New Cities, take two

My mind has been a tumult for weeks. And now, finally, I feel prepared to address it.

The aforementioned cities to which I submitted my resume were: Chicago, D.C., and Boston. The aforementioned ennui emanated from the fact that none of the schools I contacted seemed in any way interested in me.

And then one contacted me-- MATCH Charter High School in Boston. It's a fantastic school, one that's employing some innovative strategies to close the achievement gap. The school boasts some impressive results, taking students who often arrive well below grade-level and moving them to a point where they can not merely enter, but succeed, in a four-year college. 

Frankly, I'm dumbfounded that such a school even pulled my resume from their probable stack, and more so that I slid through the interviews with the Executive Director and Principal. Last weekend I flew to Boston and taught a sample lesson to twenty students on a Saturday, and just yesterday they offered me the job.

I've agonized over this choice, not because I don't love this possibility; I do. I've struggled because I picture the faces of all the students I've loved this year, because I replay all the conversations I had this May in which kids told me how much they were looking forward to being in my class again or starting a film club or writing for the newspaper. So when I told my principal and English department today that I was not going to come back this fall, I barely held it together. And when they told me goodbye, I ached. I came home, plopped on the couch and sobbed for a good hour.

But I've decided, and though my heart grieves for all that I'm leaving behind, I'm resolute. Come this fall, I'll be teaching sophomore history at MATCH. 

deconstructing the headlines

Look at this headline. I just saw it on CNN's homepage moments ago. Answer, if you will, the following questions:

1. Who committed the crime? Based on the headline, do we know anything about this person's gender? Political affiliation? Motive? Age? Whether he/she represented a group or was simply a psychopathic individual?

2. Who is the victim here? Is the emphasis in the lead/headline placed on her nationality or her humanity? Is she treated as the representative of a group, or as an individual human?

3. If you were to make conclusions based on this headline, which would be the most "Iraqi": the perpetrator or the victim? Would we conclude that most Iraqis are more like the perpetrator or the victim, based exclusively on the rhetoric of this headline?

4. Do you see any connection with this type of labeling and the fact that I have students refer to all persons from the Middle East as "towel heads" and "terrorists"?

5. Why, of all the things going on in the world, is this the primary headline on CNN? Let it never be said that the news is ideologically neutral.

"like a fragile lover"

Yesterday, I heard an interview on NPR with Dan Gottlieb, a psychologist/author who also happens to be a quadriplegic. His health is failing him, and he clearly believes that the end is imminent. Regarding his body, he said:

"I treat my body like a fragile lover that I adore."

This wise man, though he has every reason to rage at his body, treats his body with compassion, as a "fragile lover."



I have a body that works, though it is not everything I wish it could be. I have none of his difficulty, and none of his wisdom. I cannot think what it would mean to be kind to my body in this way...

I would certainly not put it down for its stubby toenails or hundreds of moles.
I would kiss each imperfection gently, silently thanking God for each uniqueness.

I would not force it to eat too much chocolate or drink too much wine to quiet the tumult in my mind.
I would hug it fiercely around the ribs, being present with the fear or pain until it subsided.

I would not demand that it sit quietly in the room while I serve my job well into the evening.
I would listen to its shyly expressed wish for movement, and I would speak courage when it quailed at its lack of skill.



What patterns would you have to change if you were to treat your body as a "fragile lover"?

Re: new cities

All in due time, guys. I'll reveal all. For now, because there's always the outside chance someone from school could read this, I'll keep everything under wraps.

with fashion as with breakfast cereal

I finally did laundry, three weeks after moving in with my brother and sister-in-law. I finally had choices for my school wardrobe. And what, pray tell, did I choose? Baby blue pants, a carnation pink tank top, and a puce sweater on top. Puce. I thought it looked fine in the half-dark before I got in my car that morning, but after I'd taught all my classes, I finally got a chance to use the restroom, and I caught a glimpse of the whole outfit. In roughly five seconds, I had a headache. Pink and puce -- don't let the alliteration fool you. Terrible, terrible idea. Kids were staring at me oddly all day. And here I thought perhaps it was my boobs. Not so much. 

My brother, after a well-warranted chuckle, explained to me the following principle of fashion. Though it may come from an unlikely source, I think I shall take his wisdom to heart.

• With Lucky Charms, it takes some amount of concentration to eat all the gross oatmealy pieces first, leaving all the delectable marshmallows to cling to the spoon at the end. Good idea.
• With clothing, this does not work. Do not throw all the oatmealy pieces in one outfit.
  

my parents on the beach at sunrise, April 2008

Why so many forms? Why not just that one hydrogen atom? The creator goes off on one wild, specific tangent after another, or millions simultaneously, with an exuberance that would seem unwarranted, and with an abandoned energy sprung from an unfathomable font. What is going on here? ... freedom is the world's water and weather, the world's nourishment freely given; its soil and sap: and the creator loves pizzazz.

- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

walking

I've tried to take a walk (or super-short jog which probably looks to the naked eye like an awkward walk anyway) about everyday since the weather has warmed, and the daily progression of blossoms has not escaped my notice.

On a street perpendicular to mine, I've trained my eye on a few trees that sport small blood-red buds. I'm so curious what and when they'll pop forth. I mean, there's a relatively narrow range of possibilities, I suppose -- small white flowers, small pink flowers, etc. Still, it's a mystery, and I like surprises.

My favorite trees at the moment are, I think, tulip trees. There are four or five on the walk I took the other night, and as I walked beneath their pink and white elegance, long petals dropped around my feet. I picked up three perfect petals to make up for the dozens I crushed underfoot, and held them up to my face.

They felt less like rose petals and more like taut, springy plastic.

I smelled them. They smelt of hot dogs, with the faintest hint of old lady perfume.

And here you have the tension in which I live: the poetry v. the curiously prosaic reality