From Room C410

I remember very little about my first day on the job. I remember it snowed terribly that day (I was hired mid-year--in February). I remember crying a bit in the car, the worry that I wouldn't make it on time for my first day plaguing me every snow covered inch of I-15. But I have no idea what happened my first day on the job. I have no idea what happened those first months as a bona fide teacher. That period in my life conjures up one word: survival. Oh sure, I remember the nightly crying freak out sessions: "I have no idea what I'm teaching in the morning and I spent 12 hours at school yesterday." I recall the stress piling up higher than my laundry pile did as each bullet item at faculty meeting was covered: "There's so much I'm not doing, apparently. But I'm here 12 hours a day!" I remember feeling exhausted all of the time, my eyes drooping as I entered attendance. I remember gaining more weight in three months than I had in my entire adulthood. It hasn't left, mind you (which is why I remember it so clearly). The actual teaching part of those first months, however, is a blur. I know I was there for it. I know that I was probably awful at it. I'm thinking I must be suppressing those memories. Because, try as I might, I cannot fully recall that time. I just know it happened and that it is over. That it is over is the most important part.

Last night I clicked onto Netflix to see what I had in the old queue for instant viewing. (I'm loving the Netflix, by the way, and all the foreign, indie, and old cinema I've struggled to access until now.) There it lay like a beacon, halfway down my ever-growing list: Chalk. This is your typical fly-on-the-wall mockumentary. Except, unlike The Office or Waiting for Guffman, elements of this particular flick hit a little too close to home. As I watched, I felt an eery sense of familiarity. The film follows a female PE teacher, a heartbreakingly awful newbie (this is where the eery sense of familiarity exhaled its cold breath on my neck), the friendly "we do nothing in his class" history teacher, and a new-to-administration assistant principal, all of Harrison High School.

Chalk was humorous, but not necessarily because it intended to be. When it tried to be funniest, it wasn't. Over the top at points? Slightly. But, on the whole, Chalk squeals across the blackboard of its subject with frightening, pitch-perfect clarity. This is what teaching in an actual classroom is like. Just add more students, perhaps no shower, bags under your eyes, and the sensation of aching feet and you get the point. And that irony was particularly poignant for an old school marm like me.

Where most films about teaching paint a picture of heroism and sacrifice, Chalk tells the real story. Bureaucracy, pettiness, cluelessness, and a room of revolving students who rarely care about what you have to sell. Its first message: 50% of teachers quit within the first three years. It spends its time telling you why this statistic is what it is.

It is true: three years is a magic number in the teaching world. I promised myself when I started that I'd give myself three years of it and then decide whether or not I wanted to stay on. Well, on February 15th I will mark my third anniversary in the classroom. And in spite of its downsides: exhaustion, aching feet, weight gain, incessant interruption while speaking, exposure to every airborne illness out there, piles of responsibility, verbal abuse (my classroom cupboard has a permanent carving of "f___ Ms. Rookie" that stares at me every day--thank you, incompetent substitute teachers), in spite of a general sense of survival from September to May, in spite of underpay and benefits that aren't as great as you might think, in spite of in how awful it really can be, I'm not going anywhere.

Because, in truth, it gets a bit easier every year. And, if I'm being honest here, the breaks aren't half bad, even if summer is spattered with professional development. But, most importantly, though I don't admit it all that often, I rather like my job. Something about being there as someone else learns is, for lack of a better term (and I know this is really quite cheesy), magical. Because, for all that people want to say is wrong in public schools, I'd like them to show me something better that is reaching everybody. For all of its imperfections, I think that most teachers are in the classroom for the right reasons. Call me an optimist. Call me diluted. Teaching is hard. It isn't a job for the faint of heart. 50% of teachers quit within the first three years of teaching. But for this teacher, I'm one of the 50% who stay.

Confessions of a Grammar Snob

While checking blogs today, I came across this lovely ditty by Jen. And I couldn't keep myself from writing a lengthy list of grammatical pet peeves in her comments section. And then it hit me, I'm not what I think I am.

You see, when acquaintances find out what I do for a living, their responses are usually a combination of the following: "I loved/hated English! My teacher _________________ was such a good teacher/so difficult to please. I guess I should watch my grammar around you, eh?" My response is typically, "Oh, don't do that. Really, I don't care. Speak as you will. No judgment here." And it is true that I don't want to judge people for their grammatical misunderstandings and language blunders. I've long thought, "I'm not one of those English teachers who judges everybody else's grammar."

But, in all honesty, I am.

Now, when people speak, I'm (a bit) less apt to care. I've been known in the deep recesses of my past to say "your guys'" (I am from Utah, afterall). I may drop an "ain't" every now and again for style's sake. But when writing, I believe the standard rules of English ought to be followed. Punctuation marks aren't there to confuse, they're set in place to add deeper meaning, emphasis and influx. Subjects and verbs were intended to agree. And when that doesn't happen, I wince a wee little bit. Against my will, usually. My better judgment says, "Oh, what does it matter?" My inner-grammar snob says, "NO! Not again! Why must the public be so ignorant of the very language they speak?" And the more mistakes, blunders, and errors made, the harsher I judge (if I am not particularly fond of the person this becomes quite a pleasant activity, in fact).

It is awful. It is snobby and offensive. I am probably losing friends as I write this. But I cannot help myself. Once you know better, these things flash out at you in painful, wincing clarity.

So, next time you write something, read over it once with my eyeballs. If you feel like, while writing, you are making TAMN at Seriously So Blessed seem spot on as opposed to exaggerated, maybe you could read more (stuff that's been through an edit or two, not just blogs). Or research the conventional rules of the English language. Maybe you could have someone you trust edit your work (I'm not volunteering myself--I have a full time job that, while it doesn't pay much, pays me more than you would for doing this).

And maybe I should just shut my mouth. No maybe. I just should.



OH, and my family is NPR-famous. Over the holidays, my mom went to visit my sister and family back East and they made it on my favorite radio station. To listen to their five minutes of fame, go here. Woo hoo family!

Facebook

What is: one more time-sucker I just don't need.

We now know why I REALLY waited to join.

20 Random Things That Make Me Cringe, In No Particular Order

1. The sound my alarm ringtone makes (you can add the T-mobile jingle to that list as it was once my alarm).

2. Needles.

3. Veins.

4. The sound of a shovel scraping pavement.

5. Opening cans. A few months ago I royally sliced my hand on the jagged lid while opening a can of refried beans. Ever since then I'm terrified of it.

6. Swallowing the handfuls of vitamin concoctions my mother gave me growing up (washed down with a protein Shaklee shake, thankyouverymuch). (You can add this to the "things that make me shiver" list.)

7. Stagnant algae-filled bodies of water. I was once dumped into a stagnant cove of this stuff while canoeing at girls' camp growing up.

8. Ear wax.

9. The heavy stench of bacon that lingers long after it has been cooked and consumed.

10. Fish. Seafood in general, really.

11. Mystery moisture (you all know this experience--any public place in which you sit in/accidentally touch moisture that derives from an unknown source and has been there an inestimable amount of time).

12. Grammatical errors and malapropisms including: "Unthawed" (so does that mean you're freezing it?), "Irregardless" (not a word, in case you missed the memo), and my mom's personal favorite "Ignernt" (she thinks she is saying "ignorant" as in, they are rude, but she apparently is ignorant of the fact that "ignorant" means unaware, misinformed, or uneducated on a matter--Mommy, you know I still love you).

13. Over the top comedy movies in which things go from bad to worse (I hated Meet the Parents because I was cringing with stress the entire time).

14. Body odor. 'Nough said.

15. When I've started saying something without thinking and my comment goes awry (typically down the offensive/insulting path), at which point I try and correct or clarify the statement and, in the process, make it much worse.

16. Canned meats. It is just wrong.

17. When people say incredibly stupid things and remain oblivious to the stupidity of their statements. (Thank you, Miss South Carolina, for exhibiting my point perfectly!)



18. Scab-picking.

19. Muffin tops. Or should I say ill-fitting clothing in general.

20. Dry wooden spoons.

Lazy Blogger

I have been a terrible blogger lately. Blame Facebook (after much pushing, I finally signed up and holy moly! the people that come out of the woodwork). Blame my new obsession with sewing (did I tell you about the $25 Bernina sewing machine in perfect condition that I scored in a silent auction at school?). Blame the holidays. Or blame the fact that I'm now back in school after my break (and had the worst week in the classroom I've had in a long time). Frankly, I haven't had much spare time and in that spare time I've been doing anything but blogging.

But, frankly, I haven't got a single thing to say lately. Other then Happy New Year! I'm working on it.

Oh, and so that it is just out there in the universe and I can rest easy knowing I said it: Winter is my enemy. My toes haven't been warm in days, I swear (okay, maybe a wee bit of hyperbole, there). I'm cold and sick of snow. Boo to winter.

I promise, the blog will be updated with a real post soon.

Wanker!

Dear ukdvdltd (at ebay),

As a single latetwentysomething residing in a peculiar area of the world in which I am, in fact, considered to be an old maid, I only get so much pleasure out of my little life. Recently, I discovered one Mr. Thornton (played by a certain Mr. Richard Armitage) in the BBC film adaptation of Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South. In this discovery, I recognized that owning this particular film adaptation would be particularly pleasing in its escapist and byronic nature. And so, looking for a frugal steal of a deal, I turned to no other than the infamous ebay. At said website, I was able to locate and purchase the complete DVD set of said film from your company.

I am impressed that, in spite of holidays and weather-caused airport closures, the item was able to skip across the pond, as it were, and arrive here in a timely manner. I was not impressed, however, to discover that, without any heed or warning on your part, this item, when placed in my DVD player, was exposed for the fraud that it is. You see, ukdvdltd (at ebay), your DVD is incompatible with my DVD player due to its incorrect regional code. What is a regional code? you ask. I'll tell you what it is, it is a code that correlates directly with the DVD players of the UK and all of Europe, but not so much MY DVD player from the UNITED STATES.

Here is what I need from you, ukdvdltd: When selling items on ebay to an international customer base, do your research. If the regional codes won't match up: warn the customer. Or, if you knew this would be an issue for a customer such as myself, please clearly advertise this. Also, I really need a complete refund for the 11.70 lbs. I spent (plus shipping & handling charges). You see, I need to take this refund and apply it to the purchase of the DVD set which will actually cooperate with my DVD player.

Thank you for your time and what I assume will be your superb and reasonable customer service. If ever I am in the market for the DVDs under the UK regional code, and if my predictions about your service are correct, you will certainly be my first choice for DVDs and other media.

Sincerely,
The Rookie

P.S. Buggar off, you bloody wankers! Who do you think you are? Don't you know how this has ruined me!?




And, because it made me laugh hysterically:

17 Miles

Growing up, we didn't travel much as a family.  In my parents' defense, you can imagine the enormity of shoving 10 yours, mine, and ours children into the family station wagon and you start to see why one trip to Yellowstone early on in their marriage (and in my young life--I was too young to remember the nightmare) was the only vacation I think we ever ALL went on together.

But one travel experience that took place several times every year was the long drive down to my grandfather's house in Antimony, Utah (pop. 122).  My dad loaded the willing into the car for a long weekend of sitting around listening to adults talk about people you didn't know and were possibly related to. People who were probably dead. It was misery, but I never missed an opportunity to go because it was a "vacation," a rare opportunity. And home was equally boring, though it had more toys. And even though the only television allowed came in the form of my grandfather watching Jeopardy, "the ball game," and the 10 o'clock news on full volume, there was something about it all that kept me coming back. Maybe it was in hopes of the slight chance that my dad would drive us the hour and a half to Bryce Canyon on back roads (all dirt, mind you-- I never knew there was a major highway that would take you here). We'd drive with stops along the way at the Antimony Merc, the ugliest all-dirt cemetery where my grandmother is buried right near the entrance, and at a condemned "haunted!" mill (the highlight) that I easily could have been severely paralyzed in had the rotted out wood given out under the weight of me (now that I think of it, my father--never blessed with the red flag warnings of a potential worst case scenario--was insane to take us here).

The drive down was equally as boring. My father didn't believe in purchasing the treasures to be found in the gas station. Nope, the cooler was stocked with homemade, soggy sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil (my "frugal" father thinks even ziploc bags are unnecessary) and a 2 liter of Shasta. Needless to say, I typically tried to fall asleep by Provo.

After enduring the long, miserable trip, typically in the dark, watching, waiting for the numbers to shrink on the green signs reading "Cedar City 228 miles" and "Richfield 73 miles," Antimony finally showed up, glowing like a beacon, at the entrance of UT S.R. 22. "Antimony 17 miles" it reads. And though I'd been stuck in the backseat for hours as it was, those final 17 miles always took the longest. At the end of those 17 miles was my grandpa's porch light, his dog Tibby barking in the night, the blaring sports report on the 10 o'clock news, and a big, rough hug with my grandfather's gruff Hello Schweethaht! in my ear. The drive down was miserably long, indeed, but those 17 miles were torture. The longest leg of the trip.

I haven't driven those 17 miles in who knows how long. My grandpa passed away at 92 while I was still in college and I've been back to his house and Antimony only once (another post for another time). But I've been thinking lately about how most of my life is a lot like those 17 miles. I feel like sometimes I am just surviving, enduring the monotony of a long road trip. Most days I'm trudging through the 17 miles to the weekend, the 17 miles to summer/winter/fall/spring. I'm living for what is next and not enjoying what is now. And I don't think I'm alone here. Life is frequently spent in auto pilot. Endurance mode. But sometimes, you can look up in the dark night along UT S.R. 22 and there are more stars out there than you've ever seen in the city. Sometimes the moon blinks its single silver-blue eye in the dark, murky water of Otter Creek Reservoir as you pass, and it is beautiful. This change will be a challenge, but I really want to work on redefining my idea of enjoyable moments. Life is lived in that in-between time. Life is lived in those 17 miles. Rather than thinking those miles to be a monotonous torture, I want to work on thinking of those 17 miles as my life. Wish me luck!

(And, seriously, what was my dad thinking, letting me walk around in that condemned mill?)