Tomorrow.
Tomorrow: I will face down one hundred students, divided into five different classes, as their teacher. Tomorrow, I will give students syllabi that I have spent hours writing, which describe texts and units spanning the entire year. Tomorrow, I will ask them to introduce themselves, and I will introduce myself to them. Tomorrow, these students will see my classroom-- they will see the art on the walls that I selected to stimulate their thinking; they will see the world map that I've hung with pins stuck in the places that I've been, with more pins at the ready for them to stick in the cities they've traveled to. Tomorrow, they will see the vocabulary words that have been hung in a border around the room, and they will see the sign I made that says, "You must learn the rules before you can break them," flanked on one side by the Mona Lisa, and on the other, by a cubist Picasso portrait. Tomorrow, I will show them the hockey stick that I've turned into a hall pass, and I will tell them sternly that they must be so tender with the hall pass. Tomorrow, they will sit in the desks that I've meticulously arranged in a circle formation, and they will listen as I review the syllabi via a Powerpoint with silly pictures to accompany the various points.
Tomorrow, they will be my students, and I will be their teacher.
Tomorrow, I will pretend that I've completed the summer reading assignments of "Crime and Punishment," and "Mere Christianity," instead of telling them the truth: that I was frantically scanning Sparksnotes the night before, trying to catch myself up on all major points. Tomorrow, I will smile, and give my Senior AP students the reading cards that were fashioned by a former teacher, requiring them to identify the novel's symbols, motifs, tones, syntax structure, diction style, genre, and so on-- many terms which I still feel shaky on myself. Tomorrow, if they ask me to explain what I mean by identifying the novel's "syntax," I will glibly say, "We'll go over all these terms later. For now, I'd like to see what terms you're comfortable with and what you're still unsure about. Think of this as a pretest. Do your best; we'll go over all of these later this week."
Tomorrow, I will get on my knees and pray with determination that God hold to His promise that in my weakness, He will be strong, and also well informed about literary analysis.
Tomorrow, I will wear a navy blue pencil skirt, a pink blouse, tan boots, and a thick brown belt around my waist.
Tomorrow, I will give my fellow English teachers boxes of tea, because English teachers love tea, and because I want to show them that I am thankful and excited to teach alongside them this year.
Tomorrow, I might get sick to my stomach, which is what my body does when it gets very nervous. But tomorrow, if that happens, I will square my shoulders and breathe into my diaphragm and lift my chin and say, "Good morning folks. Welcome to Senior year," and I will pretend that I never had a previous encounter with the toilet bowl.
(But tomorrow, please God, don't let me get sick WHILE the students are there. Amen.)
Tomorrow, I will meet my kids. I will begin to know their names. I will begin to hear their stories. Tomorrow, I will remember why it is that I LOVE this.
Tomorrow, I will thank God for the miraculous blessing of a job, of supportive co-teachers, of a wonderful principal, and for being in a school that allows me to post my fervent prayer in the form of a Bible verse outside my door. Tomorrow, I will pray for my students, and I will pray that He enables me to teach them as they deserve to be taught.
"Tomorrow" gets over at 3:00 PM. And boy-- tomorrow? That hour just can't come soon enough.
Aug 30, 2009
Aug 22, 2009
Nerd
It is 10:46AM. I am in my pajamas, in bed, with an empty mug of coffee beside me, and a rip-roaring case of coffee breath. My project this weekend is to write my yearly syllabi which entails:
1.) 10th Grade English
2.) 12th grade English
3.) 12th AP English
Do you know what this means? This means for the last two hours, I have been giving myself a slam-bang-quick-'n-dirty education of all the literary terms I'm supposed to already know about.
HAHA!
That was an example of situational irony, my friends.
In the process, I am learning some new words. I just learned the most WONDERFUL new word, and it's put me a delicious mood. The word is:
mellifluous
Isn't that beautiful?? It means:
1 : having a smooth rich flow: a mellifluous voice
2 : filled with something (as honey) that sweetens
Say it. It FEELS like honey. Mellifluous was used in part to describe the literary term "euphony," which is basically the opposite of cacophony, which is ANOTHER great word. Cacophony is pots and pans banging together. Euphony is, "the pleasant, mellifluous presentation of sounds in a literary work." Ah! Like chocolate in the springtime! Like doves in the larder!
(I have never been in a larder.)
I love words. I lovelovelove words. I remember coming across "ameliorate" for the first time in Jane Eyre and thinking, "What is that word?? What is this fantastic word?!" It means, in fact, to improve, or, to make better.
Another word that must be mentioned is travesty. People misuse this all the time-- they interchange it with "tragedy," but that is NOT WHAT IT MEANS. "Travesty" means a gross misinterpretation. Sarah Palin's understanding of the Health Care reform bill is a travesty, for instance. But Hamlet's death is not a travesty; that is a TRAGEDY. Romeo and Juliet could be considered both though. They misunderstood the state of things, and whoops, there goes the poison.
People sometimes ask me to describe my sense of humor. I hem and haw and say things like, "I think 'The Office' is hilarious..." or, "I love witty humor," but what makes me laugh the MOST is silly word play things. Like, this blog of Annie's, I found HILARIOUS. I once "got back" at a friend for misspelling my name in an email with a return email that had EVERY WORD MISSPELLED. Eye thot eye wuz da funnyest gurl inn da wurld. Stil, eye reed dat emale an dye laffing.
I don't think my friend found me quite as amusing as I did.
I love reading puns, but think they are sort of lame when spoken. It's just harder to be witty when you make a spoken pun-- the speaker always has to pause, and open their eyes wide, and let their mouth hang open in a grin until everyone "gets it," and then it's usually a process of congratulating the speaker for being so "clever" (even though the pun was probably kind of cheesy to begin with), and then you as the hearer make a secret rolling of the eyes, usually because it probably took you a second to catch on, and the second of confusion makes you feel slow, which makes you want to secretly roll your eyes, which makes you dislike spoken puns entirely.
We are talking about YOU here, this is not necessarily what happens to ME.
When a pun is in written form, then you, the reader, can squint at it for a moment, GET it, and then congratulate yourself on being astute and witty and clever. And then you can congratulate the writer for being astute and witty and clever, and you don't have to deal with any open mouthed grin because the writer did it very stealthily and covertly with a swish of his pen, or more accurately, with a swipe at his keyboard, and so everyone feels clever and witty which is lovely. The only person who doesn't feel clever and witty is the person who didn't get it at all, who continues to read the story happily, oblivious, slightly befuddled, but probably more interested in what's for dinner anyway.
My favorite joke involves a whale noise, because! When you expect the whale to actually SAY something! It just groans and makes whale noises!!! Hahaha!
Yesterday I made up a word. I was talking about something being inexplicable, "and yet it turned out to be entirely... plicable."
And then I LAUGHED and LAUGHED, because, plicable is not a word?!?!! "Plicable" is the END of a word! But plicable was understood!! Which was HILARIOUS!!
Well. Anyway.
I'll be done.
(This is why I'm an English teacher.)
(Even if I DO have to look up literary terms on the internet.)
1.) 10th Grade English
2.) 12th grade English
3.) 12th AP English
Do you know what this means? This means for the last two hours, I have been giving myself a slam-bang-quick-'n-dirty education of all the literary terms I'm supposed to already know about.
HAHA!
That was an example of situational irony, my friends.
In the process, I am learning some new words. I just learned the most WONDERFUL new word, and it's put me a delicious mood. The word is:
mellifluous
Isn't that beautiful?? It means:
1 : having a smooth rich flow: a mellifluous voice
2 : filled with something (as honey) that sweetens
Say it. It FEELS like honey. Mellifluous was used in part to describe the literary term "euphony," which is basically the opposite of cacophony, which is ANOTHER great word. Cacophony is pots and pans banging together. Euphony is, "the pleasant, mellifluous presentation of sounds in a literary work." Ah! Like chocolate in the springtime! Like doves in the larder!
(I have never been in a larder.)
I love words. I lovelovelove words. I remember coming across "ameliorate" for the first time in Jane Eyre and thinking, "What is that word?? What is this fantastic word?!" It means, in fact, to improve, or, to make better.
Another word that must be mentioned is travesty. People misuse this all the time-- they interchange it with "tragedy," but that is NOT WHAT IT MEANS. "Travesty" means a gross misinterpretation. Sarah Palin's understanding of the Health Care reform bill is a travesty, for instance. But Hamlet's death is not a travesty; that is a TRAGEDY. Romeo and Juliet could be considered both though. They misunderstood the state of things, and whoops, there goes the poison.
People sometimes ask me to describe my sense of humor. I hem and haw and say things like, "I think 'The Office' is hilarious..." or, "I love witty humor," but what makes me laugh the MOST is silly word play things. Like, this blog of Annie's, I found HILARIOUS. I once "got back" at a friend for misspelling my name in an email with a return email that had EVERY WORD MISSPELLED. Eye thot eye wuz da funnyest gurl inn da wurld. Stil, eye reed dat emale an dye laffing.
I don't think my friend found me quite as amusing as I did.
I love reading puns, but think they are sort of lame when spoken. It's just harder to be witty when you make a spoken pun-- the speaker always has to pause, and open their eyes wide, and let their mouth hang open in a grin until everyone "gets it," and then it's usually a process of congratulating the speaker for being so "clever" (even though the pun was probably kind of cheesy to begin with), and then you as the hearer make a secret rolling of the eyes, usually because it probably took you a second to catch on, and the second of confusion makes you feel slow, which makes you want to secretly roll your eyes, which makes you dislike spoken puns entirely.
We are talking about YOU here, this is not necessarily what happens to ME.
When a pun is in written form, then you, the reader, can squint at it for a moment, GET it, and then congratulate yourself on being astute and witty and clever. And then you can congratulate the writer for being astute and witty and clever, and you don't have to deal with any open mouthed grin because the writer did it very stealthily and covertly with a swish of his pen, or more accurately, with a swipe at his keyboard, and so everyone feels clever and witty which is lovely. The only person who doesn't feel clever and witty is the person who didn't get it at all, who continues to read the story happily, oblivious, slightly befuddled, but probably more interested in what's for dinner anyway.
My favorite joke involves a whale noise, because! When you expect the whale to actually SAY something! It just groans and makes whale noises!!! Hahaha!
Yesterday I made up a word. I was talking about something being inexplicable, "and yet it turned out to be entirely... plicable."
And then I LAUGHED and LAUGHED, because, plicable is not a word?!?!! "Plicable" is the END of a word! But plicable was understood!! Which was HILARIOUS!!
Well. Anyway.
I'll be done.
(This is why I'm an English teacher.)
(Even if I DO have to look up literary terms on the internet.)
Aug 20, 2009
News:
I AM OFFICIALLY DONE WITH GRAD SCHOOL.
Friends... acquaintances... strangers who read my blog (like the ones in Beverly Hills-- why do so many people in Beverly Hills read my blog?? Delurk, Beverly Hills, delurk!)... random Googlers who find themselves here inexplicably and with great dismay: this is a big deal.
It means: I am done with school forever!
... Until I decide I want my Masters in English. Or a degree in Family Counseling. Or to be Nationally Board Certified.
Also, until I start inservice at my teaching job on Monday. Because then, obviously, I will be back in school.
But still: the hellish days of research papers and online discussion forums and ripping-my-hair-out-because-I-forgot-another-assignment are OVER!!! I have a Masters degree! I do, I do!
... At least, I will, once I officially pass my classes and get the fancy bit of paper in the mail.
What is the point of qualifiers?? I scorn qualifiers. I spit upon qualifiers. I AM DONE WITH GRAD SCHOOL AND I HAVE A MASTERS DEGREE.
AND THAT IS MY NEWS.
This afternoon, I celebrated with some shopping. I bought tights and a skirt and a sweater: very practical teacher back-to-school clothes (which could also be confused as done-with-school clothes). I also tried on a romper. All summer long I have wanted a romper. I found a great romper, on sale, in my size, and the short parts were even teal. I love teal. I once convinced my high-school graduating class to order our graduation announcements in teal, which everyone later hated, but by then they had forgotten I was the one to convince them, and I felt secretly overjoyed and wicked. But I did not buy the romper, because it was impractical for school.
But it's pajama time now, and what I really wish I had is a romper.
And so even though I am done with grad school and have a fancy advanced degree, I am weeping uncontrollably in a heap under my covers for want of a romper.
Not really.
I'm still super pumped. :)
Friends... acquaintances... strangers who read my blog (like the ones in Beverly Hills-- why do so many people in Beverly Hills read my blog?? Delurk, Beverly Hills, delurk!)... random Googlers who find themselves here inexplicably and with great dismay: this is a big deal.
It means: I am done with school forever!
... Until I decide I want my Masters in English. Or a degree in Family Counseling. Or to be Nationally Board Certified.
Also, until I start inservice at my teaching job on Monday. Because then, obviously, I will be back in school.
But still: the hellish days of research papers and online discussion forums and ripping-my-hair-out-because-I-forgot-another-assignment are OVER!!! I have a Masters degree! I do, I do!
... At least, I will, once I officially pass my classes and get the fancy bit of paper in the mail.
What is the point of qualifiers?? I scorn qualifiers. I spit upon qualifiers. I AM DONE WITH GRAD SCHOOL AND I HAVE A MASTERS DEGREE.
AND THAT IS MY NEWS.
This afternoon, I celebrated with some shopping. I bought tights and a skirt and a sweater: very practical teacher back-to-school clothes (which could also be confused as done-with-school clothes). I also tried on a romper. All summer long I have wanted a romper. I found a great romper, on sale, in my size, and the short parts were even teal. I love teal. I once convinced my high-school graduating class to order our graduation announcements in teal, which everyone later hated, but by then they had forgotten I was the one to convince them, and I felt secretly overjoyed and wicked. But I did not buy the romper, because it was impractical for school.
But it's pajama time now, and what I really wish I had is a romper.
And so even though I am done with grad school and have a fancy advanced degree, I am weeping uncontrollably in a heap under my covers for want of a romper.
Not really.
I'm still super pumped. :)
Aug 19, 2009
I just bombed my final test.
12/20. Worth 10% of my grade. I feel totally lame and worthless.
. . .
Would like to thank coffee-flavored ice cream and Taylor Swift for helping me feel better.
Both guilty pleasures. Both entirely effective.
My last day of grad school is tomorrow and IT CAN'T COME SOON ENOUGH.
. . .
Would like to thank coffee-flavored ice cream and Taylor Swift for helping me feel better.
Both guilty pleasures. Both entirely effective.
My last day of grad school is tomorrow and IT CAN'T COME SOON ENOUGH.
Aug 16, 2009
Dear Diary
From the very first one:
March 1st (1992)
to day I Just turned 8. I fellt relly prowd caus I'm eight.
My wish was That my birth day my next year would be as good as this one
* * * * * * * *
March 6th
Evan said, "he loved me," ok
I love Chirs D.
* * * * * * * *
Scott loves me
* * * * * * * *
Ice is cold
Lions are scary
Oh dear I fell down
Very nice
eggs are yummy
cold snow
Oh wow
lot of apples
i am nice
no, this is the end
(Acrostic poem= secret code= "I love Colin.")
* * * * * * * *
1/29/1994
Dear Diary,
Paul is getting potty trained. It's really cute. Whenever he goes potty, he gets a sticker. The potty chair even has a little sheild for boys who shoot forward. Mom says after Grandma is gone she's going to put underpants on him, and when he goes potty, it'll trick'll down his legs. Mom says thats how you do it, but I feel sorry for Paul.
March 1st (1992)
to day I Just turned 8. I fellt relly prowd caus I'm eight.
My wish was That my birth day my next year would be as good as this one
* * * * * * * *
March 6th
Evan said, "he loved me," ok
I love Chirs D.
* * * * * * * *
Scott loves me
* * * * * * * *
Ice is cold
Lions are scary
Oh dear I fell down
Very nice
eggs are yummy
cold snow
Oh wow
lot of apples
i am nice
no, this is the end
(Acrostic poem= secret code= "I love Colin.")
* * * * * * * *
1/29/1994
Dear Diary,
Paul is getting potty trained. It's really cute. Whenever he goes potty, he gets a sticker. The potty chair even has a little sheild for boys who shoot forward. Mom says after Grandma is gone she's going to put underpants on him, and when he goes potty, it'll trick'll down his legs. Mom says thats how you do it, but I feel sorry for Paul.
Aug 14, 2009
If I Had a Magic Wand
Today, I would use it to enable people to see themselves as others see them. Or better yet, as God sees them. How would we be different if we knew how treasured we are? If we saw ourselves, not as messy, bumbling, wrong individuals, but as loved, adored, and delighted in?
Last year, on my drive to school every morning, I would pray, "Help me to see these kids the way that YOU see them, and help me to love them the way that YOU love them."
The worlds looks completely different when you ask that. People are so much more huggable.
Not that I hugged the kids. (Inappropriate.)
But people become dear. Someone that was offensive and abrasive is suddenly, so clearly, hurt. I always feel like I get a special little window, and I'm able to understand something more than before. Not completely-- but MORE.
It grieves me when people don't understand, can't comprehend, their own wonderfulness.
Zap.
Wish I could.
Last year, on my drive to school every morning, I would pray, "Help me to see these kids the way that YOU see them, and help me to love them the way that YOU love them."
The worlds looks completely different when you ask that. People are so much more huggable.
Not that I hugged the kids. (Inappropriate.)
But people become dear. Someone that was offensive and abrasive is suddenly, so clearly, hurt. I always feel like I get a special little window, and I'm able to understand something more than before. Not completely-- but MORE.
It grieves me when people don't understand, can't comprehend, their own wonderfulness.
Zap.
Wish I could.
Aug 13, 2009
There Were Ducks.
Lately, I've been trying to make a point to pray in the morning. When I was feeling super stressed out over how much I had to do a couple weeks ago, I remember somehow feeling like I got the message, "If you give me time, I'll give you time." I don't believe God works like a juke box-- "you do this, I'll do that"-- but I DO think that He has a cool way of helping us out when we say, "Ack, you do it!" rather than looking at our To-Do list and bursting into tears.
This morning I forgot though. I procrastinated and did other things.
I finally left for my study cafe, feeling guilty about my late start, but then remembered the not praying. "Whoops," I thought. Split-second debate: could I manage just throwing up the prayer on my drive to the cafe? The answer came immediately. (Nope.) I turned the wheel to head down to the park on the lake.
When walking to the dock, I saw black-berries and I ate some.
I chose a dock that was pierced four times by tall metal mooring pillars. I walked to the last pillar and leaned against it, looking out over gray lake, reflecting the dark sky. The mooring pillar rocked with the pull of the water underneath, and I booped and bopped along with it.
Started breathing.
A duck hopped up on the dock and wandered over to me. It pecked my red cowboy boot, which made me grin. Another one hopped up on the dock-- an ugly duck whose feathers had somehow turned a mottled white. I thought of people whose hair turns white because of a traumatic experience, and I wondered if the duck had been traumatized, and I thought, "That is a poor duck." Then one more hopped up: by far the prettiest, and she seemed rather satisfied with herself. They strutted around me, the ugly one quacking in conversational bursts. I looked at their lone purple feathers underneath the brown. Why is it ducks should have that one jewel-colored feather? It is such a surprise-feather. They stretched their wings and their feet and shook their heads, and looked like they were impromptu yoga-ing.
And I liked all that.
And I prayed, and it made my heart feel full, and it made things just right.
Now I am at my cafe-- still not working-- but I will. And the barista made a picture in my latte and the picture was a feather.
And my heart feels full, and things feel just right.
This morning I forgot though. I procrastinated and did other things.
I finally left for my study cafe, feeling guilty about my late start, but then remembered the not praying. "Whoops," I thought. Split-second debate: could I manage just throwing up the prayer on my drive to the cafe? The answer came immediately. (Nope.) I turned the wheel to head down to the park on the lake.
When walking to the dock, I saw black-berries and I ate some.
I chose a dock that was pierced four times by tall metal mooring pillars. I walked to the last pillar and leaned against it, looking out over gray lake, reflecting the dark sky. The mooring pillar rocked with the pull of the water underneath, and I booped and bopped along with it.
Started breathing.
A duck hopped up on the dock and wandered over to me. It pecked my red cowboy boot, which made me grin. Another one hopped up on the dock-- an ugly duck whose feathers had somehow turned a mottled white. I thought of people whose hair turns white because of a traumatic experience, and I wondered if the duck had been traumatized, and I thought, "That is a poor duck." Then one more hopped up: by far the prettiest, and she seemed rather satisfied with herself. They strutted around me, the ugly one quacking in conversational bursts. I looked at their lone purple feathers underneath the brown. Why is it ducks should have that one jewel-colored feather? It is such a surprise-feather. They stretched their wings and their feet and shook their heads, and looked like they were impromptu yoga-ing.
And I liked all that.
And I prayed, and it made my heart feel full, and it made things just right.
Now I am at my cafe-- still not working-- but I will. And the barista made a picture in my latte and the picture was a feather.
And my heart feels full, and things feel just right.
Aug 8, 2009
Moth Wings Grace
Yesterday morning, I hit my head on feelings of intimidation and fear right when I woke up. My thoughts shouted at me, throwing stones and making cruel faces. How am I going to succeed at this new job?? How am I going to possibly plan three different classes, including Senior AP, when I have four grad school classes to finish?? I clutched my knees on the floor in the shower, and let the water beat down on me, and felt afraid, and felt small, and felt so unsure of myself.
And then I thought, "Next year will be exactly what it's supposed to be, because that is what God does." And I thought, "Trust anyway. Even though there are myriad reasons to doubt. Trust anyway. He got you this job, didn't he?"
And then I got out of the shower, and I saw a moth beating its wings against the stained glass window, covered in steam. The wings made the most magical pattern on the glass-- light and soft and perfectly unsynchronized-- tiny fans and feathers pleading release from a fog of hard obscurity. It flew to and fro, and the significance of the occasion made me wonder, awed. I once more felt wrapped up in reassurance of His beauty, His attention to the smallest things, the way He can draw the loveliest painting on a window with the dust of a moth's wings and the vapor from streaming water.
I just watched the moth create, and felt so astounded, and so thankful.
Then I opened the window, set it free, and felt a little more courage in facing the day.
And then I thought, "Next year will be exactly what it's supposed to be, because that is what God does." And I thought, "Trust anyway. Even though there are myriad reasons to doubt. Trust anyway. He got you this job, didn't he?"
And then I got out of the shower, and I saw a moth beating its wings against the stained glass window, covered in steam. The wings made the most magical pattern on the glass-- light and soft and perfectly unsynchronized-- tiny fans and feathers pleading release from a fog of hard obscurity. It flew to and fro, and the significance of the occasion made me wonder, awed. I once more felt wrapped up in reassurance of His beauty, His attention to the smallest things, the way He can draw the loveliest painting on a window with the dust of a moth's wings and the vapor from streaming water.
I just watched the moth create, and felt so astounded, and so thankful.
Then I opened the window, set it free, and felt a little more courage in facing the day.
Aug 6, 2009
There have been so many blog-worthy things to blog ABOUT...
Like:
- Heidi getting married
- The french men's visit
- Thoughts about God on Lake Washington
- Thoughts about the new job
- Etc.
But for now my thoughts are consumed by this:
Four days ago, I studied out in the yard on my favorite giant beach towel, and left it in the grass.
Three days ago, Grandpa's landscaping guys came and put fish-guts fertilizer all over the yard, and replaced my giant beach towel on the grass when they were done.
For the last two days, the yard has reeked, and my towel has marinated in the reekage.
Ten minutes ago, the landscaping guys came back, and I hear the mower.
And I just know I need to go pick up that smelly reeking fish guts towel with my fingers, and pull it off the lawn. I need to clear the grass for the mower.
But the towel smells SO. BAD.
Can I be blamed for the lack of a better blog when THIS IS OCCURRING?
- Heidi getting married
- The french men's visit
- Thoughts about God on Lake Washington
- Thoughts about the new job
- Etc.
But for now my thoughts are consumed by this:
Four days ago, I studied out in the yard on my favorite giant beach towel, and left it in the grass.
Three days ago, Grandpa's landscaping guys came and put fish-guts fertilizer all over the yard, and replaced my giant beach towel on the grass when they were done.
For the last two days, the yard has reeked, and my towel has marinated in the reekage.
Ten minutes ago, the landscaping guys came back, and I hear the mower.
And I just know I need to go pick up that smelly reeking fish guts towel with my fingers, and pull it off the lawn. I need to clear the grass for the mower.
But the towel smells SO. BAD.
Can I be blamed for the lack of a better blog when THIS IS OCCURRING?
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