A fabulously witty (?) conversation I had this week:

Me: Can you imagine if whenever people spoke, they had to say what punctuation mark they were using at the end of the sentence...question mark?

Sam: That would be weird.

Me: Period.

Sam: That would be weird...period.

Me: Then sometimes there would be that whole he said, she said, he punctuated, she punctuated sort of thing...period. You know, someone would say, "I'm not angry...period, but the person raised his or her voice...period. Then the other person would say, "What a lie...period. That was such an exclamation...exclamation point!" That would be confusing, huh...question mark?

Sam: Yeah...

Me: Yeah...ellipsis...

Yay for two days off for Rosh Hashanah next week!

One advantage NYC schools have over Texas schools: Jewish holidays. Oy!

I found two other great deals yesterday. Okay, actually three.

1) I bought a $5 Gap slim denim skirt. It's the pencil skirt of denim skirts, except it does have a zipper albeit the non-bulky kind. I hate when zippers make me look like I have a phallus. It's dark denim, so very versatile. It will be part of the outfit I wear when I meet Sam on his arrival in NYC in November. (I will possibly wear the same outfit when my parents visit in a mere two weeks - yay, loved ones)! I will describe this outfit and my intended look the way I explained it to Sam on the phone last night: I want to be the girl Simon and Garfunkel would sing songs about. You know, the kind that "slows down [she's] moving too fast" that walks with "juniper and lamplight" and somehow has feelings about "parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme."

2) I also bought a cheap pair of very stylish and well-made Cole Haan flats. They'll look fetching with just about anything. They're also not as uncomfortable as you might expect them to be. I love the toe cleavage. That's such a weird thing to type, but I really think it's adorable to see the creases between my toes. Shoe fetishists, rejoice!

3) Five hundred page reams of copy/printer paper at Staples for about $2 - an absolute essential if you work at I.S. 666 and have to pay for all the copies of assignments your students refuse to do. Sigh. At this point, I ask certain sloth students if they intend to do the work before I give it to them. I have to save paper where I can, and one less ball of trash on the floor can make a difference. I finally have paper, now if only the school copy machine worked...

My Language Arts classes always begin with a Writing Workout, some open-ended topic students are supposed to be able to write about. I've been getting them to do creative and narrative writing, since this is what New York students are supposed to focus on in September and October. Anyhow, today's topic was "I was scared when..."

My students cannot get used to the fact that they'll be writing everyday. I have to kick-start most of them by pointing at the Writing Workout repeatedly, reminding them where the scrap paper is, etc. How can students not yet absorb some of this stuff? Anyhow, most of my homeroom/ELA/SS students were beginning to write today when Habibah suddenly asked, "Can we write about our sex lives?"

"Umm... I'd prefer NOT to read about that." Everyone laughed.

Ewww. Ewww. Ewww. (I teach at a middle school)!

I haven't yet checked today's Writing Workouts, but yikes.

A joke to rile up the teacher perhaps, but I reiterate, yikes.

Thank you to everyone who has given me so much support in this inner-city teaching endeavor. I've been getting concerned emails and many shoulders on which to cry offered. You didn't have to be so kind. You could have just said, "I told you so" or asked "What did you expect?" but you didn't.

My job is harder than I ever thought it would be, but I have friends and loved ones who are so generous with good wishes and advice that things sort of balance out. I THANK ALL OF YOU FOR THAT.

Speeches aside, I didn't quit my job or anything. Not yet, but I'm looking with keen eyes. Do tell me if you happen to know an eccentric billionaire who will pay me a decent amount of money to write or walk dogs or something.

Ladies and gentlemen, this entry is coming to you live from Bobby's classroom at I.S. 666 in West Harlem. Woohoo! (This is one of the only functioning computers in this school, so yes, this is a very special moment).

School's out now, and wow, is it nice without all those pesky students. I've changed from my "hot for teacher" heels to my velcro fashion street shoes (paired with the fetching blue and yellow cat Peds - yowza). I'm ready to hoof it to the 137th Street station once Bobby gets off the phone with a parent.

The long day is almost over.

Yawn, yawn, yawn.

It wasn't the best or worst of days, but I'm exhausted. Time to curl up for a final evening with Augusten.

It's my 100th entry.

Today I liberated myself of piles and piles of papers and threw out a whole lot of work my students did. Less grading for me, more work that kept them occupied, so what if a few trees were sacrificed in the process? I called the mother of one of the most vulgar and lazy students ever, and she replied, "Yeah, he doesn't listen to me, either." What?! When a mother hears that her son was vulgar, she's supposed to say, "What? Tell me what he said. I'll kill him!" There should be no resignation. You brought him into this world, threaten to take him out. Do it! It's what parents should do. I'm disappointed in both of them now.

If I had ever considered behaving the way most of my students behave, I wouldn't have made it this far. I mean I wouldn't have ever moved to New York, I wouldn't own anything as nice as a computer, I wouldn't have lived to the ripe old age of twenty-two. See, what would have happened is this: I'd have been forced by my parents to do yard work for the rest of my life, which I hate so much, that I'd have killed myself. Yep. Weeding + raking - the Internet = Amanda's breaking point. Pushing up daisies after weeding around them.

Throwing away the piles of paper really was my biggest accomplishment today. Otherwise, I ate too much and walked around a bit. I slept late. I also began my new job hunting pursuit. I'm tired and ready to curl up with Augusten Burroughs now. Goodnight.

My experience in the NYC public school where I teach can be summed up, "One step forward, seventy-five steps back." Sometimes I have these short but intense moments where I think I'm actually getting through. Turns out, these are just hallucinations or seizures on my part.

My students know so little. Okay, that's not true. They do know where to buy drugs, how to stealthily alert others of the po-po, and how to kill a man with a Bic pen and a Kleenex. They know how to reject anything that doesn't jive with the codes of the ghetto. They know how to bully others the way they've been bullied. They don't know verbs, nouns, pronouns, adjectives, etc. They have very limited vocabularies. Worst of all, they didn't know who Jimi Hendrix was. When I alluded to the song "Crosstown Traffic" as a metaphor, students rolled their eyes and said, "Don't tell us about old white people!"

The horrors!

I explained that Jimi Hendrix was a huge rock icon - a black rock icon. One of the greatest guitarists who ever lived. Someone may have asked if he looked anything like 50 Cent, I can't remember. I just remember seeing all the blank faces and something inside me sighing very hard.

Similarly, students seemed to be understanding the twelve new vocabulary words we reviewed all last week. Students are bombing the state reading tests here, because 1) they can't read at their grade level and 2) they have very limited vocabularies. So we reviewed the new words. Everyone was confident, but almost everyone still failed the quiz on Friday. And I love the reaction I get when my students learn anything new, "This is so dumb! I hate this class! This teacher is wack!" I understand they may be able to verbally demonstrate their knowledge, but not be able to do the same through reading and writing, but seriously, they are wack. They've got to work to be better or they won't pass.

I'm trying something new this week. They have got to learn something before I go, because I'm certainly going.

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
- Robert Frost

Today I went to my first NYC street fair. It was a four block walk through furniture, jewelry, marionettes, art, bonsai trees, discount cosmetics... No pressure sales, either. I got to walk through with my ipod on, fingering things, and moving on. The food stands had typical fair umm, fare, like turkey legs and funnel cakes. I was intrigued by all the crepes, sweet corn, watermelon slices, and these weird sandwiches of cornbread and mozzarella. I already mentioned that I bought beautiful $2 earrings. There's another street fair between Columbus and Central Park West tomorrow, so I'll be visiting that, too. Kathy, the primary renter of the apartment I share, is selling some of her creations there.

Before the fair, I walked to Riverside Park to gaze at New Jersey, listen to Liz Phair, and watch children play on the playground. The day was beautiful. It was sunny and breezy with a high of 74. Can you believe that? I wanted to hum, "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas," but I knew I'd out myself as a Texan and get those horrible red state questions.

I went to Kim's and rented Funny Ha Ha, which I'm hoping will inspire one of my future projects. Then I went to Duane Reade and got some bottled water on sale. I stopped by Gristedes to get cereal, juice, and half a watermelon. On my walk back, not one, but two homeless people demanded money from passersby. I don't mean to be insensitive or unrealistically picky, but I prefer my homeless people polite. Please ask for help. To say, "Give me some money!" is too hostile. It only makes potential donors walk away faster and strain muscles when they quickly pull their personal belongings closer to them. I'm a stranger, not your parent! In conclusion, the plight of America's homeless is a shame, but yeah, ethos is everything... Hmm...

Some of my favorite song lyrics are from "Little Plastic Castle" by Ani DiFranco:

"In a coffee shop, in a city,
which is every coffee shop in every city,
on a day which is every day,
I picked up a magazine,
which is every magazine,
read a story,
then I forgot it right away.

They say goldfish have no memory.
I guess their lives
are much like mine,
and the little plastic castle
is a surprise every time."

Anyhow, I share this, because tonight I did laundry for the first time in almost a month. When time between washings is this long, I tend to forget that I own certain clothes. All this clean underwear! It's so luxurious. It feels like Christmas when I open the dryer. Aren't you glad that I shared that? It's all about the simple pleasures.

Before someone (coughSamcough) asks the question, I'll answer it.

That white thing near my mouth in the earring picture is a tiny part of a front tooth, NOT HERPES.

Thank you. That is all.

I yearn to be an amazing bargain hunter, so I'm proud when I find inexpensive, wonderful clothing and accessories. Time to brag:


Today I went to my first NYC street fair here on the Upper West Side. It was great - I definitely have more to say later. There was a vendor with lots and lots of inexpensive jewelry. Most people were buying trendy shell earrings and wooden bracelets. I opted for a pair of dangly topaz and brown stone earrings. I didn't try them on at the tent, so I wasn't sure how they'd look on me, but I've concluded that I love them. I don't wear a lot of bronzy jewelry, so they're very different. I wouldn't necessarily say the topaz is real, but the stones are. How much do you think I paid for these? I've seen earrings like this at various stores and jewelry stands, usually for $10-$20. I got mine for $2.

The earrings look great with another great bargain - a pair of brown Italian leather boots. They zip up to the top of my shins. They have stitching details that are kind of Western looking, so I have a nice alternative to this season's cowboy boots. Ugh! That last sentence was so superficial I rolled my eyes at myself. I will be wearing these boots for a long time, despite whatever might be in seasons to come. NYC has not and will not make me a dogged fashionista. I don't care that much about following trends, but yes, I do like the stitching that suggests...never mind.

Ahhh, a NYC pizza place in mid-March. This is one of Sam's favorite pictures.

I don't want to update this blog so sporadically, but long days of teaching in a horrible school don't really inspire writing. Yes, I still dread every day of work. I check my watch constantly. At the end of the day, I feel drained and only fleetingly relieved.

I'll interview myself for update purposes.

Q: What have you done in NYC lately?

A: I've really just been going to work, going home, preparing things for work, and sleeping. I just got a permanent schedule, so now that I know what I'm supposed to be teaching, things might get easier planning-wise. One exclusively NYC thing that I've enjoyed multiple times in the past week is Koronet Pizza. The first time I went with Chen, I wasn't that impressed. I thought it was too cheesy. Lately, though, it is perfect. I crave it every night and will always brave a long line to get my slice.


Q: How do you feel about "Rent," one of your favorite musicals, coming to the big screen?

A: Nervous. I love the original cast, most of whom are in the film. I don't know who Rosario Dawson is, but I'd prefer Daphne Rubin-Vega to play Mimi. I personally didn't think "Chicago" was all that great. I didn't like the actors, and I felt a lot of the play was sacrificed in the translation to the big screen. Why wasn't Bebe Neuwirth Roxie? It felt so blasphemous. I will definitely be seeing "Rent" and hating all the new supposed "Rent"-heads out there.

P.S. I love Adam Pascal, but his look in the previews is wrong. Not the Roger I remember (and love) at all!


Q: What are you currently reading?

A: I'm trying to get into Dry by Augusten Burroughs, which I attempt to read most nights before bed. I also leaf through Gig and look for jobs I want to read about. I highly recommend Gig - it's a fascinating collection of transcipts of eclectic people talking about their jobs. I would love to have a job working on a project like this. It's so intriguing.


Q: How do you feel since your tumble down the stairs?

A: I'm bruised, and now the bruises are looking more menacing, but I'm recovering. My muscles aren't as sore. You should see how slowly I walk down the 39 steps now. It's funny.


Q: Any Sex and the City moments?
A: At my pizza place, a guy with a dog asked me to order his jumbo slice, because he didn't want to go all the way into the restaurant with his dog. The dog's nose was already against the counter, though, so that request really made no sense. I asked him what he wanted. The guy at the counter engaged in the romantic comedy confusion.

G at c: What will it be?
Me: He wants a jumbo slice.
G at c: Okay... And for you?
Me: We're not together. I've already ordered.
G at c: Not together?
Me: I'm just a good Samaritan.
G at c: Oh, I see. Ha, ha, yes, very good.

The guy sits down with the dog at a table. He gets his slice first. I take mine to go. As I walk past him, I know there will be some questions I don't want. When he starts with the benign, "Look, thanks for the good Samaritan work..." I quickly smile, say "no problem," and scamper away. He so wanted to be my Aidan.

The other one was just mild flirtation by some physical therapist who works at my school. Not much to say about that.


Q: What are your plans for today?

A: General sloth. I want to relax and maybe take in a street fair and walk through Central Park with Chen. I'm also working on a side writing project I have got to start and finish.

Let's call this one "Down the Up Staircase," shall we?


Today was another crazy day. At the end of it, I just shut up, stood in the doorway, and ignored my students. Nothing freaks them out more. If they won't utilize the time left at the end of the day, I'll make them wish they had with a pop quiz in Social Studies. Bwahahahaha!

Seriously, though, I felt sore when I woke up this morning. I was even more sore when this quietly psychotic student of mine we'll call Kenneth Bailey (yes, his real name, watch out for this kid!) decided that he wanted to walk in and out of the room without permission. He's the kind of person who utters vulgarities under his breath and can't look anyone in the eyes. Anyhow, he left the room three times and had to be taken away to the school disciplinarians. He was briefly talked to, returned to class, and proceeded to visit my classroom multiple times today. The first time was when my students and I were in the computer lab. I didn't lock the door, because all the other classes were in session and we were told we'd only be in the lab for twenty minutes. When we returned, the room was trashed. Someone had knocked over many desks and chairs in our classroom. Paper was everywhere. Later, I sat at my desk during my off-period. I was grading papers. I heard someone shuffling around outside my door and watched Kenneth walk in the classroom, suddenly realize I was in the room (my desk is angled in the corner of the room), startle, and then run away muttering. His plans to destroy were thwarted.

I'm convinced this kid has a fatal attraction for me or something. He's such a weirdo. When he was dismissed from class earlier, he walked outside, came back in, made sure I was looking, and kicked the door as hard as he could.

I hope he broke a toe.

One of my favorite quotes ever.

Don't worry that I'll be on a ledge soon. Today has just been a very trying day.

This is just to say...I hate that joke about one person condescending another because the other person used a preposition at the end of a sentence. And then the other person replies with the same sentence, only he or she adds an insult at the end of it a la, "blahblahblah [preposition], bitch (etc.)!"

I HATE how people are still changing this joke around to make it appear original and/or funny. Anyone who laughs at this joke should be severely beaten. Anyone who tries to adapt the joke to make it their own should be shot at. Get it? Not funny, huh?

I rest my case.

It's too bad that I never took a picture of my classroom before and after I set it up. I'm sure everyone would have loved all the old-school gang graffiti, N.W.A. stickers, etc. I worked really hard to have something nice to contrast with the neighborhood the school is in, as well as the general atmosphere of the school. I have since given up.

After almost my entire box of pens to borrow and return was permanently "borrowed," I took the pens away. Same with the stapler that is now broken. I believe my new mini-stapler was taken and replaced with a barely functional one in the same color and model. (Don't say, "At least it was replaced." I don't want to hear it). Anyhow, the crappy stapler was put away also. So then someone stabbed some signs on my door - signs I made myself and had laminated for their protection. Those are locked up, along with some beautiful artwork by Sam, all the major signs and posters I bought or made for my classroom, and any other items I don't want stolen and/or destroyed.

I don't know or care if this means I'm letting bad students win. I merely want to protect my property from some of the senselessly violent and disrespectful scum I teach. I think I will slowly work towards having everything taken down, so I could always pack quickly for the fastest getaway possible. And there will be one. Sometimes it starts to feel like a matter of hours.

Today was not a good day.

I feel headachey, and I fell down a flight of stairs at my apartment building on the way to work this morning. Marble stairs, flat beaded slippers, something wet, and heavy bags do not mix well. I have some bruises, but nothing too serious.

My students were AWFUL in class. I really can't stand some of them.

And I'm very worried about Hurricane Rita heading to Texas tomorrow. All of the devastation of Katrina makes me fear the worst for my family. Not surprisingly, coverage of Rita's progress is significantly lacking in NYC.

I'm ready for this day to be over.

Sam wants me to take the BFF video chat picture off of this site, because it looks like he has herpes. God forbid the tabloids get ahold of this incriminating image. I'm not taking the image down, because 1) Sam very well knows he doesn't have herpes, 2) did I mention he doesn't have herpes, and 3) herpes, herpes, herpes, no herpes.

In conclusion, Sam doesn't have herpes, but it looks like he does. And I don't care to remove anything from my blog, because I am lazy and I don't think it's a horrendous picture. Also, I love typing the word herpes - I so rarely get to do it.

Herpes, herpes, herpes!

The best conversation of today:

Sam: Guess who's coming to UT?
Me: Who?
Sam: The Dalai Lama.
Me: Eww.
Sam: Eww?
Me: I wouldn't want to meet him - he likes Ian Hancock.
Sam: But the Dalai Lama likes everyone!
Me: Why?
Sam: Because he's...
Me: Drunk?
Sam: On the spirit of the earth!

I am being driven crazy by the Visa commercial where all the football players serve as metaphors for the multiple layers of Visa credit card security.

I roll my eyes especially hard when the quarterback guy is at a swanky restaurant on a date and he asks, "Can metaphors pay?" The metaphors/football players laugh in unison before issuing a stern, "No."

Metaphors do pay! They got me everywhere I am today, well not really, but metaphors are nonetheless great. More sophisticated than similes. Still...a guy looks like a total scrub when he asks metaphors to pay in front of his date. I hate when that happens.

O.J. is the guiltiest man alive.

It is also so good for me.

Quote of the week:

Me: I'm afraid if I work here too long, I may become a Republican.

On Thursday, the students in my academy finally started switching classes. I was excited to switch, because I was getting very tired of my homeroom/Language Arts/Social Studies class. Some of the other academies had already been switching classes and I'd noticed that those teachers were significantly more relaxed.

I'd met with Jones's class twice and had already assigned two writing assignments. I was impressed with the work that had been turned in - the students' writing was of a much higher caliber than anything I've seen my other students produce. Jones feels the class is just as disrespectful as any other, but I think they're much better than my homeroom. I was already imagining how mellow they'd be.

Unfortunately, I have to teach Hicks's class. Hicks is a fellow progressive, frazzled, first-year teacher. Her homeroom class consists of the worst eighth grade students in our academy. I really don't know why the school doesn't split these kids up or have some kind of "accidental" extermination. My first day teaching them, I was called a "white monkey" and I'm sure, much worse that I didn't hear. Students refused to listen to me. Some tore up work as soon as I gave it out. These kids have already been violent and verbally abusive to Hicks, so I didn't scream or yell. I was cool and stony and I intend to fail every single kid who deserves to. Many of them are apparently quite fond of eighth grade anyway.

It depresses me that there are a few students in that class who want to learn, but the majority of the students are a major impediment to that. One girl, Kanya, didn't speak the entire period. She listened, turned in all her work, and tried to blend into the walls. At my school, students in the same homeroom class have the same daily schedule and travel to every class together. This may be normal in some states, but none of the Texas schools I attended or worked at are like this. Can you imagine having a few terrible kids in your homeroom class and having to spend all day with them? Multiply that by six, and you have Kanya's situation. I asked her how she felt about being in school all day with such disruptive classmates, and she said she hated that she had been assigned to this group. I encouraged her to have her mom complain, so she could be put into a different homeroom, but I doubt that will happen.

On the first day of class switching, I had Hicks's class for ninety minutes and then the Spanish teacher was supposed to teach in my room. Instead, he never showed up, so I had to baby-sit my homeroom kids yet again during my off-period. Robert got in a scuffle with a security guard, so I had to deal with that. Then I taught my homeroom kids for another ninety minutes. Robert refused to do any work, which is unlike him, but later recovered, walked around the room (and wouldn't get back in his seat), and said vulgar things. When I saw an administrator at my door, I told him to take Robert away. I get so sick of him. I escorted my students to lunch and then had to teach them Social Studies. At the end of the day, Robert started screaming that I'm a liar and that he wasn't being vulgar, blah, blah, blah. It was a very long day.

Yesterday, I had the same response from Hicks's class, but I announced that any student who wants to learn and pass my class could move to the front of the room where I was teaching. Students who intend to repeat eighth grade could continue not doing their work in the back of the room. I had six students move to the front. Maybe this was the wrong thing to do, but I feel it is an injustice to focus all of my attention and energy on students who are disruptive. I really don't care to help those who won't help themselves. I don't know if any of the worst students will have a breakthrough and suddenly clean up their acts, but I don't know if I even care anymore.

Another great thing about yesterday: I now have 33 students in my homeroom/Language Arts/Social Studies class. This is just so wrong to me. How can I help students with so many different academic needs when my class size is so huge? I know I have one of the largest classes in the school, and I'm a first-year teacher. A situation like this is difficult for experienced teachers. How am I supposed to do this? I cannot speak for more than ten minutes at a time without having to raise my voice and quiet people down. And my classroom has no air conditioning or fan. It's been very hot and humid in the last few weeks. Everything has fallen off my classroom walls. Thirty-four people are crammed in the room. Some kids complain that they feel sick from the heat. Others can't stay awake. It's nearly unbearable.

Speaking of unbearability and heat, I told my homeroom students yesterday that they would have to clean out their desks and pick up paper off the floor before they could be dismissed for the day. Many of them really didn't take me seriously. Since last week, students have been filling the desks up with huge amounts of crap. Not just paper, but prohibited crap. Gum, soda bottles, magazines... At the end of the day, many students "forget" to even pick up their chairs and put them on their desks. There is this attitude that they have a right to destroy my classroom, because the custodian will clean up after them. This disrespect and apathy makes me boil, so I dismissed all of them thirty minutes late yesterday. Had they not argued and refused to help clean up, they could have been out on time. There was a lot of screaming - by me and them. Administrators from all around helped me lock the kids in the room, but some students ended up leaving without being dismissed. They're getting phone calls home. It was painful to see only a few kids help pick up the room while so many others kept saying they were too good to help clean up, that they didn't care about school or the classroom or the fact that I work so hard to try to maintain an inviting learning environment. This is such a ghetto stereotype that my students embody.

One girl wouldn't stop complaining about how she would be late to her job at McDonald's. Because she wouldn't get quiet, she was late indeed. Isn't is sad when someone is in middle school, but old enough to legally work at McDonald's? I hope she really likes it there. I'm proud (and surprised) to say that no one cursed me out or assaulted me, despite their ignorant fury. Does this mean they respect me more than that? I don't know. Some kids still said goodbye to me in the schoolyard. I know they are better than some of their classmates and deep down, they must understand that I'm really trying to do my best.

I went to the "professional development" happy hour at a restaurant near the school with Bobby, one of the sixth-grade teachers that I'm becoming friends with. It's been so long since I had a good gay man in my life, and he's so caring and smarmy and fun. He bought me an appletini and raspberry-tini for no good reason. He insisted it's because his paycheck was bigger than mine (he's a first-year at the school, but taught for eight years in Orlando). I think it's because he's a generous, loving person and he says he's already worried the school might lose me soon. So many of my fellow first-years also fluctuate between misery and...practically misery. It was nice to see everyone tipsy, smiley, and so supportive of each other. We laughed and sighed and everyone told me to "please stay, we'd miss you too much." I already know it would be hard to leave some of my co-workers. If only we could team-teach or somehow get rid of our most destructive students.

I walked to the subway station with Karen, another first-year at my school who previously taught high school in Brooklyn. She's smart, indignant, fun, and a fellow lightweight, so we giggled while everyone else continued to drink. She's another person I will miss if/when I decide to leave my school. I don't yet know what the gods have in store for me and what would sting enough to make me give up. I'm thinking assault. Maybe just a terrible day of verbal abuse. A few more weeks with Hick's class. Or all of the previously mentioned. They tend to go together.

10 years ago I was: Twelve. It was a very awkward time of my life. I had braces, bangs I tried and tried to grow out, an unhealthy obsession with wearing vests and leggings... I was Amanda, Duchess of Dork. In junior high, I discovered theater (particularly musical theater) and suffered the consequences of that for years. I've not fully recovered, but at least I don't only listen to showtunes and rent "Oklahoma!" anymore.

5 years ago I was: Seventeen. It was a stage of blossoming, I think. I finally got contacts, started caring about my hair, had grown the bangs out, started realizing I have a pretty good figure... Boys began to notice me, and I started dating. I was smarmy and wrote very clever (I thought) and affected articles for the school newspaper. I was a wannabe fag hag, but I'm really not into dancing or talking about guys enough to be a stereotypical one. I consider myself the thinking gay man's fag hag.

1 year ago I was:  In college. Big sigh. I was an RA in San Jacinto, but not really doing my best to get to know all of my residents. School was very busy for me, because I was doing a teaching internship at Travis High School and finishing my degree. Brian Doherty told my senior seminar class that I am a genius, which was great. I was dating Sam. I thought my roommate was vapid, but tolerable.

Yesterday: I had a blah day overall. The students are finally switching classes, but I don't teach Jones's wonderful students. (It's sad. I've seen them in the halls and they all smile, wave, and ask when I'll teach them). Instead, I have to teach Hicks's horrible brood of behaviorally and emotionally disturbed kids. I also had to watch my homeroom kids when the Spanish teacher never showed up for class.

5 snacks I enjoy: strawberry or apple Sour Punch straws, nacho cheese Doritos (but only in the privacy of my own home - they make one's breath soooo bad), fresh fruit of most kinds, Phish Food ice cream, those cinna-dots from Domino's Pizza...

5 songs I know all the words to: "When You're A Jet," "Sunny Came Home," "Paper Bag," "Happy Birthday," "Head Over Feet"...

5 things I would do with 100 million dollars: More college, pay off all of my debts as well as those of Sam and my parents, move Sam to NYC, buy a nice UWS or Chelsea duplex, treat my parents very, very well...

5 places I would run away to: Texas, Fiji, South America, Sweden, Iceland...

5 things I would never wear: tapered pants, acid washed jeans, crotchless underwear, shortalls, sorority tee-shirts...

5 favorite tv shows: E! True Hollywood Story, Scrubs, Project Runway, America's Next Top Model, Jeopardy... I know this is a sad selection, but this is all I ever made an effort to watch in the last five years or so.

5 Bad habits: Over-analyzing, sleeping with books on the bed, tuning people out when I'm shaking their hands and listening to introductions, staring, being the pickiest eater ever...

5 biggest joys: my loved ones (including Abby), reading a good book, rainy days, good food, witty conversation...

5 favorite toys: ipod, Powerbook, isight, digital video camera (I don't have one of my own yet, but I will), cell phone? I'm not a toy person - I mostly have these things to function and get work done.

5 fictional characters I would date: I hate questions like this. I'm drawn to dysfunctional characters I would never date, like Holden Caulfield.
 

Sam and I tease each other constantly. We can video chat, turn the sound off, and just make gestures that remind us of something and laugh for hours. It's quite fourteen-year-old girl BFF of us, but I love it.

When Sam gets passionate about something, whether it is the joys of William Blake (blech!) or old school hip hop, his mouth becomes very round. Or at least I think so. I impersonate it, he exaggerates it back, good times are had by all.

When you work in an inner-city school where you thought you could make a difference, and you have many days when you feel that all of your efforts are in vain, and you and the ones you love have sacrificed so much to help you boldly go in the direction of your dreams, and your dreams turn out to be delusions or nightmares or both, and you're so fried at the end of the week, that you have dangerously prepositional run-on sentences in your blog that someone out there is reading (knowing very well that you are an English teacher, by God), well...it helps to get emails like this:

amanda babe,

i've been asking myself why i haven't sent you a
longer email yet. thing is, i can't seem to come up
with a good reason. i think it might have something
to do with not wanting to rehash and/or come off
depressed. you remember when i was driving you back
to c.c. from the sand hills? we talked about so many
things, and it felt really nice with you next to me
like that. i remember when i started to cry because
the topic of you leaving came up and i told you i
didn't want to cry in front of you. you told me that
you didn't mind and that it needed to come out.

if i were to write you a long email "letting it out,"
i feel that it would be a very selfish sounding email.
it would be one "i miss you and i want you here right
now" after another. i hope you know that my core
doesn't like the separation. it's not fun. i'm glad
you feel comfortable enough in the relationship,
however, to take that leap toward your dreams.

of course, i don't want to scream at the wind. there
is nothing i can do about this distance. it is.

all of this, combined with the problems you are having
with your classes, i don't know how i could let it all
out about my fears and my worries. it wouldn't be
fair to you. now, you crying after every time you
come home from the school doesn't give me the
impression that your expectations have been met.
there must have been good reasons you had for moving
away from all of us here in texas, but i don't think
weeping daily was one of them. am i right? that
isn't to say that you've done the wrong thing. life
is strange. no one has figured it out yet that i know
of. you can't sit around waiting for solutions. the
way i see it, we can only better our odds through
cooperation. it has to be a mutual agreement though.
both people must be searching for the same things. if
they are, two people have a much better chance of
working the problems out than one. of course, that's
the romantic in me speaking, but it just sounds so
damn logical to me.

i cannot deny my past, amanda, but it is you that have
captured me in whole. sometimes i have memories of my
childhood and adolescence and you're there. you have
infiltrated. you are a part of me now. i wouldn't
want it any other way.

i just want you to be happy. i'd do anything to make
you happy...you know that. please don't hesitate to
ask me for help with anything that you might need. i
hope i've been a good listener since you've moved.
i've been working on it. i always have been an
interjector, but i know it means a lot to you when i
just listen.

this isn't the longest email in the world, but i'm
making headway. i love you, babe!

sam

_____________

* I am blessed.

I am my father's daughter.

Earlier, I saw that my blog counter showed 666 hits. I said, "Yikes!" aloud and reloaded the page. I then realized I had 77 entries. Ahhh! Too much.

And this is my 78th entry.

So much to say...

But two martinis and many hours later, I still cannot bring myself to sit down and write. My head hurts, the humidity makes my clothes stick to my body, and really, it's my bedtime. I'm recovering from my first full week of work. Should I feel this way?

I shall write more later. Promise.

Dear Guy In The Building Across From Mine Whose Window Faces My Room,

Shut up!

I hear you bellowing every night, sometimes during the opera lessons that also come from your building. I previously enjoyed those, but I hate the dissonant hybrid that is, "O Mio Babbino fuck da po-lice." Your attempts to rap make me proud to be a police-abiding, juice sans gin drinking honky.

Tonight you sing Boyz II Men. Do you sense I've come to "The End of the Road?" You never sounded more constipated in your life. Do not ad lib "la, la, la, yeah, yeah, yeah's," please. It's like the most painful, unqualifying "Star Search" audition ever.

I hope you lose whatever community talent show you're entering, and the bitches be runnin' from you like the po-po after dem, and tomorrow your vocal cords will spontaneously shrivel up into useless, gummy nodes. That will be "One Sweet Day."

*As I click the "Publish Post" button, he returns to rapping. Ay de mi...

Happy 75th entry to me, I suppose.

After lunch today, my students evolved into completely inpenetrable walls of digression and insolence. I'm not a screamer and I'm not a tantrum thrower, so it got to the point where I angrily and silently passed out homework. I wouldn't explain it at first, because students should have been listening in the first place if they needed instructions. I then went around different desks and explained what I had to.

I have 32 kids I have to spend almost the entire day with for the rest of the year. I just got four of these students, because they didn't make it to the first few days of school. They're quiet for the most part, but one has got to be one of the laziest kids in class. Her name is Shaque - she'll probably take your order someday. I'm not being terribly mean, I swear. She just exerts so little effort on her education that I do not guess she will pass my class. Ah, first impressions...

The kids got me really upset today. I felt so ready to just take down all the posters, pack up the office supplies, and head back to Texas. It's too early to make such a big decision, I know. I don't even have a normal schedule yet, and I just met my other class today. But tiiii-ime is NOT on my side. I am impatient with disrespect. Most of my being is jumping up and down wanting to know if things are going to get better. I'm so tired of the "they're testing you" drivel. Am I passing or failing the tests? How do I even know? I feel so under-supported at my school. When I ask for advice, people say generic things, like "I think you'll find with time that within you is a teacher you never knew you could be..." Please put the karma beads away for a few seconds, o wise ones, and do tell me if by that you mean "dictator," "parole officer," or "babysitter."

One funny thing: Today Mr. Jones, my teaching next door neighbor/vent partner, had his kids working through the entire fire drill. He didn't know the signal (three very quiet gongs), so he didn't listen for it, so his kids would have been hoodlums roasting on an open fire...had there been a real fire. (Has a nice ring to it, I think). Funny. No one made sure all the classes evacuated the building.

I met my other group of Language Arts kids today. They happen to be Jones's homeroom class. I breezed in, gave homework, and made them do information sheets. It was so refreshing to be around a different group of kids that actually listened to me. People would shush others when I opened my mouth. Students saw me later and said hello. Wow. I felt listened to and respected. I want a regular schedule where I can meet with these kids!

After school, I went into a long, emotional tirade, drunk on my own disappointment, with Jones. I don't know how much good I can do here. Perhaps I let this dream of teaching and making a difference drive me, instead of me driving the dream. Lots of ideas are great when they are merely thought, but to achieve them and then find they're not what you expected at all jolts the soul. I feel stupid sometimes for being such a risk-taker. Why have I told myself nothing worthwhile is easily attained? I worked hard in college. Why did I convince myself that I had to do something so much harder after all of that? Why did I convince myself that I was needed here, in New York City, instead of a more familiar environment?

The answers to these questions are not unlike the ones I get in response to my questions on classroom management. Definitely just as vague. I will grow somehow from this, but will it be in a good direction? Only time will tell, but how long can I wait to find out?

You know, I meant to write about my day today. However, I stayed at school until 7 pm using the copy machine (which started acting weird, so I tried to fix it, but ended leaving after a bunch of error messages appeared - don't tell!), rearranging desks, straightening up, unwrapping a bookcase and globe and dictionaries I don't need. Then I headed downtown and ate a sandwich. I talked to some people I love and tried to call a parent of a student I do not love.

Now it's midnight, and I'm exhausted. My day was okay. The same kids were disruptive. I wouldn't mind if Robert suddenly exploded one day into a million gooey, immature, pieces...as long as I don't have to clean them up. Raheem started out bad, stayed that way, but was delightfully human when we had our chat in the schoolyard. He looked me in the eyes and everything. Be ashamed, Raheem, very ashamed! Bryant didn't get a Metrocard for transportation to and from school, and nearly started crying, because he lives somewhere in the Bronx. I gave him $2 to ride home, but I still felt terrible. He doesn't get any money to buy school lunch during the day, and he said his parents won't or can't buy him anything to take to school for lunch. Now he might have an issue getting to school and back each day, too. I don't feel that he's the kind of kid who would manipulate my emotions, unlike some of my kids who try to win the white teacher's sympathy by saying they are poor, black ghetto-children living on the streets, etc. Some of my poorest kids wear Jordans, and perhaps their parents have seriously warped priorities, but no one is currently homeless.

Many new teachers are as or more upset as me about the current conditions in my school. Homeroom teachers are still babysitting their classes all day with no normal class schedules in sight. I was relieved twice today by the legal studies teacher, a nice albeit way too talkative man, and a Spanish teacher who has absolutely no control over the class. I want more of a break. Because I'm very open about my concerns with classroom management, I spend my off-periods getting advice from some nice veteran administrators. Mostly a lot of "wait and see's," "be firm's," and "you can't treat these kids the way the books tell you to/you were raised." I will admit that nothing I ever learned in my UTeach education concerning classroom management prepared me for the population I teach. I am respectful, but are all of my students the same way? No. I can't phrase things in a nice way to make all students think they have choices, and are thus, more empowered as learners. Some students refuse to do anything I ask or tell them to do. There's so much apathy and histrionics here. Students are whiny and act like victims, tell me I'm not fair, tell me I'm mean, scream slews of curse words... Every day is a trying day. I feel like I work in a psych ward sometimes.

Somehow, I feel okay tonight. No one has punched me during a fight, like they did another teacher. I'm not teaching too many subjects I'm uncertified in. (Because I don't really have a normal schedule, I pretty much treat all day like Language Arts class. That's fun for now). I don't teach a bunch of angry, violent special ed students. Or do I?

Most of all, best of all, I am not reproductively responsible for any of the students in room 108. Don't blame me!

I could click my horrible-what-was-I-thinking-wearing-these-to-school two-inch heels when the doors to the schoolyard open. I see open sky, freedom. Their apartments. The ones they are going to...far away from me. Do hurry home now, students! My heavy, aching feet just got lighter.

Oh yeah... I forgot to mention what happened the night before school started. If you'll recall, I said that I heard sirens, etc. and saw police tape, NYPD, FDNY, and people in American Red Cross blankets the next morning. There was a four-alarm fire in an apartment building very close to where I live around 3 a.m. on September eighth. Three people died. Others were hospitalized for smoke inhalation and burns. All surviving residents are now homeless. Police suspect this fire was a case of arson. It's truly terrible what people have been going through these last few weeks. I know that people are hurting in every city on any given day in this lifetime, but what I've seen recently breaks my heart.

And now it's September eleventh.

Today I read What Narcissism Means to Me by Tony Hoagland. Here's a poem called "A Color of the Sky":

Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn't make the road an allegory.

I should call Marie and apologize
for being so boring at dinner last night,
but can I really promise not to be that way again?
And anyway, I'd rather watch the trees, tossing
in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.

Otherwise it's spring and everything looks frail;
the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are full of infant chlorophyll,
the very tint of inexperience.

Last summer's song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,

which makes me wonder if Time loves Memory back.

Last night I dreamed of X again.
She's like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years ago she penetrated me
but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I never got her out,
but now I'm glad.

What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.

Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;

overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,

dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,

so Nature's wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It's been doing that all week:
making beauty,
and throwing it away,
and making more.

What Kelvin said: But Miss, I'm an O.G. ("Original gangsta," for those of you who don't know).
What I thought: More like an O.T. ("Overweight thirteen-year-old," as made up by me. I should have plenty of occasions to use this).
What I said: Give me a break.

I had a nice, relaxing Saturday today, so don't worry that I've gone postal yet. I emphasize the "yet."

My sense of humor allows me to think that it could've been worse, and I'm right. No one got in a fight. No one threw a book at my head. (The first day of school, Robert said he liked me better than his teacher last year, who got textbooks thrown at her head. Ohmigod). None of the parents I've talked to were unsupportive of my efforts to teach and discipline their kids.

I went to the NYPL and finally picked up my books on hold. I went to Kim's, read a book, took a nap, obviously blogged a lot, and am now watching "Saturday Night Live." Tomorrow, I am a teacher desperately planning what my students MIGHT be doing. (According to a veteran teacher, it usually takes a WEEK of babysitting the kids in homeroom before they have set schedules and can be taught. One year it took three). Today, I am a 22-year-old woman with flip flops, sweatpants, a first name, and no class to control.

The second day of school, I wore flat shoes and pants. Everyone freaked out when I tried to assign seats, so that didn't go so well. I ended up moving a few key toublemakers. The students did freewriting, we attempted an icebreaker in which shy kids forfeited candy and refused to participate, the students actually listened to me go over some procedures for my language arts class. (I forgot to mention that I found out I'm teaching my homeroom students language arts and social studies. We'll spend most of the day together. It's good that I already know my troublemakers and I think I now know everyone's name).

I explained that I'm making students keep an Idea Book, a twenty page writing assignment over anything they want, for each grading period. It can even be a diary that students turn in - nothing too terribly difficult, only a lengthy assignment. Phillip asked why, writing isn't important anyway. I had my first would-be "Dangerous Minds" moment when I asked him what he wanted to do with his life. He said he didn't know. I made him make up something. He said pro wrestler. I explained some things pro wrestlers would have to read and write, going into insurance papers, royalties, trademarks, etc. Phillip's eyes started dilating, but he was still reluctant to accept the assignment. An approximate transcipt:

Phillip: But, Miss, why can't we just write a page?
Me: You have to write a lot more when you get to high school next year. I want you to be prepared for that. Then, I'd like you to be prepared for whatever you go on to next - college or the workforce.
Phillip: But we go to a bad school.
Me: So you think that because you go to this school, you don't deserve to be prepared for high school and college?
Phillip: There are bad high schools, too. They don't make you write a lot.
Me: So bad schools should give you a bad education.
Phillip: That's what they do. It's different.
Me: I will not be a crappy teacher just because some people say you don't go to a good school. You deserve more than that, and you should think more highly of yourself.

Unlike "Dangerous Minds," no one clapped. No music swelled. Most students were disappointed that they'd have to write an Idea Book and pined for a crappy teacher. We went to lunch, the Spanish teacher came in to relieve me and teach the kids the alphabet, I returned and everyone was crazy. I don't know if it was something that happened in Spanish or the fact that it was Friday. I wanted to sniff my dry erase markers until the students disappeared, but I trudged on. Some of my sweet girls talked to me in the schoolyard after school. It's really weird how some students are already affectionate towards me, while others want to cut me.

I called the mothers of Raheem and Robert, so I hope they've been beaten to submission or just respect by Monday. Here's something scary. I have thirty-two needy students in my homeroom class and four still haven't shown up. I pray I don't have any new Raheems or Roberts next week. I really worry about all the time I have to spent disciplining rather than teaching. I worry about my cooperative, quiet students who I can't devote more attention to. I worry that I teach two subjects that have state tests in eighth grade. How am I supposed to prepare these students when I can't even get through a single activity without raising my voice repeatedly?

What did I get myself into?

I got to school, wrote my agenda, arranged the markers and art supplies on a table, walked around and around and around. I was an hour and a half early. My supervisor told me to wait by the door of my classroom to greet students when they came to homeroom. That's good. I could do that - how very Harry Wong. Before the bell rang, three girls came to my class and quietly said hello. They are my sweet, but very slow students. All of them are tiny and look more like elementary students than eighth graders.

The PA system suddenly burped that eighth grade homeroom teachers had to go to the gym to pick up their homeroom students. The girls came with me and had to show me to the gym, because, again I have no real knowledge of any floor but mine. The gym was total chaos. Eighth graders of various sizes and dispositions waited and talked. It was deafening. An evil, scraggly-haired administrator that does not work with my academy, thank God, was screaming and running into groups of middle schoolers, jerking un-uniformed students violently away from their friends, and pushing them against a wall. Ms. Evilamo is what I shall henceforth refer to her as - it sounds something like her real name. Evilamo announced that each homeroom teacher would have to read the class roster we had just received, students would line up, and I'd have to escort the students to my class. My roster was full of names I had no idea how to pronounce, like Niaquaianayafienvekielx Smith. I eventually butchered a list of them and escorted my small, shiny captives to room 108.

Because I hadn't been given the roster until a few minutes before, I couldn't assign seats as I would have liked. Students got to sit where they wanted. I told students to put their bags on the back of their chairs. I had to ask one group of girls to do this four times before they actually would, but fortunately, had no more trouble out of them for the rest of the day. I could already see that one tiny black boy was going to be my class clown. He is the most hyperactive, immature, pain in the butt I've ever met. We'll call him Robert, because that is his real name. I had to move him from his chosen seat to a seat closer to me in a matter of minutes. He constantly started talking while I was talking, he'd suddenly get out of his seat, and worst, he'd argue every time he was corrected.

I had two students, Raheem and Kelvin (again, real names), come in late and make me wish they hadn't come at all. Overweight, whiny, argumentative, wannabe badasses. Kelvin has a sweet side, so when he saw pictures of Abby on my bulletin board, he was actually cute. Otherwise, he chats too much and argues when corrected. Raheem is an angry kid that could easily kill me, and I wouldn't be surprised if one day he threatened to. I was respectful of all my students, but the three I've mentioned so far usually wouldn't comply with the class rules. At one point, Raheem told me I was annoying; I told him we could talk to his dean (the next tier of discipline in the school) about that. It was a long way to lunch.

*I should mention that I was able to get the kids focused at some points of the day, but I realize now that I'm really teaching that my internship and student teaching experiences were surreally good. I taught other teachers's already trained students. My students at Travis High School didn't have the most engaging teacher, and that only served to make them more enthralled by me. I was so, so, so naive to think that showing students respect would make them automatically respect me. This is a tough crowd of some very jaded, poor, aggressive, angry young people.

During lunch, I was already annoyed with my four most irritating students. I have other students who are chatty, but none that are as disruptive as the four I've mentioned. I talked to the dean and he said he'd pull out five students and talk to them about their behavior. This should not happen on the first day of school! I am so unimpressed with some of these kids. In front of them, I can keep my sense of humor and have even been a bit sassy. (These troublemakers can handle it and it works - I'd never ever be sarcastic to my sweet, shy students). When the kids are gone, I start to wonder if I made the right decision to work with these students. Eighth grade is a tough year; my school is a tough school. It's too early to tell how the rest of the year will go. I know they are testing me. It's still difficult enough to make me wish I were a humongously strong and scary woman or an intimidating, bodybuilding man.

My feet ached after the first day. I was disappointed, but proactive. I called a lot of parents to introduce myself. I knew I'd be making more serious phone calls the next day, unless Raheem and Robert didn't show up. I couldn't get that lucky, though.

So...I was nervous about the first day of school for many reasons. One, it's the first day of school, and for the first time I was supposed to be the teacher. This was more nerve-wracking than ever being an unsuspecting (nah, scratch that, I was always suspecting) student on the first day of school. Two, my school is/was extremely disorganized. My school is overcrowded and because so many students fail each year, particular grades are even more overcrowded. My grade, eighth grade, is one of those. I learned the day before the first day of school that no one - teachers or students - had set schedules. Thus, all homeroom teachers would be stuck with their homeroom class all day Thursday and Friday. The students are in the same room from 8:30 to 3:00. This really worried me. People who know and like each other get itchy after being together that long. How would I deal with all of my strange, new students for so many hours? I can't be "on" for the same group for hours at a time. I don't work at Disney World. Yikes. I later learned I'd be relieved for two forty-three minute periods. Yay. Three, I had no roster, no gradebook, no room keys, no school map, no idea how to complete any daily school procedures... I asked about all of these numerous times with little or no response. New teachers kept getting told that they'd find out things later. In my case, later never really happened.

I didn't get to go to bed as early as I would have liked the night before the first day of school. I still had to clean up my classroom and try and finish preparing it. Then I came home to figure out what was intimidating, comfortable, and cool enough to wear. (My classroom has no air conditioning, so "cool" means "won't result in pit stains on my shirt and pants stuck to my sweaty legs"). I took a shower and practiced my "Hello, I'm your teacher. I'm nice, smart, and will absolutely kill you if you mess with me" spiel.

I awoke throughout the night, because I was afriad of sleeping late. I always do this before something important and nerve-wracking. At one point, I thought I heard sirens and what sounded like a helicopter flying over my building. I rolled over and went back to sleep. Woke up again. Slept. Woke up again. At one point, my alarm clock finally went off. I shimmied into my clothes, put on a teacher face, ate a granola bar, and set off for school. When I stepped outside, my corner street was completely roped off in police tape. NYPD and FDNY people were everywhere. There were news crews. Fire trucks. Ambulances. People were crying and wrapped in American Red Cross blankets. Something terrible was happening as I tried to sleep hours before.

I was too nervous and practical to think of it as an omen.

WHAT I LEARNED TUESDAY AND WEDNESDAY AT STAFF DEVELOPMENT:

*School is starting on Thursday. Most students won't make it, though, because school normally starts on a Monday and many parents may not know school starts Thursday (due to having no permanent address or phone number at which to reach them with school news).

*The school does not know any of the schedules of the teachers or the students. For a few days or perhaps an indefinite amount of time, homeroom teachers will have to watch their homeroom classes all day, while non-homeroom teachers will relieve each homeroom teacher for two periods.

*If students don't wear their uniforms, be upset, but don't do anything.

*Teachers are responsible for buying their own paper to make copies and may occasionally use the school copiers to make them. Do not even think about using the pristine, expensive, consistently functional copy machine for administrators. Oh yeah, assign homework everyday (which should require copied papers).

*We don't have classroom or bathroom keys for any new teachers yet.

*If you have a question, please ask.

*Huh? I don't know what you're asking me about. No, I don't know who would. Ask someone else. I'm busy.

Good news: I survived my first days teaching middle-school English in Harlem.

Bad news: See above.

Perhaps I'm dramatic, but I must say that my socially conscious, pedagogically sound mind was not ready for the first day of school. A kid told me I was annoying on the first day! To my face. In my face. Yes... I was able to fake control the rest of the day and things got better, but the day was long. I left school completely drained.

I have all the dirty details to write down soon, as in tonight, but I'm having a really hard time sitting down and writing about school. I'm tired of rehashing it already. However, I'll be back once I can sit down, swallow hard, and find all the right words.

If there were an hour-long HBO series about my life in New York it would be called..."Wrecks and the City." It would start with excessively punny reflections on the baggage in my life. And I don't just mean emotional baggage about moving far away from all that is home and comfort. I mean real baggage, too. You'd see me hauling impossibly heavy bags of groceries and pieces of furniture up the treacherous 39 steps. I'd careen wildly around the Upper West Side with a cart stacked with office supplies, parcels, and notebooks. I'd resignedly hail taxis, because I can't manage to get all my stuff on the subway without killing myself.

For much of the series, I'd be setting up my classroom in a weird outfit. I'd grumble and wish for someone to help me, preferably the Mr. Big in my life. But alas, I'm the biggest (loneliest) wreck in this city.

*One of my favorite pieces of writing, because I think of this all the time. I'm going back and forth right now between updating this blog and making things for my classroom. Happy Labor Day to me!

********************************************************************

Oops! I forgot to...
study abroad...find my best girlfriend ever...evolve a style...grow up...

Those magnets always puzzle me. You'll find them in shops on South Congress and independent bookstores. A sassy sketch of a thirtyish woman unapologetically mock-exclaims, "Oops! I forgot to get married!" or "Oops! I forgot to have children!" Sometimes it's just a button with simple text, but the same message.

It makes it sound so easy for a woman to get caught up living the independent, modern life, despite the fact that almost everything (the media, society, ourselves) keeps reminding us that ahem, we have some rites of passage coming up. Time to check something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue or pink or yellow off the list.

Today I had to reluctantly ward off my lunchtime food coma and run some errands. As I walked the breezeway area of the UGL, I thought, "You know, this is my favorite breezeway on-campus." I love when it's windy and the breezeway is so cool. During rain, you can close your umbrella there or at least hold it open at your side. You can also check out your reflection as you pass. I've glanced at this quickly every time I've walked the breezeway for the last three years. I'm not vain. I'm habitual. I like when I see people glance up from their Calculus and Spanish textbooks and lock eyes with me...as I check out my own butt. It's like a Calvin Klein commercial in black and white with slightly opened mouths and olive skin. "NARCISSISM" would appear on the screen at the end in grainy black or gray Times New Roman font.

Or "DIGRESSION" even. I've eluded my own train of thought.

There are certain things that I thought one was supposed to do in college (or at least I expected myself to do in college) that I just forgot to do. I had too many papers to write, interviews to go to, letters of recommendation to ask for. I was busy at a meeting and suddenly forgot that the four years I was promised would slip through my fingers...like sand...in a Calvin Klein commercial for Eternity.

I'm being silly here, but I feel sad, too. I haven't found the woman who will be the maid of honor at my wedding, provided I don't forget to do that thing, as well. I completely forgot to study abroad and fall in love with my host brother and buy tons of Coca-Cola tee shirts in the foreign language of the country and wear them all over campus once I returned to the patriate life. I won't be able to spend any of my time in college acting blase and cosmopolitan (blasmopolitan) when I mention that I have spent extensive time working in Spain (after six weeks of taking remedial Spanish in Barcelona).

At least I have done some things. I did learn to live somewhat on my own? I haven't decided that yet. I have learned to meet and covet people who like me for who I am. I have dated different people and learned what I do and do not want in a relationship. I have taught at all levels. I have had crappy jobs and more promising leadership positions. I have never bought myself any UT memorabilia. I have written, written, and written some more.

Would you trust your children with this person?

How is it that I am going to start teaching THIS Thursday?

(Tuesday and Wednesday I have to attend all the staff development/training teachers do before school starts. I hope I can learn what the hell I am doing by then).

I'm getting a bit nervous.

*This came from a day in Dr. Shiring's class when we did some kind of great activity that involved multiple steps. We had to select one picture and compare and contrast it with something else, make a list of adjectives about it, etc. One step was to write a poem about it. My picture was a black and white postcard of many round tables covered with all sorts of pies.

*****************************************************

I'm not as American as apple pie.
My family only made them in pecan or pumpkin
and sometimes a storebought chocolate cream,
the bastard of Thanksgiving menu stereotypes
and an incurable sweet tooth.
I skipped dessert and just ate more turkey.

We can't all be "as American as" or "humble"
or "bye bye" with "a piece of that" any kind of anything.
Some are bigger,
some are thinner,
some are flaky,
some are smooth and consistent,
some are rich. Well, you know...

I'm not a pie,
but if I were one today,
I might be a small piece.
The first my parents sliced
and gave to the world.

I'd be a mince meat, because of the amalgam of
good and bad, delicacy and leftover, mystery in me.
Certainly an acquired taste.
I'd be so full that I'd easily spill out of my protective crust.

I'd hope to stain.

I'm finally back from New Jersey and my, was it grand!

Chen and I got a ride with a surgeon and his girlfriend, Phillis Levin, who lives a few blocks away from us. Levin is a poet/professor, and was part of Poetry 180. You may google her now. That's not a celebrity encounter, as I didn't know she was ever in the New Yorker or anything until the car ride home. I had never heard of her before, but she calls Billy Collins "Billy" and has worked with Stephen Dunn and Sharon Olds. She is officially an interesting person to have met.

The shindig was held in Bergenfield, NJ at the home of a friend of Chen's dad's friend. Chen and I were the youngest "adults" there, but blended in. We ate baguettes, lamb, chicken, fruit tarts, sorbet... We drank wine and champagne. Everyone sat outside in a huge backyard and had five conversations going at once. It was refreshing to know that I can actually mingle and have a great time with real New York adults. I've always felt I didn't quite fit in with a lot of people my own age...in my own state.

Sam is right about the New York obsession with Texas. It was brought up a lot - from "Why don't you have an accent?" to "How were the Dixie Chicks discussed after they spoke out against Bush?" (The woman who hosted the party edits documentary films, and is currently working on a project about the country music industry backlash against those "unpatriotic" Dixie Chicks).

All in all, I had a wonderful time talking to fun people who say words like "mensch," love musical theater, and read a lot. And now I need to go collapse somewhere...

"My [porkribs] bring all the boys to the yard..."

I nearly witnessed a feline death/suicide last night.

I was walking down Broadway, and something told me, "Don't be afraid of looking like a tourist - look up now!" There was a cat on the ledge of an open window many stories above me. It was fluffy and leaning as far out as humanly, no feline-ly, possible without falling to its death.

Was it curiosity, which we are told "[kills] the cat"? (I counter that no, curiosity gives the cat something to die for. We all need that). Or was the cat feeling depressed and hopeless? Had its owner switched to the off-brand cat food it hates, one that the owner knows very well gives the cat explosive diarrhea? Was the cat abused at home with no easy way to become a stray? Did the cat finally realize that after being pampered and given everything for five years, it had never truly lived?

What a crazy situation. Thank God for RA training. I channeled, "It's not your fault. You have so much to live for. I know of many resources to help you, none of which I can currently recall." If a cat can predict an earthquake, I hope it can at least be telepathic.

The cat fluffed out and started to teeter over the edge. It lost balance on its back legs. There was no way I was ever going to catch a cat plummeting to its death from stories above me. Imagine how scratched up I'd be. What would I do with the cat once I saved it? Most importantly, I'm one of the most physically uncoordinated people you'll ever meet.

The cat and I locked eyes. It gazed at me in fear, curiosity, and what I would like to consider awe, before hopping off the ledge...

...into its apartment.

I went on my way.

*I wrote this during my last semester of college. I called this "The Ambience of Negligence." You'd think with a title like that, I'd be writing about the need for NYC public school reform or a terrible dive with roaches that is still a popular eating establishment. No. I was just being haughty and contemplative.

*****************************************

It started with a dream.

I walked through the crowded East Mall weaving in and out of crowds of people moving from one class to another. Cellphones hugged half the available ears, as it's so important to commemorate every ten feet of travel with a phone call to someone who doesn't really care. The fountain was on, but no one was practicing bizarre yoga poses on the crabgrass yet. Suddenly, I looked up and saw a white woman hanging from the high branches of a tree. She appeared to be dead. Her face was gray. The noose was gray. She wore dark colors.

I never startled, not even when I saw another woman crouching on another high branch of the same tree. She was not hanged, but looked afraid, like a hunted animal. No one else noticed. Conversations continued. Cell phones rang. Some people plugged it all up with headphones. When I noticed no one else appeared to see or care about the women, my desensitization was validated. I kept walking.


******

The earliest part of the day involved noticing everyone else's little errors. The misbuttoned coats. The car keys left in the trunk's lock. I never said anything. What do you do when you see someone has left his car keys dangling in a lock? Pulling the keys out would make me look suspicious if the driver suddenly came back. There's not generally a desk where you return properly placed car keys. (They do, after all, belong in locks. Just not when the owner isn't around). What story would this driver make up when he realizes the keys are missing? Would he totally forget he was ever messing around with the trunk? What if he remembers, goes to the trunk, and the keys are gone? Actually, what if the whole car is gone? If this happened to me, I would probably make up a story about how I must have been pickpocketed, or in my case, had my underwear picked. (I hope if I read this years from now, I will remember what the hell I am talking about).

I also noticed, but did not remedy, more evidence of the winter fashion paradox. My mom cackles when she sees "bozos" in flip flops wearing sweaters and coats. I've been seeing bare midriffs displayed from open coats and jackets. This is not a slight sliver of skin, either. I mean inches of carefully calculated belly display. If a person feels the need to wear a scarf and hat, why not also cover the stomach? Besides, the arctic winds must be hell on navel jewelry.

I then went to the computer store. It felt like an episode of Seinfeld - the long lines (in Seinfeld, there are always lines), the nothingnesss, my exasperation at a woman I do not even know who was wearing a maroon pleather jacket and carrying a hot pink pleather purse. This woman could have been one of Jerry's bad dates or a person Elaine worked with. I couldn't stop staring at the atrocity. I know I once wore pleather. Those cheap leather-like items are so tempting when you're twelve and your best friend's mom drops the two of you off at the mall and you only have $30 to spend. My aversion to pleather is a part of my coming of age and coming of credit card.

Pleather Woman was a cranky customer buying some Dell-related product (scoff, scoff), and she complained to an incompetent cashier about getting things shipped in and out, up and down. I almost forgot: pleather woman was also wearing a faux leopard round hat. I've been looking up hats for awhile trying to figure out the name of such a hat, but alas. I just know it looked terrible, especially with the colorful pleather pieces.

Surprise again. I didn't say a thing. She barked at that one incompetent cashier for a long time. Finally, I was able to get my student copy of Office 2004 Pro. Pleather Woman left empty-handed, mismatching into the afternooon sun. A preventable tragedy. I've felt guilty ever since.

Yesterday: I went to bed really late, because I was working on teaching materials and reading. Plus, Chen and I were talking about Bush and hurricane relief, etc.

Today: I woke up repeatedly and finally got out of bed at 10. I blogged and read until Chen and I had pizza. I walked to my branch of the NYPL and found that they are closed the entire weekend. To compensate for my Augusten Burroughs postponement, I went to Kim's and rented Hoop Dreams and the Columbia University Film Festival dvd. My daily visit to the fruit stand. That's an intentional fragment. I went back to the apartment to drop off all my library books, my dvds, and my nectarines. I thought about getting a cheap haircut, but I'm going to go ahead and try to be a hair model for Aveda or Tigi, so I can get a free haircut next week. Let's see...I walked all the way to Lincoln Center. That's about 43 blocks, which sounds impressive, but isn't so hard in such beautiful weather. Besides, I made lots of pit stops at clothing and shoe stores. Tonight I will finish typing this boring entry, make a resurrected entry, probably go to Duane Reade to buy a bag of Doritos (if I succumb to my craving, which I tend to do), and watch Hoop Dreams.

Tomorrow: Chen and I are headed to the Garden State for a Labor Day barbeque. I'm actually really excited, because I've see New Jersey across the Hudson and I've flown to Newark once, but I instinctively feel excited when I think of seeing another state. Never mind that it's a half hour away; that's why I want to go. The proximity blows my mind. Texas is such a mammoth place to grow up in. I can't fathom that there are people who live in one state and drive everyday to work in another. Madness.

I just finished my last library book, so I can definitely pick up my five new books (that I reserved last week that were specially delivered to the library branch I chose!) this afternoon. NYPL, I love you.

My last book was Nicholson Baker's A Box of Matches. I just randomly checked it out, because it wasn't chick-lit and it looked interesting. It's about a man who begins to feel that life is passing him by, so he begins to get up early every morning, light a fire, and just think about things. Some critics say it's a writing exercise turned into a book, but I thought it was refreshing and gentle and a nice thing to read before bed. He turns the mundane into the extraordinary. If my San Jacinto Book Club were still in existence, I would have loved to read it one month.

I remember once when I had first met Sam and my life was exploding into something bigger than I had ever experienced, I was crossing University Avenue on the corner where Kinsolving is. It was dark - I don't remember where I was going - and the streetlights cast just the right amount and angles of illumination on me that I had two shadows for the first time. My one shadow had grown up with me. I remember how excited I was when it finally had breasts in profile! The other shadow was new, a stranger I didn't know I had inside, outside, or on top of me. I wondered if one shadow was the good Amanda, the other the evil Amanda. Which was me-er?

This poem by Charles Simic reminded me of my second shadow. Will I ever really know my shadow(s) or my inner self? "The Inner Man":

It isn't the body
that's a stranger.
It's someone else.

We poke the same
ugly mug
at the world.
When I scratch,
he scratches too.

There are women
who claim to have held him.
A dog follows me about.
It might be his.

If I'm quiet, he's quieter.
So I forget him.
Yet, as I bend down
to tie my shoelaces,
he's standing up.

We cast a single shadow.
Whose shadow?

I'd like to say:
"He was in the beginning
and he'll be in the end,"
but one can't be sure.

At night
as I sit
shuffling the cards of our silence,
I say to him:

"Though you utter
every one of my words,
you are a stranger.
It's time you spoke."

-Charles Simic

Today I remembered an experiment I started doing when I first moved here. I wanted to put all the change I usually leave in the bottom of my bag or in my pockets aside and see how much I collected. I know I could save more money if I didn't cast away change like it was some stale Cheetos in some stranger's couch cushions.

There is one confounding variable in my experiment, though. When I'm at more leisurely places, like slow moving bodegas, I put all my change in the change pouch of my wallet.

That being said, here's how much I have after about a week and a half of really trying to do this experiment: Exactly $3. Strange that it's an exact amount...

In NYC, $3 can get maybe two rides on the subway. Perhaps only a single ride with some special transfer. (Most people who regularly ride the subways use weekly or monthly metrocards that run $24 and $70 something, respectively, so I don't know). For $3, you can go to my favorite neighborhood fruit stand and currently get five nectarines and five bananas. Woohoo! For $3, you can buy three cans of Coke at a newstand. For $3, you can get twelve New York Posts.

Alright. I should get my things together now. I'm going to go with Chen to Koronet Pizza and then head out to run some errands, which will cost more than $3 to do.

And yes, I have learned my lesson. Thank you.

I'm dating the one on the left. He's pretty nice.

Oh yeah, it was my two week anniversary of being in NYC all by myself yesterday. What was I doing to celebrate? Fixing bulletin boards, rearranging furniture, and pounding the pavement like I've lived here forever.

First of all, I must mention that I have immensely enjoyed getting email from pals old and new lately. Thank you to everyone who is reading my blog or who at least responded to ABME. (Of course, only those who read the blog even know they're getting thanked... Hmmm. I should write everyone back, and I will someday [not] soon when I have my classroom set up). I love an audience. More than having a record of a day's events to look back on, I like to think that someone looks forward to reading my writing. That's why I write.

And lastly, I'd like to thank the Academy...

My brain is so fried that earlier I was listening to my itunes playlist, but somehow thought I was listening to internet radio. I kept hearing all these songs I like, one after the other. I was really enjoying the "radio station," thinking I'd have to listen again. Chapter One: Public Education And Its Damaging Cognitive Effects.

Are you tired of reading that I worked on my classroom today for seven hours? I'm tired of doing it. Especially without air conditioning. I don't want to put together any complex sentences, literary devices, or wordplay tonight. I'm too dumb tired. What I will write is...

Everything I Wanted You To Know About My Job That I Forgot To Tell You:

Where I work: I.S. ###. I wouldn't want anyone I work with to ever google our school and have my blog pop up. Thus, know that I work in Harlem in a school divided into four different academies. I work in the legal studies academy.

What I teach: 8th grade Language Arts and one class of 8th grade Social Studies. I'm not certified in Social Studies, nor have I taken it much since I was in junior high. Does this worry me? Yes! Will I fake it and pretend to know what I'm doing, despite the fact that I'm learning along with the kids? Certainly. I also have a homeroom class.

The security of my school: It has guards, but it doesn't have metal detectors. I don't know how scary my students might be. My school is in a poor area near a low-income housing highrise. I wouldn't walk around the neighborhood at night.

The condition of my school: The outside of the building is a pretty typical NYC school, except it doesn't have razor wire anywhere. I'm not kidding about that in any way - most NYC schools have barbed or razored wire on some part of the school building. Bars on windows aren't uncommon either. My school has computers in every classroom, I hear, though I can't confirm that. My classroom has four computers, but only two work. One keyboard is missing most of its keys. The hallways are shiny and clean, but the classrooms are another story. I won't reiterate how much peeling paint or ancient graffiti is in my classroom alone. Most classrooms do not have an overhead projector or screen. Roll and grades are done on paper, not computer.

The rules of my school: They seem strict to me. Students are supposed to be given homework every day, even over holidays. Kids wear "uniforms" that don't really have to be tailored at all. The "uniform" policy was designed to work with the supply of a large dollar store in the neighborhood, while eliminating some competition over who wears Rocawear and who doesn't. Students cannot run errands for teachers and can never be left unattended. Students can only visit their lockers three times a day, instead of between every class. No one can wear a coat or jacket inside the building. Teachers must walk their homeroom classes out of school at the end of the day to prevent any school violence.

The academic performance of my school: My school was previously on the NYC list of failing schools. It was told that if it didn't improve test scores within a certain amount of time, it would be closed indefinitely. It was able to improve scores and stay open, but it still has a lot of challenges. Most students are below grade level in every subject, and many students are not native English speakers. Because of this, I'm prepared for some heartbreaking days in room 108. Also because of this, I can get a special grant for up to four years if I stay at my school.

The demographics of my school: I'd say about half African-American and half Puerto Rican/Dominican. Most of the administration is African-American. I am one of a few white teachers. There are no white students, so that's nice. I'll never be mistaken for a student again!

I want to become a great bargain finder in this city. So far, I have my trunk and office chair. Today I also bought a cute pair of shoes for $9. I telepathically sent this information to my sister who is telepathically high fiving me right now.

Behold, the shoes:

Between me and every decision I make in this city lay the 39 steps. Not the Alfred Hitchcock film, but the 39 steps I must climb to get up to and down from my apartment. Every day. More than twice.

I've never been a sedentary person, but I've never been an "I'll take the stairs" person either. I try and look extra relaxed and long on breath when I cross paths with joggers. You know, just to challenge them. I regard people who like to work out the same way I do say, people who collect old fingernail clippings. They are just weird to me.

Today I started out ambitious. I was prepared to take my wheeled cart (those things all real New Yorkers have that Carrie Bradshaw never had, scoff, scoff, scoff) full of school supplies to my school. The cart had strong, virgin wheels, and I had miles of pavement ahead of me. I was ready. By the time I got down the first flight of stairs of my walkup apartment, I started to rethink the idea. I slowly carried the cart down all the 39 steps and then down more and more stairs into the subway. Then I had to swipe my metro card, turn the turnstile, ahem the station attendant, wait for the buzzer, pull the service door, catch the train, pick up the cart, hold the cart, fold the cart, pick up the cart, walk down more and more stairs, etc. Stairs abound in NYC. I'd hate to be disabled, overweight, or arthritic here. Life would just be unbearable.

I arrived at the school to find that the one piece of furniture in my room that hadn't been claimed by a gang or damaged yet was now damaged. The once pristine table - my only hope in a classroom full of violently used desks and broken bookshelves - was cracked in a corner. Upon further inspection, it was also now missing a leg. O, mine amputee table, where hast thou beauty gone! I was ready to spit nails when I didn't know whodunit. But...I found out that my hope is still alive...in someone else's classroom. Yes, my pristine table was and is busy being pristine in some looter's classroom. Some of my nicer desks (you know, the ones with the less conspicuous "fuck you's") and chairs were also relocated. This was reported by the two custodians, who have since encouraged me to duke it out with the two "pain in the neck" teachers in room 136 and 137. My supervisor has announced that tomorrow we shall steal back what is rightfully mine.

I should be grateful that at least my decent furniture was stolen and replaced, but it was replaced with crappy furniture! The tripod table had to be thrown out. Now I have no overhead projector, no table, no bookshelves, no maps, and most unfortunately, no harmonica. Or guitar. Or violin. I did manage to accomplish a bit as far as arranging the room, but I can't do too much, because 1) I don't know what might or might not get painted, 2) I'm waiting for a package from Texas, and 3) I have no furniture. And guess what? No air conditioning.

In better news, I finished all the school supply shopping my $200 city allowance can cover. I took my cart to Staples and found that the stuff I needed was too big to fit into the cart. Some worker tied the biggest item, a stacked drawer set, to the top of my cart with twine. He actually asked, "Do you think we should go with knots or bows?" Gee, the bows would look darlin' while all my new supplies fall en route to the subway and then down onto the subway tracks where they break, causing a fire and the death of the 1 line, I thought. Knots, I said, for naught. I couldn't fathom even attempting to get my shimmying contraption on the subway. It was too heavy, too shifty, and too expensive. I'd have to walk it many blocks home and then cab it.

I actually made it from 80th to 98th wheeling an ever-shifting pile of classroom supplies through mud puddles and crunchy crosswalks. Of course, everyone and their yorkies had to get in the way of the cart, which has the maneuvering capability of a sedated sloth. I nearly ran over some elderly people and tourists. Oh, well. They should have heard me jangling from two blocks away. Let's not mention the grumbling each time I had to stop and readjust the load. I knew that if I walked anymore, I would end up breaking all my new school supplies or abandoning the cart in one rash moment. I couldn't make it back to my block. Fortunately, I found a nice cab driver who untwined my supplies, put them in his trunk, and drove me to Harlem for $7.

I basically dropped everything off and left the cart at school for the night. We'll see if it's replaced tomorrow with some lesser version of it. I'm thinking a backpack on wheels...with bows.