I don't know many people who operate without a sense of the ideal. The perfect scenario in many contexts, the elusive and mostly unreachable dream. Most people have some sense of this whether it be in the context of friendships, romantic relationships, family, career, or life in general.
I may think about ideals more than most people. I don't really know- it isn't exactly a frequent topic of discussion. Regardless, I have an ideal situation in my head for many parts of my life. And I know that the vast majority of details in my dreams will not become reality, and this allows me to feel comfortable dwelling in these thoughts.
One particularly developed ideal is my classroom. This is something I have been creating and shaping and forming for a few years now, and I was certain. Like so many other elements in my life, I was completely confident in what I wanted, and not very open to the chance that this might change. And like so many other elements in my life, I feel like God or karma or fate (pick the one you believe in :) just swiftly kicked me over. And upon falling and hitting my head, I was exposed to an entire world I never dreamed of.
I used to imagine my classroom in an old building, somewhere in the heart of the city. "Urban education" at it's finest, with rough kids and limited resources and demographics that left me in the minority. I really like the culture of different cultures, and especially in the city. My classroom would be filled with hope of a better life and experiences that thrill the heart and inspire the mind. I would have books that drew students into exploration and a uniformed sort of chaos in my classroom decorations. The classroom would feel warm, complimented by items of comfort and assurance like soft chairs and lamps and music. I have arranged seats in a way that allows for collaboration and individuality at the same time. There are centers that focus on writing and reading and math and science and social studies and friendship and growth. I display student work with pride and create opportunities in the classroom for students to connect with each other and discover themselves as a unique person. My classroom is colorful without being too bright- one continuous theme that clutches the room. And so we grow together.
This is my ideal. I used to think that things would be easier if I could just snap my fingers and find myself standing in this situation, completely ready to take on the world. I would dream of the day that I could make this come true- work with my hands and use my resources and pour time and energy into such a place.
My Romanian classroom is very likely not going to fit with this vision. I won't be teaching all of the subjects, and I certainly won't be in a Chicago neighborhood confronting poverty and rejecting stereotypes. But I will be reveling in another culture. And I can create in my classroom opportunities for growth and friendship and collaboration and individuality and inspiration and excitement. I can develop an environment of warmth and trust and risk. I can be an awesome teacher outside of my comfort. I can become someone who grows and develops friendships and collaborates and finds a deeper sense of individuality and seeks inspiration and experiences excitement. And I am quickly becoming convinced that this is the best thing of all about this jump outside of the ideal.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
A Long Time
During a recent conversation with a friend, I commented that a year "really isn't that long." I believe that I was trying to talk myself down a little bit, to backtrack my justifications for wanting to say goodbye to people. I mentioned all of the friends I wanted to see one last time, and then thought about the drama of my words- leading to the remark about a year really not being that long. In the grand scheme of life, a year isn't that long.
She replied "yes, it is."
And she is right. I know that a year, 365 days, 52 weeks- it isn't really a huge deal. It may seem like a long time, but people look back on entire years of life and think "what was I doing?"
But THIS year, these 365 days, these 52 weeks. They are a huge deal.
Just saying.
She replied "yes, it is."
And she is right. I know that a year, 365 days, 52 weeks- it isn't really a huge deal. It may seem like a long time, but people look back on entire years of life and think "what was I doing?"
But THIS year, these 365 days, these 52 weeks. They are a huge deal.
Just saying.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Vague Sense of Home
My life, especially in the last four years, has been incredibly transient. I have little sense of home anymore, resulting from the various places I have resided and become comfortable and felt at ease.
There is my childhood home in rural Michigan with all of the charms and frustrations of small-town life. This is my family home, the place I am familiar with, the location of my childhood memories.
There is my college home in central Indiana. Anderson was for me a place of discovery and growth and connection. It is the place I associate with my closest friends, and the development of self-knowledge and some sense of actualization in life.
And then there is Chicago. It represented my future, the person I wanted to be, the progress in life that I wanted to make. It was here that I thought I would find all of myself, or at least the rest of myself that seemed to be missing. After a year, I learned that a place, no matter it's draw, cannot completely sustain me.
I thought I was completely happy and content. I felt more at home here after two months than I did after 18 years in my hometown, and I was convinced for a very long time that I would stay here regardless of the career prospects. I am currently anticipating my departure from Chicago with some sense of urgency.
Things change, as they are naturally inclined to do in the life of a post-college, pre-career, unsettled person. I DO still want to settle here, I think- but a year somewhere else sounded really great too. Settling is not something I am ready for right now, anyway. Currently, this is the last place in the way of Romania. I have to leave this place before I can go. I will spend two crazy weeks at home, visiting Indiana and Marquette where my brother will go to college, and then I will return to this city as a visitor, driving straight to O'Hare and depart for another home.
When does the concept of "home" become more solid that it's current shade of vague?
*Update on neurosis* Every single dream I had last night was about greasy hair. I am currently researching strategies for preventing greasy hair, just a little problem I have that is completely managable. Totally unimportant in my everyday life, but still something I am trying to control. All in anticipation of traveling and the possible lack of shower opportunities during our first week in Bucharest. A WEE bit obsessive, no?
There is my childhood home in rural Michigan with all of the charms and frustrations of small-town life. This is my family home, the place I am familiar with, the location of my childhood memories.
There is my college home in central Indiana. Anderson was for me a place of discovery and growth and connection. It is the place I associate with my closest friends, and the development of self-knowledge and some sense of actualization in life.
And then there is Chicago. It represented my future, the person I wanted to be, the progress in life that I wanted to make. It was here that I thought I would find all of myself, or at least the rest of myself that seemed to be missing. After a year, I learned that a place, no matter it's draw, cannot completely sustain me.
I thought I was completely happy and content. I felt more at home here after two months than I did after 18 years in my hometown, and I was convinced for a very long time that I would stay here regardless of the career prospects. I am currently anticipating my departure from Chicago with some sense of urgency.
Things change, as they are naturally inclined to do in the life of a post-college, pre-career, unsettled person. I DO still want to settle here, I think- but a year somewhere else sounded really great too. Settling is not something I am ready for right now, anyway. Currently, this is the last place in the way of Romania. I have to leave this place before I can go. I will spend two crazy weeks at home, visiting Indiana and Marquette where my brother will go to college, and then I will return to this city as a visitor, driving straight to O'Hare and depart for another home.
When does the concept of "home" become more solid that it's current shade of vague?
*Update on neurosis* Every single dream I had last night was about greasy hair. I am currently researching strategies for preventing greasy hair, just a little problem I have that is completely managable. Totally unimportant in my everyday life, but still something I am trying to control. All in anticipation of traveling and the possible lack of shower opportunities during our first week in Bucharest. A WEE bit obsessive, no?
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Control
I have what some professionals might call a "control" issue. I'm not sure where exactly it comes from, but it sometimes creates problems. And by sometimes I mean pretty frequently. And by issue, I just mean that I like it.
I like control. I like having control, I like being in control, I like taking control. And because of this, I live in fear of being a "control freak." I know the part of my personality that lies deep within, and I smush it down farther and farther. I don't want to be that person, that overbearing, over-intrusive, constantly annoying person. THAT is something I do not want to be. So I make choices.
I chose a career (none of this "career chose me" bunk- I am in control :) which most people think is about control, but really is not. Teaching is not about control. There are some aspects of the job that may seem this way- but when it is really fleshed out, teachers shouldn't have control. Controlling a classroom is not something I want to do. I like to think that I can create order in any situation. I can quiet a classroom and engage minds and draw attention. But is there anything more beautiful than the organic process of learning in a classroom? The natural, inspiring, uncontrollable movement of thought and energy and resource into the very being of a little person? Friends, there is nothing more pure- and so I chose a career where control is something to be shaken off.
I have relationships that I have no control of. Certainly I have input and insight and choice in relationships, but I consciously choose to interact closely with people in a way that allows me to be passive. I can practice not being in control, and these people temper my spirit and ground me. In a desperate attempt to keep them close I change little bits about myself. I become better as a person, more balanced and whole, when I work on the loss of control.
For someone who is still in complete control even of the practice of being uncontrolled, I am pretty proud of myself for what I am going to do next year. The plan thrown out the window (or at least filed away neatly in the "save for later" folder), I am abandoning my control issues and living as an unreserved person! I will be spontaneous and fun! I don't care that I have no information on where I will be living! All cares are in the wind when it comes to packing! I have no problems with my lack of information concerning my classroom or students! It matters naught that I don't even know what my salary will be! I will be a free spirit, moving where the winds of fate take me! RIGHT.
I push the control down farther and farther. And sometimes, the pressure is just too great, and I crack, and teeny bits of me leak out.
Don't worry. I try not to let the control seep onto other people. I keep my messes pretty much to myself. But a mess I am. Here are some things I am currently trying to have control over:
1. How much sleep I will/will not get on the plane. My mom pretended to fall asleep when I talked about this today. Nothing like that to show you the true importance of such matters. Is this truly something I should spend time thinking about? Probably not. But still my time is filled with thoughts of how long the flight is, and whether or not I should stay up the night before, and if I should take a sleeping aid, and how groggy I will be the next morning, and how terribly embarrassing it would be TO take a sleeping aid and do something stupid in a state of deep slumber, and, and, and...
2. Lesson planning. I KNOW that I don't have any idea what I will be teaching. But do I still have a lesson plan all ready for the first... um... month of school? Yes. Do I know I will have to scrap these plans? Yes. So long as I know, right?
3. Arrival to airport. We are 4 weeks and 4 days away from my departure. My parents will be dropping me off at the airport in Chicago. No, I haven't looked up our airline approximately 12 times. No, that wasn't me who searched the international terminal website, despite having flown through the EXACT terminal twice in the last 15 months. No, I certainly did NOT mapquest directions to an airport located IN THE CITY that I have called home for a year. No, it was not me who created contingency plans in the case that the car breaks down.
4. How I will look during travel. This one is particularly ridiculous. Spending time reading tips and techniques for how to "stay fresh" during international travel is probably a little bit absurd, right? Yes.
5. Boredom on the airplane. I have 4 times flown over the Atlantic Ocean and never once died of boredom. In fact, I don't even recollect being bored. So please explain to me the countless internet searches regarding "how to survive a long-haul flight." Please explain the thought and energy I am putting into what books I am going to bring and letters I can write and music I can listen to.
6. My personal life. Haha. Hahahahaha. Hahaha.
Control I want, and control I have none of.
Brought to you be the word of the day: control.
I like control. I like having control, I like being in control, I like taking control. And because of this, I live in fear of being a "control freak." I know the part of my personality that lies deep within, and I smush it down farther and farther. I don't want to be that person, that overbearing, over-intrusive, constantly annoying person. THAT is something I do not want to be. So I make choices.
I chose a career (none of this "career chose me" bunk- I am in control :) which most people think is about control, but really is not. Teaching is not about control. There are some aspects of the job that may seem this way- but when it is really fleshed out, teachers shouldn't have control. Controlling a classroom is not something I want to do. I like to think that I can create order in any situation. I can quiet a classroom and engage minds and draw attention. But is there anything more beautiful than the organic process of learning in a classroom? The natural, inspiring, uncontrollable movement of thought and energy and resource into the very being of a little person? Friends, there is nothing more pure- and so I chose a career where control is something to be shaken off.
I have relationships that I have no control of. Certainly I have input and insight and choice in relationships, but I consciously choose to interact closely with people in a way that allows me to be passive. I can practice not being in control, and these people temper my spirit and ground me. In a desperate attempt to keep them close I change little bits about myself. I become better as a person, more balanced and whole, when I work on the loss of control.
For someone who is still in complete control even of the practice of being uncontrolled, I am pretty proud of myself for what I am going to do next year. The plan thrown out the window (or at least filed away neatly in the "save for later" folder), I am abandoning my control issues and living as an unreserved person! I will be spontaneous and fun! I don't care that I have no information on where I will be living! All cares are in the wind when it comes to packing! I have no problems with my lack of information concerning my classroom or students! It matters naught that I don't even know what my salary will be! I will be a free spirit, moving where the winds of fate take me! RIGHT.
I push the control down farther and farther. And sometimes, the pressure is just too great, and I crack, and teeny bits of me leak out.
Don't worry. I try not to let the control seep onto other people. I keep my messes pretty much to myself. But a mess I am. Here are some things I am currently trying to have control over:
1. How much sleep I will/will not get on the plane. My mom pretended to fall asleep when I talked about this today. Nothing like that to show you the true importance of such matters. Is this truly something I should spend time thinking about? Probably not. But still my time is filled with thoughts of how long the flight is, and whether or not I should stay up the night before, and if I should take a sleeping aid, and how groggy I will be the next morning, and how terribly embarrassing it would be TO take a sleeping aid and do something stupid in a state of deep slumber, and, and, and...
2. Lesson planning. I KNOW that I don't have any idea what I will be teaching. But do I still have a lesson plan all ready for the first... um... month of school? Yes. Do I know I will have to scrap these plans? Yes. So long as I know, right?
3. Arrival to airport. We are 4 weeks and 4 days away from my departure. My parents will be dropping me off at the airport in Chicago. No, I haven't looked up our airline approximately 12 times. No, that wasn't me who searched the international terminal website, despite having flown through the EXACT terminal twice in the last 15 months. No, I certainly did NOT mapquest directions to an airport located IN THE CITY that I have called home for a year. No, it was not me who created contingency plans in the case that the car breaks down.
4. How I will look during travel. This one is particularly ridiculous. Spending time reading tips and techniques for how to "stay fresh" during international travel is probably a little bit absurd, right? Yes.
5. Boredom on the airplane. I have 4 times flown over the Atlantic Ocean and never once died of boredom. In fact, I don't even recollect being bored. So please explain to me the countless internet searches regarding "how to survive a long-haul flight." Please explain the thought and energy I am putting into what books I am going to bring and letters I can write and music I can listen to.
6. My personal life. Haha. Hahahahaha. Hahaha.
Control I want, and control I have none of.
Brought to you be the word of the day: control.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
A Short Letter
Dear Lady Who Made My Day,
Could you BE any more pretentious? Standing at the bus stop like you own the world, dressed in an outfit straight off the cover of Vogue (the kind that no one actually wears), sporting designer shades and a blond blow-out that probably cost your stylist his sanity this morning. You are laden down with bags from every glamorous store on the Magnificent Mile, and looking angry about it. You pulled your cell phone from your weird, ugly purse and spoke into it with a fake accent and the hallmark phrases of one schooled in snobbery. You discussed the ridiculous impertinence of the salespeople at Neimen Marcus and the trials of having to wait for the awful bus- "this city just doesn't know a thing about style." Snapping it shut you shielded your eyes from the sun (because designer sunglasses apparently don't work that well) and looked up the street impatiently, as if you have some kind of GPS tracking device and the bus pulls up to wherever you are. You pulled a fan (YES, an actual fan) from your bag and delicately wafted the breeze over your face, until it clearly disturbed your bangs enough to be unacceptable. With a huge sigh of exasperation, you rolled your eyes at me, as if we share this moment in terrible agony together.
Friend, we have been waiting for the bus for approximately two minutes. So I smile back at you, thinking of the times I have waited at the 47th Street Station for, um, longer than two minutes. Like, forty-three minutes longer than two minutes. You seem to think that we are friends as you shift closer to me at the stop, and you say "I just hate taking the bus. It is so dirty!" I try not to grimace at many things: your pitiful attempt at conversation, the fact that this route is just about the nicest and cleanest of ALL the bus routes, and the whine in your voice that I don't tolerate from a 6 year old. And then I begin to laugh because many things happen all at once.
Pigeons swoop down from the sky, dive bomb your fantastic Valley Girl hairstyle, and you scream and duck. A very eclectically dressed homeless man (or woman) approaches, smelling just fantastic- you recoil in horror. And a little grubby child runs straight at your white linen pants with what appears to be jelly on his hands.
Karma bites back.
Sincerely,
Stephanie
*My favorite part of this whole story is that I followed this girl when the bus finally pulled up. She got off two blocks away when a very normal working man attempted to sit down next to her and her purple jelly pants. And no, she didn't really appreciate the wave I gave her as the bus sailed by.*
Could you BE any more pretentious? Standing at the bus stop like you own the world, dressed in an outfit straight off the cover of Vogue (the kind that no one actually wears), sporting designer shades and a blond blow-out that probably cost your stylist his sanity this morning. You are laden down with bags from every glamorous store on the Magnificent Mile, and looking angry about it. You pulled your cell phone from your weird, ugly purse and spoke into it with a fake accent and the hallmark phrases of one schooled in snobbery. You discussed the ridiculous impertinence of the salespeople at Neimen Marcus and the trials of having to wait for the awful bus- "this city just doesn't know a thing about style." Snapping it shut you shielded your eyes from the sun (because designer sunglasses apparently don't work that well) and looked up the street impatiently, as if you have some kind of GPS tracking device and the bus pulls up to wherever you are. You pulled a fan (YES, an actual fan) from your bag and delicately wafted the breeze over your face, until it clearly disturbed your bangs enough to be unacceptable. With a huge sigh of exasperation, you rolled your eyes at me, as if we share this moment in terrible agony together.
Friend, we have been waiting for the bus for approximately two minutes. So I smile back at you, thinking of the times I have waited at the 47th Street Station for, um, longer than two minutes. Like, forty-three minutes longer than two minutes. You seem to think that we are friends as you shift closer to me at the stop, and you say "I just hate taking the bus. It is so dirty!" I try not to grimace at many things: your pitiful attempt at conversation, the fact that this route is just about the nicest and cleanest of ALL the bus routes, and the whine in your voice that I don't tolerate from a 6 year old. And then I begin to laugh because many things happen all at once.
Pigeons swoop down from the sky, dive bomb your fantastic Valley Girl hairstyle, and you scream and duck. A very eclectically dressed homeless man (or woman) approaches, smelling just fantastic- you recoil in horror. And a little grubby child runs straight at your white linen pants with what appears to be jelly on his hands.
Karma bites back.
Sincerely,
Stephanie
*My favorite part of this whole story is that I followed this girl when the bus finally pulled up. She got off two blocks away when a very normal working man attempted to sit down next to her and her purple jelly pants. And no, she didn't really appreciate the wave I gave her as the bus sailed by.*
Monday, July 26, 2010
Books
I have a lot to say here about books. And I have no fluid way at the moment of stringing everything together. Please indulge my list-making mania.
1. I love the smell of a book, the feeling of cracking a binding, the mental journey one can take. Like a dear friend that one can return to for confirmation of emotion, of knowledge, and of humanity, books stabilize me. They indulge my wishes and distract me from problems and show me more of myself. Books ground me and frighten me and enlighten me and inspire me and evoke in me feelings I cannot explain.
2. Because I love books, I love libraries. I marvel at the public buildings that contain the knowledge of generations and the wisdom of history and the future of our society. They make me very happy. In particular, I have a little bit of a love affair going with the Harold Washington Library in downtown Chicago. The exterior building- meh- it's okay. There are much prettier places in the city, I promise. But the interior wealth of this place is astounding. I spend hours just walking and browsing and sitting and working and thinking and listening and of course... reading.
3. There are three books that I love more than any other three books on the planet. I like to think they represent three phases of my life thus far. The first book is "Madeline." The second book is "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." And the third book is "The Poisonwood Bible." I cannot stop loving these three books. I have read them over and over and over and feel attached to them as a baby has a security blanket. Can I bring them with me?
4. I don't know when this part of my psychosis began, but I cannot stop reading a book once I have started it. I am bound and completely determined to press on and persevere through even the dullest of texts. It is because of this part of my personality that books like "Moby Dick" were ever finished. (You should know that I am struggling a great deal with this because I cannot find an underline button and book titles are meant to be UNDERLINED.) Anyway, this leads to more stories, of course.
5. I like to travel, and when I travel, I like to read. Okay. I like to read all the time. But when traveling, I am particularly interested in "light" books that I still can call friends. Books with substance and some humor and a wee bit of meaning. No Faulkner for traveling- but we should talk about the other end of the spectrum as well. I don't like trash- reading trash makes me kind of want to regurgitate the information from my brain- especially because (see #3) I had to read the whole thing. A book is trash if it is written in a purposely pithy and stale style without substance. A book is trash if the entire plot line is based around a man and a woman and perhaps another man or another woman and their adventures and misadventures in love. If there are half-naked people on the cover, the book is probably trash. And finally... if the book is about vampires, it is most likely trash. I said it. That's right. AND I'm moving to Romania. Booyah.
6. One such trashy novel is "The Devil Wears Prada." I can hear your brain exploding from here, because the movie was so fantastic, right? Cute and approachable Anne Hathaway turns into a major B**** when pressured by the fabulous and striking Meryl Streep and finally regains her true personality, credibility, and adorable boyfriend in the end. Well, that all happened in the book. Except it was written down, and it was TERRIBLE. Great story, awful writing, and the bane of my existence. Why, friends? Because this is the book I chose to bring to Romania the first time around. It has never in my life taken me ten days to read a novel- and I barely finished this one. I kid you not, I have never in my life wanted to throw away a book more. With great disdain and a churning stomach, I finally read the last page and promptly discarded the book, sometime on our return journey.
7. On my next international trip, I was a little bit more intelligent. My mom and I each packed two books from an author that I knew I liked- nay- loved. Barbara Kingsolver is, in my opinion, God's gift to literature. And so we read her wonderful books and I didn't want to cry or scream even once. Of course, because I loved the books I finished them too quickly and had to buy more- but there are plenty of good little bookstores in Europe.
8. I recently was kept awake all night reading a book that I feared was going to be a repeat of many books I have started and not enjoyed and been forced to finish. I picked it up on a whim, desiring to be current with the times and the approximately 17 people I see daily reading this book. Seriously- I saw SEVENTEEN different people today with this book in their hands. Anyway, "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" didn't immediately catch my attention, but I plodded onward. Two nights ago at around 11 o'clock, I was about a third of the way through the text, and I realized that I had to finish it THAT night. Because, friends, there was no way I could put it down. There would be no sleep with that storyline hanging open. And so I turned all the lights on and read and read and read the sadistic and intriguing and freakin' terrifying murder mystery. And went to bed at 7 o'clock in the morning. This has happened with precisely TWO other books in a lifetime of reading: The last book in the "Harry Potter" series, and "Native Son." I highly recommend all three if you have many hours of sleep to miss out on.
9. All of this to ask: Who has recommendations of books to take with me this year? Books for the flight, for travel while there, for teaching, for boredom?
Thanks for the indulgence. I am sure that someday these posts will again be short and pithy. Today was just NOT the day.
1. I love the smell of a book, the feeling of cracking a binding, the mental journey one can take. Like a dear friend that one can return to for confirmation of emotion, of knowledge, and of humanity, books stabilize me. They indulge my wishes and distract me from problems and show me more of myself. Books ground me and frighten me and enlighten me and inspire me and evoke in me feelings I cannot explain.
2. Because I love books, I love libraries. I marvel at the public buildings that contain the knowledge of generations and the wisdom of history and the future of our society. They make me very happy. In particular, I have a little bit of a love affair going with the Harold Washington Library in downtown Chicago. The exterior building- meh- it's okay. There are much prettier places in the city, I promise. But the interior wealth of this place is astounding. I spend hours just walking and browsing and sitting and working and thinking and listening and of course... reading.
3. There are three books that I love more than any other three books on the planet. I like to think they represent three phases of my life thus far. The first book is "Madeline." The second book is "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." And the third book is "The Poisonwood Bible." I cannot stop loving these three books. I have read them over and over and over and feel attached to them as a baby has a security blanket. Can I bring them with me?
4. I don't know when this part of my psychosis began, but I cannot stop reading a book once I have started it. I am bound and completely determined to press on and persevere through even the dullest of texts. It is because of this part of my personality that books like "Moby Dick" were ever finished. (You should know that I am struggling a great deal with this because I cannot find an underline button and book titles are meant to be UNDERLINED.) Anyway, this leads to more stories, of course.
5. I like to travel, and when I travel, I like to read. Okay. I like to read all the time. But when traveling, I am particularly interested in "light" books that I still can call friends. Books with substance and some humor and a wee bit of meaning. No Faulkner for traveling- but we should talk about the other end of the spectrum as well. I don't like trash- reading trash makes me kind of want to regurgitate the information from my brain- especially because (see #3) I had to read the whole thing. A book is trash if it is written in a purposely pithy and stale style without substance. A book is trash if the entire plot line is based around a man and a woman and perhaps another man or another woman and their adventures and misadventures in love. If there are half-naked people on the cover, the book is probably trash. And finally... if the book is about vampires, it is most likely trash. I said it. That's right. AND I'm moving to Romania. Booyah.
6. One such trashy novel is "The Devil Wears Prada." I can hear your brain exploding from here, because the movie was so fantastic, right? Cute and approachable Anne Hathaway turns into a major B**** when pressured by the fabulous and striking Meryl Streep and finally regains her true personality, credibility, and adorable boyfriend in the end. Well, that all happened in the book. Except it was written down, and it was TERRIBLE. Great story, awful writing, and the bane of my existence. Why, friends? Because this is the book I chose to bring to Romania the first time around. It has never in my life taken me ten days to read a novel- and I barely finished this one. I kid you not, I have never in my life wanted to throw away a book more. With great disdain and a churning stomach, I finally read the last page and promptly discarded the book, sometime on our return journey.
7. On my next international trip, I was a little bit more intelligent. My mom and I each packed two books from an author that I knew I liked- nay- loved. Barbara Kingsolver is, in my opinion, God's gift to literature. And so we read her wonderful books and I didn't want to cry or scream even once. Of course, because I loved the books I finished them too quickly and had to buy more- but there are plenty of good little bookstores in Europe.
8. I recently was kept awake all night reading a book that I feared was going to be a repeat of many books I have started and not enjoyed and been forced to finish. I picked it up on a whim, desiring to be current with the times and the approximately 17 people I see daily reading this book. Seriously- I saw SEVENTEEN different people today with this book in their hands. Anyway, "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" didn't immediately catch my attention, but I plodded onward. Two nights ago at around 11 o'clock, I was about a third of the way through the text, and I realized that I had to finish it THAT night. Because, friends, there was no way I could put it down. There would be no sleep with that storyline hanging open. And so I turned all the lights on and read and read and read the sadistic and intriguing and freakin' terrifying murder mystery. And went to bed at 7 o'clock in the morning. This has happened with precisely TWO other books in a lifetime of reading: The last book in the "Harry Potter" series, and "Native Son." I highly recommend all three if you have many hours of sleep to miss out on.
9. All of this to ask: Who has recommendations of books to take with me this year? Books for the flight, for travel while there, for teaching, for boredom?
Thanks for the indulgence. I am sure that someday these posts will again be short and pithy. Today was just NOT the day.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Droplets of Water AND Favorite Teaching Story- Whoa
I apologize in advance for the length of this posting. Sometimes I just can't help it. And I am of the general opinion that Americans don't do enough reading. But mostly, I just can't help it.
Sometime in my childhood, I developed a crush on a boy who I thought loved the outdoors. He had a deep respect for animals and plants and nature in general. And in my child's brain, I thought that if I too became enraptured with the world outside, he would take notice and we would share secret moments together behind the school building, complete with flowers. I don't even remember who this boy was, but I do know that he rode my bus route, because it was on the bus that I perfected my Nature Girl persona. (Yes, I actually referred to myself this way.) I would stare longingly out the window, breathe meaningful sighs periodically, run my fingers through my tangled little-girl hair (please just try to picture the hilarity of this), and sneak furtive glances to see if Nature Boy was watching. He wasn't.
This behavior persisted for just a few weeks, but it was in this short span of time that I learned to observe. I certainly wouldn't say that I am typically the most observant person in any group of people- solo endeavors included. It is a long-standing joke in my family that I have the skills of a spastic squirrel when it comes to noticing my physical environment. However, I can become fixated on little details, tiny occurrences with almost insignificant consequences. And one of these is water. Specifically, water droplets.
I just like watching them form, holding my breath until the last second when they finally became too heavy and succumbed to gravity. Sometimes it seems to happen instantaneously, and other times it is a long, slow procedure. For some reason, it is the similarity of every journey that appeals to me. The fact that every single droplet of water ever formed has been through the graceful process, regardless of location or speed.
This is the part of the blog post where I become profound. Bordering on revelatory. Prepare your mind...
Teaching is like the formation of water droplets. Yeah, I said it. I made that absurd metaphorical connection. But faithful reader- stick with me on this one. Because there is an awesome story at the end.
Sometimes it is all you can do to get the words out of your mouth before a student takes them and runs away. They move with speed through the material you are teaching, and make huge leaps and giant splatters of the mind all on their own, with almost no effort on your part. These students are sharper than you thought possible, and make connections you yourself hadn't thought of. They integrate subject matter and find meaning in everything in the classroom. Pouring knowledge into them happens almost instantaneously. These kids are HARD to teach. They are always looking for more, for deeper, and for better. They are frequently bored and create all kinds of behavioral problems. They make you feel inadequate almost every day- but I wouldn't lose these feisty kids for the world.
On the other end of the classroom spectrum there are the students who seem to take forever to form that droplet. You pour everything you have- all the knowledge and the skill and the energy you have- into the brains of these students, and connections don't hold as firm. The molecules just take longer to bond, and you hold your breath, praying every moment that this moment will be the one. And my friends, when this moment arrives, and the lights flash and the heart jumps and the soul rejoices... let's just say I wouldn't lose these kids for the world either.
Okay. You have read through a lot of incoherent blabber. But I do hope that you someday have the chance to pour knowledge and watch droplets form- with whatever speed they fancy. A good amount of my work last year was with ELL students- students learning English, non-native speakers. One group in particular was exceptionally special to me, and the characters in what is perhaps my favorite teaching story up until this point.
The fifth grade students were facing the dreaded (dun dun dun...) ISAT test in the beginning of March. Similar to every other standardized test in every other state, preparation for the ISAT was accompanied by the descention of gloom over the school, it's teachers, and the students. I literally had crying nine-year old students, worried that they wouldn't pass. Shaking my invisible fist at the nitwits who designed such as system, I would carry on and dream of the day that I could actually teach again. One of the particular challenges of the fifth grade test was the inclusion of the TIMED WRITING TEST. And let me tell you, for a group of 5th grade students learning English- this was not the most promising assessment.
And so I took on this task, and taught my kids how to write. We talked about structure and how to write a good introduction. They learned about grabbing attention and finding a main point. Considerable confusion ensued when we discussed the three main points within the main point and the three details that must accompany the three main points within the main point. Pushing onward, they studied conclusions and wrote "gotcha sentences" and make good personal connections. And they wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. And I read some dismal essays. I'm talking crazy, incomprehensible, barely readable work. And I assessed them the way the state would, and sometimes at night I cried, and neglected to hand back the papers the next morning for fear of crushing little spirits. But their faces shone with such anticipation and they asked for more timed practice and we barreled through the calendar towards the test.
Some of my students caught on right away, like the quick droplets of water. They honed their skills and produced work that was both readable and enjoyable. And others steadily improved- everyone steadily improved- but steadily does not mean quickly. One of my favorites is the most earnest, hardworking student I have ever encountered. And his writing was atrocious. But he carried on, always hoping, always trying. He got better and better.
One night, I was sitting in my living room assessing essays. Again. And I got to this kid, this amazing, wonderful, hardworking kid... and I read his essay waiting for the bottom to drop out. And I read it again with tears welling up and a growing sense of pride. And I read it again crying and smiling and laughing. And I put the elusive number 5 at the top, the top score, the "Exceptional" marking.
The next day, I put the essay face down on his desk as I was passing back papers, and continued to move around the room. I didn't say anything because I wanted to gauge his true reaction- and so I was terribly surprised when he began to cry. He came up to me with streaming tears and held the essay out and said "Thank you, Ms. Sablich. For weeks I feel myself to become a better writer. But never I think it would happen. Thank you, Ms. Sablich. For now I know I am to becoming a better writer." (Please repeat the following sentences aloud while speaking with the accent of the cutest little Mexican kid you have ever met.)
We cried together that day. He was a slow droplet- but the beautiful process was the same.
Sometime in my childhood, I developed a crush on a boy who I thought loved the outdoors. He had a deep respect for animals and plants and nature in general. And in my child's brain, I thought that if I too became enraptured with the world outside, he would take notice and we would share secret moments together behind the school building, complete with flowers. I don't even remember who this boy was, but I do know that he rode my bus route, because it was on the bus that I perfected my Nature Girl persona. (Yes, I actually referred to myself this way.) I would stare longingly out the window, breathe meaningful sighs periodically, run my fingers through my tangled little-girl hair (please just try to picture the hilarity of this), and sneak furtive glances to see if Nature Boy was watching. He wasn't.
This behavior persisted for just a few weeks, but it was in this short span of time that I learned to observe. I certainly wouldn't say that I am typically the most observant person in any group of people- solo endeavors included. It is a long-standing joke in my family that I have the skills of a spastic squirrel when it comes to noticing my physical environment. However, I can become fixated on little details, tiny occurrences with almost insignificant consequences. And one of these is water. Specifically, water droplets.
I just like watching them form, holding my breath until the last second when they finally became too heavy and succumbed to gravity. Sometimes it seems to happen instantaneously, and other times it is a long, slow procedure. For some reason, it is the similarity of every journey that appeals to me. The fact that every single droplet of water ever formed has been through the graceful process, regardless of location or speed.
This is the part of the blog post where I become profound. Bordering on revelatory. Prepare your mind...
Teaching is like the formation of water droplets. Yeah, I said it. I made that absurd metaphorical connection. But faithful reader- stick with me on this one. Because there is an awesome story at the end.
Sometimes it is all you can do to get the words out of your mouth before a student takes them and runs away. They move with speed through the material you are teaching, and make huge leaps and giant splatters of the mind all on their own, with almost no effort on your part. These students are sharper than you thought possible, and make connections you yourself hadn't thought of. They integrate subject matter and find meaning in everything in the classroom. Pouring knowledge into them happens almost instantaneously. These kids are HARD to teach. They are always looking for more, for deeper, and for better. They are frequently bored and create all kinds of behavioral problems. They make you feel inadequate almost every day- but I wouldn't lose these feisty kids for the world.
On the other end of the classroom spectrum there are the students who seem to take forever to form that droplet. You pour everything you have- all the knowledge and the skill and the energy you have- into the brains of these students, and connections don't hold as firm. The molecules just take longer to bond, and you hold your breath, praying every moment that this moment will be the one. And my friends, when this moment arrives, and the lights flash and the heart jumps and the soul rejoices... let's just say I wouldn't lose these kids for the world either.
Okay. You have read through a lot of incoherent blabber. But I do hope that you someday have the chance to pour knowledge and watch droplets form- with whatever speed they fancy. A good amount of my work last year was with ELL students- students learning English, non-native speakers. One group in particular was exceptionally special to me, and the characters in what is perhaps my favorite teaching story up until this point.
The fifth grade students were facing the dreaded (dun dun dun...) ISAT test in the beginning of March. Similar to every other standardized test in every other state, preparation for the ISAT was accompanied by the descention of gloom over the school, it's teachers, and the students. I literally had crying nine-year old students, worried that they wouldn't pass. Shaking my invisible fist at the nitwits who designed such as system, I would carry on and dream of the day that I could actually teach again. One of the particular challenges of the fifth grade test was the inclusion of the TIMED WRITING TEST. And let me tell you, for a group of 5th grade students learning English- this was not the most promising assessment.
And so I took on this task, and taught my kids how to write. We talked about structure and how to write a good introduction. They learned about grabbing attention and finding a main point. Considerable confusion ensued when we discussed the three main points within the main point and the three details that must accompany the three main points within the main point. Pushing onward, they studied conclusions and wrote "gotcha sentences" and make good personal connections. And they wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. And I read some dismal essays. I'm talking crazy, incomprehensible, barely readable work. And I assessed them the way the state would, and sometimes at night I cried, and neglected to hand back the papers the next morning for fear of crushing little spirits. But their faces shone with such anticipation and they asked for more timed practice and we barreled through the calendar towards the test.
Some of my students caught on right away, like the quick droplets of water. They honed their skills and produced work that was both readable and enjoyable. And others steadily improved- everyone steadily improved- but steadily does not mean quickly. One of my favorites is the most earnest, hardworking student I have ever encountered. And his writing was atrocious. But he carried on, always hoping, always trying. He got better and better.
One night, I was sitting in my living room assessing essays. Again. And I got to this kid, this amazing, wonderful, hardworking kid... and I read his essay waiting for the bottom to drop out. And I read it again with tears welling up and a growing sense of pride. And I read it again crying and smiling and laughing. And I put the elusive number 5 at the top, the top score, the "Exceptional" marking.
The next day, I put the essay face down on his desk as I was passing back papers, and continued to move around the room. I didn't say anything because I wanted to gauge his true reaction- and so I was terribly surprised when he began to cry. He came up to me with streaming tears and held the essay out and said "Thank you, Ms. Sablich. For weeks I feel myself to become a better writer. But never I think it would happen. Thank you, Ms. Sablich. For now I know I am to becoming a better writer." (Please repeat the following sentences aloud while speaking with the accent of the cutest little Mexican kid you have ever met.)
We cried together that day. He was a slow droplet- but the beautiful process was the same.
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