Oh, Life...

Sometimes life just throws in those ironic little twists that I can't help but laugh. Tonight brought one of those twists.

I'm not too sure how common this knowledge is, so I'll just throw it out there: Over the past few years, I've struggled, and struggled deeply, with my testimony. The hows and the whys are too complex to bother typing out here, but up until my last few months in Oregon, I hadn't been to church regularly in over two years. And to apply the term "regularly" to my current level attendance would be a VERY liberal interpretation of the term. For the past year or so, however, I've definitely been doing a lot more thinking, pondering, and attending. The one glaring omission from that list above, obviously, is prayer. For many, many reasons, this is the most difficult thing for me to do.

Tonight I was in my kitchen making orzo and watching MTV's "16 and Pregnant" (yeah, I love trashy reality TV shows. That's a moral failing for another post) when there was a knock on the door and who should appear: the missionaries and a brother from the ward.

Fast forward two and a half hours, and they're leaving me after one gut-wrenching conversation having extracted a major, major promise from me: to vocally pray this evening. Once I give my word to someone I cannot go back on it. Trust and promises are a big thing for me. Even before they left though I was feeling stressed about the prospect of praying. I can't explain it, but I was filled with so many conflicting emotions I felt like I was being torn apart, literally. The only place I could think of to go was the temple. So I did.

By the time I got to the temple it was dark out and the gates around the ground were locked. I started wandering around the back of the temple, looking for a place to pray. But it was dark. And the grass was wet. And I was hungry because I never got around to eating the orzo. And I still hadn't showered after returning from a camping trip earlier in the evening so I was beyond gross. And... I was on my umpteenth mental excuse when I found myself face first on the ground, with that wet grass sticking to my greasy hair and my growling stomach left somewhere in the air above my head after my sudden bodily descent.

Yes, brothers and sisters, it is true: pride goeth before the fall. And in my case, my pride has reached such heights of grandeur that the Lord has seen fit to lower me. Literally. By placing holes (deep holes! More like trenches! or ditches!) in my path. Not paying attention in the dark, I stepped straight into some mid-calf hole. I was half way between laughing and crying when I noticed I had landed directly on my knees, in front of the portion of the temple engraved "Holiness to the Lord, the House of the Lord."

Now did God really plant that hole in my path? Maybe not, but I decided to take advantage of my position and go ahead and pray. The heavens did not part, my doubts were not confounded in one fell swoop, but it definitely stirred a few thoughts and emotions that have been missing. I will not wait so long to do this again. My ankle hurts too much for that.

Blueberry Banana Bread

Last week I found myself with a pile of brown bananas (no central air + high 90s = accelerated decomp of fresh produce on the counter), a flat of blueberries from Costco, and a hankering for an old favorite: banana bread. Since the spring I've really tried to devote myself to healthy eating as I'm getting a prediabetic diagnosis under control. Instead of going for the old standby bread recipe with tons of butter and sugar, I toyed around with some healthier options. And what fantastic results! The basis of the banana bread is Martha Stewart's Blueberry Banana Muffins, and I made a few very small adjustments ( fresh v. frozen fruit, some wheat germ, yogurt with the butter). I highly suggest trying it... I've got a second loaf in the oven right now (I've resorted to turning on the oven only after 10:00PM) to eat for snacks this week and cannot wait for it to come out. I used three bowls to prepare it, so I broke the recipe down into bowls.

Bowl 1: Beat
1/4 c. butter
1/8 c. plain yogurt
1/3 c. granulated sugar
1/3 c. packed brown sugar

After these ingredients are light and fluffy, add in two eggs. Crack the eggs one at a time and beat well after each addition.

Bowl 2: Whisk
1 c. flour, spooned and leveled
3/4 c. whole wheat flour, spooned and leveled
1/4 c. wheat germ
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt

Bowl 3: Mash!
2-3 over ripe medium bananas (you'll want about 3/4 c)
1 tsp. vanilla


My kitchen aid mixer is my prized possession, and I got bowl number one spinning and then let the mixer do the work while I worked on bowls 2 and 3. Once the butter and sugar and eggs are good and fluffy, you'll add bowls 2 and 3 to bowl one. Alternate the additions, and begin and end with the flour mixture.

Finally, toss in some blueberries. The original recipe called for 1 c. frozen berries, but I've used fresh berries both times. I also never measure the berries, just toss them until it looks perfectly tasty.

The original recipe is for muffins, but I've had no problems putting the batter in a loaf pan. My oven has a mind of its own, so I just keep an eye on the loaf until I can stick a toothpick in and it comes out clean, about 15-20 minutes for me.

PS: I kept trying to add a picture, but it wouldn't upload for some reason. Hmmmm... help?

The Classics

One of Sean's favorite ways to poke fun at me is to call me an literary snob. We both read "The Kite Runner" from Khaled Hosseini waaaaaay back in undergrad and when it came up at dinner one night I said something to the effect of its foreshadowing crossed the lines from hinting to clobbering, and that the ironic twists were no longer tantalizing but gut-wrenching. I'm not one to mince words. I finished the tirade by stating it had clearly been written for the masses. He's followed that up by never letting me live my "nose in the air" moment down. Ah, well...

So imagine his shock and surprise that I, for one, LOVE the Twilight series. Talk about written for the masses, and not just any masses, but the 13-17 year old masses. I know I've mentioned its downfalls before, but I can't help it... they just suck me in. I own all four books, have read them each several times now, have already seen Eclipse. Twice. (A few of my students work at the local movie theater and one young man took my ticket at both showings. His response: "Seriously, Shoe? You seemed smarter than that.") I've downloaded all three soundtracks. I'm mostly team Jacob-- and I am SO thankful Taylor Lautner is finally 18 so I feel a little less like a pedophile as I ogle him.

All of my Twilight-lovin' aside, however, I had a disturbing thought yesterday:

Jane Austen is often touted as THE author of the 19th century, as a beacon for the advent of the woman writer. After all, she wrote under her own name in a time when women were best seen but not heard (or read). But when Jane Austen was writing, she was perhaps the Danielle Steele of her era. Ok... that's a bit harsh... maybe the Jodi Piccoult of her time. A fantastic author, yes, but again-- no contender for the Booker here. She entertains us. That's why we remember her now.

But what about William Shakespeare? The Bard of Avon. The hero of hopeless romantics everywhere, the plague of high school English students. We collectively revere him now as the best playwright of all time, but hunt through that iambic pentameter and 16th century English, and you've got smut! Attending The Globe was the equivalent of turning on a sitcom. He wrote to please the masses, literally. The nobility in the box seats, the peasants in the penny pit, he had to entertain them all. And entertain them he did. This is why we remember him now.

Here's where I'm going with this-- what if in another century or two, generations of teenagers and college students pour over the Twilight series. They'll complete a literary analysis of biblical allusions (particularly from the LDS standing, these continually surprise me); pull apart the tenuous ties holding Bella to both Edward and Jacob; and wonder-- what elements of "human" nature transcend all beings? Who do the Volturi, with their power hungry ways, truly satirize? What is the author trying to tell us? "Meyer" will become as common as "Hemingway" or "Byron".

Not to knock ol' Stephenie, but this makes me a little worried. Of course, it won't stop me from re-reading Breaking Dawn by the pool today. Ahhhhhh, summer.

Suggestions??

So, it's been awhile. And yet looking back over the last 3+ months I can't help but think I didn't really miss much that was worth blogging about. My days and weeks are fairly routine with work, and often times I feel like I'm on the wash-rinse-repeat cycle of lesson planning, teaching, grading. Don't get me wrong-- I am loving it. I truly believe that education is the one gift that you can give to any person at any time and regardless of how much or how little they have, it will infinitely enrich their lives. Some days I have to chant that over and over to get to the final bell, but I now found it to be truer than ever.

Reflecting on my own personal education, I realize how incredibly blessed I am to have received a top-notch education. In five years, I was able to earn two BAs and a MA under the guidance of phenomenal professor who shaped me intellectually, mentally, and spiritually. But unfortunately, it's recently come to my attention (now that the routine and wash-rinse-repeat has given me the time to slow down and look around) that each one of those pieces of paper brought with them about 15 pounds that settled right on the hips. Eek.

A few weeks before Christmas, I realized that I had reached the point where I wasn't staying up until midnight grading and planning every night but knew how to balance my time (usually). So instead of spending my usual hour or two blog-stalking or compulsively checking the Facebook news feed I joined the gym near my house and am now working out between 5 and 6 days a week. That number fell by about 50% during the holidays, but now I am back in the swing of things. It amazes me how much I am LOVING working out, and really look forward to getting into the gym. I do need some help though: my workout music selection seems lackluster and I've come dangerously close to flying off the back of the treadmill several times while fiddling with my iPod in an attempt to find something I could groove to for a few miles. So, to all of you (any of you? someone?) out there, can you give me any suggestions for some good work out music??

Really??

I went to see Zombieland land tonight. Gratuitous violence aside, it was a great movie-- witty dialogue, believable characters (at least believable for a world run amok by mad zombie disease) and an under current of a worthwhile theme: loyalty and devotion builds the strength to overcome life's greatest challenges. Blood-vomiting cannibals included. I also came out with a new motivation for cardio exercise.

What I DID NOT appreciate about my Zombieland experience, however, was the fact that I was carded by the acne afflicted, angsty youth taking tickets on the way in. I look under 17?? Really??

A second really for the evening:

The "New Moon" trailer was one of the few shown before the feature show this evening. I saw "Twilight" first, and then read the book. I've been accused of literary snobbery before, but I don't think I'm alone in saying that Stephenie Meyer will be no contender for the Booker. And I'll admit it-- it's a great guilty pleasure. Furthermore as an English teacher, I feel obligated to read what my students are reading. So after the movie, I bought the book New Moon to read between now and the next movie.

One of my biggest problems with Meyer's book (besides the ridiculous repetitiveness of her descriptors) is that Bella Swan is quite possibly the WORST role model for young girls. At the age of 17 she spends her time cleaning up after her bachelor father (who apparently did nothing for himself in the what, 12 years she lived with her mother) and developing an obsessive relationship with a "boy" who is a little too "protective" (read: controlling and manipulative).

While waiting to check out, I flipped the book open to a random page. And I quote: "I spent the morning cleaning the house waiting for Jacob to call. When the phone rang, I dropped the toilet brush and ran downstairs."

Really, Bella, REALLY?? I'll take snooty Hermione any day.

I'll let you know when I finish the series.

Sunnuva...

Yeah, I almost swore in class today. I try (really hard) to stop up my inherited potty mouth in the classroom especially, but sometimes... it almost slips. Almost. I drink water like a camel and usually when a student requests to get a drink during class, he/she has to fill up my water bottle for me. It just so happened that today I was using a water bottle with a particularly tricky lid. I paused during lecture to let them copy down some information, I took a big pull off of said bottle... and the cap fell off, and the water gushed down my shirt. Luckily, I was wearing the quintessential teacher outfit -- pencil skirt, white camisole, dark colored cardigan. As most of my students were focused on their paper at the moment, I didn't say a word about the spill, just buttoned up my cardigan and continued to talk without missing a beat. The few who noticed I think were too shocked to say anything. Wet T-shirt contest postponed till Homecoming.

Three Days In

I walked in the door from school this afternoon, kicked off my shoes immediately, and made a little snack: I counted out 30 bittersweet chocolate chips, measured two tablespoons of Adam's smooth peanut butter, and nuked the two of them together in the microwave until it was a bowl of ooey, gooey bliss. I told myself that sticking to the suggested serving size meant it wasn't as gluttonous as it sounds... right? Right? My college roommates can attest that this is a step up from the stressful days of undergrad when I was often found at odd hours, incoherent from sleep deprivation, pouring hershey's syrup into my mouth already crammed full with Jiff.

So maybe I'm feeling a little stressed. I've got 130 students (give or take-- my class list still changes daily) and I'm scrambling to find chairs and books for everybody, not to mention prepare to teach them all-- but I really, really love it. I've got one squirrely class that was giving me guff the first two days (Sean made fun of me all afternoon for using the word 'guff'. He wanted to know if I am 80 and asked if those darn boys were wearing short pants again) but we had a breakthrough today and I think I'll quit wanting to reinstate corporal punishment in that classroom soon.

Overall, my students are great. I have one German exchange student whose knowledge of American history far surpasses any of the Americans. I have a girl from South America who I get to speak Spanish with on occasion. A boy who told me on the first day of class that he has no academic strengths at all raised his hand not once, not twice, but three times today during class discussions.

Oh, yeah, remember this guy?
Yeah, that's Ronnie "Sunshine" Bass from the classic "Remember the Titans." I swear, I have the real-life incarnation of Ronnie in class. The kid is a dead ringer for him as far as looks go, but it goes much further than that: He just moved from a very warm, sunny state and loves to surf. He also plays football.

Needless to say, there's more than enough to keep me entertained everyday, and so far I've managed to develop a decent rapport with most of the 130-ish students I have. Still, being a first year teacher has me incredibly nervous all of the time. Are they actually learning anything from me? A student made a comment today that made my heart soar. He was the last one out of the classroom and we were chatting as he packed up. He asked what other schools I had taught at and when I told him none, he looked at me, shook his head and said, "Really? I never would have pegged you for a rookie. You're doing an awesome job." He gave me a thumbs up and left the classroom. I don't think he realizes how much he made my day (week? month? I'm still smiling)

It's still incredibly surreal to me that at 23, only 2 months out of graduate school, I've walked into such an amazing job to start my career. Although a little overwhelmed at times, I primarily feel supremely blessed and humbled, especially in this economy. I hope I can keep the rest of them fooled this year.

Hail to the Victors Valiant

It happened. I can't believe it, but it happened: I have a job for this school year!!! I will be returning to the home of the mighty wildcats, Mt. Spokane High School, to teach in the social studies department. I think it's junior American history and sophomore world history... I don't know for sure though, I was hyperventilating by the time they got to that small detail (two seconds into the conversation). As we all know, laconism is not my strong suit, but I was speechless. The principal extended the offer, I laughed and said "Are you kidding me?" Oh so eloquent, I know, and I then proceeded to experience a range of emotions from complete euphoria to absolute fear and nausea in about 10 seconds. Three weeks to plan two preps... I can do this, right? That's what these past five years have been for, right?? Yes we can! Or something like that. At least I already know the fight song.

The Good (NOT SO) Old Days

It's happened. While I still may be indistinguishable from my students physically, today is the first time I made what I thought to be a relevant pop culture reference and they looked at me like I was their grandma. I'm teaching critical reading and writing classes at a tutoring center for high school/middle school students this summer. In class today, one of the guys was talking about the Sherlock Holmes book he is reading right now. I immediately thought of Wishbone and asked if anyone else remembered that episode. Their response? "Who's Wishbone?"

I was shocked, appalled, heartbroken. I remember racing home to finish chores and get to the TV before my brothers did every afternoon so I could tune into that spry little pup and enjoy another afternoon of great classic literature. How could an entire generation of students be missing out on this amazing little guy? Feeling obliged to complete their education at that very moment, I grabbed the laptop from my desk and pulled up the Wishbone theme song on YouTube. 

Notice the source? Yeah... RetroJunk.com. They jumped alllll over that. I take issue with two things here: first, Wishbone is NOT junk! And second, I hardly call the mid-90s retro. I call them the glory days.

My Great Grandma

Rhoda Mae Olson

February 6, 1915- June 18, 2009

On Thursday, June 18, 2009, my great grandmother passed away peacefully at the age of 94. My family and I had been anticipating this for months now. She lived on her own in the house she purchased with her husband until the age of 93; her health deteriorated quickly after moving from her home, and she expressed many times that she was ready to leave this earth. 

As the oldest daughter of the oldest granddaughter, my great grandmother and I had a close relationship. I always admired her strength, her tenacity, and what I'd call her attitude "full of piss and vinegar." Woo, boy, was that old lady always willing to put up a fight. I recall very clearly a doctor telling us he couldn't figure out why she had such longevity, other than that heaven didn't want her, but hell wouldn't let her in either. It wasn't until listening to the stories traded at her funeral on June 25th that I realized what a trying life she'd led, and why she had that fighting spirit.

In 1960, at 45, she lost her husband to colon cancer, leaving her with three children to finish raising alone. The youngest, my great uncle Mike, was only 4 at the time. She had already lost another son, Doug, several years prior when he drowned in the river. Great Grandma worked two jobs to support her children: as a secretary during the days, and cleaning office buildings at night. She never remarried, but instead devoted her time to family. In 1997, when her grandson was 4, she lost her youngest son to the same disease that took her husband. She far outlived her three siblings, all of her many cousins, and many nieces and nephews. 

A child of the working poor and a product of the Great Depression, my great grandma's devotion to the Democratic Party was fierce enough that it warranted a mention in her obituary. My uncle was a foreman at Kaiser Aluminum, and recalls being heckled  during strikes by his colleagues because his grandmother was out serving doughnuts and coffee to the picketers. I have one very distinct memory of this hallmark. Several Thanksgivings back I was given the duty of ferrying her from her home to my mother's for dinner. As usual, she was standing in the doorway with her hair done, her coat on, and keys in hand waiting for me. Instead of meeting me on the steps, however, she told me to follow her to the back of the house. She giggled as she hobbled through the kitchen. Thinking she wanted to show me something in her bedroom, I was unsure when she instead took me into the bathroom. Over the back of the toilet was taped a picture of then President Bush and Vice President Cheney she'd clipped from the newspaper. I gave her a befuddled look, to which she responded with more laughing. "Well," she said, "that's where I put all the shit!" And my personal favorite, her mantra, "I'd rather have someone in the Oval Office screwing a whore than screwing the nation!" 

Ok, ok, she had a potty mouth. But she abhorred injustice, hypocrisy, and selfishness, and more often than not used that same piss and vinegar to help out the underdog. I have one favorite story to share in memory of this amazing woman. 

When my great uncle Mike was in elementary school, a black family moved into the neighborhood all white neighborhood. Mike immediately befriended the son who was in his class at school. One day the boy knocked on the door, but Great Grandma got there first. He looked nervous and asked shyly, "Ma'am, do you mind if your boy plays with a colored boy?" Great Grandma responded, "Well, I guess it's okay with me so long as your folks don't mind that you play with a Norwegian boy."

Always the politico, Great Grandma took a very active role in the PTA, even while working two jobs. At the first meeting that the new parents in the neighborhood attended, the PTA president made a very large show of asking the father to offer grace before the potluck dinner was served. It became readily apparent, however, that no one was willing to sit at the same table as a black man and wife, particularly that same president. Loudly enough so that all could hear, Great Grandma stood up and said, "Maybe I'm the ignorant SOB here, but I was always taught a person good enough to pray with is good enough to eat with." She moved to sit with her new neighbors. They thanked her for her kind gesture and began to chitchat. Finally, the mother put her fork down and said, "I'm sorry, Rhoda, we don't mind our son playing with yours, but we've just got to know-- what is a 'wegian?"

Now I know I've got more than my fair share of that attitude, and perhaps a bit of the potty mouth no matter how hard I try, but what I truly hope I've inherited from my great grandma (since her smashing figure passed me by long ago) is that same tenacity, the same love and compassion she showed for everyone she met, the willingness to always fight for those I love and what I believe in. Rest in peace, Great Grandma, you could never, ever be forgotten. 

Spring time

 I have two, maybe three, hours of data analysis left to complete before I can turn in my last paper for grad school and be OFFICIALLY DONE. Me being me, I can't stay in my home for more than an hour or so without finding something that needs to be done. It has been awhile since I rotated the canned goods in my pantry, ya know. So I rode my bike over to the public library this afternoon to get some work done here. The kids section is always less crowded (when story time is over at least) and has much better booths than the rest of the library, so I settled in here to get to work.  

I have horrible seasonal allergies. Horrible. My eyes will swell shut without a moment's notice (hence the bike rather than the car) and I go nowhere without bringing my inhaler, a box of kleenex (yes, a whole box, not a little pocket package) and an extra dosage of antihistamine. Yes, mother of three over there who won't stop glaring at me, and your friend with two kids, I'm sneezing. I'm coughing. But if you'd come a little closer you'd see my eyes are bloodshot and my legs are covered in welts everywhere a little piece of grass touched me on the way over here. 

I DON'T HAVE SWINE FLU! 

If it weren't for the quiet signs on the wall, I'd stand up and yell it. Instead, I'll sit here quietly and continue my sneezing while I work. 

Would you rather...

As I sat crammed in the bleachers for supervisor duty in the un-air conditioned gym for a two hour music assembly today, I found myself wondering, which is worse: twenty-five middle schoolers, completely pitted out and wreaking of BO, or one middle schooler with enough Axe on for all twenty-five of his smelly classmates and then some. I'm still not sure. 

Growing Pains

A few years back, following a Girls Camp YCL experience with first year campers, I developed a theory about the emotional roller coaster that is early adolescence: 

In 1820, a young boy knelt in a clearing and uttered a humble prayer there. At the tender age of 14, Joseph Smith unleashed the powers of heaven. In return, an indignant Lucifer unleashed his fury on all children of men roundabout the age of 14. I ballpark the range as 12-15. Life during those years is now hell on earth. 

Now, a few semesters of educational psychology and theory inform me that the cerebral cortex, located in the frontal lobe of the brain and responsible for all higher-order thinking and processing, doesn't begin to fully develop until the onset of puberty. That's right, doesn't begin to develop until puberty. The cerebral cortex is often called the Conductor because its proper functioning is so crucial to virtually all aspects of our lives-- language, organization, emotional interpretation, etc. etc. So that means our "conductors" are testing out their water wings in the kiddie pool while we've gotta sink or swim in the deep end of puberty, pimples, and peer pressure. Lame. 

For either one of these extremely valid, well-thought out explanations, middle school sucks for everybody. If you think it didn't, your frontal lobe took so long to develop you've blocked it all out. I'm finishing up my student teaching in a 7th grade humanities class this spring. The kids are so energetic, so interested, so sweet-- and so thirteen. To get myself through the day, I often have to remind myself of what a friekin' nut case I was at their age. 

Yes, this is me in middle school. This is actually my 8th grade picture since the pages of my 7th grade yearbook are ripped out-- I told you it sucked. That coy smile is an attempt to hide the crooked teeth I was so ashamed of, and my hair is pulled forward not to show off luxurious flowing locks but the ears I'm pretty sure earned me the loving family moniker "orangutan" as an infant. I couldn't figure out if I was more interested in continuing life as a tomboy or turning a leaf towards more girly pursuits; if I was a flute-playing, drama and debate loving nerd, or more concerned with being into what the "cool kids" said was "cool." Oh, and that was the year I tripped and fell into (yes, literally into) a garbage can while saying hi to the boy I'd been in love with since kindergarten. Oh, and the year that my friends from elementary school decided I was no longer cool enough to sit with them at lunch. Oh, and the year that... Needless to say, I was ridin' that roller coaster. 

I'm not sure if I ever really figured it all out, but at least by the time high school rolled around and certainly now I don't burst into tears when I realize I don't know much about me somedays. I'm thinking I might make a copy of this to keep in my pocket so I can pull it out and remind myself of that on those days when I can cut the drama (and pheromones!) in the classroom with a knife and the last bell can't come soon enough. 

*** If you could avoid making any comments about how I look exactly the same now, I'd appreciate it. I can't even count how many times I've been mistaken for a student. Yes, a middle school student. 

When life gives you smashed apples...

You make applesauce! It's a well-known fact that I am quite accident prone. One of the primary reasons I steered away from elementary education is that I failed to develop motor skills beyond about the age of 4 and didn't want to be responsible for the formation of those skills in other people's children. Anywho... I've been on spring break this week and have been trying to use my time as efficiently as possible, e.g. going to Costco and stocking up on enough food to hold me over through the apocalypse. I'm not sure when I'll have this much time to run errands again. One of those purchases included a flat of apples. I recently moved apartments and took the third floor option since it's a little cheaper. So there I am yesterday afternoon, balancing my flat of apples on top of an 8-pack of canned black beans on top of an 8-pack of tomato sauce on top of my knee (yep, one leg) as I hunt for my house keys in my coat pocket that seems to have become six-inches deeper up those three flights of stairs... and I think you get the picture. Fifteen of my apples tumbled down the stairs. All three flights of stairs. I'm just glad the toddler from the first floor wasn't playing out front. My grandmother's axiom "waste not want not" ringing in my ears, I dutifully collected all of the apples, or at least what was left of them, and started looking for good applesauce recipes. Even foisting off as much as I can on Sean, pretty sure I'm going to have to start looking for apple cookie and apple bread recipes. 

There's No Place Like Home

I spent a few days of this spring break in good ol' Spokane. Spokcompton. Spokaloo. Spokanistan. Spokavegas. Whatever you wanna call it, I went home. My great-grandmother's health precipitated the trip, but I was looking forward to getting home regardless. After surveying economic forecasts, the teaching job market down in the Portland area, and the cost of living in both areas, I've decided that moving home after graduation is probably the best decision I can make at the time. Maybe that's why little things I normally don't think twice about jumped out at during the few days I was there, letting me know yup, this is home:

#1: My early morning flight on Friday left me feeling a little groggy upon arrival. I definitely did a double take when I looked out the window and the first thing I saw was a plane tail fin emblazoned with the WSU emblem. There's no place like home. 

#2: My mom called me late on Thursday night to let me know that she wouldn't be able to pick me up at the airport because of a last minute meeting at work. 'No big deal,' I thought to myself. I didn't get my license until senior year of high school, meaning I spent a lot of time on the public buses if I wanted to go anywhere (that is, unless a friend would pick me up-- thanks, Jill, Bri, Ame, and Matt!) Also, down here in Portland, the MAX is the way to go when it comes to traffic. Two things about public transportation in Spokane: first, it's only a dollar!!! In Portland, you're paying about $2.75 for two hours on public transit. Great deal when gas was $4/gallon, a little steep now.

 Second, every bus I saw flashed the phrase "Support Our Troops" on its electronic reader board that has the number and route on it. This is something you would NEVER see in Portland. Now, let me clarify a few things. While I don't necessarily agree with the premise of the war in Iraq, we are there and need to get the job done responsibly. Furthermore, I was born on Fairchild Air Force Base. My dad served in the Air Force, as did my grandfather on both sides. My uncles have all served either Army, Navy, or Coast Guard. My little cousin will be entering the Army ROTC this fall. It's in my blood to support the troops, regardless the opinion I may or may not hold for their Commander-in-Chief. This is a sentiment I've not seen much of in Portland, and I didn't realize how much it meant to me until I saw those little electronic reminders. 

#3: Gonzaga basketball!!! I loved seeing the "Go Zags!" signs from the Spokesman (something I definitely DO NOT miss about Spokane) all over the place. 

#4: SUNSHINE! Even it's cold out (like snowing in late March) there is still sunshine to be seen. After four years in Portland, I'm ready to break through the clouds and rain. Bring on 260 days of sunshine a year! 

I could keep going. I didn't even mention how wonderful it feels to be near family, or how impressed I was with the growth of the city, or how much better Washington treats its teachers than Oregon does. This little side trip helped me realize that I'm not moving back to Spokane just because it's the only place I can afford to live after graduating as a teacher, barring Barrow, Alaska, but because it's home for me and... ummm...well... I kinda like it and miss it (something I swore in high school I'd never think). While I don't think I'll settle down permanently there, I'm looking forward to a few years back home. 

Someday

I spend a lot of time thinking about the ever elusive someday.

Someday… I’ll be done with school.


Someday… I’ll have a job I truly enjoy.


Someday… I’ll spend less time working, and more time playing.

Someday... I'll stay at home to raise a family. 

Someday… I’ll devote more time to the people I love.


Someday… I’ll be able to travel to all those places I spend hours looking up on Expedia.


Someday… I’ll be able to read for fun.

Someday… I’ll start writing more.

Someday... I'll run a half-marathon.  

Someday… I’ll go back to school.



Someday will be a pretty great day. I just need to figure out how to make someday today. Any ideas?

Fifty Cents on Pay Day

Back at the beginning of this program, a friend asked how much I would be paid while student teaching. I felt a little bad about literally laughing in her face. Perhaps a tad foreshadowing of what is to come, I'm actually paying $40,000 (give or take a g's) right now to work 40+ hours a week. I try not to think of it in those terms too much. I'll have years and years of loan statements to do that for me. 

ANYways-- this week has been a bit more challenging than others, and one of the first during which I've actually felt some anxiety about my ability as a teacher. A student in one of my classes was shot over the weekend while in downtown Portland (innocent bystander during a random act of violence-- she's recovering fine, but she's an exchange student and I can only imagine how that adds to her trauma right now). We had a nice long staff meeting this morning about escalating events of violence and gang-related activity at school. It's the beginning of a new term and I've had no less than two teachers and one student question whether or not I am actually old enough to be a teacher (people keep telling me I'll appreciate my youthful appearance when I'm older, but it's sure a pain in the you-know-what right now). Let's just say I'm feeling a decreased sense of my self-efficacy as an educator these past few days. 

The clouds parted and the light shone down yesterday afternoon. I've developed a good rapport with one of the juniors in a history class. He comes from a disadvantaged background to say the least, but this kid is one of the hardest workers I've ever met. He squandered a lot of chances his first two years, but has really kicked it into high gear this year, taking night classes on his own, seeking out extra help and assignments, etc. He's discovered a real love and raw talent for creative writing. Knowing that I also teach English, he came to me during independent work time with a poem and asked me to look at it for him. After a twenty minute conversation about simile, onomatopoeia, allusion, and various other nerdy things, he started asking me questions about discontinuous narrative (jumping around in the narration of a story) in relation to a short story idea he had. As if his excitement and motivation wasn't enough, another b

oy, one whom I've often thought had more ambition to be a brick wall than in a desk, jumped in the conversation. 

"Yeah, man, haven't you ever seen Fifty Cent's movie? It's like whoa, dude just got shot in the face, and then he tells you how he got there. It's just like that man, it's cool. Real cool." Ok, so I've never thought much of "Fiddy" or his work, but if he can get two of my students excited about and, more importantly, understanding something as obscure as discontinuous narrative or poetry in general-- hats off. Luckily, both boys were able to come up with other examples, too.  (Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, some James Joyce stuff) I was near euphoria, completely re-energized when I left school that afternoon. So I guess somedays I do get paid. 

PS- I need some serious help with formatting and placing pictures in Blogger. I know how to upload them (obviously) but not how to move them around once they're in here. I've looked through the Blogger help menu but can't find what I need. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated. 

 

Heartwarming

With all of the chilly winter weather blanketing just about everywhere, I thought I'd share this little story about a couple of smart kids who knew just what they wanted. I'm thinking the allure of warm weather inspired their jaunt-- I know I'd be tempted by something a little toastier right now! I hope everyone had a happy holiday season and that 2009 is off to a great start. 

Dear Santa

This video made me cry. Twice. I hope that at this time of year especially we are all thankful for those who make sacrifices so that we can celebrate. 

Drama, Drama, Drama

3. Emo

like a Goth, only much less dark and much more Harry Potter. 

My life sucks, I want to cry.

from urbandictionary.com

Like most couples, the nightly conversations between Sean and I usually begin with, "So, how was your day?" It seems like most nights he rushes through the enthralling accounting of a day in the life of an insurance underwriter to get to my stories. While he usually has some doozies about attempted fraud and general idiocy, I spend my days (and nights at the tutoring center) with teenagers. And we all know what that means: drama, drama, drama. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I've always got a good one. 

 The hardest thing about teaching is learning to pee by the bell. I'm a pretty thirsty person and am used to draining four to five nalgenes within an eight hour period. Well, I'm no longer free to go to the bathroom whenever I want. I've got approximately five minutes every 90 minutes to battle the herds of female students, staff, and faculty to get to the bathroom and back before the bell rings. I can't just take the pass and leave during the class period. The high school I'm student teaching at doesn't have separate facilities for the staff, and you'd be surprised how much you overhear in the bathroom. 

Case in point: Tuesday morning. I stood patiently in the bathroom line stretching out the door. Two girls, both of whom I know from class, crowded in front of a mirror. Both of these girls are good students and very polite. The type of kid you can't really describe any other way but, "She's a really good kid." I wasn't surprised to hear them chattering excitedly, trying to determine the best color description for their t-shirts-- "I think mine is more like a creamsicle colors. Yours? Hmmm... yours would be like wisteria or something, right?" My English teacher heart warmed to hear them playing with word choice and description so enthusiastically. Questions of shirt color settled, out came the requisite makeup and hair accessories. The excitement began anew. In teen jargon, both of these girls would be probably be best classified as "emo." As one girl tried to get her eyeliner exactly right, the other pouted at her hair. She repeatedly pulled her hair in and out of pigtails, all the while consulting with her friend in the same excited tone. Well, as excited as I was about these girls developing strong word choice, they've obviously yet to grasp the concept of creating appropriate tone. The bubbling excitement just didn't match her statement: "I kinda like the pigtails, but the pigtails can kinda be happy. And we are not happy." Her friend nodded emphatically and suggested that instead she pull her bangs (dyed black and chopped bluntly) into her eyes. 

I had to bite my lip and stare at the floor to keep from bursting out laughing. Did we ever take ourselves so very seriously as teenagers??