But America, the Other Guy was "More Awesomer"

I generally try to avoid any posts about politics on here, which has most certainly been a challenge this particular election season.  The amount of hate and vitriol existent this election cycle is truly disgusting, and I don’t foresee this problem decreasing in four more years.  I was pleasantly pleased, however, when I arrived at work yesterday and realized the high school was hosting a well-organized mock election.  I began my work day excited due to this, and that excitement grew as many of the students in study hall were eagerly discussing who they had voted for.   But, then I started to pay a bit more attention and engage in the discussion with them, urging the students to justify their votes and think critically.  This is when my excitement became frustration and fear. 

One particular student very proudly boasted to me that his vote was a write-in for Peter Griffin, an asinine cartoon character on Seth McFarlane’s Family Guy.  When I questioned his vote, he shared, “Peter Griffin would be an awesome president.  He’s frickin’ hilarious.  Can you just see him getting all drunk and crashing Air Force One? That would be so cool.”

Oh indeed, I thought to myself, how very, very cool that would be.  And then I high-fived that kid for being a fucking hysterical genius. 

[Alright: I’m making this shit official.  The universal sarcasm font is now Microsoft PhagsPa. Remember that and spread the word.]

So, what would happen if teenagers truly did have a voice and a vote in this election?  I can tell you that most of them would remain mute and inactive.  Apathy is the most prevalent disease in today’s high schools (it’s not the clap like I had assumed at age sixteen – damn, our school had a lot of Chlamydia cases, or maybe just a really bad rumor mill … either way).  The most terrifying element of apathy is how highly contagious it is (way worse than the clap).

The overwhelming majority of students could not even be moved to vote in a mock election.  They had many excuses for not voting, ranging from “the line was too long” to “politics are a waste of life.”

In between these two responses, I also heard the following:

“Voting is a waste of time.  Either way, I hate our current system of government.”

“I didn’t want to get up. All my friends know I’m lazy.”

“Why vote? I might as well have voted for the Easter Bunny for all the difference my one voice makes.”

“It’s just plain stupid.  All politicians are on crack anyway.”

“I could care less because both potential presidents plan to screw us over anyway.”

“I don’t give a crap.  Alls I know is I don’t want nobody taking my guns away.”

There were a few students who, although they did not participate in the mock election, still had passionate and intelligent thoughts regarding this election.  One student explained that he chose not to participate because our country is being run like a company rather than a united nation.  He pronounced that we must return to shared values of democracy and end the divisiveness.  He further feared Romney would not be prepared to lead a nation simply because he ran a business and our future president must not be a man with a “personal lust for fame and money.”

One young female student very passionately expressed her frustration with the high frequency of students who fail to form their own opinions and simply “spew out whatever rhetoric their parents have been feeding them.” She impressed me more than any other student who shared their opinion today.  However, she then confessed she would not have voted even if she were eighteen due to the Electoral College.

Of those students I spoke with, Romney emerged the victor.  I cannot offer you a clear explanation of this decision, as the students largely could not explain the beliefs behind their ballots.  When I inquired about their selection, many students replied to “Why did you vote Romney?” with either “I don’t know” or “because … just because.”  One sophomore female even told me it was because Romney “has a better name.”  Another sophomore male adamantly attempted to assure me that a Romney/Ryan vote meant lower gas prices.  Many students repeated the prevalent phrase, a cliché of campaign commercials, “Obama was given four years, and he failed to bring real change.  We can’t afford four more years.”

Some of the students had stances they strongly supported, such as one fervent pro-life proponent.  Another student was concerned about the impact that Obama’s environmental regulations might have upon her father’s profession in drilling.  Here’s the thought that went into most of the other decisions:

“My parents are voting for Mitt Romney.”

“Mitt Romney has a five point plan that will create jobs for everyone.  Obama only wants to create teaching jobs.”

“Romney will be better for the economy because that’s what the television said.”

“Obama doesn’t understand the principles of job creation and economics.  We need rich people to make the rest of us rich.”

 “I didn’t have a reason, so I picked randomly.”

“He’s more awesomer.”

The worst of this is not yet over.  I also discovered that some students were intentionally writing the name of their least favorite teacher in, hoping he would win and it would be a great, grand joke.  I was informed of this after I saw a few “Vote for Mr. -----“ signs hanging up around the cafeteria.  Most of the students found this funny, but one junior female was very angry.  She expounded, “The kids just made it a big joke.  It shouldn’t be funny. Politics aren’t funny.  The future of our nation is not funny.”  I fully agreed with her.

While the bulk of the students I spoke with favored Romney, Obama did end up winning our school’s total popular vote.  Not every student who voted for Obama was well-informed either though.  When I asked one student why she chose Obama, her face became flushed, and she stuttered out, “uhm … uhm … I don’t know.  Can you get back to me on that one?”  Another added, “Well, I do have some reasons.  I just can’t remember what they are right now.”

However, more Obama supporters could defend their selection.  This is a reality, and not just spin given my own political preference.  Although his vocabulary lacked a certain level of academia, one student so strongly supported Obama that he began pounding on his table and I needed to tell him to lower his voice as he defended our president.  “Obama’s the shit.  (If you don’t regularly talk to teens, know this is a good thing … kind of like being ‘a boss.’) He’s actually making a difference, and has a genuine concern for our future.  Further, he’s concerned about everyone, not just his buddies.  He cares about the lower and middle classes too.  He even cares about other nations and human rights.  That’s why, for the first time, other countries are doing as well as us because he gave them a chance.  I don’t want to elect a douche-bag (Romney) that lies all the time.”

Many of the Obama supporting students spoke to the value of education.  One junior female shared, “He is the president that will support our education.  Mitt Romney doesn’t.  Mitt Romney even said class size doesn’t matter and it’s about greedy teacher unions.  He won’t offer support or aid for college tuitions.  Some people don’t have a chance without education and aid.”

Another junior female added, “I like that he supports gay marriage.”  To this, the boy seated near her made a disgusted face and asked, “Dude, who do you know that’s gay? Who cares?”  I explained that they surely all know someone who is homosexual, but may not be aware of such as most high school students remain closeted.  “Well, I know I ain’t gay,” he declared.

Yet one more female student, this one a senior of age eighteen, shared that she voted for Obama in the real election because she supports universal health care and education, and feels threatened by the policies of Romney and Ryan that attack women’s rights through such policies as the elimination of support for family planning agencies.

The last comment I heard yesterday regarding the mock elections was, “It’s stupid. It’s pointless.  People were voting for themselves, or bad teachers, or characters on TV like SpongeBob Squarepants.  We don’t take these kinds of things seriously.”

I take these kinds of things seriously, though.  It is comments as the above that are a large factor in my decision to support Barack Obama, because to do so is to support education.  As I interacted with the students yesterday, it became immensely evident how much we must invest in education and strengthen public education.  I vote for intelligence, critical thinking, passion, and articulation.  Many of these attributes cannot be bred without good teachers, strong curriculums, and proper school funding.  I vote for a brighter future, and I vote for those students – even those who could not be moved to vote for themselves.

 

 

Author’s Note: At no point in my conversations with students did I ever indicate my own political preference, disagree with a student’s view point, or state who I was voting for (even when repeatedly asked).  I do not believe in swaying students to my particular political views. I do, however, believe, in encouraging students to be critical thinkers and become more articulate and well-versed when expressing their own views.

When Life Gives You the Shaft

“Mrs. Ryan! Mrs. Ryan!” the boy in the back of the cafeteria space bellowed during sixth period study hall.  I walked to where he was seated with little enthusiasm.  These are high school students, so why were they beckoning for me like brown-nosing tattle tale first graders? 

“What’s the problem Evan?” I asked, with my hands firmly planted on my hips and an expression that revealed I really didn’t give a shit.  I know how it sounds to say I didn’t care what the problem was.  However, once you’ve been in secondary education for some time, you can tell when there’s a real issue and when students are just being immature and irritating.  This was definitely a case of the latter.

The boy in the nearly thread bare black Hane’s tee shirt looked up at me with a strange little smirk on his face.  Clearly, he was more amused by the expectant reply than I was likely to be.  “Mrs. Ryan, Jake touched my nipple.”

 

Really? Really? Are you fucking kidding me?  This is the issue I was called over here for?  Did they think this would amuse me?  Did he consider it a serious violation of his body?  No, he did not, as both boys chuckled at this comment, but then looked quickly ashamed when they read the expression on my face.  I just stood there giving them a snarky look that spoke, without any oral expression necessary, “Why are you acting like fucking morons? Knock this shit off.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” both boys spoke in unison.  I walked away and continued to generate about the study hall space, ensuring students were on task and checking in with others to see if they needed any help.  Every student seemed to be relatively on task.  Yes, some of them were just doodling or checking their texts in between solving Algebra equations.  But, everyone was in their correct seats, no one was cursing, and everyone was awake.  Therefore, I went behind the desk to quickly check my e-mail as all was under control.

Then Evan was out of his seat, back on his feet, laughing hysterically, and kicking some object that I could not identify from my distance. I returned to his seat, but with a bit more rapidity this time.

“Evan.  What are you doing now?  You need to stay on task.   Study Hall is here so you can complete your homework.  Not jump and kick stuff around.  What was that?”

“It was just a pen,” he replied.  He then continued at an attempt to justify his jumping and kicking during a time when the students are expected to be studious, quiet, and on task.  “Well, Mark stole my pen Mrs. Ryan.  And then he hid it under his butt.  It was under his butt, so I was trying to pick it up with my feet instead of my hands because that’s gross.”

Again, I gave him a look that made any actual words unnecessary.  This look shut him up immediately, but the other boy seated at the table must not have read my face.  This is when Nick inserted, “Yeah, he used the pen like a dildo.”

I was silent again.  This time, however, it was not because my facial expressions spoke for me.  I was quiet because I didn’t know how to respond to this.  Me – the woman who has shit to say in almost every situation.  There was a few seconds of awkward silence.  I finally spoke to question, “Why in the world would you say such a thing?  And, to me?  I’m your teacher.  I’m an adult. What’s wrong with you?”

I didn’t wait for a response.  I don’t believe I was about to receive one either as the student who called a pen a dildo just sat creepily chuckling, his heavy shoulders bobbing up and down.  He continued to snicker as I walked slowly away.  The situation didn’t call for a detention or office referral.  It wasn’t one of those “teaching moments” that emerges and we must embrace.  It was just some dumb-ass shit to say because that is the way the mind of a teenage boy often works. 

When the sixth period bell rang a few minutes later, I was relieved to have a group of students that I genuinely hoped and believed would behave better as I have more upper classmen in my seventh period. 

I thought I was right.  Everything was going so much better.  The students were on task; they didn’t disturb me with ridiculous situations.  As I milled about the room, I saw students studying Economics, World Literature, and Calculus.  Calculators were out and pencils were busily inscribing notes and short answer responses to assigned texts. 

And then, with less than ten minutes left in the period, I heard “Hey!” and went to the table where one young teenage male was yelling at another and pulling his textbook swiftly out of the hands of the same student he addressed.  The textbook was properly covered in a grocery store bag and had “US History” written neatly in black Sharpie upon this paper covering.  The course identification had been the only writing on that book cover, until the moment that led to the yelling.  When I arrived at the scene of this incident, I was informed, “Mrs. Ryan, he just drew balls on my book cover.”

Indeed, there they were: a long cylindered shaft with two round circles above it.  I didn’t overreact and respond with anger.  Instead, I said nothing at first.  I simply picked up a pen, added two circles inside the “balls,” filling them in completely with ink, and then added an upturned smile below the sketch of a shaft.  “There,” I said. 

“Oh, now it’s just a guy with a really long nose smiling at me,” said the student whose textbook had been crudely victimized. “Okay, thanks.  It kind of looks like a cartoon.  I’m going to draw some hair on him.”

Good. You do that, now, you go ahead and do that.  The lesson here: When life gives you the shaft, turn it into a smiling face. Also, teenagers are just fucking weird sometimes, and you have to listen to McCartney and Lennon and just “let it be.”


Author's Note: All student names have been changed to protect individual rights.

Living with my Cape On

So, this week’s Blogger Idol play-at-home challenge was to write about a day in your life as though you were a superhero.  So, first I was thinking of being “Super Bitch,” so I could use my “super awesome bitch powers” to say: “What the fuck? Who came up with this shit?  We already did a day in the life prompt.  Creativity and Originality Fail!”  Then I figured that it’s probably not my best idea to alienate any more potential readers than I already did  when I declared in my very first blog post: “Send me money, bitches.” 

Therefore, I’m taking a slightly different twist.  I’m not going to tell you about a day in my current life as though I were a super hero.  I’m going to tell you about all the days and moments I really did believe I was a hero and tried desperately to save the whole damn world … one neglected, troubled student at a time.  In doing so, however, I often neglected myself. 

-----------------------------

Another missed day of work.  It’s already 16 minutes after 3 – in the afternoon, and I’m still in bed – for the third day in a row.  I’m really starting to get quite rancid.  It may be my own awful odor that eventually breaks this depression for me.  The love of my family and my job haven’t been able to do it.  This is not because they are not enough as both loves are infinite, but bipolar disorder is a snotty little brat that covers her ears and hollers “Na-na-na-na; I can’t hear you!”  It didn’t matter how loud I tried to challenge her.  My family loves me, and my students need me; I want to be at work.  “No!” she yelled louder than I could, “You’re staying in bed again! You’re staying in bed and crying, and shaking, and hyperventilating with overwhelming anxiety.  Oh … and you should probably self-injure yourself because you deserve the pain, you worthless bitch!”  Fuck you Miss Manic Depression! You’re the bitch -- a lying, sniveling bitch! I’m going to be better! I’m going to help those kids!

And then the depression would eventually break … for no apparent reason.  There wasn’t suddenly sunlight.  I didn’t hear or read some profound motivational phrase.  No one said, "Look on the bright side of things," for the very first time, suddenly saving me because I've never heard that fucking miracle phrase before (sarcasm font required).  It just came and went, because bipolar is also a mysterious little missus. So, when she was gone, that’s when I would directly put my cape back on and return to the vicious battle ground of today's high schools.

Josh needs to talk to me because his mom kicked him out again.  I need to make sure he has a place to keep his backpack and help him get his homework done before he leaves the building because I don’t know where he goes from here. I need to let Alexis know she’s beautiful because her mother is more interested in the cocaine and alcohol than she is in her fifteen year old daughter – her daughter who tells me on an almost daily basis, “I wish you were my mother.”  Kyle needs someone to talk to who isn’t going to discipline him and judge him because he’s already been through rehab twice, and is only a sophomore in high school.  Breanna needs answers to all the questions she has about her current pregnancy – replies that I can actually give her, unlike her other lingering question of who the father is – and every other adult is afraid to be honest with her for fear that their transfer of knowledge might be perceived as acceptance of teenage pregnancy.  Dylan needs someone to help him correctly spell even the most basic of words like “hurt” and “angry.”  It takes approximately thirty minutes for him to write three complete sentences. Matt doesn’t know who else to talk to because he finally got the nerves to come out as homosexual to his mother, who replied that it was “probably just a phase.”  And Krista just rolled up her sleeves as she sat sketching anime figures in the back of the classroom, only to reveal freshly self-inflicted scars.

I wanted, and still want, to save them all.  I believe I can save them all, and they know that I will listen without judging and try to give them my secret superpower – one that few other adults here unfortunately possess.  My secret superpower is acceptance.  My power is the ability to listen without judging.  My secret superpower is that I admit I can’t solve the problem fully – but I don’t lie to them and say “it will all be okay.”  My power is honesty; “yeah, you’re right, that sucks – but now let’s figure out a way to deal.” My secret superpower is hope – allowing others in on the secret that I fucked up along the way too, and people fucked me over in many of the same ways, but I chose strength and that’s why those same students looked up to me as a role model.  I was living proof that life can get better – no masks.  The masks are part of the fucking problem. 

I am not faster than a speeding bullet.  I am not more powerful than a locomotive.  But what I do have is the power of love, of acceptance, of hope, of peace of mind.  All of these gifts I was able to bestow upon others – rather than hording them away for myself in the hope of some narcissistic megalomaniac superhero fame.  I cannot bend steel with my own two hands, but I can bend a hardened heart and give knowledge, faith, comfort, and courage to those individuals.  Like Superman, I intend to fight a never-ending battle for truth and justice.

But another unfortunate truth is that it’s not easy.  It’s an exhausting battle, however touching and rewarding.  So, when I become ill again and disguised not as a mild-mannered reporter, but a victim to my bitch of a mental illness, my mother will often remind me that all my attempts to save others often end up leaving me feeling hopeless and powerless.  On such days, she will say, “Take off your cape, Angela, just take off your cape.” 

I know you make this request for the love of me, mother, but I’m keeping my cape. I bet you Superman will never hang his cape on the hook for good, and neither will I.  But, who’s going to save me from myself when I need the help?  What superhero will come flying down to kick depression’s ass the next time my arch villain wants to hang around far too long?  Seeking superheroes.  Will you strap on your hero boots to help others too and help me by ending the stigma surrounding mental illness?  Please join me in fighting for truth and justice.  Superman, me, and you – let’s see what we can do!

 

Author’s Note: All student names have been changed to protect individual rights.

 

Also -- these magnets are awesome gifts I received from students.  You can buy these, and other fun and inspirational products at the Curly Girl Store: http://curlygirlstore.com/index.php?main_page=page&id=1

Who Wants to "Smash" Virginia Woolf?

Books are not lame.  Books are not for “losers.”  This is what I have been desperately trying to convince my study hall students the whole year.  Many of them often waste their time in study hall, and tell me that they have “nothing” to do.  The school I’m currently employed at does this truly wonderful thing; every Wednesday they spend the last half hour of the day doing recreational reading.  Even the staff is expected to just sit and read a book of choice during this time.  It’s part of the district’s effort to promote literacy in youth.  So, when the students claim they have absolutely nothing to do during study hall, I suggest that they bring their “Wednesday Books” with them.  I typically get the same response: “Books are lame.  Only losers read books.” 

When I hear this, I die a little bit inside.  But, while doing that, I also try fervently to convince the students otherwise – that books are incredible, amazing, compelling – and, furthermore, being well-read makes you really sexy.  So far, they are not buying into my beliefs.  I try to convert them by spouting out multiple quotes about the wonders of reading, which I have committed to memory.  One of my most repeated quotations is as follows: “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies; the man who never reads lives only one.”

I shared this quote with two male freshmen students today.  One returned, “What the hell? That doesn’t even make sense.”  The other just looked at me, confusion clearly written all over his face.  I explained that a well-written book possesses the ability to make you feel transported to the same time and place of the characters – from Puritan Salem with Arthur Miller to St. Petersburg, Missouri in the 1840s with Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and Mr. Mark Twain, and then all the way to the magical, mystical Middle-earth of Tolkien. 

“Yeah, I’m not buying that,” repeated the same male who initially spoke, while the other remained dumbfounded.  “They’re just stupid pieces of paper.” 

“No, no,” I continued with unqualified determination.  “Why, last week I was able to travel to Mumbai, India with the author Shilpi Somaya Gowda.  Earlier this week, I felt like I was right there with the young character Rennie when her small Colorado town became the home of a Japanese internment camp in Sandra Dallas’ novel Tallgrass.  And currently, I’m getting to travel to the past and spend a little bit of time hanging out with the author Virginia Woolf and her artist sister Vanessa Bell in a book by Susan Sellers.”

I  was hoping I had them with this.  Instead, the boy who had previously been mute, offered this: “Hey. I know a chick named Vanessa.”  Then he nudged his buddy in the side and said, “Dude, you know her too.”

“Oh, that Vanessa,” the friend offered, “She’s hot.  I’d smash that.” 

With that, I simply turned and walked away.  I would have to save my raving recommendation of reading for another day.  But you should all know this: Books kick ass!  Winners read.

The Illuminati Runs the Rap Industry: A Valuable Lesson

As an educator, I firmly believe that there is new knowledge to be gained every single day.  Too many people, however, ignore all that the world has to offer them.  We choose to watch Honey Boo Boo when we could be watching the History Channel.  This is not a judgment because I love me some Mama June making up ‘sketti’; it is just an accurate observation of the American majority.  If an individual allows himself to become more consciously open and observant, there is much to be learned.  For example,  I just learned that the illuminati are trying to take down the rap industry.  I now impart this crucial piece of information onto you. 

Such information was recently brought to my attention when a student in study hall inquired about my musical interests.  “Hey, do you ever listen to rap music?” the young male in the Kobe Bryant tee asked me. 

“Like what? DMX?”  I returned his question with another.

“DMX?!?” he practically shouted in disgust at my time warped inquisition.  He chuckled at me while continuing, “that stuff is so old.  No one listens to DMX these days.  Oh my god.”

He did recognize the name DMX though, as we then sang a couple verses of“Party Up” together.  You all gonna make me lose my mind – up in here – up in here – you all gonna make me act a fool.  He then explained to me that DMX has had so many legal issues, including (but certainly not limited to) animal cruelty, reckless driving, rape, menacing, cocaine possession, criminal impersonation, and more because the illuminati has been framing him. People – this man is just an innocent victim of a secret society and you must be aware of this!  Your soul depends upon this knowledge. 

“The illuminati?” I questioned, while simultaneously rolling my eyes at this seemingly ridiculous claim.  “Like Dan Brown Angels and Demons illuminati?”

“Yes. No. Wait. What,” he stumbled to respond, “Who is Dan Brown?” Now – c’mon! I knew who DMX was, so why shouldn’t he know who Dan Brown is? These damn kids today!

Doubt was clearly written all over my face, and this student was adamant in his claim and need to defend the good character of  DMX.  “Hold up. Hold up,” the young man spoke with strange agitation and commitment regarding the innocence of DMX.  He pulled his i-pod from his jean pocket and began scrolling through the touch screen with his index finger.   Finally, he had located what he was feverishly searching for.

“Imma prove it,” he said, “Do you know who Rick Ross is?  He knows.  You need to listen to this.”

He then played me a sweet little ditty by Rick Ross, which absolutely should not have been played in school.  I’m fairly certain I heard both “bitch” and “fuck” before finally reaching this crucial line of the song “Holy Ghost”: “they say I’m gettin’ money; must be illuminati.”

Yes. This clarified everything for me.  That was sarcasm; that cleared up nothing and just led me to believe Rick Ross should have been in my Creative Writing class so that he had better rhyming skills.  Now, if you’ve been following me, or know me in real life, you know I have a curious mind that never, ever, ever stops running.  So, naturally I googled the shit out of Rick Ross, DMX, and the illuminati.

Apparently, Rick Ross has been trying to recruit the formerly incarcerated DMX to his label, but DMX declined.  In an interview with Vibe magazine, DMX shared, "I respect him as an artist, but he got that whole illuminati thing going on.  I don’t really know what that’s all about, so this [his decline of the offer] might be a good thing.”   Ross would also like to recruit others to the illuminati, and this is alluded to in his “Free Mason” lyrics.

 

 

Through further research, I discovered several theories that suggest the vast majority of the rap industry, and pop musicians, became famous by selling their souls to the illuminati and have now become mere “poppets” of these people in exchange for money and fame.  This actually makes a little sense.  I have often wondered why Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber were so wildly popular.  If you look here, you will see that they are among those artists potentially linked to the illuminati.

Many artists sacrifice more than they are aware of, and this is why they often lose people close to them at the peak of their career.  Consider Kanye West and his mother.  Now I’m gonna let you finish, but uhm … Beyonce had one of the best videos of all time.  This brings me to the fact that Jay-Z is also associated with the illuminati. Lil’ Wayne also confesses his association when he admits he no longer has a soul in the lyrics “when I look at the mirror in the morning, I don’t see anything.”  If I listened to Lil’ Wayne, I would have interpreted this more like a literary analysis and believed it alluded to his loss of self-identity given the influx of fame.  No, no, no, my friends.  This means he’s a demon of sorts. I mean, vampires have no reflection, right?  Lil’ Wayne is a fucking monster.  I thought this anyway, but no … literally, a monster … not just an ass.

You probably also thought, as I did, that “Slim Shady” was a nickname or moniker for Eminem.  Again – you have been fooled by a secret occult society of pop superstars and money hungry whores.  “Slim Shady” is actually the name of the demon that has come to possess the man who made Rihanna sing “I love the way you lie.” And --- yes --- you assumed correctly; Rihanna is also associated with the illuminati.

So, my student wasn't entirely correct; the illuminati actually run the rap industry rather than trying to take it down.  And here I thought he was just a kid talking some nonsense; what a fool I have been.  I am so thankful he straightened my ass out.  From this same student I further learned that Tyler the Creator  signed a contract with Lucifer himself in order to gain his fame.  I would tell you who Tyler the Creator is, but I have no fucking idea and I have already wasted enough valuable time researching this nonsense.  You’re welcome.  And if you knew all of this years ago, fine … you are clearly cooler than me, or you have also taken allegiance with Satan.

I would like to remind you that I live in the “middle of butt-fucking nowhere,” so there’s a lot of news that I stumble upon well behind the times.   I’m still wearing Jordache jeans and tossing my hair in a side pony tail.  Don’t judge; I’m just geographically disadvantaged.  However, this may serve me well as it makes it more difficult for the illuminati to locate me, which I am certain they will be doing upon publication of this post.  Please send prayers and crucifixes if you know where I live, but don’t give my address to any members of the occult even if they promise to get you a deal on Rick Ross’ label. 

  

The Dream of Perpetual Sunshine

As a former English teacher, one of the many courses I taught was Creative Writing.  Naturally, we had a unit on poetry.  I wrote the curriculum and called this “Poetry Like the Pros.”  Students would model their own work after well-recognized and oft-praised poets.  For example, we did a nature walk where they obtained sensory details and then wrote a poem in the style of Robert Frost.  They also had to experiment with different forms of poetry.  One of my favorites has always been the sestina.  If you’re a writer or blogger, this is a fun form of poetry  to try your own hand at. 

The sestina, a French form, is an intricate form of six unrhymed stanzas of six lines each, followed by a Tercet (three lines). This type of form works well for the poet who wants to examine a subject from different viewpoints.  The sestina depends on the repetition of end-words, but be aware that only the end word repeats, not as in other French forms where the entire line repeats.

Choose any 6 words, such as:

a) daughter  b) sunshine  c) voice  d) garden  e) music  f) joy

The pattern:

Stanza 1: a, b, c, d, e, f

Stanza 2: f, a, e, b, d, c 

Stanza 3: c, f, d, a, b, e

Stanza 4: e, c, b, f, a, d

Stanza 5: d, e, a, c, f, b

Stanza 6: b, d, f, e, c, a

Tercet: ab, cd, ef

 

The Dream of Perpetual Sunshine

I have awaited your arrival my entire life, daughter

Believed fervently that you would erase the clouds and color the sky with your sunshine

I have prayed and prayed, God finally acknowledging my voice

I planted the seed of you in my mind – an ever-blooming garden

Your father and I held each other and collaborated on a gentle duet of music

The tears now gone – the frown now faded – you are my joy

I lived a life abundant with sin and sorrow, devoid of joy

Until I first held you in my arms, my daughter

To the chaos and cacophony, you brought temperance and a sweet, soothing music

My child – my love – my beautiful – my ethereal – my joy

You will bloom and grow in this life – Sarayu’s garden

I hope that in your silence, you might hear his mighty voice

 

Sweet child, so young, you have already found your unique voice

Your voice – your laughter – your gentle cooing – brings unto me pure joy

One day we will plod and plant together a simple, artful garden

In the garden, you will come to know strength and beauty, my precious daughter

The lily, the daisy, the lilacs too, all of these, as you, shall grow with sunshine

And the rose will be the grand conductor over every other flower as they  gleefully hum his music

 

Until this day, I have never heard a truer tune – such beloved, blessed music

Nothing – not Mozart, not Beethoven, nor Chopin – could compare to that cry – my own child’s voice

All failed to compare – even the warm, welcoming embrace of the summer sunshine

I wonder if, in all my life, I will ever know a greater, more genuine joy

Than the birth of my first child – my so deeply cherished own daughter

You are more grandiose – more exalted – than even the deepest red rose of the garden

 

You shall one day be required to tend to the dirt and weeds of your own garden

And darkness may drown out the light, a steely silence replace the exhalant music

You may then know the secret your mother holds, my own fragile daughter

And you might cringe at the sound of your own voice

You will search in the cupboards, the bureau drawers, the arms of strangers for anything resembling joy

And yet you will be denied those radiant rays of the now fickle sunshine

 

But I will always offer my love, my own warm embrace, even when skies are grey, my only sunshine

And I will uproot all those wicked weeds that attempt to cling to you in the great garden

Do not fear – do not lose hope – in time again, you will become well acquainted with joy

You won’t have to listen hard – or hush out any voices – to hear the music

Stronger now – wiser now – beaten, but not bruised – emerges a far more brilliant voice

They can never, ever quiet your shine, your strength, your shout, my daughter
 

  

I wish for my daughter to live in perpetual sunshine

I know her voice may falter if she fails to nurture her green garden

But I know, too, that even when the music is loud and out of tune, there still exists joy – joy – joy  

Unsent

I just read a blog post that concluded “life is too short to be so fucking angry all the time.”  You can read that post at Change the Topic, a blog I discovered through yeahwrite.  I absolutely agree with this statement, but I question whether or not I have actually been following this bit of advice.  I have struggled to let go of anger all year long.  It comes and it goes.  There are good days and bad days … and there are also really bad days where I can’t even get out of bed. 

When I was teaching, I was typically the one adult in the building that students sought out to share their secrets and struggles with.  Those kids were smart; they knew a good thing when they saw one.  One bit of advice I would often offer was to use writing as a means of moving beyond it.  I would frequently suggest that a student write a letter to whoever he was holding responsible for his current pain.  The secret to that letter, however, is that it never actually gets sent … or e-mailed … or tweeted … or whatever else the kids are doing these days.  It’s the act of getting that anger out of you and onto the page that is most important. 

I wrote one of these letters a few months ago.  I wish I could say that it helped, but I guess I wasn’t truly ready to forgive (you just MIGHT be able to tell).  I shared it with my husband, who said it was too much cursing even for me.  But, if you’ve been following me, you know Sam is supposed to “suck it” this week anyway, so here that shit is:

Dear _______________,

According to Joyce Meyer, Christian author and speaker, “Usually, when a person hurts someone else, he's probably hurting himself at least as much and is suffering some fallout as a result."  When I recently read this quote, my thoughts immediately fell upon you.  In the recent year, no one has hurt me more than you have.  Although such hurt was recently imposed upon me, said hurt is some of the greatest I have felt not just in the past six or seven months – but in the whole of my existence.  I acknowledge the truth of Meyer’s statement as I have been witness to such hurt before by people who were in even greater pain than I, and really just doing the best they could at that point in their lives.  I believe you must be hurting to have proceeded as you did.  I don’t know who hurt you; I don’t know what they did to you.  I do, however, know that it wasn’t me.  I didn’t hurt you and I did not and do not deserve the hurt and pain you have imposed upon me, and thus my family.  As I reflect upon Meyer’s words, I know I must tell you two things.  First: Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you until your ass is sore you fucking piece of shit.  Second: I forgive you.  But know this: my forgiveness is not for you.  You don’t deserve it one bit, and I will never, ever like you or approve of your actions.  I forgive you for me and for my family.  I forgive you because people that are personally hurting hurt other people and I don’t want to hurt my husband, my daughter, my son, my best friends, and my family.  I love them too much to let the pain you have unjustly and unnecessarily imposed upon me to hurt them any longer.  So, you are forgiven you asshole.  

--------------------

Clearly, my catharsis is not yet complete.  But, I'm trying.  Please trust that I am trying and I want to be good for the people I love and that love me too.  If you're one of those folks (again -- you know who you are and I fucking love you): THANK YOU.  I would never be able to forgive the people who have hurt me without you guys loving me like you do.  

 

Oh Captain! My Captain!

Last night, a very cool thing happened.  I finally fully realized what my friends and family have been telling me – I don’t have to be in a classroom to teach.  Intellectually and logically, this is a fact I have always been aware of, but just yesterday I could actually accept the emotional side of that coin.

As you know if you’ve been following me, I have been beating myself up over this blog.  But yesterday I received a message from a former student about how he came across and read my blog.  Therefore, he felt inspired to start his own online writing.  Before sharing the link to his new blogspot, he made note of how he carried absolutely no prior knowledge of my being quite so funny.  See, I told any potential haters I didn’t talk this kind of shit while teaching.

He further shared that I had been an “awesome” teacher, even admitting his own guilt in the reality that his grades were not typically an accurate reflection of the quality of my teaching.  He said he possessed a lot of anger and frustration regarding the general state of the world today.  Through my own example, which I have been condemning myself for, he realized what a wonderful resource writing would be to express his perspective, ultimately enabling him to be a more mentally positive person.  If others can discover the wonder of writing through my random and ridiculous words, then I am teaching and this makes me feel fulfilled and fabulous.

The pride I felt from that brief message is immeasurable, and rings familiar of another boastful teaching moment.  Okay, truth be told I have been trying to figure out a way to brag about the following on my blog for quite some time now.

My students stood on their desks. They stood on their desks, and I felt absolutely honored.  You may be confused right now assuming that I just have really poor classroom management skills.  But, stay with me here.  It was the senior’s final day of high school, and they all knew it was to be (not my decision) my last year with the district. The bell rang at its regular time and I promptly had my head down and mind wrapped up in assessing a student essay, given all the work to be done at the end of the year.  I heard one of the students say, “Wow.  She’s not even noticing.”  It was then I looked up to see each student standing erect atop his or her desk, and thanking me for my service and dedication by announcing: “Oh Captain! My Captain!”

If you don’t understand the impact of this moment, you have likely never witnessed Robin Williams’ brilliant performance in the moving film Dead Poet’s Society. (If you’re not an English geek like me, this also alludes to a Walt Whitman work.) I was their Professor Keating – the one who taught them not only about literature, but life. I am the one whose passion would not be tucked away behind a blazer and firm face, even if others would have wished it that way. 

So, damn my old desk and curse that classroom.  I don’t need either to make a difference.  I am teaching.  I am teaching, and today’s lesson is that I rule.

It's Just Humor, Folks

Lately, I have been putting myself up on the scaffolding – ready to hang my neck with shame or approach a guillotine of guilt.  I feel like there should be a scarlet letter emblazoned on my breast. But not an “A” for adulterer –but a “B” for bitch.  And why? For writing this silly damn blog.  It can’t possibly be a positive reflection of my character.  I worry that it might put me in negative situations down the road, which is why I just need to increase my readership by leaps and bounds very, very quickly so I can become published and future employment won’t matter. (Help me blow this shit up, people!)

 I’m very aware this is my husband’s concern too.  After I shared with him my first few posts, I asked, “So … what do you think?”  He hesitated for a really long time, and then said they were “uhm … interesting.”  He continued, “I’m just concerned about potential consequences.  I mean, you do want to have a job again, right?”  Although I’m now feeling like a bit of a guilty little goose, I was feeling like a large defensive smart ass at the time.  Therefore, I replied, “It doesn’t matter anyhow because people are gonna love this stuff and I’m gonna get rich.  Look at Julie and Julia.  That bitch made it big writing a blog about food.  I’ve got to be more interesting than biscuits and gravy.”  

Those who really know me, though, know that I am an incredibly good, kind, positive person.  And I think Julia Child is a delightful personality, although my younger brother was correct when he once saw her on television around the age of ten and asked why that woman was talking like Kermit the Frog. So, isn’t it possible that I can be a good role model and simultaneously write a blog with “dick” and “skank” in its post titles?  I believe it was Bonaparte (that crazy little French bastard) who said, “Impossible is a word to be found only in the dictionary of fools.”  And while some of his actions were less than favorable, wouldn’t you agree it’s an inspirational quote? We are all multidimensional beings, right?

As evidence of such, yesterday I had to speak to some students about watching their language because they were cursing during study hall.  (By this point, you’ve probably figured out I am employed again, although not truly teaching. I currently supervise study hall part time in a new district.) Of course, they would not simply accept my request to stop cursing.  They started talking to me about freedom of speech and individual expression.  I explained to them that just because their cursing was not considered criminal, this did not mean it was without consequence. 

I further explained to them that language and speech need to be situational.  I mean, I don’t go around dropping “f-bombs” in front of my students or my own children.  I said to these two teenage males, “I swear too, but I don’t do it at school.  It’s not appropriate for me, and it’s not appropriate for you.” They looked at me with expressions of curiosity and disbelief.  “You swear?” they asked.  “No,” they continued, “You can’t possibly swear.  You’re too nice.”  Then again asking, “Really?” 

First, you have to realize that most students – even high school students – don’t think of their teachers as actual human beings.  Once, in the lunch line, a student asked a fellow teacher who had just made an unhealthy purchase, “You eat nachos?  I didn’t think teachers ate nachos.”  On another occasion, a student said of my then associate principal, “I saw Mr. D---- filling up his car at the gas station last night.  He was wearing jeans.  It totally creeped me out.”

Second, I need you all to realize this, although I also recognize I may be the only person who is currently questioning this because I have a brain that does not shut off (this is something you should have also figured out by this point if you’ve been following my posts): I am a really good person and possess incredible quality of character.  And if you don’t believe me, go fuck yourself. Relax; it’s just humor folks.