Yesterday found me running late for church. Don’t ask me why; I woke up in plenty of time. It seems the fine art of time suckage has followed me even to this stage in my life.
Anyway, at 10:00 a.m., I realize that I am not going to make church on time, so I decide to pick a church that has an 11:00 a.m. service. It will be an adventure. I drive to the Blue Roof (Presbyterian), where we attend an AA meeting on Thursdays. Just as I remembered, the service starts at 11:00 a.m. Except on the 5th Sunday of the month, when services start at 10:00 am. I peer into the window of the sanctuary (from afar, of course), and services have already started. It is 10:20 a.m. Damn 5th Sunday.
So I drive over to the humongous Lutheran church on Dale Mabry. The big sign in front of the building proclaims that services start at 11:00 a.m. I stroll up to the door, notice that I am the only one outside, and hear the faint sounds of … preaching. I eye the usher warily. “What time does the service start?,” I inquire. “At 11:00. Except on the fifth Sunday. Then it starts at 10:00.” It is 10:30. Shit.
Oh, but I have more churches in my arsenal. Don’t forget that, through AA, I have completed the tour of Carrollwood churches. Ah, the joys of the fellowship. Off to another Presbyterian church, located conveniently close to the AA meeting my beloved is attending on this fine Sunday morn. Yeah, except services started at 10:30 a.m. It is now 10:45. Surely God is playing a practical joke. Ha. Ha. Funny, God.
With a sigh, I turn my car around and head toward the Methodist church that I just drove by. The sign said services start at 11:00. But now I find myself skeptical of the sign’s knowledge of what the hell is going on.
I pull in, which is not a problem because there is no one there. Okay, okay. I exaggerate. But really, only a handful of cars. Good Lord, these folks need to pull something out for me. And they do… all 30 of them, many of them octogenarians. It might have been a little Blood of the Lamb for me, but at least I made it to church. Finally.
Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?
* Title paraphrased from a billboard on I-75. Seriously. Gotta love the Bible Belt.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Saucy
Today, I decided to provide a boost to our economy by .... wait for it... shopping. Okay, okay. It wasn't some sort of altruistic decision to help our country as much as it was a craving for new clothes. I mean, the clothes make the man...er, woman... right?
The feeling of buying new clothes was nothing short of intoxicating. During this current phase of self-exploration, I have unearthed a desire to be alternately flirty and bold. I desire, with all of the longing that that word conjures, to feel sexy. Sometimes that means sexy-coy; sometimes it means sexy-funky. Primarily, though, I want to be saucy... in my words, my dress, my attitude. I am finding a new level of self-assuredness, and I want my style to reflect my discovery.
Plus, you know, there is that whole boosting the economy bit... Just doing my part.
The feeling of buying new clothes was nothing short of intoxicating. During this current phase of self-exploration, I have unearthed a desire to be alternately flirty and bold. I desire, with all of the longing that that word conjures, to feel sexy. Sometimes that means sexy-coy; sometimes it means sexy-funky. Primarily, though, I want to be saucy... in my words, my dress, my attitude. I am finding a new level of self-assuredness, and I want my style to reflect my discovery.
Plus, you know, there is that whole boosting the economy bit... Just doing my part.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Keep Coming Back
As I sat in the AA meeting tonight, I realized that sometimes people become attached to the persona that they typically project... and sometimes that persona doesn't really do them justice. Every group needs a smart ass. But the when wisecracks and insults grossly overshadow the message, then each share just becomes a mini-theater of ego. Which is unfortunate, when really, behind the shadow play of barbed words and caustic wit, there lies a sensitive, wise person who genuinely loves the people that are around him.
Would it be too much to ask to let that persona come to the meeting every once in a while? We would like that persona to keep coming back.
Would it be too much to ask to let that persona come to the meeting every once in a while? We would like that persona to keep coming back.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
In Which I Grumble...
My students rock. Usually.
Even though 15 years separates my world from theirs, I still readily relate to them. College was my first real venture into figuring out who I was and who I wanted to be. Each experience crackled with intensity... every moment seemed somehow significant. I see that same passion in most of my students. I gravitate toward it. I try to mirror their enthusiasm, albeit my enthusiasm is for writing and theirs is for, well, living. My perspective on life as a journey makes me more of a co-traveler than an authority figure, which works pretty darn well, if I do say so myself.
Except when I get fed up.
Next week is conference week with my students. I will spend 20 minutes with each of them. I have 88 students. Go on. Do the math. That is over 29 hours of conferencing next week. Even though conferences completely drain me, I look forward this one-on-one time with my students, to volley ideas and to collaborate on their work. This passes as fun for me (I know I am lame, but see above: My students rock).
Back to the Lashout of 2009: One of my students complained that none of the remaining conference times were times that he was on campus. So sad. That looks like an extra trip to school for him. Then he said, "Why would I want to drive 30 minutes for a 20 minute conference?"
Oh no. No sir, you did not. You did NOT just tell me that my time is not as valuable as your time. So, I told him to skip the conference... then I could have back that 20 minutes of my life, and he could go on with his day. He piped up again. Fuming, I was fuming. And, in the middle of the classroom buzzing with 18 year olds working on group projects, I told him he was really pissing me off and he needed to stop right then. And I meant it. RIGHT THEN.
I am willing to go to great lengths to make sure my students learn something, to help build their self-confidence, to develop their lackluster writing skills. And I don't expect them to name their firstborn after me or even to bake me cupcakes on the last day of school (although that would be nice). But I do expect to be respected. And in no way is it wise for them to imply that their time is more valuable than mine.
I may seem small and friendly, but so does a chihuahua, right before it clamps down on your hand. That's all I am saying.
Even though 15 years separates my world from theirs, I still readily relate to them. College was my first real venture into figuring out who I was and who I wanted to be. Each experience crackled with intensity... every moment seemed somehow significant. I see that same passion in most of my students. I gravitate toward it. I try to mirror their enthusiasm, albeit my enthusiasm is for writing and theirs is for, well, living. My perspective on life as a journey makes me more of a co-traveler than an authority figure, which works pretty darn well, if I do say so myself.
Except when I get fed up.
Next week is conference week with my students. I will spend 20 minutes with each of them. I have 88 students. Go on. Do the math. That is over 29 hours of conferencing next week. Even though conferences completely drain me, I look forward this one-on-one time with my students, to volley ideas and to collaborate on their work. This passes as fun for me (I know I am lame, but see above: My students rock).
Back to the Lashout of 2009: One of my students complained that none of the remaining conference times were times that he was on campus. So sad. That looks like an extra trip to school for him. Then he said, "Why would I want to drive 30 minutes for a 20 minute conference?"
Oh no. No sir, you did not. You did NOT just tell me that my time is not as valuable as your time. So, I told him to skip the conference... then I could have back that 20 minutes of my life, and he could go on with his day. He piped up again. Fuming, I was fuming. And, in the middle of the classroom buzzing with 18 year olds working on group projects, I told him he was really pissing me off and he needed to stop right then. And I meant it. RIGHT THEN.
I am willing to go to great lengths to make sure my students learn something, to help build their self-confidence, to develop their lackluster writing skills. And I don't expect them to name their firstborn after me or even to bake me cupcakes on the last day of school (although that would be nice). But I do expect to be respected. And in no way is it wise for them to imply that their time is more valuable than mine.
I may seem small and friendly, but so does a chihuahua, right before it clamps down on your hand. That's all I am saying.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Truth Be Told...
I remember when I was first introduced to the idea that everyone is a little bit racist. At first, I was indignant and appalled. But, once I stopped being defensive, I realized that some of the stereotypes that I had been exposed to had, in fact, seeped into my subconscious. I never spoke them aloud... but they were there nonetheless, allowing me to subtly identify people as "other" and guiding my perceptions of people and my subsequent interactions with them. Once I admitted that I had bought into some of these stereotypes, then I could work on dismissing them or dismantling them to get at the fear of difference that almost always drives stereotypes.
As a teacher, I have had to confront my own prejudice repeatedly, to see the ugliness that lurks around in the dark recesses of my mind. And while at times I am horrified at thoughts that will flit through my mind, I am mostly grateful that I am not afraid to let those prejudices go, once I have identified them. I am thankful to have a job where I can't just allow my prejudices to quietly garner strength; they must be identified and destroyed. I have to constantly be willing to grow and to admit that I am not always as accepting as I would like to believe myself to be.
So, why the confessional? Because I have been guilty of ignoring my students' use of the word "retard" as an insult in my classroom. Because I am guilty of throwing the word around in banter. And because I had convinced myself that it is harmless, that I meant nothing by it. But, truth be told, when someone is throwing around the word "dyke," I bristle. Because, even if they say they mean nothing by it, I know there is a tinge of hate somewhere in there. And I know the same is true when I cavalierly use the word "retarded." I am identifying someone as "other," as lesser than me. I don't want to be that person. I believe every life is valuable, that everyone deserves respect. It is time that my use of language reflect those beliefs.
As a teacher, I have had to confront my own prejudice repeatedly, to see the ugliness that lurks around in the dark recesses of my mind. And while at times I am horrified at thoughts that will flit through my mind, I am mostly grateful that I am not afraid to let those prejudices go, once I have identified them. I am thankful to have a job where I can't just allow my prejudices to quietly garner strength; they must be identified and destroyed. I have to constantly be willing to grow and to admit that I am not always as accepting as I would like to believe myself to be.
So, why the confessional? Because I have been guilty of ignoring my students' use of the word "retard" as an insult in my classroom. Because I am guilty of throwing the word around in banter. And because I had convinced myself that it is harmless, that I meant nothing by it. But, truth be told, when someone is throwing around the word "dyke," I bristle. Because, even if they say they mean nothing by it, I know there is a tinge of hate somewhere in there. And I know the same is true when I cavalierly use the word "retarded." I am identifying someone as "other," as lesser than me. I don't want to be that person. I believe every life is valuable, that everyone deserves respect. It is time that my use of language reflect those beliefs.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Atlanta (brought to you by ASICS)
I took my first run in Atlanta today. Holy hills. Every time I rounded a corner, I was facing either a steep incline or some sort of rolling hill that shouldn't have been too intimidating... but after the first two miles or so, all hills look daunting. Trust me.
But then there were the glorious downhill jaunts, where running is a bit like just skimming the surface of the path effortlessly. And, suddenly, I would look up and there would be (you guessed it) another hill.
All of this hill business is a drastic change from Tampa, where everything is flat. At home, I run at the same pace consistently. But, here, I had to slow it down on the inclines, lest I run out of fuel mid-hill. And on the downward slopes, I had to center my body so that inertia didn't completely take over and send me cascading head over heels down the hill. I couldn't really look ahead, because what was ahead was inconsequential. All that mattered was how I was going to navigate the terrain I was on right then. And I didn't know how I would feel after the next hill or around the next corner, because it was all uncharted territory for me.
This run, this run mirrored my life right now... concentrating on the moment, uncertain what is ahead, but still pushing forward and finding that I am really digging the scenery.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Know-It-All
I hate to admit that I don't know. I want to have all the answers, to have my life figured out. It is difficult for me to ask for help because that means weakness, vulnerability.
This is a stupid outlook on life. Seriously.
Clearly, I don't know everything. It surely was not good decision-making and incredible coping skills that landed me in AA at 33. So, I am going to take this opportunity to admit what has probably been obvious all along: I don't know everything.
(But I do know most things.)
Another fascinating tidbit that I have recently discovered about myself: I seem to find something glamorous about being slightly damaged. If I am no longer drinking, I no longer have the obvious tragic flaw. Now I am forced to actually be complex, to have ideas and thoughts to present to the world, instead of presenting my flaw and demanding that people be intrigued.
I feel relatively certain that my closest friends did not find my drinking darkly mysterious or tragically endearing. But self-perception is often a long way from reality. And when Step 6 says, "Became entirely ready for God to remove all of these defects of character" this clinging to familiar, albeit destructive, behaviors is exactly the hesitation that they thought this step might run up against.
I don't need to be tragic, or dark and complex, to be interesting. Hell, I'd probably do fine just being myself... once I figure out who that really is.
This is a stupid outlook on life. Seriously.
Clearly, I don't know everything. It surely was not good decision-making and incredible coping skills that landed me in AA at 33. So, I am going to take this opportunity to admit what has probably been obvious all along: I don't know everything.
(But I do know most things.)
Another fascinating tidbit that I have recently discovered about myself: I seem to find something glamorous about being slightly damaged. If I am no longer drinking, I no longer have the obvious tragic flaw. Now I am forced to actually be complex, to have ideas and thoughts to present to the world, instead of presenting my flaw and demanding that people be intrigued.
I feel relatively certain that my closest friends did not find my drinking darkly mysterious or tragically endearing. But self-perception is often a long way from reality. And when Step 6 says, "Became entirely ready for God to remove all of these defects of character" this clinging to familiar, albeit destructive, behaviors is exactly the hesitation that they thought this step might run up against.
I don't need to be tragic, or dark and complex, to be interesting. Hell, I'd probably do fine just being myself... once I figure out who that really is.
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