Amy Loves Books

This week is Homecoming at my high school. On Tuesday, everything went to hell. It happened quickly, and without warning.

In my first period class, a student was present after a two week suspension (unrelated to anything that happened in my class). This student is very disruptive when he is present, and I usually have to end up isolating him in a desk apart from other students. I called home on the second week of school but got absolutely no help or support from his parent. So, on Tuesday, I warned him a few times to quit disrupting class and do some work, and then I asked him to move to the desk in front of me. He said he hated sitting in the front all the time. Okay, I said. He could sit in the back - but he had to move three rows down. No, he said. No. It was a free country. He payed taxes. He was not moving.

I told him that he could move for me, or I would have Coach (aka "Cornbread") come and ask him to move. In the past, he has always moved as soon as Coach showed up at the door. I've been able to teach class without taking any further disciplinary action.

Not Tuesday.

The kid talked back to Coach. A bad move. A very bad move. Coach is a former professional football player. You don't talk back to coach. At this point, I realized that the situation was no longer in my control. The student had moved beyond my jurisdiction, and was now being held accountable for being defiant to administrators. Coach called in a second monitor (also, a large adult male). The kid refused them both. The principal came on the walkie-talkie and spoke to the student directly, asking him to come to her office. He refused. They called in the police officers. Two uniformed, armed police officers entered my classroom. The kid decided to put up a fight.

I don't know what happened next. The police had us clear the room. They shut the door. Eventually, they lead this kid out in handcuffs. When we came back in the class his desk was turned over.

I was shaken and upset. I would have never imagined that this student (or any student) would start a scene over something as small as switching desks. My class was upset. A group of boys that were friends with the kid that had gotten in trouble were angry. They began yelling at me. They called me a racist. They were hateful. They said it was all my fault. They were mad that I called in Coach.

I told them that I called in Coach because I wanted to keep the kid out of trouble. I wanted to give him a chance to stop being defiant. Always before, the presence of Coach had been enough to encourage compliance and he had not gotten in serious trouble.

My kids were not listening. They were upset, and they made me out to be the enemy. An administrator came by to check on the class, and saw the students ganging up against me. He pulled out the six ringleaders. My team teachers and the principal rallied behind me. My team teachers brought all of our students together and talked to them. They defended my actions, and they defended me as an individual. Still, my kids had turned against me and I was upset. After they left, I found the student's book bag still in my class. I cried for this kid. His is one of two names that I gave out to people who tell me they are praying for my kids. I wanted him to be okay. It hurt to know that he was arrested in my classroom. It hurt to have kids accuse me of having it in for this student. I've called his mom. I pray for him. I have been trying to help him. The truth is, I care about this kid. I've cared about him ever since I read his diagnostic essay the first week of class.

Later that day, I got a subpoena to appear in court to testify in the case of the kid that brought a weapon to school two weeks ago. I went home upset. I cried while I smoked on the porch.

I told my husband I did not know what I was thinking when I took this job. It was too much. I wanted to teach. I did not want to deal with all this crap. I want to be a real teacher. I want to spend my time teaching. I wanted to quit. This inner-city teaching was too much for me. Sorry, I just wasn't big enough. I was sad. I asked for more prayer.

The next day, I went back to school. I thought of my friends that were praying for me. I forced myself to smile at students in the hallway. Although I did not have them in class (my kids have Monday/Wednesday or Tuesday/Thursday schedules), I made a point to stand outside my room and greet the students that had accused me the day before. I was getting observed by my supervising administrator that morning. Other teachers told me I should cancel the observation. It was Homecoming week. The kids were crazy. Plus, I had had the ordeal the day before. But I decided to go ahead and be observed. Still, I was nervous.

What if?
What if my kids turned against me?

My class was incredible. They were perfect; they showed off everything they knew. Afterwards, as part of homecoming week. I handed out awards to students. In addition to the top student awards, I gave awards for the most improved, and most effort. The two students who got these awards glued them to construction paper and taped them to the front of their shirts. They made my day.

Today, I had the class that had challenged me. It was dress-up day for faculty. We were supposed to wear a costume and bring treats. Only a handful of teachers actually do the homecoming activities, and this morning - I did not feel like playing along. Not for this class.

But, I did. I dressed up as Athena and brought treats. I forced myself to forgive them, to accept them.

I have had two good days at school. I know this is due, in no small part, to the prayers that have been offered on behalf of my students and myself. I know all my days won't be good. Still, I am thankful for this week's Grace.

Tonight, when I sat down to try to write this out, it occurred to me that I am actually teaching.

I cried when I realized this.

Not because I was sad. Because I was thankful.

Too often, I pray the prayer of the Pharisee. It is not intentional.

I catch myself though, praying this way. I thank God for all the things that I am not. I'm not one of those Christians. I read good books. I watch good movies. I subscribe to to Sojourners, and the daily dig from the Bruderhof. I drink wine. I'm cool.

It affects my prayer life. It affects my willingness to totally immerse myself in a church community (I just can't find one as cool as I am). I congratulate myself for being smart, and having compassion for the lost and broken. I rarely stop to think about how self-righteous I am.

Right after 9-11, there was an inter-faith meeting for all the ministers at Emory University. The head of the religious life department had the representatives for each faith sit in a circle, and she asked each person to answer two questions. The first question was, "What do you think makes your religion unique?". The second question was, "What embarrasses you about your religion?". One by one, the religious leaders answered these questions. Since Emory is a very liberal campus, the ministers were very willing to point out all of the things they were ashamed to be associated with.

My husband came home from the meeting and told me what had happened. I asked him what he had answered. He said that he thought Grace was what set Christianity apart from other religions. I was more curious about the second question. I was already making a mental list of everything I would have said.

My husband said that he answered with his name. Just his name.

He felt like he was the thing that most embarrassed him about Christianity; he looked at his own heart and saw how far away he was from the image of Christ.

After he told me what he had said, I prayed.

Lord, have mercy on me. Sinner that I am.

i offer this one:

nothing is more exactly terrible than
to be alone in the house, with somebody and
with something)

You are gone. there is laughter

and despair impersonates a street

i lean from the window, behold ghosts,

a man

hugging a woman in a park. Complete.

and slightly (why? or lest we understand)
slightly i am hearing somebody
coming up stairs, carefully
(carefully climbing carpeted flight after
carpeted flight. in stillness, climbing
the carpeted stairs of terror)

and continually i am seeing something

inhaling gently a cigarette (in a mirror

e.e. cummings

a poem (one of my favorites). i only wish is was he/she - as i have been blessed by both sister and brother fellow wanderers.
i am grateful.

from Life in the Forest
by Denise Levertov

I met a friend
as I walked by the river that runs
through my mind.

Or he himself
was the river,

for this river
rises in metamorphosis
when some confluence
of wills occurs far-off
where the gods are,

and could appear
as a man,
as my friend -

who would be unaware
then, of his river-nature,

his own eyes (not
hazel, as I thought,
but topaz, are they?)
fixed rather upon flames,
for it may be
fire, not a river flowing,
flickers and grows in his mind.

while to me, drawn
to water by the pull
of searching roots,

he would seem
a river, or a man
gazing searchingly
into the river,
a fellow-wanderer.

my word of the week:

surrender

When I was a freshman in college, I read Lord of the Flies in one of my classes. I had begged my way into the class. It was an upper-level course, and I was the only freshman enrolled. The fact that we were reading Lord of the Flies was thrilling to me. because I had read this particular novel in high school and I was ready to appear brilliant and insightful during class discussions. Lord of the Flies contains one of my most beloved male literary characters - Simon. I adore Simon. He made it onto my short list of characters I would have named a son after (Holden, Henry, and Simon were my top three choices).

I re-read Golding's novel, and I patiently waited for Simon day. My professor, however, seemed oblivious to the beauty of Simon. We were on the last day of class discussion and Simon had not come up. At the very end of class, the instructor asked if anyone had any final comments to make. Tentatively, I raised my hand.

"Aren't we going to talk about Simon as a Christ figure?"

My professor looked at me disdainfully. "Who told you Simon was a Christ figure - your high school English teacher?", he asked with undisguised disgust.

I nodded, embarrassed by my ignorance and juvenile ideas. Thankfully, class was over.

I dreaded going to class the next day. But to my surprise, the professor stood and addressed the class. "I have been thinking", he said, "I suppose I should apologize to high school English teachers for the remark I made yesterday". He said that many critics argued that Simon was a Christ figure, and that he was just personally prejudiced against the whole "Christ-figure idea". We spent the entire day talking about Simon. I was a happy girl.

On Wednesday, I am starting a unit on Lord of the Flies. Over the weekend, I re-read the novel for the first time since 1988. In the first chapter, Jack arrives with his army of choir boys marching in line. One of the boys faints, and has to be carried into the shade. "Don't mind him", Jack says in disgust. "Simon is always fainting."

Simon! I almost spoke his name out loud in greeting. I had forgotten about the fainting. It was like meeting an old friend.

My beautiful, beloved Simon - who brings truth down from the mountain and is sacrificed by people determined to feed on their own fear.

And yes, I'll be teaching him as a Christ figure.

An online comic by T.C. Boyle:
I dated Jane Austen

created this morning by lily katherine (age 5):

My friend Roar told me about toy cameras. She has one, wrapped together with duct tape. I thought some of my photographer friends might enjoy this site: toycamera.com
or this one
or this one.

i think the fact that the cameras cost under 20$ is fabulous, and the pictures are beautiful

The brick that went through my window has been bothering me. It makes me uneasy. I don't like it.

I've had it outside, on the porch. I don't know why I saved it; I suppose it seemed important- like evidence. The police don't want it, but it feels like it should be kept anyway. Still, I look at it and I feel creepy.

So yesterday, I was on the back porch talking with Chip. I looked at the brick sitting there, and I thought that I should take it and cover it with words. Good words. I thought that if I did this, it could be transformed into something with meaning.

I thought I would ask for suggestions of verses, lyrics, lines, or words - anything having to do with strength, hope, or peace. Send them to me, and I'll cover my brick and put it up on the mantle. I'll post an "after" picture when it is done.

i made a quiz

okay - and quizilla has now moved my quiz to a new page that they titled "amysbooks's quizzes". there must be some bad grammar quizilla page creating program. i know not to write books's. sigh.

YOU ARE CATNIP


What herb are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

yeah, so i am making a quiz. because i am such a geek.
i'll post a link to it tomorrow.

(oh - and quiz via. roar(not lion). her link is on the sidebar. she's not in kansas anymore.)

a conversation from tonight:

lily: you are the best mother in the whole world.

me: why do you think that?

lily: because you know all the best restaurants.

michelle garcia lived in my neighborhood. she rode my bus. she was one of those people that teachers like to identify as "ringleader"; her presence among us evoked adoration.

michelle was cool. she was beautiful in her black jelly bracelets and siouxsie and the banshees t-shirt. she had every episode of the young ones on video. she smoked and swore like a sailor. she came to school with a hangover.

and for some reason, she loved the poet rod mckuen. this was the mid-eighties. mckuen's time had come and gone with the music of the carpenters, and novels like jonathan livingston seagull, and love story. but somehow, michelle had gotten her hands on a book of his poetry, and she was hooked. she wrote mckuen quotes on her folders. she copied one of his poems and passed it to me in a folded note. i was honored by her gesture. i became a fan of rod mckuen. he seemed as cool and beautiful as michelle.

by the time i was in college, i realized that rod mckuen is a horrible poet. he can be almost painful to read, and surely his poetry inspired the "deep thoughts" segments that used to be on saturday night live. take, for example, this one :

"If you had listened hard enough
you might have heard
what I meant to say.

Nothing"

but, oh - how i loved him when i was fourteen. i loved him, loved him. i wanted to marry him.

last week, i found a book rod mckuen poetry at a thrift store. it was the one that had been my favorite, in someone's shadow, titled after the long poem that michelle garcia had handed me between classes (the poem that i memorized and can still, to this day, recite every word of).

i don't confess my teenage love of rod mckuen easily. despite michelle garcia's endorsement, i know that mckuen is not "cool". especially not for a literature snob such as myself. i find it hard to admit that i actually own a cd of frank sinatra singing the poetry of rod mckuen.

it's not always easy to be a child of the seventies. with age, i have drifted towards realism and naturalism. many of the things i used to love are embarrassing. i laugh when i admit that once, the song daydream believer made me cry.

and yet, i look through this old book of poems and the words brought back good memories. a black and white photograph of rod mckuen sitting on a mid-winter beach, with windblown white hair and bare feet, is on the cover. God bless the cheesy poetry from the seventies. i read it and find myself feelin' groovy.

May 26
I'd rather be without a woman
than know a God I couldn't trust.
That's why I pray with caution
till I'm sure.

I gave myself to myself only
for so long a time
I've had to be led back
to God and women too,
step by step.

Now halfway home
it's time I knelt down
on the asphalt once again
and prayed for more than daily bread.

- Rod McKuen, 1969

today, in my first block class, one of my students had something very bad in their book bag.

in the middle of my third block class, coach (aka "cornbread") knocked on my door. he told me that there was an emergency, i was needed in the office immediately, and he would watch my class while i was gone.

when i got to the main office, the principal and a police officer were waiting for me outside. they asked if i had a student in my class first period. the student that they named is one of my good kids - his parents came to open house; he makes solid grades; he participates in class. my immediate thought was that something had happened to this student, that he had gotten sick or hurt.

i told them that he was in class, and that he had seemed fine.

then, the officer asked if i had noticed anything unusual about the student's book bag. had i asked him to leave it outside the classroom? had i told him to leave it in my class while he went somewhere?

no, i said. nothing at all unusual about the child or his book bag.

the policeman looked at the principal. "i knew he was lying", he said.

the principal thanked me. she asked if i would write a statement saying that i hadn't had this student put his bag outside the door. sure, i said. the principal saw that i was concerned. don't worry, she said. you are not in trouble.

but what about the kid?, i asked. was he okay?

not really, they said. he had brought something very bad to school in his book bag.

a few hours later, the principal interrupted class to make a special announcement. she said that if students were having trouble with each other, they needed to take their issues to an adult. she warned them not to bring weapons to school. not to try to handle it on their own.

i knew. it was my kid. that's what was in the bag. i taught an entire class with a kid who had a weapon in his book bag sitting in my front row.

i've been processing this. letting it sink in. i realize that i am not scared. i am just sad.

i knew what i was doing when i applied to teach at my school. i was not an idealist. still, i find that, on a daily basis, i tend to forget. i start thinking that this school is not that different from the school i went to. i forget what my students are up against.

when i was in high school, almost everyone went on to college, even the kids that did drugs. college, marriage, children - these things were a given. we graduated from high school, and went on to find jobs and homes and families.

this won't be the case for many of the male students that i teach. statistically, 30% of african american males between the ages of 20-29 are under correctional supervision (jail, parole). *

i lost a kid today. he was nice. he liked the odyssey; he got a kick out of the hero odysseus and his ability to outwit, outlast, and outplay.

but this quiet, nice kid did a bad thing, and i don't know why. he will be suspended and sent to tribunal. quite possibly, he will be expelled. it will be that much harder for him to beat the odds that are stacked against him.

scylla and charybdis. no easy way out.

My husband and I had a deal. I would work while he went to seminary, but during his senior year, I could get pregnant and stay home after the baby was born. There was one problem with this plan; I had a hard time getting pregnant. My difficulty conceiving came as a shock. Like most females in my generation, I spent my teen and young adult years afraid of unplanned pregnancy. Even when I was a virgin, I feared unplanned pregnancy. I watched After-School Specials and took health classes; I knew how terrible unplanned pregnancy was.

I naturally assumed that the minute I participated in unprotected sex , I would get pregnant. Teachers, parents, and pastors had warned me that it only takes one time. But for me, it did not work that way. Evidently, I wasted lots of money on birth control, because my body is very good at avoiding pregnancy all by itself.

At first, I told myself that these things take time. I read books about temperature-taking, and I tried to relax - but every month I was getting more and more afraid. The temperature charts did not help. According to the book, your temperature rises slightly when you are fertile, then either drops down or stays rises depending on whether or not you got pregnant. A happy temperature chart looks a little like a plot diagram. My temperature charts were flatlines. I stuffed them in a drawer, felt my panic rising.

What if? What if I could never get pregnant?

My first word was "baby". My favorite game was "house". I slept holding dolls, imagining that I was sheltering my child from a storm or comforting them in illness. What I wanted, more than anything, was children. I chose a teaching career based on my plans to have children. I started collecting picture books when I was sixteen. I was ready to be a mother. It was all I really wanted.

As time passed, I remained frustratingly un-pregnant. I began to consider the possibility that I might never have a child of my own. I got depressed, and angry. I was angry with God. I was angry that he gave children to so many unworthy mothers. Teenagers. Abusers. Neglecters. It was unfair. He let non-Christians have children, knowing that they would raise little non-Christian children. I yelled at Him while I drove. I told Him that he was being unfair, because I would be such a good mother. I would raise my child in the Lord.

On one particularly bad day, I was driving to school and praying (yelling), begging God for a child of my own. That's exactly how I was praying. "Please God, give me a baby of my own". I stopped and heard myself. Then, I stopped and listened to God.

I realized the selfishness and arrogance of my prayer. I could never "own" a child; any child that I might be blessed to carry and give birth to would belong only to God, not to me. Then, I realized that God probably was not very worried about any child that I would give birth to, because He knew I would be a good mother. Instead, His heart was breaking over all of His children who did not have mothers or earthly parents to take care of them. There, in the car, I prayed that God would open my eyes to children that needed mothering. I asked Him to put them in my path. This prayer comforted me, and helped ease my ache for a child.

Eventually, my doctor convinced me to try taking fertility medication, and I was able to experience pregnancy and birth. I became consumed by the needs and wants of my "own" family. I forgot about my prayer.

On Saturday, I told Roar that I would have to be about thirty minutes late for breakfast. The consignment sale I help out had half-off day on Saturday, and I wanted to pick up some cheap maternity clothes for one of my former students. I worked with the social worker at school to get her healthcare and WIC (a sort of food-stamps for pregnant mothers and children), but it has bothered me that she did not have any clothes that would accommodate her pregnancy as it progresses. Roar called to check on me while I was at the sale. Right before she hung up, she said, "You're such a good mom."

I laughed.

Then, I remembered.

My first thought was that a tree branch had hit the window. It was not raining on Friday afternoon when I took the kids to to Target to buy laundry detergent - but it was still windy. We came home and Arden asked why there was glass in his bedroom. I noticed the broken window, shattered glass covering his floor and bed. I went outside. There was broken glass on the ground, and small branches were all over the yard. I called Chip to tell him that a tree branch had gone through one of the back windows, but something felt wrong. I went into Arden's room again. The bedspread had been pulled back part of the way, covering most of the glass, and the broken blind was on top of the folded bedspread.

"Did you touch your bedspread?", I asked Arden. He said he had not. My mind was jumping to frightening conclusions, but we have a security system that should have gone off if anyone had entered the hallway outside of Arden's room, and it looked like everything was in the room was in place: Gamecube, CD player, television. I told myself that it was probably just the wind and a branch; but just in case, I double checked to see if all the Gamecube games were where they should be.

That's when I saw the brick, covered with mud, on the floor under the chair that Arden sits in to play games. I dialed 911.

The police arrived and called the CSI unit to try to take prints and photographs. We assumed that whoever broke the window had gotten frightened by the sound of our barking dog and had left before actually entering the house. Nothing was missing from Arden's room. There is a motion sensor in the hallway, and the alarm had not been triggered. The police were very kind. They told us that this sort of thing never happens in our neighborhood - that it was most likely an anomaly, and that we were lucky to have the dog. We put bars on the back windows that night. Tomorrow, the security company is coming to increase our monitoring.

I was upset about the attempted burglary, but I was glad that they had not actually entered the house or taken anything. I told myself that it was probably just a kid, a kid that got scared by the dog and changed their mind.

Today, as I was getting ready for church, I went to put on one of my necklaces. I am not a big jewelry person. I own three silver necklaces that I interchange, my wedding rings, and a silver James Avery band with a Hebrew inscription from the Song of Solomon on it. Every since my window accident in June, my ring finger has been swollen and I have been wearing my James Avery band in the place of my wedding band and engagement ring. I opened my jewelry box. It was empty. I froze.

They came into my bedroom

I realized then, the thief had not been a kid who was scared by my dog; my house was broken into by a professional who knew just what he wanted. I remembered seeing a television show about home security, and how they said thieves went for jewelry, money, prescription drugs and weapons. They usually find these things in drawers. I don't keep money or weapons in my drawers, the only thing even remotely contraband that I had was a pack of Clove cigarettes. I dumped my underwear drawer out on the floor. The Cloves were gone. They went through my drawers.

We called the police detective and our case was upgraded from the misdemeanor status of attempted burglary to a full-fledged felony. I wanted to know how the thief got past our motion detector. The detective explained that experienced thieves realize that if a homeowner has a dog or cat, the motion sensor is set high enough that the animal won't trip the alarm. Our thief simply had to crawl into the bedroom, and leave through the broken window, to avoid setting of the security system.

I have been in a terrible mood all weekend. I have not felt like writing or responding to email.

My engagement ring was made with the diamond from my grandmother Katie's ring. I was sixteen when she died and left it to me. I was the only person who she left anything to, and her diamond was the only thing of value that she owned. I wore it every single day. When I got married, I wanted her diamond put into my engagement ring, because I never wanted to stop wearing it.

I am sad. Heartbroken. I tell myself that the ring was just an object, and that I should not get so upset about it. I tell myself I should be grateful that so little was taken, that not much damage was done. Nobody got hurt. Things can be replaced. We have insurance.

But I can't help it. I am angry and sad. I can't shake these feelings. I want everything back: my sense of security, my trust, my grandmother's diamond. And I want to live in a world where people did not inflict such hurt on each other.

I pray that I can forgive this person that trespassed against me. And I pray that Thy Kingdom Come. Soon.


The CSI van outside my house.

discover what candy you are @ quiz me

(link via bobbie)

always @  9:37 AM| Discuss |