Last summer, I journeyed North to the traditional Williamson gathering place: the charming municipality of Morris, Minnesota. We had the ever-popular Hagen Family reunion, a beautiful trip to the Boundary Waters, and then it was back to work. This year I have ventured even further north, following the ancient flight of the arctic tern. Yes, despite decades of repression and scores of hours hunting elusive warblers, accipiters, and longspurs, everything in life does revolve around birds. Perhaps my parents had it right all along.
The arctic tern, a legendary migrator, travels around the globe every single year. Summers are spent in the thawed northern hemisphere where the birds breed, lay their eggs, and fatten up for the longest seasonal migration route in the animal kingdom: pole to pole. This year, I have decided to match my skills against the wandering avian and set out on my own migratory route. My nesting pair and I began our travels in the rookery of Wedgeport, Nova Scotia and at our furthest we should touch the southern cone of Patagonia some time around December,just in time for mid-summer. At the moment, our journey has just begun, and we're trying out our wings.
Here up north in New Scotland, the wonders of British maritime life have enveloped me. Of late, much of my surrounding environment has a nautical tinge. One of the beautiful things about D’s house is its proximity to the Tusket River, a decent sized salt water body that cuts into the western tip of the province just east of Yarmouth, one of the two main ferry ports.
Another delight is the gathered assembly’s proclivity for marine and nautical activities. Quite as soon after I arrived, we went for a turn in the small but sufficiently complex sailboat moored just off shore. I was also initiated in sculling technique through the erg, which lead to an actual open-water session that I did not entirely botch. The boat didn’t get very far nor go very fast, but I didn’t 1. accidentally shove an oar in my ribs or 2. fall out of the small boat, if one can even call it that. The scull more resembles an enlarged and fiberglassed water-skeeter carapace on display in some macro-entemology exhibit than any sort of water vehicle designed for human transport. Fortunately, and unlike myself, the water-skeeter is an animal that has achieved some fundamental adaptations which allow it to survive on top of the water. In fact, it’s had several million years more than humans to figure out what sort of structural elements best keep it afloat. In either case, both forms: the natural and the man-made, continue to shuffle across the alternately solid and permeable surface of the water. Gliding along under my own powers of propulsion was an exhilarating experience out there on the Tusket; the strong afternoon sun seemed swallowed whole by the black glassy river, except when it sparkled off the odd patch off wind-ruffled water. I drew in a deep breath each time I flicked the oars into the still river, pushed off with my feet as the boat accelerated. On the backstroke, I lifted my eyes to the clouds and pine trees whose twins had been destroyed by my skittering white oar. Flick, push, and glide again. “Heave ho!” I say, and can’t wait to get back out on the water.
Then, having finished re-reading everyone’s favorite early twentieth century adventure story about early ninteenth century France (that’s the Scarlet Pimpernel, if anyone couldn’t guess), I stumbled upon my next reading project: The Golden Ocean. Now, I am not an aficionado of Patrick O’Brian books, and I’ll admit it, I scorned the twentysomething long series about Captain Jack Aubrey as literary fluff about the equivalent of romance novels. It was much to my surprise then, when I became wholly absorbed in Peter Polyfax’s 1740 circumnavigation trip aboard the HMS Centurion. The world of the British Royal navy seemed that much closer to me with the Henry’s ballast-rock fireplace blazing beside me, warming my cozy tosies. The chimney isn’t quite pieces of eight from Spanish galleons, but those chunks of Argentina, Britian, Ireland, South Africa and other ports unknown arrived on the shores of Nova Scotia in the hull of a merchant ship where they gave up their place for some sort of more profitable cargo.
Each time I woke up, I had to remind myself that I was in Canada, not Great Britain, and that it really was 2006, and not the ages of yore. I also tried my hardest not to tell the dog to “point up” “pull in the sheets” or do any other sailing task whose function I have yet to fully understand. I was positively giddy that I could both trim the sails and comprehend what I was doing, so whenever Midshipman Polyfax did it, we shared a wink, a nod, and a “hor, hor.”
The climax of this maritime immersion came last weekend, just in time for the end of my 24th year. On Saturday evening, as a preemptive birthday celebration, we had a lobster feast. Out on the Nova Scotia peninsula these crustaceans are endemic; they frolic and forage in the rocky seaweed forests that cling to the shores of the Tusket and the Bay of Fundy which surrounds Yarmouth. These tasty babies were caught legally, not poached out on the back yard as D’s grandfather used to do, and as it seems most of the residents of Wedgeport continue to do. The $80,000 lobster fishing license is quite prohibitive to the casual but law-abiding lobster consumer.
We gathered around the newspaper-clad table as one by one the lobsters went head down into a large enameled pot, the only way to truly cook seafood. Since time immemorial (or at least in the lifespan of our great nation) New Englanders and seafood eaters have put a flame under the same white-speckled ten gallon pot and waited for that indefinable moment when the bottom dwelling sea creatures are steamed to perfection. The unadulterated taste of perfectly steamed clams, crabs, or lobsters is an experience that rivals an expertly prepared dish from a five star restaurant. The less time in between the pot and my plate the better.
The five of us waited, fixated on the gentle clanging of the pot as steam burbled out at regular intervals. In order to distract us from our eager tastebuds, D2 (D's father) took out a small instrument from a sideboard next to the blazing fire. As an accompaniment to the percolating enamelware came the mournful sound of Scottish sea shanties on a penny whistle. Fog magically rolled into the kitchen, I could hear the creak of the deck and the tightened lines, and a salty smell that had nothing to do with the lobsters wafted into my nose. No longer was I nestled in an armchair with The H.M.S. Surprise in my lap, a golden retriever sitting beneath my languidly crossed ankles; I was sailing somewhere through the seas with a hull full of ship's biscuits and weevils. My mates were thinking longingly of their next meal, and somewhere in the rigging a sailor was playing a simple elegy on the one instrument that would fit in his sea trunk.
Then the lid came off the pot and the spell was broken. Golden melted butter streamed into dishes, mallets and crackers came around the table, and the now thoroughly dead lobsters sat in a steaming pile in front of us. Gleefully I tackled my crustacean, and with expert tutelage from the Henrys, I scraped it clean of all its rich salty meat.
Because of nights like these it is difficult to describe to someone what "the sea" means. It is people, it is images, it is creatures, it is a feeling and an emotion. It calms, it kils, and it connects the world. The last unconquered wilderness on our planet, the salty oceans make up a part of my swarthy soul; I've spent a few years cradled by turquoise waves in South Florida, grown up with the grey-browns and (sometimes) blues of the Chesapeake and Mid-Atlantic, and now I have the cold rocky spray of the North Atlantic.
This past year has not been the most relaxing nor the most personally rewarding of my life. There have been a lot of betrayals, a fair amount of disillusionment, a bit of loneliness, and a few scares. I needed to get that out of my system, purge it with something cleansing. My parents used to say that salt water was good for healing, even though it stung. We'll see if it continues to work as I follow the Atlantic south.
On the day before I left Nova Scotia on "The Cat," the high speed catamaran ferry, the warmed up enough for a skinny dip in the Tusket. On a secluded beach miles away from human beings, my fellow migrating tern and I waded into chilly water trying to acclimatize ourselves. There's really no way to adjust to 50-something degree water, so we counted to three and held our breath as we let go into the cleansing saline river. As I laid my now goosebumped self on a sunny rock, my mind seemed to wake up, I felt as though I had shed more than my clothes when I went into the water. I'm ready for a new phase of my life, and I think the northern waters were the perfect thing to get me cleaned up and ready for it.
If, on a winter's night a traveler outside the town of Malbork, leaning from a steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down into the gathering shadow...on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story there awaits its end? -italo calvino
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Wheels are turning
At the end of the summer, I find myself living in Washington DC. The prospect of free rent and the proximity of D makes it the best choice of a temporary home, and now that our plans have readjusted themselves I no longer need to look for long-term housing. When people say "Oh, so what do you do?" I look at them, take a pause, and reply "Nothing."
Of course, this could not be farther from the truth. I am happy to elaborate should they care to hear, and luckily most of my friends do continue their enquiries. When I say that I have been doing nothing, this is merely the indicator that I am not currently involved in "productive pursuits, as defined by the industrialist economy. I have no job, am not a student, and am not making money (legally, or by other means). What I have been able to do in the past three weeks is disentangle myself from the frenzy of my former state.
When I walked into the travel bookstore on 14th and V, I told the owner that I was getting ready to travel in South America for some time, and needed a guide book to start me off. Immediately I felt bombarded by feelings of guilt, elitism, privelege, and hypocrisy; earlier that day, I'd recieved a message from a friend in Miami reminding me that Dade County Public Schools had started without me. Rationally I am aware of the fact that my talents are going to be better utilized outside of Miami Central, that battling with hordes of 9th graders, the school system, and idiotic bureaucratic policies does not bring fulfillment to my life, but a very tiny part of me felt that I should be there to begin the new scholastic cycle. I then walked over to the stack labeled "Central, South America" and quickly got over myself. After a leisurely selection process, I returned to the counter to pay for my thick, juicy book ripe with possibilities. The clerk told me that I'd made a good choice, and I felt the need to justify my seemingly frivolous travel plans. "I just finished Teach for America" I told her, and it hit me. I finished. I'm done. My responsibilities and duties to the organization, the school system, to decorum, politeness, professionalism, and well-intentioned industry were over. This realization seemed beyond belief.
"It's time to do something for me for a change" I said in response to her congratulations. Quite true. It is time for Thea. TFA changed my life in thousands of ways; it most definitely made me rethink my career goals and life plan, as well as my social and civic responsibilities. I do not, however, owe my life to TFA, or to the struggle against educational inequity. I gave them my promised two years, which goes above and beyond what they expect from most of their members. Shit, I even gave them their significant gains: take that, learning gap!
During my time in Miami I gave up a lot of me. It wasn't all TFA's fault, nor was it all Miami's fault; a lot of it was the school, a lot of it was FIU, and a lot of it was me being willing to give. There were some things that I struggled fiercely to keep: home-cooked meals, sleep, weekends off, and a modicum of psychological detachment. I won most of the time.
Now, I don't have to fight so much. I become a different person when I am not constantly under assault or attempting to attack something, and I like that different person a hell of a lot more.
I don't do "nothing;" I cook, I enjoy the smell and feel of freshly laundered towels, I read a LOT, I exercise, I eat well, I see my boyfriend and my family, and I think. One thing that has been suspiciously absent from my life for a while is thinking. I'm talking about slow, plodding, idea-building synapse reactions that stimulate my brain. For the past two years or so I've calibrated my brain to last-minute decisions, scrambling to avoid punishment or retribution, and frenzied calculations of doing the least harm. Finally there is time in my schedule for less than lightning quick decisions, and time for thought about what exactly I want from life.
Most of the milestone decisions that I have encountered have been solved with non-decisions: soccer, college, and TFA. Traditionally, I am a horrible decision maker. Decisive, yes, but prone to agonize excessively and thus procrastinate past the point of effectiveness. Questions about grad school, my personal life, and my professional goals still encroach on my sunny perspective, but at least I can begin to think about them realistically and logically.
In the meantime, I enjoy doing "nothing." It's okay for a little while. It's also okay if I cook a few dinners, do some laundry, and play the part of temporary homemaker. It's not my calling, nor something that I would like to do long-term, but it's comforting. D is finishing up his last week working for the Man in corporate America, and I have less scheduled responsibilities than he does. This provides me with great things, like the ability to ponder gender equality in the middle of the afternoon, a luxury that has been absent from my life for quite some time. It doesn't make me less strong or less of a modern woman to do a load of laundry and put the dishes away, even though these seem like menial tasks.
It takes a lot to realize that what is fair is not always what is equal. I thought that I'd learned this lesson last year, but to truly understand it you have to have been on both sides. When shit hit the fan in the Zone, and State scrutiny of schools stepped up the pressure on everyone, D started coming to Miami a lot more than I ventured up north. It was a small concession, but it made my life immesurably easier. We didn't travel an equal amount, and we didn't quite spend an equal amout on seeing each other, but it was "fair" in both of our minds. This is no small accomplishment, and not something that we agreed upon instantaneously. Now that my life is somewhat less stressful than his, my belongings are (mostly) stored and organized, I get to return the favor, albeit in a different form. I am not rejecting feminism by cooking for my boyfriend and helping out around the house. It's okay to help him move, because helped me do it in June. If I have to fold clothes for a week or so, I can temporarily adjust. It may not be an equal division of labor, but I believe that it's fair. I know that at some point, he'll return the favor.
In other contexts I might feel a little bitter, even resentful about my current posision in life, but since I am a sentient, logical being I do not. If I stop to think about things, my life begins to make sense again. It moves along with a pace that better suits my psyche. I may be homeless and unemployed, but I'm starting to use my out of shape brain, and it's good to feel wheels grinding away up there. Let's see where they take me.
Of course, this could not be farther from the truth. I am happy to elaborate should they care to hear, and luckily most of my friends do continue their enquiries. When I say that I have been doing nothing, this is merely the indicator that I am not currently involved in "productive pursuits, as defined by the industrialist economy. I have no job, am not a student, and am not making money (legally, or by other means). What I have been able to do in the past three weeks is disentangle myself from the frenzy of my former state.
When I walked into the travel bookstore on 14th and V, I told the owner that I was getting ready to travel in South America for some time, and needed a guide book to start me off. Immediately I felt bombarded by feelings of guilt, elitism, privelege, and hypocrisy; earlier that day, I'd recieved a message from a friend in Miami reminding me that Dade County Public Schools had started without me. Rationally I am aware of the fact that my talents are going to be better utilized outside of Miami Central, that battling with hordes of 9th graders, the school system, and idiotic bureaucratic policies does not bring fulfillment to my life, but a very tiny part of me felt that I should be there to begin the new scholastic cycle. I then walked over to the stack labeled "Central, South America" and quickly got over myself. After a leisurely selection process, I returned to the counter to pay for my thick, juicy book ripe with possibilities. The clerk told me that I'd made a good choice, and I felt the need to justify my seemingly frivolous travel plans. "I just finished Teach for America" I told her, and it hit me. I finished. I'm done. My responsibilities and duties to the organization, the school system, to decorum, politeness, professionalism, and well-intentioned industry were over. This realization seemed beyond belief.
"It's time to do something for me for a change" I said in response to her congratulations. Quite true. It is time for Thea. TFA changed my life in thousands of ways; it most definitely made me rethink my career goals and life plan, as well as my social and civic responsibilities. I do not, however, owe my life to TFA, or to the struggle against educational inequity. I gave them my promised two years, which goes above and beyond what they expect from most of their members. Shit, I even gave them their significant gains: take that, learning gap!
During my time in Miami I gave up a lot of me. It wasn't all TFA's fault, nor was it all Miami's fault; a lot of it was the school, a lot of it was FIU, and a lot of it was me being willing to give. There were some things that I struggled fiercely to keep: home-cooked meals, sleep, weekends off, and a modicum of psychological detachment. I won most of the time.
Now, I don't have to fight so much. I become a different person when I am not constantly under assault or attempting to attack something, and I like that different person a hell of a lot more.
I don't do "nothing;" I cook, I enjoy the smell and feel of freshly laundered towels, I read a LOT, I exercise, I eat well, I see my boyfriend and my family, and I think. One thing that has been suspiciously absent from my life for a while is thinking. I'm talking about slow, plodding, idea-building synapse reactions that stimulate my brain. For the past two years or so I've calibrated my brain to last-minute decisions, scrambling to avoid punishment or retribution, and frenzied calculations of doing the least harm. Finally there is time in my schedule for less than lightning quick decisions, and time for thought about what exactly I want from life.
Most of the milestone decisions that I have encountered have been solved with non-decisions: soccer, college, and TFA. Traditionally, I am a horrible decision maker. Decisive, yes, but prone to agonize excessively and thus procrastinate past the point of effectiveness. Questions about grad school, my personal life, and my professional goals still encroach on my sunny perspective, but at least I can begin to think about them realistically and logically.
In the meantime, I enjoy doing "nothing." It's okay for a little while. It's also okay if I cook a few dinners, do some laundry, and play the part of temporary homemaker. It's not my calling, nor something that I would like to do long-term, but it's comforting. D is finishing up his last week working for the Man in corporate America, and I have less scheduled responsibilities than he does. This provides me with great things, like the ability to ponder gender equality in the middle of the afternoon, a luxury that has been absent from my life for quite some time. It doesn't make me less strong or less of a modern woman to do a load of laundry and put the dishes away, even though these seem like menial tasks.
It takes a lot to realize that what is fair is not always what is equal. I thought that I'd learned this lesson last year, but to truly understand it you have to have been on both sides. When shit hit the fan in the Zone, and State scrutiny of schools stepped up the pressure on everyone, D started coming to Miami a lot more than I ventured up north. It was a small concession, but it made my life immesurably easier. We didn't travel an equal amount, and we didn't quite spend an equal amout on seeing each other, but it was "fair" in both of our minds. This is no small accomplishment, and not something that we agreed upon instantaneously. Now that my life is somewhat less stressful than his, my belongings are (mostly) stored and organized, I get to return the favor, albeit in a different form. I am not rejecting feminism by cooking for my boyfriend and helping out around the house. It's okay to help him move, because helped me do it in June. If I have to fold clothes for a week or so, I can temporarily adjust. It may not be an equal division of labor, but I believe that it's fair. I know that at some point, he'll return the favor.
In other contexts I might feel a little bitter, even resentful about my current posision in life, but since I am a sentient, logical being I do not. If I stop to think about things, my life begins to make sense again. It moves along with a pace that better suits my psyche. I may be homeless and unemployed, but I'm starting to use my out of shape brain, and it's good to feel wheels grinding away up there. Let's see where they take me.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
How about a nice cold one?
I have decided that I'm just not cut out for the service industry. Unfortunately, I am beginning to discover that EDUCATION is also included in this blanket category. Here I thought that my heaven-sent cushy summer job had something to do with "education" and "some of the brightest students," instead of those kids that couldn't get into an academic summer program and needed their parents to start signing checks before they could attach "college credit" to their college apps. This is highly specious college credit, if you didn't figure that out on the first try.
Let my preface my tirade by expressing my gratitude for being able to "live" in Spain for a month with relatively little cost. By "live" I of course mean spend a month in a semi-shady hotel room with the worst food on the Iberian Penninsula, and by relatively little cost, I would of course downplay my addiction to Spanish fashion in the form of Zara and locally made shoes.
My Spanish got a much-needed tune-up, and after nearly two years of disuse, that felt good. I also got to meet some pretty amazing Sevillanos, whom I know I will stay in touch with.
Let's recap: shoes, a few dresses, pleasant interactions with approximately 8 people, that's what I got out of my last visit to Spain.
The rest of my time was divided between being shot down by my boss after an attempt at "order" "discipline" or "planning," sitting in Starbucks to ensure that the chavales didn't drink/have sex/get lost in the 15 cubic meter commercial space, guiding groups of whiny children in 100+ degree heat, finding tiritas to cover the inevitable bloodied heel from four-inch stilettos, and/or searching for that place deep down within my soul from which I could drag up a plastered on "happy face" which would signal to both my employer and clients that I wished nothing more than to be at their beck and call for a mere pittance of a salary. Oh, and did I mention that I lost my cameras (yes, that's cameraS with a plural) in the JFK airport? There's something about Spain that sucks Nikon N80's into oblivion.
At typical evening waiting outside the illustrious Hotel Don Paco for the little angels.
Scheduled departure time: 7:45. At this time two children are outside the hotel ready to go: the alterna-chick from Manhattan, silent brooding boy, and the One-In-A-Million considerate JAP.
7:55- Andy, Brandi, Bobbi, Joey, Amy, and Sam (all girls) stumble downstairs in their too-short skirts, too-small shirts, and too-tall shoes. I mumble my daily futile plea, which as usual falls on deaf ears: "If you can't walk in your shoes, please don't wear them."
8:00- Said androgynously named bunch collectively ignore my well intentioned warning and proceed to take upwards of 30 pictures of themselves, in various groups and from various angles.
8:15- Myself, or one of the other illustrious leaders verbalizes the need to depart for restaurant.
8:16- Someone starts crying re: hair that has not been properly straightened; shoes not appropriate for venue (go figure!); Andy, Randi, Bobbi, Joey, Amy, or Sam is wearing part or all of my outfit and we cannot be seen together; Sandy (boy) is not here, and I can't eat without my boyfriend.
8:20- Crying person is appeased, per request of Program Director, by any means necessary.
8:30- Group departs on foot for dinner.
8:45- Group arrives at restaurant (normally a 5 minute walk, elongated beyond recognition due to stilettos) to greet angry restaurateur who has been ready for an hour. Staff member apologizes, then proceeds to apologize for rude behavior of students yelling at each other, scrambling for seats, and rearranging entire restaurant seating area to prohibit other customers from eating.
9:25- 8 bulimic girls visit bathroom one at a time (or all at once) to vomit up pre-paid dinner.
9:30- Staff member again apologizes to owner, waitstaff, and manager for group behavior and rudeness, then leaves with students.
9:50- Return to hotel so that children could dig up the sequestered alcohol from myriad corners of room and proceed to get drunk, while staff members patrol hallways and monitor activities.
To be fair, I could interact with most of the children (note caveat of *most*) on an individual basis; some of them were even smart/interesting, like the kid who worked three jobs to pay for his own trip, and was genuinely interesteed in Spanish history and culture. But there is still something so foul, so unbearable about the behavior of teens in large, uncontrolled masses that leaves a slime of filth on my psyche. It's not indelible, but neither is it removed with great facility.
The easiest way, and most pleasurable as I learned from one of my first teaching mentors, is to wash it down with a nice cold one. Unfortunately, this was contractually prohibited by my employer while I was within EU territory. Very quickly, however, we learned to adapt as the children did, sneaking a manzanilla, a cerveza, or a cubata from the bar when the little ones were at play. Ironically, I never snuck around to drink in high school, so this couldn't hearken back to old times of illicit drinking and partying, but even without that sort of nostalgia I felt immersed in that same awful, vindictive, manipulative, petty, stupid culture.
Ick.
I'm glad it's all over. Now, I think I'll walk downstairs to my own refrigerator, in the privacy of my adult living space and grab one (not five, not three, not ten, but ONE) cold beer to savor on a hot summer evening. That's what life should be like.
Let my preface my tirade by expressing my gratitude for being able to "live" in Spain for a month with relatively little cost. By "live" I of course mean spend a month in a semi-shady hotel room with the worst food on the Iberian Penninsula, and by relatively little cost, I would of course downplay my addiction to Spanish fashion in the form of Zara and locally made shoes.
My Spanish got a much-needed tune-up, and after nearly two years of disuse, that felt good. I also got to meet some pretty amazing Sevillanos, whom I know I will stay in touch with.
Let's recap: shoes, a few dresses, pleasant interactions with approximately 8 people, that's what I got out of my last visit to Spain.
The rest of my time was divided between being shot down by my boss after an attempt at "order" "discipline" or "planning," sitting in Starbucks to ensure that the chavales didn't drink/have sex/get lost in the 15 cubic meter commercial space, guiding groups of whiny children in 100+ degree heat, finding tiritas to cover the inevitable bloodied heel from four-inch stilettos, and/or searching for that place deep down within my soul from which I could drag up a plastered on "happy face" which would signal to both my employer and clients that I wished nothing more than to be at their beck and call for a mere pittance of a salary. Oh, and did I mention that I lost my cameras (yes, that's cameraS with a plural) in the JFK airport? There's something about Spain that sucks Nikon N80's into oblivion.
At typical evening waiting outside the illustrious Hotel Don Paco for the little angels.
Scheduled departure time: 7:45. At this time two children are outside the hotel ready to go: the alterna-chick from Manhattan, silent brooding boy, and the One-In-A-Million considerate JAP.
7:55- Andy, Brandi, Bobbi, Joey, Amy, and Sam (all girls) stumble downstairs in their too-short skirts, too-small shirts, and too-tall shoes. I mumble my daily futile plea, which as usual falls on deaf ears: "If you can't walk in your shoes, please don't wear them."
8:00- Said androgynously named bunch collectively ignore my well intentioned warning and proceed to take upwards of 30 pictures of themselves, in various groups and from various angles.
8:15- Myself, or one of the other illustrious leaders verbalizes the need to depart for restaurant.
8:16- Someone starts crying re: hair that has not been properly straightened; shoes not appropriate for venue (go figure!); Andy, Randi, Bobbi, Joey, Amy, or Sam is wearing part or all of my outfit and we cannot be seen together; Sandy (boy) is not here, and I can't eat without my boyfriend.
8:20- Crying person is appeased, per request of Program Director, by any means necessary.
8:30- Group departs on foot for dinner.
8:45- Group arrives at restaurant (normally a 5 minute walk, elongated beyond recognition due to stilettos) to greet angry restaurateur who has been ready for an hour. Staff member apologizes, then proceeds to apologize for rude behavior of students yelling at each other, scrambling for seats, and rearranging entire restaurant seating area to prohibit other customers from eating.
9:25- 8 bulimic girls visit bathroom one at a time (or all at once) to vomit up pre-paid dinner.
9:30- Staff member again apologizes to owner, waitstaff, and manager for group behavior and rudeness, then leaves with students.
9:50- Return to hotel so that children could dig up the sequestered alcohol from myriad corners of room and proceed to get drunk, while staff members patrol hallways and monitor activities.
To be fair, I could interact with most of the children (note caveat of *most*) on an individual basis; some of them were even smart/interesting, like the kid who worked three jobs to pay for his own trip, and was genuinely interesteed in Spanish history and culture. But there is still something so foul, so unbearable about the behavior of teens in large, uncontrolled masses that leaves a slime of filth on my psyche. It's not indelible, but neither is it removed with great facility.
The easiest way, and most pleasurable as I learned from one of my first teaching mentors, is to wash it down with a nice cold one. Unfortunately, this was contractually prohibited by my employer while I was within EU territory. Very quickly, however, we learned to adapt as the children did, sneaking a manzanilla, a cerveza, or a cubata from the bar when the little ones were at play. Ironically, I never snuck around to drink in high school, so this couldn't hearken back to old times of illicit drinking and partying, but even without that sort of nostalgia I felt immersed in that same awful, vindictive, manipulative, petty, stupid culture.
Ick.
I'm glad it's all over. Now, I think I'll walk downstairs to my own refrigerator, in the privacy of my adult living space and grab one (not five, not three, not ten, but ONE) cold beer to savor on a hot summer evening. That's what life should be like.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
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?
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?
Monday, April 24, 2006
Un vistazo a Baja California
Here are some highlights from the B.C. Road trip this Spring Break. Spain is go for launch this fall, and I'm actually starting to think seriously about jobs for next year, which is a big leap from sort of kind of thinking about jobs for next year. Maybe within the week I might get as far as "looking" for jobs. Woah.
This weekend was fantastically fun, with a wine-tasting on Friday, cleaning, shopping, and "Thank You For Smoking" on Saturday, and well, Sunday wasn't fun. Dave's coming next weekend! Yay! I'm not feeling very revelatory, seeing as how I've just done my laundry and my 4th period staged a mutiny today while I sat silent at my desk for 85 minutes. I've already resigned in my head, so it's kind of hard to keep telling myself that I still have to do a job.
The Zoo is our planned fieldtrip on Wednesday; more accurately, there's a zoo at Central *every* day.
Much more fun, is the carefree Bajacalifornia. Enjoy.
Day 1: Viajando
Twenty minutes from the airport, a sign saying “Tijuana 5, Border 4” appears, and all of a sudden there’s some orange cones and a huge cement overpass. With merely a flag from a Mexican official and a $2.40 toll, we cross la frontera into Mexico. There are literally miles of cars lined up going the other way; wonder of wonders, it’s harder to get out of Mexico than get in.
After about twenty miles of beachfront property and surfer communities, we arrive at Ensenada. The road is right on the mountains which lead to the Pacific, and the view as the afternoon sun sinks down is pretty incredible. There are tons of white stucco houses hugging the hill both above and below the highway. Pulling in to Ensenada, we see the cruise ships looming on the horizon, boding ill for whatever sort of ‘culture’ we may find.
We select a modest hotel for the evening, and then go about exploring the town. A walk down the malecón is requisite for a Saturday night, so we obliged. Dinner was an adventure, at a place called Guadalajara. I thought I had ordered beef tacos, but to my surprise stew came out instead. Thankfully, it was wonderful, and the ice cold Dos Equis that accompanied it was most welcome. Our tortillas came right off the cast iron griddle: hot, steamy, and deliciously full of lard.
Day 2: Blowhole "La Bufadora", en coche
Despite the pitfalls of Sunday traveling, spirits were high as we set off from La Bufadora. I was a little tired, and unsure of how our outdoor plans for the week were going to pan out, so we decided to hoof it south instead of spending any more time in Baja Norte.
We could not have made a better decision. The road through vineyard country was breathtaking; the transpeninsular highway follows a mountain valley down the coast with green-grey hills cradling olive, citrus, and wheat farms. Nearly 200 miles of beautiful scenery, mountain overlooks, red plowed earth, and picturesque farmland. One highlight of the trip was getting stuck behind a small, small sedan carrying a family of eight. Through the zonas de curves it’s impossible (even if you’re a crazy local driver) to pass, so we tailed a rusted blue 1970’s car as it chugged perilously up the mountain curves.
It was unclear whether or not we would actually make it to San Quintín before nightfall, and we definitely pushed the limit of the guidebook regulations. It looks like the crisis of 1994 hit northern Baja pretty hard; as dusk set in, the settlements around the road approaching San Quintín became poorer and poorer. Many had dozens of half-completed houses and buildings that look as if they’d been forgotten about for a decade. As if all the residents in the town suddenly died. More likely, the funds which were fueling the development died out, and people cut their losses by selling the risky agricultural land to some foreign-owned agri-business.
Nearly got lost on some dirt roads trying to find a place to stay, but we made it to the Old Mill Motel safe and sound, only to find a Haverford lisence plate holder on an SUV with California plates. The world is a very, very small place.
Day 3: Desierto Central
From there, the scenery changed dramatically. The water dried up, and the cacti sprang out of the hillsides. Even on the coastal road, the land was dry, and as soon as 1 hooked east at Rosario, all non-desert vegetation vanished. Huge cardón started to appear, as well as the spindly cerio trees, which by the time we were close to Cataviña really did have the flaming yellow flowers at the top. Huge mesas, protected by the harsh forces of erosion by volcanic deposits, stuck up from the horizon in random intervals, and the highway climbed up among them as it wound southeast. I even saw a kestrel perched on top of a cactus, hunting for prey. Then, just as the guidebook said it would, the boulder plain appeared. Right in the midst of cacti and tumbleweed (palo verde bushes?) were immense piles of granite boulders. Our first guess was that the ice age was responsible for depositing that kind of rubble, but the museum a little later on explained that the rock piles used to be whole granite mountains that have been broken apart by wind, rain, and other natural forces. We stopped for a brief road hike to a couple of interesting looking cardones, and then really settled in the “museum,” a small plastic geodesic dome with some information plaques and a sketched out map of trails in the area.
After un paseo por the small circular path which named the local flora, we returned to the car for hiking supplies and set out for the top of one of the smaller mountains nearby. Following a sandy horse trail through the prickly underbrush, we found a small dry riverbed that took us to the base of the hill. An hour and several scratches later, we found ourselves at the top of the valley, looking down on miles and miles of cacti, elephant trees, and huge chunks of granite. A pair of hawks cavorted overhead in the thermals, completing the perfect desert landscape. Satisfied with our adventure, we picked our way down the mountainside admiring the oddly shaped boulders. One was shaped like a chair, another carved hollow, and one that was decidedly vaginal.
Day 4: Bahia de los Angeles
After three days of driving, we made it to the only intersection that we would ever have to take. Hung a left when we saw the sign for Bahía de los Angeles, and 66 kilometers later we saw the ocean over the next ridges. In honor of the completely cloudless skies and the atmosphere which the turkey vultures sunning themselves on cacti created, I turned the iTrip to Wilie Nelson, and we sang along to most of “Red Headed Stranger” on our desert leg of the trip, which got gradually drier and drier as we moved farther east from highway 1. Rocky islands popped up out of the sparkling silver water, and we had arrived.
At 10:30 we had checked in to Raquel and Larry’s Restaurant and Hotel, after surveying the other lodging options in the “town” itself. Before our stay in Cataviña, when the electricity didn’t switch on until the sun went down, I never would have understood the luxury of the well-advertised “24 hour electricity” that flows through the circuits of Raquel and Larry’s Motel. Bahía consists mainly of taquerias and campgrounds strung out along the beach, with a lighthouse and museum thrown in for spice. Tickled pink that we had the whole day to frolic, we took the kayaks out after budgeting out the rest of our cash. Not surprisingly, there are no banks from Guerrero Negro to San Quintín, but that was not a fact that we had counted on when assessing our financial situation in Ensenada. If we ate sparingly and spent no money on water activities, we would have just enough money for lodging, meals, and gas to get back to civilization, or the land of electronic banking.
Throwing pecuniary cares to the wind, we grabbed paddles and headed out into the bay. Dave was daring enough to go all the way in the water, but I wasn’t quite that ambitious. It was decided upon that we would take one of the leaden tandem kayaks compliments of Larry. The water was brisk, but felt good with the sun on us all day. We beached the boats by a British retirement home and walked down the beach for a while as the tide came in. It was so relaxing to explore for the sake of exploring, run just to try to beat the waves up the beach, and have no more cares than not stepping on shells.
Day 5: Bahia II
Somewhat less of an early start began what we consider to be our only somewhat indolent day. Pinched for pennies, we did not breakfast with abandon, but snacked on almonds and whatever else we could scrounge from the room. After that, we prettied ourselves for a trip to the Campamento Torgugueño.
[social justice interlude; skip if you will =)]
There, to my surprise, was a very down to earth and knowledgeable caretaker whom we chatted with for about an hour after the irritating teenage tourist and her mother left. They promised excessively to return to “limpiar las tortuguitas.” There were 11 turtles in all, living in what I considered to be pretty substandard accommodations of flaking concrete tanks. What one observes on first sight, however, is rarely what is actually true. Upon discussion with the caretaker, we learned that the Mexican government had recently taken over the administration of the program, and thus its purpose and funding became rather uncertain. As can be expected, the promised money from the government gets caught up in bureaucratic red tape for months, and the survival of the center pretty much depends on it. Also, due to new regulations regarding the capture and care of endangered species, it seemed that the government was becoming more and more particular about who was able to care for the turtles, who brought them in, how long they stayed, and when (or if) they were released. While I certainly see the necessity of regulation, here it really seemed that the citizens of the town were trying to combat the damage previously done to the turtle population, and were being criticized as opportunistic, or the government was afraid that people were taking advantage of the turtle program. How anyone could construe the townspeople of gaining something from this sad little center is pretty amazing, but I would venture to guess that few of the regulatory bodies had ever seen the place to begin with. He also mentioned that a lot of people criticize them for keeping the turtles in inhumane conditions, but it seems better than leaving them stranded in a gill net, or however injured they might arrive at the station. We also had an interesting talk about the classification of national parks in Mexico, as Bahía de los Angeles is applying for ‘biosphere’ status from President Fox before he leaves office. The experience on the whole started off rather depressing, with the state of the Turtle Conservation Program leaving little hope for the Mexican sea turtle at all, but after speaking with the dedicated, intelligent staff of the center and hearing plans for improvements, as well as the other turtle centers all over the country, it was invigorating to see people working to protect something that they care about, even in the face of frustration and financial difficulties.
From there, we continued on into town to do some shopping, but the store, not surprisingly was a bit of a dump. They did have cold-ish coca cola light for sale, in which I chose to indulge. Man, was that delicious. Still hungry, we decided that our best option was Raquel’s fare.
What ensued was a deliciously relaxed lunch on the porch of the hotel, overlooking a sunny, golden beach, and the weathered palapas. Fish tacos for Dave, and a quesadilla with homemade guacamole for me was just enough to fill us up. I find it hard to tire of freshly crisped tortilla chips. While waiting for lunch, Dave continued his día de español by reading the local bilingual tourist magazine and practicing explaining things to me in Spanish. We did some work on metacognition (recognizing vowel sounds), as well as eliminating inhibiting factors. Thanks to my ESOL classes, I have become much more aware (if not effusively supportive yet) of the hows and whys of learning a language.
After lunch, we rested our tummies before venturing out for more outdoor activities. The kayaks were again our chosen water sport, sardonically bringing with us the underwater camera, which had as yet gone unused, along with our poor snorkel equipment. Fortunately, the water was slightly warmer, it being low tide, and there was much to be seen in the shallows around the kelp bed: pufferfish, small blackish stingrays, fish, sea stars, and all sorts of sponges and small corals. It was quite the informative trip, and it felt divine to have the sun on our faces and the wind in our hair. It got quite cold as the sun went down, so a hot shower in the semi-functional bathroom sans water pressure was more than necessary before venturing up the homemade stairs for dinner, so that my toes returned to their normal pinkish-tan.
As the sun set that evening, we took P&P up to the restaurant part of the hotel for our final dinner. Nursing a few coronas which barely squeezed into our budget, we nearly finished the book as the noisy families around us shared the cool night air. We could see every single crater on the full moon through Larry’s antique telescope chained to the tilting porch.
This weekend was fantastically fun, with a wine-tasting on Friday, cleaning, shopping, and "Thank You For Smoking" on Saturday, and well, Sunday wasn't fun. Dave's coming next weekend! Yay! I'm not feeling very revelatory, seeing as how I've just done my laundry and my 4th period staged a mutiny today while I sat silent at my desk for 85 minutes. I've already resigned in my head, so it's kind of hard to keep telling myself that I still have to do a job.
The Zoo is our planned fieldtrip on Wednesday; more accurately, there's a zoo at Central *every* day.
Much more fun, is the carefree Bajacalifornia. Enjoy.
Day 1: Viajando
Twenty minutes from the airport, a sign saying “Tijuana 5, Border 4” appears, and all of a sudden there’s some orange cones and a huge cement overpass. With merely a flag from a Mexican official and a $2.40 toll, we cross la frontera into Mexico. There are literally miles of cars lined up going the other way; wonder of wonders, it’s harder to get out of Mexico than get in.
After about twenty miles of beachfront property and surfer communities, we arrive at Ensenada. The road is right on the mountains which lead to the Pacific, and the view as the afternoon sun sinks down is pretty incredible. There are tons of white stucco houses hugging the hill both above and below the highway. Pulling in to Ensenada, we see the cruise ships looming on the horizon, boding ill for whatever sort of ‘culture’ we may find.
We select a modest hotel for the evening, and then go about exploring the town. A walk down the malecón is requisite for a Saturday night, so we obliged. Dinner was an adventure, at a place called Guadalajara. I thought I had ordered beef tacos, but to my surprise stew came out instead. Thankfully, it was wonderful, and the ice cold Dos Equis that accompanied it was most welcome. Our tortillas came right off the cast iron griddle: hot, steamy, and deliciously full of lard.
Day 2: Blowhole "La Bufadora", en coche
Despite the pitfalls of Sunday traveling, spirits were high as we set off from La Bufadora. I was a little tired, and unsure of how our outdoor plans for the week were going to pan out, so we decided to hoof it south instead of spending any more time in Baja Norte.
We could not have made a better decision. The road through vineyard country was breathtaking; the transpeninsular highway follows a mountain valley down the coast with green-grey hills cradling olive, citrus, and wheat farms. Nearly 200 miles of beautiful scenery, mountain overlooks, red plowed earth, and picturesque farmland. One highlight of the trip was getting stuck behind a small, small sedan carrying a family of eight. Through the zonas de curves it’s impossible (even if you’re a crazy local driver) to pass, so we tailed a rusted blue 1970’s car as it chugged perilously up the mountain curves.
It was unclear whether or not we would actually make it to San Quintín before nightfall, and we definitely pushed the limit of the guidebook regulations. It looks like the crisis of 1994 hit northern Baja pretty hard; as dusk set in, the settlements around the road approaching San Quintín became poorer and poorer. Many had dozens of half-completed houses and buildings that look as if they’d been forgotten about for a decade. As if all the residents in the town suddenly died. More likely, the funds which were fueling the development died out, and people cut their losses by selling the risky agricultural land to some foreign-owned agri-business.
Nearly got lost on some dirt roads trying to find a place to stay, but we made it to the Old Mill Motel safe and sound, only to find a Haverford lisence plate holder on an SUV with California plates. The world is a very, very small place.
Day 3: Desierto Central
From there, the scenery changed dramatically. The water dried up, and the cacti sprang out of the hillsides. Even on the coastal road, the land was dry, and as soon as 1 hooked east at Rosario, all non-desert vegetation vanished. Huge cardón started to appear, as well as the spindly cerio trees, which by the time we were close to Cataviña really did have the flaming yellow flowers at the top. Huge mesas, protected by the harsh forces of erosion by volcanic deposits, stuck up from the horizon in random intervals, and the highway climbed up among them as it wound southeast. I even saw a kestrel perched on top of a cactus, hunting for prey. Then, just as the guidebook said it would, the boulder plain appeared. Right in the midst of cacti and tumbleweed (palo verde bushes?) were immense piles of granite boulders. Our first guess was that the ice age was responsible for depositing that kind of rubble, but the museum a little later on explained that the rock piles used to be whole granite mountains that have been broken apart by wind, rain, and other natural forces. We stopped for a brief road hike to a couple of interesting looking cardones, and then really settled in the “museum,” a small plastic geodesic dome with some information plaques and a sketched out map of trails in the area.
After un paseo por the small circular path which named the local flora, we returned to the car for hiking supplies and set out for the top of one of the smaller mountains nearby. Following a sandy horse trail through the prickly underbrush, we found a small dry riverbed that took us to the base of the hill. An hour and several scratches later, we found ourselves at the top of the valley, looking down on miles and miles of cacti, elephant trees, and huge chunks of granite. A pair of hawks cavorted overhead in the thermals, completing the perfect desert landscape. Satisfied with our adventure, we picked our way down the mountainside admiring the oddly shaped boulders. One was shaped like a chair, another carved hollow, and one that was decidedly vaginal.
Day 4: Bahia de los Angeles
After three days of driving, we made it to the only intersection that we would ever have to take. Hung a left when we saw the sign for Bahía de los Angeles, and 66 kilometers later we saw the ocean over the next ridges. In honor of the completely cloudless skies and the atmosphere which the turkey vultures sunning themselves on cacti created, I turned the iTrip to Wilie Nelson, and we sang along to most of “Red Headed Stranger” on our desert leg of the trip, which got gradually drier and drier as we moved farther east from highway 1. Rocky islands popped up out of the sparkling silver water, and we had arrived.
At 10:30 we had checked in to Raquel and Larry’s Restaurant and Hotel, after surveying the other lodging options in the “town” itself. Before our stay in Cataviña, when the electricity didn’t switch on until the sun went down, I never would have understood the luxury of the well-advertised “24 hour electricity” that flows through the circuits of Raquel and Larry’s Motel. Bahía consists mainly of taquerias and campgrounds strung out along the beach, with a lighthouse and museum thrown in for spice. Tickled pink that we had the whole day to frolic, we took the kayaks out after budgeting out the rest of our cash. Not surprisingly, there are no banks from Guerrero Negro to San Quintín, but that was not a fact that we had counted on when assessing our financial situation in Ensenada. If we ate sparingly and spent no money on water activities, we would have just enough money for lodging, meals, and gas to get back to civilization, or the land of electronic banking.
Throwing pecuniary cares to the wind, we grabbed paddles and headed out into the bay. Dave was daring enough to go all the way in the water, but I wasn’t quite that ambitious. It was decided upon that we would take one of the leaden tandem kayaks compliments of Larry. The water was brisk, but felt good with the sun on us all day. We beached the boats by a British retirement home and walked down the beach for a while as the tide came in. It was so relaxing to explore for the sake of exploring, run just to try to beat the waves up the beach, and have no more cares than not stepping on shells.
Day 5: Bahia II
Somewhat less of an early start began what we consider to be our only somewhat indolent day. Pinched for pennies, we did not breakfast with abandon, but snacked on almonds and whatever else we could scrounge from the room. After that, we prettied ourselves for a trip to the Campamento Torgugueño.
[social justice interlude; skip if you will =)]
There, to my surprise, was a very down to earth and knowledgeable caretaker whom we chatted with for about an hour after the irritating teenage tourist and her mother left. They promised excessively to return to “limpiar las tortuguitas.” There were 11 turtles in all, living in what I considered to be pretty substandard accommodations of flaking concrete tanks. What one observes on first sight, however, is rarely what is actually true. Upon discussion with the caretaker, we learned that the Mexican government had recently taken over the administration of the program, and thus its purpose and funding became rather uncertain. As can be expected, the promised money from the government gets caught up in bureaucratic red tape for months, and the survival of the center pretty much depends on it. Also, due to new regulations regarding the capture and care of endangered species, it seemed that the government was becoming more and more particular about who was able to care for the turtles, who brought them in, how long they stayed, and when (or if) they were released. While I certainly see the necessity of regulation, here it really seemed that the citizens of the town were trying to combat the damage previously done to the turtle population, and were being criticized as opportunistic, or the government was afraid that people were taking advantage of the turtle program. How anyone could construe the townspeople of gaining something from this sad little center is pretty amazing, but I would venture to guess that few of the regulatory bodies had ever seen the place to begin with. He also mentioned that a lot of people criticize them for keeping the turtles in inhumane conditions, but it seems better than leaving them stranded in a gill net, or however injured they might arrive at the station. We also had an interesting talk about the classification of national parks in Mexico, as Bahía de los Angeles is applying for ‘biosphere’ status from President Fox before he leaves office. The experience on the whole started off rather depressing, with the state of the Turtle Conservation Program leaving little hope for the Mexican sea turtle at all, but after speaking with the dedicated, intelligent staff of the center and hearing plans for improvements, as well as the other turtle centers all over the country, it was invigorating to see people working to protect something that they care about, even in the face of frustration and financial difficulties.
From there, we continued on into town to do some shopping, but the store, not surprisingly was a bit of a dump. They did have cold-ish coca cola light for sale, in which I chose to indulge. Man, was that delicious. Still hungry, we decided that our best option was Raquel’s fare.
What ensued was a deliciously relaxed lunch on the porch of the hotel, overlooking a sunny, golden beach, and the weathered palapas. Fish tacos for Dave, and a quesadilla with homemade guacamole for me was just enough to fill us up. I find it hard to tire of freshly crisped tortilla chips. While waiting for lunch, Dave continued his día de español by reading the local bilingual tourist magazine and practicing explaining things to me in Spanish. We did some work on metacognition (recognizing vowel sounds), as well as eliminating inhibiting factors. Thanks to my ESOL classes, I have become much more aware (if not effusively supportive yet) of the hows and whys of learning a language.
After lunch, we rested our tummies before venturing out for more outdoor activities. The kayaks were again our chosen water sport, sardonically bringing with us the underwater camera, which had as yet gone unused, along with our poor snorkel equipment. Fortunately, the water was slightly warmer, it being low tide, and there was much to be seen in the shallows around the kelp bed: pufferfish, small blackish stingrays, fish, sea stars, and all sorts of sponges and small corals. It was quite the informative trip, and it felt divine to have the sun on our faces and the wind in our hair. It got quite cold as the sun went down, so a hot shower in the semi-functional bathroom sans water pressure was more than necessary before venturing up the homemade stairs for dinner, so that my toes returned to their normal pinkish-tan.
As the sun set that evening, we took P&P up to the restaurant part of the hotel for our final dinner. Nursing a few coronas which barely squeezed into our budget, we nearly finished the book as the noisy families around us shared the cool night air. We could see every single crater on the full moon through Larry’s antique telescope chained to the tilting porch.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
AWOL
Back from Baja, and for the first time in a while, actually feel like writing. Work has settled down, and the end is near, which helps me fend off the ever encroaching depression about the state of public education, in Miami-Dade county particularly. More to follow.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Not In My Job Description
Carrying along the theme of "responsibility" which is most salient these days, I find myself consistently redefining what my job is. If I were to write a true and faithful description of the responsibilities that I have incurred as a result of my position in the Miami-Dade County Public School system, my resume would more resemble a gangsta novel than a non-fiction text. Unfortunately, that is the reality of working at a job in an underresourced, understaffed, underregulated, and overlooked low-income school. Several events serve as fantastic exemplars of these types of activities. The down side of trying to be a responsible person is that you end up picking up the slack when other people can't seem to do the things that they are required to do at their job.
For some reason, there seems to be a miscommunication about what is and is not part of different staff members' job description, creating confusion and often chaos when incompetant assholes decide that their job includes 2 hour lunch breaks, taunting students, and encouraging physical violence. Apparently, these tasks are the purview of the high school Security Guard, unbeknownst to me. Really, someone should send out a memo about modified job responsibilities to clue in the rest of the school, just so we're all on the same page.
Two Thursdays ago, before the rash of suspensions that spread through campus quicker than syphilis British Renaissance royalty, I wish people could have just done their jobs. My job, in case I haven't been explicitly clear, is that of a teacher. This means I am responsible for maintaining certain documentation, controlling the classroom, delivering instruction, and assessing my students. While I was in the process of doing my job, two of my little darlings decided to get into a shouting match.
The smaller of the two, a 4' 4" young man who likes to talk a lot of smack, may or may not have instigated the confrontation when he came into class late. Regardless of whomever was responsible for starting the conflict, he and his antagonist, a girl expelled from her previous high school for pulling a knife during a fight, began to abuse each other verbally. As with many confrontations at my school, most of this centered around whether or not each child was ready to "step," or engage in a physical fight. Also, as can be expected, the insults soon degenerated into the steadfast "yo' mama" comments. The most colorful of these I believe was "That's yo' mama's pussy that smells stank."
After taking the steps necessary to fulfill my job requirements, I write down what each child is yelling at each other, give them verbal warnings, and confront them both with what they have said. Keep in mind, I would have to be straight up insane to approach either student physically in order to separate them from each other. That is most definitely not within my rights or responsibilities as a classroom teacher. That's why we have another staff member on campus called a "Security Guard" who is allowed to physically remove a student from class. Playing by the book (stupid Thea, when will you learn how infrequently this ever has positive results?), I walk outside and request that the Security Guard remove the more aggressive female student from the class.
I'm not an expert on the best-practices for Security Guards, but I'm going to hazard a guess that when a young lady is screaming about how stank somebody's mama's pussy is, calling her name softly from outside the door is not going to be your most effective strategy for dissipating the conflict.
Hey, guess what, I was right.
As I turned my back from the incident to grab a referral form from inside my desk, the girl gets up out of her seat, walks over to the boy sitting at his computer, and punches him in the head. Not even knowing what to do, the attacked kid tries to hide against the computer. At this point, the security guard has done nothing. Incredulous, I run across the room and frantically try to think of what I need to do to solve the crisis. I'm not thinking "Hey, that fat fuck over in the corner should be handling this" or "Why doesn't that useless ignorant sorry excuse for a sentient being move his lazy ass." I'm thinking "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." With these eloquent words rolling around in my head, the larger girl takes the boy's head and slams it into the computer monitor. The monitor slides off onto the table, and my first thought is not "Wow, I really shouldn't have to deal with this" or "Oh, I'm sure the security guard is rushing over to intervene." It's "They're going to fire me for letting the kids break computer equipment."
Then, the boy starts to fight back. Both fall to the floor, and my fear of reprimand from the administration gives way to my very real concern for both students' safety. I kick my way into the fight, trying to separate the two. As they writhe away from each other and stand up, still yelling nonsense about somebody's mamma, they fly at each other again, knocking over three desks and a chair, nearly flattening two frightened timid girls. I grab one student's shoulders, and another student intervenes to grab the other belligerant one. I can't even remember which was which.
Now that the immediate violence has abated, I whip around to assess the classroom situation with as much rapidity as I can manage. What should I see but our security guard grinning at the doorway, arms crossed over his rolling gut.
Apparently, he needs a friendly reminder about what is and is not in HIS job description. Call me a lunatic, but I'm going to guess that it was his responsibility, not that of a TEACHER and a STUDENT to break up the fight in the classroom and ensure everyone else's safety. If I do nothing else this year, I will get this man fired. He is the scum of the earth, and a fantastic example of why Miami-Dade Public Schools are fucked. Speaking purely from my own personal anecdotal experience, our school is falling down a long spiral into whatever sort hell your spirituality permits you to imagine: the deep, dark, fiery pits of it.
This was a Thursday, about ten days ago. Mercifully, I'd planned a trip to New York that weekend, and was able to escape the torments of Miami's blistering inferno...for the biggest blizzard to hit Manhattan in recorded history. See, I didn't know it, but I'm actually a well-refined magnet for calamity, natural disasters included. Nearly every day since then, there has been some sort of traumatic event at school, save today.
On Monday, the school board voted to change the calendar, moving the semester up two weeks, making failure notices due in three days. For the next three days, I spent 11 hours at school. I spent more time on 35th Avenue than I spent in my own damn house. On Wednesday, a student in my 4th period stabbed a boy in the arm with a pencil. He was bleeding. Now, I officially reached the end of my rope. Fraying fibers, rope burn, grasping frantically for sanity. My job is no longer teaching, but crowd control. I shut down into war mode...
Phase I 13:00 casualties at zero, maintain position and await commands from headquarters.
13:35 combat site under lockdown, following aggressive action
Phase II 14:30, new bogies intercepted, 18 incoming hostiles
RETREAT!! 15:35 RETREAT TO BASE!!!
Base is now Starbucks, where I reconvene and attempt to process the events of the afternoon. I will narrate them thus:
Girl 2 (not Girl 1 who attacked small boy at computer on Thursday, but different, wholly unrelated girl) says something like "get away from me, little bitch" to Boy 2 (not small boy beaten up Thursday, but singularly different boy) who stands over her at a table. Boy 2 does not move, but Girl 3 stands up out of seat and begins screaming. Girl 3, hitherto to be known as PPLPOSDC (psychotic pathological liar piece of shit devil child) gesticulates wildly while yelling "Now, I know you heard that! That's a referral! [Girl 1] was cussin'! If that was me, you'd a wrote me up! Ms. Williamson, I know you heard that!"
Thanks. Caught that the first time.
Girl 3 is now officially hysterical, so I ask both her and Boy 2 to come outside to discuss their behavior. On his way out, I see blood (albeit a small amount) dripping from his arm. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Now, in the less than a week, blood has been spilled in my classroom. I probably saw more bodily fluids that week than my roommate's boyfriend, who is in medical school. PPLPOSDC continues to yell at me outside the classroom, and considering how this has happened at least 12 times so far this school year, I decide that it's not my job to stand there and be verbally abused by a spoiled 16 year old, so I call security.
Ha.
Did I say call security? I should clarify. By "call" I mean raise the volume of my voice, since there are no phones and no electronic means of communication with either the Central South Office or the security guard, incompetent fuck that he is. I ask an administrator visiting from the Main Campus where I might be able to find someone to take this screaming child out of my presence, and he tells me, I kid you not "I'm looking for him too. He's been missing for an hour." In disbelief, I spend a fraction of a second pondering the ironic fact that Girl 3 hadn't even been the cause of this fucked-up situation which had now escalated into a full-scale conflict, then begin to scream myself. Because that is the only recourse that I have left, when all of the proper steps and countermeasures in my job description have failed or were never even there as options as the first place. When I can't do my job, when I am completely powerless and want nothing more in the world than to ball up my fist, take aim, and land my knuckles right on her mean, abusive, deceitful lips, I scream.
"S-E-C-U-R-I-T-Y"
I walk to the corner so that my words rattle the paint flakes on the concrete walls, and force all my anger out through my lungs: "CAN I P-L-E-A-S-E get some SECURITY?"
I bellow down the other corridor, towards the Madison office: "SECURITYYYYYYYYYYYYY"
Finally, a security guard employed by the Middle school which does not employ me took PPLPOSDC away so that I could deal with the sheepishly bleeding Boy 2 sitting on the bench. I talk to him about why he got stabbed with a pencil, and by now it's almost time to switch classes. My kids come out of the classroom, the halls flood, and PPLPOSDC comes back along with the Madison security guard. I tell both of them, as is well within my rights as a teacher, that I will not speak with her until I see a parent, so she should please leave the room.
Fuming, I resume the duties in my contract, to fill out a 4-ply carbon copy "SCAM," or behavior referral on all three students: Girl 2, Boy 2, and now PPLPOSDC. A good ten minutes later, now nearly an hour since the original pencil-stabbing took place, Fat Ass (as I now call Mr. B---, our friendly, useful security guard) comes into my class.
His words, concise and to the point: "Uh, somebody said you needed me?"
Slowly pulling my seething eyes up from the third referral form to inform him "I needed you twenty minutes ago, when a student was screaming in my face. It's under control now."
From this moment on, when my concentration returned to the green paper underneath my ballpoint pen, Mr. B--- has ceased to exist on the campus. I do not look at him, I do not acknowledge the fact that he is a group of cells which intakes oxygen and releases carbon dioxide, he is not my peer nor my colleague like the custodians, the secretaries, the administrators, or the students who do their jobs. If you can't figure out how to do your fucking job, then I'll do it for you, AND mine too. It's not like I've never had to do that before.
For some reason, there seems to be a miscommunication about what is and is not part of different staff members' job description, creating confusion and often chaos when incompetant assholes decide that their job includes 2 hour lunch breaks, taunting students, and encouraging physical violence. Apparently, these tasks are the purview of the high school Security Guard, unbeknownst to me. Really, someone should send out a memo about modified job responsibilities to clue in the rest of the school, just so we're all on the same page.
Two Thursdays ago, before the rash of suspensions that spread through campus quicker than syphilis British Renaissance royalty, I wish people could have just done their jobs. My job, in case I haven't been explicitly clear, is that of a teacher. This means I am responsible for maintaining certain documentation, controlling the classroom, delivering instruction, and assessing my students. While I was in the process of doing my job, two of my little darlings decided to get into a shouting match.
The smaller of the two, a 4' 4" young man who likes to talk a lot of smack, may or may not have instigated the confrontation when he came into class late. Regardless of whomever was responsible for starting the conflict, he and his antagonist, a girl expelled from her previous high school for pulling a knife during a fight, began to abuse each other verbally. As with many confrontations at my school, most of this centered around whether or not each child was ready to "step," or engage in a physical fight. Also, as can be expected, the insults soon degenerated into the steadfast "yo' mama" comments. The most colorful of these I believe was "That's yo' mama's pussy that smells stank."
After taking the steps necessary to fulfill my job requirements, I write down what each child is yelling at each other, give them verbal warnings, and confront them both with what they have said. Keep in mind, I would have to be straight up insane to approach either student physically in order to separate them from each other. That is most definitely not within my rights or responsibilities as a classroom teacher. That's why we have another staff member on campus called a "Security Guard" who is allowed to physically remove a student from class. Playing by the book (stupid Thea, when will you learn how infrequently this ever has positive results?), I walk outside and request that the Security Guard remove the more aggressive female student from the class.
I'm not an expert on the best-practices for Security Guards, but I'm going to hazard a guess that when a young lady is screaming about how stank somebody's mama's pussy is, calling her name softly from outside the door is not going to be your most effective strategy for dissipating the conflict.
Hey, guess what, I was right.
As I turned my back from the incident to grab a referral form from inside my desk, the girl gets up out of her seat, walks over to the boy sitting at his computer, and punches him in the head. Not even knowing what to do, the attacked kid tries to hide against the computer. At this point, the security guard has done nothing. Incredulous, I run across the room and frantically try to think of what I need to do to solve the crisis. I'm not thinking "Hey, that fat fuck over in the corner should be handling this" or "Why doesn't that useless ignorant sorry excuse for a sentient being move his lazy ass." I'm thinking "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." With these eloquent words rolling around in my head, the larger girl takes the boy's head and slams it into the computer monitor. The monitor slides off onto the table, and my first thought is not "Wow, I really shouldn't have to deal with this" or "Oh, I'm sure the security guard is rushing over to intervene." It's "They're going to fire me for letting the kids break computer equipment."
Then, the boy starts to fight back. Both fall to the floor, and my fear of reprimand from the administration gives way to my very real concern for both students' safety. I kick my way into the fight, trying to separate the two. As they writhe away from each other and stand up, still yelling nonsense about somebody's mamma, they fly at each other again, knocking over three desks and a chair, nearly flattening two frightened timid girls. I grab one student's shoulders, and another student intervenes to grab the other belligerant one. I can't even remember which was which.
Now that the immediate violence has abated, I whip around to assess the classroom situation with as much rapidity as I can manage. What should I see but our security guard grinning at the doorway, arms crossed over his rolling gut.
Apparently, he needs a friendly reminder about what is and is not in HIS job description. Call me a lunatic, but I'm going to guess that it was his responsibility, not that of a TEACHER and a STUDENT to break up the fight in the classroom and ensure everyone else's safety. If I do nothing else this year, I will get this man fired. He is the scum of the earth, and a fantastic example of why Miami-Dade Public Schools are fucked. Speaking purely from my own personal anecdotal experience, our school is falling down a long spiral into whatever sort hell your spirituality permits you to imagine: the deep, dark, fiery pits of it.
This was a Thursday, about ten days ago. Mercifully, I'd planned a trip to New York that weekend, and was able to escape the torments of Miami's blistering inferno...for the biggest blizzard to hit Manhattan in recorded history. See, I didn't know it, but I'm actually a well-refined magnet for calamity, natural disasters included. Nearly every day since then, there has been some sort of traumatic event at school, save today.
On Monday, the school board voted to change the calendar, moving the semester up two weeks, making failure notices due in three days. For the next three days, I spent 11 hours at school. I spent more time on 35th Avenue than I spent in my own damn house. On Wednesday, a student in my 4th period stabbed a boy in the arm with a pencil. He was bleeding. Now, I officially reached the end of my rope. Fraying fibers, rope burn, grasping frantically for sanity. My job is no longer teaching, but crowd control. I shut down into war mode...
Phase I 13:00 casualties at zero, maintain position and await commands from headquarters.
13:35 combat site under lockdown, following aggressive action
Phase II 14:30, new bogies intercepted, 18 incoming hostiles
RETREAT!! 15:35 RETREAT TO BASE!!!
Base is now Starbucks, where I reconvene and attempt to process the events of the afternoon. I will narrate them thus:
Girl 2 (not Girl 1 who attacked small boy at computer on Thursday, but different, wholly unrelated girl) says something like "get away from me, little bitch" to Boy 2 (not small boy beaten up Thursday, but singularly different boy) who stands over her at a table. Boy 2 does not move, but Girl 3 stands up out of seat and begins screaming. Girl 3, hitherto to be known as PPLPOSDC (psychotic pathological liar piece of shit devil child) gesticulates wildly while yelling "Now, I know you heard that! That's a referral! [Girl 1] was cussin'! If that was me, you'd a wrote me up! Ms. Williamson, I know you heard that!"
Thanks. Caught that the first time.
Girl 3 is now officially hysterical, so I ask both her and Boy 2 to come outside to discuss their behavior. On his way out, I see blood (albeit a small amount) dripping from his arm. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Now, in the less than a week, blood has been spilled in my classroom. I probably saw more bodily fluids that week than my roommate's boyfriend, who is in medical school. PPLPOSDC continues to yell at me outside the classroom, and considering how this has happened at least 12 times so far this school year, I decide that it's not my job to stand there and be verbally abused by a spoiled 16 year old, so I call security.
Ha.
Did I say call security? I should clarify. By "call" I mean raise the volume of my voice, since there are no phones and no electronic means of communication with either the Central South Office or the security guard, incompetent fuck that he is. I ask an administrator visiting from the Main Campus where I might be able to find someone to take this screaming child out of my presence, and he tells me, I kid you not "I'm looking for him too. He's been missing for an hour." In disbelief, I spend a fraction of a second pondering the ironic fact that Girl 3 hadn't even been the cause of this fucked-up situation which had now escalated into a full-scale conflict, then begin to scream myself. Because that is the only recourse that I have left, when all of the proper steps and countermeasures in my job description have failed or were never even there as options as the first place. When I can't do my job, when I am completely powerless and want nothing more in the world than to ball up my fist, take aim, and land my knuckles right on her mean, abusive, deceitful lips, I scream.
"S-E-C-U-R-I-T-Y"
I walk to the corner so that my words rattle the paint flakes on the concrete walls, and force all my anger out through my lungs: "CAN I P-L-E-A-S-E get some SECURITY?"
I bellow down the other corridor, towards the Madison office: "SECURITYYYYYYYYYYYYY"
Finally, a security guard employed by the Middle school which does not employ me took PPLPOSDC away so that I could deal with the sheepishly bleeding Boy 2 sitting on the bench. I talk to him about why he got stabbed with a pencil, and by now it's almost time to switch classes. My kids come out of the classroom, the halls flood, and PPLPOSDC comes back along with the Madison security guard. I tell both of them, as is well within my rights as a teacher, that I will not speak with her until I see a parent, so she should please leave the room.
Fuming, I resume the duties in my contract, to fill out a 4-ply carbon copy "SCAM," or behavior referral on all three students: Girl 2, Boy 2, and now PPLPOSDC. A good ten minutes later, now nearly an hour since the original pencil-stabbing took place, Fat Ass (as I now call Mr. B---, our friendly, useful security guard) comes into my class.
His words, concise and to the point: "Uh, somebody said you needed me?"
Slowly pulling my seething eyes up from the third referral form to inform him "I needed you twenty minutes ago, when a student was screaming in my face. It's under control now."
From this moment on, when my concentration returned to the green paper underneath my ballpoint pen, Mr. B--- has ceased to exist on the campus. I do not look at him, I do not acknowledge the fact that he is a group of cells which intakes oxygen and releases carbon dioxide, he is not my peer nor my colleague like the custodians, the secretaries, the administrators, or the students who do their jobs. If you can't figure out how to do your fucking job, then I'll do it for you, AND mine too. It's not like I've never had to do that before.
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