Rebuilding Taj Mahal
A shrine, by definition, Is a scared place. Shrines are dedicated to Buddha, Ra, Dolci and Gabbana, the Great Bambino… We build palaces and stadiums and malls and tape tattered baseball cards up inside rusty lockers, all to give us the “feeling.” I believe that the “feeling” we chase depends on who we are, and where life has taken us. But the outcome is the same: we stay sane, praying to our shrines.
My shrine is less shoebox and candles, and more my own private Taj Mahal. A year ago, walking through the great curved double doors, your footsteps echoed on pretty pink granite squares, flecked with gold. The main hall had hundreds of closed doors and corridors lining its walls, and a waterfall cascading into a stream that ran the length. If I fancied a sit, I could pause on a cute little wicker bench and feed the butterfly koi that taste the air with their snouts, greedy for the food and attention. The hundreds of doors that ran up and down the arbor each contained a separate shrine - ex-boyfriends, old jobs, experiences and general observations from my short life on this planet. Whether in need of solace, or humor, or warning, there was a door to enter. I could turn the handle, step over the threshold, and remember why this had warranted a space in my sanctum. My neuroses had order, and offered me all the benefits of a therapist, with none of the bothersome trips to an office.
Then, when I was 25, my parents announced their divorce. I watched, helpless, as the granite foundation of my shrine simply vanished. The walls shook, there was a small dust cloud, and then – gone. When I opened those great carved doors, I teetered forward, desperate not to be caught up in the great black emptiness that has replaced my safe haven.
For the first few months, this new void bewildered me. Where had my foundation gone? What abut all those experiences and people that shaped how I see the world? I was lost, and quickly losing my sanity. Then, about Christmas time, while I helped my Dad decorate cookies at his new apartment with all three of my little sisters, it hit me: my foundation was my parents. Without their stable base, my granite had lost its hold, and I lost all my perspective.
In a way, this is a problem reserved for the older children of divorce. We build our foundations for the way the world works, including relationships, on our parents. My two younger sisters seemed to have no problems understanding how this huge change affected their lives, but I was still lost. They will have the opportunity to work this new development into how they understand and view the world. I have to rebuild all that.
It is slow going, laying the path into the void. Each new slab of granite has to be examined closely and placed exactly, so I know what it underneath. Some small headway ha been made, and I can open some doors now, but it’s such hard work, and I cry a lot with the weight of all the raw materials. Sometimes I can feel my heart sinking into the emptiness, and I take some time off to recuperate my soul. Chocolate helps. So does hubby. And my fuzzy cuddle kitty.
So I rebuild, sometimes daily, mining new foundations from my memories. It’s not pretty yet. This new shrine has to be stronger than the last, more impervious, so that the earth shaking doesn’t do as much damage. It’s taking longer than I had hoped. But the water fall is on order, and I am waiting on the violets to bloom again and brighten the way.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
scared
quietly it
creeps
up your spine,
eating
it’s way across the scalp,
bearing down
on the veins,
bass drums
thwacking away
deep inside your
skull,
dizzying spots that
dance
in front of your eyes,
arresting your
hope.
stopping your
heart.
letting the
fear
move in.
creeps
up your spine,
eating
it’s way across the scalp,
bearing down
on the veins,
bass drums
thwacking away
deep inside your
skull,
dizzying spots that
dance
in front of your eyes,
arresting your
hope.
stopping your
heart.
letting the
fear
move in.
Monday, July 7, 2008
7th grade? Really? I hated 7th grade!
I hated middle school and so did every person I know. When people learn that I teach 7th grade, the most popular response is, “7th grade was the worst year of my life.” They don’t understand how I could love this awkward, smelly, hormonally overactive (and hormonally challenged) set. All I can answer is that I never thought I’d end up here, and be happy about it. I was going to be a teacher of literature. I was going to transform the lives of high school students with Shakespeare and Remarque. I was sure of it.
The first 2 years I taught Freshmen, Sophomores and SDAIE English, and they were the worst years of my life. From being hired 3 days before school started with, “I just need a warm body in the room,” to being blamed when I was physically assaulted by a student, ending with my final review of, “This may not be the occupation for you. You may someday be adequate, but you’ll never be good or great,” I went home and cried every night. I can now say with complete certainty that some of my problems were due to my inexperience, my age (I turned 22 the month before I signed my contract), and a very hot, youthful temper. However, I am also certain that being the youngest on staff by 15 years, not being willing to stand up for myself, and an antagonistic administration contributed greatly to my unhappiness. Somewhere in my files, I still have my official reprimand for continuing to wear green toenail polish! So when the pink slip came in March of my second year, the panic that accompanies those horrid pieces of paper was outweighed by the relief of knowing that I could escape my own private hell.
When I was applying for new jobs, I sent in over 60 applications for a huge variety of positions. Feeling insecure about my ability as an educator, I was particularly tempted by scripted programs in San Jose’s low performance schools (I got 2 offers for this gig, that I almost accepted). I figured that I couldn’t screw up a job like that. The middle school interview was already scheduled though, and I hate to cancel on people, so I dry cleaned my “grown-up” suit one more time, took off the eye-liner, ditched the second earrings, and made sure to pull my hair up into a very-not-24-year-old bun – I couldn’t take another administrator asking me, “Just how old are you?”
I didn’t know that an interview could be so much fun. The woman I spoke to was warm and funny, and excited about the chance to have an ex-high school teacher on staff. Karen and I talked about my belief that a classroom should be more “controlled chaos” than “silent zone,” that ELLs are just as capable as EOs, and that the teacher should not always be the center of attention. Somewhere in there, we also talked about my shoes (gorgeous pinstripe heels), and my decision to ditch those second earrings (she has 3 in each ear). By the end of the interview I had laughed more than in my last month at the HS, and was determined not to take one of those other warm-body jobs, even if this interview didn’t pan out. Then, 2 hours later, I was driving back to the DO, with all the paperwork necessary to sign my contract.
So, why do I love my 7th graders? Honestly, I’m sure that part of it is residual fear from my first 2 years. I associate high school with panic, disappointment, exhaustion, assault and fear. I was not myself for those 2 years, and the thought of going back to that makes me feel sick to my stomach. I do miss the literature, but that is a small price to pay for what I have found in middle school. I have kids who are still excited to learn. I have kids who still believe that they can be anything they want to be, and I can help give them the tools to do it. Middle school students are willing to play SilentBall on a rainy lunch period and sing a silly Onomatopoeia song, but can discuss why The Giver is relevant to our own society. They miss me when I’m gone, they are honest without being malicious (most of the time), and they are fun to be with. Middle school is just a better fit for me. Of course, you couldn’t pay me enough to teach any lower, including 6th grade, or any higher – 8th graders are punks! I think that, in the words of my principal, “To be a good middle school teacher you have to be sarcastic, energetic, silly, academic, loud, soft, maternal and a drill sergeant. You have to understand the middle school sucks for everybody, and that you can make the difference between this being the worst year of their life, and a safe place to be in a chaotic world.” I think that I do…. When people tell me that 7th grade was the worst year of their life, I just smile, hoping (and in some cases quite certain) that for so many of my students, this will not be their answer in 15 years.
The first 2 years I taught Freshmen, Sophomores and SDAIE English, and they were the worst years of my life. From being hired 3 days before school started with, “I just need a warm body in the room,” to being blamed when I was physically assaulted by a student, ending with my final review of, “This may not be the occupation for you. You may someday be adequate, but you’ll never be good or great,” I went home and cried every night. I can now say with complete certainty that some of my problems were due to my inexperience, my age (I turned 22 the month before I signed my contract), and a very hot, youthful temper. However, I am also certain that being the youngest on staff by 15 years, not being willing to stand up for myself, and an antagonistic administration contributed greatly to my unhappiness. Somewhere in my files, I still have my official reprimand for continuing to wear green toenail polish! So when the pink slip came in March of my second year, the panic that accompanies those horrid pieces of paper was outweighed by the relief of knowing that I could escape my own private hell.
When I was applying for new jobs, I sent in over 60 applications for a huge variety of positions. Feeling insecure about my ability as an educator, I was particularly tempted by scripted programs in San Jose’s low performance schools (I got 2 offers for this gig, that I almost accepted). I figured that I couldn’t screw up a job like that. The middle school interview was already scheduled though, and I hate to cancel on people, so I dry cleaned my “grown-up” suit one more time, took off the eye-liner, ditched the second earrings, and made sure to pull my hair up into a very-not-24-year-old bun – I couldn’t take another administrator asking me, “Just how old are you?”
I didn’t know that an interview could be so much fun. The woman I spoke to was warm and funny, and excited about the chance to have an ex-high school teacher on staff. Karen and I talked about my belief that a classroom should be more “controlled chaos” than “silent zone,” that ELLs are just as capable as EOs, and that the teacher should not always be the center of attention. Somewhere in there, we also talked about my shoes (gorgeous pinstripe heels), and my decision to ditch those second earrings (she has 3 in each ear). By the end of the interview I had laughed more than in my last month at the HS, and was determined not to take one of those other warm-body jobs, even if this interview didn’t pan out. Then, 2 hours later, I was driving back to the DO, with all the paperwork necessary to sign my contract.
So, why do I love my 7th graders? Honestly, I’m sure that part of it is residual fear from my first 2 years. I associate high school with panic, disappointment, exhaustion, assault and fear. I was not myself for those 2 years, and the thought of going back to that makes me feel sick to my stomach. I do miss the literature, but that is a small price to pay for what I have found in middle school. I have kids who are still excited to learn. I have kids who still believe that they can be anything they want to be, and I can help give them the tools to do it. Middle school students are willing to play SilentBall on a rainy lunch period and sing a silly Onomatopoeia song, but can discuss why The Giver is relevant to our own society. They miss me when I’m gone, they are honest without being malicious (most of the time), and they are fun to be with. Middle school is just a better fit for me. Of course, you couldn’t pay me enough to teach any lower, including 6th grade, or any higher – 8th graders are punks! I think that, in the words of my principal, “To be a good middle school teacher you have to be sarcastic, energetic, silly, academic, loud, soft, maternal and a drill sergeant. You have to understand the middle school sucks for everybody, and that you can make the difference between this being the worst year of their life, and a safe place to be in a chaotic world.” I think that I do…. When people tell me that 7th grade was the worst year of their life, I just smile, hoping (and in some cases quite certain) that for so many of my students, this will not be their answer in 15 years.
My Credo
I believe in the Canon I have created;
the desire in Romeo and Juliet,
the pain in The Sun Also Rises,
the anger in The Shining,
the faith in Jane Eyre.
Real love, Real loss, Real life
But to believe blindly in Disney's
happily ever after means you've
missed the point.
I believe in the strength of my marriage vows,
I believe in the power of my parent's divorce papers,
I believe in the miracle of a baby's first laugh.
New love, New loss, New Life
And I believe in the people who
carry on through each plot,
living life as best they can,
for as long as their words hold on.
the desire in Romeo and Juliet,
the pain in The Sun Also Rises,
the anger in The Shining,
the faith in Jane Eyre.
Real love, Real loss, Real life
But to believe blindly in Disney's
happily ever after means you've
missed the point.
I believe in the strength of my marriage vows,
I believe in the power of my parent's divorce papers,
I believe in the miracle of a baby's first laugh.
New love, New loss, New Life
And I believe in the people who
carry on through each plot,
living life as best they can,
for as long as their words hold on.
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