Questions I Need Answered

Is it hickey or hickie? Either way, there is nothing more disgusting than seeing the tell-tale signs of adolescent lust and awkwardness on the neck of a 14 year old boy who seems to always be in need of a shower. Hygiene, boys. Hygiene.

Why are we paying a $174,000 annual starting salary to individuals who don't do their job? (That being to actually pass laws that make our country better.) If I taught they way they govern I'd be the worst teacher in all of human history. And I'm including Mary Kay Letourneau in that list.

Why must my birthday be sullied by the beginning of Daylight Saving Time? Every year since they changed it I've spend my birthday week extra tired from waking an hour earlier. Thanks again, government.

Do you understand the zombie thing? Can you explain it to me. I've tried to find the humor in it to no avail. Zombies are generally disappointing.

Why are stripes so appealing to me? I have a stripe problem.

How can a sandwich consisting of a breaded, deep-fried chicken breast and sliced pickles be so delicious? I even pull off the pickles, so basically it is the chicken and the breading and part of the bun. Why are you so good, Chick-fil-A? And why have you not set up shop in my neighborhood? Couldn't we agree to kick Taco Bell out?

Who even goes to Taco Bell anymore?

What book/movie/musician do I not know about right now that you just know would be worth the time/Netflix/iTunes investment? No, really, I want your brilliant suggestions, readers.

What did you think of Seth MacFarlane on the Oscars? Convince me it didn't suck because I thought it was awful. Really awful.

More importantly, why do I continue to watch the Oscars year after year? It is a lackluster event with a few poignant speeches that can be found plastered all over the internet the next day anyway.

Why is it so hard to find a perfect pair of jeans? And why do stores "upgrade" to new cuts and styles once you find your ideal?

Why is it that the older I get, the more I just want to stay at home in yoga pants? Must be the jeans issue.

Home Away from Home

I spend a lot of time in the room pictured above.

It is my home away from home. I've made it my own space with a lot of dedication and TLC and a highly flammable amount of paper (there are trees upon trees upon trees in this room). The western wall is a bank of windows looking down on the valley and city below. Shakespeare looks down on us from his large and stately frame on the wall. My little office is covered in art and color and things that I love. There are quotes and thoughts posted throughout the room.

"You miss all the shots you don't take."
"We read to know we are not alone."
"A word / after a word / after a word / is power."
"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams."
"Embrace confusion. Confusion is where learning happens."
"Learning is hard. Embrace the suck." (A class motto I say a lot to the kids.)

 The outside of the door is posted with large stickers from the dollar store: "Come in. Learn."

I hope that is what my students feel upon entering. That this is a space of learning. Not to merely earn grades or complain or suffer from boredom or bully one another out of our own insecurities. I wanted to create my own dream room for learning and creativity and a celebration of knowledge and literature and writing and reading.

I love this room. For me, it is a place where I get to witness the everyday magic of learning.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

In lieu of blogging, I've been up to some of the following (and please forgive the limitations of my point and shoot--yep, blaming the camera, not the photographer):

I made a gingerbread house. My first ever. From scratch. It was fun and frustrating and messy and the roof may contain a multi-grain club cracker. You'll never know. OK, the roof does have a club cracker--but the solution worked!

Next year, I'm going with the kit...or graham crackers.

I went to these kiddos' Christmas performance.

It was fabulous because THEY are fabulous!

He is kind of a rock star.

She was skipping along with the animated snowman at our favorite little (tacky) pizza place in the hometown.

And then there is this...

We went and saw the lights at Temple Square with the ward.

(Blurry, I know. But lovely nonetheless.)

I love the lights at Temple Square. But they have certainly toned it down in recent years. I remember it being a wonderland of billions of lights when I was a little girl. Every single tree was aglow. Not quite the same, anymore--but still,

one of my favorite holiday traditions.

Our new bishop was recently released as a Conference Center usher. He got us up on the Conference Center roof with his hook ups (OK, he still had his magnetized tag that worked on the elevator).

It was the best possible view. I love this photo! Thanks, Bish!

I'd like to call this one "I WAS ROBBED!"

Because I was. We had a door decorating contest at school with cash prizes and everything. The theme: Winter decor that matches your content area. What could be better than some Robert Frost action

for the English teacher's door?

Store bought decorations do not trump creativity.

That's all I'm saying.

My little 9th graders worked like gangbusters and had to deal with my neurotic, controlling self. My favorite conversation of the great door decorating day (upon discovering a clueless 9th grade boy taping masking tape in giant strips on TOP of the paper--not the little double-sided circle strips BEHIND the decor):

Me: Chayse, WHY are you taping it like that?!?

Chayse: Ummmm...

Me: You need to re-do that. It looks terrible, you can't have the tape showing! Do it like this.

(I demonstrate appropriate taping strategy.)

Chayse: Oh, huh. That makes sense. Oops!

Me: Sheesh! Who raised you?

Chayse: My dad.

Me: It shows! No sense of the aesthetic, whatsoever!

HA! Poor things! Yes, I am a control freak.

Finally, on Thursday we headed back to Temple Square. My dear Momsy scored tickets to the MoTab Christmas concert. David Archuleta was adorable as their guest. Perfect for the holidays!

I kind of love this woman!

Can't tell we're related at all, can you?

Waiting for the show to start.

(My favorite part of this photo: Allyson holding both of our Kindles--our waiting entertainment.)

The traditional "Besties" shot.

Thanks for taking our picture, usher-man.

The set was sweet!

It has been a busy few weeks. But I'm off school for two weeks,

Christmas is coming, snow is flying and I don't have to commute in it at an inhumane hour.

I LOVE this time of year!

Dear Blogging Friends,

I am writing to let you know that I really, really, really wish I could throttle certain 9th graders. Particularly those of the male variety. I am weary of their inconsiderate choices, their troublesome behavior, their immaturity, and the messes they seem to trail behind them. You know how the news loves to portray these awful stories of teachers having indecent relationships with their 9th grade students? I am here to say these teachers are certifiably insane. There is nothing, I repeat, NOTHING that could behoove me to spend more time than is absolutely necessary in their presence. 14-15 year old boys are awful, awful people.


I also have a blog post marinating in my brain about men who used to be 14-15 year old boys. But I don't want to sound bitter and nasty. I'm debating how to broach this particular little subject. And my date last week. And what it means to be my age, female, LDS, living in Utah, and single.

In happier news, it is my 30th birthday in March. I only turn 30 once so the roommate and I have decided that a dream vacation to Cancun is in order. It will have to wait until my Spring Break in April, but we're definitely going. We've talked to the travel agent, we've looked (and looked and looked and dreamed and looked some more) at the pictures of our resort, I even dreamt about it last night. We are going for a week-long vacation of beautiful beaches, room serviced breakfasts of fresh fruit on our deck with a hammock, snorkeling, resting, reading, kayaking, ruins, bartering with the locals, and relaxation. And watching thousands of drunk co-eds drown all memory of their spring break. I can hold out until April 16th, right? Perhaps this demands a paper chain?



So there you have it. A snapshot of my brain's musings at this particular moment in time. Tell me, dear reader, what is haunting, frustrating, or eagerly awaiting you?


Love,
Brooke

Decency, Bullying, Human Kindness and Other Musings

Last school year a couple of my 9th grade boys were making fun of an oblivious female student. Unaware of most things, the girl didn't notice (luckily). But it was borderline bullying. Naturally, I flipped. I took them both out in the hall and, body shaking, eyes bugged, voice low and guttural, I only recall saying something about, "I am disgusted at your behavior. Don't even try and act innocent. Who do you think you are? She is a human being deserving of all the respect your heartlessness can give." I was incensed, my mind flipping back through the calendar years to my own tumultuous adolescence of teasing and crippling insecurity.

I can't help thinking about how bullying has evolved since social networking, email, texting, photo messages, and all other mediums of communication have emerged. I thought the Nick C. debacles of my youth were bad, but pagers were as high tech as my junior high could get. Nobody ever took video footage of my most humiliating experiences and posted them to youtube. Early 90's cruelty never went viral.

I recently read this article. Which just saddens me. While I wonder about the environment of that school, I worry more about what is happening in these adolescents' homes.

Kids learn how to treat their fellow man from the adults in their lives. They learn how to behave, how to love, how to hate all from the adults around them. And while a great deal of human socialization happens outside of the home, especially once adolescence kicks in, someone is teaching these children to behave with cruelty.

Which leads me to wonder about how we as adults treat one another. While we've mastered subtlety in human interaction, are we also not guilty of occasionally bullying, teasing, ganging up on one another? Do we not leave one another out, backbite, gossip? I think we are not as kind as we could be. We tell our kids to be nice but sometimes show them another example entirely. I think we can be equally cruel, if not openly cruel. I think we are just as guilty of forgetting the value of a single individual, a value that is immeasurable.

I Usually Bite My Tongue: A Flood of Words

Typically I don't think my blog is the place for venting such as this. Who wants to read the rantings of an overly-verbose, overly-consumed-by-her-job teacher? Yes, usually I bite my tongue about these situations. Because I try to be understanding, to give the benefit of the doubt to those with whom I come in contact.

I usually bite my tongue when I see the cover of Newsweek declare that firing teachers will solve this country's educational issues. I bite my tongue when I hear that unions are to blame for the state of American education. I keep quiet when everyone from Oprah to Mark Zuckerberg to Bill Gates chimes in on what they believe will solve education (to be fair, I agree with some of their thoughts). I bite my tongue when people say we teachers have it so easy: our summers off, leaving work at 3 or 4, reading the paper while the kids do whatever it is that they want to do. I keep my mouth clenched tight when I read in Time magazine that the Education field is filled with some of the worst academic performers in college. I usually don't go into any of it because I feel so intensely frustrated I'm afraid I'll foolishly cry or lose my cool. I fear if I say what I think about education, people will mistake my frustration for your average work-related whining. When, in truth, I genuinely love what I do. I bite my tongue because I fear if I open my mouth I will splatter my opposition in such a chaotic rush of thought that my words will need to be scraped off the walls when I finish.

But I have to say what I think. It has been a hell of a week. I'm in my fifth year of teaching and every single day of it has been challenging. And I need to write all of this. I need to say what I feel and think because I'm a dam with too much pressure behind it.

Let me share a few facts (and some opinions) with you:

1. I end my school year long after and begin the school year long before the students do. In between I spend several days (17 this past summer, to be exact) involved in professional development, trainings, conferences,summer writing camps, etc. I also spend my summer refining and designing curriculum, reading books that I can recommend to my reluctant readers, and, frankly, catching up on sleep and my life and those few things I like to do for me.

2. I work 10 hour days on a regular basis. Teaching means I'm preparing 3 different 90 minute presentations (with visuals and handouts and group activities and assessments and more) to several rowdy crowds every single day. I'm contacting parents and troubleshooting and copying and correcting and cleaning and teaching and supporting and encouraging and standing and working all 10 of those hours. I only hit up the faculty lounge to check my box. Technically, I get a 25 minute lunch, but those few minutes are spent helping students and preparing for the next class in between bites of food and sometimes, every once in a while, actually visiting the restroom just once. (Do you have to tell your bladder to wait for an hour because you can't leave your work unattended?) I then bring work home. I'm an English teacher and frequently spend my evenings and weekends grading and giving pertinent feedback on student writing assignments. (Just multiply your one essay by 35 or 40 for your class, and then multiply that by 6 for all the classes I teach. This will give you a more thorough understanding of my exciting dating/social life.)

3. I graduated with honors from what I felt was a great higher education institution. In English (my major), I had a 4.0. I haven't checked my transcripts, but I'm pretty sure I earned all A's in my education classes as well. Because, you see, I was a student who loved learning and her content area and worked her tail end off. Because I've always valued education--which is a trend I've noticed amongst my fellow teachers.

4. My feet and back hurt every single day. This condition magically disappears in the summer months.

5. I work through all kinds of illnesses during the year--typically because hiring a sub means I still have to not only prepare for and grade all the work of the classes, but it is usually mediocre work my students produce if I'm gone. And my classroom is a chaotic disaster upon my return.

6. I want you to think about that big birthday party you let your kid have that one time with all of his/her friends, or that time you had all the boy scouts come to your place for pancakes, or whatever. I want you to think about how insane it was to have 12 children in your home at once. I have between 33 and 40 students in all of my classes (except the two remedial classes of 20--in which behavior issues and 3rd grade reading levels abound.) My students and I joke and say things like, "Stack 'em deep, teach 'em cheap" because what else can we do but make the best of it?

7. I don't think I could conduct a gallbladder surgery simply because I had one a few years back. I don't think you should think you know how to teach because you were a student once.

8. I get paid beans to work the hours I work and to do what I do. But I still do it because I love it. It is my life's work, my mission; call it what you may. My work is essential to society and I don't believe my students can afford for me to do it poorly.

9. I am pretty sure that in several of the nations that are surpassing American students in Math and Science, the country's educational system is designed in such a way that if students are not performing up to par at certain check points along the way, they're gone, blotted out, eliminated from the educational system altogether (or, in some countries, moved exclusively into the arena in which they do show promise). Which sort of means all the failing students aren't being included in these country's testing statistics, right? These scores are only reflective of the best of the best, technically. No?

10. Last I checked, don't we in the U.S. educate everyone, no matter their ability, nationality, race, or culture for 13 (sometimes more) years unless they opt to leave early? Even if students try and leave early then change their minds or incessantly play hooky or get pregnant or go to juvenile detention or fail and fail and fail some more, don't we provide every possible second, third, fourth, fifth chance available? And, for argument's sake, don't we do all of this essentially at no charge to them or their families?

11. Oversimplification indicates an inability to think in complex ways. Education in this country is not broken simply because of bad teachers. Are there bad teachers? Absolutely. And, frankly, I think this issue needs to be resolved. But not at the expense of the good teachers or the unions that serve as a voice for these teachers. Not at the expense of breaking something else in the system.

12. Last I checked, everyone is diverse. Our schools, especially, are uber-diverse: in culture, language, etc. At my school, for instance, 51% of our student population falls in that "minority" category. 42 different languages are spoken in the homes of our students. Because we're all diverse, everyone learns in different ways and is good at some things and not so good at others. A standardized test which is culturally and linguistically biased seems a silly measurement of what a diverse student population does or does not know, is or is not capable of, or how far a student may have come over the course of a school year. If the standard is set at this spot and this spot only, it doesn't account for the student that started way down there and made it clear up to here but is still below that spot.

13. Learning happens both in and out of schools (at least, ideally it should). Children are nurtured and taught in the home AND in the classroom.

Which brings me to what is/are sort of, kind of, in a round-about way my major point(s). I think? (Like I said: scraping my words off the walls, floods, and other metaphor mixing.) Just as a person can't perform all that well if they have no physical fuel in their system (sleep, food), I don't think anybody can perform all that well if they don't have the emotional and mental fuel they need.

Kids need adults to provide a lot of things for them: a stable home environment, mental stimulation and challenges from the earliest of ages on, love, acceptance, safety, and all those basics of physical survival. Kids need home. Kids need school. Kids need an intricate system of visible (and some invisible, behind-the-scenes) adults and peers that support them into adulthood.

As a teacher, I can't fix an unstable home life. I can't ensure that someone living in poverty has the time, money, and/or resources to take their kid to a museum or has the ability to tell them what kind of tree they're looking at or that Shakespeare was the guy who first coined that phrase. As much as I'd like to, I can't tell the media they are sending the wrong messages to our society's children about what is most valuable in this life. I can't put books on the shelves of homes where there are not books. There is a lot I cannot do in the years before a student enters my classroom. There is a lot I cannot do once a student walks out my classroom door. But I can control those 90 minutes that kid is in my classroom. And I do my very best to take a student where they are at (3rd grade reading levels and all), and teach them that good, thorough reading takes more effort than they've been giving (this happens at every level). I can help them find their voice in writing. I can teach them skills they didn't possess before. I can work my tail end off for those 90 minutes (and all the prep time before and grading time after). But, for some, those 90 minutes won't make enough of a difference. Because there is more to their success or failure than little old me.

Things I'd tell you if I could

A friend from high school recently tagged me in several photographs found in the typical Facebook old-school photo album. Most of the photos were from my senior year of high school. My hair was long. Really long. I was skinny but, naturally, thought I was fat. I was beautiful and thought myself ugly. So, after reading this. And this (she does a series of these, by the way), I've decided I need to write my own advice to my adolescent self.

1. You are beautiful. Stop looking at Seventeen and you'll start to realize that fact.
2. Cut your hair. It will save you time, money on hair products. And you'll love it so much more.
3. Embrace your freckles. One day someone will stare at the one on your top lip and it will drive him crazy in a good way.
4. Go to bed earlier.
5. College will be better than this.
6. You are talented, intelligent, and worthwhile. You needn't change a thing about yourself.
7. Except, please, for the love of all that is good and holy, just smile for the damn camera. Enough with the thumb and forefinger at the chin GQ pose!
8. Mascara is sometimes all you need on that face.
9. Stay out of the tanning bed. You're fair skinned and freckled and it could easily lead to cancer.
10. Wear shorter skirts while you can.
11. Accent that little waist. Don't hide behind clothing that is too big.
12. Flirt more with the boys. They like you. They really do.
13. Be bold. You are allowed to express your own will. If someone hurts you, tell them.
14. Don't say "sorry" or "just kidding" so much. Own what you have to say. It is of value.
15. Wear tampons earlier in life. It will change your life and save you from embarrassment.
16. Be foolish and silly. This is the time for such things.
17. Always be a loyal friend to people who do the same in return.
18. Love that body. Treat it with kindness. Don't eat a bag of chips from the vending machine for lunch just because your friends do. Keep dancing, even if it is in your living room.
19. Your greatest asset will be a good bra. I promise.
20. Don't think you need to listen to the same pop music your friends do. Trust in your instincts and good taste.
21. Sometimes those boys are teasing you because they think you are attractive.
22. Take chances and risks and listen to what the deepest part of yourself is saying.
23. Write thank you notes to your teachers. Most of them are working hard for kids just like you.
24. You really will be just fine when some people don't like you. Chances are you don't like them much either.
25. Don't be embarrassed of your parents. They are amazing, likable people.
26. Oh, and one last thing: could you whine and cry and throw an immature fit or 48 in order to make your parents pay for braces. Push the issue. Your nearly 30-year-old self with the increasingly crooked front tooth will thank you.

**Not quite during my adolescence--but, my, was I young!

Monday Comes After (or "I Clean Off My Point & Shoot")

This weekend, there may have been hiking:

I might have wasted my time stalking a few of these fellas with the point and shoot

(resulting in what is, perhaps, the world's worst wildlife photography):

(I might've laughed at myself later for it.)

*

I could've attended a bridal shower that I chose not to record with any images.

(But I might tell you all about it later.)

*

I probably taught Sunday School.

And maybe I flirted with someone at church.

(I'll likely never fess up.)

*

The bestie and I possibly made a last minute decision after church

to make the commute north for the fireworks at my/our alma mater.

There was probably some game-playing:

(We are, in truth, far over 21)

And maybe we goofed off with the camera waiting for the show to begin:

(Until I realized the camera was zoomed...)

(ahhh, that's much better!)

I probably cropped the above photo so that you can't see

the spectacle of the painfully hormonal adolescent pair behind and to the left of me.

(And let it be known that my future children are never attending the fireworks unchaperoned.) (Period.)

I certainly appreciated this spectacle while waiting for the fireworks:

And maybe I took the following picture last night, or maybe on the 4th of July...2007.

You'll never know.

*

Perhaps one day I'll get around to posting

about my excursions in the red rock a couple of weeks ago:

And how it was miserably hot in Grand Wash (that smile is only because I'm in the shade)

Or how I probably snap too many photos of sunsets:

Or how I made roasted tomato & eggplant pizza on a whole wheat crust from scratch.

I'll let you read that again: from scratch. And it worked!

But if I were you, I wouldn't hold my breath.

Bad Week Rising

Dear Adolescents the World Over,

The evidence is overwhelming. You are balls of insecure, paranoid, hormonal complexity. You are at times loud, at others quiet and so rarely anywhere in between. You are irrational, irritable, uncivil, and confusing even to yourselves. I think what you have might just be diagnosable. We're talking DSM-IV diagnosable. After this week I'm wondering if my decision to spend day in and day out with you people in an underpaid career means that I too have something diagnosable.

Enough with the Proverbial Emotional Roll Coaster,
Your Motion Sick Teacher

P.S. I really do like my job.
P.P.S. This week, I questioned that statement. But I know--deep down--that I really do like my job.
P.P.P.S. My deepest sympathies go out to those of you who allow these individuals to remain in your homes.

How to deflate your ego in three simple steps

Anything that happened in the years prior to my birth, didn't actually exist for me. Scratch that. Before the year my consciousness acquired the capacity for long-term memory, there is a big, black nothing. To a certain extent, the concept of nineteen seventy-anything felt false. Oh, I knew it was out there. My siblings were born in the 70's. Some were born in the 60's. But for me, the early-to-mid-80's marked the beginning of time as I knew it.

And I guess that is how it goes when you're young. History is some vacuumous black hole of nonexistence. And then one day it isn't. Somewhere along the way, I pulled my ostrich-like youthful head out of the narcissism I'd buried it in, looked around, and realized there were people who remember exactly where they were the day Kennedy was shot. Just as I remember the moment my mother came rushing into my smart-enough-to-schedule-classes-on-Mon-Weds-Fri-only-college-era bedroom to wake me with her tears on the morning of September 11, 2001.

I sit at my desk grading student essays about emerging trends and I feel slapped in the face by how very little my students know about the world. I read of the dreadful (not their opinion, mine) re-emergence of acid wash jeans, facebooking, iPods. I read lines about how iPods made listening to music on-the-go a popular activity (anybody ever heard of a Walkman/Discman/Boom Box?) I read lines that parallel boot cut jeans with the 90's (wait, don't I still buy boot cut?). One student writes about how adults are finally catching on to the Facebook craze (because, apparently, the first members of FB weren't adults--apparently, teenagers set all trends?).

It is reiterated to me that 17 years ago, the age of most of my juniors, it was 1993. Their capacity for long-term memory kicked in somewhere around 1996. 1996! And their perception of 1996 was through the eyes of a three-year-old.

They're babies.

I suddenly feel very old. Very old and weathered. Yesterday, I swear, I was young and hip and semi-trendy. Yesterday, I was the youthful expert on cutting edge technology. I had great taste. I listened to the indie, the edgie, the youthful. But not today. Today I'm the tired old teacher-lady informing a student that it was an "8 track" not an "Atrax", and that 30 is, in fact, not quite middle aged. Today I am the boring, unhip woman who droned on about something-something-something "you'll be at the movies and there'll be a gaggle (yeah, old women use "gaggle") of young hoodlums (they use "hoodlums" too) seated behind you. And you'll think to yourself Phhht! Teenagers! I was never that annoying! I'm here to tell you--and remember this moment--you were."

* image found here

P.S. The best part about all of this, of course, is that they get to look back through photos of their adolescence in acid wash and wonder, What in the hill was I thinking? This comforts me at night.

180 Instruction Days to Go

I just finished my first class of the school year. (Confession: yes, I'm blogging during my 2nd period prep instead of tackling the world's largest to-do list.) So, indulge me. Let me just rant randomly about the things on my mind at the moment.

1. I love everything about my new classroom: the divine view, the large tables instead of miniature desks, the storage space with room to grow into, its close vicinity to the faculty restroom. The chalkboards, on the other hand, could go far, far away and I wouldn't miss them. I hate the gritty feel of chalk, the dust of chalk, the smell, the sound. Oh, how I loathe waiting on the carpentry department to install white boards (six months of waiting).

2. Freshmen get younger and younger yet try to look older and older every year. I swear by this.

3. I'm never going to memorize all of these names.

4. I adore my old students that came to visit me today and can't possibly see how I'll like these new ones just as much. I go through this every year, however, and somehow it just happens.

5. It amazes me how the first day of a class reveals what will be experienced for the entire school year. So far, I'm thinking I'll enjoy my A-1 Language Arts 9 class.

6. I'm exhausted and already my feet hurt. Between moving this weekend (more on that later) and setting up class and planning ahead for school I am worn out. I think I need to install a hammock in my office. I miss my bed.

7. I've already got grading piling up. I love teaching. Grading, on the other hand, can go the way of the chalkboard.

This Is Your Life

This move, I've made the wise decision to purge. My philosophy runs something like this: the more I recycle/donate/throw out, the less I have to move and find a place for next weekend. It is kind of like my own personal episode of Clean House on Style Network, except there's no Miss Niecy and really it's more like Clean Storage Closet (while the rest of the house becomes a disaster).

This act of purging has been a visit to my former selves. Days of sorting through old letters, journals, birthday cards, arrow-folded high school notes, concert and musical programs, essays and tests and pictures--the stuff my life is made of--have blown on the embers of the past, firing my memory. It is interesting, visiting your life. The feelings of it all, nostalgia and gratitude spread wild and running across the living room floor. The angst-ridden residue of each letter's subject like a smooth burn scar inside me I like to run my finger over every now and again. I keep coming back to this thought: I've lived a good life. So far.

Purging has been a concrete lesson in that which matters most: material things I once thought I needed are hastily discarded, forgotten. But the sentimental pieces of my life still feel critical, my life's scaffolding, without which I might crumble. Value, when attached to all this sentiment, has become something entirely new. With the excavation of my life's artifacts, I'm realizing my own definitions of need and want.

I challenge you, look in your old boxes, in storage. See what you can rid yourself of, see what you cannot do without. You'd be amazed what it might teach you.

For the Girl Who Knows Who She Is OR Male Bashing at Its Finest

A friend recently had a bit of an embarrassing debacle involving none other than her long-time crush. It involved sending a text message (intended for a close girlfriend) about a certain crush of hers (and her possible frustrating feelings for said individual) to that person in a Freudian slip up of the most humiliating kind.

She informed me that she feels like the earth did in fact swallow her whole this time, but sent her through, "a nightmarish tube into junior high school all over again. I didn't like this when I was 13!" She said. "At 27 I'm supposed to be done with this crap!"

In her honor and in a gesture intended entirely for support during her time of humiliation, I post the following messages of encouragement. (Google search kindly provided all images.)

First off:

Juvenile as that image may seem, sometimes it is what it is.

Secondly, the Farside has guided us through many of life's obstacles. Once again, it did not disappoint in reminding us that we've all been there:

Thirdly, boys have no room to judge our silly ways.

Only an individual of the male variety would think this was a great idea:

And do you notice any females in this particular cast?

I didn't think so.

And, lest we forget, only a man would honestly see nothing wrong, unethical, or flat out disgusting with the following scenario:

So you see, you-know-who, the truth is that you are far better than this loser.  If he doesn't recognize you for the brilliant, beautiful, independent, kind and spiritual catch that you are, it is his loss.

Love,

The Rookie

10 Years

Later this month, up in Kodiak, Alaska, my 10 year reunion will be going on. I'll not be attending for various reasons. Primarily, the fact that said event is taking place in Kodiak, Alaska (and purchasing airfare just isn't in the old budget). And then there's the little bit about having attended at KHS only two years. Not to mention that I've somehow managed to remain in contact with anyone who is/was my friend during that time. But mostly, I have no desire to drop $1000 on a plane ticket to go and watch people I don't really know or like get sloshed all weekend.

It seems a strange phenomenon, these reunions: popping in every 10 years to get an update on people's lives, remembering our awful hair and fashion choices, listening to the old bands we still love. The truth is we go for one primary reason: curiosity. We need to know what happened to the rest of them. Perhaps it is because the social stratification of high school was much more condensed and obvious. Forced into one building together for three to four years, we shuffled out into a Social Darwinian food chain. We can't help but wonder if the structure of that chain remains intact.

This weekend, I bumped into this movie:

If you've never watched it, do. Though, for those with a sensitivity for language, try and find the version edited for television as the "F-bombs" abound. Essentially, it is about a hired hit man returning to his 10 year high school reunion. It is dark and slightly twisted but oh-so-funny. And, now this is important, it features John Cusack, who has captured my heart ever since he played Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything. Beyond the brilliant concept, however, it hits on this idea that we all come from somewhere. And we're all still carrying around a little baggage from adolescence.

And perhaps that is why we really go to high school reunions: to drop off some of who we used to be so we don't have to carry it around anymore.

Confessions of a "Rook"ie (Or "Pretty Much the Cheesiest Title I've Ever Written")

In high school I was a drama geek. To be more specific, the musical was my drug of choice. Shamefully so. While my peers discovered post grunge-era bands like Weezer and The Wallflowers, I was popping West Side Story in the (thoroughly outdated) Discman. Who needed rock and roll rebellion? I had Ragtime and Rent. But enough obnoxious alliteration, the point is I adored musicals the way most (normal) adolescents love their favorite band.

At 20 I discovered the sexiness of the guitar, the musicality of literature, and the broadway phase of my adolescent years was all but forgotten. Perhaps I should blame my rock star boyfriend? Or maybe we can chock it up to the narcissistic odd balls that dwelled in the drama department of my alma mater? The point is that, while attending the occasional musical was an acceptable evening activity, my tastes in music changed drastically after high school. The various original cast recordings filling the sleeves of my cd case found their way into Grey Whale CD Exchange, most likely funding my Elementary Public Health textbook (which, like most overpriced college books, I never read) and my first acoustic alt-folk fix.

In true donate-your-own-plasma-you're-so-poor fashion, I purged myself of all my musicals.

Except one.



Yeah, Chess. The early 80's-rockable, former ABBA-ite composed, ill-fated-relationshipped, Cold War politic-inspired musical with the World Chess Championship set in the background.

So you may be thinking, "Good heavens, Rookie, this sounds like a show business disaster." But, my lands, is it deliciously good! Brilliantly good. So, I'll concede, "One Night in Bangkok" is rather 1984 Billboard topping pop-ish. But have you ever heard "Anthem" or "I Know Him So Well"?

Genius lyrics, epically dramatic music, a sophisticated and layered story line--Chess is my perfect musical. While I've moved on from my former Broadway-love, Chess is the one musical I can't let go. I don't care what you say.

And tonight something good happened. While stopping by a blog I sometimes like to visit, I learned that tomorrow (Wednesday) night on PBS, Great Performances will be showing Chess in Concert! I feel oozingly happy with anticipation.

I'll most certainly be watching tomorrow.

And if you read this and decide to watch and then end up hating it, I'm sorry (sort of). Taste is a tricky and very individual thing. But that, my friends, is another post altogether.

Generation Gap

As it is the last "official" week of school (June 8th & 9th don't really count what with water park trips, yearbooks, and 48 hours of utter INSANITY), my students are being treated to a movie. And not just any movie, but this little gem:

I, personally, love this movie. It gets me all nostalgic and has always managed to make me giggle. I got it from the roommate on my birthday. I was certain I was, like, only the coolest English teacher ever by letting my 9th graders watch it for our Narrative Unit "final".

And do you know what they did?

"Oh NO! Not this!" (accompanied by an eye roll)

"Are you freakin' KIDDING me? I HATE this movie." (and another eye roll)

"This is SO LAME." (as a twist, the cross-eyed eye roll)

My sweet, baby-faced, scared little freshmen have officially made the transition to obnoxious "We're-no-longer-the-babies-of-the-school-we're-now-pompous-little-freshmen-hating-sophomores". I can't stand that kind of student. Almost as much as I cringe when seniors become the (equally obnoxious) "We're-no-longer-children-we're-now-pompous-and-lazy-little-about-to-graduate-and-become-'adults'" type.

What is wrong with the kids these days? Do they not appreciate culture? Do they not recognize a classic cinema masterpiece (with a tiny Fred Savage) when they see it? Teenagers!

Needless to say I generously layered on threats of the alternative (and quite possibly unwritten) final if the whining did not stop. Also needless to say (but I'm saying it nonetheless): the end of the school year could not come soon enough.

And in other job-ish news, I'm moving three and a half years worth of school CRAP (and trust me, it is a daunting and powerful quantity of CRAP) to a new classroom over the next week and a half.

Threats will probably be a theme with me this week.

Another Episode in Which I Realize I've Gotten Older

When I was in junior high school one of my favorite (and therefore short-lived) television dramas introduced me to what I later came to find out was a phenomenon known as "The Pretty Boy." Jared Leto's Jordan Catalano on My So-Called Life was swoon-worthy (think slightly-bad-shy-boy meets flawless olive skin). He was pretty before Robert Pattinson played Cedric Diggory, let alone that glittery Edward Cullen. He was pretty before Zac Efron got his head in the game. He was pretty at that perfect moment in life when hormones rage and there is no such thing as too much designer imposter perfume. Yes, Jared Leto stole my heart when I was 13 and at that young age I decided that there was little else better than the pretty boy. Except maybe Bonne Bell Lip Smackers. And Exclamation! perfume. And my Caboodle.

Scroll forward on my life's timeline and things have changed dramatically. I prefer chapstick to Lip Smackers. I find a subtle spritz of something scented in the morning hours to be sufficient for the day. And as I sat on my couch at 11 PM thinking how I ought to remove my derrier from its current location, I flipped from Jay Leno over to David Letterman. On one channel sat Matthew Fox, on the other, Eric Bana. Lovely gentlemen, both. And though I didn't really care what either had to say, necessarily, I couldn't help but think, "When was it, exactly, that I evolved from my preference for the pretty boy to my desire for the manly man?" Now, both of these men are pretty, I'll give them that. But my 13-year-old self would have shivered had you called them attractive, just as 13-year-old-me did when my mom informed me that Kevin Costner was, "one hot number" (by the way Mom, I agree full-heartedly). You see, these were men, not pretty boy-men, but Men-men. Men with greying temples and rough, rogue-ish facial hair and...metrosexual designer suits?  (Okay, omit that last one from your memories.)  

This realization first started happening while watching (and wasting $8.00 on) 17 Again the other weekend. Zac Efron had a certain appeal in the (lame-ish) movie--I will admit this.  But I felt wrong and dirty-old-womanish in thinking so. Legal or not, the boy is a wee BOY for crying out loud!  

Yes, it is true.  I've gotten older, more mature.  Healthy and normal, I know, this attraction to people within my designated legal age group.  I just don't really remember when, exactly, this all happened.

Somewhere along the way I've grown from liking this boyishness:

to feeling a bit hot and bothered whenever this man graces my screen:

*Oh, Javier, please grace my screen again. Penelope who?