Down with June.

I am officially over the month of June. The entire month. It can go fuck itself for all I care. We’re through. I’m looking out of my 5th floor window at sheets of rain falling from slate-grey clouds and for the first time in a few days I’m happy to be bed-ridden. Screw you, June.

Here I was thinking that this year’s midway point couldn’t be nearly as bad as last year—filled as it was with near mental breakdowns, near arrests, general summit pandemonium and psychotic-urinating-cat behavior. Ha. Silly me.

Just having been invited in the Chelsea advanced league and not having played an entire game in the Brooklyn summer season, I pivoted on a fast break and popped some stuff in my knee. I knew it was not good, but wasn’t really sure how bad. Two weeks later, 5 doctor’s visits, 2 sets of X-Rays, and innumerable calls to Oxford Health insurance (they, along with June, can fuck themselves), the summit begins and I still have no idea what’s wrong. “Soft tissue damage” is all anyone can tell me, and (as I knew from the first day), only an MRI would solve the mystery.

Added to this year’s nonstop summit fun was a GP team one man down (no consultant), and me on the injured list, still maintaining my glorious title of “Master of the Lists.” Yes, that’s a capital L. Oh, and did I mention that I have to find a new apartment, move into it, AND try and take a brief vacation? Yeah. Some of those things aren’t going to happen.

At times like these, as I told R, all I want to do is pack my bags, buy a one-way ticket to somewhere where nobody speaks English and leave the city behind. It’s not worth it, any of it. I know that all I’m going to get after 21 days straight of work culminating in 8 hours of sleep over three days, all I’m going to get is a Cc on a thank you email and the expectation that I’m going to show up to work on Monday. I’m not kidding when I say that the only reason why the office was graced with my presence on June 29 was fear and health insurance.

But it’s over now, and I shouldn’t be bitter. Wish me luck with that.

I have never been good at asking for help—extreme stubbornness is an unfortunate character flaw of mine. It makes being holed up in my apartment that much worse, because all I really want is someone to do my laundry, clean up my room, and tell me what I can do to keep from turning into a lump of lard on my bed. But I don’t know what to say or what to ask for.

For two weeks I’d worked on accepting the fact that my meniscus was torn, and I’d likely have to immobilize it in some way to let it heal on its own. When my first orthopedist said that it was too early to rule out the ACL, his comment didn’t really register. I was too deep in summit mode.

On Monday, a dozen cocktails and over two dozen hours of blessed sleep after last week's conference madness, when his office told me there was no way to read the results of the previous weekend’s MRI until July 15th, my second thought was rage. First, of course, was incredulity. Well, perhaps that’s a fib. I have become fairly credulous of the stupid hoops that medical practices and insurance companies make patients jump through in order to get decent care. Bypassing the system entirely, I called the radiologist and ordered a copy of my results. I was going to be seen by someone within 24 hours, dammit, and although I wasn’t sure by whom, I would settle that later.

In short (or not really at all!), the baffling labyrinth of specialists’ offices and insurance protocols distracted me from the as-yet-undetermined diagnosis of my knee. See, it distracted you, didn’t it?

Thus, when I opened the envelope in the Medical Records department of Park Avenue Radiology, I had not yet prepared myself for what I would read on the report. Below is a brief excerpt:

Anterior cruciate ligament is torn with associated findings including subchondral cancellous edema of the lamina terminalis of lateral femoral chondyle as well as extensive cancellous edema of the lateral tibial plateau…lateral meniscus anterior horn is torn and fragmented with what appears to be complete maceration evident…the lateral collateral ligament complex is reasonably intact. There is mild popliteus tendonitis however.

“what appears to be complete maceration?” NB: medical journal articles allude to “texture of crabmeat.” Delicious.

“mild tendonitis…however?!” Who gets a ‘however’ in their MRI report? Like the rest of it wasn't bad enough?

Still haven’t written a scathing letter to orthopedist #1 regarding the negligence of his office and ridiculous patient care. Who the fuck would read a fax like that and not even CALL the patient, let alone let them in the fucking office to see a doctor. That, perhaps more than anything really gets to me.

The nice ladies at Records even had tissues for me, cringing a little as I bawled. Somehow my little idealistic self hadn’t allowed for the possibility of an AND situation rather than an OR. Silly me, I thought things couldn’t possibly be worse than I’d imagined.

I was obviously wrong.

On the up-side, my complete lack of self control and massive crying fits did get me a last-minute appointment to see an actual qualified doctor at the Hospital for Special Surgery, so I guess the American health care system really does work like a well-oiled machine.

So now I sit at home in my just-shy-of-sweltering apartment as the temperatures at last climb to something resembling summer weather, watch bad television and regress to the calorie counts and body image issues of high school. I mourn the loss of life’s greatest pleasures: hiking, high heels, soccer, physical exercise, my own mobility, a vacation with an old friend, Yellowstone, and New York City Parks in the summertime. It’s fairly impressive when one June can even manage to ruin July’s planned vacation and most of August. Well done on that, commendations are in order.

Excuse me, friends, while I waste away the first few days of this seventh month wallowing in self-pity and cursing the one that’s just past.

The Cruellest Month

I have long loved T.S. Eliot. As a young bookworm and self-proclaimed ailurophile I could recite passages of Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats from memory and sang along to my parents’ LP of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s spectacle of kitsch at the top of my small lungs. I even won over the judges of my middle school’s annual public speaking contest with a spirited interpretation of “Jellicle Cats.”

Thus in 9th grade, when it came to write a research paper on a British author, there was no other choice but Eliot. My innocent little heart was a bit crushed to learn that Eliot was a bitter anti-Semitic ex-pat brooding in the London gloom for most of middle age, and he did not qualify as a “British Author” for English 1.

“But what about the cats? The cats are so cute…?” Ah, dear child, so much you have to learn.

There began the litany of tortured artists I was to study as I worshipped at the altar of the Canon. I knew that I’d run into Eliot later in life, and didn’t relish the prospect of getting to know this jerk—his library section looked really long.


Years later, I vaguely glanced “The Waste Land” from my roommate’s British anthology class, but the slew of Milton references and monstrous polyphony of voice didn’t intrigue me and felt overblown. I did note the famed opening passage, as most readers will:

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land.

In previous poetical parsings my interpretation did not reach far.

“Why, April is delightful! Everything is fresh and growing! How ever could anyone not like April? The grass is green and bulbs shoot out of the winter ground!”

Ah, dear child, so much you have to learn.

The cruelty of April comes in the lines to come:
…mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

If only one could stay warm in forgetful snow and not confront the possibility of new growth or the memory of last year’s garden in bloom.

Last spring I effervesced about the sense of burgeoning possibility in my life—I expounded at length about the excitement of being in the gardens in chilly March and imagining what the new leaves would look like, how all those buds would eventually turn to flowers. The reality was that I walked among the cherry blossoms alone in crowds of people, missed the rose season entirely with the chaos of last June, and my free guest passes to the Botanical garden expired after a year’s worth of sitting unused on my counter.

This year, I finally got it. I ran my fingers over the tissue-thin new leaves and felt the cruel promise of April. The atmosphere conjures fluttering hope and sets me up for expectations I know will never be met. Seeing the tulips on Park Avenue and the daffodils in the park, I felt the inevitable disappointment. The pressure of work is close at hand, the possibility of finding someone to wander with me in the gardens and laze about is just about nil. There is absolutely no reason for me to be excited about spring. The full-blown rose is never as beautiful as the half-curled bud, no matter how you wish it would be. Cherry blossoms and magnolias fall off and bruise with the slightest touch—they aren’t made for vases. Sure, you can lop off the whole branch if you really wanted, but that’s just cruel to the tree.

The problem is that on a brisk sunny day with the scent of cherries on the spring breeze and baby leaves on my fingertips, it is impossible not to feel optimistic. I have decided that even with Eliot’s scorn for April’s cruelty, I will put myself at her mercy and give in to her whispered promises.

The half-furled rose will always be more beautiful than rows of thorny bushes in midsummer, but the warm air carries the scent better. If you walk with your eyes closed and brush by the petals (carefully!), I think it smells even better than the lilacs of spring. So I will sit alone on a bench at the end of the Esplanade and watch other people shake petals from the trees onto their paramours, skip the festival and take pleasure in the less crowded corners of the native plant garden. I will wait out this month of maddening renewal, let myself love the stirrings of the spring earth, and try to keep my roots safe until the weather warms up a bit.

I will always love the simple Jellicle Cats of my younger days; as I learned as an adolescent, I will have those dark moods when I feel myself trapped between the idea and the reality, stuck in the Shadow. I even hear the smoky coffee spoons of pathetic Prufrock on tedious afternoons in an office. But no matter how it mistreats me, I can’t bring myself to think of April as part of the Waste Land.

Blast from the past

I got home today, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? Not a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer (although that would be cool), but a clean room and semi-organized garage. This is something that I have not observed in the Williamson house since some time when I was in college. Definitely pre-2002.

In the hall sat my magical purple trunk. Magical, I call it, because it tends to make an appearance around milestone moments and elucidate some metaphorical growth or transition. I really wasn't expecting one tonight but was pleasantly surprised to unearth 2 volumes of self-indulgence labeled in the following manner

SOPHOMORE YEAR: I SWEAR I'M NOT A DRAMA QUEEN.

[unlabeled Senior Year with the following late-night quotation on the cover]

K-Y'know how we have a [big] intestine & small intestine?
T- Yeah?
K-Wouldn't it be funny if they were called the colon & the semi-colon?

Sweet.

Inside were printouts of journals and blogs that I hadn't read in years, including all the "On Air" and "On the shelf" full of thinly-veiled angst and/or reflections of my academic pursuits. These snippets were almost more fun than the journal itself, although I haven't really gotten to read most of that. Yet.

There was a warm (and not always sweet) wave of nostalgia that passed over, and this will probably spur more commentary later, but for now I submit one quote and one observation.

QUOTE regarding a torridly unrequited long-lost love. is that oxymoronic? who cares.

"He really does forget that I exist, and that's just the way he is; I'll always remember, and that's the way I am."

Wow. It's great how pronouns can make something applicable...TO EVERYONE I'VE DATED in the past two years, not to mention long-lost boys.

OBSERVATION
There used to be a different tagline for Amarga, which I had completely forgotten. In a smack of dramatic irony, it surprised me at it s bitterness:

And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque
-Lord Byron, Don Juan

Not feelin' it.

There was a lot of fluffy goodness growing this March, and my chirpy spring spirit turned more to a growl once the results of spring’s “anticipation” came in.

I went to the Cherry Blossom Festival, alone. This surprises no one, as I do many things alone now: museums, movies, cultural events, neighborhood exploring. But dammit, even the scary harajuku kids dressed up as manga characters had someone to hang out with at the festival.

I took lots of beautiful pictures, and documented all kinds of people having fun in the gardens, and then went home to process my pictures. Also, to add insult to injury, I ran into one of the six people that I know in Brooklyn, a city of over 2 million inhabitants. Of course I see my old crush after six months dressed in my red hoodie and jeans, not having showered since the day before, and having been rained on at the festival. Superb. Very spring-like and inspiring.

I’m ready for work to be normal again, for people to act like they’re still my friends, pick up the damn phone, or answer a freaking email.

Screw this “spring” thing.

The end is near...

The month of May is swishing on by, and with it the end of my teaching career in Miami. I know it sounds a bit fatalistic, but I can safely say that I will never teach for Miami-Dade Public Schools after May 31st of this year. Summer is fast approaching; in the 305, this means palpably humid afternoons, a searing summer sun, and the softly beckoning beach. I have indulged in several of these summer pleasures over the past few weekends, heralding the end of spring and the beginning of my long-anticipated freedom. Added to that was the commencement of the Summer Movie Season: the release (and subsequent opening-night viewing) of M:I 3, c/o everyone's favorite screenwriter, J.J. Abrams. Bravo, J.J., you made a movie with Tom Cruise in it, and people want to see it anyway!

Standing outside of Tamarind Thai last night, the four inhabitants of apartment 266 took a moment to gaze around in the breezy crepuscular Normandy air, bewildered by the circumstances for our reunion. Teach for America sponsored a "Reflect and Reconnect" dinner featuring Thai food and education-related talking points. It was hard to believe that we were finally at an end of year event, let alone an end of committment event. Alumni Induction next weekend is going to be positively surreal. It was good to see the twenty-odd other '04 corps members who have stuck it out this far, for whatever reason. Carlos and I decided that a lot of the reason that some of us are still working seems to be perverse stubbornness. I'm okay with that. If anything, I'm too damn stubborn to quit, even in the face of destruction and calamity. Hyperbolic conditions, you say? Well, these things seem to follow me wherever I go, tagging along doggedly behind the best of my intentions. See: "Reflect and Reconnect" Dinner. Of course, everything seems to be going along swimmingly, and then, because it's a large party and restaurants are rarely careful, I discover that I've eaten a peanut. While all of this wonderful and interesting conversation is going around me, there I am sitting in my chair staring at the wall for twenty minutes waiting for the benadryl do alleviate the constricting pain in my chest. Boo.

I was really sad at work today, and it took me a little while to figure out why. Part of it was probably the aftereffects of my emergency antihistamine last night, but there were other factors involved as well. Now don't get my wrong; this melancholy mood has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I'm leaving Miami Central (South), or that I'm moving from the Sunshine State and its turquoise waters. It has more to do with things unravelling around me. I mean unravelling in the sense of decadence and downfall, not psychologically.

As part of our end of the year project in my reading classes, I wanted the kids to read a graphic novel. There are a bunch of them in the Read 180 library, but none of them are particularly spectacular, as they are merely adaptations of classic novels. They're making their own books, and as an accompaniament they are reading Maus, everyone's favorite graphic novel (and really the only one I know of). I spent a boatload of my own money on the books, mostly because I felt strongly that my students should read them. There was a bout of antisemitism on campus: swastikas on the Jewish teacher's desk, lots of throwing around the term Nazi without really knowing what it means, just more evidence of the childrens' lack of a sense of history. In any case, Maus was a success, and a bunch of students really took to it. One of them, A., has literally slept through 70% of my classes. He comes in gregariously, half-asses his Do Now assignment, usually yells at me, then falls immediately to sleep in a petulant huff. He is one of the most childish teenagers that I teach. On Friday, A. fell asleep again, but this time he did it on a copy of Maus. We've had severaly chats about how one treats a book, so I was pretty unsympathetic when he woke up at the end of class. A split second after waking up, I mention that it's time to leave, and probably had something flippant to say like "Good morning, A." A split second later, he begins to shower insults at me from across the room. Impassively, I write down everything he says, words and phrases loosely strung together with interjections such as "What, huh, you speechless! Yeah, huh, you ain't got nuthin' to say to that?" Yes, A., I've got absolutely nothing to say. It's all being written down for your referral.

An hour later, A. and I crossed paths near the AP's office. No more of the blustering aggressive male; A. was bawling his eyes out with his suspension papers in his hand. Pathetic.

This morning, easing out of last night's Benadryl, I taped back together the 35 pages that had fallen out of Maus I after A. broke the spine during his nap. For whatever reason, it made me incredibly depressed.

3rd Period's final SRI scores also depressed me. Every student made at least 1 year's learning gains, but only 55% made significant gains. 5th Period redeemed the day, wiht an astounding 92% of the students with 2 years's learning gains, and a few kids haven't even taken the test.

Still, there are other demolition projects around me that just make me so melancholy. Biscayne Boulevard, the city's major throughfare east of 95, has been under construction since I set eyes on Miami. September '04 the cones went up, and right now a 2.5 mile stretch right next to our apartment is being peeled away from the surface of the earth. The chaos might be justified if it were for some larger purpose; if the streets were being widened, left turn lanes added, or some sort of functional rehabilitation were going on, I would bite my tongue and keep the proverbial stiff upper lip. But the only reason that Biscayne is being resurfaced is to put an island of royal palm trees down the middle of it. Surreptitiously, the irrigation and drainage system will be marginally improved, but the ostensible purpose is the palm trees. Why, in a city which is so desperately in need of real public transportation, are hundreds of millions of dollars being wasted on a *cosmetic* overhaul of Biscayne?!? It baffles me with its absurdity. The shallowness of the entire project screams "Miami," so I shouldn't be too surprised. Total wanton destruction for no purpose. It's not even the cathartic sort of demolition that breaks ground for new growth and creates the possibility for something better to take the place of the old fashioned, the outmoded, the obsolete. This is no cleansing purge that precedes a rebirth, it's an immense waste of time to perpetuate an already doomed system. Why does it seem as if I'm the only person who thinks this is a bad idea? Couldn't maybe, the city planners, whose job it is to make the city function better, have anticipated these issues? Apparently not. [NB: best line, hands down, in MI:3 :"Don't interrupt me when I'm asking rhetorical questions!" ha! a man after my own heart.]

Ick.

Furthermore, there are several students in my classes who are engaged in the process of self-destruction of various sorts. Both of them are so different, but the end result is the same.

The first is a girl, we'll just call her Nasty. Nasty is a truly special sort of person, exemplified in the manner in which I met her. She did not choose to attend school for the first three months, then the truancy officer showed up at her residence threatening reprisals, so she attends my 8th period class. She arrives 10 minutes late, I ask who the hell she is, and she sits down. I explain the ridiculously simple premise of the class: read for 35 minutes each day, and she proceeds to take out a bottle of hooker-hot-pink nailpolish to paint her nails. She has done a total of three assignments since this first precious day of class. In addition to frequently missing classes, Nasty likes to express herself primarily with profanity. She once put gum in my water bottle, convinced a student to put gum in my hair, and put gum on my chair. She's also been pregnant and had an abortion. While she was visibly pregnant, she wore crop tops to show off her growing abdomen. How classy, no? On the same Friday when A. broke my book, Nasty spent 25 minutes of 8th period on a narrative explaining how one of her friends, who gives head to various ex-students of mine from last year, was jumped in the park. She said the word "fuck" 25 times, and "bitch" 19 times. I am sure that I can recall a conversation in which my vocabulary was at least that colorful, but the key difference here is that I have the mental capacity to choose whether or not to use such language, while Nasty's range of diction is somewhat limited.

Nasty is morally, physically, sexually, verbally, socially, academically, and intellectually disgusting...and people like her! The truly tragic part of this whole ordeal, however, is that a large quantity of the female population idolizes her. Children will do whatever she tells them to, just to win her favor. Girls and boys grovel at her Steve Madden clad feet, worship her bleached blonde weave. Her power over lesser minds is astounding, so much so that it is difficult to catch her actually doing anything wrong except for exuding an air of putrescent morality. She coerces, connives, betrays, and cheats her way through the school day, using class time as social hour and added ammunition for her already deplorable reputation. What a joy.

The other student who has engaged in an impressive masochistic self-destruction over the past few months is Boy 2 (see post of February 22nd). He went from being one of my most involved, athletic, energetic, enthusiastic, and intelligent students to being the most apathetic student and worst disruption in the class. Case in point: he just made a farting noise behind my back. What scares me is that after several parent conferences and multiple referrals, he's just getting worse. It's not just academically either. He went from a playful jokester to an intentionally hurtful tormentor. He doesn't even take care of himself either. his shoes are dirty, his clothes don't match, and he doesn't cut his hair. It's bizarre to see this kind of academic and spiritual destruction manifest itself physically, but in his case it's true. He's failing both of my classes right now, when he used to be close to an A. He gets suspended all the time, fights in between classes, and sometimes doesn't even bother to show up to school. If I weren't so tired, I would want to cry.

I'm at the end of my patience, the end of my energy, and the end of my commitment to Teach for America. It's time for all of this to be over so that I can move on with my life. There are so few kids that I will genuinely miss, and there's nothing to keep me here any more. I don't feel like I'm losing a connection to the school or to the mission to improve education, because that all ended for me when I shipped off to this damn sattelite campus. I had to say goodbye last year, and this entire school year has been more like a state of limbo than an actual part of my life. Being bounced from place to place, administrator to administrator, policy to policy, it just exemplifies the lack of continuity which destroys these childrens' educations. On days like today, and days like every school day for the past three weeks, it makes me so angry.

The irony of it all is that this year I truly did teach my students. Most of my kids achieved amazing things. With the exception of a small group of ignorant, bigoted, pieces of shit (who happen to be in my classroom right now overshadowing the decent kids), they tried hard and worked to their potential despite incredible odds. I just wish they saw that too.

I'm ready to be in a place where I don't have to wash my hands every 2 hours because of the filth all around me. I'm ready to be able to leave my lunch in the closet without finding a roach in it. I'm ready to not hear the word "gay" every thirty seconds used as an insult. I'm ready to not have to tell children to stop hitting each other. I'm ready to not have to wake up at 6:00 in the morning. I'm ready to not have to tell anyone "how many grades is this worth?" And I am certainly ready to leave Miami Central.

I'm ready for it all to be over. The end is near, so near that I can taste it. Please, could you hurry it up a bit?

Hot off the Presses

Lately, breaking news has been quite a crucial part of my life. It's taken me a week or so to get over the bottled up anger that I have inside about work, but now that I've rewarded myself with a long weekend and a trip to NY to visit Mandi, I have some time to think.

My relationship with the press began in October, when a member of the ESAAC Committee came to the Central South campus to see how things were going. He spoke with a lot of students over several days, and then sat down on a Planning day to talk with the teachers. We aired our grievances, vented about the ridiculous situation in which we had found ourselves this school year, and generally bitched. He left, and I assumed that our words would go the way of many complaints, suggestions, and solutions in the Miami-Dade school system: unnoticed.

Then, three weeks ago a vaguely disturbing email came by way of my work account saying that a "report" had been published about Miami Central. Confused, I didn't put much stock in the worries of the administration, who have categorically ignored the South Satellite all year. You blow me off, I blow you off.

That is, I blow you off until you attack me.

Following the press release of the 13 page ESAAC (I can't even remember the acronym it's so complicated. Something involving School Accountability Committee: a community oversight board), the state of Florida and the district of Miami-Dade county suddenly decided to "notice" us again. We had a representative from one of these educational organizations every day for three weeks; keep in mind now, that this is the place where we had to struggle, scream, and stomp to even get our own PRINCIPAL to pay attention to our needs. Ironic? Yes, I think so. My favorite day was when I had 9 visitors, including 4 computer technicians in my classroom on one day. That was Tuesday, two weeks ago. These IT people from the district told me that I was not only irresponsible for not contacting them about the malfunctioning computers in my room, but that my children weren't learning because of it. They did this in front of an entire classroom of my students. Super. Great. I proceeded to tell them, in professional but forceful terms, that their "computer glitch" did nothing but throw off some meaningless statistics required by the district, and that they didnt' know their asses from a hole in the ground regarding 1. my students' learning gains, and 2. the DISTRICT REQUIRED teaching program called Read 180 that they came to supposedly "monitor" and "troubleshoot."

After that, I was ripped. The Miami Herald published an article the day before called: "Central Kids Set Up to Fail" which of course the Administration freaked out about. My personal favorite line was "Dr. Simmons, the other principal, was unavailable for comment because she was out of town." Every fact in the article was true, and I sent an email stating as much to the author at the Herald. No response.

Wednesday rolled around, and there were more people than ever in the classroom. I made up my mind to attend the Town Hall meeting scheduled for that evening, but what exactly I would do/say was unclear. The meeting started, and who should I see on the dias when I walk in, but the same parent who had been at Madison in September and October. This was going to be interesting. Unfortuntately, the Superintendent refused to come to the meeting, claiming that the parents didn't get to decide when they would speak to him, but that he had the power to decide when he felt like speaking to the parents. Right. Anyway, the meeting dragged on with bickering about the new construction which hadn't even started yet. Finally, we moved on to the academic progress of the students, and one of our Assistant Principals spoke on that. She spouted off some statistics about benchmarks, learning gains, bi-weekly assessments, and crap like that, saying that they've been monitoring the progress of the students, and growth has already occurred. I was flaming mad, and could barely think I was so pissed. I get up out of my back-row seat in jeans an a central athletic jacket, walk over several of my colleagues getting out of the row, and step up to the mic.

I introduced myself, projecting my voice into a microphone barely held steady by my shaking hand. Then, I proceeded to call out the school on major "inconsistencies" in their statements, the first of which was my AP's claim that they have "documentation" of the kids' learning gains. My comment was "It's the 25th week of school I've only given 5 bi-weekly assessments to my students. I'm not a math teacher, but I can figure out that these numbers don't add up. And, I've also addressed this concern with each of the SIX administrators who have been in charge of the Madison satellite this year."

My own voice ringing in my ears, I made my way back to my seat and glanced at the smiles and astonished eyes of the Central teachers sitting around me in the back of the auditorium. There wasn't much of a reply from the Assistant Principal, some bullshitting and backtracking but nothing of substance. The reply came instead from a reporter for the Miami Herald, who sprinted over to ask for my name and teaching position. [enjoy the real thing here]

Unfortunately, absolutely no reply at all came from either of our principals. I was disgusted that throughout the entire 4 hour meeting neither of them got up to address the community. Such a disrespectful attitude is so frustrating; it's almost as if they absolved themselves of any responsibility in the situation, acted like it wasn't "their" problem. Yeah, that would be so stupid, if the principals actually were held accountable for what went on at the school.

The community response to my little rant has been slow in trickling in, but those people who either heard me at the town meeting, or read the Herald article which was published in the next day's paper have taken time to appreciate my very small voice. For the past year and a half, I have felt like I was screaming at a system that didn't make any sense, and did its best to make my life miserable. I have a shit job at a shit school that nobody wants to pay attention to. White suburbia doesn't really even want to acknowledge that places like Miami Central exist, let alone advocate on their behalf. I've lead a pretty emancipated life, and if there's one value that I take very seriously, it is the pride I take in voicing my dissent. Arguing a point, speaking up in class, and sharing my views has always been second nature to me, so I feel stifled and powerless in a system where you are expected to "C.Y.A." and tow the company line lest someone "write you up."

I may feel voiceless and disempowered, but I do have the freedom of a vagabond, without the strong social or economic ties to my position as a public school teacher. The Herald article wasn't the death blow to the Miami-Dade County Public School system, but at least a few people heard. One parent took the time to come in early before her job the next day to thank me for speaking out. Security guards, other teachers, and my family and friends have commended me for having a little puff at a very large whistle, but some part of me feels so unsatisfied.

There have been changes around school since the report came out, namely an actual clerk to do paperwork and copies, new headphones for the computers, and more attention from the Main Campus, but it's just too damn little and too damn late. Huge mistakes were made by so many people in so many levels of the school system, and each of those officials will get off scott-free at the end of the year. The people that their mistakes truly hurt are those who the system is supposed to serve: the class of 2009.

The parents can lash out at the administration, the administration can hand out the tired old 'no comment' line, and the district can apologize like Dr. Tosada did, saying "There is no excuse for that" but when the consequences are played out, it doesn't matter if the mistakes are excusable. The kids still missed out on nearly a year of normal education.

This is why I think it's amazing that some of my kids really are learning. In a positive backlash, I printed out all of my students SRI (Reading Inventory) scores and made a huge poster for my class to show all the assholes who are in my classroom every day, three times a day that no matter what the fuck they throw at us, we come to school every day and we learn. The State's not there every day; hell, our principals aren't here every day, but the teachers and the students show up every morning at 7:20, take out a pen, a pencil, a whiteboard marker, and a book, and dammit, we read.

Goddamn Windshield Wipers. Grr.

My cryptic angry post of last night should be followed by some sort of explanatory narrative. There's a lot of amargura flowing through my veins lately, mostly due to my work, but it's seeping into other parts of my life as well. In order to root out this poisonous feeling, I wanted to find the cause (FCAT signal word!) of all the ire and nastiness, and I wound myself into a frenzy trying to figure out what was responsible for my current feelings.

This afternoon, I was angry with my windshield. I've been more or less angry for a week. I've looked pretty damn hard to find someone or something to place the blame on, since that seems to be the theme to my work life at the moment, and then I had a rather revelatory moment in the car this evening. The truth may be that I need to stop thinking about blame, and start thinking more about responsibility. The problem isn't quite as clear-cut as the mechanical one with my car, but I think a lesson can be learned.

Here's the story.

On our way to Sanibel Island, the wipers just stopped. They sat there at a 45 degree angle stuck to the windshield. We managed to get them back to their resting position, and even made it out to Sanibel in the misty drizzle that blew away later that afternoon. Thankfully, the rest of the weekend was sunny beaches, bright mornings and good food, doing their best to cleanse the less-pleasant thoughts from my head. After a fun Superbowl with BBQ at M's apartment, I woke up to go back to school.

I didn't want to go. There is just too much to deal with there, and more horrendous crap accumulates every day. Example: on Monday afternoon, the teachers find out at the same time as the students that there will be a three hour practice FCAT the next day. Great. Thanks for the advance warning. The teachers have been stepped on, pushed out of the way, and ignored all year, and I'm about ready to bust on someone.

But I did not. Instead, I packed up my things, took D. back to the airport that night, and dragged my very reluctant self to work on Tuesday. Administering standardized tests is never very fun, so there were about as many people suprised by my wretched mood on Tuesday afternoon as there are penguins in Miami. [NB: there are no penguins in Miami. Neither are there glassblowing studios, reputable colleges or universities, or decent grocery stores].

To top things off, the grimy filth that sifts down through the lower atmosphere every day in South Florida had settled in a crusty layer over my entire windshield making it decidedly difficult to see. I was totally and completely powerless to fix the situation: I don't know enough about the mechanics of my car to repair it; I have not yet had the time to take it to a shop; I didn't have any way to clean the windshield on the way home; and I had forgotten to wipe it off before I left for work in the morning. All I could do was sit there and stew at the perfectly sparkling pane of glass that stood between me and the dusty crud. Ready to scream and throw an empty coffee mug through the window, I screamed at the car, hit the steering wheel, and tried to find someone or something I could blame for the wipers' failure.

Thinking through the possible reasons for the malfunction, I tried to figure out why I was so angry. A driving force was the fact that I was now responsible for fixing the wipers, which would be a royal pain in my ass. Then, as wheels kept on turning, I realized that while I may be responsible for the car and all of its parts, it is not my fault that they are broken. The blame lies elsewhere, if there really is any blame to be placed. Sometimes it's nobody's fault, or the culpability is fragmented in so many pieces, scattered in so many directions that figuring out who is at fault is futile. It's an old car, and sometimes shit happens to old cars. It may not even be *technically* my car, but it is my responsibility, and therefore I have to shoulder the burden of taking care of it. I don't mean to get too melodramatic about the wipers, but my contemplative little brain extrapolated the lesson to other parts of my life which have also made me rather frustrated in the past few months. It is NOT my fault that R. reads on barely a 2nd grade reading level. Unfortunately, until June it is my responsibility to see that he comes to school and at the very least sees people engaged in learning around him. I think it's healthier for everyone to take a step back, after yelling at the windshield wipers, and figure out whose responsibility it is to fix them, instead of getting our metaphorical panties in bunch over who has to accept the blame. The subtle difference between the two, blame and responsibility, is not something that I am finely attuned to, but I'm trying. Differentiating seems to be crucial to my psychological well-being, and should also make my work environment somewhat healthier.

Of course, none of this fancy philosophizing does anything to change the fact that the garage closes at 5:00 pm, and all this week I didn't even leave my room until 4:45, but that's another topic for another day.

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.

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.

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"

even the cat is scared of me

time of arrival, Fort Lauderdale airport: 2:15 am. time of sleep monday night: 2:49 am. time of awaking, tuesday morning: 5:45 am.

work blows.

my administration is incompetant.

security can't keep students on OUTDOOR SUSPENSION away from my goddamn motherfucking room during the middle of a schoolday.

i have no phone in my room. still.

i feel unsafe at school on a regular basis, ever since a fucking student attacked me over a cell phone.

i have too much FIU work to do.

i have had 3 alcoholic drinks and the equivalent of 5 caffeinated ones since 6:30 am this morning.

the "empowering" test that i gave to my students failed miserably; 75% of the students REFUSED TO COMPLETE 30% of the test.

i am so fucking tired.

Most Depressing Activity EVER

Yesterday, on the first day of exams, I decided to reward myself for being moderately productive on my English paper and go shopping. I had in my possession a check for Cape Henry blood-money, a check which I intended to cash immediately and with not a little spite at the way I'd been treated after the interview. I talked to RAW for the first time in months, and she told me the scoop that the fucking Headmaster had called her mom the day before my trip to ask "So, what can we do to get Thea?" This, from the people who didn't even offer me a job? I was assured that I had indeed been abused, making me all that much more enthusiastic about sticking it to my high school's administration by spending their money.

All I wanted to do on this rainy, quiet Monday was buy a pair of jeans, maybe some earrings, or a cute spring skirt. I should have known better than to expect a productive shopping experience at King of Prussia Mall, for several reasons.
1. I neglected to put on makeup
2. Was not wearing 2+ inch heels
3. Had not (respecting the deleterious effect that the rain would have on my unruly locks) straightened my hair
4. Did not coordinate my purse and pants
5. Wore my old REI fleece instead of cute jean/northface jacket which I do not own.

All I needed to do was replace my ripped Abercrombie jeans (btw, the best jeans EVER) which my fat self ripped while playing volleyball, completely sober, on Founders' Green during Haverfest. Okay, so it's hard to have a fat *knee*, but you get the point. You know things are bad when I get irrationally angry at full-length mirrors and specific garments. The salespeople ignored me in Abercrombie, leaving me to wander around the store in pants that were falling off of my ass because they were too big, in search of my size. No luck.

Fine, no practical clothing? Off to Arden B for complete frivolity; too expensive, too cute, too trendy. Found a perfect skirt, but again, while waiting 10 MINUTES for the retail assistant to come back with another size, I realized that she'd forgotten that I existed. I walked out of the store completely unnoticed. Same deal in Rampage, Bebe, Jessica McClintock looking for graduation dresses. I couldn't even bring myself to go IN to BCBG, Kenneth Cole, or J Crew for fear of more humilating degredation. Thus, with a ridiculous over $200 in cash burning a hole through its bank envelope, I spent 3.60 on a latte at Starbucks and fled the scene of consumeristic impotence.

All the mirrors seemed to accentuate my whiteness, my lack of togetherness, and my lack of expensive car/accessories/outerwear. All the salesgirls looked down at me, as did half the other shoppers, and I didn't even look THAT BAD! People wonder why teenagers' self-images get distorted, why you feel like shit between 13 and 20. I'll fucking tell you why: places and people like those which fester in suburban upper-income-bracket Pennsylvania. Ick.

In an attempt to salvage an otherwise miserable and flat out depressing day, I swung by Suburban Square to try on the dress that I'd been eyeing at Gap, which fit horribly and thus saved me another buying decision. Done, finished, I surrender. Concede defeat to the shitty spring fashions tailored for those abnormal females with no hips or quads. What ended up redeeming the day, irony of ironies, was my salsa rosa pasta dinner (divine, if I must say myself), the leftovers of which I guiltily ate for lunch, dwelling on the cream-content in high school-esque paranoia. Enough, enough, I say!

I will go for long runs in the afternoon sun, eat strawberries and whipped cream with abandon, and say "fuck it" to Abercrombie, Arden B. and Banana Republic. I will not eat to alleviate the stress of my nonexistent summer plans, nor the disapproving comments of my mother regarding my desire to purchase a cat, or spend a week with my boyfriend. "You want to stay in the same APARTMENT with him for a WEEK?!" Jesus christ, woman, what do you *think* does on at school? I will not let my fear of bikini weather paralyze/mutate my love of good food, and I sure as hell won't go to King of Prussia again without putting myself together beforehand.

10 pages of papers left to write, one oral exam, and 4 days! Woo hoo, freedom, you're soooo close.

Stupidity Runs Rampant In 19003

I locked myself out of the apartment while doing laundry in my pajamas. Had to stand in the hallway in the acorns while listening to the über-loud Spanish pop blaring out of my speakers [muffled slightly by our door] until Security came to let me in 15 minutes later. Yeah, I'm a winner. At least I didn't leave water boiling or something like that. Oh, wait, I do that all the time.

My second class got cancelled [Deborah, I'm truly sorry that you're ill; you're too cute to be sick], so I headed off to Genuardi's, thinking myself clever for taking the back roads. Wound up in a fucking traffic jam trying to make a left turn on Lancaster, the Main Line. Pennysylvania has some sort of vengeance that it likes to exact on rush hour drivers, I swear to god. No rights on red, and every fucking stoplight is so poorly timed. Upwards of 30 cars trying to make the same left that I was, what's up with that?!!? Then, leaving the grocery store, munching with delicious guilt on a Cadbury Creme Egg [why, oh why am I so weak in the face of Easter candy? I'm not even a practicing Christian?], there were over a dozen cars trying to make a right out of the parking lot. Oh wait, YOU CAN'T TURN ON RED ANYWHERE IN THIS FUCKING STATE. Waited through another 2 light cycles (instead of 3, this time. We're making progress), turning my quick jaunt to the store into an hour-plus ordeal.

THEN, as if there weren't enough idiocy on the roads, who on earth decides to BACK OUT ONTO A MAJOR STREET to make a 3 point turn at 4:00 on a weekday? Oh, senile Ardmore residents, that's who. Yeah, whatever.

More thesising, and a surprisingly fun tutorial with the girls. I [heart] talkative underclasswomen. And procrastinating, c/o Alex Kelly. Apparently I'm One Hundred Years of Solitude

Lonely and struggling, you've been around for a very long time.
Conflict has filled most of your life and torn apart nearly everyone you know. Yet there is something majestic and even epic about your presence in the world. You love life all the more for having seen its decimation. After all, it takes a village.

or alternately, Love in the Time of Cholera

Like Odysseus in a work of Homer, you demonstrate undying loyalty by sleeping with as many people as you possibly can. But in your heart you never give consent! This creates a strange quandary of what love really means to you. On the one hand, you've loved the same person your whole life, but on the other, your actions barely speak to this fact. Whatever you do, stick to bottled water. The other stuff could get you killed.

Take the Book Quiz

So I've got a thing with G. G-M? Sweet.

An Epitaph for Bitterness

Is the amarga really gone from Thea? I know it's shocking, but generally speaking, I'm about as bitter as extra-rich milk chocolate, you know that kind that almost makes me ill it's so creamy. Disgusting, uncharacteristic, yes. Healthier for me? Probably. I was chatting with a friend from high school last night, discussing my newfound problem of "expressing positive emotions" to which he replied "Thea and positive emotions? no way." Ha, ha. Very funny, I get it.

This is not to say that I've lost my healthy cynicism, nor the witty irreverence that oh so many of you out there find endearing, but I'm clearly not as aggressive about my bitterness as I have been in times past. A little more resilient? Yeah.

Also, around these times in my life when things start to come together (see also: end of senior year, while not obsessing about AP exams...semester abroad), now-estranged friends or acquaintances feel the need to remove their heads from their asses and admit that they were assholes. Happened in high school, one certain Brad Litz had a a flash of lucidity, remarking "Thea, I was pretty mean to you in middle school, wasn't I." Yes, Brad, you were. Thanks for recognizing that.

Again, last night, different friend, different context but same shtick; discussing my amorous drama second semester freshman year here, one certain TFA recruiter smiled sheepishly at my "You were a bit of an asshole" comment. Yes, Rob, you were. Thanks for recognizing that, even if you were doing it ostensibly 'for my benefit...to save me from an awful guy.' People need to stop thinking that being assholes is beneficial in some way to the objects of this idiotic behavior.

Keep it up boys, I want the groveling apologies coming in all semester; we've all got time to make amends =). I can think of a few who might owe me one, but I'm not bitter about it at all. Wink, wink.

I HATE AMTRAK I HATE AMTRAK I HATE AMTRAK I HATE AMTRAK

Times 40, at the very least. Am never taking the train again.

I'm back at home in Va Beach, despite Amtrak's best efforts to keep me away, and am about to depart for Kiawah Island, SC for the annual Williamson clan gathering. It's freezing down there, which is counterintuative because there's also palm trees. It is also freezing in our house, because my parents like to "save money" on heating in the wintertime. I told my dad while we were watching Goldfinger last night that "I can't feel my toes" to which he replied: "That's what blankets are for. Am dubious as to how cost-effective this whole no heat policy is. At least my fat furry cat was there to share the warmth [aaaww].

So Amtrak.

Alas, but time runs short. Time to hit the road!

And the Drama Continues

I have finished with my anal, self-suffering, overly-involved power point presentation, and yes folks, all of the graphic elements have been placed to my satisfaction. In other words, I made Power Point my bitch. In some sick part of my soul, I enjoyed being able to show my creative side a little bit. A very small, small part of me.

As I walked around campus this morning, color-printed presentation grasped firmly in frozen hands ($.75 a page, are you kidding?), a fat, belligerent squirrel chatter/hissed at me from atop a dumpster next to the field house. Please, Mr. Rodent, can I steal your putrescent garbage? Yes, that's right, get angry at me, I have central heating and baked goods and you're gorging yourself on acorns so you don't DIE this winter. Mmmwaaahahahahahah. [evil laugh] It's really all about the little things in life, right?

And speaking of bitterness...the amarga quotient is dropping rapidly. I'm not talking puffy pink clouds and all that shit, but we're most definitely down to milk chocolate range: 45-50%. Or perhaps I should clarify; while I might not be solid dark chocolate any more, it has come to my attention that the composed and tempered outer coating is melting a bit, and cracking as it goes. Think: melting peppermint patty (one of my all-time favorite-est candies). Sure, you get around the bittersweet chocolate on the outside to the sweet minty filling, but it's messy as hell in the process and usually ends up cracking.

Or maybe I'm just obsessing because my stash of said confection has just run out, and should refrain from all further use of sweet metaphors in reference to my personality. I think that's a good idea. Let's go watch some O.C. now that I have kicked Chemistry's ass. That's a good idea too.

I shall not tolerate incompetence!

From the hours of 10:36 to 10:55 EST, one Bob Kieft sent no less than thirty copies of a document of indeterminate length to the 2nd tier laser printer in Magill. An average of 2 copies per minute (a conservative figure; sometimes there were more) for 29 minutes. Now, ordinarily one would think that after the first, oh, FIVE copies didn't print, he would have stopped to investigate what was going on, emerged from his office to see why the fuck things weren't functioning properly. I don't profess to be any sort of mechanical genius, but I know enough to push the large, visible, user-friendly touch screen that says "PRINT MONITOR" to see what the hell's going on.

What I found when I attempted the aforementioned process looked something like this:
10:36 rkieft...word doc...printing in progress
10:36 rkieft.....printing
10:37 rkieft.....printing
10:38 rkieft.....printing
10:38 rkieft.....printing
10:38 rkieft.....printing
10:39 rkieft.....printing
10:39 rkieft.....printing
10:40 rkieft.....printing
...and so on.

Hmmm, mysterious, no? Indecipherable? Yes, I know it's complex. Cryptic, even.

So the printer, the functional hub of library activity on the ground floor, is dead. He killed the printer with the most ridiculous violation of library etiquette that I have seen in a long time. But Thea, aren't you being excessively critical? Isn't this excuseable for a freshman, an upperclassperson unacquainted with the laws of library behavior? Yes, that I'll concede. So who is this elusive rkeift who does not seem to understand the concept of logical and courteous codes of printer usage?

HAVERFORD COLLEGE'S HEAD LIBRARIAN.

This is a man who is responsible for all of the goings-on in the college library system, who hypothetically has some degree of technical savvy as a prerequisite for his position of leadership. This is a man in charge of the library administration, a man with a CompLit PhD. If this is what a doctoral degree in Comparative Literature will get you, God save me from academia! All I can think about, standing there in front of the printer, realizing that the library research area is not the appropriate environment for throwing things and yelling, calmly pressing the touch screen every 15 seconds to delete copy after copy of "-SENENG.doc" from the print cue is my mental picture of him sitting in his office pondering this enigma: clicking the cute printer icon in Windows ME XP 98 2020 or whatever, and saying either 1. out loud, or 2. in his head (the audible option lending a certain air of the surreal to the whole picture which I personally find appealing)

"gee, that's odd. It didn't work. I'd better try again."
"Hmm, still no luck. I'll try again."
"Didn't work, I'll try again."
"what could be wrong? I'd better try again." for a full THIRTY MINUTES. That's some serious stamina.

I was absolutely incredulous that someone could be so idiotic, so oblivious to what was going on around them. At first, it irritated me that he printer was non-functional, but I became curious as to just how long and to what extent he'd tried to print this thing. As I saw the print log multiply before my eyes, I got this strange fascination with how utterly ridiculous the situation was. My film readings couldn't be that far behind, because I recalled that I'd glanced at my watch to see 10:58 after I'd deleted the first few files. It was now 11:22, and I'd gotten through Bob's 10:55 printings (there were three that minute). On the third one, the poor, exhausted, confused printer peetered out and jammed. I'd have to re-send my film essays anyway, so I used the one working printer and let some other altruistic soul finish recessitating the Canon Laserwriter for the good of the rest of the community. I'll never know just how many times he printed his lecture notes, nor what in the name of everything sacred inspired such mechanical non-thinking behavior.

Livid, but with my readings in hand, I left the library, amazed once again at the stupidity of my fellow human beings.

Who does that? Honestly.

Darkroom Comedy

You've got to be joking. Maybe if it weren't all happening at once and to me I'd think it was funny.

Last night, after sitting in the library freezing my ass off, watching the senior librarian explain to me for the second time how to use the online book catalog for THREE HOURS (keep in mind, these would be hours 4, 5, and 6 for me, as opposed to the rest of my Spanish Senior Seminar), I trudged back to the darkroom to finish my project. Said project, aka "An exercise in Futility" by Thea Williamson, salvaging photos from ruined negatives with nonexistent photo paper to print on, didn't start until 1:00 am, due to an excess of students in the darkroom.

Also loitering among the toxic, funeral parlor-esque chemicals was another hanger-on of indeterminate origin. Some cute blonde artsy chick that clearly didn't have a purpose. It was beautiful: she was consummately supurfluous, and always right in my path on the way from the enlarger to the developer. Hanging on to some guy in our class, the paragon of the 'hipster' aesthetic. Short choppy blonde hair pinned back in an oh-so-deliberatey mussed fashion by bobby pins, one highlighted chunk of bangs a shade more platinum than her natural color; a dubiously "handmade" courderoy skirt with brightly colored stitching over baggy jeans, topped off with paint-spattered shoes and yes, legwarmers. Cable knitted olive green FRAYED legwarmers.

Why is it that every guy I've seen lately is irresistably drawn to vapidity? She actually said at one point: "Oops! oh, my God!, I'm *so* sorry I bumped you! Did I ruin the picture." And she used the asterisks. Her friend graciously replied "Uh, yeah. I can just reprint it, it's no big deal." Why must people like this exist in my immediate vicinity, let alone within my 6 feet of personal space?

It's time to get off campus. Out of the state, preferrably.

Amarga.

Amarga, in Spanish, means bitter. It's the name of a García Lorca character, and it's also the designation for dark chocolate. In Barcelona last year, walking around with my sister, we ran across a bakery/confectionary that made its own chocolate. They also sold t-shirts to match the designs on their specialty bars: coffee, pistachio, milk, white, and yes, bittersweet. 66% amarga, the shirt said. It was royal blue with a great minimalistic sans-serif font on the front, and it came with hot chocolate mix and a bar of the specified chocolatey goodness. Too bad they only had extra large in stock. I would have been proud to say that I'm only 66% bitter, like the Valrhona bar. Alex said that was too generous of an estimate, and that I haven't been 66% since sometime in the height of my secondary education, circa junior year of high school. Now, I'm not so sure, but I think I'm fast approaching the 66% mark.

I've always loved dark, bittersweet chocolate, and if I were a little cheesier, I would say that I fancied myself to resemble it: something not everyone wants to eat, but a little sweet...you know: really great in small bites, and fantastically delicious, but if consumed in mass quantities just kind of makes you sick. Never been one to gravitate towards large group settings, and it does take a certain quality to really appreciate the more uh, euphemistically "ecclectic" aspects of me. But I'm not cheesy, and have never been given to speaking allegorically, so just ignore all of that.

Tried to go out tonight, shouldn't have. I hate what Haverford does to me. Oh well, at least I have all of Sunday to get work done.