Geeking Out

I know I am a total dork and that this will rat me out, but I have a confession to make. 

I love course planning. 

Love it. 

Getting all professorly in anticipation

I ordered books a few months ago. 

Now I'm planning daily activities for four classes. 

The philosophy department is right next to English

I've got a regular Eng 101 class. Easy as pie. I love teaching one section of writing. It's online.

There are two Intro to Lit classes. We're reading some fun stuff, like Oleanna, A Raisin in the Sun, and some short stories. We're also reading some challenging materials like Waiting for the Barbarians and Innocent Erendira. Also lots of fun. These are my face to face classes.

And then there's my most challenging class: a Global Perspectives in Literature course. It's junior level and every single reading is tough. I'm throwing students in the deep end and hoping they swim. 

That one is online. It's going to be the class I have to pay the most attention to. 

I love, love, love this. And I can't wait until the start of the quarter next week. 

In Washington, most of the colleges are on a quarter system and start late in September. In the 1880s when the state began, schools did not commence until after the harvest had finished. We're still doing it. 

Source: www.lovethesepics.com 

Almost There

We're almost there!

Almost spring, 

Almost spring break, 

Almost the end of my big project, 

Almost feeling better. 

I feel like I'm reaching and reaching, and my fingertips are just brushing success.  

I always did like the ends of things. I'm a lover of leaving and a sucker for new beginnings.  

There's something satisfying about closing a good book after you've finished, cleaning up after a delicious meal, and sweet coming home after a long trip.  

I'm leaning forward into spring. 

Random 5

Ok, so my Random 5 isn't on Friday this week, it's on Sunday.  Ah well, I'll give you your money back on this one!

Anyway, here are 5 random things from my week.

1.  My cat takes selfies.  She's pretty good at it too.

"This is my good side"

2. I took my students Dumpster diving this week.  The trash situation in Washington is amazing.  Of the six or so sites we visited, they were organized, clean, and had recycling for plastic, paper and aluminum.  Not anything like what I saw when doing this in Oklahoma.

3. I gave an assignment for my students to go outside of their comfort zone and try something they have never done before.  I gave a list of 20 or so suggestions. Two of the males in my classes chose to go try on women's clothing and not explain if they were asked.  I am proud of them for choosing to challenge ideas of gender and masculinity. Both reported it being an uncomfortable experience, but worth it.

Not my actual student

4. We went hiking yesterday and really enjoyed it.  For once, the wind wasn't up and the sun was.  It was a beautiful, bright, clear fall day.  We scared up a couple covey of quail (say that twice fast!), and a few little snakes by the marshy areas, and found a hornet's nest.  I loved it- beautiful day and hours of visiting with G. Ellensburg is a wonderful compromise for us; G gets a city and I get away from people by walking 15 minutes in any direction.

Nobody was home

The trails here are well managed.

5. Confession: I put off my grading all weekend and now I have to spend my afternoon grading. Wah! Fortunately, I will have help and inspiration from the usual suspect.

She finds your grammar...lacking. 

There you have it. Hope you had a good weekend and week.  I'm also excited that my niece, who just started college a few weeks ago, has moved out on her own.  I'm a proud auntie, even though she thinks English is her worst subject. <3 br="" nbsp="">

10 Things I Love About My Job

Love! 

For the greater part of my life, I have taken jobs that I don't necessarily like or enjoy. Sometimes I have had unpleasant conditions, coworkers or safety challenges.  I've worked in the public school system, prison system, and in bars, hotels and offices.
Sometimes, my job wore me down. I once was a part-time, midnight to 8 waitress in a diner.  The morning shift, of 3 waitresses, never trained me but would actively look for things to criticize me over. I would come from my first job to my second, work all night waiting on drunks and fun college-age kids hanging out and having a good time, and in the morning face the barrage of insults from middle aged women who didn't like the way I cleaned the bathroom. It wasn't the physical ache, but the psychological fatigue that made me quit. As it turns out, those ladies were right- I couldn't handle it.
Sometimes, I just wasn't safe and couldn't count on anyone. On my first day teaching at a men's prison, the lieutenant warned me that if I was ever taken hostage, nobody would negotiate for me and I'd probably be raped and killed. What's more, the security officers didn't really have my back. I relied, ironically, on the inmates for protection.
Sometimes my job made me sick. I taught in a public school in a poor neighborhood. Because of known and posted dust, mold and asbestos compounded by construction during school hours, I had bronchitis for almost 10 months straight. But at least I loved the job that I did (once I was allowed to actually do that).

That pretty much brings us to today. Let's face it: any job where I'm not in any particular danger of being shot at, stabbed, physically intimidated or used in some fashion is a good job to me. I happen to think my job is pretty awesome, which leads me to

10 Things I Love About My Job

1. My co-workers.  I love the people I work with. Every single one has chosen this profession to help people and to be a good person. We all keep our eyes on the prize.  I work with vegans, chicken farmers, people of varied gender expressions and their attitudes are all the same: to build up others. I love this aspect. There are at any given time, 3-7 other women in our office and we all get along. No drama. No bullshit. No intrigue! Really cordial and professional. And they are also competent in their jobs.
2. Location. We are in the Pacific Northwest (USA).  It's less than 2 hours to Seattle, 4 to Portland, 3 to Spokane and 4 to Vancouver, BC. What more could a wanderer want?
3. I get to help people. 'Nuff said.
4. I'm using my actual education and experience to do that. This is a real luxury.
5. I get appreciation for what I do. My boss wrote me a letter telling me what a good job I'm doing. I've been a keynote speaker this last year and I get invited to neat committees.
6. I know people here.  I love that our campus (only 10k students) is a community and that I have been invited to be a part of that.
7. Safety.  It's safe enough here to leave your house unlocked. We lock ours but the only real danger is that some drunk will wander in off the street at 2 a.m. and crash on the couch.
8. Campus is beautiful and close-by. I live a mile from my office and walk to work almost every day. I stop frequently to take pictures of flowers and trees and season fruits that grow on campus. There is even a creek that's part of my morning "commute".  We save a lot of money on gas and only have one car. We really only need one car.
9. Autonomy. I get to set my own hours. I work a lot, but if I have a doctor or hair appointment, it's not a big deal. I get a lot of work done and if I need to, I can work from home. I get to think and put those thoughts into action. I'm accountable, but I have leeway.
10. My best friend is doing this with me. None of those other things would matter as much without G. He made all of this possible, really. I wake up happy in the morning and think about the life we live together. It's good. He helps me do my job too.  He proofreads stuff for me, gives me advice and helped me write a grant proposal in May. We work well together and I like the way he thinks. On Fridays we have lunch together too.

Have a great week!

Everyday Housewife

Much of my adult life has been spent in search of an in maintaing a semblence of normality.  When I was younger, life life was chaotic. Chaotic childhood, chaotic adolescence and the shifting sands of moving and settling in and moving again.  Somehow I managed to maintain a few friendships and I decided in 6th grade that I didn't really need to make anymore new friends since the new town we'd moved to was probably a stopping place anyway.  Except that I spent the next 8 years there. Shoulda made more friends.

My daily routine when I was 22 and living in Port Angeles, Washington revolved around work and my social life. I'd get up around 9, go jogging probably twice a week, get a shower and go to coffee.  I had learned to make friends again by then. My little group hung out at Pete's Pancake House (it's now a glassblowing shop) and we'd chain smoke, sip coffee, order breakfast or french fries and talk forever.  Nobody had cell phones. It was 1994. I'd go to work at 3 and get off at 11 at the local Red Lion Hotel. There were days for laundry, days for driving my 77 Thunderbird across the state to see my mom and grandparents, occasional days for dates and lots of comforting friendships.  There was a lot of rain. I also lived by The General Store in PA, and often went to the little coffee stand out front for a 4-shot latte. Those were good times and lean times, sometimes filled with sun but often fraught with worry and care.

When I was 32, I lived in Norman, Oklahoma.  My life was consumed with school and work. I'd get up at 8 and be to work at OU by 9, edit, read drafts and give fellow graduate students advice on their papers, take some healthy piece of food with me and a protein bar.  I rode my bicycle everywhere and lived in a small 4-plex just three blocks north of campus.  I ran 5 miles several times a week and had a jogging buddy.  On Sundays, I would go jogging, drive the 127 miles to Tulsa and work out at my dojo, then teach a yoga class there, then drive home.  I would often be up until 3 a.m.  There was a small group of animals that regularly visited my house at night- six cats, an opossum and a small skunk.  I fed them.  My life was exhausting, and I struggled to find meaning and my place in the world.  My ex-husband drove by my house every day for years-hence the jogging buddy and the dojo. I felt haunted.

Now I'm looking at 40 next month. I walk to work every day that I possibly can.  I don't drive much anymore and our family only has one car. We don't need two. I'm married- still newly so- and we live in Washington. Life is simple. I teach and do research. It's cold in the winters and so far, it feels like it will warm up for spring and summer. Grey keeps us healthy and does a lot of the cooking. After work, I walk home and we go work out at "The Gym" down the street. They're nice people. On weekends, we go to Seattle, we stay home, we visit small towns nearby.  It's a good life. It's not where I thought I'd end up when I graduated from high school over 20 years ago.  I'm not sure that we've actually "ended up" yet. I just can't predict how life will go.

I used to think this would be me: Married to Glen Campbell. 

Just kidding. I thought I'd make a good housewife, that I'd settle, that I would somehow be noble.
Turns out I'm not that.

I was, for a time, this.

Now, I'm this.

Have a good weekend.  The farmer's market starts back up on Saturday, so you know where to find me.

Take That, Claire Danes!

When I was in junior high, Moonlighting was popular on television.  My hair hadn't darkened yet and my peers often called me Cybil Shepard, the lead actress.  Several years ago, I was likened to Claire Danes from her role in "Shopgirl", with Steve Martin.  I can live with that.

I was invited to give a keynote address for a conference in March at Central Washington University. The theme is "Innovation".  I hadn't met anyone on the committee. They asked if I would attend one of the meetings, so this morning, I showed up on time and was the first person there.  As people filtered into the room, I spoke to a few of them.  Nice people; we talked about the campus, life in Ellensburg and assorted other stuff.

Then one of them asked, "So what is your name, then?"
"My name is Mindie."  I use my first name for professional stuff.
A few eyebrows went up.
"Is something wrong?
"No!" said the blonde lady who was apparently the chair of the committee. "We were just, expecting someone....."
I'm thinking rapidly at this point- someone smarter? Someone more academic looking? Someone who doesn't look like a hobo walking in off of the street?
"... much older." 

Oh.

"Oh."
"Don't get me wrong," said the thin woman to her right, "I'm so pleased to have you as our speaker. It's just that you've done a lot of stuff." She seemed really flustered. There was a murmur from the other people in the room. 
"I'm 40." I'm actually 39, but I'll be 40 in a few months. There was a moment where two of the committee members seemed on the verge of spitting out a denial, a refutation, but at the last moment looked at each other and closed their mouths.
"You look so young!"
"Thank you."

This went on for half a minute. I was beginning to get uncomfortable with the attention.  After all, it's sort of an American thing to equate looks with success. We moved on to other topics- defining innovation, discussing approaches for the workshops and the roundtable I will facilitate- and I told them a few stories.

It's flattering that people sometimes think I am younger than I am.  In this case, it was really awkward.  Ok, flattering *and* awkward.  If I am going to be known for anything in this world, I want to be known for the stories I tell about my family, my students, my friends. I want to be known as a good teacher or friend.  Those are the things that will last. 

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah.

I get to give a keynote address!  At a conference addressing innovative ideas. How hard does that rock?!

And hello! There are worse things than being mistaken for a twenty-something. Take that, Claire Danes!

Bandwagon

One of the nice things about November is that the elections are over.  In this case, my favorite causes won in the national election- Elizabeth Warren, Mazie Hirono, and Tulsi Gabbard all won historic spots in Congress, bringing women up to a record (and still not 50%) number of women representing all of We The People in Washington.  Tammy Baldwin became the first openly lesbian senator from Wisconsin.  It's not that I'm so "pro-woman" or "pro-LGBT" (ok, yes, I am, but I have a bigger purpose here) as I am adamant that our representatives reflect the demographics of who makes up our country.  I am glad that these people- Hindus, Buddhists, Christians, Atheists and women- have stepped up.  In many cases, in my opinion, it's just a matter of finding the right person with the courage and backing to go forth and put themselves out there.  I'm not sure I would have the wherewithal myself.

But enough of political talk.

November is also a month of gratitude for many of my friends.  They list all sorts of things they are thankful for, from books and warm houses to coffee, friends, family and even death. I thought about jumping on the bandwagon.  I am grateful for those things too, and would also add technology (hint to my in-laws: we'd love to skype with you!) my job, my amazing husband and boots and snow and a house that doesn't leak.

I love reading what people put up.  It's poignant and often insightful, whimsical and sometimes just sentimental. I guess I could make a short list..

I'm grateful for Eleanor, who is 16 and a cat, for waking me up every day around 6:30 to give her water from the faucet because such a grand dame cannot possibly drink out of a bowl.

I'm grateful for snow because it gives me a chance to stay inside and get fat over the winter.

I'm grateful for coffee for powering my life and uh, keeping things moving...

I'm grateful for my friends in Oklahoma who somehow have the courage to live in a state that not only preemptively banned Sharia law but also in the last 10 years finally banned cockfighting and allowed tattoos, and has only this month done away with Affirmative Action.  Mmmmm yeah...

I'm grateful for breath mints.  If anyone ever, EVER offers you one, you eat that motha and like it.  I don't care if it's not vegetarian.

I'm grateful for deodorant.  See above, you smelly hippie.

I'm grateful for underwear too.  Warm underwear.

And cheese graters.

And unemployment.  When we decided to move here, Grey sacrificed his job in Oklahoma and moved across the country so that I might follow my dream.  As it turns out, this is a very small town with not a lot of employment opportunities.  And it's taking some time to find something.  There are often over 100 applications for every job.  What this translates to is a very patient man who does a wonderful job of distracting his attention into positive energy.  He researches, plans and cooks amazing and nutritious dishes.  I eat like a queen and all I have to do is dishes.  So while I hope Grey finds what he is looking for, I benefit directly from that not working out quite yet.  Nom Nom Nom!

I'm grateful to my mom because she makes amazing and beautiful quilts.  She made me one for my graduation last December and it's currently on the bed, keeping us warm on these frozen nights.  Now if Eleanor would just stop farting on the bed...

I'm grateful for my brother-in-law.  There was a time not too many years ago- long enough that my nephew, his son, would not remember but not long enough for me to forget- that we were not friends.  In fact, there was this moment during an angry confrontation between he and my sister that I had out a knife and I was a few moments of terror and self-righteousness away from letting a little more light into his noggin.  It's no secret that my sisters and I grew up a little on the rough side, and that means quite often that we made choices in our dating and marriages that sometimes involved rough guys.  And my brother-in-law was a rough guy.  And I about stabbed him, straight up.  I'm not proud of that.  I had to go to years of counseling to work out those issues.  The really great thing is that when you flash forward to ten years later, I am glad to report that one of the cool things about visiting my sister is also seeing my brother-in-law.  He is sober and clean and involved with his son's life.  He is supportive of my sister.  He goes fishing and is an expert at smoking salmon.  I should know; it's the only meat I really eat unless my cousin makes duck.  If B-- is making deer jerky, smoked salmon, or anything with crab or shrimp, I'm there.  I feel sorry for everyone who isn't me when B-- cooks.  I eat the hell out of that food and the only stabbing going on is if someone gets in the way.  On second thought, they are much more likely to get bit.  Grey got to witness this phenomena on our last visit.  He wasn't horrified, but let's just say that the honeymoon is over. 

Classic rock is also on the list of things I am grateful for. ZZ Top, Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix, Bob Seger, The Eagles, Queen, The Doors, The Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, Rush, Sting (with and without The Police) Iron Butterfly and the plethora of music that I grew up with and still love. We didn't get to bring any stereo equipment when we moved, so I listen to Pandora and a favorite classic rock station in Oklahoma City.  Classic rock is the soundtrack of my life.  Ok, that and classical music.  Don't judge me. Because, seriously, if you were going to judge me, it should have been about the meat-eating or stabbing confession above.

There are a few less tangible things for which I am grateful.

Like perspective.  I had a rough week.  Things just did not go the way I wanted them to go and for the life of me, not everything is under my control. I also know that my dandelion had a rough week too, probably much rougher than mine.  A friend of mine finally got the news this week - after weeks of waiting- that her husband does not have lymphoma as originally thought.  How difficult to wait to exhale for two weeks, and how lovely to get such good news!  My other friend sent me a text this week too- her mom, who is only in her 60s, has been sent home with hospice care for renal failure.  Her diabetes has made it impossible to keep her on the kidney transplant list.  It is a matter of time, and when she goes, my friend will be an orphan.  Her dad died when she was 19 and that's a tough thing to lose both of your parents by the time you are 32.  When I put into perspective how lucky and blessed I am to live the life I do, I am on the whole a fortunate person. So I don't get everything I want- who does? This does not mean I cannot be happy.

Anger.  I am grateful for anger.  For the longest time, I had two feelings: extreme joy or burning hot anger. Over the years, I have been able to identify and feel lots of feelings in between, like indifference, annoyance, slightly okie-dokie, significantly non-plussed and bemused.  The toughest one is "little bit pissed but still reasonable", which is as far as I want to go towards anger.  The acronym I have for self-assessment is HALT.  If I am angry, I have to do a quick self-assessment: Am I Hungry? Angry? Lonely? Tired?  If I am any one or more of those, it means I need to do some self-care before approaching human beings.  I often just need a nap, a sandwich, a hug or a few minutes to reflect on my part in a situation so that I can refocus on making things better rather than worse.  That just leads to regret.

Regret. I am grateful for the stupid things I have often done.  I tend not to repeat those mistakes and since I'm not 39 and about halfway through my life, I think I have made about half of my mistakes.  I am fairly confident, however, that the mistakes I make from here on out are not the crazy, life-changing ones I made in the past.  Like that '78 Firebird I bought so that I could teach myself to power slide.  Or that time I moved to Denver on 24 hours notice.  Or how I was a bartender for about a year, and not a good one.  Or how I broke a few hearts. 

There are some things I never got to regret.  I had three older sisters I could watch grow up.  That saved me a lot, you know.  I never made their mistakes and they were protective of me.  So protective that on my first date, I was home by 9 with a quick peck on the cheek from a boy terrified that Yvette would beat him up.  She had a reputation for doing that- she beat the snot out of a kid for beating me up in sixth grade.  I'm pretty sure he went on to live a normal life.

Family.  I think this is my favorite intangible.  There is the family you get and the family that gets you.  I have both and I am lucky.  I wouldn't trade my family for anything, as crazy as we are.  My sisters are so funny, creative, laugh-inducing and heartful.  And like me, they each have a streak of iron through them.  We get each other as only siblings can.  Sometimes we tell the old stories, to reassure ourselves that these things really happened.  We used to tell them to someone draw out the poison.  Now we tell the new-old stories, of the younger years in my nieces and nephews' lives.  Of dance parties and grandparents and becoming women.  And now we plot new stories for our families.  And we connect on a deeper level than I can with anyone else.  I married someone who fits right in without even trying, and he is becoming part of those stories. The rest of my family is comprised of long time friends from Washington and Oklahoma. People who know the other parts of me, who have helped me become an adult and who saved me as much as I saved them. 




I guess I jumped on the bandwagon after all, in the style of oversharing and gratitude.  If you are reading this, I am grateful for you too, and hope you have a wonderful holiday season.  Stay warm, eat some turkey (or tofurky) and spend some time with people you love. 

Sculpture

That's not powdered sugar

Home

Grey

Heat

It's 106 today.  It was 107 degrees yesterday as I passed a bank clock at 5:15 p.m. on the South side of Oklahoma City.  I waited in traffic with the other schmucks, my air conditioner blasting slightly cooler air than what you'd find outdoors, sweating from the top of my melting hair to the bottoms of my low heeled pumps.  On the South side, you'll find about 60% of the people in their cars lack a/c.  Their windows are wide open, they drive fast to encourage air flow and have short tempers.  Their hair tends to be dirty with pollution and skin is more tan, at least on the window side of their ride.

I stayed on the city streets, skirting the outskirts on my way home.  If I took the highway, I would be more cranky, sitting in a traffic jam with hundreds of others, all inconsiderate and cutting in front because their destination and time are so much more important than my own.  Sigh.  It happens more in the summer.  People get more aggressive; either that or I just notice it more.

During the summer in Oklahoma I either head north for a couple of weeks and find a place to hang out that is both cool and near water, or I simply dig in and wait out the heat inside an air conditioned house/car/office/world because I cannot take the heat.  It is depressing, like seasonal affective disorder in the summertime.  Too much sun; too much heat.  Not enough snow.  Last year we had 63 days in a row of over 100 degree temperatures. Everything not inside died.  This year I planted cucumbers, basil, and a ton of other decorative plants under the porch awning where they are more or less protected from the sun.  As long as they are watered every day, they should live. Should. Except that (as my friend Laura says) it's like a pizza oven out there. We only had one day where it snowed and I felt more alive than usual.

The heat makes people a little crazy too. In the years that I have made my cell phone number public, I have never had a crank caller. I have never had hang ups and I have never had anyone sell my number to a telemarketer.  Only this week has anything strange happened.  I got a text from an Oklahoma City cell phone number.  It said "Can you Send meme pics of your schnou" with no regard for basic grammar. I'm not sure, but I suspect that it is from one of my students. Yes, I just berated someone's grammar before their poor choices.

I have been directly approached by college students and former college students for anything from sex to romance.  There is this rule that every educator knows and every educator follows or they are taking advantage of the power they have over that student, either by their grade or by the regard with which the student holds them. Generally speaking, you're a low-down dirty dog sun of a beeswax if you have sex with your students.  You just are.  Think of Mary Kay Latourneau, John from Oleanna, and any number of other scandalous rotten teachers. And that's just the female ones.  I have seen my share of both female and male professors in relationships with students.  There is a sense of decorum in waiting until after grades are turned in but not everyone who begins a romantic entanglement with a student has the ethical fortitude to do so. Me? I have to watch my own reaction to such activities. My fingers itch for a stick. My advice to all teachers everywhere is this: Don't f**k your students.

In no way am I interested in sending pictures of my schnou, nose, the crack of my butt or the crack of my cat's butt across the interwebs for the personal or public entertainment of another without payment.  I didn't respond. It's not that I don't have anything to say to the request.  I'd like to respond with "May I have your credit card information?" or perhaps "You are obviously in need of some higher education.  May I direct you to my English class instead?" or the classic "What the hell is wrong with you?", because this really is horrifying.  Then I wondered if I could look up some strange medical disease dictionary and forward those. Yes, I have a mean streak and do not like to be messed with. Must be the heat.  I settled on ignoring it.  If the person texts again, I will track them down and call their mom, girlfriend, wife, or clergy member and embarrass them.

This one is free, but the arm, leg, and schnou will cost ya!

During the course of writing this blog post, my dog has been outside. I have to get a pancake turner and scrape him off the sidewalk where he has melted around the edges.

It's that hot.

Towards a Better...

At my middle school, testing season is almost over.  Next week we will have make up tests and that's it for the year.  Things got thrown into panic mode since we were set to do paper and pencil tests for the 7th graders and at the last moment the state department said we had to do computerized testing.  We only have about 50 computers in the school and 500 students. It wasn't a nightmare but the counselor had never arranged this sort of thing before so we all suffered a bit.  Both the administrator and the monitor must stay in the room during testing and roamers are to come check every once in awhile to make sure that students are comfortable and that administrators don't need a break.  I really dislike having a room full of kids who have to pee for three hours and nobody comes to get them to take them to the bathroom.

Anyway, I am sure my kids did a great job.  I'm not allowed to see or to help or to look at test scores.  Likewise I instruct the kids not to talk to me about them.  However, it leaks out and sometimes in their exuberance, someone will brag to me about what they got.  I'm happy for them but also say they can't say those things to me. I think that the English scores will increase dramatically this year.  I'm in the English department and the main sixth grade teacher and eighth grade teachers really did a great job this year.  Those scores will follow us as well, wherever we go.

Speaking of going, my student intern is almost at the end of her stint in my school. Next week she is going to institute the poetry unit I asked her to create.  She has used my materials to come up with curriculum, written lesson plans and will institute them and assess at the end of the unit.  She is doing much better in the classroom and I feel comfortable having her there to help teach.  She thinks she is ready to go out on her own.  I hope so.  I've been teaching for that last however long and I'm still never as prepared as I want to be.  There is also a lot the kids throw at you and even when you are prepared, you have to watch your face and reactions.  So I've been thinking of some advice of my own for Title 1 public school teachers.

1. Don't take it personally.  Kids have it rough in public school.  Their home lives, especially those who live in poverty, are sometimes (though this is not the rule) challenging.  When they say or do ugly things, it's almost never about the teacher. When you hear ugliness, look immediately beyond the words to the child spouting them.  At all costs, avoid sarcasm.
2.  Not everyone who is poor is troubled.  Lots and lots of my students have happy home lives.
3.  My goals and values may not be their goals and values.  I am White.  The vast majority of the students I teach are either Hispanic or Black.  While we all have common American experiences, there are cultural differences and I do not have the right to make a kid feel bad because they realize from an early age that college is not for them. I do have a responsibility to learn more of my student's cultures and to pull those things into the classroom so that we can all learn better.
4.  That does not mean that I can give up talking about literacy, a better life, and college.  The fact is that as a 7-8 grade English teacher, I might be the last literacy educator they see.  This makes my job that much more important and urgent.  The buck stops here.
5. You know what my goal is? My goal is to be a better person.  That's why I teach. That's what it boils down to.  I want to look in the mirror every day and see someone I can be proud of.  How I go about teaching ties into that.
6.  My personal life has little place in my classroom.  My students know I am White and that I speak some spanish.  I tell them a little about growing up where I did, about the migrant children who became my friends and about Spanish lessons from 6-12 grade.  I tell them about my past teaching jobs, including the prison which fascinates them, and I talk about my dog and cat.  That's about it. If I am teaching curriculum and listening to their talk and their world and entering a realm that ultimately does not belong to me, I want to be as empty of a vessel as I can rather than a cup spilling over.
7.  Take the weekends off.  I know it is difficult.  Grade papers before you come home.  Set up curriculum and lesson plans on your plan period.  Do as my friend Bonner suggests and touch a door or some piece of the school as you leave and say "I am leaving this place" and do not come back until Monday.
8.  Laugh.  Tell jokes.  Enjoy these students because junior high is brutal and hormone filled and frightening.  Laughter is important and instructive and makes life easier.
9.  When you are wrong, say you are sorry. Publicly and with sincerity.  I apologize to my students when I get stuff wrong.  I take responsibility and get more respect for that than if I never admit mistakes.  This shows that if I can get better and be a strong person who is compassionate, then they can be too. It's a pathway and an example.
10. You spot it, you got it.  I stole this from an Al-Anon meeting (that's friends and family members of alcoholics).  When the kids were spending their lunch hours smearing food up and down the hallways and throwing trash on the grounds, I was dismayed and angry.  I decided that instead of some punitive action, I had a responsibility to teach compassion and responsibility.  I took an entire day and had the students write letters to Margarita and Griselda, who are our custodians.  I walked them around and we picked up trash.  We gave the letters to the ladies and made them cry.  I asked that if anyone saw people throwing trash or food where it shouldn't go that they speak up.  Now our hallways are mostly clear and the grounds look better.  Such a simple thing, really.  If you can, then do.

I feel strongly that we are the guardians of innocence.  Our middle school kids are half child, half teenager and spend a good deal of time just trying to figure out what to do next.  When someone or something threatens their ability to do so, it turns me into a raging witch.  For instance, one of our students dropped out for three months.  His dad dis-enrolled him and took him to Texas.  When he got back, his mom came to re-enroll him.  Only he had gotten a gang tattoo on his neck in the intervening time.  He knows that in order to be part of our school, he has to cover that tattoo but chooses not to.  Every single time I catch him, I take him to the principal and he spends time out of class sitting, waiting for his mom to come bring him a turtleneck.  It's crazy.  But I have to do that- to keep gang symbols and tattoos and signs and graffiti out of my school.  It's not just my job, it's my moral responsibility as an adult and as a human to protect others.

In other news, I have bronchitis again.  My doctor will be so thrilled.  Last weekend I missed an important play in Oklahoma City and this weekend, I missed a great play here in Tulsa.  I simply had no energy to walk from the damn car to the theater to sit there for two hours without coughing my head off.  I'll go on Monday for a shot and some antibiotics and blah blah blah...it's the same story.  My job is killing me because each time I walk into the building, I inhale dust and mold and probably asbestos.  I'm hoping next year will be better and working, always working, towards a better world.

A Safe Place

Yesterday, I asked an 8th grade student to carry a slim toad away from our portable buildings.  He or she had gotten into a classroom the night before and was stunned after being manhandled by 18 sixth graders and kicked by one of them.  Gently, the 8th grader picked up said toadling and asked where to put it.  I couldn't really think of anywhere.  In the soccer field there would be children running around after school. The pavement was no good because of hot sun, foot and car traffic and lack of moisture.  The dumpster might be ok but the fence line would only lead to the sidewalk.  We decided on the dumpster and let our hopping friend loose.

Today is the 17th anniversary of the bombing of the Arthur P. Murrah building in Oklahoma City.  On this day so many days ago, in revenge for the ill-conceived and badly ended standoff between the Branch Davidian church group and the U.S. Government.  Timothy McVeigh chose the Murrah building and Oklahoma City as an easy target. The Murrah building was a federal building and housed many beaurocratic headquarters for federal business in the city.  He filled a large truck with homemade explosives and detonated it, killing 168 people- including children in the daycare- and changed the course of Oklahoma history.  Oklahoma, the safe place, was under attack in an act of domestic terrorism. When it came to light that it was a scrawny white guy, a separatist, former military and an American, well, people were stunned. What had we expected, a non-White, non-English speaking, non-graduate of American school systems who held beliefs that were never critically considered?

Last Friday, one of our sixth graders stabbed another sixth grader with a pencil in the shoulder over a bag of skittles.  She had stabbed the victim before the day before but it did not break the skin and the little girl did not report it at the time.  This time, however, the pencil went through a sweater and a shirt and lodged in her skin.  And our alleged perpetrator was so rotten, disrespectful and belligerent that the arresting police officer put cuffs on her and took her past kiddie booking and to a juvenile detention center where she will remain until her arraignment.  Her mother did not go to see her and she is now in a position to get real lessons on how to become a criminal.  She is twelve years old.

I am missing one of my students for the rest of the year as well.  He (allegedly) brought a large amount of illegal substances to school with intent to sell.  Four other students were busted in the boys room smoking a Swisher Sweet with a large amount of cannibis in it.  Gone. Those kids are gone for the year.  I'm not sure why my students are dealing and taking drugs. I figure that reality sucks when you are a teenager and it must really suck to live and go to school in a ghetto with few prospects and teachers who often fundamentally dislike children.  We finally and temporarily replaced our deceased geography teacher. The new lady is nice and blonde and pretty and with sky blue eyes that make me think she might come from Edmond.  The kids have mostly been nice to her, and one drew her a picture which she put outside of her door.  Unfortunately it has gang colors and the drawing is actually of "the shocker" hand gesture.  If you don't know what that is, click here for an eye-opening explanation.  I couldn't find her today so I'll try again tomorrow. I heard one of the 8th grade boys (not my student) said some highly sexual things to her during class, poked a pencil into her lunch and left.  I really hope that is not true.

Students have been roaming the hallways in droves. I took it upon myself to stroll the hallways during classes.  Ok, it's trolling.  My student intern is now competent enough to handle teaching by herself so I walk around looking for kids ditching class. I catch about four per day.  It makes me cranky.  Yesterday, one of my gang-girls was conducting business with her boyfriend's cell phone.  She's really sweet and I like her. I suspect she probably compartmentalizes and gets to be a kid during those classes she attends and a "thug" when she needs to be.

In the meantime, we are doing the OCCT- Oklahoma Core Curriculum Test.  Awesome.  Along with the continued construction, how can we possibly hope to pass those tests?  Yet many of them are.  A good number of my 8th grade students either passed or got outstanding scores on their reading tests.  Next week my 7th graders are up and I expect they will surpass my principal's expectations but not my own.  I want better for them.

Yes, yes I do. I want better for my kids and I am frustrated and fighting mad.  What does it matter if my kids can think critically or read and write their asses off if the end result is not going to change?  Necessity trumps luxuries like novels and me and my little narratives cannot compete with the immediate relief of getting high. Sometimes I feel like a fool for even trying. The world, as illustrated by Timothy McVeigh, is not as trustworthy as it might once have been. My students are stunned toads with no safe place to go but dumpsters. At least there is food and moisture there, even if it smells.  All I can do is keep guard and provide hope.

Ethical and Right

There are many things that I do not write about, things that I either don't find appropriate, things that I know I would sound condescending about or things that I just don't know about.  I seldom write about politics, except to say that a dentist who has no experience in education beyond attending a school at some point should not be our Superintendent of Education.  That's not a shock. I do write about education and where education and politics collide, I try to say something worthwhile.

I do not write about God or supreme deities, do not draw pictures of prophets and only occasionally light incense or candles. I try not to complain too much about the economy or the fact that it's taking an inordinate amount of time to find an appropriate job at a college or university so that I can do what I do best.

No, the general purpose of my blog is to puzzle through life and try to figure out the best things to do- to reflect and celebrate and to, if possible, light the way for someone else.  I think best behind a keyboard and when I do, I feel that this is my home.  So tonight- after a long day of fun and games- I am sitting here once again with my cat and some breath mints and contemplating the larger issues in life.

I do believe in being ethical and doing the right things.  I try not to pay others to do what I can do myself.  I mow my own lawn and since mine was used and returned to me broken, I borrowed my friend Cathy's electric mower to mow my lawn.  Here is a photo of what the back looked like when I started:



As you can see, it needs a hair cut.  I considered borrowing some livestock to just eat down the grass. It was over 2' high in places and it was wet.  I have a surprising number of friends with livestock- goats and donkeys and a miniature horse, some cows and even a few sheep.

I had already mowed the front and side yards.  I have about half an acre altogether.  If you don't know what an electric mower is like, let me help you out. An electric mower requires a really long extension cord in order to run.  It does not have emissions the way a gas mower does and so there is no environmental pollution to consider on those high-ozone days.

Electric lawnmowers are heinously under-powered.  As in I felt like I was using a hair dryer to unfreeze the city of Detroit in January.  A pair of kitchen scissors might have done a neater job than this.  The lawn was very tall so I had to first pop it up on the back two tires and go over it and then go over it again on all four.  It was tedious work.  This was compounded by the wet grass which got stuck in the mower.  I ended up turning it over to pull out caked on grass every ten feet.  Like I said, tedious.

I passed the time in my own head, listening to old country- Charley Pride, Hank, Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn- and contemplating ethics, things that are right and wrong, and what my constraints are when dealing with injustice. As I mowed, I rolled over a lot of purple goosebill and a few dandelions.  I like dandelions.  People don't think of them as pretty or useful, but I do.  I like the bright yellow flowers and the broad green leaves. Something happens when they grow up too- they change into a puff of beauty that floats away on the breeze.  Magic. You could see the potential for the seedlings to take off in the sprout of the flower and later in the reaching yellow flower petals.  But you never see a half yellow, half puffball dandelion.

I think it was a puffball all along.

I have a friend that I've known a long time.  We'll refer to this friend as Dandelion.  It's a good descriptor.  People have ignored or thought of Dandelion as a weed.  Some have tried to pull Dandelion out by the roots.  Fact is though, that I have recently learned- as has this person- that Dandelion is one gender trapped in the physical body of the other.  I have seen signs from early on now that I look back on it. The ambiguous hair styles and manner of dress. The physical androgyny and a quiet war taking place on the inside.  A war that almost killed my Dandelion.  Nobody wants a weed.  Then one day, just like that, Dandelion changed into a puffball. A beautiful one, whole and ready to fly on the wind.  And all was right in the world.  I changed the name in my phone and the pronoun associated with Dandelion's stated gender. I wish I could protect this person from the prejudice and hate of the world.  Dandelion has been like a little brother/sister to me these last few years.  But maybe I am not needed. Life finds a way to bloom in ways I cannot imagine and thrives in even the most harsh climates and needs both sunshine and rain to do so.

I was thinking about our upcoming wedding. I think that so far we have done a good job.  Our minister is going to do marriage counseling with us.  She preaches up in Tulsa but lives here in Norman.  Her calling is in working with vulnerable populations such as LGBT youth.  She knows that neither Grey nor I make a ton of money and offered us a discount rate.  Grey and I talked about it, and decided that even if we do not do everything we want in the wedding, pastoring is a thankless calling with little enough compensation.  We wouldn't feel right paying less than the very fair donation she asked.  She insisted.  We insisted.  She gave in; we smiled and felt as though we did the right thing.  It's the helping professions that get the financial shaft and we will be damned if we are going to do that.  Grey once seriously considered seminary when picking his profession and that's still something he might do.  I think he would be wonderful.

In any case, there are a lot of issues when dealing with weddings and shit like that.  We needed a ring, and I am not about to purchase a blood diamond from the mines of Botswana or D.R. Congo.  If you don't know what that means, click here.  Since almost every jewelry store in my area had zero idea what a conflict diamond was, we had few options. First, we could reset a diamond that we already had.  Not a problem, but I didn't really want a marquis cut diamond.  Next, we could go with a laboratory-created diamond, which is just like a mined diamond. I like that idea since they are the exact same thing. People just get their undies in a bunch because if we believed that all diamonds are alike, then the price would plummet on them.  And all diamonds really are alike.  Finally, we could find a previously-owned diamond that has been re-set.

In our search, we came across Kay Jewelers at the mall. We had talked to several jewelers by this time and they pretended not to know what the hell a blood diamond was.  The sales associate at Kay was just as clueless, until her colleague set her straight.  The colleague was a young woman with what I think was an Eastern Block accent.  I'm too ignorant of Eastern European languages to be more specific, except that I think it was not a Russian accent. She said that they did not sell ethical diamonds in the store but if we wanted the previously owned rings, then the website was the place to go.

So we did.  And we found just what we were looking for. Nothing gawdy, nothing outside of our budget. But a beautiful and meaningful- and ethical- symbol in white gold.

Other considerations about the wedding include growing some of the flowers, not throwing a bunch of plastic away at the conclusion, not having hydrogenated oils in the wedding cake (thank God for Whole Foods) and using bubbles and birdseed at the conclusion.  Hell, I'm even borrowing shoes and pearls for the event.  We are keeping it small too, just 40 people are being invited. Then after a few weeks, we'll have a reception just for our friends at the house. Oh, and there will be Jelly Bellys.

That's about it. That's what I thought of, more or less, as I mowed the yard. A few hours later, this is what I came up with.  All I can say is that at least it's shorter than it was.

As I methodically plow through the yard and carefully plan a sunny day where we'll meet and make promises in public that we have already made in private, I cannot help but wonder where we will be in a year.  Heck, I wonder where we'll be in four months.  Maybe in a cosmic way, in a way that only God or Buddha can discern, that makes me a dandelion seed too.

Liberal

Yesterday, I took a group of 33 kids to the Oklahoma City Zoo.  I wrote a grant in September to take them and the Friends of the Zoo paid for the trip, including admission and the cost of the bus.

The kids didn't have to do anything special to get to go.  They were selected on the basis of their good attendance and lack of failing grades.  They averaged about a "B" on their report cards. They also didn't have any mark on their record regarding poor behavior.  It was truly a reward as they didn't know they were selected until we sent home the permission slips last week.

And what a delightful time! I took them as far around the zoo as I could in the time we had.  We took sack lunches from the cafeteria and ate in the courtyard.  The kids wandered in and out of the ice cream shop and the gift shop.  The zookeepers and attendants complimented them on their politeness.  Several bought small trinkets for their moms.

I just loved watching their faces as they petted animals and as we slid down the slides together.  Since I'm at the zoo frequently, I narrated the animals we encountered, citing the punishment of Prometheus when we came to the vultures and never even stopping to breathe in the reptile house because I talked so much.  Then we had an hour long program on how to train animals with the education department and a demonstration with a prehensile-tailed porcupine. Back at school, we wrote thank you notes and talked about our experience. I wonder if I wasn't the one who was impacted the most.  Most of my kids don't have insurance of any kind and some have a parent who has been deported.  None of the politics in American life are their fault. They are the ones left to deal with it.

After school, these kids will go back to their lives of working on the weekends- most have jobs or do child care for their parents- and of not always having enough to eat. I can tell though, that these kids are loved.  Poverty does not necessarily equal neglect and my students, my children, my kids yesterday were complimented by the director of education. She said that a different group of students had been through earlier (I won't mention which group, but they were from Edmond), and that she would without hesitation prefer to have our group back any day. And that we were welcome to do so.

A few weeks ago, I got into a discussion about politics with a conservative person. I love this person and ended up changing the subject to preserve the peace.  Yeah, that's how much I love my cousin.  I mean him.  I mean, this person.  :O I said that President Obama did me a favor when he put a cap on how much of my income could be taken by the student loan people.  He argued that when I signed the student loan papers, I knew what I was signing.  Actually, no, they do not give you that information when you sign the contract and most people aren't educated enough to research or discern that information prior to going to get their education.  Lenders take advantage of that fact at the outset.  But my uh, discussion partner differed, saying that in changing that law I was in fact hurting the economy.

So many others will get through college the same way I did.  If I didn't sign those student loan papers I would not have the skills or knowledge (or credentials) I have today.  In his mind, it's not an ass-raping, it's just good business.  But if people don't get student loans, they cannot go to college.  Fine, he said, then they don't go.  But I don't think he has thought that far down the line.  Those who cannot afford it are historically disenfranchised anyway and this would perpetuate the cycle.  He said I was a liberal and that I'd spend my life giving away other people's money.

Yesterday, I took 33 children with me.  The grant was only for 30, so I paid for the other 3 out of my own pocket.  The money I earn as a public school teacher in one of the poorest schools in the state.  I have no working technology in my classroom, save a chalkboard and white board.  I and my two English department colleagues are expected to save our school from being part of the state takeover which will occur if we don't get them passing scores on the end of year tests.  And for this I make less than $33k per year.  And I'll pay my student loans.  And I provide all of the things that the district does not. And I get to be a part a greater good, something bigger than myself. Yes, my salary comes from the taxpayers and I think it's money well spent since most of it goes right back where it came from.

You want a definition of liberal? That's liberal.

I Thought I Was Here To Stop This...

This was going to be a blog post about how I am sick again with bronchitis-like symptoms and thank God and Cathy Klasek for antibiotics. I was going to write about how just being in the main building in school for 15 minutes and breathing that toxic air made me sick.

I was also going to write about how yesterday I broke up a fight between two of the kids who were going to class in the room next door to me and that I felt bad because one was crying when he found out that his mom was going to be called. He had been in trouble for fighting before and he just looked so young and helpless. I felt awful for not turning a blind eye. Both kids said they were just play fighting, even though they were both all read and bruised looking.

Then I thought that perhaps I'd post a rant about the CRT writing test my 8th graders have to take next week. How I can't read or write or do anything for the 70 and 90 minute writing prompts but stare at kiddos. I was going to compalin that my kids are not on a level playing field and that even though I've been severely thwarted in my efforts to help them learn grammar- which they need for the test- it's now become very clear to them that this is exactly what is needed. So I have a week to get them there. The five paragraph format? No problem. Writing it in proper English with well-developed themes? Not a chance. But if they want to learn to drive and get a license, they have to pass.

Maybe this was an appropriate place to think on paper about how well my 8th graders and I are getting along. How my first hour class asked me yesterday if they could just read for awhile. I said yes, of course. They seem to enjoy getting lost in a novel these days. I'm sick that it took six months to get here, but all of my kids seem to have found a groove with me.

But no. Todays' topic is a kid you'll never hear about again, except perhaps on the six o'clock news one day. A sweet kid that I will name Bobby. Bobby comes to school only sometimes and he always wears the same thing. When he shows up, the red rims of his eyes give away his fatigue. He's a night person, he says. He has fallen asleep in my class a few times and the last time, I walked him over to the In School Suspension office myself. "What are you going to do when I call your mom?", I asked. "What will she think?"
"She'll be sad. She don't need this." He sort of ducked his head.
"Yeah, I can't suppose anybody would. What about your dad?"
"He's not around." His eyes darted almost wildly.
I nodded. I know better than to ask where a parent is. The answer is usually one that breaks the heart- drugged out, absent, jail, dead, gangs.. the list is endless.
Jail. Bobby's dad is in jail.
I did what I always do. I cut him some slack. Maybe others would disagree with me, but you know what? I'm always going to err on the side of believing someone and giving them a chance. My top readers in class right now are two boys that I caught doing some ruly shit and they asked for clemency and got it from me too. Why use a sledge hammer when a nudge will do?
"I'll tell you what. I won't call your mom, but get more sleep at night. Ok?"
"Yes, ma'am."
He was awake the next time. He's a bright kid, Bobby. You'd like him. Quiet, clean cut. Handsome with such a beautiful dark tone to his skin and intelligent eyes. As a 7th grader, he is very popular with the 8th grade girls. Two of my 8th grade girls to be exact.

On Monday he stepped off of the bus to school with some of his friends and took off to a local fast food joint to get some breakfast. Guess they didn't like the breakfast offered by the cafeteria. Automatic suspension in a closed-campus junior high school. Today he stepped foot on campus again. It's probable that he rode the bus to school, hung out all day off campus and only came back to catch a ride home on the same bus. Why his mom wasn't watching him is anyone's guess.

If you weren't aware, that's trespassing and it's illegal. According to school policy, he had to be apprehended for such behavior as coming to school while suspended. And arrested.

So it came to pass that I stood with my mouth open saying his name without realizing it. He looked over at me and looked down. I think he would've crawled into his shoes if he could have. He was handcuffed behind his back and the officer took him into custody and escorted him to the police car.

I was reminded so strikingly of the time I worked in the prison. The guards would wait until class was over to arrest anyone who was going to be arrested because they didn't want to interrupt what I was doing. As long as we were in that classroom, they weren't just felons or numbers or yucky inmates with MRSA and aggressive disorders. They were people and they were my students. One sunny day I came into work after 2 days off and found that a transport was in progress. One of "my students" was in the office, waiting for his ride. Normally, they wore kahkis and polo shirts. This man also wore his long white hair in a neat ponytail down his back. He was very good at English and we had worked very hard on his math skills so that he could get into community college and take correspondence courses. This day he was in belly shackles. That's where they cuff your hands to a chain around your waist that drops to the ground. Your feet are shackled into it too. It makes people walk funny too, sort of a slow, shuffling sound. His hair hadn't been brushed and it was wild and stringy about his head. He wore an orange jumpsuit and flip-flops- a sure sign he had been in isolation. That's what they called "The Hole". I didn't know any of the guards- I was friends only with a few people in the education department as everyone else was very suspicious of teachers- and didn't say hello to anyone. But for a moment I met his eyes. And they looked ashamed.

The same shame I saw on Bobby's face today.

And it broke my heart.

Costumes

I've written about clothing before.  Truthfully, it fascinates me the way our clothing affects so many facets of our lives.  How we feel, how we act, what role we are playing at that particular moment; how others perceive us and how we think others perceive us.

On Thursday I dressed as professionally as I could. Black and neat, with my hair in a bun and my nerdy librarian glasses.  My department and I were meeting with the assistant superintendent for the school district.  I imagined I looked a little like Professor McGonagall from the Harry Potter books.  She is, after all, the English professor of the magic world, with the ability to transform and to show others that way.  Loved, feared, respected and sometimes unexpected.  That's what I was going for, only without the stage makeup. I'm not saying that clothes make the man, but the meeting went well.  I feel as though we have won a battle in the curriculum war.  I offered her the instrument I created to gauge teacher's reactions to the AC curriculum and she seemed pretty excited.  She referred to the Pearson company as "the vendors" and assured me that in no way would I have to listen to them in accordance with classroom visits. Probably the best scenario I could hope for.

Friday I wore jeans- it is Jean Friday at our school and the students and teachers wear jeans and a school tee-shirt.  I am often mistaken for one of the kids on these days.  It cracks me up.  I zipped home after school and took Eleanor to the vet.  He never knows what to think of me.  Sometimes when I come in, I wear my professor clothes. Sometimes it's sweats and Friday, it was middle school togs.  And honestly, even if my vet were wearing a suit you would still guess his profession from his burly bearing, high crewcut and the giant scar across the face.  Yeah, he's got character.  And he always remembers me and my friggin' old cat.  I think he secretly wants to do a case study on her but doesn't like to write.

Friday I also went to my doctor.  Yeah, with 20 minutes to spare from closing time.  I am going to put this in polite euphemistic terms on purpose so as not to over-share or embarrass myself. I've been having girl problems for about three months and it's gotten worse.  As it turns out, the clinic didn't have the equipment to look properly under the hood, and I have a bad history, so he recommended that I go to the emergency room to make sure I wasn't dying, then to come back next week to order regular tests.

I don't like going to the doctor.  I don't like being sick. I intensely dislike hospitals and dislike even more when I'm the one who has to be poked or prodded or subjected to cold instruments and drugs.

A regular person might have gone straight to the emergency room, post haste, tout suite, no delays whatsoever.  Not me.  I went home. I called Grey- who was coming down anyway- and discussed the situation.  I did not want to go.  I didn't know what to wear, what costume to put on to give the right impression to medical personnel.  Frankly, I didn't have the right clothes. No scrubs, no latex gloves and nothing like a lab coat to lend me credibility in that venue.  Plus, I knew they were going to hit me with needles and ask me questions that my own mom doesn't ask.
"I'm leaving here in a few minutes. I can meet you at the hospital."
"Really? I don't want to go. Can't it wait until Monday?"
"You'll be freaking out about it all weekend if you don't do this."
"Sigh. Alright. But I'm taking a shower first."

And I did.  I put my hair up and took a long enough shower that I was only at the hospital for half hour before he showed up.  And when he walked in the room, I was ready with my costume: floral green/blue unbuttoned in the back hospital gown, clean ankle socks and a pretty argyle scarf around my neck to keep me warm.  The nice nurse provided me with a heated blanket so that I wouldn't get too cold.  Grey held my hand through all that fun stuff and said comforting things.  We made jokes and talked until the doctor came back in with test results.  He wore what he always wears; a pair of black jeans and a tee-shirt.  I found out that he owns four pairs of identical black jeans.  The khakis and collared shirts are for work. This man is exactly as he appears.  He is straight forward and says and does and wears what he means.  In all, it wasn't a bad date, given that I had an IV stuck in my arm the whole time.

The doctor said I wasn't going to die right away.  She didn't know what was wrong with me but she knew what wasn't wrong and that's just as important.  She gave me prescriptions for pain and sent us on our way with a stern admonition to see a gynecologist next week.  Fine. I will go. Glad I'm not dead yet.

For the weekend, I wore the costume I like best: sweats and a tee, with a cup of coffee and my nerd glasses so that I can be as comfy as possible and not worry about who I am impressing or how I will be perceived.  I know that some days I have to dress up.  I'm going to meet Grey's family for Thanksgiving and when and if I ever get an interview at a university, I will need to worry about wardrobe and hair and make up.  And Saturday, I picked up my gown, doctoral hood and tam at OU.  The mom waiting in line to pay for her child's sweatshirt and travel mug seemed very impressed and congratulated me.  That night, I watched my roommate and her niece get dressed to go dance at a powwow.  She took out a suitcase and said "I've got to put on my Indian clothes." And indeed, she looked beautiful and regular and very different than her "other" life as a librarian with her hipster glasses and layers of twinsets and knee boots.

I don't think these things we wear change us.  I mean, I'm 38- what more can you change at this stage of the game?  We wear specific clothes for mourning, for church and religious functions, for getting married and in many cultures, for coming of age.  Rather, I change clothes for a purpose and use the idea that other people perceive me based on my appearance to my advantage.  Costumes both mask and express who I am, shows aspects rather than defines and most of the time, playing dress-up is just plain fun.

Tomorrow and Tomorrow

I'm just a 12 year old white kid, walking down a gravel driveway, picking apples and dreaming of what my life will be like one day when I get a job or get married or have kids. It's hot and the sky is blue, blue, blue and life is simple and filled with canned food, deer and elk meat and boots and jeans. I'm a wildflower; my great-grandpa told me so. A wild rose, vibrant and defiant growing out of rimrock on the hillside.  Snakes bother me and so do ticks but not much else in the world. It's wide open.

I am 27 and living in a nice suburban neighborhood. I have a job but mostly am a student. I spend my entire spring break reading a series of seven books, one for each day. I used to be so happy to be married, to not need for anything and to have a closet full of nice clothes. My life is far from the backroads of the North Touchet river. It is never quiet and the neighbors are all alike.  I am lost. I am alike.  I plant roses and strawberries and eventually a garden and some trees but there is not enough to do, enough to keep my mind off of the idea that I do not belong and that I may never fit in.  I want more. I want something real. I look out the big picture window and feel narrow.

I am 35 and have been divorced for five years.  I live on the second floor of an apartment building with my cat and have one friend who I see all the time. I teach in a prison and see injustice as a way of life. I see the broken system, the poor punished disproportionately, the mentally ill incarcerated instead of helped.  I visit my grandparents often because they are very old by now and are not long for this world. My beloved great uncle dies, and I am honored to speak at his funeral. I am a raw vegan except for hot, burning coffee.  I hate being stared at every day at the prison. I hate the rumors. My grandma talks to me some months later since I am thin and tired and drinking way too much alone in my apartment. "Go home, to Oklahoma, where people love you." I move, return to graduate school and both of my grandparents die.

Tomorrow, I defend my dissertation. I still have my cat. Four white men and one white woman will vote and I will be magically transformed into a doctor of philosophy.  I do not know how one goes to sleep one night as a regular person and suddenly becomes something else the next day.  I am dragging my feet on revisions, writing blog posts and putting off doing my real work until now.  I do not want it to be over. I did this so that people would be more obliged to listen when I talk to them about injustice and suffering. I want to help. I want to be the change, as they say.  Now people might actually listen (because of a stupid credential? Really?) and I am not certain I have anything worthwhile to say. I am still a wild flower, but older, wiser and slower to speak. I pick my way down the hillside into the wide, wide world and never take my eyes off of the sky.

The Ends Of Things

This is the season of the ends of things.  This is the week of the ends of things and the night of the ends of things.  I have to turn in my dissertation revisions tomorrow but instead I'm writing a blog post.  I should be revising. I don't have internet at home right now and have to get to bed by 11 at the latest and that's after a shower.  I work in the morning. 
This is the end of my homeless wanderings.  I've spent the last 6 months wandering all around Oklahoma as my house was rented out while I finished my teaching contract in Ada.  The contract was not renewed and I ended up getting a teaching job in Oklahoma City. I got my house back on September 1.  It was a terrible mess and will cost me thousands of dollars to clean up.  My contractor is installing new kitchen countertops and replacing drywall in the pantry because of the heavy urine smell.  I bug bombed since the roaches were large and singularly unafraid.  One of them looked like "Ponyboy" from The Outsiders. I think he was carrying a straight razor so I backed out of the room and called in a nuclear attack. My cat is happy to be home at least.  The livingroom, hallway and one of the bedroom carpets has been steamcleaned four times and spot treated several times.  While stained badly, they won't be replaced since I just don't have the $1,700 to do it. Then there are the dead trees and landscaping in the back yard and the garbagea dn assorted junk tossed into the yard here and there.  It's going to take several pick up loads to get rid of it.  Now you know where the roaches came from.  All of this on only 6 months.  The meager deposit didn't even begin to cover the steam cleaning. I feel relatively safe tonight and the house is rather stink-free save for the pantry. The contractor will take care of it.  I put the ball in motion.  The end.  My very nice ex-boyfriend is babysitting my Big Dogg and he will come home soon too. My happy little family will be home and in the same place.

This is supposed to be the end of my dissertation. I'm a little blocked.  I don't want this to be over.  I'm teaching full time during the day and in the evenings I teach an online class.  On Tuesday nights I've got an in-person class.  I'm not sure that I'm spending enough time on revisions. I'm not sure what I'm afraid of. I'm not sure if it will pass. I'm not sure if it *should* pass.  I'm not sure what to do next. I've been a student for a long, long time. I don't want that to change. I don't want it to stop. Can't take it back now. I will finish this too and be done with it.

I am glad to be on the back side of summer and the end of the hottest season on record anywhere.  I thought I would die.  I didn't.  I complained a lot on Facebook and obsessed on the topic with my friends and family.  Wildfires raged and tempers flared. For four months I sweated and played ninja in my avoidance of the giant ball of gas in the sky.  I couldn't run more than 2 miles without getting heat stroke.  It went on and on forever until suddenly, like a puff of smoke, it was gone.  Today I turned on the heater in my car on the way to work.  It was all of 55 degrees.  I rejoiced. I reveled in it, rolling down the windows blasting the heater.  I love the descent into fall, bringing in the eaves and putting away the summer dresses.  I love putting the earth to bed, to sleep for a season of dormancy, of well deserved rest already after the long and winding dirt-road season under a burning sun.  And I feel an easing in my mind too, in my philosophy that things can wait and that there is time yet for me to think and to reflect and ponder some of life's greater mysteries. A season to compost my thoughts and plan and to dream.  To gather my wisdom about me like so much yarn to spin into the shawl of age.

I have had the end of a relationship too.  My brother is not speaking to me, nor I to him. I got pulled in to some stupid drama where I did not want to be. I am not a tactful woman and did not pull my punches when I perhaps should have.  We argued and fought and said things we cannot take back and he did something he cannot take back.  For now, for this season, I am done.  I'm not angry anymore but won't open my heart for someone who has caused that much grief for me, knowing the stress it would cause. I hate the ends of relationships and really, really dread conflict.  I do love being healthy and now perhaps we can both be healthy on our own. 

Finally, I am going to end my relationship with Blogspot.  People clicked on the ads.  I was supposedly making money from my blog.  Then I made too much money- over $300 that I never cashed in over the course of a year- and the blogspot people decided to suspend my adsense account.  So now you can read my work but I cannot make money from it.  This is work, keeping a blog and trying to put something thought-filled out there every week.  As soon as I get a suitable new home for my writing, I will let you know and we will go from there together. 

Drink the last of the summer wine. Enjoy the leftover pieces of watermelon in the refrigerator.  Pick the remaining tomatoes from shriveling vines and watch as the squash and pumpkins grow and grow. 
I leave you today with the following from William Butler Yeats:

The Folly Of Being Comforted

One that is ever kind said yesterday:
'Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey,
And little shadows come about her eyes;
Time can but make it easier to be wise
Though now it seems impossible, and so
All that you need is patience.'
Heart cries, 'No,
I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.
Time can but make her beauty over again:
Because of that great nobleness of hers
The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,
Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways
When all the wild Summer was in her gaze.'

Heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head,
You'd know the folly of being comforted.