OK, so I am officially moving to blogging at: kristin5683.wordpress.com
I'm also a new co-editor at Madator Nights, so see me there as well!
16 September 2010
21 April 2010
Well, this sucks
OK, so I have to admit to being a full-blown romantic; I love the ideas of romantic comedies and the love of Jane Austen books. I was fully convinced as a child that my Mr. Right would be blissfully easy to find and just as easy to hold on to. And yet...and yet...real, adult, non-happy ending for sure life has reared its head to let me know that it is, in fact, hard work and not at all like the movies.
I met what I considered to be a fairly close proximity to a guy who could become Mr. Right. Tall, well read, loves to travel, likes to debate philosophy and psychology over a glass or two of wine, ta da! I had done it; I had found him. Easy to talk to, makes me laugh, just a bit dorky and awkward (much like myself!), prefers living overseas as compared to in the US, and at a crossroads in his life and prepared to travel the world until his money runs out or he finds a place he falls in love with.
All of this would be fantastically wonderful if at this crossroads, I was invited along. When I broached the topic, with my summer plans of cat-sitting in Paris, asking if he'd come and visit me, he said "we'll see." OK, so that's not a deal-breaker. A few minutes later, after discussing the volcano that had cancelled his much-anticipated flight to Europe, he burst out with a brief diatribe that sums up to: he can't wait to leave and never come back to America, he's debating skipping out on his best friend's wedding (for which he agreed to be the BEST MAN) so much is his passion for not ever coming back here, he has no personal ambition for life, he has no attachment to anything that relates to America (hello! I'm here!), he wants to completely disappear, and he sees himself becoming a monk because there is no other life he'd be suited for or interested in.
Fan-fucking-tastic. If he can skip out on his best friend's wedding, who he's known for over a decade, how much easier to skip out on a woman he's known for 6 months and only been in the same country with for 6 weeks. As much as I feel like I should have seen this coming, and how I really shouldn't have let myself fall for him, it sucks.
On another note, check out my articles at matadornetwork -
http://matadornights.com/best-10-out-of-900-brighton-pubs-english-seaside-drinking-at-its-finest/
http://matadornights.com/the-good-the-bad-and-the-beautiful-of-barbecue-in-kansas-city-mo-ks-usa/
I met what I considered to be a fairly close proximity to a guy who could become Mr. Right. Tall, well read, loves to travel, likes to debate philosophy and psychology over a glass or two of wine, ta da! I had done it; I had found him. Easy to talk to, makes me laugh, just a bit dorky and awkward (much like myself!), prefers living overseas as compared to in the US, and at a crossroads in his life and prepared to travel the world until his money runs out or he finds a place he falls in love with.
All of this would be fantastically wonderful if at this crossroads, I was invited along. When I broached the topic, with my summer plans of cat-sitting in Paris, asking if he'd come and visit me, he said "we'll see." OK, so that's not a deal-breaker. A few minutes later, after discussing the volcano that had cancelled his much-anticipated flight to Europe, he burst out with a brief diatribe that sums up to: he can't wait to leave and never come back to America, he's debating skipping out on his best friend's wedding (for which he agreed to be the BEST MAN) so much is his passion for not ever coming back here, he has no personal ambition for life, he has no attachment to anything that relates to America (hello! I'm here!), he wants to completely disappear, and he sees himself becoming a monk because there is no other life he'd be suited for or interested in.
Fan-fucking-tastic. If he can skip out on his best friend's wedding, who he's known for over a decade, how much easier to skip out on a woman he's known for 6 months and only been in the same country with for 6 weeks. As much as I feel like I should have seen this coming, and how I really shouldn't have let myself fall for him, it sucks.
On another note, check out my articles at matadornetwork -
http://matadornights.com/best-10-out-of-900-brighton-pubs-english-seaside-drinking-at-its-finest/
http://matadornights.com/the-good-the-bad-and-the-beautiful-of-barbecue-in-kansas-city-mo-ks-usa/
29 March 2010
750 Words
I have started dabbling with the website 750words.com. It comes from the idea of the artist's pages - that if you write three pages in the morning, every morning, without stopping and without thinking, then you get a chance to look into your subconscious and you get to cleanse yourself of your thoughts. It is also meant to help you do other writing and creating, by writing three pages without thought or concern, then you have more freedom to do other forms of creating - a way to combat writer's block.
Another nifty little feature of this particular website is that it analyzes your writing. And today, my writing was: introverted, negative, uncertain and thinking. I must say that it's spot on. I have to sign, or not sign, my lease today on my studio apartment. I must say that I do love my little place. I have it fixed up and decorated to my liking, and it's just me. I don't have to worry about crazy roommates, etc. But I wish that I could just pick up my apartment and move it somewhere else. I live in a city that I don't particularly like and work at a job that I don't feel passionate about. Yet, I have no idea as to what I would do if I were to leave. And I would have to figure that out in the next 36 hours, before my lease has to be extended. I have to sign a year lease, there is no month to month option or 6 month option.
I have some ideas as to what I would do over the summer, and yet, that all involves traveling and spending money. It doesn't seem particularly responsible or sensible to leave with no idea whatsoever as to what I would do. While I know that sometimes things shouldn't be planned, etc., I also know that having to move back in with my parents because I've run out of money, isn't a smart option either. So I want to be smart about things, but thinking of staying here for another year seems exhausting. But I don't have any idea of where I would want to go or what I would want to do if I left.
Another nifty little feature of this particular website is that it analyzes your writing. And today, my writing was: introverted, negative, uncertain and thinking. I must say that it's spot on. I have to sign, or not sign, my lease today on my studio apartment. I must say that I do love my little place. I have it fixed up and decorated to my liking, and it's just me. I don't have to worry about crazy roommates, etc. But I wish that I could just pick up my apartment and move it somewhere else. I live in a city that I don't particularly like and work at a job that I don't feel passionate about. Yet, I have no idea as to what I would do if I were to leave. And I would have to figure that out in the next 36 hours, before my lease has to be extended. I have to sign a year lease, there is no month to month option or 6 month option.
I have some ideas as to what I would do over the summer, and yet, that all involves traveling and spending money. It doesn't seem particularly responsible or sensible to leave with no idea whatsoever as to what I would do. While I know that sometimes things shouldn't be planned, etc., I also know that having to move back in with my parents because I've run out of money, isn't a smart option either. So I want to be smart about things, but thinking of staying here for another year seems exhausting. But I don't have any idea of where I would want to go or what I would want to do if I left.
14 March 2010
New Jersey, I have to quit you
Chris Christie, the round but not at all jolly new Governor of New Jersey, has decided the best course of action for the budget crisis is to cut funding to education. Over 500 school districts will have funding frozen, and higher education is facing massive multi-million dollar cuts. It seems like time to abandon ship. There is no incentive or security for any position.
The cuts will inevitably lead to higher tuition, larger classes, fewer instructors with an actual passion for their subject. And as someone who has had exposure to the level of education held by a wide variety of New Jersey students, it seems like the very last thing that the system needs is for cuts.
There are students, and not just a few of them, who cannot identify a correctly written sentence. The reading level of college students is hovering somewhere near what seems to be a 7th grade level at best. Teaching becomes more about explaining why you can’t write, “I is good at school” as a correct sentence, compared to discussing and writing about complex ideas and higher level thinking.
Granted, this is not the case for all students, but for a surprising number of them, they really can’t write at all. I don’t know how they got into college, and I find it endlessly frustrating to teach 4th grade level assignments to students who are supposed to hold at least a high school degree, which should mean they can read and write with some level of proficiency. And now, the schools will have less funding? It can only get worse.
The cuts will inevitably lead to higher tuition, larger classes, fewer instructors with an actual passion for their subject. And as someone who has had exposure to the level of education held by a wide variety of New Jersey students, it seems like the very last thing that the system needs is for cuts.
There are students, and not just a few of them, who cannot identify a correctly written sentence. The reading level of college students is hovering somewhere near what seems to be a 7th grade level at best. Teaching becomes more about explaining why you can’t write, “I is good at school” as a correct sentence, compared to discussing and writing about complex ideas and higher level thinking.
Granted, this is not the case for all students, but for a surprising number of them, they really can’t write at all. I don’t know how they got into college, and I find it endlessly frustrating to teach 4th grade level assignments to students who are supposed to hold at least a high school degree, which should mean they can read and write with some level of proficiency. And now, the schools will have less funding? It can only get worse.
28 September 2009
I wonder what you intend
I wonder what you intend
It’s work exploring
why some do cry
when contrasted with the emptiness
of the dark
needing a close reading
to be a successful piece,
nicely unusual,
you try to be consistent
in simply saying
the unsubstantial opinions
of how you feel.
It’s work exploring
why some do cry
when contrasted with the emptiness
of the dark
needing a close reading
to be a successful piece,
nicely unusual,
you try to be consistent
in simply saying
the unsubstantial opinions
of how you feel.
19 September 2009
Pink
A week and a day ago, I woke up to the trilling sound of my cell phone alarm. Immediately my stomach began to flutter and jump. In a few hours I would be running in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Central Park. I wanted to grab some food, but my friend who I was staying with in Harlem hadn’t been shopping since her vacation. So my pre-race meal included a banana I’d brought with me from home, a cup of coffee, 2 glasses of water, and a mango ice cream bar. Perhaps not ideal, but I’d stuffed myself with pasta the night before ($30 for a pasta dinner; this is why I can’t live in NYC).
I took a shower (yes, it was basically pointless since I’d be showering again in about 3 hours, but I hate running with greasy hair. That sounds quite vain as I write it down, but so be it.) and said goodbye to my friend.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come and watch?”
She rolled over in her bed and looked up at me. “When you run the marathon, I’ll come and watch.” And she rolled back over.
OK, fair enough.
I got on the 1 train downtown, heels bouncing nervously as I sat on the hard orange plastic seats listening to the Black Eyed Peas “I got a feeling”. As I got off the train at 72nd street, I saw a large group of runners heading out of the park. Despite knowing that the race was in Central Park and despite having gone and eyed out the starting line myself the day before (in the rain!), I was somehow convinced that these people knew something that I didn’t and that the race had somehow been moved.
After I got over the irrationality, I headed towards the park. There were hundreds of people converging on Central Park West. 15 blocks had been shut down.
I met my friend and her boyfriend. They were both sipping on Starbucks. In my head (and in my elitist, I’m a “real runner” way), I thought, “Well that’s just stupid.” (But by mile 2.5 I was pushing myself to keep up with her....hmmm...)
There were thousands and thousands of people. Mayor Bloomberg was there. Along with Uma Thurman and Stephen Colbert. Well, theoretically. We heard them on the loudspeaker, but I never caught a glimpse of them. We heard the announcement, “Walkers, are you ready?” and looked at each other with some trepidation. We weren’t walkers damn it, we were runners! What was happening?
With 15,000 people, the run became more of an obstacle course. It was difficult to get a steady pace, though as my friend said, it was never boring. Our pace was about 10 minute miles, which is my steady pace on the treadmill. And speeding up after mile 2 seemed difficult. My body didn’t want to move or get any faster; instead, it wanted to stop. My muscle memory is set at a certain pace, and I’m finding it challenging to push through that and run faster and run longer.
My running issues aside, the run was to raise money for breast cancer research. I laughed at the t-shirts that said, “Save the tatas!” And on etsy I found some lovely pink items (some specifically for breast cancer, and some just beautiful pink items). Enjoy!
I took a shower (yes, it was basically pointless since I’d be showering again in about 3 hours, but I hate running with greasy hair. That sounds quite vain as I write it down, but so be it.) and said goodbye to my friend.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come and watch?”
She rolled over in her bed and looked up at me. “When you run the marathon, I’ll come and watch.” And she rolled back over.
OK, fair enough.
I got on the 1 train downtown, heels bouncing nervously as I sat on the hard orange plastic seats listening to the Black Eyed Peas “I got a feeling”. As I got off the train at 72nd street, I saw a large group of runners heading out of the park. Despite knowing that the race was in Central Park and despite having gone and eyed out the starting line myself the day before (in the rain!), I was somehow convinced that these people knew something that I didn’t and that the race had somehow been moved.
After I got over the irrationality, I headed towards the park. There were hundreds of people converging on Central Park West. 15 blocks had been shut down.
I met my friend and her boyfriend. They were both sipping on Starbucks. In my head (and in my elitist, I’m a “real runner” way), I thought, “Well that’s just stupid.” (But by mile 2.5 I was pushing myself to keep up with her....hmmm...)
There were thousands and thousands of people. Mayor Bloomberg was there. Along with Uma Thurman and Stephen Colbert. Well, theoretically. We heard them on the loudspeaker, but I never caught a glimpse of them. We heard the announcement, “Walkers, are you ready?” and looked at each other with some trepidation. We weren’t walkers damn it, we were runners! What was happening?
With 15,000 people, the run became more of an obstacle course. It was difficult to get a steady pace, though as my friend said, it was never boring. Our pace was about 10 minute miles, which is my steady pace on the treadmill. And speeding up after mile 2 seemed difficult. My body didn’t want to move or get any faster; instead, it wanted to stop. My muscle memory is set at a certain pace, and I’m finding it challenging to push through that and run faster and run longer.
My running issues aside, the run was to raise money for breast cancer research. I laughed at the t-shirts that said, “Save the tatas!” And on etsy I found some lovely pink items (some specifically for breast cancer, and some just beautiful pink items). Enjoy!
Clockwise from top left:
- One 5 Ounce Cotton Blossom Breast Cancer Awareness Soap - Donation to Susan G. Komen for the Cure by http://layla.etsy.com/
- Breast Cancer Awareness Hot Pink and Pearl Sterling Silver Earrings (3) by http://pookieandpierre.etsy.com/
- Silk PEONY RHINESTONE GEM Flower CROCHET Waffle HEADBAND Baby Toddler HOT PINK by http://miaboutique.etsy.com/
- Pink Bird of Hope by http://middleburg.etsy.com/
- Large Frame - Brown on Pink Damask by http://girlbyaileen.etsy.com/
- Audrey necklace pink pearls and black ribbon by http://kristinmc.etsy.com/
17 September 2009
The art of losing isn't hard to master
Cold gel squirted onto warm white flesh. A fuzzy black and white image on the screen. Anxious and cautious excitement from first time parents at what they thought would be the first of many ob visits.
A mother’s heartbeat, even and strong. But no other. No reassuring, echoing thumpTHUMP thumpTHUMP from the baby inside. So not even a mother’s heartbeat, just a woman’s. (Does a baby that stopped growing after eight weeks still make you a mother? A bundle of cells half an inch long, but complete with fingers, wrists that bend, eyelids, a heart, though a heart that stopped beating.)
Calls were made a few weeks before. Too excited to hold in the news. A baby! The first baby! Ring the bells and fly the flags! More calls had to be made now. Oops. Just kidding. We take it back. No baby will be coming.
The aching impossibility and implausibility of life. How is it that any heart keeps beating? Why would one stop and not another?
A mother’s heartbeat, even and strong. But no other. No reassuring, echoing thumpTHUMP thumpTHUMP from the baby inside. So not even a mother’s heartbeat, just a woman’s. (Does a baby that stopped growing after eight weeks still make you a mother? A bundle of cells half an inch long, but complete with fingers, wrists that bend, eyelids, a heart, though a heart that stopped beating.)
Calls were made a few weeks before. Too excited to hold in the news. A baby! The first baby! Ring the bells and fly the flags! More calls had to be made now. Oops. Just kidding. We take it back. No baby will be coming.
The aching impossibility and implausibility of life. How is it that any heart keeps beating? Why would one stop and not another?
07 September 2009
This is my life
I am a migrant worker. At work, I am quiet and in the background. Ruffle anyone’s feelings or step on the delicate toes of the administration or full-timers, and in a few short months, I could be found out of work. Any questions to the status quo, any suggestions for change would be tantamount to handing in my resignation letter. I drift by, like a ghost in an old Victorian mansion; a presence you accept and expect, but not something that you wish to talk about or invite home for dinner. I float in the background, quietly doing what I’m told, no matter how tedious and time-consuming the tasks might be.
My paycheck arrives in time to pay for a place to live and food to eat and not much else. I don’t bother to nicely and politely I ask, “Please, could it be possible to have just a bit of health insurance so that if I get in a wreck on my hour commute, I wouldn’t be made instantly bankrupt?” I can only dream of the day of being able to afford it on my own. Pay rent or pay for health insurance. I can choose one of these. Not both.
Instead of picking apples or harvesting wheat, I am an adjunct lecturer. For anyone who doesn’t know about the job, to say that I teach writing at the college level gets an “ooohh...how amazing/interesting/fun/fulfilling.” I generally agree, because, again, I’ve become socialized to not make waves. It is easier to simply nod; far more difficult to explain the stress at hearing a class has been cancelled because of low enrollment. To hear that on average per hour (including office hours, prep time, grading, (ir)relevant administration, and commuting) I make less than a high-school babysitter or barista.
Yet if I apply to be a babysitter or barista, I am considered over-qualified and therefore unhireable. Instead, my degree in creative writing has somehow translated into teaching reluctant undergrads how to write a set of instructions for a user manual. Finding a full-time job (much less TENURE!) is just about as likely as my paying off my student loan in under 10 years. Even if I get a PhD (read more student loan), the chances are slim. The market is flooded with seemingly misguided humanities lovers who have been told/tricked into thinking that an advanced education will mean a chance at a career with more stability than a cashier job at McDonald’s or Wal-Mart.
As I was lying in bed a month ago, I had a sudden and breathtaking realization. This is my life. I am living my life as an underpaid, nearly invisible “educator” to surly and uncaring students. I have little chance of advancement and stability. Any suggestions?
My paycheck arrives in time to pay for a place to live and food to eat and not much else. I don’t bother to nicely and politely I ask, “Please, could it be possible to have just a bit of health insurance so that if I get in a wreck on my hour commute, I wouldn’t be made instantly bankrupt?” I can only dream of the day of being able to afford it on my own. Pay rent or pay for health insurance. I can choose one of these. Not both.
Instead of picking apples or harvesting wheat, I am an adjunct lecturer. For anyone who doesn’t know about the job, to say that I teach writing at the college level gets an “ooohh...how amazing/interesting/fun/fulfilling.” I generally agree, because, again, I’ve become socialized to not make waves. It is easier to simply nod; far more difficult to explain the stress at hearing a class has been cancelled because of low enrollment. To hear that on average per hour (including office hours, prep time, grading, (ir)relevant administration, and commuting) I make less than a high-school babysitter or barista.
Yet if I apply to be a babysitter or barista, I am considered over-qualified and therefore unhireable. Instead, my degree in creative writing has somehow translated into teaching reluctant undergrads how to write a set of instructions for a user manual. Finding a full-time job (much less TENURE!) is just about as likely as my paying off my student loan in under 10 years. Even if I get a PhD (read more student loan), the chances are slim. The market is flooded with seemingly misguided humanities lovers who have been told/tricked into thinking that an advanced education will mean a chance at a career with more stability than a cashier job at McDonald’s or Wal-Mart.
As I was lying in bed a month ago, I had a sudden and breathtaking realization. This is my life. I am living my life as an underpaid, nearly invisible “educator” to surly and uncaring students. I have little chance of advancement and stability. Any suggestions?
30 August 2009
Making a Difference
I was writing in my journal this morning that I wanted a way to do something for the world at large. As it turns out, there is something I can do and am doing! I'm going to be running the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in NYC on September 13, 2009. My fundraising goal is $100. If you're interested, go to the link below. I would love your support!
http://www.komennyc.org/site/TR/Race/race2009-wide?px=2102996&pg=personal&fr_id=1170&s_tafId=44560
http://www.komennyc.org/site/TR/Race/race2009-wide?px=2102996&pg=personal&fr_id=1170&s_tafId=44560
Born to Run by Christopher McDougall book review
As I went into the bookstore to ask for the book Born to Run, I was asked if it was about Bruce Springsteen. And despite living in New Jersey for 2 years (ah!) now, no, I was looking for the book by Christopher McDougall.
I watch The Daily Show with John Stewart on my computer (I can’t afford fancy channels like Comedy Central, though shortly I may not be able to afford the basic channels but more on that later), and a few weeks ago his guest was was Christopher McDougall, the author of Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen.
I sat down and read nearly the entire book in one evening. This says as more about the quality of the writing as my lack of a social schedule (generally, I watch The Office reruns when bored...). I was stunned and riveted by turns with the book. I learned that I was evolutionarily designed to be a distance runner. Well, I shouldn’t be so selfish, we are all designed to be distance runners. Who knew? Apparently our ancestors survived to procreate and develop the human race as it is today because they were runners. McDougall references a number of scientific and experiential studies to prove his point.
From this, McDougall also sets up to spit in the faces of all those (many doctors included) who say that the human body wasn’t designed for running, and that’s why so many people get running-related injuries. In fact, according to McDougall, it is the overly designed and overly cushioned sneakers that we wear while running that cause most of the problems. We are never trained to run properly; therefore, it is inevitable that we will hurt ourselves.
One of the most incredible anecdotes was the story of a tribe in Africa who literally ran down their prey. By tracking them and relentlessly pursuing one specific gazelle (deer, kudu, zebra, I don’t remember) throughout a day, they simply ran it to death. This would involve running for hours. From the perspective of someone who suffers through 30 minutes on the treadmill, this was beyond incredible. And beyond beautiful. It shows an intense living in the moment existence as well as incredible strength and stamina. If you need food, you don’t waddle 20 feet to your car, drive to the supermarket, toss plastic covered and highly processed food into a cart, pay a surly underage cashier, waddle back to your car and drive home. It requires skill, companionship, and effort.
The main event, literally, to the book is a 50-mile race in the midst of Mexican drug cartel country. The trail through Copper Canyon was run by elite ultrarunners from America along with members of the legendary Tarahumara Indian tribe. McDougall gives us play by play of the race action from a variety of perspectives while not dwelling overly much on his own experience of the race.
Above all, McDougall emphasizes that as a creature who has evolved as a distance runner, we should celebrate running as something positive, not a punishment after indulging in too many cupcakes. And so while I may not be running any 50 mile races soon (and while my gait continues to be heavier and bouncier (thereby more prone to injury) then the smooth sailing Tarahumara), I have started a new mantra as I run: “I like this; running is fun.” And surprisingly, the more I say it, the more it seems to be true.
I watch The Daily Show with John Stewart on my computer (I can’t afford fancy channels like Comedy Central, though shortly I may not be able to afford the basic channels but more on that later), and a few weeks ago his guest was was Christopher McDougall, the author of Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen.
I sat down and read nearly the entire book in one evening. This says as more about the quality of the writing as my lack of a social schedule (generally, I watch The Office reruns when bored...). I was stunned and riveted by turns with the book. I learned that I was evolutionarily designed to be a distance runner. Well, I shouldn’t be so selfish, we are all designed to be distance runners. Who knew? Apparently our ancestors survived to procreate and develop the human race as it is today because they were runners. McDougall references a number of scientific and experiential studies to prove his point.
From this, McDougall also sets up to spit in the faces of all those (many doctors included) who say that the human body wasn’t designed for running, and that’s why so many people get running-related injuries. In fact, according to McDougall, it is the overly designed and overly cushioned sneakers that we wear while running that cause most of the problems. We are never trained to run properly; therefore, it is inevitable that we will hurt ourselves.
One of the most incredible anecdotes was the story of a tribe in Africa who literally ran down their prey. By tracking them and relentlessly pursuing one specific gazelle (deer, kudu, zebra, I don’t remember) throughout a day, they simply ran it to death. This would involve running for hours. From the perspective of someone who suffers through 30 minutes on the treadmill, this was beyond incredible. And beyond beautiful. It shows an intense living in the moment existence as well as incredible strength and stamina. If you need food, you don’t waddle 20 feet to your car, drive to the supermarket, toss plastic covered and highly processed food into a cart, pay a surly underage cashier, waddle back to your car and drive home. It requires skill, companionship, and effort.
The main event, literally, to the book is a 50-mile race in the midst of Mexican drug cartel country. The trail through Copper Canyon was run by elite ultrarunners from America along with members of the legendary Tarahumara Indian tribe. McDougall gives us play by play of the race action from a variety of perspectives while not dwelling overly much on his own experience of the race.
Above all, McDougall emphasizes that as a creature who has evolved as a distance runner, we should celebrate running as something positive, not a punishment after indulging in too many cupcakes. And so while I may not be running any 50 mile races soon (and while my gait continues to be heavier and bouncier (thereby more prone to injury) then the smooth sailing Tarahumara), I have started a new mantra as I run: “I like this; running is fun.” And surprisingly, the more I say it, the more it seems to be true.
29 August 2009
Our story is the story of two guys who start at the bottom, and with a lot of hard work continue along the bottom, and finally end up at the bottom
Thank you Flight of the Conchords for being endlessly hilarious and providing me for the title of this post.
I had been so excited at the beginning of this week for the start of the semester. I had my whole schedule lined up and sorted out. I had cleaned out my desk. I was tinkering with the idea of beginning lesson planning (I lecture my students to not procrastinate, and yet...the week before classes seems the appropriate time to open the book I’ll be teaching from doesn’t it?) I attended the mandatory orientation for my class, only to discover there was a very strong possibility that the class would get cancelled. I expressed my dismay, considering it’s not as though I teach these classes for fun or because I have nothing to do with my time but because I like to pay rent and eat! I was assured by several members of staff that even on the chance that my class would get cancelled, I would get a replacement class. All would be sorted out by the end of the week. OK. Fine.
Friday morning arrives and I receive a text from a friend of mine who had been on the wait list at the same university to teach the basic freshman class. We went to grad school together, and I’m genuinely (for the most part) glad that he got work. I sent a quick email to the scheduling director after this. I figured if someone with my exact level of education and no experience at this university, actually make that no teaching experience at all, got a job, that must mean that my job was safe. Because I figured surely you wouldn’t give a job to a wait-listed staff member when you were going to cancel the class of a staff member who’d worked there for 2 years.
Apparently, I was quite misinformed. My class was cancelled; “sometimes things just work out that way.” Really. That’s what you say to me when you tell me that I won’t be able to pay rent for 4 months without having to ask my parents for a loan? I don’t see that as helpful.
So my excitement on Monday quickly made it’s way to trepidation and stress with a dash of hope and that quickly turned into frustration, annoyance and terror at not being able to pay bills. All of this anxiety for a job that I’m not quite sure that I want...yet I know for sure that I want a place to live and food to eat.
I had been so excited at the beginning of this week for the start of the semester. I had my whole schedule lined up and sorted out. I had cleaned out my desk. I was tinkering with the idea of beginning lesson planning (I lecture my students to not procrastinate, and yet...the week before classes seems the appropriate time to open the book I’ll be teaching from doesn’t it?) I attended the mandatory orientation for my class, only to discover there was a very strong possibility that the class would get cancelled. I expressed my dismay, considering it’s not as though I teach these classes for fun or because I have nothing to do with my time but because I like to pay rent and eat! I was assured by several members of staff that even on the chance that my class would get cancelled, I would get a replacement class. All would be sorted out by the end of the week. OK. Fine.
Friday morning arrives and I receive a text from a friend of mine who had been on the wait list at the same university to teach the basic freshman class. We went to grad school together, and I’m genuinely (for the most part) glad that he got work. I sent a quick email to the scheduling director after this. I figured if someone with my exact level of education and no experience at this university, actually make that no teaching experience at all, got a job, that must mean that my job was safe. Because I figured surely you wouldn’t give a job to a wait-listed staff member when you were going to cancel the class of a staff member who’d worked there for 2 years.
Apparently, I was quite misinformed. My class was cancelled; “sometimes things just work out that way.” Really. That’s what you say to me when you tell me that I won’t be able to pay rent for 4 months without having to ask my parents for a loan? I don’t see that as helpful.
So my excitement on Monday quickly made it’s way to trepidation and stress with a dash of hope and that quickly turned into frustration, annoyance and terror at not being able to pay bills. All of this anxiety for a job that I’m not quite sure that I want...yet I know for sure that I want a place to live and food to eat.
20 August 2009
Flight
I returned from my visit to family and it took two connecting flights. I noticed that compared to previous flights I am now more anxious and nervous when I fly. As my brother put it, as I'm getting older, I'm losing the feelings of invincibility. I think he might be right!
Here are some etsy finds using the search word "plane".
Here are some etsy finds using the search word "plane".
Clockwise from top left:
- Vintage Biplane Pillowcase Pair Standard by http://branchhandmade.etsy.com/
- Wilbur and Orville WRIGHT BROTHERS First Plane Flight at KITTY HAWK Beaded EARRINGS by http://funcklovedesigns.etsy.com/
- Airline Wedding Invitation by http://ellaspaper.etsy.com/
- Plane Lands on Dirt Runway, South Africa - Fine Art Photography Limited Edition Giclee Print by http://goodmancreative.etsy.com/
- Silver Solo Flight Necklace by http://threebirdsdesigns.etsy.com/
03 August 2009
Dear John...continued...
Hollis Gillespie, a great writer, blogger and woman, wrote that memoirs/essays should be written without self-pity/bitterness. I think I'm at the in-between stage with this entry/this subject matter. Someday it will be written with more humor and less "poor me", but today isn't quite that day.
********************************************************
I just realized that I have given you the name John. Of the infamous “Dear John” letters, this one is going in reverse. It’s slightly distressing to discover that online there are a huge variety of resources to help people write their own breakup letters. Or examples of letters, including those received by Mormon missionaries. That seems particularly harsh somehow. They’re off saving the unsaved, and the mrs. is at home hooking up.
Many tips include not saying you want to be friends, because that doesn’t work. I suppose in our case, since you (who dated nearly anyone) were so adamant about not being my boyfriend, why would we not still be friends? There are even forms to fill out to get an instant Dear John letter without any effort. Though I feel it’s more of an effort to read the letter then it is to write it.
Ours was a “Dear John” (or “Dear Jane”) phone call, on a layover in one of the New York airports. I was on my way to a job interview and was so happy that I’d be somewhere that I could finally get good phone reception to talk to you along the way. That happiness ended with me slumped next to an abandoned ticket desk. There was a wide berth given to me and my tears. Travelers with their own problems, concerns and issues (will I catch the flight, will my luggage make it through, where is the bathroom) all more pressing, more immediate and much safer than mine.
It’s selfish to think that I was the saddest person in that airport, probably not even the saddest one in that terminal. Though it’s never helpful to put things in perspective at the time.
Recently, I was speaking to my brother on the phone and complaining about the apartment I was renting. The apartment, an example of the worst kind of run-down, uncared for housing foisted upon recent grads (not students technically, but still no money!). The peeling paint, a door that didn’t always lock properly, a sink that wouldn’t hold water, a toilet that wouldn’t let it go, a set of back stairs that shook precariously with every cautious movement up and down it’s rickety wooden frame. And a basement that was filled with mold, leaky pipes and a ridiculous amount of past renter’s stuff. It’s the principle, if you’re moving, you take everything with you. You don’t leave things.
I was running through my complaints about the apartment, and my brother’s response? “There are worse things in the world.” If I could have reached out and slapped him across the phone lines, I would have. Yes, I realize that there are people at war, that are starving, that have lost their families, their health, their jobs. That many people would find my house a veritable palace. But while misery may love company, it loves a commensurate amount of misery.
********************************************************
I just realized that I have given you the name John. Of the infamous “Dear John” letters, this one is going in reverse. It’s slightly distressing to discover that online there are a huge variety of resources to help people write their own breakup letters. Or examples of letters, including those received by Mormon missionaries. That seems particularly harsh somehow. They’re off saving the unsaved, and the mrs. is at home hooking up.
Many tips include not saying you want to be friends, because that doesn’t work. I suppose in our case, since you (who dated nearly anyone) were so adamant about not being my boyfriend, why would we not still be friends? There are even forms to fill out to get an instant Dear John letter without any effort. Though I feel it’s more of an effort to read the letter then it is to write it.
Ours was a “Dear John” (or “Dear Jane”) phone call, on a layover in one of the New York airports. I was on my way to a job interview and was so happy that I’d be somewhere that I could finally get good phone reception to talk to you along the way. That happiness ended with me slumped next to an abandoned ticket desk. There was a wide berth given to me and my tears. Travelers with their own problems, concerns and issues (will I catch the flight, will my luggage make it through, where is the bathroom) all more pressing, more immediate and much safer than mine.
It’s selfish to think that I was the saddest person in that airport, probably not even the saddest one in that terminal. Though it’s never helpful to put things in perspective at the time.
Recently, I was speaking to my brother on the phone and complaining about the apartment I was renting. The apartment, an example of the worst kind of run-down, uncared for housing foisted upon recent grads (not students technically, but still no money!). The peeling paint, a door that didn’t always lock properly, a sink that wouldn’t hold water, a toilet that wouldn’t let it go, a set of back stairs that shook precariously with every cautious movement up and down it’s rickety wooden frame. And a basement that was filled with mold, leaky pipes and a ridiculous amount of past renter’s stuff. It’s the principle, if you’re moving, you take everything with you. You don’t leave things.
I was running through my complaints about the apartment, and my brother’s response? “There are worse things in the world.” If I could have reached out and slapped him across the phone lines, I would have. Yes, I realize that there are people at war, that are starving, that have lost their families, their health, their jobs. That many people would find my house a veritable palace. But while misery may love company, it loves a commensurate amount of misery.
02 August 2009
Visitors
I got a call this afternoon from a friend from graduate school. He and his girlfriend are considering moving to the area soon. A few weeks ago, he'd asked if he and his girlfriend could stay in my studio while they looked at apartments and went to some interviews. I am going to be gone for two weeks visiting family, and since my little studio is so small, having them stay while I was gone was the best option. Though even then I was at first hesitant because I didn't them sleeping in my bed. But then I reasoned that I could just leave the inflatable mattress out for them and assume they'd get the hint.
Then the call today where I was informed that they'd be arriving tomorrow. I was not asked if they could stay. I was informed that they were arriving. While it isn't a huge issue (it's not world hunger, nuclear weapons or the swine flu), I'm going to be fairly consumed with getting ready to leave - cleaning, last minute packing, etc. And above all, I'm a little peeved at how the situation was handled on their end. You ask someone if you can stay; you don't tell them when you'll be arriving.
So on a happier "visitor" related note, here are some items found on Etsy using the search term "visitor".
Clockwise from top left:
- 4/20...A LIMITED EDITION ARCHIVAL PRINT...daily tasks by http://corid.etsy.com/
- The Visitor Limited Edition ACEO Photographic Fine Art Print/POV Signature Print by http://fosterbk.etsy.com/
- Mouse visitor vinyl wall decal sticker art by http://weiweisbabies.etsy.com/
- Paris Visitor Travel Hang Tags or Gift Tags by http://petitepaperieshoppe.etsy.com/
- Garden Visitor - Fabric Postcard by http://quiltnc.etsy.com/
30 July 2009
Dear John...(to be continued...)
I suppose that I should start by giving you a pseudonym. Let’s call you...John.
John. I have so much that I want to say to you and about you, I find myself struggling with where to begin. We really only knew each other for about six months, face to face. That was three years ago, and of all the things that I know about you, me and you and me, I know that whenever I hear your name now, whether it’s in reference to you or not, I get a flash of nausea. No, not quite nausea. Yet still a sick type of feeling. I’ve had it before when I’ve been caught in a lie or know that I have forgotten something really important.
It’s an odd sensation, a rush of heavy quicksilver in my stomach and a feeling that all the blood in my body suddenly increased in temperature by 10 degrees. Not boiling, that would be too much, but a definitely unpleasant heat. It doesn’t last as long as it did. (But frankly, since it happens at all, it lasts too long.) It makes for a touch of awkwardness in classes now if I have a student with your name. It isn’t his fault that the two of you share a name, yet I still find myself grading every student with your name a half a letter grade up to make sure that I’m not being unduly and unfairly prejudiced. (I’ll give them your name and number, so they can thank you for the boost.)
So I have this feeling, this sort of 2 second hot flash, whenever I hear or see your name. I am 26 years old. I should not be having hot flashes. And as much as I hate it, I’ve been trained, or at least my body has been trained to react to you. It’s a fight or flight, though there is no actual event to fight or flee when I hear your name. So I’m left without any sort of resolution, feeling hyperaware of my body and my self, and all because I’ve heard your name.
How does that happen? How does one word, John, make me flush with a mixture of anger and terror all topped with an acute self-consciousness. Eleanor Roosevelt said: “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Apparently I sent in a form, signed and notarized, practically begging you to make me feel inferior, there’s really no other explanation for it. A wise woman and a wise statement, but I wonder, does the perpetrator have to know they are making the other one feel inferior? Is that a part of the equation? It gives a bit of absolution to the victim if the aggressor knew they were acting in a way as to make others feel inferior.
Or does that make it all the more sinister; you’ve no way of knowing how your name makes me feel, so how could any fault be attributed to you? It comes back on me. mea culpa. It is my own fault. I am the one making myself feel bad. I am the problem. I have given the consent, so it is my fault. Wasn’t that the rule in Nazi Germany and more recently at Guantanamo Bay? It is the ones in control, the ones who gave the command that are to blame. The soldiers on the ground are simply obeying orders.
To be continued...(upon request)
John. I have so much that I want to say to you and about you, I find myself struggling with where to begin. We really only knew each other for about six months, face to face. That was three years ago, and of all the things that I know about you, me and you and me, I know that whenever I hear your name now, whether it’s in reference to you or not, I get a flash of nausea. No, not quite nausea. Yet still a sick type of feeling. I’ve had it before when I’ve been caught in a lie or know that I have forgotten something really important.
It’s an odd sensation, a rush of heavy quicksilver in my stomach and a feeling that all the blood in my body suddenly increased in temperature by 10 degrees. Not boiling, that would be too much, but a definitely unpleasant heat. It doesn’t last as long as it did. (But frankly, since it happens at all, it lasts too long.) It makes for a touch of awkwardness in classes now if I have a student with your name. It isn’t his fault that the two of you share a name, yet I still find myself grading every student with your name a half a letter grade up to make sure that I’m not being unduly and unfairly prejudiced. (I’ll give them your name and number, so they can thank you for the boost.)
So I have this feeling, this sort of 2 second hot flash, whenever I hear or see your name. I am 26 years old. I should not be having hot flashes. And as much as I hate it, I’ve been trained, or at least my body has been trained to react to you. It’s a fight or flight, though there is no actual event to fight or flee when I hear your name. So I’m left without any sort of resolution, feeling hyperaware of my body and my self, and all because I’ve heard your name.
How does that happen? How does one word, John, make me flush with a mixture of anger and terror all topped with an acute self-consciousness. Eleanor Roosevelt said: “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Apparently I sent in a form, signed and notarized, practically begging you to make me feel inferior, there’s really no other explanation for it. A wise woman and a wise statement, but I wonder, does the perpetrator have to know they are making the other one feel inferior? Is that a part of the equation? It gives a bit of absolution to the victim if the aggressor knew they were acting in a way as to make others feel inferior.
Or does that make it all the more sinister; you’ve no way of knowing how your name makes me feel, so how could any fault be attributed to you? It comes back on me. mea culpa. It is my own fault. I am the one making myself feel bad. I am the problem. I have given the consent, so it is my fault. Wasn’t that the rule in Nazi Germany and more recently at Guantanamo Bay? It is the ones in control, the ones who gave the command that are to blame. The soldiers on the ground are simply obeying orders.
To be continued...(upon request)
28 July 2009
Polar Bears
This evening I attended the presentation of my summer school students. They were presenting on different topics related to global warming. One of the better presentations was on the effect of global warming on sea ice. As the earth warms, the ice melts. And in places like Canada, Greenland and Russia, this is detrimental to populations of polar bears.
This seems to be one of the most touching arguments because of the endearing visual of baby polar bears. Phytoplankton and krill are less photogenic.
Be that as it may, here are some items found using the keyword "polar bear" on etsy.
Clockwise from the upper left:
This seems to be one of the most touching arguments because of the endearing visual of baby polar bears. Phytoplankton and krill are less photogenic.
Be that as it may, here are some items found using the keyword "polar bear" on etsy.
Clockwise from the upper left:
- Polar Bear in Blue - Fine Art Photograph on Metallic Paper by http://lilacpopphotography.etsy.com/
- Polar Pals Penguin Polar Bear Seal Amigurumi crochet pattern pdf FREE SHIPPING by http://tigerlily.etsy.com/
- Baby Snow Bears by http://zukzuk.etsy.com/
- Euphoria II by http://treecandy.etsy.com/
- Baby Polar Bear by http://dmhstudio.etsy.com/
Noisy Neighbor
I just received a call from an assistant in the apartment complex where I live. A few weeks ago, I was woken up by pounding and furniture being moved in the apartment below me at 5am on a Saturday. As the downstairs neighbor left, I yelled at him that he was violating the lease by making so much noise at such a time. His response was, “Welcome to my world.”
I was left without words, not only because he’d already left and I would have been left talking to myself. Also, I was trying to think of the last Saturday that I’d started at 5am by hanging pictures and moving furniture, and not one example came to mind.
My response, since actually speaking to my neighbor isn’t so much successful and causes a spike in my blood pressure, was to write a letter to the landlord asking if I was indeed correct in interpreting the “quiet enjoyment” section of the lease to mean that I shouldn’t have be woken up at 5am on a Saturday.
The landlord (or an office assistant most likely) read the letter and called the neighbor to tell him of my complaint. I asked her how the conversation went; she hesitated, and I had images of him yelling about my loud behavior that he hadn’t ever complained about (he really really hates my sewing machine!).
I understand that my neighbor most likely hears much of the noise that I make, but I feel that I’m fairly lazy and that during the quiet hours of after 10pm and before 9am, I’m not doing very much. And when I use my sewing machine or when I’m hanging pictures, etc., it is always during the day where, to put it bluntly, if he doesn’t like it, he can suck it.
But now I know that he knows I complained. Which is, I suppose, the point. That I’m not going to just let him bang around and wake me up without putting up a fight (granted, my fighting consists of letter writing, but that’s a type of fighting). And I did try and talk to him about it, but to no avail. What else was I to do? Ignore it, yes, that was probably an option. Try and talk to him again? Seems pointless.
I’m hyperaware of my own actions now. I don’t want to be the pot who called the kettle black (I’m tired, I can’t think beyond cliché at this exact moment in time!), so I find myself tiptoeing around my own apartment in the middle of the day. His being loud has resulted in me being quieter.
I was left without words, not only because he’d already left and I would have been left talking to myself. Also, I was trying to think of the last Saturday that I’d started at 5am by hanging pictures and moving furniture, and not one example came to mind.
My response, since actually speaking to my neighbor isn’t so much successful and causes a spike in my blood pressure, was to write a letter to the landlord asking if I was indeed correct in interpreting the “quiet enjoyment” section of the lease to mean that I shouldn’t have be woken up at 5am on a Saturday.
The landlord (or an office assistant most likely) read the letter and called the neighbor to tell him of my complaint. I asked her how the conversation went; she hesitated, and I had images of him yelling about my loud behavior that he hadn’t ever complained about (he really really hates my sewing machine!).
I understand that my neighbor most likely hears much of the noise that I make, but I feel that I’m fairly lazy and that during the quiet hours of after 10pm and before 9am, I’m not doing very much. And when I use my sewing machine or when I’m hanging pictures, etc., it is always during the day where, to put it bluntly, if he doesn’t like it, he can suck it.
But now I know that he knows I complained. Which is, I suppose, the point. That I’m not going to just let him bang around and wake me up without putting up a fight (granted, my fighting consists of letter writing, but that’s a type of fighting). And I did try and talk to him about it, but to no avail. What else was I to do? Ignore it, yes, that was probably an option. Try and talk to him again? Seems pointless.
I’m hyperaware of my own actions now. I don’t want to be the pot who called the kettle black (I’m tired, I can’t think beyond cliché at this exact moment in time!), so I find myself tiptoeing around my own apartment in the middle of the day. His being loud has resulted in me being quieter.
27 July 2009
Gym Dating
I’ve been going to the gym every other day (if not more, yay!) recently, and whenever I’m on the treadmill, I like to be able to see myself across the room in the mirror. I’m not sure what it is, I think I remember reading somewhere that if you can see yourself at the gym you work harder or burn more calories or something. All I know is that I like to watch my hair swish rhythmically in the mirror and see that as I get sore and tired, it looks that way! There’s a satisfaction in seeing a visual of my hard work (regardless that the evidence is nothing more than a sweaty face and flushed cheeks).
Between the row of treadmills are three rows of weight machines and free weight stations, so there are a number of people that wander in and out of my eye line during my workout.
Today, I realized a tall, fairly good looking guy kept glancing back at me. It took me 10 minutes, and just over a mile, to realize that it wasn’t him checking me out, so much as him trying to figure out who the girl was that kept staring at him. For as I focused on myself in the mirror, where he was lifting weights made it seem as though I was staring at him.
And that got me thinking about people who find dates at the gym. This has never crossed my mind. I always go fairly focused on what I’m doing, and as I leave, I’m most focused on getting home to get a shower. And I always assume that is the case for everyone else there.
I had one guy ask me if he could use the weight machine next to me in the circuit area. I gave him a slightly annoyed glance, and said, “Sure, no problem” with what I fear was a fairly brusque tone, thinking I have my headphones on and am trying to get in shape here, why are you bothering me? So was he trying to hit on me? My friends said yes, but I'm pretty sure they were trying to stoke the fires of my feeble ego. I was not convinced.
Does it happen? Is the gym really a place to meet people? Can you really catch someone's eye as you finish up the last few paces on the treadmill, gasping for breath, face as red as an albino after a day at the beach, sweat dripping from your elbows? Is that a sexy time?
I'm completely lacking all of the normal accoutrement that I normally employ in my siren attempts – made-up face, push-up bra, no visible sweat, an odor that leans towards middle-range perfume as compared to unwashed hippie, etc.
To be fair, my luck in love has proven about equal in and out of the gym, so it’s hard to tell if there’s really a cause and effect.
Between the row of treadmills are three rows of weight machines and free weight stations, so there are a number of people that wander in and out of my eye line during my workout.
Today, I realized a tall, fairly good looking guy kept glancing back at me. It took me 10 minutes, and just over a mile, to realize that it wasn’t him checking me out, so much as him trying to figure out who the girl was that kept staring at him. For as I focused on myself in the mirror, where he was lifting weights made it seem as though I was staring at him.
And that got me thinking about people who find dates at the gym. This has never crossed my mind. I always go fairly focused on what I’m doing, and as I leave, I’m most focused on getting home to get a shower. And I always assume that is the case for everyone else there.
I had one guy ask me if he could use the weight machine next to me in the circuit area. I gave him a slightly annoyed glance, and said, “Sure, no problem” with what I fear was a fairly brusque tone, thinking I have my headphones on and am trying to get in shape here, why are you bothering me? So was he trying to hit on me? My friends said yes, but I'm pretty sure they were trying to stoke the fires of my feeble ego. I was not convinced.
Does it happen? Is the gym really a place to meet people? Can you really catch someone's eye as you finish up the last few paces on the treadmill, gasping for breath, face as red as an albino after a day at the beach, sweat dripping from your elbows? Is that a sexy time?
I'm completely lacking all of the normal accoutrement that I normally employ in my siren attempts – made-up face, push-up bra, no visible sweat, an odor that leans towards middle-range perfume as compared to unwashed hippie, etc.
To be fair, my luck in love has proven about equal in and out of the gym, so it’s hard to tell if there’s really a cause and effect.
26 July 2009
Curtains
I have finally moved into my own little apartment. And not counting the downstairs neighbor who blasts the most horrible music when I use my sewing machine and the no air conditioning, it's not bad.
Though I was woken up this morning by the crash of my curtains (curtain rod included) falling to the floor. Venetian blinds are installed in every window, and they are in no way lightproof. It wouldn't be a big deal if the safety light for the building wasn't right outside my window. So after much effort, I managed to find curtains that blocked out the light and finally let me sleep!
Part of that task was getting a tension curtain rod because I didn't want to do any drilling or hammering (this also raises the wrath of my idiot neighbor; I hung one picture with a grand total of four bangs of the hammer that resulted in two hours of the world's worst music. How is that quid pro quo?!). And now, part of the window drywall chipped off, causing the curtains to fall and part of the wall to come with it. My task today will be finding hooks to rehang the curtains. Wish me luck!
On a side note, I found these beautiful etsy items searching for "curtains".
Clockwise from top left:
Though I was woken up this morning by the crash of my curtains (curtain rod included) falling to the floor. Venetian blinds are installed in every window, and they are in no way lightproof. It wouldn't be a big deal if the safety light for the building wasn't right outside my window. So after much effort, I managed to find curtains that blocked out the light and finally let me sleep!
Part of that task was getting a tension curtain rod because I didn't want to do any drilling or hammering (this also raises the wrath of my idiot neighbor; I hung one picture with a grand total of four bangs of the hammer that resulted in two hours of the world's worst music. How is that quid pro quo?!). And now, part of the window drywall chipped off, causing the curtains to fall and part of the wall to come with it. My task today will be finding hooks to rehang the curtains. Wish me luck!
On a side note, I found these beautiful etsy items searching for "curtains".
Clockwise from top left:
- antique handloomed LILAC BLUE roll curtains roman SHADES slipcover 13.11y by http://grainsack.etsy.com/
- Vintage Curtain Tie Back Assemblage Necklace No. 02 by http://chezmichellelouise.etsy.com/
- Urban Ruin compost dyed silk scarf natural dyes 020108 by http://girlwithasword.etsy.com/
- Aqua/Ivory Damask Linen Drape 50in X 108in by http://avecdieu.etsy.com/
- The Night Breeze - Necklace in Fine Silver by http://daisyjanedesigns.etsy.com/
- And then there was light - 8X8 signed fine art photograph by http://janeheller.etsy.com/
25 July 2009
Tears
Two days ago, I made three of my students cry. This was in a class with six students, so I made 50% of my students cry. In my defense, it was for being understanding and asking them how they were doing and wanting to hear more about their hopes and their stress. (At least I hope that it was an OK reason to make them cry!) To be fair, and bless their hearts, I could probably make them cry based upon their English skills. Honestly, it hurts to read some of their assignments.
There was “Jessica”, whose mother is battling cancer and who feels that she needs to be perfect. There is “Eleanor”, who feels overwhelmed and stressed with the amount of work she has to do, and feels that she will never be able to be the student she thinks she should be. And there is “Jennifer”, who is abysmally failing math, and she has two older brothers who did well in math. She feels that if she has to succeed, and puts so much in the idea that she’ll fail and not be as good as the were, that she actually does fail.
I did my best to comfort and reassure them. I found myself saying things that I wish I could have been told. Telling Jessica that her parents already think she’s perfect, and so she doesn’t have to worry about anything. Eleanor was told that as long as she keeps working day by day, she’ll get to where she wants to be. And poor Jennifer, I asked her what she was good at that her brothers weren’t. She said she’d never thought about it.
My brothers were very good at athletics. Brother A at track and cross-country and Brother B at football. I was not, to say the least, gifted in sports. I found it absolutely appalling to have to touch someone else’s sweat, so I wasn’t good at basketball. Running just plains hurt, so cross-country and track were out. Yet I ran cross-country and track all four years of high school. I kept trying, but not with any real passion for it.
I’ve gone back to running and working out on my own, and I can run as fast, if not faster, then I did in high school. Not because I’m in any better shape, but because it’s something that’s now mine. And I’ve matured enough to know that it’s going to hurt, there’s no looking past that. But, since I’ve actively chosen to run, the hurt is OK.
When I was in college, I remember a young teacher, who must have been a PhD student doing teaching, asking me if I was OK, at a moment when I knew I was on the verge of tears. And I didn’t feel comfortable enough with myself to be able to talk about my worries.
They seemed to respond well to what I had to say; though, I hope that it wasn’t simply because I was a teacher, and they’re used to saying yes to teachers. I hope that I’ve helped them. I hope they know that my heart breaks, because I can see so much of myself in them. Scared, uncertain, yet determined.
There was “Jessica”, whose mother is battling cancer and who feels that she needs to be perfect. There is “Eleanor”, who feels overwhelmed and stressed with the amount of work she has to do, and feels that she will never be able to be the student she thinks she should be. And there is “Jennifer”, who is abysmally failing math, and she has two older brothers who did well in math. She feels that if she has to succeed, and puts so much in the idea that she’ll fail and not be as good as the were, that she actually does fail.
I did my best to comfort and reassure them. I found myself saying things that I wish I could have been told. Telling Jessica that her parents already think she’s perfect, and so she doesn’t have to worry about anything. Eleanor was told that as long as she keeps working day by day, she’ll get to where she wants to be. And poor Jennifer, I asked her what she was good at that her brothers weren’t. She said she’d never thought about it.
My brothers were very good at athletics. Brother A at track and cross-country and Brother B at football. I was not, to say the least, gifted in sports. I found it absolutely appalling to have to touch someone else’s sweat, so I wasn’t good at basketball. Running just plains hurt, so cross-country and track were out. Yet I ran cross-country and track all four years of high school. I kept trying, but not with any real passion for it.
I’ve gone back to running and working out on my own, and I can run as fast, if not faster, then I did in high school. Not because I’m in any better shape, but because it’s something that’s now mine. And I’ve matured enough to know that it’s going to hurt, there’s no looking past that. But, since I’ve actively chosen to run, the hurt is OK.
When I was in college, I remember a young teacher, who must have been a PhD student doing teaching, asking me if I was OK, at a moment when I knew I was on the verge of tears. And I didn’t feel comfortable enough with myself to be able to talk about my worries.
They seemed to respond well to what I had to say; though, I hope that it wasn’t simply because I was a teacher, and they’re used to saying yes to teachers. I hope that I’ve helped them. I hope they know that my heart breaks, because I can see so much of myself in them. Scared, uncertain, yet determined.
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