Lost

Grand Theft: Central

Yes, folks, my life is a video game. I dodge dangerous traffic in the ghetto on my way to and from work; I'm hip with the fuzz; I know the lowdown; I give smackdowns; I break into schools through holes in fences; I drive a flaming minivan. Life has been somewhat more along the lines of the notorious Nintendo game as of late; for the past week I've been embroiled in several conflicts, some of them criminal.

Currently in my English I classes, we are at the tail end of a unit on poetry. The quarter has been amputated, lacerated, and abbreviated so much by testing and hurricanes that my six week unit has taken all ten. Anyhow, we're talking about ballads, and as a fun lesson we read "Seven Spanish Angels," a classic early 80's country song by Willie Nelson and Ray Charles. It's a fantastic story, and the guys belt it out in those scratchy baritones. I brought my iPod into school to play the song, and the lesson goes great: we discuss rhyme, ballad form and storytelling. Three hours later, when I begin to pack up for our soccer game and leave school early, I realize the iPod, which was plugged into one of the school's computers, is nowhere to be found.

Furious to the point of incoherency, I throw my remaining posessions into a bag and storm out of the school.

While at the game, one of my little students (and I really to literally mean "little") approaches the 15 foot high fence which surrounds the soccer field. This is the same fence with a hole in it which we have to "break into" each afternoon to get our soccer equipment on the field. Slightly irked, I walk over with an attitude: "What could possibly be so important that you had to tell me in the middle of our game?" "I know who stole your iPod." Hot damn! Ten points for overzealous tattletales.

Seething with righteous anger, I contained myself until the game was over, went immediately home and logged on to the computer gradebook to find the miscreant's home phone. By some stroke of fate, the number listed actually connected to a real answering machine. Then, as the stars aligned, a real human being picked up the phone. In informed the child's mother that her son had stolen something from me, and the unsurprised reply was "he's a little lost right now." Well, lady, I've lost something also, and I'd like it back.

Triumphant, I got to bed and await the return of my belongings the next morning. Unfortunately, all I get in the morning is an angry 17 year old 9th grader with a mustache, along with a confused mother. I give a nice little ambigous speech in class about stealing and then lying about it, after which he runs out the door screaming "I ain't got nothin to do with that!"

Right. That sure makes you look innocent. At this point, I feel the need to involve the authorities. I am informed by Madison's security guards and my own Assistant Principal that the police on campus can't help me because a high school student committed the crime. Therefore, I suck it up and try to contact our administration.

By now, five more students have mentioned that they knew this kid stole the iPod, and two more said that he tried to sell it to them after school. I've also lost any and all pity I might have had about this kid being "lost" and want justice served. Then, I begin my journey through the same corrupt, non-functional juvenile justice system that served me so well last year (note bitter, bitter aftertaste in mouth after previous statement). So the middle school cop can't help me, but my high school police aren't on campus after school, and apparently 15 minutes after the students are dismissed, all of the administration leaves as well. Wow, that sure sounds like a great way to run a school. The only "administrator" is my buddy the Athletic Director, who calls the ruffian's mom (again) and informs her that if he doesn't relinquish my iPod, a charge of Grand Theft will be filed.

We're now up to Friday. I realize that if the weekend passes it's lost for good: a fence, a pawn shop, a cousin with some extra cash. No news from my suspected thief, so by the end of the day I'm fed up. The police, all 6 assistant and normal principals, as well as my former advocate the AD are ignoring my constant phone calls. I get my hero the ESE coordinator to watch my other ruffians in the useless 8th period literacy hour while I stalk the halls of the middle school looking for a cop. Bingo! "Excuse me, sir, I have a question. A student stole something from me, and I have two written plus eight oral testimonies that he did it." What should he reply? 'Sorry m'am, go back to Central?' 'I don't believe you, paranoid white lady' NO! His words were, after checking a rap sheet longer than the computer screen, I remember them perfectly: "Let's go get this asshole."

That's more like the system should function. Although, as I ground my teeth in frustration, he mentioned that next time, instead of waiting three days, I should notify him immediately after a crime occurrs. Politely, I informed him that the last time a FUCKING FELONY took place in my classroom, my administration both publicly and privately dressed me down for involving the police and taking it to court. I should have known better than to follow the rules and try and make it easier for the school. Of course, it's hard to negotiate the system when the system just lies to your face.

If there's one thing that I should have learned in my teaching experience, it's that whenever the administration is involved, you've got to just look out for yourself. If you don't, they'll take you for all you're worth. I've also learned that I've got to solve problems my own way. Fortunately, I chose not to take my co-coach's advice and threaten the kid with a stiletto heel pressed to the jugular.

Then, what do you know, he little bastard didn't even show up at school on Friday. If he wasn't acting guilty before, this was the nail in the coffin. I call his mother, who tells me that her kid "didn't want to get out of bed this morning. I coudn't make him. His grandfather couldn't make hime either." Great, lady.

Now, not only have I lost my iPod, but I've lost my patience and my temper. My employers treat me like shit, when they're not ignoring me, the justice system in Miami is less than expeditious, and this crazy lady who thinks she runs "Central South" is storming around like a lunatic worrying about some stupid, useless rules and signs instead of the fact that no one respects what she does and how she treats people. In my classroom, Friday afternoon, she actually walked up to a student who was reading a book about rats and said "Reading about yourself? I bet you didn't even get that. Went right over your head."

How can an ADULT react like that to a child? Honestly, we're supposed to be role models and examples of behavior to kids; we're supposed to conduct ourselves with some degree of professionality. If you just walk around insulting and belittling people, you're not going to earn my respect. In fact, you've definitely lost it.

Epic Escapism

Break did not start off particularly well: my cell phone died resulting in three hours in the Verizon store, $95 down the tube, and me getting cut off my mom's cell phone plan. As I went to bed after writing down the 60 or so numbers in my old half-functional phone, I kept telling myself that it had to get better than this. Not another horrible Thanksgiving, please.

Luckily, the gods fo fortune decided to shower down upon me day after day of goodness. This felicitous trend, while pleasant in the short run, is merely a bit of an escape from my ordinary existence, but I figure that I deserve a bit of the fantastic every now and then. This has been especially evidenced by a recent predeliction for pseudo-historical epics. I finished the 6th Harry Potter this weekend, a tear or two trickling down at the death of Dumbledore. Every time, I'm surprised how addicted I get to the story. Then, in a moment of perhaps questionable judgement, I decided to watch Braveheart on TV starting at 11:00 last night. That didn't end until 3:00 am, when I was feeling rather melancholic and in need of a Mel-Gibson-esque hero to pick me up. Unfortunately, those don't exist, so I bitched to C. for an hour or two until I could hardly keep myself awake.

It felt good to finally articulate some of my fears about the next few months, and come up with a game plan. The events of the summer have not quite left the corners of my mind yet, and talk of "committment" and "future" and "us" makes me pretty nervous. Moving across the country is a huge decision to make, and I don't want to make it solely based on one person. I want it to be my decision too, but it's a weighty one to make. The problem is that I haven't got anywhere else to go. I don't have a job offer anywhere, a place to go to school yet, or any feasible travel destination. I'm feeling trapped, in a bit of a corner, and starting to get skittish.

So I took another escape today. Russel Crowe this time, in all his Roman macho-ness. Really, I didn't plan on it being medieval epic weekend. Sitting by my computer with a half-finished scarf from two years ago slowly growing as my needles clicked, I felt much better. My hot new purple shoes from DSW didn't hurt either.

Then in indulgence of truly epic nature, I baked the half assembled pecan pie that was meant for Thanksgiving (we got too full on turkey with mole, black bean tamales, chili-orange sweet potatoes, and cranberry sauce to eat it). I dressed myself up in a skirt and my new heels, grabbed a rolling pin and some flour, then got to work. If I want to bake in heels, who's going to stop me? Not you, that's who! After congratulating the crazies next door on their fresh Publix christmas tree, I invited them over for some gooey sweet pie with spiked whipped cream.

I'm not sure what it is that draws me into fiction so often. Every weekend can't be like this: reading, movies, eating, cooking, and shopping, but sometimes it's nice to get away from the normal. The trouble is it's just so hard to go back on Monday. =)
I might as well just concede defeat to these guilty pleasures. At least it helps for a while. As the ever sagacious Shins tell us:

Of course I was raised to
Gather courage from those
Lofty tales so tried and true.
If you're able, I suggest it
'Cause modern thought
Can get the best of you.

So warriors and gladiators, bourbon-pecan and chocolate, pink yarn and purple suede, you help this cruel modern thought from getting the best of me.

I think I lost my routine. Can you find it for me?

My weekly schedule has been somewhat, well, inconsistent in the past few weeks. It's starting to really get to me.

In October, I got lulled into the fact that school was going relatively well, soccer improved, and my personal life seemed pretty easy to handle. Then, there was this "hurricane" and there still seem to be chunks of debris swirling around me. Some bits make glancing blows, others whip by without hurting, but no matter how I try, some grit and stone manages to zoom right into my eye and sting.

I'd forgotten that the day before Wilma hit, we got a new Assistant Principal at the "Central South Sattelite Campus" (the four-room pathetic excuse for a 'high school' that they've scraped together at Madison Middle). She seemed harmless enough when she introduced herself, but I should have known better when we were forced to have an hour-long faculty meeting the next Wednesday to "introduce ourselves." Ordinarily, I would say that this was a good idea; the staff needs to get acquainted with a new administrator, and talk about what's been working and what hasn't. Yes, that would have been productive. Instead, we did various get-to-know-you activities which involved writing poems about ourselves. Are you kidding me? Really? She doesn't seem to "get" the fact that we've been getting along just fine enough for the past three months without her. She swooped in and wanted to "take charge" and "get things done."

So now we've finally got the administrator, extra security guard, and the two counselors that we were legally required to be provided with at the beginning of the school year. It only took them a semester to do so. Yet, even with all these extra bodies, more help and advice for the students, things are starting to go to hell.

Even my own personal hero, Ms. B the ESE coordinator, is starting to get down. This is a woman who at thirtysomething owns more shoes and matching color-coordinated suits than I can ever hope to house in a closet. She is a woman who inspires the respect (and sometimes fear) of the students while making a mohawk sexy. She is amazing, and I love her. They kicked her out of the office she's been using since August, told her to clean out a janitorial storage closet to use, then proceeded to appropriate her space. If she's not daunted, how can I complain?

The kids, while they may be doing their homework a little more, are getting rowdier. For some reason, the security team can't keep track of who's in class and who's not; illicit activities in the "halls" a.k.a. grassy fields in between and behind the portables have become a problem. One of my two thumbsuckers, yes I have two of them in the NINTH GRADE, shows up to class 25 minutes late after lunch. When asked where he's been, the towering 14 year-old removes his digit from his mouth to tell me that he was detained in the office. "Why, Maurice? And don't you have a note?" "Naw, we was throwin' dice."

And how does one begin to respond to that? Somewhat at a loss, I gave him a stern teacher look, shake my head, and decide to let him in to class. At least he's honest, right?

There are several problems with crowd control and behavior managment. One of them, unfortunately, is that our new A.P. is white. The one we had before, the only competent one, was a strong black woman who probably reminded half the kids of an aunt or mother, and she didn't take any lip. The other large dilemma is that this new woman looks like she's about to have a coronary in the next three point five seconds. She races around like it's the end of the world, but what she doesn't realize is that the world already ended. It ended on August 1st when "Central South" opened its doors, and the rest of us have just learned to exist in this hell-hole by relying on our wits and each other. Fighting the system is too hard. In a place like this, you've got to "flow" as Ms. B says. She just hasn't found her rhythm, and I hope like hell she gets with it soon, because she's going to take us all down with her. I'm not much for going down with this ship, because it's going to be a titanic disaster. Pun intended.

I was starting to get my flow before the damn hurricane hit, and now it's just all messed up. With these last three weeks before break, I'm hoping to get back in the groove and trickle on in to winter break. I'm starting to get sarcastic with the kids, which is dangerous for both parties. That should stop.

Well, at least it's vacation.

Wilma

As it turns out, this one was "for real."

Sunday, after doing laundry and picking up a copy of Batman Begins, we grilled churrasco and huddled together on Apt. 1's couch watching Christian Bale depict the best Batman ever. I went to bed late, hardly thinking about the category 3 storm that was on its way.

I awoke Monday morning to the sound of screaming wind at my large, southerly window. Cervantes was huddled by my shoulder, and a grey-blue half light filled the entire house. Mesmerized by the swirling trees and gusting winds outside, I sat curled in my comforter and stared into the storm. Eventually, my housemates began to stir as well, and we all ended up on my bed by 8:30, when the strongest winds passed over Miami. I later learned that those same winds were 120 mph, with gusts up to 160. One of those gusts knocked over a huge tree in our back yard, flipped my Vespa, and tore out the fence along the pool area.

Our power was already out when I woke up, so there was little to do but wait for the storm to pass. I took a short nap, and then went around to see how our apartment had fared. There was water coming in from various joints and crevices, so together M. and I attacked the kitchen. We scoured the house, I cleaned my room, dusted, put away my clean laundry, and in general attempted to minimize the chaos in the house. Sadly surveying the contents of our fridge, we made a list of things that would have to go and ate the melting sorbet in the freezer.

By noon, patches of blue sky peeked out as the last cloud bands whipped through the city. I picked up my scooter, cleaned off most of the grit and sap from broken branches, and took a tour of Biscayne. Nothing had power, and as far as I could see, there wasn't a single traffic light. Not only were they not turned on, but most of them had been ripped right off of their wires. One woman, having tied two broken lights to the top of her car and stashed another in her trunk, was being arrested by the police. I'm not sure what kind of an offense that was: looting? vandalism? stealing state property? It's unclear.

What was patently obvious was that Miami got rocked. Apart from that, we were completely out of the loop. No grocery stores, no cell phone service, no power, and no news. It's very odd to feel yourself completely cut off from the rest of the world, while at the same time being the focus of some of the world's news.

Due to evil daylight savings time, we had to hustle up to cook dinner before the sun set. Thank god for gas stoves and barbeques. After a dinner of fresh tortilla, we reconvened with the folks from upstairs out in the cluttered back yeard to enjoy a crisp sunset. For the first time this year, a cool refreshing breeze blew through Miami, and for the first time in decades, Miami residents could watch the stars pop out of the sky in true unpolluted darkness. A sparkling sky above, wrapped in my favorite HC sweatshirt, finally blessed with a (weak) cell phone signal, life seemed pretty okay. We ended up spending most of the time drinking hot chocolate spiked with various liquors and drinking the last of the cold beer in the fridge. Hell yeah for hurricanes.

Unfortunately, this idyllic trend did not continue. Tuesday was more of the same fun, but less food...even the grocery stores were shut down. Luckily we stocked up before the storm. A crab feast from Chef Creole was the dinner event, eaten by candlelight in the kitchen. Someone should not have let several batty educators come within arm's reach of candles and meltable objects. Stuffed with creole ribs, yellow rice, and stone crab, I proceeded to melt several plastic utensils together in order to form some sort of non-representational sculpture. Fortuitously, said amalgam of twisted and charred polymers produced rather amusing shadows on the wall. Even "adults" can find pleasure in shadow puppets, it seems. That entertained us for much longer than it should have, and I even suggested marketing similar sculptures to a mass market. My roommates, those negative ninnies, declared that *with* electricity the spoon-puppets would be markedly less valuable. This remains to be seen.

Wednesday the news came in that I was to flee the storm-wracked South Florida coast, but my flight never left Ft. Lauderdale due to the damn fire marshall. Apparently, there weren't enough "safety features" with electricity for the airport to operate.
We sought refuge on Lincoln Road, hoping to find a movie and some food, as well as a place to charge our dying cell phones, but alas, the theaters were still closed, and lines for gas stretched for blocks around the gas stations. We managed to kill a couple of hours walking around and shopping, then were treated to dinner by the upstairs neighbors. One of their girlfriends is a hotel cook, who inherited a 20 lb. turkey when the hotel decided to cut its losses and close up for the remainder of the power outage.

Luckily I did manage to escape on Thursday, and spent the next 6 days in a real house with electricity. Cold, yes, but at least there was power. Shopping, Harry Potter, and lots of home-cooked meals were rather delightful. School was postoponed several times, until we finally got the go for the following Thursday, November 3rd.

I headed back to sunny South Florida on Wednesday to find things pretty much in the same state as I left them. Traffic was still a mess, and now instead of a cool fall breeze, the weather had turned up the heat. Electricity had not been restored to over 40 percent of paying customers in Miami-Dade County, so god only knows how many individual citizens were powerless (metaphorically and literally).

Reluctantly, we laid our heads down on Wednesday night, knowing full well that there was work the next day. Cell phones charged, acting as surrogate alarm clocks, the four of us arose in pich darkness until the smell of phosphorus and candle wax jerked us awake. Note to self: don't try to pick out professional dress outfits by candlelight at 5:40 am. It doesn't end well. So not only could we not eat breakfast (no milk, no dairy, due to lack of refrigeration), not see what we're doing in our own house before work, nor have any contact with the outside world electronically, it's also the end of daylight savings. I drove home from soccer practice just as the sun set over the western horizon in my rear view mirror, and fumbled with my keys in a house that was just as dark as I'd left it 12 hours earlier that morning.

Thursday, day 1 back at work, is over. I decided to tempt fate as my roommates had, and venture a run in the nearby middle-class neighborhood across Biscayne. Huge mounds of debris, a lack of streetlights, and perilously close shaves with oncoming cars, not to mention wary homeowners shouting "acuestese ya!" all contributed to cutting my exercise short. Slightly disheartened, I jogged home to pack up for our outing to Brickell. M's boyfriend M had power back, so the plan was to pick up some tasty takeout and watch the O.C. en masse while charging various portable electronic devices and/or showering with hot water (oh, the novelty). This was now becoming a habit, so we all assumed that the trip would go according to schedule. Cervantes, now officially batty due to his extended time alone in the house, got packed up with his litterbox to accompany the dPlace crew.

Oh, oh, how little I knew then.

Sweaty, hungry, and tired we show up with backpacks full of clean clothes and towels, three Baja Fresh carryout bags, a litterbox, three computers, four cellphones, and one angry, angry cat. Up the elevator, down the hall, turn the corner, and turn the knob...Wait. Why didn't the knob turn?

Unfortunately, M's roommate (against M's warning) had locked the door and we were keyless. Stupefied, we stand in the hall for a moment, the clock ticking down minutes 'till 8:00 pm, when our show starts. Lo and behold, who should show up but one of M's friends from the building across the hall! Saved! Glory Day! Plan B goes into effect: haul all our shit over to unknown-friend-of-M's apartment and chill out until someone shows up with a key. Sure, fine. We plop down on the couches, begin our dinner while Cervantes cowers in the bathtub, refusing to move. Things are improving: there's television, we've now been fed, and there's hope for the future.

Circa 8:30 the fire alarm starts. Please, please let it be a test. Please, please somebody have burnt popcorn and it just goes away. 8:40, and the screaming alarm has not abated. In a bit of a panic, I grab the most important thing I can think of and rush out of the building with Mary, VA and Carlos. Thus, at 8:45 pm, there I was sitting in the middle of a parking lot littered with glass shards from blown out windows cradling a hyperventilating cat, still in my running clothes.

FYI: low point of the month.

For another 30 minutes, we watched as fire trucks arrived, inspected the building, and determined that the elevator malfunction which triggered the alarm was indeed harmless. This entire time, poor little Cervantes is wheezing harder and harder into the crook of my arm as his little synapses explode with sensory overload. Flashing lights, screeching cars, street cleaning, fire sirens, the whole 9 yards plus an extra two feet. Around 9:20 one of M's roommates finally arrives, we do a quick feline handoff to get the poor guy inside a building, and we try to get back into building 2. Plan C goes into effect: retrieve belongings from building 2, rejoin cat and host in building 1, shower, then sleep back home in the dark.

But wait...there's more! As we're coordinating Plan C, the doors to building 2 swing shut as the firemen leave. Now, it is nearly 10:00 pm, and we're stuck in the lobby of building 2 trying to get someone to let us into the locked 4th floor of the building. After Mary totally sketched out one resident, we conceded defeat to the gods of catastrophe and collapsed in the leather chairs next to the fake ficus.

Plan D comes through in the end; we held out until the guy who actually lived in building 2 came home, snatched our things as quickly as possible, showered in a rush in M's apartment (located at the top of building 1), dragged the cat out from under the bed, and drove back to our own humble abode.

At 11:30 pm I crawled into my own bed, knowing full well that I'd have to stumble out of it again in a few hours' time to light the candles and get up for work.

Let it suffice to say that on Sunday evening, after 13 full days without power, we were all glad to be ABLE to turn off the lights and go to bed.

Nocturnal Activities

I was awake at 6:15 this morning. Normally, Ms. Williamson in a state of conscious thought would be no novelty. In fact, on a weekday, if I weren't up by 6:15 there would be serious cause for worry. Fortunately, last night wasn't a weeknight, or I'd have been fucked. I climbed into my soft, happy bed circa 6:10 after a quite wonderful night out on the town.

Yesterday began pretty abysmally, with a standardized test. In order to be a "highly qualified" teacher, I had to take a General Knowledge exam from the state of Florida. Technically, this was supposed to have been completed at the end of my first year of teaching. Whatever, man, they can't *afford* to fire me. Nevertheless (note competent use of transitional phrase here, a la FCAT) I decided to comply with the district's regulations about qualifying me to be a public school teacher. Waking up at 7:00 on a Saturady wasn't exactly my first choice of activities, but what I didn't know then was that school would be cancelled for two more days, making the sacrifice of my Saturday less than a hardship.

After a wretched three hours of mindless testing (AKA the pseudo-FCAT-for-teachers), I was starving, freezing, and very tired. I gobbled down some Publix sushi, attempted and failed to read my book. My intellectual needs then conceded defeat to my corporeal desires, and I proceeded to sleep for a good four hours. There was a rancid air surrounding my mood all of yesterday: I was pissed that it was Dave's birthday and I didn't get to spend it with him; I had to take some stupid test; there was a huge-ass storm on the way being fickle and unpredictable, and absolutely nothing I could do about any of these things.

When VA came and woke me up at 6:00, I frankly remarked "I'm in a foul mood; fair warning." Things slightly improved as she convinced me to trek north to DSW. As the sun sank down, my spirits rose with the help of an iced coffee and some teal velvet pumps. Then, deciding to participate in the DDH birthday spirit, I bought him a present. The funk finally left when we got around to eating at 9:30. C. joined us, and we stretched our "light snack" into a 2 hour dinner.

For some reason, I also let myself be convinced to make an appearance at Tobacco Road for Heimy's dad's birthday. Slightly surreal to be at a bar with TFA-ers and someone's parents, but fun enough. Some light Spanish rock, and several strange late 90's covers to pass the time, and then the party migrated outside. Caught up in the moment, I hopped in one of three cars heading east to Purdy Lounge, and ended up there for the remainder of the evening. There's nothing like a good DJ who knows his crowd: a little old school and a little new school hip hop to keep the twentysomethings out on the dance floor. It felt strangely familiar to be out in a club with a group of friends; I clearly wasn't there to pick up guys or be hit on by strange sketchy anonymous men. There were non-sketchy teacher boys to protect me from unwanted advances, and girlfriends' budding flirtations to entertain my need for vicarious romance.

No longer even remotely tipsy from the two beers I had way back at T. Road, I felt a strange euphoria when we arrived back at dPlace circa 5:30 am. There were hints of freshman year "I have all the fun I need to sober," but also vestiges of "I'm lonely and needing male attention so I'll just be a little flirty" from, well, every other year =). The bizarre high that comes from being in a club having fun was messing with my head, along with my irregular sleep patterns from the days before, so I couldn't sleep.

Instead, I attempted to pinpoint just where this vague feeling of familiarity was coming from. One not-so-subtle source came to me by way of my garments. Randomly (or perhaps subconsciously) I had chosen the same white Zara shirt featured in the "Picture With the Biggest Smile Ever" from a long, long, May night in Madrid. A little gazing at said picture was enough to both bring another, smaller smile to my face and remind my self to turn the page and put the album away. It's best not to romanticize events that waft in from the past; I need to remind myself that I spent the end of *that* night sobbing into my journal, alone in a one-bed hostel. For other less obvious reasons, my night out also reminded me of Venice, so I took a little trek down a few memory canals, alternately wistful and chagrined.

Thoroughly temporally disoriented, and as Ani says "lost in the folds of my memory," I happened to glance at the clock to see 5:58 glowing placidly back at me. Since my hair still reeked of smoke and other bar smells, I hopped in the shower to rid myself of the residue of the evening. If only I could have done the same with the inside of my head. Confused but happy, I at last fell into bed around the time I would normally awake for work.

I'm still not quite on a normal sleeping pattern due to a leisurely wakeup time today, but I've got a few more days to get back on track. Speaking of tracking, I should get up early to see what Wilma's going to do to South Florida. It's a little bit exciting, but I'm worried that this one's for real.

Teacher Planning

Thanks to the end of the first quarter and the Jews, there are a lot of teacher planning days in October. We even had one last random one thrown in last Thursday, for Yom Kippur. I still don't know if it's pronounced "yaahm kipper" or "yoohm keep-uhr." Rachael may kill me, but right now I don't care. I also haven't seen her in six months, so that's less of an issue.

I received a much-needed blast from the past on our second to last teacher planning day. Immediately after turning in 14 pages of bubble sheets, I hustled down to the MIA to pick up one Amanda Eve. We swung by Central to check up on the girls' soccer car wash, which was mildly successful. It was interesting walking around my new high school with one of my closest friends *from* high school, not to mention a bit surreal.

We proceeded directly home by way of Pollo Tropical, the paragon of Miami fast food, and then fell immediately asleep on a rainy Friday afternoon. The weekend consisted mainly of sleeping, eating, shopping, and movies, with a bit of a late-late-late night on South Beach with 'Los and other TFA-ers thrown in there somewhere. Then, in a blaze of Columbus Day glory, the sun came out of its rainy garb for an entire day. All of Sunday was divine: brunch at the now traditional Icebox Cafe, a stroll through the Lincoln Road antique sales resulting in hot-hot-spicy-hot new barstools (in grape, goldenrod, magenta, and pumpkin), a lovely dip in the atlantic ocean, and a stellar finish with Mary back in town: grilled snapper, french green beans and white russians for dessert.

Although it was sad taking Mandi back to the runways, I really felt like we had meaningful time to spend together, something that even Dave and I have been short on recently. Being around old friends feels like home, and it makes this temporary home feel more comfortable. Sharing your present life with people from your past reconnects with them, but also reaffirms the contrasts in your respective existences. It was, on the whole, a lovely visit. And I have new barstools. Did I mention that?

The next week was a bit of a washout: Tuesday and Wednesday class, planning day on Thursday which turned into a "bitch-at-the-Zone-liason" session for three hours. If I remember correctly, I was also mildly hungover from a long Wednesday of soccer followed by Alias and Pinot Noir. I have addicted my housemates (with great ease, I might add) to my favorite vice: the fictional world of Sydney Bristow. We've burned our way throught the first three seasons (they watched ALL of season one in one weekend when I wasn't there), and are about to get a much anticipated season four as soon as it's released on DVD in two weeks. I'm not sure what it is about the show that draws people in so intensely; perhaps it's at once the antithesis and explanation to my current living situation. How is this possible, you ask?

Well, in the first place, I am not a secret agent for the CIA. No seriously, I'm not. I mean, even if I am (which I'm not), that guy in the program told me not to *mention* that. Secondarily, I am not dating Michael Vartan; while that might be fun, I'm pretty pleased with the long-distance relationship that I've got going on, and have no wish to extend that distance to L.A. Lastly, my family, however weird, is nowhere nearly as f-ed up as Sydneys.

The tenuous but mildly interesting parallels which I can draw between Ms. Bristow's life and Ms. Williamson's are as follows: 1. in my daily life, I wear a lot more suits and oxford dress shirts than I have ever worn in my life (since I left McDonogh), and my other fashion choices are about as dissimilar to work clothing as Syd's disguises are from her office apparel. 2. Teaching involves about ten times more duplicity than I would have imagined. I have had intense training in compartmentalizing emotions, putting on facades, and acting meaner, angrier, and let's face it, less angry than I really am. There are very few students who actually know my personality at all. I guess that's one of the drawbacks of being a teacher in this environment; there are few times when you really get to be "yourself."

It used to be that soccer was the place where I could relax, unwind, and let my guard down. Last week, it was rough. The prima donnas who never come to practice decided to show up and give me attitude, an abnormally high percentage of flaky kids refused to follow directions, and our usually competent core of returning players either didn't show up or didn't speak up to get the other girls to retrieve their heads from their asses. By Friday afternoon, I was ready to quit. I even told Gemma I was going to.

Then, after a wonderful weekend which included one indie rock concert, 6 episodes of Alias, two slices of bacon, one movie, and one trip to Aventura, I returned to practice today rejuvenated. Took the kids on a run, impressed them with my now-competent Coerver skills, and slammed a couple of half-volleys into the net. It's pretty ironic that a lot of my technical skills, which were so lacking in college when I was so uptight and nervous about playing, have actually improved in the past two years. It's kind of refreshing. I guess I'm not all washed up after all.

Well, it's getting later than I had anticipated, and chatting with Mr. Henry this evening pushed my bedtime back even further. I suppose profound comments regarding backyard musical productions and bright barstools will have to wait for a later time.

BTW, I also figured out where I've blown all my "free" time lately, instead of wasting it here on the blog: Netflix. Sweet, sweet Netflix. Oh well; there could be much worse addictions.

Unease

Right now, I'm tired. My emotions have been run through the wash, spun dry, and frizzed out in the drier over the past month, and I don't quite have it in me to talk to people right now. Klu, if you're out there, I've opened up my phone a dozen or so times and tried to call, but for some reason I haven't gotten to it. Same goes for my older sibling up north. And Sarah.

I think I'm still reeling a bit and trying to readjust to my life down here without Dave. Being apart now isn't the same as last year; we've both got jobs that require to be up and about around the same time the sun rises, and we have households to maintain. We're becoming disconnected already, and I don't know what to do about it.

What I really want to do is retreat further from my relatively social existence down here. The people in my immediate vicinity are pretty amazing, and I enjoy hanging out with them a lot, but I'm getting to that point where I feel stifled by anyone, even people I like. My thoughts as of late have hearkened back to the old days, when I'd spend a Saturday engrossed in a book, then go watch a movie and cook dinner by myself. This weekend was like that, and it did me a world of good. Unfortunately, there was only about a day that belonged truly to me, and I need more than that.

School is, well, school, and things aren't really getting that much better. I was on campus by 7:00 am this morning for a parent conference for a a kid that thinks that his gold teeth are going to make him the next 50 Cent; I was stood up. At some point during 6th period (nobody's really sure when) a child put a wad of gum in my ponytail. It took me over an hour to notice it, and that was only after a well-meaning student pointed it out. The children in the class after them then put a 5-piece gum amalgamation on the seat of my chair in the hopes that it would stick to my ass when I sat down. I took one look at it, stuck it in the middle of the whiteboard, and proceeded to ignore the entire class for 35 minutes. The charming instigator of this stunt is a girl who showed up to class after 3 weeks of school, was absent for 2 weeks, then returns to class on a Monday morning. She proceeds to whip out a bottle of hooker-hot-pink nailpolish and paint her nails. This should not be normal, but hey, that's my life. But hey, at least I don't cry once a week after school, right? That's at least something.

I cried at the end of "Emma" last night. What's wrong with me? Maybe I should restrict my Netflix viewings to comedies and historical dramas.

Another factor that's subtly unsettling me is the encroaching birthday. After last year's success, I have this premonition that something horrible is going to happen, to bring back the litany of wretched September 18ths that plagued my young life: fights at pool parties; soccer girls and private school girls spreading rumors at slumber parties; lonely middle school parties; scum-like ex-housemates throwing spitballs in freshmen math classes; deadlines; unrequited love; etc. Rationally, there's not much that can top the things that have happened, but I'm on the lookout nonetheless.

The most exciting event, no question, is what I've been looking forward to for about a year; this afternoon, I drove home atop a 2006 Vespa LX 150, "aurora blue." Feeling the crepuscular light on my forehead as the wind blew whisps of gum-free hair past my temples, I felt miles away. My beautiful scooter whisked me home and off to dinner at our favorite cafe, and then we took a couple of laps around the apartment complex just for kicks. I mean, shit, if it gets 65 miles per gallon, I can afford a few victory laps. Happy birthday, me [grin]. Hell yeah.

So I'm driving the Vespa to school tomorrow, soccer practice be damned. My cleats can fit in the the bottom of the seat. The only problem is that my helmet is on back order, so it could be a week before that comes in. Oops =). Perhaps I should reevaluate tomorrow. I guess I'll sleep on it.

It's late already, and I've got forms to fill out for the District before bed, so I'm outie. Bleh. Something still just doesn't feel right.

Storm Front

Well, thunder still crackles through a grey sky here in Miami, but the bront of the storm has passed. Katrina burst into my life in not quite a happy time, thoroughly disrupting my already disjointed routine with more catastrophic news.

Wednesday night, on my way to our first PLC (Professional Learning Community; TFA likes to throw new acronyms at us every month or so) meeting, I got the news that Dade County Public schools would be closed do to an approaching category 1 hurricane called Katrina. Well, I thought, at least I won't have to be at school while enduring a painful, awkward breakup. Whenever things get really, really bad, fate seems to find a way to release the pressure until it's just barely tolerable.

"Just barely tolerable" consisted of me watching Dave pack up his belongings, clean out his half of my closet, and nervously load up the green volvo station wagon that had been parked outside of my apartment since May. Tears abounded, as did unanswered questions as he drove away. I walked out into the very beginnings of Katrina and stood in the rain until I got cold, not really understanding what was happening to me. The wind picked up, and seemed to blow every emotion out of me. There was this huge emptiness in the pit of my stomach that didn't want to go away, so I curled up in my bed and cried myself to sleep.

Hours later, I awoke to the sound of rain on my windows, and the voice of my roommate: "Thea, Dave's car broke down in Ft. Lauderdale. We're going to go get him. If you don't want him to be here, let me know, and he can stay somewhere else." I honestly thought that when he left that would be the last time I saw him for a long, long time. Sure enough, DDH was back in dPlace along with a pizza for our housemates. We all watched "Moulin Rouge," and right at the climax of the movie the flickering lights finally cut off for good. Feeling about as fried as a blown transformer, I went to bed without a word. Out, as they say, like a light.

The irony of this situation is that *our* lights would continue to stay out for 5 more days.

I got up early on Friday morning to assess the damage from the storm (that's the literal storm, not the figurative one going on in my personal life), and walked down the street towards our local park. Along the streets, there were trees down, and dead stoplights, but it looked like a bunch of people were going to work. I stopped to take pictures of a crushed hotel sign from "The Bayside Inn," a run-down ex-brothel two blocks from our apartment complex. A white van pulled up beside me, and an emaciated middle aged man with a dirty beard poked his head out of the window. "Taking pictures of the damage?" "Uh, yeah," I replied with a hesitant smile. "Wanna go for a ride?" "Uuuuh, no thanks." More than a little unsettled, I walked more quickly than normal into the gated commmunity that surrounds our park. As I strolled through debris filled streets, the bizarre encounter started to make more sense. Biscayne Boulevard, where I had been walking earlier, is pretty much office space for hookers. Even in my recently-awakened state, I guess this man just thought I was a prostitute. Oh, fantastic. At least he wasn't trying to abduct me, right?

On with the day.

Our first place of refuge was Aventura Mall. I left Dave at home to try and deal with his car, mostly because I didn't feel like dealing with him. A movie and some shopping later (not so successful distractions), I still didn't feel like talking, or eating. I sat through an awkward dinner at our friendly neighborhood cafe with my 3 roommates and ex?-boyfriend before returning home and proceeding to get drunk on the steps of our darkened house with a bottle of pinot noir.

Some time around 2:00 am, I wander next door, where Dave is sleeping on the couch, and try to talk to my housemate, whose bedroom door is locked. As my outlet for rage and/or self-pity is stymied, I stumble back to my own appartment, now having woken up Dave. He, of course, wants to talk. I want to yell. There was much talking, a little yelling, and of course more tears all night long. But along the way we somehow got clear that 1. Dave wants to go to D.C. for a job. 2. I still love Dave. 3. Dave still loves me. and 4. Long-distance relationships, while sucky, are not the end of the world. Maybe I hadn't made clear my desire to stay together; we sure as hell didn't make our short-term plans clear; and all over there had been misunderstandings (pretty much unbeknownst to me) for about a month.

By the time the sun started to rise, I was officially spent, emotionally and physically, but at least I was sleeping back in his arms again, instead of alone with Eeyore.

"On account of the car" AKA in order to salvage our relationship, DDH stuck around for another week, sleeping in other people's apartments after the heat got to be too much to stand in our power-less place, watching marathons of the O.C. at Mary's boyfriend's apartment, seeing more movies (the only places with power in Miami), and acting as refugees on Lincoln Road: camping out at coffee shops and cafe's to plug in our cell phones/computers.

The weekend ended, and still 40,000 customers in South Florida had no electricity. We were 3 of those customers, sweating like mad and mopping melted ice cream out of our freezer. I chose to spend my last day of freedom at the beach, the one place where it didn't feel disgusting to be hot. We went back to work on Tuesday, still without power in dPlace, and I was pissed as hell about that. Sometime on Tuesday evening, the lights lights flickered back on, and things began to return to normal.

I tried to get things back together, but there were some damages from the hurricane that can't be mended quite as quickly as the ruined contents of a refrigerator. Dave still had to leave, and I still had a job to do, which I *hadn't* done in over a week due to lack of power.

Somehow, I got through the week of school, saw Dave off on Thursday morning as he drove his now-healthy car up north, and also re-stocked the fridge. Things aren't quite back to normal, and it's been pretty hard adjusting to the long-distance thing again after living together this summer, but at least I don't have this awful emptiness inside of me like I did before. We're hoping for no more storms this summer; Katrina was a bitch, even if she might have kept Dave and me together. Hurricanes are just end badly all around.

Dramatic Irony

Ever since I left for vacation in July, things have been happening in my periphery which effect me. For some reason, the powers that be have decided not to involve me in their decision-making process.

At first, it was professional; I was transferred to a new school, our administration left and the district didn't see the need to hire new people to help us do our jobs.

Then, wheels started moving in the educational department. The eternal summer semester at FIU turned sour (as if it weren't awful already, right?), and finished off with a pathetic whimper. Scheduling was a bitch as usual; we got locked out of one class, another was on Monday nights, and suddenly there were no options left. With two angry emails and very little protest on the part of the administration, I quit the masters' program.

Then, it turned to my everyday life. Things every day at work happen while I'm totally in the dark. They hired a new assistant principal, unbeknownst to me. This man in a suit walks into my class, yells at some boys, drags one off by the collar, and disappears. Bewildered, I turn to my students and ask *them* if they knew who this strange man was. Nobody really knew, but they had the vague impression that he "works for Central." Superb. I return to the main campus after 4 weeks, and on a whim go to the main office to see if my mailbox was still there (I have a new one at the middle school). Sure enough, there was my box, spewing papers and memos out onto the floor. In it I found such gems as "the uniform policy" "professional development" and trivial things like memos about curriculum changes and, oh, the hiring of a new principal. Way to keep everybody informed.

Now, it seems to have become personal. I don't really give a shit if he reads this, because we're not "together" anymore; if he doesn't want to think about me, then he doesn't need to read this. D. left Miami just about two weeks ago, mentioning in passing that he'd gotten a second interview with a prospective job. He leaves a note on my pillow, and that's the last I hear from him, more or less, until I get a phone call saying "I'm moving to Washington." Oh, that's nice.

Nothing for 5 more days, so I go about my shitty life down here, staying up late on the weeknights, getting up at 5:45 to rush off to a 9 hour day of teaching ungrateful, insulting children assisted by an either nonexistent or incompetent administration. I spend ten hours of my Saturday at professional development training that I'VE ALREADY HAD LAST YEAR, then sleep all Sunday because I'm so exhausted. If you're trying not to think about someone, take my advice and don't do their laundry. It's quite difficult to keep someone off of your mind when you're folding their underwear and washing their socks.

Monday rolls around, and it's more of the same old shit. Then, on a beautiful Tuesday night, me none the wiser minus a vague sense of foreboding, I make the drive up to Ft. Lauderdale to pick him up at the airport, using a third of a tank of gas to do so in my rickety old car. Right now in South Florida, that's $10 worth.

On the way home, I'm informed of his plans. He's leaving "Wednesday or Thursday." For those of you unfamiliar with the Gregorian calendar, that's tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. Oh, that's nice of you to let me know.

Back at the ranch, he's decided that he "needs some time to figure things out," and that we shouldn't be together because he's not sure that he really wants to be with me. Again, great advance warning. Exactly how long has this been going on? Not really sure, but maybe after he met my entire family this summer. That must have been the clincher.

It was fantastically cliched, my reaction. It disgusts me how sickeningly predicatable I am; at first I wanted to cry (check, already done that this week, last week too); then, I get nauseuous. I go outside to get some fresh air, and what should happen? What would be the most ridiculous situation to be in? Oh, it starts pouring rain. Somewhere up above (because when in search of spiritual guidance in this all-too-random and meaningless existence, we look to the sky), there's someone wiht a dark sense of humor, maybe as dark as mine, and they're having one hell of a laugh at this. I hope someone's getting some enjoyment out of it, because being on the inside of the irony isn't all that fun.

What I Want

And that's really the question, isn't it. What do I want?

This weekend, it was pretty clear; I did exactly what I wanted for about 30 hours. After taking a final exam which wasn't supposed to be cumulative (but was), saying one last "fuck you" to my Professor in which I stated "this is without a doubt the worst class I have taken in my graduate or undergraduate career," the MTV, along with AH hoofed it to Hialeah for pedicures.

It's amazing how good that can feel. It's amazing how having your own free time can feel too. We even had the chance to go to the *mall,* a mundane activity which I have not indulged in since the beginning of July.

We took our time savoring an all-Amerian dinner of grilled steak, dill potato salad, fresh salsa and homemade tortilla chips, whilst debating the fate of the American public education system. Yes, this is what teachers do on their time off. I felt like my time was my own, and that I didn't feel guilty for hanging out with my friends and wasting the night away with food and drink.

I stole Sunday morning for myself as well, refusing to acknowledge the clock until 12:00. My body needed to have an unrestricted rest; there's not enough of that around my house. Lately it seems like I spend too much of my time snatching bits of rest and private time from the corners of my life, without really feeling the benefits of it. Weekends are nice, but they haven't revived me yet.

Maybe without FIU, without the insanity of the beginning of school, I'll have more time to myself. But I still don't have any books for my Reading class to read, and I can't use the eight computers in my room. There is still no coherent administration at school, and nobody seems to know quite what is going on.

I don't know how much longer Dave is going to be here, and I don't know what's happening to us when he goes. Eventually, I'm going to have to make some plans for next year, and that's pretty scary. The GRE's are scary. Life is kind of scary right now, and I don't know what to do about it. I can't seem to rid myself of this anxious feeling, and that's really all I want

I want to relax, calm down, and get things together. It's better than last year, for sure, but life is still not quite the way I want it to be.

Quitter.

I'm having a serious moral dilemma. Ever since I got back from Minnesota, life just keeps sliding closer and closer to the shitter. For some reason, every organization in Miami-Dade County wants to lie, manipulate, and otherwise make my life hell.

I reported to work on Monday, went to my required innane, sometimes painfully boring meetings, still with no definite teaching assignment. School started in 10 days, and they still didn't have 75% of the students scheduled. Hey, could we have forseen this problem? Oh, maybe we could have seen it when the School District couldn't get their fingers out of their asses for long enough to make a decision about the Zone until July 14th. The plan from the Superintendent didn't trickle down until nearly July 20th. Then, Central's computer database crashed during a power outage on July 22nd. What a stellar way to start the year.

As of Thursday evening (yes, that's four days before school started), I was teaching some form of 10th Grade English. I would be staying at the 95th street campus.

Friday morning (yes, that's three days before the start of school), I was informed in no uncertain terms from my Assistant Principal that I would be teaching at Madison Middle school, 9th grade. I left school, went home and cried in a ball for an hour, before moving 10 boxes of books in my own minivan (the movers left without me) in 90+ degree heat over to my new portable classroom (no computers, for my "computer-based" classes, no internet, no teacher desk, mountains of fire ants.).

Saturday, I said a great big "fuck you" to all things high school. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.

Sunday, I went to school, put up posters, arranged desks and cleaned my room.

Monday brought the students, in scant numbers. All the assholes with the bad attitudes decided to take the extra Zone week off and come back to school on the 9th. Oh, what's that? What day is today? Oh, shit, that's right. They all decided to come back today.

Week 1 of school consisted of complete disorganization on the part of the administration. We had no principal at Madison, no Assistant Principal. They finally decided to hire someone circa Wednesday. Smart move, School District. Way to really support your staff which is implementing reforms that you threw down from on high without actually thinking about. Kids are fine the first week, they can't figure you out, especially this crazy white lady that wears trendy clothes and talks about literature. I turned in my Midterm for one class, scrambled frantically to write the lamest paper I have ever written: a summary of a scientific research study. 15 pages. Gag.

On Wednesday, at lunch, I opened my lunch box to find every ziploc bag covered in a slowly-moving black mass. Oh, you guessed it, those were ants. 10:15 am, my lunchtime (does that seem logical? no, it doesn't), also seemed to be insect chow hour. De-anting my lunch didn't really excite my appetite, but that wasn't really the problem. These wonderful bugs were fire ants, to which I am extremely allergic.

By Thursday afternoon, I couldn't move my left thumb, which was twice its normal size and a nice hot reddish color. Did I mention that fire ant bites also itch? That evening, I noticed a large red streak moving down my arm from the ant poison. Super. Super-de-duper. The red streak stayed till Friday, and my ant bite continued to ooze puss from the swollen thumb until Saturday. Excellent. I love my new classroom.

Saturday brought another exemplary class from the master professors at FIU during which I fell asleep I was so bored. The only entertaining part was when EIGHT people whined at the professor about getting an extension on their paper because they were "too busy." Right, I forgot, "I didn't feel like it" is a great excuse to use for not completing school work. Why on earth should we expect our students to take school seriously, or even bother to complete their work when their TEACHERS have such lame ass excuses for their own work. Way to set an example, Miami-Dade.

No wonder, then, that by the time Sunday rolled around I was ready once again to say a big "fuck you" to all things Florida International University. I proceeded to do so, having a wonderful day on South Beach: brunch with Dave after an envigorating run, and a haircut at the Aveda Salon with VA.

Monday. Oh, Monday. On Monday morning, the administration switched us over to block scheduling (100 minute classes instead of 50) with absolutely no warning. "Hmm," I thought to myself "1st period is really long this morning. I wonder why." Gee, it's so good that I have barely enough lessons planned for the day, I wasn't worried at all about filling twice the normal amount of time. Whatever.

Then, today happened. This morning, in a truly unimaginable development, I arrived at my classroom to find all of my desks replaced with broken ones, my filing cabinet gone, all of my papers taken from any horizontal surface, and my desk gone. Slightly confused, I presented an inquiry to the administration regarding the whereabouts of my belongings. "Oh, Ms. Williamson, you're in room 6." I don't have a key to room 6. The last time I was in room 6, there was another teacher's things in it, and no desks.

Apparently, last night someone packed up all of my things and put them in boxes, then threw them in room 6. At 7:45, fifteen minutes after school started, with my class of confused students in tow, we finally got someone to open room 6. There were 32 desks, 6 6foot by 3 foot tables, 8 computers on 2 more 6 foot by 3 foot tables, and 14 boxes of textbooks. Room 6 is not large. My sudents had to climb over the desks and sit on top of them, because they could not fit in the chairs. Apparently, the administration does not understand that students, especially ones with bad attitudes who finally decide to show up a week after class started, are not apt to be on their best behavior in a room that looks and functions like A STORAGE CLOSET.

Oh, but it was fine, because I have white boards now. White boards, no markers. Several hours later, when I finally found a marker, it was orange. New-Girl-From-The-Back: "Miss, I can't see that. You have to write with something else. I can't read that. You can't make me read that." Of course New-Girl-From-The-Back-Who-Missed-Last-Week, I would be *more* than happy to accommodate your aversion to orange ink.

The old kids are pissed at the new kids for missing last week's work; the new kids are pissed to be here, and about 20% of them are just those kinds of kids who are pissed all the time; I'm pissed as fuck at the administration, who keeps coming in and smiling, telling me how nice I'm being, and interrupting the sad excuse for a lesson that was my class today. Movers came in during 4th block, 7th period, and 6th period to cart off several large tables, and somehow one class actually got through Rudyard Kipling's "The Elephant's Child," with me doing animal voices.

I worked through lunch, felt ready to keel over at 3:30 when the kids finally left, and proceeded to have my first bite of food since 6am while I worked on my paper, which, I might add, is due tomorrow evening. I drove home in a daze and proceeded to fall instantly asleep while talking to my cat.

While I was ignorant in dreamland, blissfully ignorant, if you will, the forces of evil known as Floriday International University were conspiring against me. I learned, upon waking, that....[drumroll please]

1. I cannot register, due to a database malfunction. Hmm, these seem to be contagious lately. Maybe every Webmaster in Miami is a fucking idiot.

2. One of the classes for which we cannot register is already filled up, by people who somehow miraculously CAN register.

3. The only other class which is available to Urban Masters students is on Monday nights, the evening which I attend the only activity which keeps me SANE in this fucked-up-upside-down-perverse infrastructure of the Miami educational world: soccer.

4. Neither the web tech support people, or the Registrar, who I spoke to on the phone, can fix this problem.

I sent an email to our dean's secretary saying that I would be withdrawing from the program. I still have a paper due tomorrow night.

I am so upset. I don't quit things easily; true, we got roped into this shitty program under false pretenses AND blatant lies by TFA and FIU, but in spite of unethical acronyms, I have devoted a year to the program and thousands of dollars. The ignominy of being beaten by THIS system, of all the asisnine idiotic systems in the world, is acrid. It makes me want to vomit when I think of all the nights I spent trapped in meaningless classes wiht vapid students, doing absolutely no worthwhile work at all. I feel surrounded by the vile putrescence of quitting, and I can't seem to rid myself of it.

I shouldn't care. It's a stupid program. It's not intellectually validating, nor will it really help my future career goals. That doesn't change the fact that I'm a quitter, or that I still have that damn paper due tomorrow.

So, friends, I turn the music up very, very loud and close out this post to the wise words of Wilco...

"Monday, I'm all high
Get me out of FLA
I fooled ya, in school, yeah.
Now, I know I made a mistake...

I only wanna go where my wheels roll"

Transitions

...and then, all of a sudden, summer was over.

Getting off the plane today in Miami, hearing Spanish again for the first time in over a week, it hit me that my vacation, my whole summer vacation, is about to end. My realities came rolling in as a little silver Jetta rolled into the G terminal of the MIA airport carrying my two housemates. The Jetta left the airport with two more passengers and a whole lot of luggage, taking me far from my travels and the life of leisure.

Still, as I sit here listening to the sleepy southern rhythms of Iron & Wine, I can't quite let go of summer. I had such good intentions of blogging about my sojurns into the wilderness this season; my stays on the mountainsides of St. John and the rocky Boundary Waters Wilderness offered many opportunities for reflection and contemplation, but somehow my brain just doesn't seem up to it. What it did do, thankfully, was renew my interest in photography. One of these days (oh, that eternal resolution, never fulfilled) I'm going to take my portfolio, fix it up, and show it to somebody who knows something about these things. What exactly "these things" are is as of yet unclear: photography, 'art,' selling things, presentation, etc.

Our family's trip to the Boundary Waters was short, only 5 days instead of the usual 10 or so, and I think that's one reason that I don't really feel like I've left Minnesota yet. The Hagen Family Reunion, 2005, was low-key and over pretty painlessly. All the people I like were there, and I was happy to introduce Dave to the whole crazy bunch. If only my mother would stop telling everyone "this is a friend of Thea's." Can we please speak clearly? I guess "This is Thea's boyfriend, Dave. He lives with her in Miami, but we don't know how long he's going to be there, and I [this is voice of Cathy] don't really know his intentions towards my daughter" doesn't have the same mysterious ring to it. Anyway, apart from some lewd Ole and Lena jokes, a raucous night in the hotel bar/poolroom with pitchers of Boulevard Ale, and bad small-town Minnesota cuisine, it was standard fare.

The weather was picturesque for our entire five days in the BWCAW [insert, for the uninitiated: Boundary Waters Canoe Area and Wilderness], and yes, I did take many pictures. Dave and I made quite the little pair, day-tripping through the lake country, portaging, and living life in the wilderness. We had a fun time eating dried camp food, cooking fish, putting up tents, swatting black flies and mosquitoes, swimming in the shallows, filleting fish, reading, drinking hot chocolate around the campfire, telling fish stories, hiking rockslides, eating wild blueberries and raspberries, oh, and fishing. I unwittinly initiated Dave into the fishing frenzy by putting a rod and reel in his hands and teaching him how to cast. He subsequently (in the three days left of the trip) out-fished all the other participants, catching the largest smallmouth bass and northern pike of the trip. Dad didn't catch anything bigger than his outrageous lures. I guess as long as you have fun, the trip is a success.

All in all, it's a great way to spend time with my family, whom I have missed greatly this past year. Instead of FIU, Central, and my presence in Miami, the only time I thought about my present life was when I would pull out my driver's lisence to order a drink at a bar. Each time I was a little surprised to see the bright green stripe emblazoned with "Florida." There was much laughter regarding past trips, shared family memories that were now transferred to Dave, and on the whole many high spirits. There's something about pike fillets sizzling over an open fire that makes everyone happy. I just wish that my break from the world could have lasted a few days longer. We rushed back from Ely, Minnesota last night as an orange sunset lit up the horizon in front of us, driving 5 hours to Minneapolis, close enough to the airport to catch our 10:30 ride south.

Being in the Midwest is so odd; I can't quite put my finger on on what it is: the flat farmlands, the perpindicular roads, the whiteness of Middle America, or some underlying malicious prejudice. It unsettles me in an uncanny way; by uncanny I do mean the full Freudian sense, because my familial roots are there. It is strange, foreign, and all my relatives live(d) there. My trip, like all good periods of reflection away from whatever I define as "normalcy," made me see that South Florida is quite a good match for me. Miami is a place of immigrants as well as migrants from all over the United States. Nobody is "from" Miami, we all are just living here for a while until we figure out what we really want to do.

The night before we left for the reunion, Dave and I went down to South Beach for a free screening of "The Thin Man," a delightful murder-mystery from 1934, and then proceded to promenade down Ocean Drive, stopping in the ever-so-trendy American Apparel store. As the cashier rang up my purchases, we chatted for a bit, entailing the question of "where are you from?" She seemed shocked to hear that I lived here, so I qualified it with the fact that I wasn't a native Miami-ite. With a practiced roll of the eyes, she laughingly replied "honey, nobody is."

This comment floated back to me through the waves of time-zone-transfer that washed over me as I left my plane this afternoon. True, this city is full of transitory people, trying to have fun and make a living; many of us are just living in the moment, week to week and month to month, but for now that's okay with me. All of the stability, "settled-down-ness" that I saw in my relatives back in the Midwest made me a little jittery. It shook up my present relationships with people and with my own life plans, reminded me a little too clearly that my Teach for America commitment won't last forever, and yes, I will have to actually make a *decision* soon about my real life. Gasp. Yikes.

For now, though, it feels good to be in Miami. I'm proud to be indecisive, to be in a state of flux, ready to go wherever my fancy (or, perhaps my heart) should take me after I'm done with teaching, and who knows when that will be? I sure as hell don't. In the midst of other temporary residents, I feel right at home in my ever-changing city.

Americana Part I: Daytrippers

After somewhat recovering from the mystery-neck-spasm incident of Thursday, sleeping all day Friday, and taking it *very* slow on Saturday (cooking two whole meals from scratch: pancakes and grouper!, even, gasp!, getting some exercise), I decided that even though I wasn't going anywhere exotic for the long weekend, we could at least get out of Miami-Dade. Dave somewhat reluctantly agreed to particpate, and was fortiutously surprised with the results.

Our day-trip destination was Naples, Florida: the hitherto-unseen West coast of the state. Upon first glance, this does not sound like the most fun-filled outing, but as with most of our trips, the best parts arrived upon us with an air of the aleatory, completely unplanned. In fact, apart from packing sandwiches, water, and snorkel gear, the only research we did was about 10 minutes of Google searching for beach locations. With sketchy directions from a discussion board for "Barefoot Beach," we hopped in Fiametta and said to ourselves "Westward ho!"

Throwing towels, snorkel gear, and wallets in the car, we meandered through Miami-Dade until we reached SW 8th Street, the Tamiami Trail. Bidding a very sweet adieu to Florida International University, we motored on into the Everglades on a beautiful blue-clear day. 100 miles of swampland, airboat tours, and indian reservations passed by as we relaxed and settled in to our trip. Fortuitously, we took a break at one of the state park rest stops and had the chance to walk over the sprawling cypress swamp on wooden boardwalks. Standing alone in the middle of grassy wetlands, the contrast from sprawling Miami is that much more acute. It's nice to know that there is real wilderness left around, where lizards aren't afraid of you, and bromeliads grow free.

Aaw, now wasn't that prosaic?

Surprisingly pleased with our route of transit, we pulled into Naples still following SW 8th, stumbling upon none other than a street art show. Of course, it was absolutely necessary to wander through the stalls for an hour or two to observe the beachey themed products. Honestly, the designer boutiques along the street were more interesting than the show, but I did manage to get suckered in to a cigar box purse. My wonderful rationalization facilities told me that this particualar one was 1. built better, 2. cheaper, and 3. cooler (Cohiba XV lacquered box) than all the ones I'd seen before. Dave concurred, and thus I am now the proud owner. Aside: I tested it out this week when D. and I went to dinner on Lincoln Rd. Indeed, I felt cool.

Our day neatly segued from the urban back to the natural as we set out to find our beach. Not only did we find a cute, shell-lined beaching area on the muddy-colored Gulf of Mexico, it also happened to be a refuge for the floridian Gopher Tortoise. Who knew? We bonded with the plodding reptiles, the spoonbills and pelicans, and the egrets who stalked the surf. I felt so free of responsibility; no watches were allowed, and I left my cell phone stashed in the glove compartment. Shell-hunting on the beach, I found some tiny coquinas, hearkening back to my younger days at Kiawah and Cocoa Beach, with sunbleached snowy hair, eternally sandy feet, and bathing suits with ruffles. Completely regressing to infantile behavior, I sat in the surf watching live coquinas retreat downwards into the sand after incominf waves, powered by their glassy mollusk feet.

Completely refreshed from the paragon "day at the beach," we packed our salty selves back into the van. Perhaps it was my dehydration, perhaps the saline in the water, or it could have been my irrational desire for something else 'American,' but I had an insatiable craving for watermelon. Publix, Publix, where are you?! So, on that summer afternoon, exploring the coast aimlessly, we finally stumbled upon a grocery store. I then proceeded, while Dave took the wheel, to devour nearly half a watermelon before we reached our dinner destination. It was divine.

Stopped to see some wading birds on the salt marshes (yes, folks, I am becoming my parents) near Bonita Beach, then finally settled down for 30 cent oysters and coronas at The Fish House pier. Does it get much better than this? Fresh seafood at happy hour prices? Only in America. As the sun set on our day, brimming with sights, sounds, and flavors of the sea, we set of for Miami. Lo and behold, what should we find? A homemade icecream stand! No, I can't take it; no more; too...much...good...food. Alas, we gave in: me to blackberry cheesecake and Dave to butter pecan. I was one tired hushpuppy on the way home, so after indulging in a few chapters of Zorro, I drifted off to dreamland as the mosquitoes pounded the grill of the van through the darkened Everglades on highway 75. What a beautiful day.

My Day Off

Yesterday, whilst the Gear-Up kids went to a waterpark, I was to have a day of vacation. The night before, my roommate asked me "So, what do you have planned for tomorrow?" I told her, in a rare fit of sagacity, "Well, there are a ton of things that I could be doing, but if I make any plans, I'm just going to be depressed that I didn't get them done."

Plan-less and stress free, I went to bed.

When Cervantes woke me up at 9:12 wanting to be fed, I obligingly got out of bed to pour some nuggets into his kitty bowl. However, as I rolled out of bed, I realized that I couldn't move my neck without getting these weird, jarring pains. Managed to feed the cat, and as I was walking back to my room to lie down, bam. Out cold on the floor. I still have a lump on my head and elbow. Damn those tile floors.

Figured it probably wouldn't do to lie around on the floor all day, so when I woke up, I crawled back to bed and slept for another 6 hours. When people started to call me, I realized that I was going to have to do something about this bizarre phenomenon. Mary drove me over to Mt. Sinai's ER, where they whisked me through triage and stuck me in bed 5.

I've been in an ER before, for lame ankle sprains, but not a whole lot happens in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. As nurses, residents, doctors-in-training, and paramedics swirled around me, I continued in my dazed state and did what they told me. Then, all of a sudden my only duty was waiting for head x-rays, so I settled my stiff neck into the bed and took in the drama of the ER.

In some bizarre fashion, it reminded me a lot of the eponymous television show: personalities begin to emerge, the same stock phrases get thrown around, and then comes "the call." Drowning victim from Miami Beach, on his way with paramedics. People started moving a little quicker, got out the crash cart and cleaned up 'room' 4, right next to me. When the ambulance pulled up to the swinging doors, the news crews were right behind them, flashing cameras and asking questions. What a strange society we live in, where freak accidents are 'newsworthy' and people's private injuries make the press. Outside, the press team accosted the hospital PR squad, while inside in curtain 4, the anonymous 23 year old swimmer's heart stopped working. There was little yelling, none of the dramatic scenes from television, just a bunch of people trying very hard to do their best job. Eventually, there were less and less doctors in the stall next to me, and then finally the lights went out. It was over.

Thursday in the Miami Beach ER was far from over, for patient 5 (that's me) and others. Next on the list was what the staff called an "irrational." No, not a fraction, but a woman with a drug overdose kicking and screaming. Meanwhile, I've had some morphine and valium to make me ever so alert and coherent. Three hours after I arrived in the ER, I finally got my x-rays, then an hour later I was ready to go home.

Apparently, the chief resident believes "in holistic medicine. All these pills aren't going to make you better...[she taps my temple] *YOU'RE* going to make yourself better." Well, lady, that's nice, but the morphine's wearing off again and I still can't move my neck. So she wrote me a prescription for some hard-core muscle relaxants for my apparently routine neck spasms. When they say that "people come in all the time" with this, I'd really like to know what "all the time" is. Every week? Every month?

Feeling not much better physically, and not a bit dazed, Mary and Dave arrived in a much welcome chariot to shuffle me off home at 7:45 pm, four hours after my arrival. Damn. I guess it's really a good thing that I didn't make any plans for yesterday. And hey, I even got a doctor's note to stay home from work today =). Maybe by Saturday, I'll be able to turn my head to the left.

Back in the Saddle

It's raining in Miami tonight, as it has done for the past 25 days of June. No, that's a lie. There was actually one day (while I was on vacation) when it did NOT, I repeat, did NOT rain in the MIA. Does this mean that I'm gloomy, under the weather, walking about with dampened spirits? No, it does not! Although the last 4 inches of my jeans may be moist every day, and I may sometimes have to wade barefoot through puddles 4 inches deep to get to my car after work, I am reaching equilibrium.

No longer does Mariah Carey blast continuously from my speakers (just occasionally). Willie Nelson and Patty Griffin, in the spirit of summer living, have taken her place. Oh Willie, why did you have to play a part in "Dukes of Hazzard?" That's just wrong. My country hero and Jessica Simpson on the same screen? No. No. Anyway, back to the real stuff...

Tonight, I dropped Dave off at FLL for a quick trip "home." It's easier making the drive knowing that I'll see him on Thursday [grin]. It's a Sunday, and usually this would mean a cloud, metaphorical instead of meteorological, settles over 266 as the teachers make preparations for another long, gruelling week at school. But oh, not so, not so! I only teach 3 days this week, then get paid to go to 1. a water park, and 2. a film production and processing studio with 35 good-natured high school students. I [heart] my job. I mean, I really [heart] my job.

Earlier this evening, thinking about my decision to work over the summer, I realized that I can now finally say that yes, it was a good idea. Working with the Gear-Up kids is so refreshing; someone ELSE is ultimately responsible for their behavior, they are interested in the material (except maybe for my ESOL class), they are cute, funny, and some of them are surprisingly intelligent. I go to work, watch movies, talk about movies, then drive home. Some nights, I watch a movie to prepare for class, and jot down some lesson plans. Are you KIDDING?!!? Yes, this is my job. See, teaching doesn't have to be cutthroat, backstabbing, brutal, tedious, antagonistic, and futile!

Professionally, I'm doing well.

Personally, I'm doing fantastic. Even though I miss my few friends who are gallavanting around the world in other hemispheres, I enjoy the MIA crowd who is sticking around for the summertime. My cat, still slightly insane, is here, as is another resident in Apt. 2: David Dickinson Henry. This is a phenomenon of much delight and amazement. We just returned from 9 fun-and-sun-filled days in St. John, USVI where there was much cooking, much snorkeling, and many many many mosquito bites (post to follow, hopefully)

The weather on vacation was perfectly idyllic, and I returned ridiculously tanned and blonde...to a very, very rainy Miami. FIU threatened to dampen my sunshiny attitude during summer finals/midterms, but together the TFA contingent perservered, and that's done with for a while. Work started up in whirl, and although I still haven't unpacked, I at least have clean laundry. Went to see the Cristo and Jeanne-Claude exhibit at the Bass Museum and renewed my love for Art-Deco architecture, so now I feel firmly back at home and grounded.

OOOOH! And, I finally got around to seeing Batman Begins, yayayayyayayayayyayayyayayay. Thanks for that. I was literally jumping up and down upon exiting the theater following the film. So good, so good. So tightly put together, there was hardly room for mistakes. Now the only question is what does Christopher Nolan do *next*.

Whew, on that note, I think I'd better shower and figure out how to make my kids think that "Batman Returns" isn't outdated =).

The Soundtrack to My Life

There is something not right, I said to my roomate, when I want to listen to Mariah Carey all the time. Sunday afternoon, on my way home from a run, I had her new song in my head (as it has been for the past two weeks), and it's just so damn catchy. Perhaps I'll have to turn it on now, and give Shakira a break...

...There, that's better. Completey irrelevant to my current romantic situation (no, I have not lost someone), but oh, Mariah, how you draw me in. The one line in particular which I sang over and over again while washing dishes


Tryin' to keep it together, but I'm fallin' apart.
All out of my element, throwin' things, cryin,'
tryin' to figure out where the hell I went wrong...

Sigh, let's all have a moment for "tryin' to keep it together."

I'm so close to the end that I can taste it, but in that interim, shit is gonna go down. We just got [what I consider] a shitty grade on a presentation for one of our grad classes, and the disjunction between what I am currently studying and what I want to be studying is now presented before me in that much starker relief. Oh, for a film class! Oh, for a literature class! Oh, for a theory class! Oh heart, heart! O bleeding drops of red! Shit, I didn't write that, did I?

I miss the abstract, the theoretical, the second-hand, the altered, adulterated, the already-interpreted. I hate "best methods" presentations which rely on diagrams and posters. Booooooooooooooo. Note frustration expressed by repetition of multiple "o's." Return me to my Ivory Tower, O Princes of Philology! I think they're going to kick me out for good. Can I have an Ivory pedestal to sit on? A small Ivory Country Cottage?

I miss archaisms, the Romantics and their fucked-up ideals, Jane with her seemingly well-intentioned cultural critique, and Umberto with his Ego (yes, that's a Capital E.).

Maybe it's the antique fair that I went to on Sunday, maybe it's me re-reading selected quotes from Quijote and the Pendulum, maybe it's thinking about learning Italian all the time in my TESOL class, but for some reason or another I am having a longing for all things old, all things nostalgic, all things far from my present state of being. My students, and I believe ninth graders in general, do not have an appreciation for the richness, subtleties, hypocrisies, and palimpsests of history.

I suppose I shouldn't get mad at them, and just give them a chance to "grow up" but it's so hard.

Damn, how did it get to be this late!?! Every night, the same. O, for eight hours of Sleep. Yes, that's a capital S. The Shins complete the Soundtrack to My Life for now.

I'm trying hard not to give in,
battened down to fair the wind.
Read my head, at least pretend
Allow myself no mock defense

Apples and Oranges

In the world of figurative language, there exists the time honored and tired simile of "it's like apples and oranges." In the past few weeks, some stark contrasts in life have been illuminated for me, and it's gotten me thinking in dichotomies, ratios, and contrasts.

Wednesday, one and one half weeks ago, I set of for Philadelphia, for my last visit to Haverford College this year. I hung out, read books, slept in, ate in cafeterias for a few days and divine resaturants for a few more; generally speaking, I forgot all about life in Miami. People drove like sane persons, there was actually a "downtown," nobody spoke Spanish (except for my professors, but then again, I hardly speak Spanish any more so what's the big deal?), and nobody called me "Ms. Williamson." That's the apples.

Now the oranges. None of my friends were there, it wasn't my Haverford, few people really understood what my life has been like this past year, and it definitely didn't feel like home. No cat, no real shower (oh, right, we didn't have one in my REAL home either, so it was fine. Not.), no comfortable bed.

But Dave was there (apples), along with his extended family, whom I was genuinely glad to finally meet. They took us out all over the town: brunch at Bleu, dinner at Taquet with salmon tartare and divine orange roughy; molten chocolate cake TWICE (once with gold leaf. swoon.); Valrhona gelato at Savona, white chocolate and earl grey mousse; amouse bouche, amouse dessert; champagne and bubbly conversation.

Life in Philadelphia, with its chilly skylines and One Liberty Place, is apples and oranges. It is familiar and strange, and old friend and new possibilities, dinner at a long-anticipated restaurant, but not with my friends, with a new one of Dave's.

There are apples, there are oranges, and then there are mangoes. Right now, I'm living the mango. I mean, with apples and oranges, you've got at least a couple of things going for you: they're readily available in the grocery store, have radial symmetry, and are often eaten in segments. With mangoes, you're pretty much stretching it. Oranges and mangoes have a lot of vitamin C? That's stretching the comparison pretty thin.

It stretches even thinner, because right now the mango is rotten. It's waaaay past ripe, and it's pretty putrid. My mango returned with a debacle of an airport pickup which involved me leaving my cell phone in the restroom, exiting security, pleading with TSA to let me back in, then being stuck on two different airport levels running around like a frantic hen trying to find Virginia, who was only 12 feet below me, through 6 feet of concrete and steel roadway.

From there, life pretty much as beat the shit out of me until this afternoon, in various fashions. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, I left my house at 6:45 am and did not return until 9:30 pm from class at FIU. We had a group presentation on Thursday, some state visit at Central one day, and much to my chagrin I'm still not even REGISTERED for my Wednesday class yet (see very bellicose post of last week). My mother is worried about me living in sin with my "friend" DDH at the family reunion this summer, and as much as admitted this on the phone while pestering me about trip logistics for July. Are you insane? I can barely make it to Saturday, let alone an entire other season of the year. Our shower broke, turning into a pathetic trickle, nicely mimicking the way my brain felt like it was flowing out of my ears as the week went on. Then, the lake from our air conditioning unit reappeared in the kitchen, flooding everything, AND we heard that our slum landlords are going to raise the rent $200 next year. This brings us to roughly Wednesday. Shower is finally fixed circa Thursday afternoon, and by then I'm done. I'm pissed, I'm tired, and I haven't been planning for school.

Friday rushes by in a whir, Prom after school (and an awful dinner at a lame ass restaurant), but even that couldn't be just normal. For some reason, when I went to get gas, I picked up a pen on my dashboard without thinking. Said pen had exploded in the nuclear heat of Miami midday, leaving huge, dark purple splotches all over my hands. They are still there. "Hi, kids, this is your freakish teahcher. She has some odd sort of tropical disease."

Then, after a relatively stress-free Friday, I woke up at 7:00 this morning to drive an HOUR to motherfucking Broward County for our Saturday class. I didn't believe Mary and the rest of the TFA contingent when they said he was the worst professor ever. Is should have known better. The man threw a small object at a student because he was talking in class...about educational theory. He asked Amanda "Do we need to move your seat?" because she and Mary were being a little chatty BEFORE CLASS STARTED. He is the rudest, most idiotic man alive, and he's a horrible teacher. Did I mention three FIU students offered to buy him a gift today? Right. What is this universe I live in, because clearly it's not normal. Oh, right, and I'm probably going to fail his class because I have to miss two lectures for a family function.

I spent 10 minutes after class crying in the FIU restroom. Low point of the weekend, most likely. Life is very angry at me right now. Virtually pelting me with rotten mangoes.

So I ran off to Aventura, the land of artificial perfection and stadium-seating movie theaters, to have some sushi and a large glass of plum wine before StarWars Episode III (I swear it was after noon before I started drinking). George, ye hath redeemed thyself for thy sins of Episode I and II. Yet, after the delicious escapism of alcohol and movie popcorn, I returned to my life at Design Place, and my mildew-flavored, ant-infested kitchen.

dPlace really is a special establishment, emblematized by this delightful vignette: they think that by painting decorative stripes on the gym walls, it will make the 5 broken workout machines function better. Hey, guess what, they still don't work. I know, because on my way over there this evening to check it out, I stepped in a huge pile of dogshit, c/o my happy neighbors.

This is beyond apples and oranges, this is beyond fruit. It has got to be something in the cosmos; some starry pattern has misaligned, and I am suffering the wrath of the Force.

But as Jedi Master Yoda might say, "Helpful it is not, to dwell in the dark side." So I made a huge batch of summer happiness in a pitcher (gazpacho a la Carmen), and fixed a large glass of liquid joy (tinto de verano), and here I sit, merrily typing away. There's a movie on the docket tonight, and I think our soup might be just about chilled, so I'm going to try and get back to what is left of my life.

I can't *wait* to see what the Citrus State has in store for me next week. I don't think my life could get any harder.

afsadfasdgDG

fuck you, FIU. Fuck you and your little administration too!

fufufufufufufuufufuck you!

14 hour days as a teacher are not acceptable. i have not eaten a normal meal since Saturday night. i have not slept a normal amount since Friday. am angry, tired, and very, very bitter.

i can't take this schedule much longer before i self destruct. when is summer? please, when?

May: the Month

I've bought my plane tickets to various places, I have a dress to wear to 3 out of 4 special occasions, I've paid my rent, cable internet, and power bill, registered for my last standardized test, nearly been accepted to FIU, and have painted my nails red. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I believe I'm ready for May.

It feels a bit like summer around here in Miami, and not just because of the weather. Miraculously, it has stayed around 77 degrees for the past 2 months, confounding my sense of the passage of time, but thoroughly delighting my senses. Without grad school papers and work to do the past week, I've felt a bit like I'm playing hookie. I had a day "off" last week for another Read 180 training, which felt deliciously illicit, and on Tuesday I get to take a day off to go observe classes at a private school in Coral Gables. I feel like a bit of a sham, even though things in English class are sailing along smoothly, and the kids are tearing through the Odyssey.

This past week, what with progress reports and my life just beginning to get back in order, was supposed to be rough. Fortunately, it wasn't.

There has been a good deal of retrospective self-analysis running around Design Place among TFA members of both the '03 and '04 corps. It's so true that you can't even begin to analyze an event/emotion/person/place without some sort of distance, be it spacial, temporal, or emotional space. All of a sudden, life has slowed down to a manageable pace; perhaps it's because some of my responsibilities have loosened their hold on my schedule. As soon as my mind is given a little free rein to do its own thing, I of course start thinking about one of my favorite topics: Myself!

I have decided, along with some other sagacious TFA-ers, that I've been through the same sort of emotional rollercoaster that we experienced during Institute, only on a larger scale. There was the inital trepidation, the abstract knowledge of "it's going to be hard," confronting reality, being pissed of and frightened at reality, and then a sort of scrambling to get things done, ending in a final sense of relative calm/accomplishment. I feel "okay" with my life right now, which is, professionally, quite a goddamn feat.

True, there are nearly 7 weeks of school left, but May is chock-full of activity for my personal and itinerant life. I was so scared of April, with no Dave, no days off, and no hope of school ending. Then, all of a sudden, April ended.

It ended not in grand style, but with a stylish flair. Not bad, all told. Considering the sad Thursday occurrence when the most evilest man on the planet stole the O.C. from the airwaves with his bullshit about "Fixing Social Security!" Whatever. Boo. There were other good things this week (Ashley and I watched 16 Candles instead. I felt very weepy and romantic.) I finished a book for FUN (gasp! shock! scandal!) yesterday, and managed to find time all last week to work out. Not getting exercise just makes me a little batty, so exam week was even more stressful because of that factor. It's nice to be able to sit around on a Friday night and just chat with people to wind down from the work week. It's even nicer to go to Uva and sip pinot noir with flourless chocolate cake after a healthy dinner of eggdrop soup for my under-the-weather roommate. Then, it's even nicer still to get all of my errands (okay, well, most) done early on Saturday morning, lay out by the pool and read, then top off the day with a shopping expedition in the Grove.

As I mentioned to Dave, this weekend I did all the things that make me unwind tangled thoughts, the things that are comfortable, familiar: I read a LOT, I cooked good meals with quality food (yay for finding an Asian market in Miami! Who knew there were Asians in South Florida?), I bought a pair of shoes, I cleaned my room, and I cleaned up the car.

I slept in on Sunday, bought the New York Times and immersed myself in Spring news and style while eating pancakes and drinking my Starbucks Latte, then cleaned house with Mary, got yelled at for washing my car at DPlace (irritating inconvenience number 131a of this month), and then read some more. It's lovely, I did NOTHING this weekend! How liberating.

One of these days I'm actually going to make it to the beach, the Bass Museum, and other cultural sights. For now, I'm okay with taking mental health weekend, recharging my brain on quality (and grade B) literature, and starting to think again. Gotta get my rest in now, 'cause May is going to be nuts.

Juvenile "Justice"

So it's been pretty much the longest week of my life, near equal to stress and anxiety levels around this time last year during the thesis. I guess I should just thank my lucky stars that I don't have hives...yet. I'm so tired of pretending to be an adult lately, when everyone else seems to be able to act like a child. Whining probably isn't the most productive activity, but this is electronic communication, so in some way that makes it okay. Right? Whatever. Somebody told me when I signed up for this experience that I was "tough as nails," and recently I've heard that I'm "resilient" and "strong," but pulling up to MCHS this afternoon from the courthouse I realized that I'm fucking tired of trying to juggle all of my responsibilities, and I just don't have it in me to be the stoic. I'm tired, it's not me, and it doesn't really even work that well.

I'm a bit in awe that it's finally Thursday night, and that we have our teacher workday tomorrow. Honestly, on Monday I really wasn't sure how I was going to make it to Friday; on Wednesday night (was that really yesterday) while driving home from FIU after a 4 hour presentation, I couldn't remember the day before. There are still things left to do, but I've reached my point of not caring.

I'm over that stupid place, and just want to finally be enrolled in the program so that we can start negotiating. They desperately need people in the Urban Master's school, and if they're not all of a sudden super fucking nice to me, I'm going to tell everyone from the '05 Corps exactly how we've been treated: with patronizing condescention, broken promises, rude administration, unflexible and inconvenient schedules, and overpriced tuition. Yeah, that should get the enrollment you need, you bastards.

Finals week is hell normally, and when you haven't got a car, have to commute 1.5 hours to class, and work a 60 hour a week job at the same time, that doesn't make it any easier. I was in Broward County at 10:45 on Tuesday night, got up at the usual 5:30 to go to work all day Wednesday, sit through a ridiculously childish faculty meeting with some confrontational angry bitch who marched in and told everybody that we had to change our curriculum for a BLACK URBAN SCHOOL to include a UNIT on the Holocaust before the end of the year because black kids need to learn about racial persecution. Excuse me? What didn't help was when the "adult" teachers started catfighting with her and she showed us a clip of that god-awful HBO documentary with Kenneth Branaugh and Colin Firth as an "exemplary lesson" for our students. She "knew" they'd identify with that. Could we be a little further out of touch with reality?

Mary and I then drove to FIU, missed getting my car by 15 minutes because 826 was a parking lot, and then sat in a room from 7:00 pm to 11:30 listening to TESOL education presentations. They weren't bad, but the class has been all semester, and I'm sorry if 4.5 hours of sleep isn't *quite* enough to get me through an 8 hour teaching day with 90 students. Did I mention that both residents of apt. 2 have lost their voices? Yeah. Fun to tell kids to stop running out of the hallway and calling each other "dirty haitians" with no voice.

Then, in the midst of trying to orchestrate another logistical feat to somehow, someway get me down to SW Miami and pick up my car (pay and arm and a leg for my car) , and be able to transport myself again in the city of traffic jams and inept drivers ASIDE: I was informed by my sagacious roommate that the Florida legislature recently passed a law requiring slower-moving traffic to move to the right hand lanes on interstate highways. Are you *kidding*? And people wonder why nothing gets accomplished in the government around here. It's because they don't have time to spend on trivial issues like education and election fraud, when they're so busy taking care of keeping our roadways safe., when I had to pack up and head off to my depostion at the Juvenile Justice Center.

If ever I thought that there was some sort of cosmic order, and that karma evened out things in life, this week as most thoroughly disabused me of that idea.

I'm really to exhaused to get into it, and it's probably not safe for me to say anything in even a quasi-public forum, but let it suffice to say that I find it disconcerting that school employees can give partially falsified statements to court officials, and that I find it *very* hard to believe (as apparently, MY testimony was hard to belive) that "nice, respectful girls" 1. attack teachers, 2. hang around teachers' rooms whom they have attacked after they have been expelled from school, or 3. say blatantly untrue things like "my teacher hit me" when security drags them into the police officer's room for the first time. Maybe it's just my skewed perspective on things, and I should be a little more open to "alternate views" of Februrary 5th. Please excuse my cynicism.

So now do I not only think that my school administration, security, and half the faculty is out to get me fired, but hey, there's not a goddamnn thing I can do about it because the justice system is fucked too. It's like some kid told a rumor, and because she's the cool one at school, everyone believes her instead.

I can be mean, I can be hurtful, and I can assume things without enough background information, but I take quite a bit of pride in the fact that I don't lie. Maybe that's just a childish thought.