Sunrise, Sunset

Dear Lucy,

I wrote the following while on vacation this summer:

There is comfort in resting my ear against the fingered tines of your ribs, my body next to yours, sleeping - so small in this moment - curled into the blankets, like a seashell found buried in the sand at the shoreline. This is me, listening to the air moving in and out of your lungs - it's what we do sometimes, us Mothers. We listen to the breath of our children, the rhythmic pull and rush, like waves rolling in on themselves, steady and even. There is solace here. And what I hear, the rush-rush of your breath, is juxtaposed to what I'm seeking against the rainbow pajamas you chose because they're cooler, and summer nights spent sleeping in Nana's sewing room are warm. It's this rush I want to moderate, measure out in half beats so that I may inhale all of who you are and were, who you are becoming amidst the thief that is Time. If there was a way to rewind your body into the velvety soft bundle smelling sweetly of some illusive combination of talc and milk and spit up, rewind you into the cradle of my elbow, when we spent long snowy days together, your body tucked neatly into the curve of my arm - I would. 

But this is not how it goes, my love - this rush is not to be damned, impossible. This is all you, rushing, rushing away, and into your own person.

We have spent a magical summer together, so many adventures, each one better than the last. Everything from airplanes, hiking to incredible heights, baking cakes, swimming, and sleepovers. 

In a few short days you will begin Kindergarten. The uniforms hang neatly, a new lunchbox and backpack await, a small desk area has been prepared, you chose to pierce your ears, and dye your hair a wildly fabulous hot pink.You have memorized mine and Daddy's phone numbers, our address. You are ever so close to reading, and you love "plus" and "minus" numbers. Your vocabulary will blow them away.

You are ready.

But I am not.

I was not prepared for the overwhelming wave of emotion that has grabbed hold of me. I wrote to my superiors letting them know that I'd be into work a little late on your first day, as I would not miss sending you off on the big yellow school bus. And when those doors close behind you, swallowing you whole, I know you will do well. In your education, I have full confidence - you will be fine.

It's all the other parts of school that are terrifying to think of. Ad nauseam, I have repeated that it's your soul I want to protect. That self-worth and confidence we have worked so hard to nurture - will it remain intact as the world of school and friends do their thing, sometimes so painfully cruel?


Did I do enough? 

I have learned to let others love you. It started with the morning I dropped you off at daycare, entrusting your care with those wonderful women as I returned to other people's children. It began then, I know. But this feels vastly different.

My Blueberry Girl, I hope you know, deep in your bones, that you are loved fiercely, that you remember all the times we told you, you were brave, and strong, and kind, and generous, that it is okay to fail, that you will fail, that struggle is necessary, to stand up for yourself, speak out against the bad, and compassion for others goes a long way - that you believe all these for yourself.

This is my wish for you.

I hope I have done enough.

Love, Mama.

Class of 2013

This is my requisite end-of-the-year post. Normal though, it is not. The faces you see above are the faces of the very first graduating class of our little school. 55 seniors will walk across a stage tonight and receive their high school diplomas. Some of them are fortunate enough to know exactly what they want to do with their lives, others are still searching. All have something special to offer the world.

I started with this group four years ago, teaching them as freshman and have been their teacher since. They have grown, both physically and emotionally. On more than one occasion I have wanted to punt their asses down 5th Avenue, and likewise, I'm sure they cursed me to hell. It has been a love/hate relationship, but somehow, despite whatever bumps we've had along the way, however many eye-rolls and f*ck-yous have been slung at my head (or silently, slung at theirs - let's be honest, I'm human), this motley crew has endeared themselves to me. How apropos the epithet this class chose for themselves: "Never Before, Never Again."

Never before have I been with a single group of students for four years, and never again will it happen. They are our first pancakes - you know the one that either turns out too blond and under cooked, or burnt altogether. These kids took a chance on us, and we did our best to educate and instill in them enough tools and tricks of the trade so that they have a fighting chance at making something of themselves. Tonight we send them off on the wings of Pomp & Circumstance. This group has challenged me, and in many ways, prepared me for motherhood.

My first lesson comes tonight.
55 reminders that while they were mine for a short while, I still have to let them go.

The Dreaded Stretch.

Those of you in education know exactly what I speak of when I refer to the stretch. That long dogged road between between our day off on Martin Luther King, and the sanity recovering hallowed week of spring break. It is the time of year between August and June when students start to drag their heals, when the whining becomes one long collective cacophony, and we teachers, aside from counting down every single minute left until the bell rings that last Friday, are clinging with bitten-to-the-quick fingernails of our acumen.

It's rough.

You see as teachers, we are a lot like salesmen. My intention is not to sell my profession short, but to make a simple analogy. I, as an educator, have a product - knowledge. My buyers sometimes come to the negotiation table eager to make a purchase, and others (many) are skeptical. It's my job to present this product in such a manner that attracts my buyers. This can take quite a bit of effort, and effort, day in and day out (especially with buyers that can be finicky, unprepared, and downright rude) is exhausting.

It's no wonder that subs are sometimes difficult to come by this time of year; seams like everyone is taking a mental health day.

I know it can be difficult for those not in education to fathom the weariness of the stretch; the general public likes to counter back with banal remarks usually pointing to our summer, winter and spring breaks. And there is no argument there - yes, we have that time off. But let me tell you something about working with teenagers (or any group of kids). For teachers to remain human and to have a healthy life, those breaks are not just a so-called "perk," they are most undoubtedly necessary. That recovery time is monumentally important and serves to help us come back to the classroom recharged and ready to fight the good fight.

Having that time off allows me to decompress, assess what happened during my time in the classroom, make tweaks for the following year and recover my desire to return.

16.5 days left until spring break.

Success Story.

In 2004 I completed my first year of teaching. It was slightly overwhelming, but a lot of fun. I worked at a great high school and I got to teach some pretty cool seniors. One of those, L, found herself in an unexpected predicament; pregnant just months before graduating. L hid the pregnancy as best she could, but I was on to her. This normally petite and svelte young lady was wearing baggy clothes that poorly hid an ever blossoming round belly. I tried to pry the truth out of her, but she'd just look at me and smile. Finally, I got one of her friends to spill the beans, this after L had disappeared on "vacation." I asked L's friend to let her know that I didn't care, that the baby didn't change my opinion about her, and that I was there if she needed anything.

When L came back to school after having her baby boy, the first thing I did when I saw her was give her a great big hug. Her eyes welled up with tears only a mother who has left her child for the first time knows. When L graduated, I gave her a card and tried to write what I thought would be meaningful, goals on what to teach her son. It was something along the lines of being a loving man, to respect women, to work hard, and not be afraid of failure.  L and I remained in contact over the years having traded emails, and now keeping tabs on each other via FB. Her son is a handsome young man who by all accounts is a wonderful human being.

What I am most proud of is what L has done with her life. As a single mother she has managed to not let the unexpected gift of her son derail her life. She is gainfully employed and just closed on her first house; an impressive nine thousand square foot beauty in Las Vegas, complete with a gorgeous pool. It is more of a house than I ever expect to own. She posted a picture of it to which I left her a message telling her how proud I was to have been her teacher. This was her response:
                             Thank you so much, means a lot. The start of my change all started with
                             you. It's people like you who take that extra time to help people that make
                            all the difference. Thank you for that.

Many folks judged L for keeping the baby. And while at the time I was nervous for her, I tried very hard not to scoff at her decision. I don't know that I would have been able to do what she did at her age - hell, I'm still a little nervous about doing it now at thirty-three! She is the epitome of a success story, a young woman with her priorities straight, and a work ethic that would impress most people twice her age. Seeing what she has done with her life, not only fills me with hope, but reassures me that even though the unexpected sometimes happens, it's what you do with it that counts.

You see? Just another example of why teaching pretty much rocks. I get to meet, teach, and become friends with extraordinary young men and women. And in teaching them, they educate me.

So damn proud of you, L.

An Athlete Always

Tomorrow I'll be part of my staff's team running the relay portion of our city's marathon. There are three others running the half, and one crazy-ass running the full 26.2 miles, which by the way, will be his second year in a row for doing so. He's my hero.  I did the full 26.2 in 1999. At the time I said I'd never ever do that again, but in the years since, I've flirted with the idea of the doing the full again. Not only is it a beast of a run, but the time required to train for it is pretty extensive. You don't just show up ready to run 26.2 miles without logging some serious wear on your sneakers.

I've completed two sprint triathlons, and this is my second year doing the relay. Big Red thinks I'm coconuts for participating in these events. He thinks it's inconceivable that someone would pay to participate in such a torturous event. But how do you approach a pedestrian perspective with your own that's chalk full of a history of athletics? I've been competing in some form of sport my entire life. For as long as I can remember, really. Gymnastics, swimming, soccer, triathlons, marathons. It's safe to say that I'm no longer a "competitive" athlete in the sense that I'm trying to win trophies and championships. No one is counting on me for anything. In my adult life, athletics has become more of an internal competition. Man vs. Man - Me vs. Me. Can I best my time from the last round? I enjoy pushing myself and challenging my body, and I will admit it's nice not having a coach screaming at me to do so. I like relying on my own intrinsic motivation. The pressure cooker of high-end competitive athletics is one I absolutely do no miss. Not for one second.

I just got finished making my mix for tomorrow's leg of the marathon: Black-Eyed Peas, Kanye West, Ke$ha,  Lady GaGa, Michael Jackson, P!nk, Pitbul, Tina Turner, Nelly, Rihanna, LMFAO, Whitney Houston, The Monkees, and Queen.  A motley crew of music, no?

4.7 miles. Wish me luck.

And Happy Cinco de Mayo.

ps: I think I may have broken my plateau - logged another 1.4 lbs lost. Score.

bringing healthy to students

Do you have any idea how much crap teenagers eat on a daily basis? It's revolting. But it's probably not that big of a surprise since we were all their age at one point. I distinctly remember purchasing, on a daily basis, a Hershey's Cookies 'n Cream chocolate bar. Yes, every day for snack I'd delight in this sugary treat. It never really occurred to me how bad this was - I wasn't thinking in those terms, and neither are my students, at least not until Mark showed up.

For the past two days my students were part of a seminar put on by one Mr. Mark from our local Whole Foods Market. This is what he does. He educates those willing to listen on the benefits of a plant-based, whole foods diet. And not whole foods like the name of the store, but rather food in its original state.

Mark showed up Thursday armed with a wonderful five minute presentation of an eleven year-old discussing why we should all consider paying the farmer and not the hospital. He had handouts on the myths of dairy, the real cost of healthy eating and a startling fun little fact sheet detailing the horrors of soda, or rather, pop as it's known on this side of the country. The kids were engaged, they asked questions - good questions, and listened to what Mark had to say. You could see their over-caffeinated minds start to work and think about what they'd been putting into their mouths. When reality started to settle in, some began to complain about the lack of nutrition and quality of school lunches - and they're right. What's served in the cafeteria on a daily basis is deplorable. Fresh? I don't think so. Processed? Yup. Tons of crap for a really cheap price.

Some students began to pull out their carbonated sugary drinks and read the labels. We all had a few good laughs when those reading got to ingredients they couldn't even pronounce. At that point it was clearly obvious that Mark's point about moving towards natural foods rather than artificial foods was sinking in.

On Friday, Mark once again came prepared to wow the kids, this time with a food show and some good eats. He showed up with his portable single burner, a couple of pans and some very fresh ingredients. He had 'em hooked. They watched intently as he put together what I'm calling the "Dorm Recipe." Prior to Mark showing up I'd asked him to put something together that would be tasty, quick and above all easy to make. He did not disappoint. Into the hot pan went diced red potatoes, red onion, red, yellow and green bell peppers, broccoli, mushrooms, quinoa, garlic, kale, marjoram, oregano, thyme, and a dash of salt and pepper. In ten minutes we whipped up a delicious breakfast option. The kids lined up with their bowls and forks, threw on some hot sauce and got down to tasting.

A few were skeptical, some were willing, most enjoyed it. What resonated most with me were the comments coming from students - the same chuggers of Mountain Dew were saying things like wow, I didn't know eating healthy could taste this good or this isn't so bad or what was the recipe again? I'd like to write it down and try it on my own. Many students left the two-day seminar thinking hard about their health and the food they were eating, and several were committed to eating better. I did speak with one young man who was particularly excited about this revamped way of eating, but at the same time frustrated because of his home environment. When I asked him what his family typically ate, he cited fried rich greasy foods. I asked him about the sides served with meals, suggesting that he serve himself more the sides and he reported that whatever it was, was typically cooked with a heavy dose of cheese or butter. He said he'd not eaten meat in several days (we previously watched the documentary Forks Over Knives) and has tried to make himself a salad with every meal to compensate for what's being served. Several students reported attempting to talk to their parents but quickly got shut down, and that was very sad to hear.

In a thank you email to Mark this morning, I wrote the following:

                         While they may not be able to buy their own food at the moment, I'm certain
                         you've planted a seed that will influence their choices when they gain some
                         independence in a couple of years.

This class is turning out to be more enjoyable than I could have ever imagined. I love that not only do I get to help students prepare for possible training and career paths, getting them to understand that money isn't everything and that doing what you love is worth more in the long run, but I also have the opportunity to help them become more well-rounded individuals. Through the viewing of documentaries, amazing group discussions, and with activities like Mark's seminar, I have no doubt that their sometimes narrow-minded views and one-track minds are now opening to infinite possibilities.

And that, dear readers, is what this job is all about.

photojournalism.

I was supposed to sleep in this morning, but I didn't. Not that it makes much of a difference anymore. Apparently the sleepy time clock in my body has advanced well past my relatively young age of 33. As of lately I've been wanting to go to bed around 9:30 and them I'm WIDE awake around 7 am. Bummer. Getting up early this morning was no chore.

I got dressed with plenty of layers and my warmer jacket, as the morning news indicated it was in the 30s. Let the dog out to do her thing, then headed down to school. Yes, school. Me and two other colleagues drove seven kids around town while they snapped pictures for a photojournalism essay contest. These students are part of the Environment & Energy major at our school. Their fearless leader, and my buddy Z, wanted them to enter into an eco challenge set by a local organization. The challenge was to, in five frames, capture the relationship between the environment and the community - where it's been and where it's headed. Something like that. Forgive me if I get some of the details skewed. All I heard was take pictures, and I said yes.

The seven sophomores showed up in the parking lot around 9 am and we headed out to some rather blighted areas that have been making a slow and steady turnaround through various initiatives that include community gardens. It took nothing more than a few snaps of the shutter and the kids were hooked. Many were talking about how they wished they had "cool" cameras and one even suggested he might reconsider his career path and give photography some credence.

I enjoyed myself thoroughly, and of course, I brought my own picture taker along. Not a bad day for some extracurricular fun. I wish all teachers could experience days like this.

untitled.

There are events in life that prompt you to come to a screeching halt. And after that, in a vacuum of quiet, you are afforded a moment of contemplation. And after that moment, if you are lucky, you are awash in thanks.

Today I am thankful for the two parents I had growing up. Two parents who sometimes drove me nuts (no doubt the inverse is more than accurate as well), and asked questions, and showed up for parent/teacher conferences, and drove me to soccer practices, and girl scout meetings. Two parents who sat down every single night at the dinner table and spoke to me and my brother about our days. Two parents that threw birthday parties and kept up the masquerade of Santa Claus long after we already knew. Two parents who took us on summer vacations and showed up at games and who bought us back-to-school clothes and supplies.

As a teacher of eight years, by my best approximation, I have known somewhere in the vicinity of 900 students. 900 lives. Today, it's one particular life that stands out.

Imagine you are a teenager and have not one single adult in your life who cares about you and bothers to check up on you. Imagine that you've lost your mother to a life of drugs and mental health problems. Imagine that your father works six of seven days a week and doesn't come home until late. Some nights, drunk. Imagine you have no siblings, cousins, aunts or uncles with which to speak or confide in. You are sixteen and responsible for your entire life.

Imagine how lonely you would be.

I know this student. It's maddening. I asked Big Red how he would feel if I brought one sad case home with me for Thanksgiving. He was incredibly hesitant and I can understand why. I realize it's not my job to save students, but I can't help but want to. And I'm not talking about save in the educational sense. I'm talking about saving a kid from their own life. But it's bigger than just a trip home for Thanksgiving. The responsibility of crossing over from teaching life into personal life might be too big at the moment. Too dangerous. And this fear stops me.

So I do other things.

Check up on this particular pound puppy, give them my cell, ask if they're doing alright. Offer hugs and a quiet classroom at lunchtime if they want/need to talk.  There are so many pups I want to throw my arms around and bring home to sit at the dinner table with me and Big Red. I want to show them a warm home, a lovely dog, and a hot meal. I want to give them my couch to lay down on, a thick blanket to throw over their shoulders, a movie in the DVD player. A house filled with conversation, not silence.

Teaching can be just about teaching if that's all you allow. You can deliver content, grade your papers, enter marks into the computer and print out a report. But how can anyone ignore the human side of teaching? The sometimes screwed-up, tangled mess of beauty each kid is that walks through the classroom doors? How can I ignore that?  The simple truth is, I can't. As frustrating and infuriating as it may be, I consider getting to know these kids, hands down, THE BEST part of my job. It's cool if I can turn a skeptic onto poetry, but learning about their lives and finding out what drives them, what frightens them - what makes them people, is awesome. Unfortunately, this excavation and discovery often brings harsh truth. Realities of abandonment, drugs, death, discrimination and all the other horrors of the world.

Tonight, as I snuggle under an over-sized blanket on the big brown couch, Big Red on one end, Olive somewhere between us, I will be thankful for the stroke of a lucky life I've been given.

Christmas, last year at our house. I wish all my students had a picture like this they could call their own.

Nancy, the poet

On Monday, Nancy Krygowski visited with my creative writing students. Nancy and I go back fifteen years. When I was a freshman at the University of Pittsburgh, she was the instructor who taught my freshman level writing course.

I always enjoyed writing, but never took it seriously. It was Nancy who first propelled me to look at my writing in a new light. I thoroughly enjoyed her class, even when I was exhausted from soccer practices. Hers was a class I never skipped. I guess that implies I may have skipped one or two here and there. Perhaps. Let's just say that the classes I may or may not have skipped start with a "B"(iology). Turns out I wasn't pediatrician type material. Oh well. I got over it.

I was lucky enough to have Nancy a second time around for a higher level course, and in terms of my writing, I've never looked back. I've been writing since, and Nancy and I remained friends.  Before I left for graduate school in the Big Apple, Nancy gifted me a ring she always wore; one I coveted dearly. I wear it still. I believe the story behind it has something to do with a flea market purchase in San Francisco many, many years ago. Besides the fact that I love this ring, I love even more who it came from and the story it carries.

Nancy's visit with my students went wonderfully. They asked thoughtful questions and Nancy's uber cool presence even elicited the following response from one young lady: I just want to write all day and be free. Me too kid, me too. Being around what I like to call a real poet (I still have trouble putting myself into that category - it's like I need to have a book published to hold that title), certainly made me want to write more. In fact, after Nancy's visit I opened up a few dusty files for another looksy at some pieces I hadn't touched in a while. The result? A new submission. Chances are the submission will be rejected, but at least the work is out there. Ya ain't gettin' published unless you put yourself out there! That's the truth. It's not like a Hollywood scout looking for talent. Publishers don't roam the streets questioning passersby if they've got good poetry hidden in their bags. At least there aren't any that I'm aware of. If there are, please send them my way, okay? Thanks.

I was grateful to Nancy for taking the time out of her schedule to come and visit my humble little group.
I'm lucky to have such cool friends.

this is why.

After going through my inbox this morning, I checked, on a whim, the folder labeled "Junk E-mail." In the junk, right at the top of the pile, was an email from a former student. This young man was at our school for two years, but has since moved on to another location. He struggled to keep his grades up, and was starting to become a discipline issue. This kid was the perfect example of an iceberg: what you saw everyday was just the tip of a crappy hand dealt below the surface. He had more than enough reason to be pissed at the universe. For whatever reason, this young man and I had a great rapport. We connected.

Hey...I'm hoping this is your email address but I just want to let you I miss being in your class and that I was thinking about you. I wanted to let you know your still my favorite teacher and I am doing good. Hope this is your email and hope your doing good.


Of course I immediately replied with nothing short of a full-throttle inquisition. I was curious and wanted to know how he was faring. Word on the street is he had a baby. I sincerely hope he's "doing good."  


I forwarded the email to our school nurse, a woman who always looked after this young man and bent over backwards trying to help him out.  Her response was simply, This is why we do what we do. And she's right. 


I see my colleagues, good people with kind souls and work ethic like you wouldn't believe, breaking their backs over hours spent at their laptops. They work tirelessly to create amazing and intricate lesson plans that are water-tight and second to none. Because of this insurmountably high standard, at the start of this school year I was feeling a little, well, sub-par. Here's the deal: I will admit to anyone who asks that I don't work nearly as hard as my counterparts. That has been a conscious decision from day one. It has nothing to do with the fact that I currently have this unbelievably light load of students and classes. Even when I was working with five classes of 30+ students a day in California, I still made a conscious decision not to take work home with me. I have always vowed to keep balance in my life and never hid that from anyone. Since working at this school, going on three years now, I make it a point to let parents know, from the get-go, that I have a life outside of my job. When that bell rings at 3:20, I choose not to be a teacher anymore. I'm a wife, and a daughter, and a friend. Those other facets of my life are just as important, if not more important in the fabric of who I am and what constitutes my definition of living. I love my job, but it will never rule my life.


Likewise, I will never fault my colleagues for busting their humps and working long hours into the night. If that's how they choose to roll, then I support them. I just cannot commit to that. While teaching is about teaching, it's also about the connections. I love getting to know the people my students are. I want to know about their lives. It's fascinating and wonderful. I want them to know that I care about more than just what they've scored on a recent test or essay. Call me a naval-gazing fool. I'm alright with that. Sometimes I think I should have been a counselor. You know, I was once accused of being a "cheerleader," and not a "coach," while student-teaching in NYC. Apparently my teaching was more rah-rah and not enough of something else. My response was, so what? Why can't I be both? What if I am just a cheerleader in teacher's clothes? Would that be so bad? I have no desire to rest on my laurels and wax poetic all day long with my students. In fact, I'm pretty sure students, while in my class, are learning. Go ahead, ask 'em. I dare you. So long as my students continue to learn, then I'll be okay if my powerpoint slides aren't multi-colored with seventy-two pictures and intricate workings, and if my teacher web page is minimalist at best. That kind of stuff just doesn't interest me. I want my students to do. Susan Schlechter, my most favorite and memorable instructor at NYU once said something I've taken to heart and have never forgotten: The learning is in the doing.


Long after they have turned in their poems and short stories, long after I've assigned them a grade or helped them decide where to apply for college, my hope is that I was able to teach them something about who they are, and the kind of person they want to be. Yes, I want them to have some knowledge about the arc of a story, and what makes for a good line break. Yes, yes, yes. But, I also want to foster their humanity.


I may be wrong, but even if taken at face value, I think that email I received is good evidence I'm on the right track.

public vs. private

I happened to pick up the paper today on the way to my classroom. Our school gets a few copies everyday. I don't normally read the paper, but for whatever reason I was feeling rather old school - cause let's face it, the newspaper is becoming more and more vintage. I scanned the front page and eventually made my way to the Opinion/Perspectives section. Lo and behold there was a piece on parents and school choice.

Before I get into this, let us refresh ourselves. I am a public school teacher. I am also the product of a public school system. Okay, we can now proceed.

The writer begins by citing the history of school vouchers in our lovely state and how on its first run, the voucher bill was defeated in the House thanks to a campaign propped by a group supporting public education. There is noting of the increase in spending on public education from $4 billion in 1980 to currently $26 billion. Then in 2001 our Governor signed off on a tax credit that would allow businesses to divert portions of their state taxes to both public and private schools. It wasn't and isn't enough. The local catholic diocese show that there is a need for $11 million in assistance for those who would like to attend private schools. That spiffy tax program only covered half the tab and that is why:

Too many poor parents are unable to "sculpt the souls of their children," as Prof. John Coons of the University of California Berkeley put it, referring to those who have little or no control over their children's education. Parents with resources can choose any public, private or parochial school...School choice places children first in the educational process. It instills competition and accountability. School choice releases the creative talents of teachers and administrators. It creates the environment and generates the energy for other reforms to take root. Finally, school choice saves taxpayers money by preserving cost-effective, quality, nonpublic schools while encouraging public schools to spend more wisely and efficiently.


Okay. Let me say that I agree with this gentleman's opinion about public schools needing to spend more wisely. I work for a big urban public school machine that is facing millions in a budget deficit. Poor spending, and student decline has no doubt led us to this point. Not to mention the hurtful budget cuts that came down from the capitol. I. Get. That.


Here's what I don't get. 


Currently, the lovely neighborhood where Big Red and I live belongs to a middle of the road school district. Depending on  with whom you speak, some say our school district is a bit rough with questionable students, and others say there's not a darn thing wrong with it. What I've been able to cull through my espionage type questioning of willing neighbors is this. The school district is okay. It isn't great, not nearly as shiny and glitzy as some nearby suburban districts and it most certainly isn't the worst around. One of our neighbors owns a funeral home. He told me he has employed students from the local high school and they have been absolutely stellar. My guess is that students are going to get out of their high school experience as much as they are willing to put in.


But that goes for any school.


My biggest beef? Our local families choosing to send their children to private schools because they're worried about what may happen if their kid went to the local questionable  high school.  What is happening is that because our local district may not have the most brilliant reputation, they're opting, those who can, to send their children to the fancy places thereby creating an unbalanced population. We have some pretty nice niches feeding into this district, but those that are better off are opting to send their children elsewhere. If everyone who lived within the school district confines, actually attended the schools, the schools would have more favorable proportions among student population. There would be a more diverse range of high-achieving all the way down to the low, rather than just the magnified low. 


I'm not a parent yet and haven't walked that road. I know for damn sure Big Red and I don't have the beans to send our future little red(s) to private swanky schools. And I'm wondering if we were in the position to do so - would we? Maybe it's a bit idealistic, and maybe because I'm a public school teacher my thinking is colored such, but I'd like to believe that my little red would be better served going to school with all walks of life, not just the privileged. Going the private school route doesn't guarantee an admission to the Ivy League. I would hope that my little red would learn to negotiate more realistic settings in a public school venue. Besides, if it's trouble parents are concerned about, I got news for you. Sex and drugs exist inside the bubble, they just cost a little more.


Big Red and I are still many, many years away from having to contemplate a schooling decision. For all we know by the time we have a school-age child, there won't be so much controversy. As of now, we're both alright with a little red attending the local school. I know enough to never say never, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say we probably won't be sending our kids to a private school.


What would you do, dear reader? 
If you could make the choice and had the money to do so? 
Public or private?

September 11, 2001: I was there.

September 11, 2001

I am there.

It is a Tuesday. As a graduate student in the Steinhardt School of Education at NYU, I am scheduled to go in for my student-teaching. The school is located on East 22^nd street, between Madison and 3^rd Avenue. Right near Gramercy Park.

Just about 2.5 miles from the World Trade Center.

I get up, eat breakfast, get dressed, and gather my materials. I leave my rented room with blue walls, a tiny room on the third floor of an old Victorian house, in Flatbush, Brooklyn. I hop on the D train at Beverly Rd., and take a seat near the window as I always do. There is graffiti scratched into the window of the train’s car. Maybe done with a key? Someone bored on their way into the city? On their way home from a long day? We move underground for some bit and then pop up again as the train rises to cross the East River by way of the Manhattan Bridge.

At some point the lull of the train stops. We are stopped on the bridge. I don’t make anything of it as trains often do funny things like stop for no apparent reason. But then people scream. And then the screaming people all get up out of their seats and move to the left side of the train, their faces pasted to the windows.

Just as I look up and see the smoke, a woman sitting near me, with fingertips pressed to her lips, and  utter disbelief in her voice, says, “Oh my God. That’s my office.”  Something turns inside me.

Because the memory of what I saw and the time at which I saw it is hazy, I don’t remember if both towers had been hit yet. At the very least, one was already blaze. Probably both had already been hit.

Black smoke spirals from the mercurial obelisk into the sky.

The train begins to move again. I am unnervingly uncertain of what I’ve just seen, but am feeling a nagging suspicion that something is very, very wrong. There is talk on the train of a “small” plane “accidentally” crashing into the tower and honestly, it seems plausible given the closeness of the skyscrapers to La Guardia and JFK. They share airspace. After getting off the train at my stop and walking to the school, I quickly make my way into the classroom. My friend Chris is there. We have the same Master teacher. If I remember correctly, he is finishing up his class. The bell rings and students shuffle out of the classroom into the halls. My class comes into the room. I whisper to Chris that the World Trade Center is on fire, and that a plane (or two?) has crashed there.

And then this is what I remember happening next:

The voice of the principal crackles over the PA system.

He says that the school is on lockdown.

A student takes out an electronic device of some kind that has a radio, and he/she listens.

I lean out of a classroom window trying to look downtown towards the WTC.

The student reports that the South tower has collapsed.

Chris and I look at each other.

Our Master teacher becomes hysterical talking of war and being under attack.

We try to calm her down explaining that she cannot lose it in front of the students.

The student with the radio reports that the North tower has collapsed.

I may or may not have leaned outside the window again.

I think I remember smelling smoke.

The students are confused.

We are incredulous.

At some point we are all released, and I walk the empty streets of Manhattan with Chris. There is virtually no body, no car to be seen anywhere. Manhattan is an empty movie set long since abandoned after the director has called it’s a wrap. I try a payphone on our walk back to his dorm room, but there is no dial tone. Silence on the streets, silence on the phone.

All I can think is to call Big Red who is living back in the Steel Town.  We have been dating just a year and a half at that point. I am unaware that another plane has gone down near our Steel Town.

All I can think is to call my parents and let them know I’m okay.

We walk some more. There is no train service. All transportation is shut-down, Manhattan itself is on lockdown. We make it back to Chris’ place, and I try my cellphone to no avail. Chris points out that he has internet via his cable line. I send out an email to friends asking them to call both Big Red and my parents. I find out later that someone has reached them all and let them know I’m okay.

But I am still stuck on Manhattan. But I am not scared. I just want to get home.

We watch some of the news and sometime later the city decides to reopen a select few train lines.  I am able to find one that will go to Brooklyn. Unfortunately the closest stop is still miles from where I’m living. Miles through some shady areas. I have no choice but to ride anyway.  The train is crammed with the ragged and the weary.  The train lurches to a stop somewhere in Brooklyn. I do my best to orient myself as I climb the steps out of the ground, trying to figure out in what direction I need to begin walking.  After what seems like several blocks, I am still uncertain if I’m headed in the right direction, and that is when I spot an ambulance. I knock on the window startling the two men inside. The passenger rolls down his window. I explain my situation and ask them if I’m headed in the right direction. They confirm that my instincts are right, but that I still have a long way to go. I thank them and continue.

By now it is dark and I don’t want to dillydally any longer in suspicious neighborhoods. So I walk and walk and walk some more, keeping a quick pace. And then lights began to flash: blue and red. The ambulance. They pull up beside me and tell me to get in. They take me all the way home. I thank them profusely. I don’t know if they felt sorry for me, if they knew I’d be walking through danger or what. All I know is they chose not to ignore me.

I turn the lock with my key, and go inside. 

Awesome Start.

Day 1 is in the books (179 to go?). And a good one it was. Because I don't teach first period, I'm assigned to "metals." That's where you stand at tables and check students' backpacks and purses while they go through the metal detectors. It's kind of annoying, but nice in that you have a chance to greet everyone as they come in the door at the start of the day. Today at metals, I got many hugs, and even a gift:

One of my students was lucky enough to enjoy a cruise to the Caribbean this summer and this is what she brought back for me. A beautiful and sparkly purple necklace made of wood and sequence. Love it. I wore it all day. This was so unusual and unexpected. And wonderful.

My creative writing class is stellar. It's a fabulous group of students, all of whom I know well; I've had them for the past two years. These first nine weeks with them will be delightful. I can't think of a better way of kicking off this new elective class. What a treat to have students who want to be in class because they chose to be there. I've been waiting 8 years for this, and dammit if I'm not going to enjoy every minute with them.

By the end of the day the rest of my colleagues were reporting similar tales. Tales of students responding to direction and correction. Minimal disruptions and cooperative learning environments. While it's all well and good now, I'm still more than prepared for the other shoe to drop. However, I'm not saying it actually will. Who knows, this could finally be the year that our tiny school gets its kinks worked out and we're not frazzled by February. The punks are still there, but we know their numbers (fyi: when I say "punks" I mean it affectionately). Morale is high; higher than it has ever been. I think if we can all collectively keep our spirits up, we're going to have a banner year.

It's amazing how being gone for an entire summer really changes nothing. Today we all stepped right back into our routines without a hiccup. I wonder what a first day back to school will be like with a baby? There's no baby to speak of yet, but take this morning for instance. I woke up at 5:45, and at my leisure had breakfast, watched the news, made my lunch, did my hair and makeup and then got dressed. Big Red's alarm went off just as I was getting dressed and we seamlessly waltzed through our morning routine. I kissed him goodbye, and was on my way by ten to 7. What will change once there's a little one? Will I be getting up at 4 am? Will Big Red be getting up sooner? My guess is: YES. To all questions. And even after school. I was able to pack up my belongings and then casually chat with a few colleagues before making my way home. With a baby will I need to bolt out the door to pick him/her up from daycare?

Look at me now: blogging with not a care in the world and no one that needs my attention. Except for Olive. But she's near my feet and snoozing. I'm guessing she's doing just fine.

I hope when it's my turn to be a mommy that I'll be able to manage my time as effectively as I do now and that life won't become some hectic whirlpool of days smashed into one another. I am a hyper-organized woman. Someone please tell me I'll be able to manage and make it work. How do you make it work?

ps: Want an example of true love? Big Red gave me the last piece! of his birthday cheesecake. The only condition was that I not inhale it. It took everything I had, but I made that piece last for ten whole delicious minutes.

Back to School.

Tomorrow begins the 2011-12 school year. My students are 11th graders and it will be our third year together. I'm actually looking forward to seeing them. Strange? Maybe. Or maybe it's because I've been blessed with a fabulous schedule for the first semester (an unusually light load of classes and students), or maybe it's because I'm insanely organized and a fanatic about having things in order WAY ahead of time. Each year of teaching bolsters my confidence, and this year is an exceptional one. I get to teach creative writing - totally my jam. This is what I do, and I love that I finally get to teach it my way to my students.

Maybe it's because I've long since realized that no school year is perfect. Some days are inspirational, and some days are total shit. Some days you want to hug all your students and some days you want to drop-kick their arrogant asses down the hallway. No one can be a hero every day, and no one should expect that. Teachers, just like their students, are human. Some of my students will think I'm awesome and I'll be their favorite, and others will want to shred me, or just call me "weird as f*ck." Yup, that happened last year. Whether I'm a bitch or I'm amazing, I'm me,  And that's not going to change.

I know enough that this is not a popularity contest and that all subjects can't be won over. Some will be lost along the way. I will continue to trust my instincts. It's worked so far. I'll hope for the best, but be flexible enough to accommodate the unexpected. With teenagers and the machine that is public education, it's inevitable.

Whatever it is I'm ready. Bring it, punks.