Things I'm currently thankful for (all basics aside, since they're kind of a given) in no particular order:
1. Heroes (the TV show)
2. Winter trees against orange/pink/purple/blue sunsets
3. Pesto
4. Quirky movies (like Lars and the Real Girl)
5. Functioning heaters
6. Friends' blogs from Boone, Grenada and Reiko's room
7. Weekends
8. Roses
9. REAL Christmas trees
10. Payday
11. Questions
12. Books, films and people that question everything
13. Mint Mojito chewing gum
14. The Independent Film Channel
15. Nutmeg
16. The glass bottle tree on highway 86
17. Hippies with dogs and frisbees
18. Rain (whenever we can get it)
19. New cell phones with reliable alarms
20. Pretty much everybody I know
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Amazing Women I Know
I know a lot of amazing women.
My mother is one, my grandmother was one, my aunt Doreen is one...and that's just my family. I don't even know where to start when I get to the amazing women who are my friends.
Today, I met an amazing woman. And when I say amazing, I mean that after I spoke to her, I was so amazed that I wasn't sure what to think, much less what to say. I was stunned and speechless and emotionally wrung out.
In a good way, I was overwhelmed.
This woman's name is Gizella. She was about seventy five, maybe younger, maybe older, I'm not sure. She was about four feet tall and had that same sort of kindly grandmother face, except she was more petite in every sense than any grandmother I've ever met before. Her eyes alone were amazing; they were huge, expressive, cheerful-- and they were this remarkably clear, bright aquamarine color with dark blue-green circles rimming her irises. I've never seen such beautiful eyes before.
Gizella was born in Poland. She was a member of the Polish underground until it was discovered that she was a Jew who had somehow escaped the Lodz ghetto, and then she was sent to the Majdanek death camp. Her family, her parents and her brother, died at Belzec, the death camp of which there are only two known survivors. Before she joined the Polish underground she saw Nazis shoot an entire community and dump them into crude ditches while she was hiding in the bushes. She slaved and scraped by at Majdanek, passing herself off as healthy by pinching her cheeks and biting her lips to give herself some color, until she was made to dig her own grave, but before she was shot the Allies appeared to save the day, all too late to save the rest of her family.
She did not speak about what had happened to her until 1970 -- almost thirty years after she had experienced it -- when she was living in Raleigh with her husband and two small children, and now, she says that she cannot stop talking about it, hoping that we all "understand what a precious thing you have in the democracy of this great nation...that you understand that this country is not perfect, but it is beautiful, and we must hold on to the freedom that makes it so special."
She told us her story today -- us being about 40 History and English teachers from around the area -- over the course of about three hours, which didn't seem long enough to sum up such a remarkable life. She had a remarkable (and sometimes wicked) sense of humor, and a sense of joy about the world and about her life that I absolutely could not believe.
I suppose I expect everyone who survived something as horrible as the Holocaust to be shells. I expect something that horrible to completely gut somebody, to eviscerate their souls. I expect to see somebody so full of sorrow for what they've seen that a smile seems difficult and a laugh seems damn near impossible.
Not Gizella.
Gizella was so full of joy and love, it was as if she had to overproduce it to make up for all of the joy and love that was sucked out of her life the instant the Nazis invaded her hometown. She told me today about going back to Poland to visit the Belzec death camp, where her family died, from which she was miraculously spared. The memorial has the names of thousands of those who died there -- including her parents and her brother. She tried to touch all of their names, but because she is so short (she cracked short jokes about herself pretty much all day) she could not reach her father's name. She suddenly felt someone lifting her up to touch her father's name; she reached it, touched it, and turned around to see an American marine standing behind her, smiling. I got teary and she hugged me and took my hands and said in her thick Polish accent, "Don't you cry, now!"
I was at a loss for words.
She lost her mother -- I've been thinking about mothers alot lately, and that made me think of all of my other "amazing women -- " and still, she was the one telling me not to cry. I just kept thinking about how incredible and unbelieveable it was that she still found joy in life, after she had lost what was most precious to her. I was suddenly so grateful for everything, especially for all of my amazing mothers, aunts and sisters.
I wanted to share this, and to offer it up as a thanks to "the Big G" (which is how Gizella refers to God) for this country (despite all it's faults), for my life, for Gizella, and for all of the amazing women I know -- some of the things I love most in this old world. Whether she meant to or not, she reminded me today that I have so very much to be thankful for.
I think now, when I picture God, I might just think of Gizella.
My mother is one, my grandmother was one, my aunt Doreen is one...and that's just my family. I don't even know where to start when I get to the amazing women who are my friends.
Today, I met an amazing woman. And when I say amazing, I mean that after I spoke to her, I was so amazed that I wasn't sure what to think, much less what to say. I was stunned and speechless and emotionally wrung out.
In a good way, I was overwhelmed.
This woman's name is Gizella. She was about seventy five, maybe younger, maybe older, I'm not sure. She was about four feet tall and had that same sort of kindly grandmother face, except she was more petite in every sense than any grandmother I've ever met before. Her eyes alone were amazing; they were huge, expressive, cheerful-- and they were this remarkably clear, bright aquamarine color with dark blue-green circles rimming her irises. I've never seen such beautiful eyes before.
Gizella was born in Poland. She was a member of the Polish underground until it was discovered that she was a Jew who had somehow escaped the Lodz ghetto, and then she was sent to the Majdanek death camp. Her family, her parents and her brother, died at Belzec, the death camp of which there are only two known survivors. Before she joined the Polish underground she saw Nazis shoot an entire community and dump them into crude ditches while she was hiding in the bushes. She slaved and scraped by at Majdanek, passing herself off as healthy by pinching her cheeks and biting her lips to give herself some color, until she was made to dig her own grave, but before she was shot the Allies appeared to save the day, all too late to save the rest of her family.
She did not speak about what had happened to her until 1970 -- almost thirty years after she had experienced it -- when she was living in Raleigh with her husband and two small children, and now, she says that she cannot stop talking about it, hoping that we all "understand what a precious thing you have in the democracy of this great nation...that you understand that this country is not perfect, but it is beautiful, and we must hold on to the freedom that makes it so special."
She told us her story today -- us being about 40 History and English teachers from around the area -- over the course of about three hours, which didn't seem long enough to sum up such a remarkable life. She had a remarkable (and sometimes wicked) sense of humor, and a sense of joy about the world and about her life that I absolutely could not believe.
I suppose I expect everyone who survived something as horrible as the Holocaust to be shells. I expect something that horrible to completely gut somebody, to eviscerate their souls. I expect to see somebody so full of sorrow for what they've seen that a smile seems difficult and a laugh seems damn near impossible.
Not Gizella.
Gizella was so full of joy and love, it was as if she had to overproduce it to make up for all of the joy and love that was sucked out of her life the instant the Nazis invaded her hometown. She told me today about going back to Poland to visit the Belzec death camp, where her family died, from which she was miraculously spared. The memorial has the names of thousands of those who died there -- including her parents and her brother. She tried to touch all of their names, but because she is so short (she cracked short jokes about herself pretty much all day) she could not reach her father's name. She suddenly felt someone lifting her up to touch her father's name; she reached it, touched it, and turned around to see an American marine standing behind her, smiling. I got teary and she hugged me and took my hands and said in her thick Polish accent, "Don't you cry, now!"
I was at a loss for words.
She lost her mother -- I've been thinking about mothers alot lately, and that made me think of all of my other "amazing women -- " and still, she was the one telling me not to cry. I just kept thinking about how incredible and unbelieveable it was that she still found joy in life, after she had lost what was most precious to her. I was suddenly so grateful for everything, especially for all of my amazing mothers, aunts and sisters.
I wanted to share this, and to offer it up as a thanks to "the Big G" (which is how Gizella refers to God) for this country (despite all it's faults), for my life, for Gizella, and for all of the amazing women I know -- some of the things I love most in this old world. Whether she meant to or not, she reminded me today that I have so very much to be thankful for.
I think now, when I picture God, I might just think of Gizella.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Miscommunication
Gyaaaahhh, I hate it when communication gets all fucked up.
I think that I have a habit of assuming that everything is settled when it isn't in other people's minds, so I make plans accordingly, and then end up feeling like a royal bitch for making plans that end up ruining somone else's. Kind of like right now. I think I should just start flying by the seat of my pants and not make plans at all (of course, then, things would REALLY be fucked up because everybody's plans would be ruined except mine, because I wouldn't have any). Argh.
I kind of desperately want to crawl in a hole; I feel like I've somehow managed to waste the last two weekends when I could have been doing something useful like visiting my family so my mother can have her Erin fix and my grandparents will stop sending me guilt-trip phone calls about how they've forgotten what I look like. Or maybe going up to Boone to re-center myself. Or...something. Truth is, I want to stay here, I want to have people over, and I want to sit around and play hostess like I used to back when I lived at College Place -- watching Scrubs and The Daily Show on my sofa sipping wine/beer/improvised mixed drinks and slowly getting tipsy while laughing at the television and my friends' latest antics. God, I miss that sofa. It was a great sofa. Still is, only now it's my brother's, because it was too much trouble to move down the stairs and onto a horse trailer that was temporarily serving as a makeshift U-Haul.
I'm heading to Yadkinville in about a half-an-hour, and I'm typing this while I should be throwing shit in the car (not literally; that would be a sight, wouldn't it?), and I feel like a royal bitch for not making sure that everything was settled before I let someone talk me into doing something else.
Who knows? Maybe I'll still have a fantastic weekend. I'm just so tired. And I tend to freak out unnecessarily about miscommunication, especially when I feel like its my fault.
Sorry, everyone. Love you muchly anyway. Hope sincerely that the only weekend I ruined was my own.
I think that I have a habit of assuming that everything is settled when it isn't in other people's minds, so I make plans accordingly, and then end up feeling like a royal bitch for making plans that end up ruining somone else's. Kind of like right now. I think I should just start flying by the seat of my pants and not make plans at all (of course, then, things would REALLY be fucked up because everybody's plans would be ruined except mine, because I wouldn't have any). Argh.
I kind of desperately want to crawl in a hole; I feel like I've somehow managed to waste the last two weekends when I could have been doing something useful like visiting my family so my mother can have her Erin fix and my grandparents will stop sending me guilt-trip phone calls about how they've forgotten what I look like. Or maybe going up to Boone to re-center myself. Or...something. Truth is, I want to stay here, I want to have people over, and I want to sit around and play hostess like I used to back when I lived at College Place -- watching Scrubs and The Daily Show on my sofa sipping wine/beer/improvised mixed drinks and slowly getting tipsy while laughing at the television and my friends' latest antics. God, I miss that sofa. It was a great sofa. Still is, only now it's my brother's, because it was too much trouble to move down the stairs and onto a horse trailer that was temporarily serving as a makeshift U-Haul.
I'm heading to Yadkinville in about a half-an-hour, and I'm typing this while I should be throwing shit in the car (not literally; that would be a sight, wouldn't it?), and I feel like a royal bitch for not making sure that everything was settled before I let someone talk me into doing something else.
Who knows? Maybe I'll still have a fantastic weekend. I'm just so tired. And I tend to freak out unnecessarily about miscommunication, especially when I feel like its my fault.
Sorry, everyone. Love you muchly anyway. Hope sincerely that the only weekend I ruined was my own.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Cock on a Rock in a Frock
This morning, since I currently have an infinitely uninteresting life, I watched the movie The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. It's an Australian road movie about two drag queens and a transexual trekking across the Outback in a purple Swedish tour bus named "Priscilla," and seeing as how few things cheer me up like drag queen movies, it is probably now in my top ten list. But anyway, that's beside the point.
Last weekend Reiko and I went to a party. it was a Halloween party, full of folks I don't know -- I've only met the girl who invited us once, for that matter, and so the only people that Reiko and I knew at the party were this girl and each other. There were two kegs in the backyard, and lots of people in interesting, creative and witty Halloween costumes (my personal favorite was two girls who dressed exactly alike with blood smeared all over one side who told everyone they were Siamese twins who had recently tried to separate themselves). Reiko was a naughty referee and I was a naughty librarian -- black pencil skirt, all-business pinstripe shirt, hair in a bun, glasses, black high-heeled pumps, etc., except I had the shirt buttoned about up to my waist to show off a red bra. Wasn't quite sure what to make of all of it. I've discovered that I love parties, but only when I know just about everyone there.
Spoke to a few guys, who seemed surprised that I knew as much about action movies and George Orwell as I did, who sat around and talked literary nonsense all evening -- all about books they hadn't actually read and authors they weren't actually fans of, but everything sounded prestigious and pretentious, so they ran their mouths about them. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm the queen of pretentious articulate bullshit, but when I do know something about the subject matter, I'm frustrated by people that don't and still try to sound like they do.
We left the party at about 1 AM. I went home and went to bed.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm nowhere near the kind of party animal I thought I was. Yeah, I like to party, and yeah, I like to get drunk, and yeah, I like to act scandalous and be silly -- but only when I'm around people that I know, only when I'm in places that are familiar, and only when it's usually on my terms that I'm acting ridiculous. Isn't that strange? I guess I'm just not as outgoing as I thought.
Well, back to Priscilla...one of the characters, one of the drag queens had a son, and was forever afraid that his son wouldn't understand the fact that his father was gay, and wouldn't love him because of it. Turns out, he didn't give the kid enough credit; the boy (who was about ten), didn't seem to care at all; in fact, he asked his father if he'd have a boyfriend when they got back to Sydney, and when his father said "Probably," the boy said, "Good." All I could think was, "what a beautiful moment. Here's this father, who's so used to being beaten down for what he is, and he's pleasantly surprised when his estranged ten-year-old doesn't give a damn if he has a drag queen for a dad." It said something to me about people being so worried about other people's acceptance that we're too cautious. This man had been avoiding meeting his son for this very reason, and when he finally did, turns out there was no problem at all.
I guess what I'm saying is that I should get over my neuroses and meet people -- minus the pretentious bullshit. Maybe I'll be pleasantly surprised.
Oh, and the title of today's entry? A quote from Priscilla, of course -- the old transexual in the film, upon finding out that the youngest member of the troupe has the ultimate dream of climbing Ayer's Rock in a full-length sequined Gaultier ball-gown, says to the kid, "Oh, great, just what we need: a cock on a rock in a frock." Hands down, favorite line from the movie.
Last weekend Reiko and I went to a party. it was a Halloween party, full of folks I don't know -- I've only met the girl who invited us once, for that matter, and so the only people that Reiko and I knew at the party were this girl and each other. There were two kegs in the backyard, and lots of people in interesting, creative and witty Halloween costumes (my personal favorite was two girls who dressed exactly alike with blood smeared all over one side who told everyone they were Siamese twins who had recently tried to separate themselves). Reiko was a naughty referee and I was a naughty librarian -- black pencil skirt, all-business pinstripe shirt, hair in a bun, glasses, black high-heeled pumps, etc., except I had the shirt buttoned about up to my waist to show off a red bra. Wasn't quite sure what to make of all of it. I've discovered that I love parties, but only when I know just about everyone there.
Spoke to a few guys, who seemed surprised that I knew as much about action movies and George Orwell as I did, who sat around and talked literary nonsense all evening -- all about books they hadn't actually read and authors they weren't actually fans of, but everything sounded prestigious and pretentious, so they ran their mouths about them. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm the queen of pretentious articulate bullshit, but when I do know something about the subject matter, I'm frustrated by people that don't and still try to sound like they do.
We left the party at about 1 AM. I went home and went to bed.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm nowhere near the kind of party animal I thought I was. Yeah, I like to party, and yeah, I like to get drunk, and yeah, I like to act scandalous and be silly -- but only when I'm around people that I know, only when I'm in places that are familiar, and only when it's usually on my terms that I'm acting ridiculous. Isn't that strange? I guess I'm just not as outgoing as I thought.
Well, back to Priscilla...one of the characters, one of the drag queens had a son, and was forever afraid that his son wouldn't understand the fact that his father was gay, and wouldn't love him because of it. Turns out, he didn't give the kid enough credit; the boy (who was about ten), didn't seem to care at all; in fact, he asked his father if he'd have a boyfriend when they got back to Sydney, and when his father said "Probably," the boy said, "Good." All I could think was, "what a beautiful moment. Here's this father, who's so used to being beaten down for what he is, and he's pleasantly surprised when his estranged ten-year-old doesn't give a damn if he has a drag queen for a dad." It said something to me about people being so worried about other people's acceptance that we're too cautious. This man had been avoiding meeting his son for this very reason, and when he finally did, turns out there was no problem at all.
I guess what I'm saying is that I should get over my neuroses and meet people -- minus the pretentious bullshit. Maybe I'll be pleasantly surprised.
Oh, and the title of today's entry? A quote from Priscilla, of course -- the old transexual in the film, upon finding out that the youngest member of the troupe has the ultimate dream of climbing Ayer's Rock in a full-length sequined Gaultier ball-gown, says to the kid, "Oh, great, just what we need: a cock on a rock in a frock." Hands down, favorite line from the movie.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Naked and Famous
So...I've decided with all certainty that I absolutely DO NOT want to teach high school English for the rest of my life. I am fairly certain that I do not want to teach high school English for the rest of the next four years. Trouble is, I've also decided that I pretty much don't want to teach High School Anything. I want something else entirely.
I want to be Naked and Famous.
Like the song. A band called Presidents of the United States of America (who's initials, beautifully enough, are POTUSA) has a great song called "Naked and Famous." The chorus goes like this:
"Everybody wants to be naked and famous;
Everybody wants to be just like me, I'm naked...and famous."
I would give the rest of the lyrics, but you should download it for yourself if you haven't heard it. It's great. Anyway, I love this song, because I think it pretty much sums up what I would really LOVE to be right now: naked and famous.
I suppose I just have this mental image of somebody being completely, totally shameless, despite the fact that everyone's watching; maybe not literally naked (or maybe so...that could be fun) but more like... completely unafraid, completely unashamed to be and to do what you want no matter who's paying attention. I suppose this is just me being frustrated with having to censor everything for the tender ears of teenagers (cough, cough), but it's just such a lovely idea, naked and famous. Unabashedly doing...whatever... and having the guts to say to the cameras, who the fuck cares? I'm happy with it, and I don't care who else is.
Wouldn't that be nice?
I want to be Naked and Famous.
Like the song. A band called Presidents of the United States of America (who's initials, beautifully enough, are POTUSA) has a great song called "Naked and Famous." The chorus goes like this:
"Everybody wants to be naked and famous;
Everybody wants to be just like me, I'm naked...and famous."
I would give the rest of the lyrics, but you should download it for yourself if you haven't heard it. It's great. Anyway, I love this song, because I think it pretty much sums up what I would really LOVE to be right now: naked and famous.
I suppose I just have this mental image of somebody being completely, totally shameless, despite the fact that everyone's watching; maybe not literally naked (or maybe so...that could be fun) but more like... completely unafraid, completely unashamed to be and to do what you want no matter who's paying attention. I suppose this is just me being frustrated with having to censor everything for the tender ears of teenagers (cough, cough), but it's just such a lovely idea, naked and famous. Unabashedly doing...whatever... and having the guts to say to the cameras, who the fuck cares? I'm happy with it, and I don't care who else is.
Wouldn't that be nice?
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Shameless Displays of Happiness
Just a thought for the week...
Friday, I went home pissed as hell. I discovered that teachers are not compensated at all for staying after school or showing up early. Despite the fact that we sign in and out everyday, as if it were a computerized time clock (which is what I thought it was), we are only payed for our time in school that occurs between 7:45 and 3:30. Now. Here's the shit kicker. I get to school at 7:30 or earlier every morning, and I leave around 4:00 every afternoon, and this is not counting how much work I do at home grading papers and other such bullshit. I don't get paid for a minute of that time. Not overtime, not comp time, not even extra sick or annual leave (of which I have none, I might add). So, an already frustrated teacher was made even more frustrated by the system. Baah. Needless to say, I started the weekend in the worst sort of mood.
Well, here's where the loveliness came in.
I got home Friday afternoon, and Reiko was working until nine or later, so I decided to go by the store and see her -- it gave me an excuse to go by the bookstore and pick up the latest Entertainment Weekly and perhaps (gasp) yet another chick lit novel (I ended up buying The Jane Austen Book Club...nifty book so far). On the way there, I got a little lost and somehow ended up cruising down Franklin Street. There were people everywhere... and there was a bluegrass band playing on the lawn of a very fancy house nearby, with tons of hippies sprawled out on the lawn with children and dogs climbing over them as if they were human jungle gyms. I thought, bitterly at first, I wish I was having that much fun. And then, I looked over to my left as the stoplight turned green, and I saw a woman walking by one of the sorority houses. She was on the sidewalk, and there was a very tall picket fence separating the lawn of the sorority house from the sidewalk, and spilling over the fence was this -- pardon the corny word -- cascade of pink roses. The woman looked to be about sixty, dressed in black, carrying bags from Food Lion and Dollar General, and would have looked pitiful if it hadn't been for what she was doing. She stopped as I passed by, set down the bags, took one of the roses in her hands and dove into it face first, just inhaling that rose smell. She had her eyes closed and just breathed in all of that rose that she possibly could. I couldn't help but think, how many people literally stop to smell the roses? That's one of those things that people tell you to do, one of those metaphorical cliches that they use all the time in movies, but how many times do you see somebody actually stopping to smell roses?
Two days later, today, actually, the Tanakas and I went to Carrboro for the Carroboro music festival, and on the way back, I saw a girl on a bicycle. Just like the woman on the sidewalk on Franklin street, I saw her for just an instant, but it stayed with me. She was pedalling along, looking very intent on her destination, until she leaned back and flung her arms out and just coasted the way down the hill with her arms out as if she was trying to hug the world. When we passed her, she even had her eyes closed, and she was smiling with the sunset on her face.
I just couldn't help but think... it isn't often that we catch somebody putting on a shameless display of happiness, much less indulge in one ourselves. I guess somebody upstairs is trying to tell me something. I keep having this mental image of God rolling eyes at me, as usual, and thinking, "Jesus, Errn. Cheer the fuck up."
Maybe I should indulge in a little shameless display of happiness.
Friday, I went home pissed as hell. I discovered that teachers are not compensated at all for staying after school or showing up early. Despite the fact that we sign in and out everyday, as if it were a computerized time clock (which is what I thought it was), we are only payed for our time in school that occurs between 7:45 and 3:30. Now. Here's the shit kicker. I get to school at 7:30 or earlier every morning, and I leave around 4:00 every afternoon, and this is not counting how much work I do at home grading papers and other such bullshit. I don't get paid for a minute of that time. Not overtime, not comp time, not even extra sick or annual leave (of which I have none, I might add). So, an already frustrated teacher was made even more frustrated by the system. Baah. Needless to say, I started the weekend in the worst sort of mood.
Well, here's where the loveliness came in.
I got home Friday afternoon, and Reiko was working until nine or later, so I decided to go by the store and see her -- it gave me an excuse to go by the bookstore and pick up the latest Entertainment Weekly and perhaps (gasp) yet another chick lit novel (I ended up buying The Jane Austen Book Club...nifty book so far). On the way there, I got a little lost and somehow ended up cruising down Franklin Street. There were people everywhere... and there was a bluegrass band playing on the lawn of a very fancy house nearby, with tons of hippies sprawled out on the lawn with children and dogs climbing over them as if they were human jungle gyms. I thought, bitterly at first, I wish I was having that much fun. And then, I looked over to my left as the stoplight turned green, and I saw a woman walking by one of the sorority houses. She was on the sidewalk, and there was a very tall picket fence separating the lawn of the sorority house from the sidewalk, and spilling over the fence was this -- pardon the corny word -- cascade of pink roses. The woman looked to be about sixty, dressed in black, carrying bags from Food Lion and Dollar General, and would have looked pitiful if it hadn't been for what she was doing. She stopped as I passed by, set down the bags, took one of the roses in her hands and dove into it face first, just inhaling that rose smell. She had her eyes closed and just breathed in all of that rose that she possibly could. I couldn't help but think, how many people literally stop to smell the roses? That's one of those things that people tell you to do, one of those metaphorical cliches that they use all the time in movies, but how many times do you see somebody actually stopping to smell roses?
Two days later, today, actually, the Tanakas and I went to Carrboro for the Carroboro music festival, and on the way back, I saw a girl on a bicycle. Just like the woman on the sidewalk on Franklin street, I saw her for just an instant, but it stayed with me. She was pedalling along, looking very intent on her destination, until she leaned back and flung her arms out and just coasted the way down the hill with her arms out as if she was trying to hug the world. When we passed her, she even had her eyes closed, and she was smiling with the sunset on her face.
I just couldn't help but think... it isn't often that we catch somebody putting on a shameless display of happiness, much less indulge in one ourselves. I guess somebody upstairs is trying to tell me something. I keep having this mental image of God rolling eyes at me, as usual, and thinking, "Jesus, Errn. Cheer the fuck up."
Maybe I should indulge in a little shameless display of happiness.
Friday, September 21, 2007
The name's the thing
Hmmm. I don't usually post blogs or read blogs, but it's become a recent habit, so I thought I'd attempt to jump on the bandwagon; if I fall off, well...I suppose Errn the blogger just wasn't meant to be.
First thing: I hate having to choose screennames, because I feel like I can never come up with anything interesting and catchy that still somehow relates to me. I thought about just using my AIM handle, MountainMermaid8, which I like too much to change, but I realized that I am no longer a "Mountain" Mermaid (having betrayed my roots and moved down the flatlands of Chapel Hill and all) and "ExMountainMermaid" just sounds incredibly depressing. And then I remembered playing on this random name generator a few years back -- what's your pirate name-- (don't ask for the URL, 'cause I can't remember) and my pirate name was supposedly "VoodooEsmerelda." Well, it had this fun pirate/pornstar/stripper ring to it, and it was much less depressing than "ExMountainMermaid." And god knows, since I've starting censoring myself as a teacher, I've realized I need alot more pirate/pornstar/stripper elements in my life. So if you're wondering, that's why "VoodooEsmerelda."
Second thing -- I can't write a blog and NOT sound off about how much my job sucks. I have quickly discovered that I love studying literature much more than I love teaching it; I love to analyze it and read into it and tear it to pieces with my silly little brain, and in teaching, I am more or less regurgitating state-mandated interpretations of books and short stories that were lucky enough to make it into the state's "canon" of literature. Damnitall.
Here's the thing, though. I LOVE my students. They're genuinely good kids. Not just good, they're really great kids. Which surprises me, because I don't have any honors classes. My students got into this absolutely amazing debate the other day about racism after one of my students brought up the Jena Six incident. Considering that about fifty percent or more of each of my classes is black, that got interesting real quick. But in a good way. I thought seriously about having them write letters to the press and to government officials about it, to let them sound off on it and express themselves and WRITE at the same time. My dad told me that they make movies about teachers that pull crap like that; I thought of Dangerous Minds and Freedom Writers, all about the kindly white woman who comes in to save the black delinquents, and I wasn't quite sure what to think of myself. A little disgusted and inspired at the same time. What does that mean? These kids are NOT in any way shape or form delinquents, and most of them will go on to do good things with their lives no matter what I "inspire" them to do... so maybe they don't make movies about inspirational teachers, just the ones who's students deal drugs and carry guns in their oversized britches. Aw, hell, I've already decided to weasel my way out of this loan debt thing anyway and get my doctorate and teach women's literature at some university until I'm a pickled old hippie anyway, so who really cares if I inspire anybody at all, as long as I meet the state fucktard standards?
Last thing, and then I quit, I swear. I miss college life and Boone and the GANG like a bitch. Seriously. I miss sleeping in and skipping class, I miss being able to take the Appalcart to class and not drive my car for days at a time, I miss POTLUCK, I miss four or five people casually dropping into my apartment to get drunk and watch The Daily Show and The Colbert Report. I miss all the people -- seems like I formed the neatest little makeshift family up in those mountains, especially over the last couple of summers (you know who you are), and now I've gone and left to go and figure out what it means to be a grown-up, and I've left everybody behind. It hurts alot more than I expected it to, which is saying something, because I expected it to hurt alot. Just not this much.
Sigh....I suppose I'll live.
First thing: I hate having to choose screennames, because I feel like I can never come up with anything interesting and catchy that still somehow relates to me. I thought about just using my AIM handle, MountainMermaid8, which I like too much to change, but I realized that I am no longer a "Mountain" Mermaid (having betrayed my roots and moved down the flatlands of Chapel Hill and all) and "ExMountainMermaid" just sounds incredibly depressing. And then I remembered playing on this random name generator a few years back -- what's your pirate name-- (don't ask for the URL, 'cause I can't remember) and my pirate name was supposedly "VoodooEsmerelda." Well, it had this fun pirate/pornstar/stripper ring to it, and it was much less depressing than "ExMountainMermaid." And god knows, since I've starting censoring myself as a teacher, I've realized I need alot more pirate/pornstar/stripper elements in my life. So if you're wondering, that's why "VoodooEsmerelda."
Second thing -- I can't write a blog and NOT sound off about how much my job sucks. I have quickly discovered that I love studying literature much more than I love teaching it; I love to analyze it and read into it and tear it to pieces with my silly little brain, and in teaching, I am more or less regurgitating state-mandated interpretations of books and short stories that were lucky enough to make it into the state's "canon" of literature. Damnitall.
Here's the thing, though. I LOVE my students. They're genuinely good kids. Not just good, they're really great kids. Which surprises me, because I don't have any honors classes. My students got into this absolutely amazing debate the other day about racism after one of my students brought up the Jena Six incident. Considering that about fifty percent or more of each of my classes is black, that got interesting real quick. But in a good way. I thought seriously about having them write letters to the press and to government officials about it, to let them sound off on it and express themselves and WRITE at the same time. My dad told me that they make movies about teachers that pull crap like that; I thought of Dangerous Minds and Freedom Writers, all about the kindly white woman who comes in to save the black delinquents, and I wasn't quite sure what to think of myself. A little disgusted and inspired at the same time. What does that mean? These kids are NOT in any way shape or form delinquents, and most of them will go on to do good things with their lives no matter what I "inspire" them to do... so maybe they don't make movies about inspirational teachers, just the ones who's students deal drugs and carry guns in their oversized britches. Aw, hell, I've already decided to weasel my way out of this loan debt thing anyway and get my doctorate and teach women's literature at some university until I'm a pickled old hippie anyway, so who really cares if I inspire anybody at all, as long as I meet the state fucktard standards?
Last thing, and then I quit, I swear. I miss college life and Boone and the GANG like a bitch. Seriously. I miss sleeping in and skipping class, I miss being able to take the Appalcart to class and not drive my car for days at a time, I miss POTLUCK, I miss four or five people casually dropping into my apartment to get drunk and watch The Daily Show and The Colbert Report. I miss all the people -- seems like I formed the neatest little makeshift family up in those mountains, especially over the last couple of summers (you know who you are), and now I've gone and left to go and figure out what it means to be a grown-up, and I've left everybody behind. It hurts alot more than I expected it to, which is saying something, because I expected it to hurt alot. Just not this much.
Sigh....I suppose I'll live.
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