, for having the determination to keep going.
Now I'm going.
Monday, June 4, 2007
We Simply Choose to Forget
Yesterday was my tenth year in NYC. I wrote the night before into midnight and announced to Sarah that indeed we had survived and thrived in the Big Apple for a decade! I have been finding myself going back to Memorial Day all those ten years ago, sitting in Leila's room, the place devastated and empty, drinking wine and crying, looking out her window to the street we had come to live on for only six months. 'What have I done?' kept going through my mind. Would I ruin my daughters' lives? Would I make it there?
All I knew was I couldn't go on living single in the double world of El Paso. I was in a job I hated and had performed the worst of my career, and just felt so alone. My brother, Steve, talked of NYC one night at Smokey's and he lost himself for a minute and I heard him, really heard him, and knew that was where I needed to go, that he was speaking to me! And now I know it wasn't even for me as much as to get the girls out of a patriarchal desert and into the lushness of opportunity.
They are well on their way now, ten years later.
Me? I'm finding my stride.
For most of these ten years I have pined deeply, mourned for the Southwest - for my griese bushes and sunsets - for the open highway. I think I always will.
But I need this damn energy, this damn friction, smoothness mixed with grit.
I'm home.
But when I am really homesick (as I feel oddly right now) I go back in my mind's eye and drive the streets of the Pass of the North. I go down Montana street, feeling the searing heat of the sun, over to where my ex is buried, and across the way, my Daddy. I round the bend from Beaumont Hospital, taking my Mama home after a long, cruel day, her head on the headrest as I drive. I go to Trans Mountain and stare at my beautiful city, the massive spread of land. I go onto I-10 East and travel back to Dallas to where my first love found me and then let me go when I too easily left.
Barbra Streisand is singing "The Way We Were" on my ipod as I type this.
I go on.
Ten years went fast. The next decade, I pray, slows down. I have much to do.
And here I go.
All I knew was I couldn't go on living single in the double world of El Paso. I was in a job I hated and had performed the worst of my career, and just felt so alone. My brother, Steve, talked of NYC one night at Smokey's and he lost himself for a minute and I heard him, really heard him, and knew that was where I needed to go, that he was speaking to me! And now I know it wasn't even for me as much as to get the girls out of a patriarchal desert and into the lushness of opportunity.
They are well on their way now, ten years later.
Me? I'm finding my stride.
For most of these ten years I have pined deeply, mourned for the Southwest - for my griese bushes and sunsets - for the open highway. I think I always will.
But I need this damn energy, this damn friction, smoothness mixed with grit.
I'm home.
But when I am really homesick (as I feel oddly right now) I go back in my mind's eye and drive the streets of the Pass of the North. I go down Montana street, feeling the searing heat of the sun, over to where my ex is buried, and across the way, my Daddy. I round the bend from Beaumont Hospital, taking my Mama home after a long, cruel day, her head on the headrest as I drive. I go to Trans Mountain and stare at my beautiful city, the massive spread of land. I go onto I-10 East and travel back to Dallas to where my first love found me and then let me go when I too easily left.
Barbra Streisand is singing "The Way We Were" on my ipod as I type this.
I go on.
Ten years went fast. The next decade, I pray, slows down. I have much to do.
And here I go.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Sitting in an Empty Classroom, Waiting to Leave
Room 302. When I think of ASA I will think of this room. Here is where I met the surly 5 pm'ers, the sleepy 9 am'ers, and the hungry 3 pm crowd. Here is where - among the other buildings and classrooms - I watched World War III erupt as we discussed volatile topics such as abortion, racism, homosexuality, sexism, and the dreaded religion. But also here is where I experienced the surge of joy, the same bliss I had when I was a student in an English Lit classroom. In this room, I received flowers, tears, excuses, angry glances, cross talking, and laughter. Lots of laughter.
These students allowed me to spill my guts. To talk about all the things that will become stories from this day forth. What was bubbling inside of me. What I needed to speak out first - out to the ASA student - before I could calm down enough to write. There was so much heartache and anger in me, inciting riots from all the aforementioned material was the way to transform and heal me. I put all my thoughts into action. I planted seeds in my students. My work here is done. But I will never forget Room 302.
These students allowed me to spill my guts. To talk about all the things that will become stories from this day forth. What was bubbling inside of me. What I needed to speak out first - out to the ASA student - before I could calm down enough to write. There was so much heartache and anger in me, inciting riots from all the aforementioned material was the way to transform and heal me. I put all my thoughts into action. I planted seeds in my students. My work here is done. But I will never forget Room 302.
Oxygen of a Different Worth
On the eve of my last day in the physical classroom, I watched Suze Orman on PBS. She was helping them out by offering her book, "Women and Money". I'm going to get it from B&N and make my paltry donation to Channel 13 where my beloved Charlie Rose and Tavis Smiley are shown every night. I wanted to make the entire $365 donation and get her portfolio that looks just great, but those dollars are precious right now. They're my oxygen. I called and almost made the pledge but then backed out. The young woman on the other end of the line was disgusted with me. I do want it. I do. I'll get it. I will receive the funds.
I've got a tooth bothering me. I had to laugh...Of course. One day away from freedom and I can't escape myself and my poor attention to myself. I hear and will comply. Luckily I have dental insurance that does not include the workplace. I learned back in 2000 that the places I've worked did not care enough to provide proper dental care, so I have it on my own. Thank you AARP. I'll have to make an appointment and go and make sure I haven't caused too much damage from my procrastinating ways.
Besides the tooth, I feel good. Alive. Ready to rumble. Yesterday I was like a caged animal at school. The place was empty except for students scrambling in to redeem themselves or turn in last minute papers. I bid the ones who came to me to go on and prosper. And I meant it.
I love them all.
Maybe I haven't been a real teacher and maybe I have been more of a teacher than I know. Near the end of this semester I started to begin to understand. A teacher is like a judge. Now I comprehend why I am so fascinated with the daytime judge shows: because like them I get to play judge with my students. To rate them with an internal measure that only I know. To determine their worth by their work and their character and how much truth I gather from them. To weigh their grade like the scale sign that I am: Libra.
I am quite pleased with my growth. I give myself a B+ for a job well done with improvement always possible.
I cleared my little workspace and found out another teacher has had her eye on it and plans to move her belongings there. So I'm officially gone. She wants to sit next to our mutual friend, Eileen. That's good. I see a strong and refreshing friendship coming from them.
Good.
An old flame and friend, Hector P., once told me I liked pomp and circumstance. He's right. Yesterday I wanted my boss to wish me well, as I had to my students, but she only threw a passing "hi" to me as she scanned the empty teacher's lounge. I'm of no use to her so why should she wish me well? I sat there and thanked the universe (and me) that I had the chutzpah to ask, ask, ask for a hole in the net. It's good to see how people really feel. Good to get out of the bubble.
I am free.
So I go in for one more class but it will be a piece of cake. Nearly all my students in the Saturday class have taken their final. I will welcome the stragglers and then send them on their way once they are done.
"Go and prosper," I will say again.
And I will mean it.
I've got a tooth bothering me. I had to laugh...Of course. One day away from freedom and I can't escape myself and my poor attention to myself. I hear and will comply. Luckily I have dental insurance that does not include the workplace. I learned back in 2000 that the places I've worked did not care enough to provide proper dental care, so I have it on my own. Thank you AARP. I'll have to make an appointment and go and make sure I haven't caused too much damage from my procrastinating ways.
Besides the tooth, I feel good. Alive. Ready to rumble. Yesterday I was like a caged animal at school. The place was empty except for students scrambling in to redeem themselves or turn in last minute papers. I bid the ones who came to me to go on and prosper. And I meant it.
I love them all.
Maybe I haven't been a real teacher and maybe I have been more of a teacher than I know. Near the end of this semester I started to begin to understand. A teacher is like a judge. Now I comprehend why I am so fascinated with the daytime judge shows: because like them I get to play judge with my students. To rate them with an internal measure that only I know. To determine their worth by their work and their character and how much truth I gather from them. To weigh their grade like the scale sign that I am: Libra.
I am quite pleased with my growth. I give myself a B+ for a job well done with improvement always possible.
I cleared my little workspace and found out another teacher has had her eye on it and plans to move her belongings there. So I'm officially gone. She wants to sit next to our mutual friend, Eileen. That's good. I see a strong and refreshing friendship coming from them.
Good.
An old flame and friend, Hector P., once told me I liked pomp and circumstance. He's right. Yesterday I wanted my boss to wish me well, as I had to my students, but she only threw a passing "hi" to me as she scanned the empty teacher's lounge. I'm of no use to her so why should she wish me well? I sat there and thanked the universe (and me) that I had the chutzpah to ask, ask, ask for a hole in the net. It's good to see how people really feel. Good to get out of the bubble.
I am free.
So I go in for one more class but it will be a piece of cake. Nearly all my students in the Saturday class have taken their final. I will welcome the stragglers and then send them on their way once they are done.
"Go and prosper," I will say again.
And I will mean it.
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