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.