Wednesday, May 25, 2005
a treehouse and a castle
I'll be on vacation for a week. There is wifi in our hotel, and the laptop must come along to provide a dumping ground for photos and dvd action in the car. I'll post some pictures in the next day or two.
To my wonderful housesitting-friend - hope you enjoy the literary masterpiece I left you. I really think you ought to use it as your quiet time devotion this week.
To my wonderful housesitting-friend - hope you enjoy the literary masterpiece I left you. I really think you ought to use it as your quiet time devotion this week.
Labels: save as draft
Monday, May 23, 2005
in the details
(a sort of a prologue to a novel i did not write)
My friends and I tell each other our stories. I wonder sometimes if all this telling is something boys do as well. I know that it is inevitable, among women. Always, eventually, the topic of our stories will turn to salvation. Finding God. It usually happens after we get to know each other, and it feels safe to spill our secrets out into the open. Our stories are not easy. They start with sentences like, "My drink of choice was Gin".
We tell of wandering in broken down deserts. Unlike Moses, we had no flaming certainty to guide us to someplace promised. We were always more comfortable melting down scraps into idols than we were with manna anyway.
In the shelter of coffee shop corners, midnight living rooms, passenger seats, we tell each other about taking a pregnancy test during the fifteen minute break at Western Sizzlin steakhouse. About crying in the locked stall that smelled like stale cigarettes and sweat and trying to remember back the right amount of days, to the right party, to the right boy to ask for money. We tell about the boy that was only slept with once, or the birth control pills that were supposed to keep us safe, or the friend of our older brother who pulled over to the side of the road before he took us home from school and made us swear not to tell.
We talk about fathers who vanished from family photographs, half-sisters or stepmothers that hated us briefly before they too were gone. We retrace walks home to empty after-school houses, and recall house keys worn on a string around our neck because we were too young to carry a purse.
We talk about the boys one or two grades ahead of us that terrified us. Stories of being backed in corners or closets, crowded on the schoolbus, told things we did not want to know, and laughed at when nothing was funny. We describe the litter-strewn creeks, and parked cars, and dirty gas station restrooms, and all the forsaken places where we looked up and saw nothing but twisted branches and water stained tile. How what little faith we tried to cling to disappeared like bread crumbs on a path. We tried to pray, but when we closed our eyes we pictured a God that looked the other way like a careless parent. A God who was supposed to be watching. A God not doing a very good job of keeping the wolf at the door.
We tell each other about losing all our hope and faith in the span of a seven minute song sung by Morrissey or Robert Smith. Names we scratched on our arms. People we drove all night, or rode buses, or waited in airports to see even as we felt the certainty that they would not be waiting, or driving, or riding to see us fill our lungs like saltwater.
We try to articulate how something could be taken from us when we were the ones giving it away. Our stories are understood. We all heard the same songs. Knew them by heart from playing them over and over.
And then, we pause.
And then, we say. Just like that. We were found.
Each of our stories is the recounting of a small miracle. We tell about a note left on the back of a package of developed photographs in the picture bin at Target. Of walking down the street and kicking a piece of paper that had "A Note For You" handwritten on it, and how the note was picked up, and turned over. On the back it had a verse from Jeremiah. I know the plans I have for you. We almost whisper when we say it. Plans to prosper you and not harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.
We tell about friends we had not seen in years who waited on benches downtown because God told them to, and how they saw us walking, and asked how we were doing and what we were up to - and then - asked if we wanted to go to church.
We got saved in some crazy ways considering how we always hated religion. Telemarketers, tracts, zealous Christians that lived down the hall - we left no stereotypical route to conversion untried. We tell about hearing the music, and standing up during the altar call, and we say it felt like something that had been binding us just slipped away.
We recount these moments to each other, like prayers.
See, we say. It was real. I was found.
We would like to gather stones together, to stack them up in a field as a testament. We want doorposts to write on. We trade our stories with each other. Later, at night, we whisper the words to ourselves. We hide each story in our pockets like trading cards, like keys - like hope made smooth and real enough to hold in the palm of a hand.
My friends and I tell each other our stories. I wonder sometimes if all this telling is something boys do as well. I know that it is inevitable, among women. Always, eventually, the topic of our stories will turn to salvation. Finding God. It usually happens after we get to know each other, and it feels safe to spill our secrets out into the open. Our stories are not easy. They start with sentences like, "My drink of choice was Gin".
We tell of wandering in broken down deserts. Unlike Moses, we had no flaming certainty to guide us to someplace promised. We were always more comfortable melting down scraps into idols than we were with manna anyway.
In the shelter of coffee shop corners, midnight living rooms, passenger seats, we tell each other about taking a pregnancy test during the fifteen minute break at Western Sizzlin steakhouse. About crying in the locked stall that smelled like stale cigarettes and sweat and trying to remember back the right amount of days, to the right party, to the right boy to ask for money. We tell about the boy that was only slept with once, or the birth control pills that were supposed to keep us safe, or the friend of our older brother who pulled over to the side of the road before he took us home from school and made us swear not to tell.
We talk about fathers who vanished from family photographs, half-sisters or stepmothers that hated us briefly before they too were gone. We retrace walks home to empty after-school houses, and recall house keys worn on a string around our neck because we were too young to carry a purse.
We talk about the boys one or two grades ahead of us that terrified us. Stories of being backed in corners or closets, crowded on the schoolbus, told things we did not want to know, and laughed at when nothing was funny. We describe the litter-strewn creeks, and parked cars, and dirty gas station restrooms, and all the forsaken places where we looked up and saw nothing but twisted branches and water stained tile. How what little faith we tried to cling to disappeared like bread crumbs on a path. We tried to pray, but when we closed our eyes we pictured a God that looked the other way like a careless parent. A God who was supposed to be watching. A God not doing a very good job of keeping the wolf at the door.
We tell each other about losing all our hope and faith in the span of a seven minute song sung by Morrissey or Robert Smith. Names we scratched on our arms. People we drove all night, or rode buses, or waited in airports to see even as we felt the certainty that they would not be waiting, or driving, or riding to see us fill our lungs like saltwater.
We try to articulate how something could be taken from us when we were the ones giving it away. Our stories are understood. We all heard the same songs. Knew them by heart from playing them over and over.
And then, we pause.
And then, we say. Just like that. We were found.
Each of our stories is the recounting of a small miracle. We tell about a note left on the back of a package of developed photographs in the picture bin at Target. Of walking down the street and kicking a piece of paper that had "A Note For You" handwritten on it, and how the note was picked up, and turned over. On the back it had a verse from Jeremiah. I know the plans I have for you. We almost whisper when we say it. Plans to prosper you and not harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.
We tell about friends we had not seen in years who waited on benches downtown because God told them to, and how they saw us walking, and asked how we were doing and what we were up to - and then - asked if we wanted to go to church.
We got saved in some crazy ways considering how we always hated religion. Telemarketers, tracts, zealous Christians that lived down the hall - we left no stereotypical route to conversion untried. We tell about hearing the music, and standing up during the altar call, and we say it felt like something that had been binding us just slipped away.
We recount these moments to each other, like prayers.
See, we say. It was real. I was found.
We would like to gather stones together, to stack them up in a field as a testament. We want doorposts to write on. We trade our stories with each other. Later, at night, we whisper the words to ourselves. We hide each story in our pockets like trading cards, like keys - like hope made smooth and real enough to hold in the palm of a hand.
Labels: save as draft
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Have a coke and a - something.
This billboard for Diet Coke with Splenda is supposed to look like a can of Coke in a little sugar caddy. I think.
Instead, it totally looks like a can of Diet Coke with a stack of sanitary napkins. These billboards are all over Atlanta and they creep me out.
This billboard is just wrong. If it is supposed to be Coke with little packets of Sweet and Low, the scale is way off. Little packets of sugar substitute are much smaller than a can of Coke. And even if the scale was right, it's a weird idea for an advertisement. Why would there be a can of Diet Coke in a sugar caddy? Coke is not like tea. People do not put sugar substitute packets in their cans of soft drinks.
And if they were trying to go for some sort of subliminal PMS-tie-in, three words: Chocolate Diet Coke .
Instead, it totally looks like a can of Diet Coke with a stack of sanitary napkins. These billboards are all over Atlanta and they creep me out.
This billboard is just wrong. If it is supposed to be Coke with little packets of Sweet and Low, the scale is way off. Little packets of sugar substitute are much smaller than a can of Coke. And even if the scale was right, it's a weird idea for an advertisement. Why would there be a can of Diet Coke in a sugar caddy? Coke is not like tea. People do not put sugar substitute packets in their cans of soft drinks.
And if they were trying to go for some sort of subliminal PMS-tie-in, three words: Chocolate Diet Coke .
Labels: save as draft
this mortal coil
All I wanted to do today was sleep. For the past two weeks, it has gotten more and more difficult to wake up in the morning. All year, I have been too busy to sleep well. I had a hard time staying asleep for more than a few hours. When I did sleep, I did not dream. I would always wake up, and start thinking, and not be able to fall back to sleep.
Now, with the responsibilities of trying to reach a hundred and thirty students slipping away for the summer, the pent up exhaustion has been creeping up on me. As I start to relax, I realize that I am tired.
So today, to celebrate the end of school, I slept until 10:30 this morning and then I took a four-hour nap. I disappeared and I dreamed.
I dreamed of a woman locked up in a house that was a cross between Wuthering Heights and Riven Rock. I let her out and she set all the parked cars lined up along the street on fire. Her husband and sons were angry. I was in awe, even though she blew up my car in her mad dash to destruction.
I dreamed about little houses an artist created out of handmade paper. They had been covered with quotes from a friend of mine, and they were small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. There was a weight to them when you held them, as if they were lived in, and the paper was coated in some sort of smooth wax, and the single window above the door glowed from within.
I dreamed that I was a very young child, and I lived in a strange house where my bedroom was made from a converted airstream trailer. I slept on the bench seat near the steering wheel and the huge windshield looked out on a backyard that was bordered by forest.
The bathroom of the trailer did not function, and it leaked from a broken skylight, so that the shower was like a tricking waterfall and was full of dirt and leaves and green fungus - but I liked it that way.
Henry, from the Time Traveler's Wife came to visit me in my airstream room. We sat, cross-legged, on the blue carpeted floor and had a tea party for my stuffed animals. He was very kind and offered to help me with my math homework.
Now, with the responsibilities of trying to reach a hundred and thirty students slipping away for the summer, the pent up exhaustion has been creeping up on me. As I start to relax, I realize that I am tired.
So today, to celebrate the end of school, I slept until 10:30 this morning and then I took a four-hour nap. I disappeared and I dreamed.
I dreamed of a woman locked up in a house that was a cross between Wuthering Heights and Riven Rock. I let her out and she set all the parked cars lined up along the street on fire. Her husband and sons were angry. I was in awe, even though she blew up my car in her mad dash to destruction.
I dreamed about little houses an artist created out of handmade paper. They had been covered with quotes from a friend of mine, and they were small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. There was a weight to them when you held them, as if they were lived in, and the paper was coated in some sort of smooth wax, and the single window above the door glowed from within.
I dreamed that I was a very young child, and I lived in a strange house where my bedroom was made from a converted airstream trailer. I slept on the bench seat near the steering wheel and the huge windshield looked out on a backyard that was bordered by forest.
The bathroom of the trailer did not function, and it leaked from a broken skylight, so that the shower was like a tricking waterfall and was full of dirt and leaves and green fungus - but I liked it that way.
Henry, from the Time Traveler's Wife came to visit me in my airstream room. We sat, cross-legged, on the blue carpeted floor and had a tea party for my stuffed animals. He was very kind and offered to help me with my math homework.
Labels: save as draft
Thursday, May 19, 2005
to my freshman students:
When I ask for you to write a reflective essay about how you have grown and matured over the past year, "This year was really good because I got to have sex more than I thought I would!" is not an appropriate response.
Number one - this is not the sort of material a formal essay should contain.
Number two - this is not something I want to know. Really.
Number one - this is not the sort of material a formal essay should contain.
Number two - this is not something I want to know. Really.
what i learned so far this week
When someone sets fire to a trash can the day the kids clean out their lockers, it really smells bad.
Labels: save as draft
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
there's a reason Song of Solomon is in the Bible......
I've never been a believer in evolution, so Arianna Huffington's review of this book had me laughing out loud today.
My favorite quote:
"Wouldn’t it be delicious if the female orgasm were the thing that tips the scales in favor of the Intelligent Design crowd? It would make for a great closing argument: "The female orgasm is so complex and strange, it could only have come from God. The reason there is no evolutionary purpose to it is because there is no evolution!"
My favorite quote:
"Wouldn’t it be delicious if the female orgasm were the thing that tips the scales in favor of the Intelligent Design crowd? It would make for a great closing argument: "The female orgasm is so complex and strange, it could only have come from God. The reason there is no evolutionary purpose to it is because there is no evolution!"
Labels: save as draft
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
secret wall tattoos
Rent a hotel for an evening. Take down the headboard, art, or mirror. Leave a secret work of art hidden beneath the furnishings.
There is an entire website dedicated to secret wall tattoos.
I'll be hopefully peeking behind things from now on.
(link via. kottke)
There is an entire website dedicated to secret wall tattoos.
I'll be hopefully peeking behind things from now on.
(link via. kottke)
more pomp. more circumstance
It is unlikely that I'll be posting anything very deep this week, because I found out today that grades are due at ten freaking a.m. Monday morning! Those two days of post planning that I thought I'd have to finish grading essays were evidently begot of vain fantasy and of as thin a substance as the air. Sigh.
In the meantime - photos from this evening. My daughter, Lily, graduated from kindergarten. There was a song and dance from The Lion King, a recitation of a poem by Langston Hughes, and the diplomas.
This was my daughter's reaction when they called her name:
This was her reaction when they called the name of the little boy she likes:
Oh yeah, her man's got his kindergarten diploma. Time to party.
In the meantime - photos from this evening. My daughter, Lily, graduated from kindergarten. There was a song and dance from The Lion King, a recitation of a poem by Langston Hughes, and the diplomas.
This was my daughter's reaction when they called her name:
This was her reaction when they called the name of the little boy she likes:
Oh yeah, her man's got his kindergarten diploma. Time to party.
Labels: save as draft
Saturday, May 14, 2005
pomp and circumstance
Although I completed my coursework last August, today was the day I officially graduated. When I walked across the stage to recieve my diploma, my kids yelled "MOM!!!".
Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton gave the commencement address. When she shook my hand, she thanked me for being a teacher.
It was really nice.
Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton gave the commencement address. When she shook my hand, she thanked me for being a teacher.
It was really nice.
Labels: save as draft
Friday, May 13, 2005
counting down
Standing outside in the midday sun, listening to the roar of sirens as a line of fire engines descend to dutifully pronounce that, once again, there is no fire, I turn to one of my fellow teachers.
"Remember that song, Welcome to the Jungle?"
She laughs and comments that our kids are too young to have ever heard that song, but perhaps they should.
My husband finds it amusing that I once owned a Guns N Roses t-shirt. I was a sleeper-in-class, who never once lived up to my potential. i refused to write with capital letters. I was one of the senior skip day organizers. My friends were vandalizers. When I graduated, I slipped the principal a plastic roach as I dutifully shook his hand.
Now, I am the adult in the room, the order-maintainer, the crisis-averter. I am the one who carries the roll book and attempts to gather students as they spill into the parking lot. I order them to keep walking all the way to the fence so they can be counted.
They evidently don't realize that bomb threats get you out of class for a longer period of time than fire drills. Or maybe the world has shifted post Columbine, post 9-11. Maybe bomb threats are not as surreal and practical joke-ish as they once were. Maybe the pull of the fire alarm lever has a visceral rush, the opening of the safety box, and the red promise of release. Maybe that moment of physical contact when the lever switches and the alarm begins sounding in its blinking-light splendor is more thrilling than an anonymous call from a pay phone would be.
Whatever the case, there are six days of school left and the halls are full of barely contained energy. The teachers are tired. The kids are like cans of coke that someone shook and put back in the fridge. They are waiting to explode into the promise of summer.
This morning, realizing the inevitable, I thought to pack sunglasses.
"Remember that song, Welcome to the Jungle?"
She laughs and comments that our kids are too young to have ever heard that song, but perhaps they should.
My husband finds it amusing that I once owned a Guns N Roses t-shirt. I was a sleeper-in-class, who never once lived up to my potential. i refused to write with capital letters. I was one of the senior skip day organizers. My friends were vandalizers. When I graduated, I slipped the principal a plastic roach as I dutifully shook his hand.
Now, I am the adult in the room, the order-maintainer, the crisis-averter. I am the one who carries the roll book and attempts to gather students as they spill into the parking lot. I order them to keep walking all the way to the fence so they can be counted.
They evidently don't realize that bomb threats get you out of class for a longer period of time than fire drills. Or maybe the world has shifted post Columbine, post 9-11. Maybe bomb threats are not as surreal and practical joke-ish as they once were. Maybe the pull of the fire alarm lever has a visceral rush, the opening of the safety box, and the red promise of release. Maybe that moment of physical contact when the lever switches and the alarm begins sounding in its blinking-light splendor is more thrilling than an anonymous call from a pay phone would be.
Whatever the case, there are six days of school left and the halls are full of barely contained energy. The teachers are tired. The kids are like cans of coke that someone shook and put back in the fridge. They are waiting to explode into the promise of summer.
This morning, realizing the inevitable, I thought to pack sunglasses.
Labels: save as draft
Thursday, May 12, 2005
5-11-5
I have always responded to sorrow with numbness. I lost all of my grandparents in childhood, one by one, as they slipped away due to illnesses brought on by lives of hard work and poverty. I never cried.
Death feels to me like a vacuum, like the air around me is sucked away a little bit and all the colors lose a shade of their intensity. I sense the absence, but I don't cry. I pause during the day like an animal that senses a presence. I think I have forgotten something. The world feels slightly different, but somehow not different enough. Not as different as it should feel.
I think that it ought to be raining, that maybe I would cry if it rained.
Then, this morning I find myself writing an email to a friend. I write: "She has a brain tumor. She has been really sick for a long time." I pause. No, that's wrong. I backspace, click delete over the "s" and type "d".
"She had a brain tumor."
The finality hits me and I cringe under the weight. Click. Delete. Has becomes Had.
She no longer has a brain tumor, and she is no longer really sick. She has been healed, which was all of our prayer all along.
And although the thought of her, whole and full of joy at the feet of her Lord, makes me smile; there is still the empty space she left behind. If you listen, you can hear her missing from our world.
Lauren White, Lily's Godmother, and the most gentle, humble, faithful woman I've ever known, lost her long battle with cancer yesterday morning. She was only a few years older than I am. Please pray for her husband James and her parents, Bob and Angie.
Death feels to me like a vacuum, like the air around me is sucked away a little bit and all the colors lose a shade of their intensity. I sense the absence, but I don't cry. I pause during the day like an animal that senses a presence. I think I have forgotten something. The world feels slightly different, but somehow not different enough. Not as different as it should feel.
I think that it ought to be raining, that maybe I would cry if it rained.
Then, this morning I find myself writing an email to a friend. I write: "She has a brain tumor. She has been really sick for a long time." I pause. No, that's wrong. I backspace, click delete over the "s" and type "d".
"She had a brain tumor."
The finality hits me and I cringe under the weight. Click. Delete. Has becomes Had.
She no longer has a brain tumor, and she is no longer really sick. She has been healed, which was all of our prayer all along.
And although the thought of her, whole and full of joy at the feet of her Lord, makes me smile; there is still the empty space she left behind. If you listen, you can hear her missing from our world.
Lauren White, Lily's Godmother, and the most gentle, humble, faithful woman I've ever known, lost her long battle with cancer yesterday morning. She was only a few years older than I am. Please pray for her husband James and her parents, Bob and Angie.
Labels: save as draft
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
tag
Thicket Dweller has tagged me:
The Questions:
If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an inn-keeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a llama-rider...
If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be an astronaut...
If I could be a world famous blogger...
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world...
If I could be married to any current famous political figure...
If I could be an artist (okay, I'm cheating a bit - it's supposed to "painter"), I'd make little fairy houses and fairy clothes out of leaves and bark and petals and stones and found butterfly and dragonfly wings. I'd sell them, but sometimes, I'd leave one next to a tree, along a wooded path where children walked.
If I could be a writer, it would be a secret. I'd publish under a pseudonym. I'd stop writing the moment I stopped living. I would try, very hard, to be honest.
If I could be a librarian, I'd be a children's librarian in an old city library with wooden floors and staircases and stained glass windows.
I'd put lots of rocking chairs in the picture book section, and bean bags in among the chapter books. I'd read out loud, and give the toddlers ribbons when they got a baby brother or sister or when they told me they learned to use the potty like a big kid. I'd keep a treasure chest of polished stones to give to the older kids when they read a book. I'd put a mailbox next to my desk so kids could write letters to characters in books. I'd write back.
If I could be a professor, I would teach something having to do with American Literature. I'd be really happy. I'd write academic papers and present them at conferences, just for fun. I'd audit totally random classes, just for fun.
If I could be an athlete, I'd be a gymnast. I imagine it would feel like flying.
If I could be an architect, I would design public schools in low-income areas (I'd be a super-rich architect, so I'd fund the projects as well). I'd put theaters, art studios, and technology labs in the schools. I'd design bright, open classrooms with non-florescent light, and open courtyards that could serve as outdoor classrooms on beautiful days. I'd design furniture to go in the schools: comfortable desks that larger students could actually sit in without being squished, built-in bookshelves, podiums that contained shelves and computer screens. I'd design walls that were made to display student work, posters, and art - without the teacher having to use a hot glue gun or entire roll of duct tape. I'd filter fresh, purified air through the ventilation system and place volume control knobs in each class so that teachers could turn down the PA. I better stop now. I could go on and on.
Now, it is my turn to tag five people to play. Cut and paste the questions, then answer any five of the "ifs".
I tag.......
Steph
Gypsy
Kelly
*Jane
Valerie
The Questions:
If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an inn-keeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a llama-rider...
If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be an astronaut...
If I could be a world famous blogger...
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world...
If I could be married to any current famous political figure...
If I could be an artist (okay, I'm cheating a bit - it's supposed to "painter"), I'd make little fairy houses and fairy clothes out of leaves and bark and petals and stones and found butterfly and dragonfly wings. I'd sell them, but sometimes, I'd leave one next to a tree, along a wooded path where children walked.
If I could be a writer, it would be a secret. I'd publish under a pseudonym. I'd stop writing the moment I stopped living. I would try, very hard, to be honest.
If I could be a librarian, I'd be a children's librarian in an old city library with wooden floors and staircases and stained glass windows.
I'd put lots of rocking chairs in the picture book section, and bean bags in among the chapter books. I'd read out loud, and give the toddlers ribbons when they got a baby brother or sister or when they told me they learned to use the potty like a big kid. I'd keep a treasure chest of polished stones to give to the older kids when they read a book. I'd put a mailbox next to my desk so kids could write letters to characters in books. I'd write back.
If I could be a professor, I would teach something having to do with American Literature. I'd be really happy. I'd write academic papers and present them at conferences, just for fun. I'd audit totally random classes, just for fun.
If I could be an athlete, I'd be a gymnast. I imagine it would feel like flying.
If I could be an architect, I would design public schools in low-income areas (I'd be a super-rich architect, so I'd fund the projects as well). I'd put theaters, art studios, and technology labs in the schools. I'd design bright, open classrooms with non-florescent light, and open courtyards that could serve as outdoor classrooms on beautiful days. I'd design furniture to go in the schools: comfortable desks that larger students could actually sit in without being squished, built-in bookshelves, podiums that contained shelves and computer screens. I'd design walls that were made to display student work, posters, and art - without the teacher having to use a hot glue gun or entire roll of duct tape. I'd filter fresh, purified air through the ventilation system and place volume control knobs in each class so that teachers could turn down the PA. I better stop now. I could go on and on.
Now, it is my turn to tag five people to play. Cut and paste the questions, then answer any five of the "ifs".
I tag.......
Steph
Gypsy
Kelly
*Jane
Valerie
Labels: save as draft
sanctuary
Thursday, May 05, 2005
holden
The kid in yesterday's post was expelled today.
I may get into trouble for trying to keep him from getting expelled. I was told that "some kids just aren't worth saving".
I disagree.
I wish the world was different. I really, really do.
I may get into trouble for trying to keep him from getting expelled. I was told that "some kids just aren't worth saving".
I disagree.
I wish the world was different. I really, really do.
Labels: save as draft
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
but really, don't we all?
Labels: save as draft
the story
In almost every class, I have one student that I call a "ghost child". They are on the class list, but they literally never come to class. Usually, the administration will eventually withdraw them and their names will simply vanish.
In tenth grade literature, my ghost child is a boy. He entered my class a few weeks after the semester had started. He came with no transcript. He was in my class twice. The second day, he asked to use the restroom and never came back. I've seen his name on the list for in-school or out-of-school suspension, and I saw him once or twice at the concession stand after school.
Right after he transferred, I saw him being transported to the office after he tried to break through a locked doorway - a locked doorway with a teacher in front of it. I heard the noise as his body slammed, shoulder-first into the huge metal door and I poked my head out of my classroom, to see what was going on. I saw that it was a kid I knew, so I went and tried to talk to him.
"Look", I said. "It's not worth getting into trouble over this. Just walk around like everyone else."
He swore and shook his head. "I don't feel like walking," he said.
There are two weeks and two days left in the school year. Two weeks even if you don't count the half-days for final exams. Monday, I saw this kid in the hallway. i greeted him like a long lost friend. "Remember me," I said. "I'm your English teacher." I invited him to attend class. He told me he had not been there because he was working. "Well", I said. "I think you will like the book we are getting ready to read."
I was shocked when he showed up on Tuesday. It was the first day of Catcher in the Rye . I read the first two chapters out loud. He stayed awake. He turned in his discussion questions. It was the only assignment he had turned in.
This morning, he saw me in the hall, smiled, and hugged me. Third period, he was back in class, awake, and he did his work again.
There is no reason for him to come to class with only a few days left in the school year. There is no reason for him to do this work. He is not trying to pass. He has not asked for make-up work or recovery. As far as I can tell, he's just coming to hear the story.
I read the whole thing out loud. I save it till the end so the kids are comfortable with me before they hear me reading the bad language. Today, one of my students asked if I feel like I need to pray for forgiveness after I read because of all the bad words Holden says. I thought for just a second, then I smiled and said, "No. Not at all."
his second day of turned-in work. and the answers are not in complete sentences, but they are all the right answers.
In tenth grade literature, my ghost child is a boy. He entered my class a few weeks after the semester had started. He came with no transcript. He was in my class twice. The second day, he asked to use the restroom and never came back. I've seen his name on the list for in-school or out-of-school suspension, and I saw him once or twice at the concession stand after school.
Right after he transferred, I saw him being transported to the office after he tried to break through a locked doorway - a locked doorway with a teacher in front of it. I heard the noise as his body slammed, shoulder-first into the huge metal door and I poked my head out of my classroom, to see what was going on. I saw that it was a kid I knew, so I went and tried to talk to him.
"Look", I said. "It's not worth getting into trouble over this. Just walk around like everyone else."
He swore and shook his head. "I don't feel like walking," he said.
There are two weeks and two days left in the school year. Two weeks even if you don't count the half-days for final exams. Monday, I saw this kid in the hallway. i greeted him like a long lost friend. "Remember me," I said. "I'm your English teacher." I invited him to attend class. He told me he had not been there because he was working. "Well", I said. "I think you will like the book we are getting ready to read."
I was shocked when he showed up on Tuesday. It was the first day of Catcher in the Rye . I read the first two chapters out loud. He stayed awake. He turned in his discussion questions. It was the only assignment he had turned in.
This morning, he saw me in the hall, smiled, and hugged me. Third period, he was back in class, awake, and he did his work again.
There is no reason for him to come to class with only a few days left in the school year. There is no reason for him to do this work. He is not trying to pass. He has not asked for make-up work or recovery. As far as I can tell, he's just coming to hear the story.
I read the whole thing out loud. I save it till the end so the kids are comfortable with me before they hear me reading the bad language. Today, one of my students asked if I feel like I need to pray for forgiveness after I read because of all the bad words Holden says. I thought for just a second, then I smiled and said, "No. Not at all."
his second day of turned-in work. and the answers are not in complete sentences, but they are all the right answers.
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field trip
Near Callaway Gardens, there is a locally owned attraction called The Wild Animal Safari. It is one of those places that makes you wonder how on earth it can possibly be legal. The attraction involves purchasing brown paper bags of wild animal chow and driving in a bus or rented van through a open air "safari". All sorts of wild animals (zebras, girraffes, antelope, water buffalo) come right up to the vand, stick their heads in, and eat out of your hand.
Today, had her class trip. Her dad was a chaperone. I hear that it was so cool.
Today, had her class trip. Her dad was a chaperone. I hear that it was so cool.
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on the subject of crime
taking a bite out of crime
I feel really safe now that my city has passed an ordinance making it possible for people to arrest themselves. There is even a handy online form for repentant criminals with internet access, a printer, and a sense of humor.
My favorite part is the instruction to remove ones own belt and shoelaces after arresting oneself.
I know I'll sleep soundly tonight.
My favorite part is the instruction to remove ones own belt and shoelaces after arresting oneself.
I know I'll sleep soundly tonight.
Labels: save as draft
