Today I emailed Sam with the following writing prompt: Tell me one random memory that you've found popping into your head lately. You don't have to know why you're remembering it, just share it.

Mine:

In first grade, I was in an ESL class because I was barely approved for promotion from kindergarten. This is because I didn't speak the entire year of kindergarten, so everyone assumed I was retarded, handicapped, or disturbed. My ESL class had all the kids who grew up to be the "dumb kids." I was the only one that later got tracked to G/T and went on to college.

Doug Holder was a kid in my class. In my memory, he is always tall and lanky with a predilection for country music, beer, and drawling. This couldn't have been completely the case in first grade - the boozin' prob'ly started 'round fifth grade - but my memory is my memory. There is something sexy about such a simple soul. I remember he would chase me around the playground, because he didn't yet know that I was a freckled, gangly anathema (and one of them damn liberals to boot). One time he panted and exclaimed in the sincerest admiration, "Where'd you learn to run so fast?!"

I was the comeliest kid in that whole town for a few seconds. I could see myself riding around in his pick-up truck and two-stepping for the rest of my life, at least until I got boobs and became a real girl. I primly replied, "It comes naturally." If I could have winked, I would have. But I couldn't do that...or effectively tie my shoes...or whistle...or snap my fingers.

I could only run.

Wallace: I think the kids like me. They ask me a lot of questions about myself.
Me: Like what?
Wallace: Like, "Do you like boys or girls?" and "Have you ever gotten someone pregnant?"

Ah, professional development. Nothing at my school is more of a joke than the hour teachers spend after school talking about "important" educational issues. A few days ago, the hot topic was, drumroll please, bulletin boards. Clearly, scalloped borders are more fun to talk about than that pesky problem of school violence that we have. Forget trying to get students to pass - let's talk about pastel papers!

So we did. Little do the administrators at my school know, I have a plethora of awards strictly for bulletin board decoration. Admitting this isn't even embarrassing. My bulletin boards, which honestly, were Sam's bulletin boards, were aesthetic, educational, and more mesmerizing than those mid-90's Magic Eye posters. I often found residents spaced out in the halls just gazing at the splendor that was my main hallway bulletin board. Had I had "meaningful interactions" with these residents, they would have professed their complete admiration...or maybe admitted to a drug habit. Conclusion: my bulletin boards were awesome way back when I had to decorate them, but I don't miss the task at all.

Tuesday was the Legal Studies academy meeting, which is always riveting. Ms. Hicks, a first-year teacher whose classroom is the depository for the WORST YOUNG HUMANS IN HARLEM, was given the chance to trade some of her horrible students with a different academy or to send overage students (like seventeen-year-old seventh graders) to a special school program in the South Bronx. She's hesitating and thinking and re-thinking - so many bad eggs to choose from! - and this took up most of the academy meeting. At some point, teachers must realize that not everyone will be saved. Not everyone wants to be saved, either.

The discussion became a Guess Who? game when Ms. B. described a large boy that has been pulling the plastic covers from the light fixtures in the hallway and a small, Chinese-looking boy that knocks and paces at her classroom windows 1,675, 436 times a day. It's funny how quickly the teachers could identify the kids after asking a few follow-up questions: "Is he bow-legged? Does he wear absolutely no fiber that meets the uniform dress code? Did he call you a 'white motherf*cker'?"

The academy dean cleared his throat at the exact same time he does each week and suggested we discuss another pressing matter - the holiday party the teachers are supposed to organize for the students.

Aww, hell naw!

Why do the bastards we teach deserve a shindig right before they're gone for a mere week of vacation? Can't we just let them out early instead? If I have to do this party thing, I'm going to have an invitation-only party room for the kids that are nice. Anyone want to be the bouncer?

It's freezing in here, and the radiator is off.

I fear that the second and third floors of the school will be like this today...again.

Eesh.

The students at I.S. 666 were relatively quiet on our first day back from the holidays. Of course, they'd still make anyone accustomed to sweet suburban kids crap their pants, but I don't think there were any fights or freakouts. Tomorrow, however, is another day.

An eccentric-looking man started showing up at school a few weeks ago. He has hipster hair that looks part Diesel ad campaign, part twelve-year-old outcast. I assumed he was a new math teacher to replace the previous new math teacher that replaced the previous new math teacher, all of whom decided that teaching basic subtraction to eighth-graders at I.S. 666 wasn't worth all the wear and tear on the soul. I then spotted hipster guy substitute teaching, so I assumed he was a new permanent, disrespected nomad. It turns out, he's a first-year teacher who's been bounced around between the Bronx and Harlem, and now he is a fellow A.I.S. person. Welcome to the best job at our low-performing school, pardner!

The guy's name is Wallace. He may become my latest partner in smartassery. Here are some blurbs from today:

Me: (talking to Karen) [Wallace] subbed in your room that day you were out and I pushed in.
Karen: Oh, that's right!
Wallace: Yeah. I was at that point where I was watching the clock. "Twenty-six minutes left, twenty-six minutes left..." The kids were not listening to a word I said.
Karen: Did Amanda help?
Wallace: She was walking around and talking to them. I didn't know who she was, but I wasn't going to ask questions.
Me: You thought I was an angel or something.

Later, I walked with Wallace and the Model to the train. We discussed the pros and cons of the A.I.S. position, which the Model held last year.

The Model: Once testing starts, you'll give sooooo many tests.
Wallace: It's better than subbing - that's like being a sacrificial lamb.
Me: Amen!

I've heard that today is the busiest shopping day of the year. Despite this warning, I decided to venture downtown to Christmas shop. I have a select few people to buy for, so I thought I'd get more done, but alas, I have more places to go.

I first went to Banana Republic to try and score free passes to an advance screening of Memoirs of a Geisha. I wasn't among the first twenty in the store, so I had to settle for Memoirs of a Yuppie. Oh, how I long to buy cashmere sweaters and smart mock croc heels! Everyone in the store was elegant, if sedate, and saying things like, "understated flirtiness" and "buttery soft." That or I was imagining the headless mannequins talking...again.

From there, I headed to Times Square, then the Q, and then Herald Square. I watched one of the windows at Macy's transform itself from a closed book to the skating rink at Rockeller Center, complete with precariously positioned skaters, gigantic snowflakes, and the huge looming Christmas tree. Sam could totally make a living creating these elaborate window dressings. He'd probably make them less cheesy, too.

My memory gets fuzzy at Herald Square. I followed hordes of shoppers and tourists around stores. People squeezed through crowded aisles, knocking store merchandise all over the floor. At some point, I gave up. I was not venturing down to Chelsea or the Village after this.

I came home and have just now awakened from some sort of holiday-induced coma. I was hoping I slept through December somehow, but no. I'm ready to try again tomorrow.

Kathy (the seventy-something woman who is the primary renter of my apartment): There's this other bar around here called the Ding-Dong Bar.

Me: The Ding-Dong Bar?

Richard and Kathy: Yeah.

Me: It sounds like a gay bar.

Kathy: Oh, it's not. But it's a lot of fun.

Man whose name I forgot: Kathy, whatchu doin' goin' to the Ding-Dong Bar?!

Kathy: I didn't go in. I read the sign. There were balloons outside.

By the the time my boots were clicking along the sidewalk again, the delicate piles of snow had melted from the cars parked along the street. The doorman of the building I can't afford to live in swept fallen leaves from the building's entrance to the curb. They crunched defiantly. "I'm sorry," he said when I passed. I don't know why - perhaps he realizes that I wish I could afford to have him ring up my guests and accept my packages. "But happy Thanksgiving!"

I walked all the way down Broadway in search of milk and cereal. The streets were quiet and cold. I wondered if everyone was inside still celebrating the holiday or if people were simply trying to keep warm. Gristedes was closed. I noticed "Open 24 Hours" etched on the door, but alas, it was closed. A man stood in the middle of Broadway screaming, "And you will all burn in hell - you who do not believe in Jehovah!" I've always thought hell would probably be bitter cold, rather than hot. Otherwise, it would be more Texas than hell, and Texas isn't so bad.

I bought milk and cereal for $7.50. I didn't know if I should slap myself or the guy at the bodega. I knew I'd spend the next few mornings rationalizing about my Frosted Mini-Wheats: "I do believe that these are the BEST Frosted Mini-Wheats I've ever eaten!" (Not just the most expensive).

The Witness yelled when I crossed the street and headed back to the apartment. He scanned the congregation - zipping cabs and small family cars packed with triptophaned drivers and passengers - and flailed his arms. On the other side of the street, a boy dragged a drunken man down the sidewalk. Passersby watched suspiciously in order to find out if the kid had killed the guy and was now making a shuffling getaway. He hadn't and wasn't.

My heels clicked down the street one last time. Icy winds found their way to the tips of my ears and fingers. You couldn't tell it had snowed at all. Or that burning in a fiery hell would be a bad thing.

Sadly, I'm feeling quite lonely right now.

Absence

On the scales of desire, your absence weighs more
than someone else’s presence, so I say no thanks
to the woman who throws her girdle at my feet,
as I drop a postcard in the mailbox and watch it
throb like a blue heart in the dark. Your eyes
are so green – one of your parents must be
part traffic light. We’re both self-centered,
but the world revolves around us at the same speed.
Last night I tossed and turned inside a thundercloud.
This morning my sheets were covered in pollen.
I remember the long division of Saturday’s
pomegranate, a thousand nebulae in your hair,
as soldiers marched by, dragging big army bags
filled with water balloons, and we passed a lit match,
back and forth, between our lips, under an oak tree
I had absolutely nothing to do with.

-Jeffrey McDaniel

Student: Ms. [my last name] looks all pimped out today.

Me: What do you mean by that?

Student: You all pimped out with those boots and that bling bling (pointing to my shirt).

Me: It's a brooch. How do I look like a pimp? I'm dressed up for work.

Student: (sighing) Not "like a pimp." Pimped out!

Another student: It means "cool"!

Student: Yeah, you fresh to death Ms. [my last name].

Me: Umm...thanks...

It's even funnier when the boys try to get me to do their ritual handshakes or whatever those are. I'm so wack, really.

*I meant to write about Media Day at school last week. It's a bit overdue, but funny/pathetic/sad. I've gotta share it!

So...people representing all sorts of media careers descended upon I.S. 666 last Thursday. It was supposed to inspire the kids to follow their dreams, make students realize that doing well in school is important, and help companies get rid of lots of extra promotional caps and keychains. Well, one out of three ain't bad.

I went to Ms. O's class to watch a presentation by an HBO representative. Laugh if you want, but I actually kind of dressed up for the event, because YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOU MIGHT BE ABLE TO NETWORK. I had on nice boots, a herringbone skirt, cashmere. One of the students saw me walk in and said, "Do you work for HBO?" Hmmm... Problem. "Actually, I pull kids out of your class three times a week, dumbass," I thought.

The HBO guy arrived in a nice suit. He was black, so that gave him an artificial rapport with the students for the first few minutes. One girl clamored for his attention. The others looked at him raptly. He introduced himself and explained that he does some kind of marketing work for HBO. He then asked students to feel free to ask questions related to media jobs and his work with HBO. The hands flew up.

"So...if I have illegal cable hooked up, what's the worst trouble I could get into?"

"Why can't HBO show the same movies the movie theatres are showing?"

"Can I be in a commercial for HBO?"

"Are you rich?"

"Have you ever met any rappers?"

Mr. HBO saw that the questions didn't progress his agenda, so he quickly indoctrinated the students with some network loyalty (never mind that most don't have HBO - they can only hope to aspire to such greatness) and plugged HBO on demand and Cinemax. He asked students if they had any favorite HBO shows. One boy said, "I love 'My Super Sweet Sixteen,' yo!" When he was told "Ahem, that's actually on MTV," he shrugged and went back to singing an Usher song not quite under his breath. The seventeen-year-old eighth grader that so wanted to be violated and have "public relations" with The Suit batted her eyelashes and cooed, "I like the one with the crackhos and the drug addicts. It's good." Way to impress the man, honey! The Suit squirmed and said, "You must mean our documentaries." The nubile ignoramus nodded, "Yeah, your documents."

So then a kid raised his hand and talked about where to score bootleg videos, thus making HBO and other premium movie channels obsolete. Others gushed about the crackhos. Jonathan, the most annoying boy in the class discussed the career ambitions he has all mapped out: "I'm gonna get drafted by the NBA, but...if that doesn't happen, I'll have a Hollywood acting career to fall back on." Call me a cynical beast, but I nearly fell out of my seat laughing. Jonathan, you're hardly over five feet tall! You're belligerent and can't work with other people. You refuse to do any schoolwork and can hardly read. Back that back-up plan up.

Sigh. Mr. HBO passed out HBO caps and wrapped up the presentation. When the bell rang, he fled back to his downtown world of rolling chairs and literacy and celluloid crackhos.

We have so much in common.

The food I can't wait to eat when I go home for Christmas:

my mom's quesadillas
my dad's teriyaki chicken
my dad's steak and chicken filets
my mom's chicken poppers
taquitos from Whataburger
my mom's spaghetti
fruit cups
cinnamon toast
snickerdoodles from Tiff's Treats
macaroni and cheese
if at all possible, my favorite meals from Chuy's and TXLC in Austin

Someday (maybe not so far from now), I will remember this picture, raise my face to a cloudy sky, thump my chest, and scream, "Woe! Gone are those days of sunlight and green! My world is an empty gray shell of frozen earth! How I rue the day the gods snatched the sunlight away from me!"

Then again, I might not be that dramatic about it.

YAWN!

It's cold. Truly cold now. And wet. And windy. I could curl up and go to bed right now, but I'm caught up in a comparison of the film and novel versions of Derailed...and then the sociological implications of the differences. Which is to say, I just want to read and think now.

Blogging will resume later.

Exciting news: I just found out it's supposed to be rainy and snowy on Thanksgiving Day!

I love precipitation, especially of the snowy variety. Bring on the flakes!

This is my 200th entry - someone get me a cupcake.

I slept late today, as Sundays are typically the only day each week that I don't have to go to I.S. 666 early in the morning. This upcoming week should be great, though. Three days of school and a four day vacation. Yay. I intend to spend the holiday thinking about a graduate program to which I might be applying, reading muchos libros de la biblioteca, and getting ready to do some Christmas shopping.

Today I walked to Riverside Park and collected autumn leaves. It was in the sixties -probably one of the last beautiful days of the year. There were so many dogs at the dog run, including three English bulldogs that live in my neighborhood. Be still, my heart! I want a bulldog in NYC to love. Anyhow, I brought the leaves back to the apartment and made an artpiece. By "artpiece," I mean that I arranged the leaves on the round table in my bedroom. It put me in a good mood.

My Thanksgiving plans are almost non-existent. I was invited to a family thing Kathy's doing, so I may get some of a meal, but I really don't like Thanksgiving food. I'm anti-pie and hardly eat turkey. I don't do cooked vegetables. It looks like I will be stocking up on food I actually like (Pillsbury cinnamon rolls, strawberries to make chocolate covered strawberries, cereal, etc.) and feasting between reading sessions. It's kind of exciting, but I still wish the holiday was long enough to warrant going home.

Today I learned that I can look at all the books on my NYPL reserved list. Did you know that I am 23 in a line of 183 people that want Barbara Ehrenreich's latest book? Any day now...

I re-read From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler last week. What a great book! Why hasn't anyone adapted this book for the silver screen? I realize that such an endeavor could be extremely disappointing, and the Met has changed considerably since the the book was written, but it's so clever and different. I am Claudia Kincaid.

"Claudia knew that she could never pull off the old-fashioned kind of running away. That is, running away in the heat of anger with a knapsack on her back. She didn't like discomfort; even picnics were untidy and inconvenient: all those insects and the sun melting the icing on the cupcakes. Therefore, she decided that her leaving home would not be just running from somewhere but would be running to somewhere. To a large place, a comfortable place, an indoor place, and preferably a beautiful place. And that's why she decided upon the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City...

She was bored with simply being straight-A's Claudia Kincaid. She was tired of arguing about whose turn it was to choose the Sunday night seven-thirty television show, of injustice, and of the monotony of everything."

* Hmm... I just looked up From the Mixed-Up Files and found that there is a movie of it that must have gone straight to video. Lauren Bacall played Mrs. Frankweiler.

I felt the need for a picture.



Abby likes the kinky stuff.

I used to joke with a friend in high school that some boys appeared to shop at Hoodlums R Us. In Hicktown, USA, wearing boxer-exposing jeans with their knee-chapping crotches was baaaaad. And doing it with an insolent smirk? Totally gangsta. Never mind that the same kid was in Ag class and showed pigs for 4-H. He was from da school of da hard knocks, yo. (Not merely Odem High School).

Now I know the kids at I.S. 666 have most of my old classmates beat. They can outcurse, outargue, outscream, outfight, outkill, outdriveteacherstosuicide, umm, I mean, some of them are baaaaad as in terrible, dangerous, scary. They are extremely immature emotionally, but think they're grown. Many of them were pushed into X-rated worlds long ago.

I wrote this parody of the Toys R Us jingle for some of my peeps at I.S. 666. It's supposed to be funny?:

I don't wanna grow up,
dat's some crazy wack shit.

Instead, I want some guns and knives
dat I can play wit.

Platinum chains, violent video games -
dem's the greatest things dat they is!

I don't wanna grow up,
though I have kids.

I don't want no mo
crazy wack shit!

Walk The Line with Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon as Johnny Cash and June Carter-Cash, respectively, does just that. It's extremely formulaic. In fact, in you saw Ray last year, you kind of already saw Walk The Line. Childhood traumas from humble beginnings, dramatic scenes of drug use, followed by jonesing, followed by painful soberings up, music of the legend performed by the actor-trying-to-become-a-new-legend (which Hollywood is all about - I mean, Meg Ryan is a kind of legend, if you think about it), the bad actors who play other famous musicians, it's all too much and really all too little. Everything was glossy and one-dimensional.

I did enjoy Witherspoon and Phoenix singing together, and especially loved Witherspoon going solo. I also loved some of her wardrobe. And...I really loved the Milk Duds. Those were great. In fact, you might want to buy Milk Duds, listen to Johnny Cash on your own, and wait for the movie to come out at video stores.

(You are totally free to disagree. After all, I'm the only heartless American to not weep and applaud after watching the schmaltzy piece of crap that is Ray...and I swear I even like Charles's music. I DON'T THINK JAMIE FOXX IS A GENIUS,THOUGH. YEAH, I SAID IT).

Should I share
the all of me,
the truth pouring
out like river water,
murky and unfiltered?

If I reveal my impurities,
promise you will still
try to soak in me,
what I am,
what you thought I was,
my solution
that is wrong and right.

Can you judge a girl by her stuff?

wallet
It's a rather well-made and convincing Louis Vuitton knockoff, but the coin pouch part of it has torn. Sometimes pennies slip out of it, which convinces me that I will lose tens of dollars if I don't get a new wallet soon.

hair-brush
It's a plastic, square paddle brush by Conair. Sam bought it for me when I lost my old hairbrush in some bushes while trying to pick magnolias out of trees. I am not making this up - the story is really that romantic.

toothbrush
A white brush with a pink grip stripe. It looks like it's been through the garbage disposal, because I'm a vigorous brusher.

jewelry worn daily
A claddagh ring with a sapphire heart, my college ring, and earrings of some sort.

socks
I don't usually wear socks. I wear pantyhose, tights, or go au naturel in flats or heels.

pillow cover
Two purple, one white.

blanket
I have a floral comforter that resembles a hotel room comforter, but is actually plush. I have a beige down throw, as well.

sunglasses
I don't have any.

underwear
Striped bikini style.

shoes
I wore stilleto-heeled beige boots that go up to just below my knee. Surprisingly, my feet don't hurt.

nail polish
Only on my toes - bright red.

handbag
Today I carried a Nine West black teacher bag.

keychain
A green beetle (yes, the insect) protected in a plastic mold. Otherwise, I have Mace, a library card, and a Duane Reade card.

computer
A Powerbook G4.

favorite top
I really have no idea. I love one black shirt that I wear under everything and with many different skirts.

favorite pants
My gray and pink pinstriped pants? Jeans?

shampoo/conditioner
I don't put much effort into my hair. I am using Tresemme shampoo because it smells good and comes in such a big bottle that it should last me until 2006.

perfume
Halo or Body by Victoria from Victoria's Secret. I don't wear perfume often, though.

cd in the stereo right now
I don't have a stereo. I use my computer, which has Fiona Apple's latest cd in it.

in the fridge
Water, grapefruit juice, milk, V8, grapes, and a partly eaten salami and mozzarella roll from Fairway.

television
A decent-sized RCA model with basic cable and a VCR.

stereo
n/a

telephone
I don't have a landline.

cellphone
A small Samsung flip phone.

what did i realize about me
My fascination with the mundane and trivial is riveting. I can't believe I think someone might be curious about any of this. Actually, I can believe it.

Me: I love listening to ironic music selections on my ipod while walking to school [from the subway] in the morning.

Bobby: Ironic, how?

Me: You know, like John Denver.

Bobby: [blank stare]

Me: "You fill up my senses, like a night in the forest. Like the mountains in springtime. Like a walk in the rain..."

*My senses are more filled up with the smells of exhaust and urine, the soggy weight of used tampons that occasionally litter the sidewalk, the scuff of trash blowing in the wind, and of course, disembodied voices screaming "HI, MS. [my last name]!!!!!" from the schoolyard.

I had a wonderful lesson with my Special Ed class today. We've been working on building their vocabularies and using context clues. We reviewed some words from previous weeks, but then the kids got challenged with two completely unfamiliar words - "amiable" and "redundant." They figured out what the words meant and were so into the challenge that I could barely write the words on the board, because they kept trying to sound them out and read them before I was done writing them.

I love that my Special Ed kids are willing to take risks in the classroom and aren't afraid to make mistakes in front of me or each other. There are two completely illiterate students that are in the class by mistake, but I love that I've never heard any kid in that class call another "stupid" or "retarded." We all have our challenges. Why hate? Regular ed students could learn a lot from Room 137.

My favorite sound bytes:

Rosetta: An example of a "trinket" is like...a piggy bank from the dollar store.
(This happens to be the exact same example I used last week when we discussed the word "trinket" and the numerous cheap knicknacks at the dollar store near the school. Yay, Rosetta)!

Darryl: [After using context clues to correctly guess what "amiable" means] I'm like a dictionary!

So...I have a survey I'd like all readers to participate in.

Chen, my housemate/fellow America's Next Top Model commercial break refrigerator sprinter thinks it's weird that Kathy, the primary renter/candle maker of the house insists that the lid of the toilet be put down when it's not being used. I have always been a toilet lid putter-downer. Chen insists I am abnormal.

The burning question: Do you put down the lid of the toilet once your business is done and you've flushed OR do you leave the lid up, allowing bathroom passersby to peek in and quickly check the contents of the toilet bowl?

Up and exposed OR down and concealed? Whose side are you on? Tell me!

P.S. I'll like you even if you're on the other team. Promise.

Goals for this week:

1. Stop fighting sleep. You're tired and you will be even more tired tomorrow. Go to bed.

2. Get a damn D'AG card already. You could have earned 345, 236 S&H Greenpoints from your Smart Food purchases alone.

3. Get more information about that sweet opportunity to make bigger bucks (not a pyramid scheme, an extension of a tutoring job).

4. Stop singing Gwen Stefani when exiting the subway. Really, stop now. "What you waitin', what you waitin', what you waitin' for?"

Today is report card conference day at school, so students got out of school at 11. Parents had been given bulletins asking them to visit their children's teachers from either 12-3 or 6-8:30. Parents and guardians must pick up the report cards and sign a bunch of paperwork, etc., etc. It gives teachers a chance to do something they've wanted to do for weeks on end - put a face to the blame. Blame as in, "So YOU'RE responsible for the creation and continued life of this creature?!"

I don't have a homeroom class anymore. In fact, I now teach three full ELA skills classes a week that don't count as graded courses. The rest of the time I work with students in small groups. (You know this already, right)? So...I have no parents I should see. I'd love to just happen to meet some parents of my former and current students. To rag or brag on their kids. Alas, after making a few rounds of the legal studies academy, I only saw two of my former students in the doorway of my old classroom. Kadijatu ran from the room and hugged me tightly. Edith stood in the doorway and said, "Come back! We hate this man," not quite under her breath. I saw how Mr. Patton has rearranged room 108 and I can't say I miss it. He and I were cordial, but I think he might secretly hate me for so easily giving up my old job. I took the autographed copy of From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler off the bookshelf, because I need one lovely parting gift from Room 108, don't you think? Besides, some student from long before I ever taught at I.S. 666 wrote her name in this autographed book! Such disregard for a collector's item!

I think I'm going to relax before I have to go all the way back to the school for Part II of The Most Tedious Day Of Work Ever, Not That I'm Complaining. Mr. Chen, the sweet but generally unintelligible AIS math teacher, has asked if I could help him go over chapter two of Pedagogy of the Oppressed tonight, since his English is so bad. I've agreed. No wonder he has a crush on me. I am too nice.

Profound apologies to anyone who wandered onto my blog today and found a porntastic picture. Previously, I took an image of a David Sedaris book cover from Google Image Search and pasted it into my blog for aesthetic reasons. The site that actually hosts the image isn't too fond of that, so my borrowed image essentially "self-destructed" into a gross picture and a message calling those who don't host their own pictures "a-holes."

I disagree. And ewwww...

That is all.

I really wanted to write something tonight, but I had to go to an orientation for a tutoring gig I have downtown, then I had to commute back home, then I talked to the Bobster for way too long, then I took a shower, and then I looked at the clock and it was 11:15. I'm a teacher - I need my brainy sleep!

It looks like there's a good possibility that I'll be watching The Producers (yes, the as-yet-unreleased movie musical with Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick) tomorrow for free...way before you get to see it, pals.

Tomorrow is the first day I get to wear my new galoshes. I'm excited, yet exhausted.

Goodnight.

The night that the RAs had their last staff dinner for the 2005 school year, the RA on-call for the South Tower found an abandoned Siamese kitten in the halls. Well, maybe not a kitten, because it appeared to be very pregnant. The tiny, starving cat was friendly and trusting, despite being blind in one eye. Lore, the South Tower HC, told the RA on-call to call the Humane Society or Animal Rescue Center or some organization that never showed up.

The cat was kept in a box on the patio. My dad had planned to drive to Austin the next day to help me move out of my room and to take most of my stuff back to Corpus. (I still had almost two weeks of staying in Austin to check residents out before me, not to mention graduation). It didn't surprise me when my dad decided to drive up that night, a day early unannounced. We hauled stuff to the car, and the pregnant cat started to follow us. My dad already has a soft spot for our Siamese cat, Tinker. This was another Siamese cat expecting more in a matter of...minutes, days? She was hugely pregnant.

He called her UT, and said he wondered if he could make it back to Corpus before she delivered any little Texas Exes. My dad took a risk and drove the cat home. UT gave birth two weeks later, before I graduated and moved back home for the summer. The kittens all live with different families in different areas now, but UT is still hooking 'em back home with my parents and sister.

And here she is... (UT's the one not wearing the diaper).

What I vow every time I go to the grocery store:

When I go home for Christmas, I'm bringing back as many boxes of cereal as I can fit into my luggage.

GROCERIES IN NYC ARE SOOOO EXPENSIVE!

My dad sent me this picture today. The pumpkin-headed guy with the front butt is a character my mom makes on the front porch every year. I think his name is Jack. Each year he looks less scary and more like your typical Wal-Mart shopper...but with a pumpkin head. Creeeepy.

My cousin Jessica still looks a bit frightened, though.

Q: What's been going on at I.S. 666 lately?

A: Well...I should probably start with the most recent incidents. Bobby's ipod was stolen by one of his students. He has his suspects, but unfortunately, no one's confessing or snitching. A mentally retarded girl went on a rampage in Karen's special ed class and 911 had to be called. Two of my former students, neither a prize pupil, had a big girl fight. I didn't see it, but I know that one girl pushed the other against a window so hard that it broke. Weaves were coming out, faces were getting scratched, it was on! Both were suspended and are now back in school. In one of the classes I teach on Friday, there was another girl fight that I had to break up. I barely pulled on one girl's arm and she stopped fighting. She didn't want to fight, but felt she had to save face by giving in to the prodding. The girl who instigated the fight between the two girls took video footage of it on her cellphone and kicked one of the girls in the ribs while she was down. It was disgusting and brutal. All NYC public school teachers have a new contract and will get an 11% pay increase this year. It should be more, but I'll take what I can get. Mr. Jones, one of the teachers that has always been very kind and helpful to me, decided to resign on December 2. I.S. 666 has already lost three first-year teachers this school year.


Q: What are you doing for Thanksgiving?

A: I'll be in New York at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I've been invited to two T-Day meals, but I don't have a lot of details yet. If you or someone you know is having a New York feast, invite me!


Q: How's the novel coming along?

A: Umm, about that, yeah... My novel is currently on the back burner for a lot of reasons. 1) I planned my novel when I was in a really bad situation at work, so the story was very dark. In a fortuitous series of events, my work life improved dramatically, so now I'm not so interested in writing something dark and depressing. I don't know what I want to write about, and I don't want to start a half-assed story with no point. I know NaNoWriMo is about quantity, not quality, so I feel guilty for being a perfectionist about it, but I am. 2) Instead of writing a lot, I've been reading a lot. Sue me. 3) I've been busy with work and visitors and having a life.


Q: Is there anything interesting that's happened that you forgot to mention on your blog?

A: Bobby and I met some guy from that VH1 reality show Kept on the subway. I don't remember his name. He's short. I was in line at Koronet one day and the guy behind the counter skipped me to help the person behind me. I'm not rude, so I didn't demand he take my order first, but I was miffed. Before I could open my mouth to place my order, he put the slice I always order in front of me and asked, "To go or to stay?" He knows me! I'm an official regular!

Heart and sole, I fell in love with you...

Sam and I are quite a pair.

I've had a really great weekend, and I still have one day left of it. I'm going to do brief synopses of the interesting parts.

Thursday:

The school week was done, because NYC public schools have Veterans' Day off. Thursday just happened to be the 100th birthday of Lombardi's Pizza in the Village. It is NYC's oldest pizzeria and one of the most famous. In honor of the birthday, pizza pies were served all day for five cents. I love a bargain, I love pizza, and I don't mind long lines. Bobby and I went downtown and waited in line outside for fifty minutes. When we were so close to the entrance that we could smell the pizzas, five preteen boys "mistakenly" came to the front of the line to cut. They lingered and were typical newly-pubescent kids. One obnoxiously called himself the "health inspector." Bobby's and my thoughts: You're going to need a health inspector if you even try to cut in front of us. I was ready to see Bobby go West Harlem on them, but we were finally welcomed into the restaurant and in minutes, seated at a small table. The waiter spilled my water all over the floor and my bag. Performers sang and clapped. The pizza was AMAZING. It's my new favorite pizza in the city. 32 Spring Street - go!

Friday:

When my parents visited, they tried to help me find some galoshes to wade the torrential sidewalks in. We never found any, but something amazing happened - my mom actually bought some shoes that she loved. My selfless mom has to be convinced to buy things for herself, but my dad and I didn't have to do much to get her to buy some pairs of beaded heels. I'd noticed that when she visited, she wasn't wearing mom jeans. She actually wore some bootleg, dark washed jeans that made her look bootylicious. Wow.

Anyhow, Fashion Plate went back to Corpus Christi, Texas and caused a stir with her stylish, yet sensible, shoes. Two women she works with wanted pairs for themselves. Guess who had to get them on Friday? Me. I braved the midtown madness to get all those pairs of shoes after doing some bargain hunting on the Upper East Side. I bought some new sweaters and patted myself on the back for being a good navigator. When I made it to Herald Square to buy the shoes, I already had one large shopping bag. Eleven pairs of shoes later, I had a heavy set of luggage to deal with on the trains I had to ride to get home. Anything in the name of fashion, I guess.

I called Bobby once I got home and massaged my aching arms. We made plans to see Derailed at the Loews Theater near Lincoln Center. We walked around the area and visited Urban Outfitters, the Gap, and Gray's Papaya. This was the second movie I've seen since I moved to New York. I hadn't been to a large theater or a mainstream movie in so long, but I was pleased with the experience. Derailed definitely emulates some Hitchcockian devices and themes. There's some really negative criticism about the movie, and honestly, I don't agree with most of it. I'm not a snob for the sake of being a snob. I want to have deep conversations with Sam about Derailed after he sees it tonight.

After the movie, Bobby and I headed to Barnes & Noble to peruse Christmas cards and flip through an interesting book of portraits. Bobby and I had the typical fun on the train ride home. He briefly burst out into song. I enraptured a European tourist. Fun stuff.

Saturday:

Bobby and I went to red Lobster where we both ate too much. We left feeling woozy. The buttery linguine sauce did it to me, whereas Bobby had nineteen too many pieces of shrimp. Or perhaps it was the Asian couple in the booth across from us sharing too much romance over some massacred lobsters. They were practically licking butter sauce off of each other's bodies. Gross!

From RL we went to Bryant Park to check out the ice skating rink. While my Texas readers are still wearing shorts and burning themselves with the metal buckles on seatbelts every time they get in a car, people in New York are ice skating. Suckas! The skaters weren't falling nearly as much as we'd hoped, so we watched for awhile and then decided to move on. We stopped at Ricky's and I found my holy grail - some FUNctional galoshes for the next time a monsoon hits. They are pink, green, black, and white with 1970's-looking flowers. They were $40, which is more than I expected for rubber boots. These had better last me until I die or planet Earth dies, whichever comes first.

Bobby has gift certificates for many different stores, so he bought a movie at Best Buy. We went into a Scottish cashmere shop, because Bobby thought he might be able to show me his family tartan. (Wanna see my family tartan? Heh, heh). Alas, the shop was an office consisting of shelves of sweaters wrapped in plastic. They were ridiculously expensive. We decided to head out and saw a refrigerator hear the elevator. We knew it must be part of the office, but it was right there. Bobby suggested I peek inside. I saw condiments and dirty dishes, neither appetizing nor incriminating. Before we got on the elevator, the secretary/cashier/woman filing her nails approached us and told us the refrigerator was not for customers. Ummm, okay.

After that wonderful experience, we walked down Fifth Avenue to look for Lord & Taylor with no luck. It was almost five, so it was nearly dark and by that time I was a carbohydrate zombie merely putting one foot in front of another as visions of cheddar garlic biscuits danced in my head. We boarded the commuter orgy that is the weekend 1 train and here I am.

They say you can buy anything in New York. There are stores that only sell clothing for dogs. Or stores that only sell cheese...or condiments...or condoms. (That one's called Condomania).

There are also slews of shops with really clever names or gimmicks, like the cabaret/karaoke bar called Don't Tell Mama. One of the musical numbers in the stage version of "Cabaret" is "Don't Tell Mama," get it? There are cleverer names I've seen, but I've now forgotten them.

And of course, there are innuendoes. Big, screaming, red innuendoes.

Bobby: I know we live in New York City, where there are tons of famous places to eat that you can only find in New York, but...

Me: Uh huh?

Bobby: It's Endless Shrimp at Red Lobster!

Me: [laughter]

Bobby: It's like the time we ordered Papa John's - it feels like home!

Me: I'm in.

Bobby and I are headed to Red Lobster today to experience home via shrimp and cheddar garlic biscuits. I love those biscuits. In NYC, Red Lobster is a huge multi-story, neon lit spot in Times Square. It has big backlit aquariums full of lazy fish that face the street. The trademark red lobster seems especially large and red.

When you walk in, there are a lot of teenagers on dates. There are also some large nuclear and blended families...sometimes of tourists with fanny packs and cameras, sometimes just with people who have ridden the subway down from Washington Heights for a special night. One is supposed to pretend that Red Lobster has no class, but those aquariums sure are impressive. And the shrimp?

Endless.

This writer/artist is not too shabby, either.

I absolutely adore David Sedaris. He's the dryly humorous and discreetly electrifying gay man I was meant to be best friends with. I love how I can think of mere phrases from Naked and laugh out loud. I love how I have heard him read his work in his phenomenally nasal and normal voice and thought, "Yes. This is THE man I will spend my life with. He seems so average, but his writing is saucy and smart and 'boo ya!' in its self-deprecation and irreverence."

I could sing his praises for days.

I'll read anything Sedaris recommends, because 1) we are best friends and 2) I trust him as a mentor and a person who appreciates good writing. Upon his recommendation, I read one of my favorite books - the jarring and sympathetic Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc.

So I just read Children Playing Before A Statue Of Hercules, the short story collection Sedaris edited. It's fabulous. I had read a few of the writers and stories already, but I was also exposed to some new ones. Sedaris included "Revelation" by Flannery O'Connor. I love her, too, Dave! BFF!

I'll admit this is getting more ridiculous with each word, so I'll stop. Read CPBSH (pronounced "cup bush").

HORNS UP:
- No Prep Academy on Saturday
- The leaves finally changing colors
- No school tomorrow because of Veterans' Day
- I reiterate, a three-day weekend
- The best pizza in NYC for $.5
- Media professionals from NBC, HBO, and MTV visiting the school on Thursday (Give me a job lead please)!
- Possibly getting two passes to the first screening of Walk The Line
- Casual Thursdays

HORNS DOWN:
- Sudden cold weather
- Breaking my watch at Koronet a few days ago
- Watching Ms. O suffer with her seventh-grade class

*It's been a good week.

I just got back from a great sojourn to the Village with Bobby. It involves $.5 pizza, competitive reality show contestants, and near fisticuffs with five teenage boys. I think I'll write more when Bobby emails me some pictures.

Today I found the first nasty comment left on my blog. Ahh, celebrity! It appears to be from some disgruntled high school classmate. It's so flattering to know that people from high school still remember me. I'm proud of that. The fact that some may still resent my success is unsettling, as it's been years since we attended school together. Oh, well. We all have to expend our energy somehow.

I wanted to briefly clarify a few points the comment brought up. Some food for thought for my fan:

"Hmm, Middle School Teacher? All that UIL actually led up to something."
My response: I credit much of my success in college to participating in U.I.L., not to mention that a U.I.L. scholarship paid for a significant amount of my college education. I wholeheartedly agree with you.

"You ended up a teacher, and [the class salutatorian] ended up an Architect. Sounds like he's no longer your runner up."
My response: Actually, the class salutatorian is still finishing an undergraduate degree in History so he can become a history teacher. I appreciate architecture, but no one can argue that teaching isn't just as important as designing buildings. I could go into an extended metaphor about how teaching is a kind of architecture, but I won't.

"Your location might have changed, but your still the small town honky with a small town background."
My response: While this comment has some major grammatical problems ("your" should be "you're," among other errors), I agree with this sentiment. I cannot escape my past, nor would I want to. Growing up in a small town nourished my mind and soul in so many ways. As for the "honky" part of my identity, well, of course I'm still white.

"Oh, btw, [a former classmate] turned into a damn good man. Too bad you could never see it over your upturned nose."
My response: You're right. I will live in total regret for the rest of my life. In fact, why keep living at all? WHY?????!!!!!

I really love public transportation. I love the communal experience, getting driven by someone else to where I need to go, and the thinking, reading, and listening that can be done en route. Today I was thinking of this old email I wrote to Sam back in the day, after riding the #6 in Austin:

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

On the bus I try to feel more. Sylvia Plath said that she was the "girl who wanted to be God." I really can't expect too much except to do well on my finals at this point, but...omniscience on my half-hour commutes wouldn't be so bad.

It's a sort of writing exercise without the pen and paper (of course, you can add those ingredients). When I was growing up, I looked at those few city buses in Corpus and longed to ride around one day...all over the city...with nowhere to go but inside the minds of other people.

It seemed so glamorous to me - to be without a car of your own or at least a ride from a friend or family member. In Corpus, public transportation is even more inconvenient with fewer stops and longer times between pick-ups. People who ride the buses in Corpus are always planning. It's an especially Puritan life with the polyester uniform-clad Grim Reaper behind a steering wheel asking for your change, your transfer, a show of id.

So when I ride the #6 I try to remember that this experience is more than a childhood dream. It is the cacaphonous lullaby of bundled up infants. The formative years are a stop-go-stop-go heaving.

It's the new town square. A town rectangle, if you will. The wobbly pillars of Eastside society gather to ask how so-and-so's mama's been.

The old preacher arches his brows and the saggy skin of his face flows with the tremor of today's voiceless sermon.

The balding lady who picks up her granddaughter from school every day speaks in the annoying tones one only uses after having learned English through "Tiny Toon Adventures" episodes.

The man in the fancy hat and faded black pants spends another fifteen minutes of our trip talking to the busdriver as smoothly as if he were driving HER around to where SHE wants to go...

*I don't think I want to be God - I don't like some of the fan club. I think I want to be Gwendolyn Brooks.

Today I was talking with a co-worker whom I'll admit I don't know well, but whom I had just had lunch with, and someone happened to mention career paths. I asked said co-worker if he planned on being a teacher forever and he said no. I asked if he had any other career goals in mind. He bristled at the question and refused to answer. It was really awkward. I didn't put him on the spot and he has no reason to feel any guilt trips or pushiness coming from me, so I don't really understand the sudden reticence. He went on to say, "I can't tell you. I barely know you. You're practically a stranger." He'd better already have started intensive secret agent training, because there's no reason he can't tell me he's going back to school to get an MBA or learn to cook or something.

Geez.

So many people at I.S. 666 are in transition. I know people who are in New York to be with a spouse or significant other. I know people who are teaching, because they just got out of college with a liberal arts degree and entered a program that enables them to gain teacher certification. I know older people who have been at the school since "before it got so bad." (Was this before or after the heyday of M.C. Hammer)? And there's me. I wanted to move to New York and "make a difference." It wasn't entirely a line, but yeah, I overestimated how much I could do with some liberal sensitivity and my B.A. in English.

Do people stay at low-performing, inner-city schools because they love to teach...or because they have no other options? Where do we go after this? Somehow I imagine leaving this environment will be easier said than done. I'll still have kid germs in my body, the overuse of the word "mad" in my vocabulary, and dreams - I mean, nightmares - about the stinkbombs, yelling, and substandard work.

I like the idea that surviving a year of this experience makes me a ninja of sorts. I know how to make do in an environment with scarce resources. I know all the right things to holla in a verbal altercation. I know how to sympathize with the downtrodden without excusing their insubordination or continuation in vicious cycles of violence, crime, and poverty. I know how bad it can get and how to laugh when it does. I know now, more than ever, how much I have flourished in my life, because of the family I have and where I come from.

But for now I am here with my self-conscious lunchmate and a bevy of other co-workers. We bob in the polluted waters of idealism, fatigue, and student loan debt. We don't know what's waiting us ashore - families of our own, a better school, an entirely different career path? But we bob, lost, but not entirely lost, in transition.

Some little known facts about me...

I'm an amateur interpretive dancer.


I dance to defend causes I believe in.


I intend to lay down that boogie and play that funky music 'til I die.

Arrived at school: 8:07 a.m.

School started: 8:30 a.m.

Thought to myself, "Wow, I haven't heard one f-word all day!": 8:50 a.m.

Heard the first of a day-long World War III attack of f-bombs: 9:06 a.m.

So today I received junk mail that didn't go to my junk folder. It was all about how I should celebrate Marriage Sunday on November 6 and vote yes on Prop. 2 on Tuesday to keep marriage out of the courts where it could be "permanently altered or perverted."

Umm... Too late for that, guys.

I have supported legal rights for gay and straight domestic partnerships for a long time. In fact, I spent a big chunk of my senior year in high school writing a paper supporting the legalization of gay marriage. (If that doesn't solidify one's position as nerdy, liberal would-be dyke at Odem High School, I don't know what will). So as you can see, I'm an old school, gay-loving, pro-choice, liberal, yo.

I won't rely on the old saw that gay couples have every right to get married and be just as miserable as straight couples. Marriage can be a wonderful, though challenging, endeavor. And maybe I should even pretend I think it's a sacred institution, but I won't. Elizabeth Taylor done tainted that notion.

Seriously, though, marriage is an individual legal and emotional act. I don't think anyone should talk about it as something with universal tendencies.

Oh yeah, and the piece of junk mail that inspired this post was sent a day late. I guess the conservative responsible for the mistake was just so excited about the exclusion of "alternative" types of love that he or she was hateful a day late. Oops. Too bad. Marriage Sunday has become Perversion Monday.

I have sad blog news. For whatever reason, the pictures I take with my iSight can no longer upload to Blogger. They are saved in .tiff format and perhaps I can convert them to .jpg format, but how?

"Help me if you can, I'm feelin' do-own.
And I do appreciate you bein' 'round..."

Sam's Visit (Condensed):


Tuesday:

1) Arrival:
Later than anticipated and scheduled. I curse thee, La Guardia Airport!

2) Eating:
Sam and I ventured to the library, which had just closed. Grr. We then headed to Koronet. (The picture is of a jumbo slice from Koronet. I have previously eaten a jumbo slice, but usually order a "small" slice, because I think it tastes better. "Small" slices aren't so small).


Wednesday:

1) Escorting:
Sam accompanied me to I.S. 666. He got a brief tour of the ghetto: "Umm, yeah. So here's the project housing near the school. Notice the garbage and the bodegas. Oh, look a bloody finger!"

2) Exploring:
Sam ventured downtown while I educated America's youth. He left me waiting for him at 3:00, because he got on the wrong train and ended up in Queens. I pretended to be mad, but got over that fairly quickly. We ended up walking around Riverside Park and talking once we were reunited.

3) Making Mistakes:
I was really over his little mistake when I led Sam to the Upper East Side to go to a comedy show Chen and I went to once. It took forever to get there and the show isn't on Wednesdays. It's on Tuesdays. We learned this when no one was at Merrion Square Bar laughing at comedians. Oops.

4) Walking:
Sam and I explored Times Square instead. We went to the Swatch store and I can't really remember what else. The next day was our big day together.


Thursday:

1) Eating:
Sam insisted I try Sal's Pizza in the East Village. I will admit here and now that Sal's has much better pepperoni pizza than Koronet. It also has a nifty bar that allows one to watch pizza dough being tossed and put into the oven. Go to Sal's sometime. It's good.

2) Watching:
Sam and I went to the Angelika to watch The Squid and the Whale and myriad intense and beautiful previews for upcoming films. TSatW gave us a lot to talk about. We also learned that the Angelika doesn't offer discounted matinee tickets. That's disappointing.

3) Walking:
The Village to the Lower East Side to Soho to Chinatown to the Financial District. We walked and walked and walked.

4) Shopping:
Sam indulged me and helped me follow directions for a thrift store expedition. I only visited one store on the Upper East Side, but I had a great time. We also shopped at boutiques and different stores to look at clothes. I bought a shrug to go with the American Apparel tunic Sam bought me on Wednesday.

5) Eating:
Uno's. It was "not bad." Read: not great. Oh, well. I had steak and fries. Sam had steak and shrimp. We had Ben and Jerry's for dessert.

6) More Watching:
There's nothing like Office Space at the end of the day...or before another day of work.


Friday:

1) Exploring:
Sam went back downtown while I was at work and bought some jeans and a shirt. He actually met me on my stoop when I got home from school. Queens isn't that great, huh?

2) Snacking:
We've decided I eat Smart Food like a sloth.

3) Browsing:
Sam wanted to go to Williamsburg, Brooklyn to see a Steinski show. Apparently, Steinski is an originator of hip hop. Williamsburg is quite the hipster haven, so we spent time at the world renowned vintage/resale shop Beacon's Closet. It was everything I hoped it would be - large, well-lit, and crowded with reasonably priced clothing and accessories. I'll be going back. We also headed to the not-as-impressive, but friendly, Rejoice.

4) Breaking Bricks and Collecting Coins:
Sam wanted to visit Barcade, a Williamsburg bar that offers a vast selection of beers and has 1980's video game machines. Beer and Tetris - what a combination! I had a Salty Dog, he had some kind of special beer, and we played Super Mario Brothers 1. It was a lot easier to play the game back when I didn't consume vodka while doing so. Heh. Barcade was a lot of fun.

5) Eating:
We needed to eat, so we had breakfast for dinner at a diner. I really have nothing else to say about that...

6) Steinski...or Not:
We listened to different djs at Triple Crown. Steinski was hanging out, but wouldn't get his butt behind the turntables to start performing already. We headed home.


Saturday:

1) Eating:
West Way Cafe. Sam had a feta and spinach omelette. I had Belgian waffles. We watched dogs getting walked down Broadway. I got Haagen Daz for dessert, because Sam thinks I'm cute.

2) Packing:
I took pictures around my bedroom while Sam packed up.

3) Departure:
Sam left too early for my liking. I had a great time and can't wait to see him in December.

Another sigh, get ready.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

After Sam left for the airport, I went to the NYPL to pick up some materials I reserved oh so efficiently online. I picked up my short story collection, cd, and cd score. I then decided to go to Barnes & Noble and do what I occasionally do there. Not get books - no way, that's what the library is for. I go to read magazines for free. Not just any magazines, either. I typically read the celebrity worshipping/bashing magazines with sections like "Stars: They're Just Like Us!" I never doubt they are (okay, well sometimes) and I promise I'm not that shallow, but I do it because Domino Perez, my professor for Gender, Class, and Ethnicity in American Literature and Film said it was okay and even academic. Pop culture fascinates and disgusts me simultaneously.

That exposition was entirely too long. Anyhow, I passed a Columbia-owned building and learned that many great modern female writers who are Barnard alumnae will be speaking and reading tomorrow. Edwidge Danticat, Anna Quindlen, Jhumpa Lahiri, Erica Jong, just to name a few. I wish I could go! I've learned about this awfully late, though. If I were a Columbia or Barnard student, I could have gone to the welcome for free. Many panels are now closed, too and I'd have to pay to get in. I cannot learn about another opportunity like this too late. I have to read the Columbia Spectator from now on. It's a vow.

On the right: The poetic Ms. Danticat. I spent hours writing a paper comparing her story "Children of the Sea" to Shakespeare's "The Tempest." We belong together!

Sigh.

Sam has left the city now, and I'm back to the days of library books and blogging. There's nothing wrong with that, I enjoy my alone time, but it all ended so quickly! And now I have to catch this chronicle up and write all about Williamsburg, the best pizza in the East Village, and such.

I'll be back.

I have a good connection with a few of my comrades at I.S. 666. Most people who stumble into a teaching job at any inner-city middle school 1) quit, 2) pretend that they're okay with all the suffering and injustice, or 3) suddenly become experts, claiming they know what the fix should be, though they stay afloat in a very flawed system (that they could definitely repair if given the chance, mind you). My comrades and I fit none of these typical descriptions. We're the smartasses. We are truly smart and can teach, but we don't often get to. We've adjusted to an environment drastically different from all we have previously known. We care, but our sense of humor is really the shield that deflects the bullets. Until...? Until we move on.

I recently read Brief Intervals Of Horrible Sanity: One Season In A Progressive School by Elizabeth Gold and I can't applaud enough how hysterically funny and true she tells it. Gold worked in a charter school in Queens and dealt with the violence, apathy, and ineffective administration that I call my day job. In a critique, author William Finnegan asked, "How many books about public education are lyrical, painful, deeply discouraging, and very, very funny?" Not enough!

It's not that I'm complacent, but like Gold writes, I know there aren't easy solutions. If my school suddenly acquired an office for teachers to send troublemakers to, how would it make up for the fact that it's not as safe for students to be suspended from school as it is to have them in school? Sure, they terrorize the school, but they also live in dangerous neighborhoods. Just because we might someday have an administrator who calls parents when students get in trouble, doesn't mean that suddenly parents will have phones at home...or speak English...or even care.

Sigh. Gold doesn't call for action or make herself look like a hero for setting foot inside a classroom. Instead, she taught for her season and never went back. She didn't feel she was effective and I don't think she did all she could have done, but I relate to her. Like my comrades and me, she laughed to keep from crying.

Here are some of my favorite parts of the book:

"When Sammy Morales gets his book, he starts flipping through it, looking for something pornographic, and once he discovers that The Story of O was left out early in the selection process, he realizes that if you hold up your book and point to pictures, and laugh lewdly as if they were pornographic, they become pornographic. 'Heh heh heh,' he laughs, pointing to an alligator, and at the sight of an author, looking sensitive, he is almost on the floor. Most of the other boys join him."

[At professional development] "Inhibitions are meant to be broken down, like jalopies. And here we have a member of Theatre of the Oppressed to help us do it... Does anyone else see the comedy in this? Or am I so barnacled over in cynicism I am the only one? As far as I'm concerned, every day in Room 313 is the Theatre of the Oppressed, and I don't need any experts to show me the way."

"'You know,' I say, 'I've been offered a job somewhere else, and I'm thinking of taking it' Tom's face changes, and I suddenly understand the obvious: they do not want me to leave. Yes, they know it's chaos in there. There's screaming and crying and hitting and God knows what all, and some of that screaming and crying emanantes from me, but it is March, and I am the fourth teacher in there, and frankly, I could smear my body with excrement and start speaking in tongues and at least until June, anyway, they would do anything to keep me."

"When I stumble out that afternoon, Alex, the music teacher, is sitting outside the school in a folding chair, sunning himself. He would be attractive enough if he didn't spend half his time looking as if he were posing for Edvard Munch's The Scream. But today he seems strangely relaxed. Could it be drugs, and where did he get them? 'Burnt out already?' he says. 'When I can't cope, I show a movie. Sometimes I show a few movies a week. Hell, I'd show movies five days a week if I could.' Okay, why not? I'll become the kind of teacher I used to mock who sits there in the dark, taking deep breaths - could she be sleeping? - while the movie rolls."

On bad apples: "I suppose it is undemocratic to just wish these guys would go away, but I am not the only one wishing it. In the week they are gone, the students who formerly did nothing find themselves working, participating, being nice."

"'Oh,' says Cindy, 'we're going to tear this school down.' She nods, sagely. 'I'm going to call The New York Times. I know people there. They'll be very interested in what's going on here.' Yes. I can see it now. Banner headlines: Seventeen-Year-Old Ninth-Grader, Does Nothing and Fails Class, Unhappy With Bad Grades."

"As Leon suggested, I am barraging my students with work - puzzles, vocabulary exercises, open-book exams so easy you'd have to be dead to get them wrong:

Mrs. Maloney takes deep breaths because
a. she is anxious
b. she is nervous
c. she has lungs
d. all of the above"

This excerpt is not so much about teaching as it is Gold's identity crisis when she begins teaching, and it's nothing like she thought it would be. Amen, sister!:

"...There's this girl I keep running into. I can't get away from her, as a matter of fact. She is myself, of course. Who else? Far more real to me, at least here, than the adult self who replaced her. Any second now, it seems to me, my mother will be calling me to supper, and at my height of adolescent ungraciousness, I'll be snapping, All right. I'm coming... There she is: plump, ungainly, prickly, secretly terrified, and even more secretly romantic. Oh, I should take her in hand, tell her to go to the gym and study harder for the math test, win friends and influence people, present her to my hairdresser, Monica the Hair Goddess, why don't you do something with yourself for a change, stand up straight, stop moping? But she's not interested in listening. She pushes her long hair, her pride and joy, out of her eyes, before it flops back again. This is not what she planned. That she should run into me here, when I should so obviously be sitting in a cafe in Paris having witty repartee with a witty handsome French person, or snowshoeing up to the North Pole, hasn't she penciled in her agenda, Tuesday, in the Year Whatever: Adventure. Glory. Art. Romance? "What," she gasps, "are you doing here?"