Should I Buy Her A Cape?

Teaching is not for the faint of heart. At all times, there are 22 people staring right at you. They are watching everything you do, critiquing everything you say. There is the constant worry that you will say something that is just flat out wrong or that you will contradict yourself. But those things ARE going to happen, so it is just best to practice laughing at yourself ahead of time. I hear these kind of experiences build character anyway.

But still, it is nerve wracking. Especially for a person like me who has a predisposition to anxiety and panic attacks. I seem to average one to two a semester, just for shits and giggles. I never really know what will bring them on (although, I have a theory it has something to do with that God awful florescent lighting). But they scare me. And, inevitably, I have a hard time walking back into class the next day. I mean, what if something worse happens???

What if I fall down?

This question that has plagued me during my entire teaching experience was answered last night by a fellow teacher as we swapped stories near a rowdy game of beer pong. If you fall down in class... you get back up. She knows this. Because every semester she has taught, she has fallen down in class. Not walking to class or leaving class. In class. For no apparent reason. With 22 people staring at her. And she just gets back up and carries on. Not just that day or the next, but she comes back the following semester. Knowing that, statistically, she is destined to fall. Literally. And she walks into that classroom anyway.

She looked embarrassed when she was telling me the story last night. And I know she thought my incredulous look really meant "oh you poor bastard." But really... it was a look of admiration. She looked in the face of one of my biggest fears, gave it a big "fuck you" and simply marched on.

She may be my hero.

Jesus and the Parable of the Oatmeal

At the tender age of 7, I took things pretty literally. Especially things I learned in Sunday School. I mean, if Jesus said to give your coat to someone that needs it, wouldn't I be expected to give my coat, even if I would be really, really cold? Fortunately, the days one needs a coat in South Florida can be counted on one hand, so the coat thing never really effected me.

But there was oatmeal, and that caused a big conflict.

My grandparents were visiting for a week during the summer. Mama was at work. I was up before Grandma, for some reason.

*knock* *knock*

After establishing who was at the door (one could never be too careful about child molesters or ax murders), I opened the door for my neighbor, Mrs. Jones (no seriously, that was her name). She wanted instant oatmeal for her kids, and she was out. Did we have any?

I ran to the pantry, shuffled through some things and came across the last packet of Maple & Brown Sugar Quaker Instant Oatmeal. Proud of my self-sufficiency, I ran to the door and gave her the packet. We had just learned about giving in Sunday School (you know, "Whatsoever you do to the least of these..."), so I felt as pleased as if I had handed the packet of oatmeal to Jesus Christ Himself.

Know who was not as pleased? My Southern Baptist grandmother.

"Kendra! You gave away the last packet of oatmeal?" was the rather hostile response I received to my exuberant retelling of my giving oatmeal to Jesus (or Mrs. Jones, whatever). Please note that she was not looking for said oatmeal. I was just telling her the story.

"What if Granddaddy wanted that oatmeal for breakfast?!"

"He could have toast," I offered. Clearly she wasn't getting the Jesus giving connection that I was trying to explain to her.

"Family comes first, before anything else. Never give away anything without checking with all your family first."

So went my first lesson that, when it comes to Jesus, people love the stories. It is the practice that seems to throw a wrench in it all.

I Will Have the Bacon Slam (Hold the Bacon)

I think it's funny that people seem genuinely thrown for a loop when I tell them I don't eat meat.* I mean, show some love for a vegetable or two. Somehow my world of food seems so dim and narrow to them, barely worth navigating at all.

No BACON at breakfast?
No burgers on the grill?
What in the world do you eat for Thanksgiving, they ask?

Look, all that really matters to me is that I have found french fries to be lovely conduits for wing sauce. Life is meaningless without wing sauce. And there are McDonald's cheeseburgers with no meat (think of the cheeseburger as a unit. All the ingredients add up to one taste; you can't really taste the ingredients separately. Remove the meat, no harm, no foul.) Improvisation, not deprivation is what I say.

I am not that strange. Well, not for my food choices at least.

*I eat fish. But meat eaters don't really consider fish meat at all. I think only proper vegetarians consider fish meat.

Gray Skies

It is chilly here. In that way that chilly can be damp and a bit piercing. There was fog this morning, but that has lifted into a sullen grayness. My mood matches neither the weather nor the funk most of my students have drifted into. They are stressed, wrought tight with worry over passing this class or that. Sleep-deprived, they are fussy like children still begging to be treated like adults.

For some of them, the steep decline into the delirium of finals week will result in a jubilant Winter Break celebrating their success (or mere survival) of the first semester of college.

But I also know some of them won't be back. I can see it in their faces; I can hear the defeat in their voices when they ask me if there is any way they can raise their grade. The opportunity has slipped through their hands, gone in a jumble of late nights, missed classes and failed assignments. Their countenances mirror the gray sky. I hope the next leg of their journey treats them more kindly.

Kids Say the Darnedest Things

One of my students says that she checks the genealogy of every guy she dates now... since she inadvertently ended up dating her nephew a year ago.

One of my students said his uncle showed up at his mom's house and was curious about why there was no Thanksgiving spread... except he showed up on Friday. Yep, missed Thanksgiving by a whole day. Thanks for coming out, buddy.

One of my students is adopting a 15 year old. She is 18. Uh?

Although they might try my patience, I can't say my students aren't an interesting bunch.

Yes, My Brother?

On Saturday morning, I hauled myself out of bed at 6:15 a.m. to make the trek back to the ministry to volunteer. I will have to admit, I wasn't particularly chipper about being awake at that hour. In fact, I bit Amy's head off misplacing my debit card... Don't worry, she had reattached it by the time I made it back home. But she did look a bit pitiful wandering back to her room with her head tucked under her arm. Anyway...

I made a half hour drive in 15 minutes and still beat the volunteer coordinator there. I walked in to get myself situated, grab as spot behind the pastry tables and fuss with napkins and whatnot. I heard someone else come in. I looked up and realized that it was one of the homeless guys I had served on Thursday. His piercing blue eyes and Castro-esque beard make him rather memorable. He was wearing a volunteer apron and busily organizing little cans of cranberry juice to be distributed. Then he fussed about the floor, sweeping it and mopping it again before we even let anyone in the door.

As soon as we opened the door, we were flooded with hungry, cold men and women. The coffee was gone in five minutes. There was muttering about the Mayor not opening the emergency shelter, even though the temperature had dipped into the low 40s. Coffee runs had to be made every 20 minutes or so. People spilled drinks, dropped crumbs. And throughout all the bustle, he was still busily tidying up, serving people coffee, mopping up the spills. He would call out to anyone that looked lost, "What can I get you, my brother?" He had a smooth but thick Columbian accent. Some of the guys referred to him as "Paco." He just laughed it off with a quick, "Yes, my brother?"

When we closed up for a few minutes to re-mop the floor, he was insistent that he take over so that the rest of us could sit down for a minute. In those few quiet(er) minutes, he told me about picking coffee in Columbia. Coffee is a very delicate crop, one that can succumb to a freeze or a rain at an inopportune time and cost the farmer three years worth of work. He told me that it is difficult for him to reconcile his environmentalism with his love for coffee; the coffee residue washed into the rivers after harvest is toxic and kills the aquatic life that surrounds the plantations. But coffee is his passion.

As the morning wore on, he made sure to pass me a note when one of the men began experiencing extreme drug withdrawal symptoms. He wanted to make sure I understood what was happening and that I wasn't frightened. He described all the places that he and his community of "brothers" go each day to be fed. He said it is really time consuming to be homeless, which is why they don't work. That was the first time I really heard him laugh. And I laughed. At us, sitting together. At myself for finding that so extraordinary. And at my fledgling understanding that we really all are brothers.

His name is Humberto. He is a man of integrity, compassion and intelligence. Although he is homeless, he has far more than many people. I count myself blessed for having met him.

Sure You Can Have That Bear Claw!

I pulled into the dirt parking lot at 6:40 a.m. The sun was beginning to knock the remaining chill out of the air, and I was questioning my choice of a sweater. But who can really make clothing decisions at 6:00 a.m.? I looked around warily, not because I feared my surroundings but because I loathed the idea of wandering around until I found my exact volunteering destination. The volunteer center is a big place, and I had experienced being left there with no direction before. Intimidating, daunting and not what I had in mind for my bright and early Thursday morning experience.

I encountered B, a friendly Jesus-loving type I had met at volunteer orientation a few weeks before, in the parking lot looking about as lost as I felt. It took us several tries to find the place where we needed to set up our morning food distribution. Frustration was kicking in, for me at least. I like to get things moving quickly in the mornings... otherwise, I begin to ponder my pillow and question how many sheep may have gotten lost after I stopped counting them. So, yeah, brisk movement is best.

We finally got where we needed to be, located supplies and set up the pastries. I cringed at giving pastries to the homeless folks. I know it is food. But I also know what sweets do to my empty stomach--it isn't pretty. But, I have to admit, they were hyped. People would walk in, look at all the choices (we had bear claws, cinnamon rolls, cherry danish, turnovers, donuts, donut holes, cookies, macaroons, brownies, lemon filled pastries, pound cake, banana bread, cheese danish...) and beam. I teased a few of them about eating banana bread to get in a fruit serving for the day. One guy told me about the pound cake his mama used to make. Two guys wandered back in, looking sheepish--they had to give away their danish with pecans because you can't eat nuts if you ain't got teeth. Indeed.

It was only when one man reached out and touched my hand to ask my name that I really got it. I looked at him and realized that no one had asked me my name all morning. As I thanked him for caring who I was, I wondered if anyone ever bothers to ask his name.

Pre Thanksgiving Break Angst

For real, 18 year olds can be some annoying motherf*ckers. Ames says that other people notice this all the time. I, on the other hand, just became aware of this fact on November 14, 2007 at 3:34 p.m. I will try to forget how irritating the bastards can be before I see them again on Friday. Hmpf.

In yet another attempt to prove my utter insanity, I have volunteered to chill with the homeless guys downtown and give them coffee and whatnot at 6:45 a.m. And, lest you be confused, chilling with the homeless doesn't prove me insane... agreeing to be somewhere at 6:45 a.m. does.

Of Travels and Woobies...

I suck at this posting every day gig. My excuse this time is that I was in Nashville on vacation with my sister... which provided some excellent fodder for this post. So, see, it's give and take.

Notable things about Nashville:

• They pipe in country music over a P.A. system downtown.
  
• The Honky Tonks can completely suck you in. I could have spent days just listening to music.
  
• People look at you funny if you say you are a vegetarian.
• People aren't really as friendly as you might expect.
• Did I mention the fabulousness of the music? Fab.u.lous.
• At the Grand Ole Opry, they have a Minnie Pearl lookalike that yells, "HowDEEE!" at all the passersby. Cute the first time. Then it made me want to shove a sharpened pencil in my eardrum.
• The contrast of being downtown and looking out at a mountain range is dramatic and surprisingly stirring.

We stayed at a charming little bed and breakfast. Staying at a b&b always offers an interesting perspective on humanity. Take, for instance, our experience with Asher:

Ang and I stop in at the b&b so that I can freshen up before we hit a restaurant for dinner and drinks. I am introduced to Drea, the proprietor. She, in turn, introduces me to Kelly, one of the other guests. Kelly introduces me to Asher. The bear. A stuffed bear. With jeans and a Nashville t-shirt. And boots. And glasses like Kelly's.

Interesting. I find all of this a bit curious, this introducing of Asher the Bear. But maybe she was just carrying him upstairs and got caught in conversation. Maybe her introducing the bear was an attempt to cover her embarrassment at being spotted with her bear/woobie. Woobies can be very personal things, you know.

The next morning, Angie and I walk out to the common area to grab some coffee before breakfast. Kelly is on the couch. With Asher. She begins chatting about her adventures in Tennessee. She had been to Lynchburg earlier in the week and toured the Jack Daniel's distillery. With Asher. The tour guide even gave Asher a sticker for his cowboy hat.

Whut?

This whole bear thing is becoming rather uncomfortable now. Fortunately, Drea wanders in at that point to tell us that breakfast is ready. We all get seated and comfortable. All of us, including Asher. Uh huh. The bear. At breakfast. With us. Right.

Kelly and her partner (yes, they were dykes. From California. Hm) mention that they have extra tickets for the Grand Ole Opry. Ang and I really want to go to the Grand Ole Opry. We really do NOT want to go with Kelly, Maxine and Asher. We graciously (I hope) bowed out and got our own tickets. I think Asher was the only one that was offended.

Next morning, bright and early, Asher is once again chillin' in the living room. Except this time he has on a cowboy hat (with Jack Daniel's sticker), a leather jacket, jeans, a different shirt and boots. Apparently, he had a wardrobe change before his big debut at the Grand Ole Opry, where the cameras caught Maxine dancing with him and he made TELEVISION.

Right.

He was really difficult to swallow after his newfound fame. I mean, I wish him the best and all, but he really needs to remember his humble Build-A-Bear origins. There is nothing worse than a bear that's too big for his britches.

Pensive, Solitary Pea

Yesterday was a rather surreal 24 hours of aloneness. I don't work on Tuesdsays and Thursdays. Well, I don't have to go in to campus on Tuesdays and Thursdays. My time is usually divided into doing household chores, running errands, grading papers and waiting for Amy to come home. But she has been at a conference this week.... so yesterday five o'clock came and went, and I was still alone. Strange. I made myself some dinner, watched tv, read some student essays. But there was this pervasive feeling of isolation. My only contact with anyone last night was the telephone. And that did nothing to lift the slightly oppressive weight of the silence in the house. I even succumbed to watching e.r. just to pass the time. Yowzers.

All in all, I will take my time alone in small doses. A few hours at a time is just fine with me. An empty house with no one to pal around with isn't that much fun at all.

I'll Do It In A Minute

It amazes me how much I can procrastinate. I wish it were a marketable skill. Unfortunately, my procrastination typically just makes me an anxious mess. I keep putting things off until they become overwhelming. And then I get stuck in a cycle of anxiety and the crushing feeling that I will never. get. everything. done. For instance, I have five classes of papers that I need to grade. There are 22 kids ('round about) in each class. You do the math. That is a fucking lot of papers. Excuse my use foul language, but fuck is definitely warranted here.

Okay, so I haven't been procrastinating forever. I just got these papers yesterday. BUT I am out of town this weekend with my baby sister. So the likelihood of getting much done is, well, unlikely. AND I get first drafts of the next project on Wednesday of next week. Logically, I need to have these papers graded by then. And I don't come home until Monday night. See where I am going here?

Did I get up and start grading this morning? No. I slept in. Did I grade this afternoon? No. I ran errands. Have I started grading yet? No. But, hey, at least I am entertaining you with my procrastination. I think I will throw in a load of laundry, make some coffee and grade a paper or two. Even if I don't get two classes of papers finished today, as was the original plan, at least I will have gotten something done... Right?

Shadows

I have always found difficulty in distinguishing the line between being in need of a friend and being needy. Well, that isn't really fair... In a former incarnation of myself, I was usually just needy. But sometimes, when times are a bit trying, it helps to be able to reach out to the people you really count as your friends.

Although, for a person who is like me (but so clearly remembers herself only as being needy), some of the most rewarding times are those when you really WANT someone to be there... but your realize that you don't NEED them. Not in the scared, helpless way you used to. There is something brave about being alone with your own thoughts... traversing them the way that you do terrain that you are familiar with, yet can't see all that well. You become your own flashlight. Your thoughts become a compass, and you settle in. Sure, there are things that bump in the night... but you are assured that they are not as frightening as you once believed them to be. The shadow they cast are way more frightening than the things themselves.

And, in the morning, you may be just as lonely as you were the night before. But you have a renewed sense of fortitude. A renewed sense of self, which by far trumps the momentary pang of searching alone.

Coffee, Please.

I had coffee with one of my former students this morning. It's high praise when a former student wants to just hang out with you. It feels rather like being accepted into the clique that you always wanted to be part of in high school but were never quite cool enough for. Delightful.

She has a baby, this student of mine. He is nine months now. I knew her almost the entire way through her pregnancy, so being able to finally hang out with the little guy is a trip. He is chubby and charming. He laughs often. And tries to flip over backwards. A lot. And sometimes he whacks his head on the arm of a chair. When I am holding him. And she just says, "Well, Miss" (she calls me Miss), "he is going to have to learn not to do that rearing back thing sometime anyway." Indeed. But perhaps not while I am holding him? He and I made ammends by my proffering his mommy's cell phone (which he has drooled on so much it barely holds a charge). He is so enamored with the cell phone that he forgot, mid-cry, that he was supposed to be outraged by the hardness of the wood on the arm of the chair and by my inability to prevent baby booboos. She is going to need a family-share plan, if he is going to love the phone that much.

Beyond the Head Bonking of '07 SNAFU, there was only one other incident of note. A stranger, a woman in her early 60s I assume, wandered up to us. Specifically to give advice about the baby. It seems that I (she assumed he was mine) am doing something right by feeding him. (Crap. I had no intention of actually feeding my own children. Imagine the grocery bills! Nope, it will be gruel for them.) And then she wanted to discuss her labor and delivery (by c-section. It seems she has a problem.... No, you don't want to know. But then, neither did we). And then she gave us some Avon lotion. Two tubes. Because we need to have soft hands when we touch the baby. Huh.

Perhaps next time we will go to the park. I can bring my own latte.

Really? For a Month?

I am terribly out of practice with this whole blogging thing. I used to be pretty decent at it. I even used to be FUNNY. On occasion.

Now, I sit down to write and all I can think is "No one cares what you ate for lunch." But how do I KNOW that? Maybe your heart's desire is to know what someone as svelte and funky as I eats for lunch every day. (I am neither funky nor svelte, though in this past year I have come ever so slightly closer to being both. Just ever. so. slightly. And I had sushi for lunch today. Which is funny, because chopsticks are an uphill battle for me. I know, that certainly cuts down on my air of mystique, doesn't it?)

Point being, I know this blog will get better. I will remember how to tell stories with flair. I will type something that will make me want to run right out and buy myself a grande, nonfat latte to celebrate my brilliance with the typed (read: type-ed) word. But for now, let's just celebrate my persistence and fortitude in trying this blogging bit again, shall we? I thought so.

The Post

At my house, we seem to have some sort of mental block against checking the mail. We get lots of junk mail, coupons, weekly newspapers... so things can pile up really quickly. I am not so sure why we can't seem to remember to walk out and retrieve the mail. But this is the third time in four years that the mailperson has taken everything out of our mailbox and taken it BACK to the post office.

Some people hire dog walkers... maybe we should hire someone to walk our mail up to our front door. There has to be someone that wants to fill that niche. Any takers?

Oh The Guilt...

I know, I know. Before you even say it, I will admit that it was my fault. I signed up for NaBloPoMo (or whatever the hell), and I missed my post yesterday. Would you believe I was abducted by aliens? No? How about that I am a spy and was called away on top secret military affairs? Not that either, huh? Well, you just aren't very trusting are you?

Alright, alright! I forgot! But I did wake up this morning feeling very guilty about not upholding my end of the bargain. Because our relationship is built off of trust... And now I have betrayed that fragile trust... So there. I feel guilty. Is that enough for you? I hope you are happy.

(I will post again today to make up for my slackerness yesterday. And I will buy you a pony. Happy now?)

Hard Lessons

When food comes directly out of a commercial strength microwave, it is best not to pop it right in your mouth. No matter how hungry you may be. Because the cheese, it will burn you. And then it will cling to the roof of your mouth, stubbornly. It is hard to look chill (aka superfly or dope) when your eyes are watering, and you are doing the open-mouth pant to cool off your food.
Superfly.

Blankly They Stare...

Today I had conferences with my students. They are only 15 minutes each. Funny how 15 minutes can seem like an eternity in some cases. My personal favorite are the kids that will come in, only answer in monosyllables, stare at the floor the whole time and take off like their ass is on fire the second I give them the okay to go. Really? Is it THAT painful to have to spend 15 minutes with me? And what answers do you think the floor holds for you?

I have to drone on and on, in order to even keep things moving. It sure does suck to have to listen to yourself for 15 minutes. I start to wonder.... what am I even saying? Does any of this make any sense at all? Or I will get halfway through a sentence and realize that I had completely zoned out. I have absolutely no idea what I was going to say next, and the kid is no help because they are just staring blankly at me, as if I were speaking Portugese.

One guy wandered in today looking like he had been on a three day bender. Cheap vodka. It happens to the best of us. But look, dude, if you puke on my floor, I am gonna be pissed. That's all I'm saying.