Tomorrow is one of my favorite classes of the semester, when I read "Shitty First Drafts" to my students. But I realized tonight that I might lose my voice (which is already on its way out this week--stupid sinuses--) if I read it three times in a row in addition to all the other talking I need to do. I'm grateful it's available as an audiobook. This will save my energy tomorrow as long as the technology is working.
But I love this piece because it always throws my students off their tracks...again. I tend to spend the first couple of weeks un-teaching what my students have learned about writing. They of course think that good writing is pretentious, showy, full of complicated words and sentences. Then I bring in Ken Macrorie, Anne Lamott, and Donald Murray, and they don't quite know what to think.
Monday and today were also rewarding. Through a colleague, I discovered a technique that emphasizes the importance of teaching students to ask their own questions. I was skeptical of it at first, but after trying it out last semester, I realized how rarely we ask students to formulate questions, and how valuable it is to do so. Every time I do this, the first reaction is, "This is hard. I'm really having to think." Hallelujah. I've been on the student side of this technique, and it is hard, but it's fun and empowering, too.
The first or second week, I ask students to formulate questions with the focus, "Feelings about required classes--especially this one." These are students who tested into the lowest college writing course we offer at the community college. They're above adult basic ed, but not prepared for 101. It's a four-credit course (most are three) and while students pay for it and the grade impacts their GPA, they do not earn credit. I find this terribly unjust and disrespectful, and thankfully am working on a solution. Usually, when they learn that I hate the system that allows this, too, they feel better about being forced to be in there. Still, though, they have questions, and if I just asked them, "What questions do you have?" I would get the usual blank stares or a timid, "Do we need to buy the textbook?"
With the technique from RQI, simple as it is, students feel empowered to ask the questions they didn't really know they had. I always feel jazzed when someone asks something like, "Does anyone else feel stupid for having to take this class?" or "Why am I not smart enough to be in English 101?" or "Why are we punished for needing a review?" By spending the first day emphasizing honesty, and that I won't be offended by honest questions asked respectfully, they realize I'm not joking and open up. It's pretty fantastic.
My biggest weakness as a teacher is facilitating large-group discussion, and this is the best way I've found to generate buy-in, participation, and student-chosen focus. Once they write their questions, they have a chance to improve them and prioritize them. Then we can use them to start a conversation. Sadly, many of my students aren't used to being treated like they have brains. One question I ask when I assign the first draft of the first essay is, "What have past English teachers said about your writing?" Some of the answers make me seethe. Sometimes, it's even worse to read an answer like, "I never had a teacher say anything--we just got a grade, and I always just got a C so I figured it was good enough but not great."
I do, of course, see the results of grade inflation and poor teaching at the high school level, but I also know how difficult it is to reach every student in many high school environments. Some of these kids come from a school that often had 35 students in a writing class. I can barely handle our cap of 24. It's infuriating. I'm happy to help them improve and gain confidence to take 101, but I hate that they missed the instruction in high school for whatever reason. A good 60% or more of my students are adults who haven't thought about an essay in 15-20 years, so most of them just need the review and confidence.
Truly, I think my students are just surprised to hear their straight-laced looking young teacher say "shitty" a few times.
One unrelated story from today--
In my online researched writing class, I ask students to write about an experience that struck them, hard and then to share the questions that experience raised for them. I stole it from someone else, and it's an effective way to help them find research questions. One student wrote about her father's cancer, and she had some great questions, but her last one was, "Do I have any unconfessed sin that could have caused his cancer?" My heart sunk when I read that. What a sad and oppressive way to live. I know many folks believe this is possible, but I simply cannot. I haven't responded to her post, but hope that she will at least recognize it's a poor research question. I appreciated her willingness to be honest, but I'm struck by how sad the question made me feel. I've certainly felt guilty for things I shouldn't take fault for, but believing an unconfessed sin gave someone cancer? That's even beyond my guilty conscience.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Writing freely
One day down. I took it easy on my Tuesday/Thursday group today because they get two meetings this week, and my Mon/Wed just gets one. I want to keep them as parallel as I can. The benefit of teaching four sections of the same course should be that I only have to prep once a week (in addition to prepping the online class, but thankfully that should roll smoothly now on its third go-around).
I'm reading their writing samples and singing praises to Ken Macrorie and the Writing Project for hammering into my head the importance of teaching writers, not writing. One reason I love teaching basic writing is that my objective is to help my students become writers, readers, and thinkers. I don't have to teach citation, MLA (beyond font and margins), research, etc. I can focus on helping them see themselves as people who have worthwhile thoughts. Most of my students see themselves as dumb, at least in the realm of English, but they aren't. They just need practice, like me. I just have a little more practice than they do. In exchange, I get the gift of their stories.
Today, instead of asking them to write on a given topic, we read through a chapter of Telling Writing and finished by asking them to write freely for ten minutes on any topic they like. Because my students tend to freeze, I usually give an option or two, but most of them are grateful for the free choice to write on whatever comes to mind. Maybe I should be assessing how well they can form a nice schoolish paragraph, but what I really want to see is whether they can shut off their preconceptions about what is good writing and just tell the truth. Some of them still throw in the Engfish, but most of them are so relieved to hear they can just write without worrying about impressing someone that I get stories about fears of seizures, football injuries that disappointed dads, dreams of travel nursing, and desires to keep their kids out of prison.
I feel tired thinking about teaching this class three times in a row tomorrow, and since my kid was asleep by 7 tonight, I'd best get to sleep myself.
I'm reading their writing samples and singing praises to Ken Macrorie and the Writing Project for hammering into my head the importance of teaching writers, not writing. One reason I love teaching basic writing is that my objective is to help my students become writers, readers, and thinkers. I don't have to teach citation, MLA (beyond font and margins), research, etc. I can focus on helping them see themselves as people who have worthwhile thoughts. Most of my students see themselves as dumb, at least in the realm of English, but they aren't. They just need practice, like me. I just have a little more practice than they do. In exchange, I get the gift of their stories.
Today, instead of asking them to write on a given topic, we read through a chapter of Telling Writing and finished by asking them to write freely for ten minutes on any topic they like. Because my students tend to freeze, I usually give an option or two, but most of them are grateful for the free choice to write on whatever comes to mind. Maybe I should be assessing how well they can form a nice schoolish paragraph, but what I really want to see is whether they can shut off their preconceptions about what is good writing and just tell the truth. Some of them still throw in the Engfish, but most of them are so relieved to hear they can just write without worrying about impressing someone that I get stories about fears of seizures, football injuries that disappointed dads, dreams of travel nursing, and desires to keep their kids out of prison.
I feel tired thinking about teaching this class three times in a row tomorrow, and since my kid was asleep by 7 tonight, I'd best get to sleep myself.
Monday, January 21, 2013
eight years
I start my eighth year of teaching tomorrow, but this year marks ten years of being in a classroom in some form. In the fall of 2003, I took a job at an elementary school in Tallahassee. I had a fresh English lit degree from FSU and had taken a couple of teaching courses, but wasn't convinced it was the right job for me. After all, public speaking terrified me at the time, and I'm not known for my exceptional confidence. I had been planning to be a journalist. I still would like to write for a newspaper or magazine. I have two dream jobs. One would be Terry Gross's job, the other would be to write for The Onion. I recognize both of those are not realistic.
My journalism teacher in high school had advised me not to major in journalism, and I'm grateful for that advice. He recommended English, history, or political science. I minored in history (which seems like a bit of a joke--I just used it as an excuse to take electives like "The New South" and "Humor in America.") Majoring in journalism would have meant going to UF, too.
In 2003, I was engaged to be married the next summer, and took a job because I was waiting on my fiance to finish his degree so we could move to Montana together. I just wanted a job in a school so I could test out the idea of teaching and working in the education world. I got a job as a special ed aide at an elementary school in Tallahassee. It was one of the toughest but most rewarding jobs I've had. I'm realizing as I write this that those kids are mostly through high school by now--one of them would be 21. I was asked to do some odd things in that job, including teaching math to a group of fourth grade boys who all had diagnoses of severe emotional disabilities. I can barely do basic arithmetic without counting on my fingers, so that was a hoot. I worked there for just one school year, and then I was off to Montana to start grad school. My first job in Missoula was also an aide position for a K-8 school.
All in all, though, I enjoyed the work of helping people become better human beings, and seeing myself become a better human in the process. I also realized that there is no more creative endeavor than teaching. As it's 10:20 before the first day of the semester tomorrow, I'm not really sure what I'll do in about 12 hours with my first batch of new students, but I tend to thrive on the last-minute decision making. My best ideas come about 15 minutes before classes start. I don't usually decide what I'm doing before that. I have a tentative plan, but it usually changes several times. I laugh when my students say I'm organized. I've just gotten skilled at appearing organized. And since the most dangerous outcome is a run-in with a jammed copy machine, it's worth it.
The problem with the creativity involved in teaching is that there isn't a final product like there would be in writing music, stories, or films. My audience is mostly people who don't realize or (yet) understand the brainwork that goes before, during, and after each class meeting. While I know the workload will soon pile itself on and I'll be complaining again in about three days, I need my work to keep me sane. My brain is far too bored even with the freedom to read. I need the challenge. It's better for me to recognize that than to feel guilty for being bored when I was staying home with Kincaid. Even then, I was teaching online, but for a school that had a canned curriculum. That was almost worse than not teaching at all.
I'd like to figure a way to sell teaching to more creative types. Sometimes it attracts us, but often it seems to appear to be a scripted kind of job, or one where the curriculum is set, so there's only material to deliver. But teaching is a creative's dream as long as the person isn't motivated only by producing something. I'm finding this especially true at the college level, but even in K-12. Every student is different, every class is different. I'm teaching four sections of the same course, but I can't do the same things with each group. That would be boring.
I hope I'm still teaching in 20 years. It's the sort of job one can never master, and that's why it appeals to me. If anything, I can see myself burning out from the workload, but hopefully that will improve before long.
My journalism teacher in high school had advised me not to major in journalism, and I'm grateful for that advice. He recommended English, history, or political science. I minored in history (which seems like a bit of a joke--I just used it as an excuse to take electives like "The New South" and "Humor in America.") Majoring in journalism would have meant going to UF, too.
In 2003, I was engaged to be married the next summer, and took a job because I was waiting on my fiance to finish his degree so we could move to Montana together. I just wanted a job in a school so I could test out the idea of teaching and working in the education world. I got a job as a special ed aide at an elementary school in Tallahassee. It was one of the toughest but most rewarding jobs I've had. I'm realizing as I write this that those kids are mostly through high school by now--one of them would be 21. I was asked to do some odd things in that job, including teaching math to a group of fourth grade boys who all had diagnoses of severe emotional disabilities. I can barely do basic arithmetic without counting on my fingers, so that was a hoot. I worked there for just one school year, and then I was off to Montana to start grad school. My first job in Missoula was also an aide position for a K-8 school.
All in all, though, I enjoyed the work of helping people become better human beings, and seeing myself become a better human in the process. I also realized that there is no more creative endeavor than teaching. As it's 10:20 before the first day of the semester tomorrow, I'm not really sure what I'll do in about 12 hours with my first batch of new students, but I tend to thrive on the last-minute decision making. My best ideas come about 15 minutes before classes start. I don't usually decide what I'm doing before that. I have a tentative plan, but it usually changes several times. I laugh when my students say I'm organized. I've just gotten skilled at appearing organized. And since the most dangerous outcome is a run-in with a jammed copy machine, it's worth it.
The problem with the creativity involved in teaching is that there isn't a final product like there would be in writing music, stories, or films. My audience is mostly people who don't realize or (yet) understand the brainwork that goes before, during, and after each class meeting. While I know the workload will soon pile itself on and I'll be complaining again in about three days, I need my work to keep me sane. My brain is far too bored even with the freedom to read. I need the challenge. It's better for me to recognize that than to feel guilty for being bored when I was staying home with Kincaid. Even then, I was teaching online, but for a school that had a canned curriculum. That was almost worse than not teaching at all.
I'd like to figure a way to sell teaching to more creative types. Sometimes it attracts us, but often it seems to appear to be a scripted kind of job, or one where the curriculum is set, so there's only material to deliver. But teaching is a creative's dream as long as the person isn't motivated only by producing something. I'm finding this especially true at the college level, but even in K-12. Every student is different, every class is different. I'm teaching four sections of the same course, but I can't do the same things with each group. That would be boring.
I hope I'm still teaching in 20 years. It's the sort of job one can never master, and that's why it appeals to me. If anything, I can see myself burning out from the workload, but hopefully that will improve before long.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
tentatively peaceful
Back to work this week, and I feel surprisingly not anxious. I should be. I'm going to be teaching 19 credits. Five classes. All are full but one, and it only has about 6 seats. I should only be teaching four (at four credits each) but I have to figure a way to pay for K's preschool since Idaho doesn't provide it. I certainly don't have an extra $5,000 laying around. I'm sure spring semester will leave me nearly as ragged as fall did, but at least I won't be a fresh full-timer, I won't move one month in, and I won't have to deal with a break-up...more like a divorce without the paperwork.
Generally, spring should be easier on both of us. We should find the rhythm, and the bumps should be manageable. I should have a mostly commute-free summer semester to look forward to if I get my fingers-and-toes-and-legs-crossed wish of teaching a class online.
The balance isn't easy, though. Five days a week, I'm a mother to a 3.5-year-old little boy. Two days a week, I'm a single, 31-year-old woman. Woman. That term still sounds odd to me. Lady? Girl. I still look like one. I am making friends again but still feel tentative as I'm not sure what role to play. I want to be friends with other parents, but then what about my weekends? Parents hang out with their kids. Wives hang out with husbands. I am kidless. It's lovely to have time to breathe, read, write, hike, (grade papers, write proposals...) but it's weird time. I'm sure I'll get used to filling it better, but I feel a bit aimless sometimes. Thankfully it's usually too short to waste. The ski pass doesn't hurt, either.
My overactive mind has always made things like parties and going dancing difficult for me. I'd truly be much happier sitting in a corner booth with a clear view of the room, drinking a beer, and just watching and eavesdropping. Or having an eavesdropping-worthy conversation myself. I am trying dancing because it's uncomfortable, and somehow it's healthy to do things that make me uncomfortable sometimes. My coworkers are also quite persuasive.
What I miss is being known--it's nice to have family here because that's comfortable. But otherwise I'm still new to everyone. And truly, with the exception of my sisters, over the past ten years, it's friends who know me better. I want to hang out with people who know my quirks. People who have seen me melt down, deal with depression, make stupid decisions, and love me through it. Many of these people are in Florida, and a few are in Montana. I have a tendency to try too hard to be someone worth befriending when I am first getting to know people. I'm trying to chill out. Problem is, I suddenly have more energy to invest in people than I have in years. I'm sure my 125 or so students will happily zap most of that energy come next Tuesday, but I still find great joy in being a good friend. I suppose I should just do what brings me joy and stop worrying about being annoying.
Generally, spring should be easier on both of us. We should find the rhythm, and the bumps should be manageable. I should have a mostly commute-free summer semester to look forward to if I get my fingers-and-toes-and-legs-crossed wish of teaching a class online.
The balance isn't easy, though. Five days a week, I'm a mother to a 3.5-year-old little boy. Two days a week, I'm a single, 31-year-old woman. Woman. That term still sounds odd to me. Lady? Girl. I still look like one. I am making friends again but still feel tentative as I'm not sure what role to play. I want to be friends with other parents, but then what about my weekends? Parents hang out with their kids. Wives hang out with husbands. I am kidless. It's lovely to have time to breathe, read, write, hike, (grade papers, write proposals...) but it's weird time. I'm sure I'll get used to filling it better, but I feel a bit aimless sometimes. Thankfully it's usually too short to waste. The ski pass doesn't hurt, either.
My overactive mind has always made things like parties and going dancing difficult for me. I'd truly be much happier sitting in a corner booth with a clear view of the room, drinking a beer, and just watching and eavesdropping. Or having an eavesdropping-worthy conversation myself. I am trying dancing because it's uncomfortable, and somehow it's healthy to do things that make me uncomfortable sometimes. My coworkers are also quite persuasive.
What I miss is being known--it's nice to have family here because that's comfortable. But otherwise I'm still new to everyone. And truly, with the exception of my sisters, over the past ten years, it's friends who know me better. I want to hang out with people who know my quirks. People who have seen me melt down, deal with depression, make stupid decisions, and love me through it. Many of these people are in Florida, and a few are in Montana. I have a tendency to try too hard to be someone worth befriending when I am first getting to know people. I'm trying to chill out. Problem is, I suddenly have more energy to invest in people than I have in years. I'm sure my 125 or so students will happily zap most of that energy come next Tuesday, but I still find great joy in being a good friend. I suppose I should just do what brings me joy and stop worrying about being annoying.
Monday, January 14, 2013
pledge status
Like a coworker said tonight, setting a goal is the best way to make me fail, especially when it comes to writing. I need an assignment. Tell me to give you 500 words on cold medicine by noon tomorrow and I'll do it. And it would be decent. Meanwhile, I peck away about my boring...or, maybe not boring, but at least misshapen life.
I'm not sure why I balk at goals. Some goals stick. My goal of no guilt is sticking. It's working. Somehow, when I begin to feel guilty, I remember my pledge and have so far stomped it down. It's quite liberating to not feel guilty. My stepsister the other day was saying how she doesn't understand why I feel guilty about everything. I know it's because of religion, mostly. She didn't have the form of religion to fit into like I did. It's a restricting form (the narrow road, remember). When a person doesn't fit in the form anymore, she leaks, drips out--makes a mess. And, of course, the mess is her fault and she must clean it up. This is what leads to the guilt.
I get it. I know the guilt is supposed to lead to repentance. That's the church's idea of success. But in my case, the guilt can be so overwhelming that it only leads to anxiety and a tendency to hide and avoid. Or just make a bigger mess. Or ignore the mess. Or work a lot so I don't notice it because I am not still enough.
Either way, guilt is not productive or healthy. For those who think they can do no wrong, maybe guilt is useful. But I'll choose to stay free of it. I'm lighter this way.
Speaking of lighter, I know I lost almost ten pounds this past fall, and I blame stress and the loss of the stress of the hardest decision I've had to make so far (and after weighing in at the doctor yesterday, I blame Chick-fil-A and Christmas food for gaining a little back). I think back to how impossibly conflicted and stuck I felt--all the reasons I told myself I couldn't leave. I assumed the worst from everyone involved, and in every case, I've been surprised by grace--people who should dislike me, distrust me, or at the very least want to have little to do with me have gone out of their way to be kind and gracious to me. This happens in the form of thoughtful questions, gifts of lemons and elk burger, picture messages of Kincaid on the weekends, and extra prints of pictures made so he can have them at both houses. Little things I wouldn't expect communicate peacemaking.
Even if the motivation is Kincaid's ease of transition and happiness (as it should be) I remain surprised and impressed. My overactive imagination had pictured some ugly words and actions heading my way before I decided to separate. The worst thing I've experienced is concern--which is hardly negative. I still find myself justifying my decision, and I likely always will. I still think it would be ideal for my sweet kiddo to have two parents together, but as it is, that was anything but stable. I will always have to fight the demons that tell me I'm selfish for doing this, but oddly enough that voice is much quieter now that I'm here--on my own, content, clear-headed, breathing, singing, laughing, sleeping--feeling human again.
I'm not sure why I balk at goals. Some goals stick. My goal of no guilt is sticking. It's working. Somehow, when I begin to feel guilty, I remember my pledge and have so far stomped it down. It's quite liberating to not feel guilty. My stepsister the other day was saying how she doesn't understand why I feel guilty about everything. I know it's because of religion, mostly. She didn't have the form of religion to fit into like I did. It's a restricting form (the narrow road, remember). When a person doesn't fit in the form anymore, she leaks, drips out--makes a mess. And, of course, the mess is her fault and she must clean it up. This is what leads to the guilt.
I get it. I know the guilt is supposed to lead to repentance. That's the church's idea of success. But in my case, the guilt can be so overwhelming that it only leads to anxiety and a tendency to hide and avoid. Or just make a bigger mess. Or ignore the mess. Or work a lot so I don't notice it because I am not still enough.
Either way, guilt is not productive or healthy. For those who think they can do no wrong, maybe guilt is useful. But I'll choose to stay free of it. I'm lighter this way.
Speaking of lighter, I know I lost almost ten pounds this past fall, and I blame stress and the loss of the stress of the hardest decision I've had to make so far (and after weighing in at the doctor yesterday, I blame Chick-fil-A and Christmas food for gaining a little back). I think back to how impossibly conflicted and stuck I felt--all the reasons I told myself I couldn't leave. I assumed the worst from everyone involved, and in every case, I've been surprised by grace--people who should dislike me, distrust me, or at the very least want to have little to do with me have gone out of their way to be kind and gracious to me. This happens in the form of thoughtful questions, gifts of lemons and elk burger, picture messages of Kincaid on the weekends, and extra prints of pictures made so he can have them at both houses. Little things I wouldn't expect communicate peacemaking.
Even if the motivation is Kincaid's ease of transition and happiness (as it should be) I remain surprised and impressed. My overactive imagination had pictured some ugly words and actions heading my way before I decided to separate. The worst thing I've experienced is concern--which is hardly negative. I still find myself justifying my decision, and I likely always will. I still think it would be ideal for my sweet kiddo to have two parents together, but as it is, that was anything but stable. I will always have to fight the demons that tell me I'm selfish for doing this, but oddly enough that voice is much quieter now that I'm here--on my own, content, clear-headed, breathing, singing, laughing, sleeping--feeling human again.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
The Anne Frank complex
I've done OK with my resolution. Skipped a couple days, but those days were spent outside skiing and snowshoeing, so I'll forgive myself. (Because my other resolution is no guilt, remember?)
I continue to find it odd that in my given religion's theology, guilt is supposed to be absent, or at least easily removed, from the Christian's life. "Accept Jesus," they say, and your guilt is washed away. If you feel guilty, there is probably something wrong with your "relationship to God." (That tends to be the diagnosis for many things that ail me, but I'm calling bullshit.)
Not that said relationship is perfect, but I'm not sure any human can make such a claim. I have had an easier time letting go of guilt by making a silly new year's resolution than I did in 24-odd years of being a Christian. I also don't recall many sermons convincing me to let go of guilt. It seemed to be the driving force behind the growth of most churches. Guilt brings people in the doors, money in the plates, teachers in the Sunday School classrooms. Other motivations are there, sure, but I know guilt and fear drove many of my decisions, despite the good intentions of the pastors and teachers.
Fear of shame, especially. I've since realized that most Christians outside the Bible Belt (and many within it, thankfully) don't function this way. They are good people, doing their best to live how they believe they should live. This is often based on a literal interpretation of scripture, but with the exception of the treatment of women and homosexuals, and issues like capital punishment and sex, that's a pretty moral and good life. I find that my Anne Frank syndrome follows me wherever I go. It quite literally followed me to Boise, where her words are engraved in stone by the river:
It reads, "In spite of everything, I still believe that people are truly good at heart."
I continue to find it odd that in my given religion's theology, guilt is supposed to be absent, or at least easily removed, from the Christian's life. "Accept Jesus," they say, and your guilt is washed away. If you feel guilty, there is probably something wrong with your "relationship to God." (That tends to be the diagnosis for many things that ail me, but I'm calling bullshit.)
Not that said relationship is perfect, but I'm not sure any human can make such a claim. I have had an easier time letting go of guilt by making a silly new year's resolution than I did in 24-odd years of being a Christian. I also don't recall many sermons convincing me to let go of guilt. It seemed to be the driving force behind the growth of most churches. Guilt brings people in the doors, money in the plates, teachers in the Sunday School classrooms. Other motivations are there, sure, but I know guilt and fear drove many of my decisions, despite the good intentions of the pastors and teachers.
It reads, "In spite of everything, I still believe that people are truly good at heart."
I try to live as if this is true, because it usually is. It may sound (or truly be) naive, but to assume good intentions saves me a hell of a lot of stress and worry. I could only hope that my belief would stay intact if I had lived through what Anne did.
Assuming that even people who do hateful things are good people at heart helps me approach them with grace and not anger or judgment.
I do not feel ready to go back to work in less than a week. I have almost totally disengaged other than finally checking my (full) email inbox. I wrote a letter of recommendation today. I got an email requesting sample assignments, and I just flagged it. I can't go into those folders yet. I know I need to organize them. I'm terrified that I will arrive on Monday morning and quickly feel just as overwhelmed as I did the last day of last semester. I will have to fight the guilt for not working over break. I will have to fight my tendency to reinvent everything. It's boring to keep doing the same things all the time (or, in my case, to even do the same thing the same way twice). I'm forever revising. This semester, though, I should stick with what works, and focus my creativity on the bigger, longer-term projects I'm responsible for, like revamping the whole remedial English program.
I'm teaching 19 credits this spring. I'm crazy, it's true. 16 of those are 4-credit basic writing classes. The 4th credit is supposed to be for time spent on grammar, but I often joke that it's really the energy it takes to teach these classes. Grammar's the easy part. I can make no assumptions with my students. I face them each semester and remember that they feel like I feel when I try to learn how to dance or play the mandolin. I just want to sit and watch, and not try and fail. I have to convince them each week that it's worth it to try. That they can learn. It takes grand amounts of energy and patience, but it's energy and patience I have to give.
Most of my students believe intelligence is fixed--that they're just dumb or bad writers. I spend the first week using science (and my own enthusiasm) to convince them otherwise. If all I teach them is that they can learn and it's worthwhile to try new things, I feel like I've done my job. That might not show up in an outcomes matrix or an essay, but it matters more.
350 words exceeded. I'm happy to have a book right now that makes me want to hurry to bed. Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins has me often laughing so hard I've peed a little.
Monday, January 7, 2013
happy place
A $15 parking ticket today means I probably broke even with the used books I bought (versus new), but old books are much more fun. They sure smell better. Used books have a history. The best ones have someone else's marginalia that I will add to, and probably trade back in to the same book store for more books. I bought a few today to keep me company this month. I have missed reading, and I feel like I need to over-compensate now. This is my last week to do so, since I return to work on the 14th and the stress level, workload, essay reading, planning, conferences, meetings, and data collection will steadily increase again until May, when I can binge again.
This week of break, I have many excuses to just sit and read. After all, cleaning, cooking, or generally moving about would make too much noise and wake my sleeping child in the afternoons and evenings. It's also snowing, and it would be rude to break the silence with work.
I always take recommendations of friends for books, and then I usually work my way through an author's works. I was sad to discover Edward Abbey only wrote a little fiction.
My friend Erin once made me read Tom Robbins, and I loved him. On her recommendation, I started today with Skinny Legs and All and remembered why, as I snorted some sort of herb-infused water today eating lunch. (Not unlike with Chick-fil-A, I now have trouble walking by the Bleubird Cafe in Boise without getting a grilled cheese. I was hungry, and because of the snow and driving the stupid snowball car, it was going to take twice as long. I was just preventing a hypoglycemic meltdown.) I'm realizing this simple trip to the used book store got pretty expensive--parking ticket, lunch...my inability to buy one book...but six isn't bad.
I was, however, annoyed at Robbins for comparing my beloved dogwood blooms to a constipated elf. I'm not sure how I feel about that, but I hope I can forget it by Easter.
I started reading The Alchemist yesterday, but am not loving it just yet. I'll keep giving it a chance. The style isn't grabbing me. It's short, at least...hoping it picks up.
Off to book land. Big fat flakes are still falling.
This week of break, I have many excuses to just sit and read. After all, cleaning, cooking, or generally moving about would make too much noise and wake my sleeping child in the afternoons and evenings. It's also snowing, and it would be rude to break the silence with work.
I always take recommendations of friends for books, and then I usually work my way through an author's works. I was sad to discover Edward Abbey only wrote a little fiction.
My friend Erin once made me read Tom Robbins, and I loved him. On her recommendation, I started today with Skinny Legs and All and remembered why, as I snorted some sort of herb-infused water today eating lunch. (Not unlike with Chick-fil-A, I now have trouble walking by the Bleubird Cafe in Boise without getting a grilled cheese. I was hungry, and because of the snow and driving the stupid snowball car, it was going to take twice as long. I was just preventing a hypoglycemic meltdown.) I'm realizing this simple trip to the used book store got pretty expensive--parking ticket, lunch...my inability to buy one book...but six isn't bad.
I was, however, annoyed at Robbins for comparing my beloved dogwood blooms to a constipated elf. I'm not sure how I feel about that, but I hope I can forget it by Easter.
I started reading The Alchemist yesterday, but am not loving it just yet. I'll keep giving it a chance. The style isn't grabbing me. It's short, at least...hoping it picks up.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Empathy
When I was putting all of my energy into trying to make a failing relationship work, I put very little energy into the things that make me happy. Friends, music, writing, books--I kept reading, but mostly for work. My bookshelves still look like they did four years ago, plus or minus a few "hail Mary" self-help books like "7 Habits of Highly Effective People" and "Why You Do The Things You Do." I would have never read such stuff before. Some parenting books, some Isabel Allende my friend Erin keeps giving me that I start and don't finish...but otherwise the same stuff. Reeks of boredom, stagnancy. I don't like to be stagnant.
Music is the same. I can't tell you much about anything I've started to like recently because I've only listened to his music (some I like, some I don't) and my old stuff. My playlists and CD's are unchanged. I love music too much for this to be OK. Deciding to join my church's choir this semester nearly flooded me with pent-up music love. I've missed it all terribly. Now, with four years or more of new music behind me, I don't know where to start. I never even got a chance to start listening to Radiohead, and now it's old news.
A kind coworker and friend, who has also been part of the crew encouraging me to learn to dance, loaned me a full-size keyboard today. I don't know why, but a home seems not quite complete without a piano. It isn't that I even play the thing well--but just that's there. It's a fixture that belongs in a home. My home, my grandparents' home, most of my relatives, neighbors, friends--everyone had a piano. Everyone had taken lessons at some point. I quit in 6th grade...picked up again my senior year. Never lost the basic ability to plunk out a tune by ear.
I do think the keyboard will stifle my desire to learn the mandolin. I know how the keyboard works, I just have to practice a lot. I'm not a natural. Mandolin will take a great deal of practice. I'm still working on understanding what's where. I look at a piano and know every note. I can pick out the melody of anything. Not so with the small, stringed beast.
In line with learning to dance, learning a different instrument is crucial to my skill as a teacher. If I don't continue to learn new things, I will forget where my students are, and I will be a poor teacher. Writing teachers should be writers, of course--we should at least attempt the craft--but teachers should always be learners. Empathy is the best attribute of a good teacher. An empathetic teacher has a hard time failing her students. I can't have that empathy if I don't learn something new. I forget how completely lost, blind, stupid, slow, and hopeless I feel when trying to do something that comes simply to someone who has practiced more than I have. It's one thing to tell my students, "Just write," when the idea is pure hell to them. If I can relate it to looking at dance floor, a sweaty-handed partner, trying to comprehend the new vocabulary of dance, then I have their attention whether I actually draw the parallel for them or not. Students of all ages (but especially middle school kids) are excellent bullshit detectors. I can't stand up there and tell them I understand their fears when I don't. If you need to work on your truthiness, go teach 7th grade. My adult students (many who are older than me or near my age) are just as critical of my honesty, just more polite about it.
My ability to avoid boredom is still intact. I have ten more days of no work, and I'm far from bored. I'm thrilled. I can read whatever I want, listen to what I want, watch what I want (well, after K is asleep...when he's awake, Fireman Sam and Curious George get all the air time). If I hadn't bent a wheel on my car, I'd be driving wherever I want. I have missed this freedom. I'm slowly leaving survival mode, which I've been in since before K was born. I think I do pretty well in crisis mode, but I'd rather take small ones, like a broken car, a few stitches at the ER, or finding out that Chick-fil-A closes at 10 and not 10:30. Not a surprise child.
I hope this weekend involves plenty of conversation, skiing, reading, and hot springs. All are good for my soul. Sunny and cold. My favorite.
Music is the same. I can't tell you much about anything I've started to like recently because I've only listened to his music (some I like, some I don't) and my old stuff. My playlists and CD's are unchanged. I love music too much for this to be OK. Deciding to join my church's choir this semester nearly flooded me with pent-up music love. I've missed it all terribly. Now, with four years or more of new music behind me, I don't know where to start. I never even got a chance to start listening to Radiohead, and now it's old news.
A kind coworker and friend, who has also been part of the crew encouraging me to learn to dance, loaned me a full-size keyboard today. I don't know why, but a home seems not quite complete without a piano. It isn't that I even play the thing well--but just that's there. It's a fixture that belongs in a home. My home, my grandparents' home, most of my relatives, neighbors, friends--everyone had a piano. Everyone had taken lessons at some point. I quit in 6th grade...picked up again my senior year. Never lost the basic ability to plunk out a tune by ear.
I do think the keyboard will stifle my desire to learn the mandolin. I know how the keyboard works, I just have to practice a lot. I'm not a natural. Mandolin will take a great deal of practice. I'm still working on understanding what's where. I look at a piano and know every note. I can pick out the melody of anything. Not so with the small, stringed beast.
In line with learning to dance, learning a different instrument is crucial to my skill as a teacher. If I don't continue to learn new things, I will forget where my students are, and I will be a poor teacher. Writing teachers should be writers, of course--we should at least attempt the craft--but teachers should always be learners. Empathy is the best attribute of a good teacher. An empathetic teacher has a hard time failing her students. I can't have that empathy if I don't learn something new. I forget how completely lost, blind, stupid, slow, and hopeless I feel when trying to do something that comes simply to someone who has practiced more than I have. It's one thing to tell my students, "Just write," when the idea is pure hell to them. If I can relate it to looking at dance floor, a sweaty-handed partner, trying to comprehend the new vocabulary of dance, then I have their attention whether I actually draw the parallel for them or not. Students of all ages (but especially middle school kids) are excellent bullshit detectors. I can't stand up there and tell them I understand their fears when I don't. If you need to work on your truthiness, go teach 7th grade. My adult students (many who are older than me or near my age) are just as critical of my honesty, just more polite about it.
My ability to avoid boredom is still intact. I have ten more days of no work, and I'm far from bored. I'm thrilled. I can read whatever I want, listen to what I want, watch what I want (well, after K is asleep...when he's awake, Fireman Sam and Curious George get all the air time). If I hadn't bent a wheel on my car, I'd be driving wherever I want. I have missed this freedom. I'm slowly leaving survival mode, which I've been in since before K was born. I think I do pretty well in crisis mode, but I'd rather take small ones, like a broken car, a few stitches at the ER, or finding out that Chick-fil-A closes at 10 and not 10:30. Not a surprise child.
I hope this weekend involves plenty of conversation, skiing, reading, and hot springs. All are good for my soul. Sunny and cold. My favorite.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Flexibility
(Dec. 19)
I remember going on simple mission trips as a teenager and being trained to "always be flexible!" This usually meant that when you planned to paint and they ask you to be on kitchen duty, you agree and don't complain. Or it might mean that when you planned to sit next to the cute guy and you were assigned to sit next to the smelly girl, you should be nice and just breathe through your mouth. These were always trivial flexibilities I assumed were part of life.
Now, being flexible means spending Christmas without my son. After I tell the voices that say, "It's your fault, your mistake, your problem to bear, tough shit" to shut up, I am grateful for the smaller lessons in flexibility. He's asleep now, and I'll get a few hours with him in the morning, and then he'll be gone until the afternoon of Christmas day. I'll be trying to fill my days and avoid being alone too long. I need and treasure my alone time, but I also miss having people around. When I was with T, I had made one friend in four years. I may have my socially anxious moments, but I've moved to brand new places several times not knowing a soul. I've made friends easily and enjoyed the newness.
It's hard for me to balance feeling happy for the first time in almost five years, but yet feeling sad, a little remorseful, and confused.
(Jan 2, 2013)
The sadness wanes, though, more quickly than I expected. Despite my vow of no guilt, I feel some sort of obligation to feel guilty for being happy on my own. My default is soon becoming contentment, though, and I can't remember the last time I felt that way more often than not. Maybe it's just being in my 30's? If so, I'll take it. My 20's were far too tumultuous. I only have to revisit my old blog started in 2004 when I moved to Montana to remember that. The silent places are when things were the worst, and that's saying something.
Apparently, the story that follows A River Runs Through It is titled "Logging and Pimping and Your Pal, Jim." It's exactly what it sounds like. Here's a sample:
Dear partner,
Just to let you know I have screwed a dame that weighs 300 lbs.
Your pal,
Jim
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
"Books," I say to them. "Books."
I don't normally make new year's resolutions, but since the new calendar year happens to align with a lull in the absurdity that has been 2012, it's not a bad time to join the chorus. My resolutions are to stop feeling guilty and to start writing. I'm setting a goal of 350 words a day. Something is better than nothing.
Leaving guilt behind is much harder. It's going to require a significant switch in my thinking. I default to guilt. I tell myself it's selfless to feel guilty about everything--that I'm somehow acknowledging my selfishness. But nobody benefits from this. I don't. It steals my energy, my joy, and my time.
Some element of working mama guilt will always be present. But I am lucky. I love my job, and my son has an impressive network of family and friends who love him. I get lengthy breaks between semesters to relax. My hours are flexible. I will feel better once he's in school, but for now, he will be OK.
Losing the guilt trickles down. I'm happier. I'm more likely to assume good intentions. I'm not sure why these things are related, but they seem to be.
I'm sure a great deal of this has to do with leaving a situation that was making me miserable. Getting over the guilt of not doing the "right thing" is what held me still for so long. Guilt is paralyzing.
My first exercise in guiltlessness is to not work for these two weeks between semesters, and not feel guilty about it. A trip to the used book store for a fiction binge is in order. I will not read about work.
I just finished Barbara Kingsolver's newest book, Flight Behavior. I loved it. Its synchronicity with my life was frightening, but in a way that has prompted me to pay attention (and continue to feel a bit frightened). My shelves (and still unpacked boxes) are full of books, but they feel old simply because I've stared at their spines for so long. And I've read most of them. I notice that I mostly have mediocre books on my shelves. The bad ones don't stick around for the sake of my pride, and I tend to give away my favorites as soon as I get new copies.
I realized the other day that I had never read the "and other stories" portion of A River Runs Through It. (I also just had a formatting argument in my head trying to decide whether the novella would be italicized). I'm starting there because I know MacLean won't disappoint. Then I will finally read The Alchemist because I'm sick of not knowing all the allusions. Then maybe Mr. Alexie, O'Brien, or Robbins...
"I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian kids crowd the classroom. Many are writing their own poems, short stories and novels. They have read my books. They have read many other books. They look at me with bright eyes and arrogant wonder. They are trying to save their lives. Then there are the sullen and already defeated Indian kids who sit in the back rows and ignore me with theatrical precision. The pages of their notebooks are empty. They carry neither pencil nor pen. They stare out the window. They refuse and resist. "Books," I say to them. "Books," I say. I throw my weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am arrogant. I am lucky. I am trying to save our lives." -Sherman Alexie, "Superman and Me"
Leaving guilt behind is much harder. It's going to require a significant switch in my thinking. I default to guilt. I tell myself it's selfless to feel guilty about everything--that I'm somehow acknowledging my selfishness. But nobody benefits from this. I don't. It steals my energy, my joy, and my time.
Some element of working mama guilt will always be present. But I am lucky. I love my job, and my son has an impressive network of family and friends who love him. I get lengthy breaks between semesters to relax. My hours are flexible. I will feel better once he's in school, but for now, he will be OK.
Losing the guilt trickles down. I'm happier. I'm more likely to assume good intentions. I'm not sure why these things are related, but they seem to be.
I'm sure a great deal of this has to do with leaving a situation that was making me miserable. Getting over the guilt of not doing the "right thing" is what held me still for so long. Guilt is paralyzing.
My first exercise in guiltlessness is to not work for these two weeks between semesters, and not feel guilty about it. A trip to the used book store for a fiction binge is in order. I will not read about work.
I just finished Barbara Kingsolver's newest book, Flight Behavior. I loved it. Its synchronicity with my life was frightening, but in a way that has prompted me to pay attention (and continue to feel a bit frightened). My shelves (and still unpacked boxes) are full of books, but they feel old simply because I've stared at their spines for so long. And I've read most of them. I notice that I mostly have mediocre books on my shelves. The bad ones don't stick around for the sake of my pride, and I tend to give away my favorites as soon as I get new copies.
I realized the other day that I had never read the "and other stories" portion of A River Runs Through It. (I also just had a formatting argument in my head trying to decide whether the novella would be italicized). I'm starting there because I know MacLean won't disappoint. Then I will finally read The Alchemist because I'm sick of not knowing all the allusions. Then maybe Mr. Alexie, O'Brien, or Robbins...
"I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian kids crowd the classroom. Many are writing their own poems, short stories and novels. They have read my books. They have read many other books. They look at me with bright eyes and arrogant wonder. They are trying to save their lives. Then there are the sullen and already defeated Indian kids who sit in the back rows and ignore me with theatrical precision. The pages of their notebooks are empty. They carry neither pencil nor pen. They stare out the window. They refuse and resist. "Books," I say to them. "Books," I say. I throw my weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am arrogant. I am lucky. I am trying to save our lives." -Sherman Alexie, "Superman and Me"
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