From the Archives: Personal History

I wrote this for my Theatre and Community class my first semester in grad school: September of 2008. I just reread it for the first time in probably 7 years and was struck by so many things. I work with kids like this every day now.

I wonder where Tyshawn is today. He'll be 17 in July.

***

          I graduated from UC Berkeley in June of 2005 and moved to New York City that same month with the dream to start a theater company. By the end of that summer, not only had I not started a theater company but I didn’t even have a job. I spent four painful, ego-shattering months pounding the pavement and being confounded by the fact that a Bachelor’s degree from one of the best universities in the country didn’t guarantee me gainful employment. Needless to say, New York City was not the city of bright lights and theater dreams come true that I expected it to be.

            After nailing down a job at a non-profit sexual health organization and falling into two production management gigs, I suffered from serious theater burn-out and subsequently took a year off, wondering if I really wanted to pursue a career in the arts.  By the spring of 2007, I had been at my dead-end day job for a bit more than a year, making little money, and dealing with a creative and moral depression that crippled me. On a suggestion, I decided to pursue volunteering and discovered a music project for children, ages 6-14, at a shelter on the Lower East Side. I had never worked with or overseen children and was panicked that I’d feel steamrolled by them.  However, I figured that volunteering twice a month wasn’t a very big time commitment, and I found encouragement in the subject matter, music being another serious passion of mine. It seemed a potentially ideal project, fulfilling a creative hunger I hadn’t been able to satisfy since graduating.

            My first day as a volunteer, I met a nine-year-old boy named Tyshawn. I sat down next to him and asked him his name, feeling slightly self-conscious and not really knowing what to expect. He was enthusiastic and hilarious and we spent the day working together. We went around the circle and told everyone our names and what our favorite kind of music was, pairing it with a gesture and sound that indicated that music style. When the project leader asked if anyone could recite each person’s name and repeat each person’s gesture, Tyshawn didn’t volunteer. However, when we took a break, he did it perfectly on his own.

The leader of the project had been a musical theater student and injected each class with opportunities for the children to be the centers of attention, to tap into their creativity in a very accessible and non-threatening way. This became an essential part of the project every week we gathered, and I continued to enforce it when I became a co-leader of the project in June. We set a high standard for participation in the class, asking our volunteers to work closely with the children to create songs, dances, or poems that they rehearsed and presented to the rest of the group.

            Tyshawn and I spent three weeks working as a duo. I learned that he liked writing. That he had a baby sister and an older brother. That he was turning 10 in July. I learned that I had a natural gift with kids. That they gravitated toward me, seemed to respect me, responded to me in a way that felt really special. I had fun with them; I learned from them; I was moved by them. It was an epiphany.

Summer holidays interrupted our bi-monthly meetings and I hadn’t seen Tyshawn for a couple weeks when I arrived at the shelter one week and discovered that the project had been cancelled that day. As I turned up the street to head back to the subway, Tyshawn was crossing. He saw me and bolted across, throwing his arms around me and yelling my name. I nearly burst into tears, realizing that I really had connected with him over the previous weeks. He dragged me back across the street and insisted I meet his mother, who wasn’t much older than I was and who was preoccupied with a baby in a stroller and having just lost her contact lens. She also didn’t seem to have any idea who I was, but Tyshawn introduced me as his “favorite teacher” anyway. The shelter was a transitional living situation for female victims of domestic abuse. Soon after this meeting on the street, Tyshawn stopped coming to class, and I can only hope that means he and his family found a more permanent living situation somewhere else.

 I co-led this project for almost six months before moving back to California where I prepared to enter grad school. Over the months, we introduced the kids to blues and rock n’roll; we sang Christmas carols with them; we tried to teach them about rhythm and rhyme. Every week, we led an introduction game, made a craft, broke up into groups and had them create pieces to perform at the end of the night. Every week, it was evident how important these gatherings were. I didn’t know anything about what these children’s lives were like outside our meetings, but I could tell their recreation time was important and special for them. They were being creative in ways I knew were different from what they were used to. They were working together in ways I knew were different from what they were used to, and they were being led by caring and patient adults in ways that I knew were different from what they were used to. Even more powerfully, they were working with young men who paid close attention to them, listened to them, and were gentle with them.

 Working with these children was educational to me in ways that I’m not sure I’ll be able to fully articulate until I have some more experience under my belt. They being the first children I ever worked with combined with the vulnerability and potency of their situations made the work such a heady and emotional experience. It planted the seed for my ultimate goal as a theatre teacher and artist: to establish an organization that will allow populations of children a creative outlet that they don’t have in any other capacity. Theatre, with its tenets of collaboration and expression, seems an essential medium for urban children, arguably our most vulnerable community. I want to foster the enthusiasm I saw in Tyshawn with kids just like him, and I hope he is somewhere continuing to express himself as he was able to do with us.

My 20s in Sentence Fragments

This post was inspired by this.

I turn 30 four weeks from today.

***

Drag queens. London. Busted lip and tits out. Acting in a garden. Grateful. Berkeley. Apartment 8. Making out all night. Walk of shame. Fiona Apple and scraping paint. Flappers to Rappers. Call the cops. Climb up my balcony. Shots shots shots shotsshotsshots. Cacophony. Splattered walls. Best friends. Going to class hungover. He told me he was sad and I was the only person who would understand. Falling in love with the wrong person. Writing songs. Running away. Smoking weed and listening to Jeff Buckley. Food poisoning stoned. I need him. Breaking down over the sink because I felt ugly. Hooking up with a freshman. Making art and graduating. 

New York City. Is this still home? Sublet in Brooklyn. Unemployment saga #1. Soliciting for the North Shore Animal League for two weeks. Iced coffee with half and half and sugar. 12 hour days on my feet outside in August. Quitting. 23 interviews in 4 months. Chinese food for lunch and dinner. Living on Luna bars. Dripping sweat under a skylight. Watching Starting Over with Iyanla Vanzant and Garden State. Bleeding out money. Storms, dripping ceiling, fly infestation. Soho loft. Commuting on the F train. East 66^th Street and York Avenue. Filing for hours and ordering pizza for office lunches. Reading blogs. Mom leaving 2^nd  husband. Sobbing on a train platform. Frequenting Off the Wagon near NYU specifically to make out with boys in corners. None called. Smoking cigarettes on lunch breaks and my commute. Convinced I needed to go to a mental institution. First and only black out on New Year's Eve. 

Apartment in Park Slope. Bar up the street. Within walking distance of childhood home but feeling a world away. Starting a blog. Heavy heart. Self-hate. Feeling lost and alone. Writing to soothe. Crying on the train home from a bar. Deciding to leave New York. There is nothing for me here. Grad school? Revelation of future. Volunteering with kids, and I can breathe. Quitting my job. Moving across the country. Again.

San Luis Obispo. No money. Living with mom. White wine and American Idol. Three productions in eight months. Fast and furious connections. Becoming a gym rat. Feeling hot. Grad school! Boston! Is this home? Apartment down the street from my cousin. Who are your people? Why are you here? What is your work? Joining Facebook. Breakdowns in class; I don't know if I can do this. Debilitating anxiety. Talks about race and age and sex. Letting go. Teaching at camp, which fulfills a decade-long dream. Teachers drink. Student teachers drink more. Writing a play. Revealing a wish to be myself. Crying in despair and grief over chicken nuggets. Champagne and cookies to console me. Graduation and tattoos. Another summer at camp. The room changes when I am in it.

Unemployment saga #2. Hours-long interviews. Commiserating at McDonald’s. Chin hairs and lactose intolerance. Elle is born. Defending my work experience. Feeling proud but frustrated. Writing a novel. Fighting for a dream job and getting it. Online dating. Falling for an alcoholic. Redhead. Gaining confidence in my work. Getting a smartphone. Heartbreak and heart full of kids. Discovering and gaining pride in my body.  Hooking up with a cheater. And then another one. Living with an alcoholic. Kicking both alcoholics out of my life. Brunette. Trampolining. Yoga. Excelling in my work. Finding my voice. Always learning. Feet on the ground and head up. Moving forward steadily. 

Um, Since When is 2010 Over?

I have said many times that 2010 was probably the most personally and professionally significant year of my life, so far.

I student-taught.
I graduated from grad school.
I spent another great summer in Connecticut, where I figured out what the hell I wanted to do next.
My cousin had a baby.
I wrote a book.
I was unemployed for four and a half months.
I got a great job. (Yes, the PERFECT job I was up for in September is MINE, starting Monday.)

How do you top that?

But, the thing is, I think 2011 will be even better.

Because even though I experienced all those things, this is the year I feel like I will really settle into life in Boston.

I'm not just "going to school" here anymore. Now, I work here too.

There's a security and permanence (whoa) to my life here now.

I made a resolution last year to write more, and it's probably the only resolution I've ever kept in my whole life.

So, in the spirit of this year ending and a new, exciting year just around the corner, here are some things I resolve to do in 2011:

1. Do more yoga. (Damn, it's hard to stay consistent with exercise around the holidays. I never knew it until this year, when I took a few days off for Thanksgiving, then tried to get back in the habit, then got really sick for two weeks, then celebrated Christmas. With my workday hours of 11-7, I think I'll be able to fit in a morning routine including yoga.)

2. Revise my novel. (This terrifies me. It took me more than 3 weeks to even read the entire thing, but I was happy to discover I actually liked about 1/3 of it. I need to buckle down, print it out, and start cutting, like whoa. Maybe, it will end up being a short story.)

3. Travel more. (I like the idea of this, but I'm pretty sure I won't be able to afford it. Still, at the beginning of the fall, I was so restless, I thought about teaching English in Japan for a year. I don't really think that's something I want to do, but it would be nice to explore New England, and even more of Boston.)

4. DATE. (Seriously, feel free to have eligible bachelors get in touch with me. And make sure they know how much I like bagels. And chocolate chip cookies.)

Interestingly enough, I started this blog as a New Year's resolution. And [clever title] turns FOUR on January 10th.

Which one of you is buying it its first erector set?

*snicker* Erector.

Thanks so much for another year of support and reading!

Tell your friends about me.

And how foxy I am.

And that I'm single.

OK, I'll stop now.

The Bullied Girl Grows Up to Write a Blog

Remember that time in your life when you were just figuring out how to, like, be a human in the world? And you were stuck with the same friends you’d had since kindergarten?

So they had the freedom and power to treat you like shit?

And you didn’t know enough about how to make other friends, so you just didn’t?

I remember the girls I was friends with in elementary school were merciless to me.

(And I’m sure all of you are reading this and saying, oh my god, same exact thing happened to me!)

I would go to school one day and feel bolstered by their loyalty. We had a strong pact, made stronger by sleepovers where we’d choreograph dances to “Like a Prayer,” and make cheese eggs in the mornings. (Except, I didn’t like the cheese eggs, so I’d make them make me regular eggs.)

The next day, it’d be like everyone had discussed my status before I’d gotten to school and decided that I wasn’t in the group anymore.

I distinctly remember showing up on a school day and sitting down at a cafeteria table where my friends were already sitting. I said something I’m sure I thought was cheeky and cute and laughed at myself a little bit.

Silence.

Cold, staring, haunting silence.

My face dropped.

What had I done? Why the sudden shut out?

That silence still haunts me.

It’s amazing how these little moments in our childhoods can brand us for life.

And how often we remember them.

Take this interaction, this first indication that the people around me just weren’t as smart as I was.

My erstwhile “best friend” and I are waiting in a line before we’re let back into the school after recess, and my long hair is blowing in the breeze.

She snaps at me, “Get your hair out of my face!” And I reply back, “It’s just blowing in the breeze!”

She didn’t believe me.

Really? You think my hair is magically standing on end and whipping into your face, unprompted?

Idiot.

Needless to say, our friendship didn’t last past the 5th grade.

And yet, I think about that moment, like, once a month.

The four of us in the group would make little charts that we’d pass around our table in class.

The chart was for rating how much we liked the other members in the group.

“How much do you like me? From 1-10.”

Often, we’d mark 1,000,000 or -1,000,000 just to be clever, squishing the zeroes into the tiny boxes on the note to make our point clear.

My existence on this planet seemed to rely on these rankings: who would mark me high today? Who was going to be typical and mark a negative ranking? And which two had paired up for the day, a seemingly indestructible force?

I look back on those days, aided by the earned perspective of age and years of therapy, and think, how does any of us survive being a girl?

I’ve learned, in contrast, that there’s no gray area with the typical boy: they’re either happy or they’re mad. Either friends or fighting.

And if there’s a conflict, there’s no emotional manipulation, no social customs to try to make sense of, no teenage language to interpret.

Just a couple shoves or swings, and then they’re done.

Now that I’m working with students, I just gravitate to the boys.

I’d honestly rather they try to punch me than risk they might rank me negative 1,000,000 on their Facebook page dedicated to my lameness or whatever this generation’s version of a “How much do you like me?” chart might be.

**UPDATE: I didn't write this post in response to the recent teen suicides or even with them in mind, necessarily. Still, having worked with young people for the last few years and having just recently survived student-teaching at a high school (not to mention my own lonely adolescence), I want to assert to you and to anyone you may share my blog with that finding people who really support and nurture EXACTLY who you are isn't easy but it is worth the work. Luckily, I've begun to figure it out...And, if I can, you can.**

School's Out For...Ever?

I remember the first day of school always being a big deal, all the way through grad school.

Stocking up on school supplies, putting book covers on my text books, making my lunches, and deciding what the perfect this-looks-like-I-just-pulled-it-out-of-the-closet-but-I've-been-planning-this-outfit-for-weeks ensemble would be.

I distinctly remember a green bodysuit and plaid skirt in my middle school past.

Yes, there were crotch snaps. But, MAN, I felt trendy.

I remember feeling a particular kind of panic when I graduated from college.

I specifically remember writing something along the lines of, "school is what I've been doing for 16 years, and I'm REALLY good at it. What am I going to do now?"

I didn't feel the same kind of panic when I graduated from grad school. Mostly, I was overwhelmed and relieved and exhausted and ready for a vacation.

I have to admit, though, that I'm feeling the familiar yearning to head back to the classroom, more than two weeks since returning to Boston from my summer job.

Mostly, it's just hard to fill the days. I'm happy if I get a little exercise in, maybe see a friend, or make a good meal. Otherwise, I spend a LOT of time combing the internet for job listings and sending resumes...and watching a lot of Netflix, as you all know.

I'm finding myself drawn to more than just teaching jobs. I'm applying to ALL KINDS of jobs connected to schools and colleges. Even administrative stuff that I can do with my eyes closed. I find myself thinking, yeah, I guess I could do that full-time.

Someone, just give me copies to make and emails to send and messages to take. I CAN DO THAT! Just keep me connected to SCHOOL!

Maybe I'll take myself back-to-school shopping, just for fun.

This time, no crotch snaps.

Word of the Day, vol. XX

Word of the Day: LOVE

There are many kinds of love.

And I needed all of them to make it through grad school.

In honor of them, I give you a list:

-The Spill-our-guts-at-the-first-lunch-we-shared love. This turns into New-friend love. Which turns into We-have-to-work-together love. Which turns into the fierce love that makes you sob in public.

-The Snarky-sneaks-up-on-you love. Which turns into the love that takes you to a tiny apartment where you drink lots of red wine and gossip until it’s suddenly two in the morning. The love that you know can’t end because you’d both be able to blackmail the other with juicy, hilarious info.

-The We’re-so-not-going-to-be-friends-then-we’re-best-friends love. The love that turns into sleepovers and tears and gratefulness for what you’ve learned. The love that has to change because it’s too intense.

-The other kind of We’re-so-not-going-to-be-friends love. The one that turns into the Holy-shit-she’s-wiser-than-her-platinum-blonde-hair-and-white-stilettos-show love. Which turns into the She-saved-me-on-a-national-holiday love. Which turns into an intense, almost sisterly, pact.

-The Let’s-sit-and-sing-and-make-faces-at-each-other love. That turns into the Always-down-for-anything-love. That turns into the Sunniest-most-generous-friend love.

-The love that rescues you when you’re totally confounded by your eighth grade class. A sort of Southern-gentlemanly love that you think couldn’t possibly be as easy as it is. But, it is.

-The New-friend love that you totally trust. The love that tells you you’re beautiful and deserve the world. The love that sends you champagne and cookies because what else would you possibly need?

-The love that reminds you there’s someone across the country going through stuff just as deep and lets you write about it, honestly and frankly and never judges that.

-The love that you have for the young people you’ve worked with. Those who shared the intense experience of your teaching. Who made you laugh hysterically and who broke your hearts with their openness and friendship.

-The love you learn to accept from a mentor, who listens and supports you through one of the most difficult challenges of your life. The love you know has developed because you’ve been through the war together, and she’s helped you survive it.

-The love that is just as emotional as you are and that challenges you because of that. The love that makes the whole machine run, indefatigably and with grace and passion.

-The love that holds you up when you decide to GO THERE and then you break. The love that never makes you ashamed of that. That gently steps on your foot while you sob to remind you that you’re still there and you’re not alone.

-The love that reminds you why you want to be a teacher. Or whatever you are. That speaks about it with such passion that you weep because it weeps. The love that gives you advice that pegs you between the eyes. And then changes you forever.

-The love that demands you to understand who you are. That sits with you for hours, sharing stories of theatre and art and family and loss. The love that makes the whole experience unforgettable. And makes you bigger and better than you expected.

-The love that is guaranteed to make you laugh and texts with you through important TV shows. That calls to vent about family and work. The love that doesn’t really understand what you’re doing but supports you with fierce and protective pride anyway.

-The love that keeps you fed and sane. And is only eleven houses away. The love that, in a crisis, drops everything and brings you McDonald’s and lets you cry over it.

-The love that sat glued in front of its computer to see you walk across the stage and texted you ten times to let you know it was with you in spirit and could you hear it clapping?

-The love that got you there in the first place.

-The Chosen-sister love that keeps you going and overwhelms you every day. The love that sends cards at just the right moment. The love where it’s safe to feel your worst but that makes you feel your best.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

I Just Graduated a Master's Program and All I Got was a Lousy T-Shirt

No, seriously.

We ran across the stage, got our diplomas, had alumni T-shirts shoved in our faces and then returned to our seats. (IMHO, they could have spent that money on alcohol for the reception...)

This pretty much tells you everything else you need to know about today:

Holy shit, now what am I going to do?

Also, as we exited the theatre after the ceremony, I shouted, "Well, I didn't pass out!"

Which basically sums up the entire two years perfectly.

I Get Agita When I Don't Post Every Other Day

So here's a blow-by-blow of what's going on:

Wednesday night:
Partied with my grad school classmates;
Drank too much champagne (as I am wont to do);
Danced a lot;
Laughed a lot;
Took embarrassing photos;
Took an unnecessary shot of tequila;
Drank late into the evening/early morning;
Tried to do a proper duet of "Champagne" from In the Heights...eight times.

Thursday:
Suffered inevitable hangover;
Consumed fried egg BLT in Brookline with girlfriends;
Lunched with kiddoes;
Reached awkward realization of not being their teacher anymore.

Friday:
Slept very late, after drunken sleep Wednesday night;
Lunch with RM, during which she gave me MANY wonderful gifts and a card that made me burst into tears in public;
Finally hung with cousin and watched TLC shows late into the evening;
Felt her baby kick (she's due in September).

Today:
Slept late;
Hung with roommates and watched the final minutes of the season finale of Private Practice;
Tried not to become obsessed with said show;
Got back into bed until 3 PM;
Headed to spa for spa pedicure;
Got legs massaged and geranium-scrubbed;
Got toes painted iridescent blue;
Dinner and drinks with MW;
Impulse-slightly-drunken shoe shopping;
Breaking in new shoes.

Sunday:
Probably sleeping late;
Brother arrives;
Drinks with friends;
Dinner with friend's family;
Inevitable stumbling home with brother.

Monday:
Hopefully waking up without hangover;
Breakfast with brother;
Commencement at 3 PM;
Dinner with adoring fans.

Holy shit.

Overheard in the Classroom (or Kids These Days), vol. X

"I don't know what's wrong with her. She probably has her period."--an intro student, talking to my mentor teacher about me, after I told him many times to calm down and get his work done.

"Time is going so fast these days."--my special ed student, commenting on his existential crisis.

"What's pucking?"--a special ed student, reading the word "puking" off the board. I had listed it as a possible pantomime to do in a hospital scene.

"That's so fun, I can barely laugh!"--a special ed student, after we chased another student as part of scene work.

"It's too early to run."--one of my 8th graders, as we walked to school together, after getting off the same train. I told him I felt like I should let him run along, so he wouldn't get teased for walking with me.

"I don't have time for hot soup."--this is actually a quote from one of the teachers. I think it totally indicates the state of mind of Boston Public School teachers.

"You don't have to yell at me; I thought we were friends."--one of my favorite intro students, emotionally blackmailing me. I figured it would happen eventually.

"Zeus hit me with a lightning bolt and turned my crab claws to guns."--an incredibly creative 8th grade student, who worked really hard to use the horns from a viking helmet as claws for his costume. Then, his classmate, who has been playing Zeus, came over and cured him, so the horns sat in his pockets, as pistols. Too good.

"Too much pelvis!"--another 8th grader, while we took pictures during some rare freetime. They acted like humans, for once, and they played among the rehearsal cubes, but this guy didn't want to peek his head out because boys were standing above him.

It's Like Preparing for Battle

I have Sunday Dread these days.

You know, Sunday Dread. When you go to sleep on Sunday nights totally dreading that tomorrow is Monday.

I haven't had it in years, but it's returned to me in full force as a student teacher.

I had such a rejuvenating weekend and felt so bolstered for the week but still woke up wondering how I'd make it through another Monday, especially since today was my first day teaching all three classes on my own. (Aside from the time I took over when my mentor teacher was sick.)

My train ride is only about 20 minutes, and I listened to pretty music the whole way, trying to ease my stress and assuring myself that it's only three 50-minute periods. Totally doable.

When I exited the train, it was like a switch went off.

Suddenly, I was ready for anything and knew I'd get through the day. I DARED those kids to mess with me.

Seventeen teaching days left.

The countdown has officially begun.

Word of the Day, XVIII

Word of the Day: LOSS

I’ve never been very good at losing. Or doing things poorly. Or even doing things less well than anyone else.

This is why I do not know how to ride a bike. This is also why I don’t really cook. Or drive. Or play sports. Or games I cannot win.

When I was in 5th grade, there was a school-wide spelling bee. Maybe there was one every year—that I don’t remember, but I do remember lining up against the classroom walls and waiting until it was my turn to spell a word.

I don’t even remember winning within my class, although, I slightly remember that nobody there put up a very good fight.

And, suddenly, I was up in front of the whole school. Asking for the words to be used in a sentence, even though I had never used them in sentences myself, so how would that have helped?

Words like “navigable,” which I had never heard before but will never forget how to spell because the correct spelling spontaneously came to me on that stage.

“Navigable. N.A.V.I.G.A.B.L.E. Navigable.”

And, then, it was down to just two of us. Me and a 6th grade boy, Andrew Schwartz. His sister, Vanessa, was in my class. They were redheaded. And snobby. I think I hated Andrew even before this fateful day. He probably knew I was just as smart as he was and despised me for it.

We spelled word after word in rapid succession.

You could cut the tension in the auditorium with a knife.

“Nourishment,” one of the teachers boomed at me.

I started, “Nourishment. N.U.—“

I heard a gasp of relief behind me and a sigh from the crowd and realized something had gone terribly wrong.

My stressed, overeager (and probably overconfident) mind had switched the words “nourishment” and “nutrient” in my brain.

I’d lost.

In front of my whole school.

At 10 years old.

To a boy.

Andrew swept in front of me, spelled the word correctly, and the competition was over.

I remember stumbling off the stage into the arms of my favorite teacher, Ms. Tonick, and bursting into tears. She tsktsked me for being so upset and hard on myself.

The certificate I won for getting that far hung on my wall all through middle school, even though I secretly thought second place was just another term for first loser.

I still think that. Mostly.

My future kids better grow up to be winners. Or they’ll be totally screwed with me as a mother.

Overheard in the Classroom (or Kids These Days), vol. VIII

"You're much funnier than my other teachers."--one of my special ed kids, giving me news that made my day. (And, yes, I'm taking it as a compliment.)

"Wait! I have a sorution."--no, that is not a typo. One of my 8th graders (I believe he's Vietnamese) does the fool-proof joke of totally offensively pronouncing l's as r's. It's honestly one of my favorite gimmicks in real life, so I laugh every time. Inappropriately.

I had my 8th graders come up with production team names. They decided they were going to be called "Oreos on the CEILING" and "I Don't Respect Your Wontons Covered in White Chocolate." I decided not to ask for their reasoning.

"Geez, I'm getting old."--one of my special ed kids, after laboriously pulling herself off the floor. I laughed forever.

"I'm black again."--my favorite student, reentering the room and stating the obvious, with a twist.

"You know, you can turn around and be like 'Bitch!'"--this was me, slipping up in my intro class, as I explained how they could improvise dialogue during their stage combat scenes. Then I turned purple and we all cracked up for like minutes. OOPS!

UPDATE: "I smell like a ball!"--an intro student, after I told her her lotion smelled musky and then, when I looked up the word to define it for her, we realized the origin of it is testicle.

The Minutes Do Add Up

There is one thing of which I am certain.

OK, maybe two.

One is that I'm pretty much always tired these days, but we won't write about that today.

What I'm certain of is that student teaching is FORCING me to take one day at a time.

I wake up, I shuffle into school, I take the hour prep period to wrap my head around the next three hours, and then I plug through.

I have no idea what's going to walk into the room each day; if I'm going to tear my hair out, want to give up, laugh my ass off, want to cry, feel like a failure, make a small connection that will push me to the next day, or one of the other millions of things that can happen in a typical day.

But I do know that I can control my preparation for each class. In 50-minute increments.

And those 50 minutes add up and then the day is over.

And I wake up, shuffle into school, and prepare again.

And in a little over six weeks, I'll be done.

I guess that makes three things of which I'm certain.

Overheard in the Classroom (or Kids These Days), vol. VII

"I'm Beyonce."--a special ed student, while preparing tableaux of his favorite film, aptly titled Obsessed. Indeed.

"Life makes no sense sometimes."--my favorite student, the philosopher and poet, and playboy. I told him I wanted to talk to him about this someday, but that it wasn't relevant to the stage combat unit we're working on.

"Is that God?"--a special ed student's legitimate question, while I introduced them to the origins of Greek theatre, including the god, Dionysus.

"Remember. Anything you need I'll be there for you."--my most affable special ed student who insisted today that she is a good storyteller. Which is true.

This was both a short week and a strange week. I was a little under the weather on Monday, struggled through Tuesday without my mentor teacher, had Wednesday off, had something flicked at me in class yesterday, and got through today pretty unscathed...

Glad it's the weekend and S is here!

Overheard in the Classroom (or Kids These Days), vol. VI

"You slay me like a dragon."--a senior to his friend, both of whom are in the play that started rehearsals this week.

"How can you NOT know who Babar is?!"--the only white kid in the play, to the rest of the cast.

"I watch a lot of Fresh Prince and asking for a book is always the first step [to getting a date]."--our resident Playboy.


"Remember, Cancer, cartwheels, and crackers!"--one of my intro students, remarking on what we share: our astrological signs, our ability to do cartwheels and a love of carbohydrates...

"Why are you so black?"--one of my 8th graders, to his classmate, during an improvisation exercise. I assumed he was being totally offensive and then he pointed out that the scenario was that they were in a black hole.

"Don't actually be bad. Just act bad."--me to one of my special ed students. He was playing a "bad boy" in a status exercise. I'm not positive he got my joke.

This exchange happened while my intro students worked on their scenario for their final stage combat scenes, in which a plane crashes on an island and the survivors fight over the last morsels of food:
A: "I'm making it so our plane is flying to Italy."
me: "From where?"
A: "LA."
B: "No, no, LA to Boston!"
A: "There are no islands between LA and Boston!"
B: "Rhode Island! Rhode Island!"

In the special ed class today, we played "What Are You Doing?" in which a student enters the space, miming an activity. Then, another student enters and asks the first student, "What are you doing?" at which point the first student gives the second student another activity to mime. I played with the kids today, to model good examples of all parts of the game, and one of the students gave me the activity of "going pee," so I hammed it up, took my time with it, and another student entered, asked me "What are you doing?" and I made her wait...so she walked away, saying,
"I'll come back later."

conversations with my teacher, vol. VI

As part of the program to get a teaching license, I will be observed in the classroom three times this semester. And it is incredibly lucky that I love and adore my program supervisor, who is one of the most gifted teachers I've ever met, observed, or been the student of.

She visited my special ed class yesterday afternoon, after a VERY intense week of teaching (and it was only Thursday). And by the end of the period, which was a bit like pulling teeth yesterday, as I struggled through trying to explain status to them, my supervisor had learned all the students names and diagnosed them all for me and my mentor teacher. It was astounding. Even my mentor teacher was like, I've learned more about these kids in three minutes with you than the eight years I've been here.

It's never really occurred to me how low-functioning they are. Because I just teach them the lesson, we get through the period, they do their best, and we all go home. It was incredibly eye-opening and moving to have the extent of their challenges pointed out and explained to me. We talked through ways I can amend my speaking style and reinforcement of information to help them understand and engage with the lessons better; she told me the many things I did well, including using touch and humor appropriately and well.

At one point, she mentioned how I'd admitted to them that I never give them enough time to get their behavior tickets in order at the beginning of each class and how I "really need to learn that."

Then she said, "The whole world is smarter than these kids. But you are A LOT smarter than them. You admitting that you still need to learn something is incredibly important to them."

And I almost burst into tears.

It's amazing how much we can learn we're taking for granted when we work with kids like this.

Overheard in the Classroom (or Kids These Days), vol. V

What a strange, long week it's been. I began solo teaching my 8th graders and my special ed group. It's been a mad rollercoaster but has gone mostly smoothly, which I'm excited about.

"Martini on the rocks, no ice."--a very committed intro student's request in a short scene. He said it with such conviction.

"Because I'm a Cancer, I have to ask this. Because it's theatre...what will the girls be like?"--the same intro student, inquiring about the pool of ladies that would be present at a high school theatre festival.

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You're too kind."--a special ed student's remarks as she bowed after her presentation.

"I don't even remember how to use this."--an intro student's comment as he attempted to use a manual pencil sharpener.

"I don't have girlfriends. I have affiliations."--the same intro student who asked about the girl situation at the high school fest. He is swiftly becoming my favorite student...

My Beef with Tuesdays

It is pretty widely known that I hate Tuesdays. And always have.

My feeling is that, on Tuesday, you still have MORE THAN HALF of the week to get through.

Mondays are bad, but everyone knows that. Wednesdays are hump day; Thursdays are great because you have the ENTIRE weekend ahead of you, including Friday night, and OBVIOUSLY, Fridays rule.

Tuesdays. Suck.

All last year, I had the shittiest Tuesday schedule: starting classes at 9 AM and finishing them at 10 PM.

Sometimes I wake up and think, gosh, I'm in a bad mood...OH, it's Tuesday! That's why!

And, today, I woke up feeling like ass, fighting an almost-nasty cold, on my official first day of solo teaching. And, of course, it's Tuesday.

Stupid Tuesday, ruining everything.

Tales from the Job Search

I just spent some time looking for jobs. Mostly, I am procrastinating. But also, why not get a headstart on what's out there?

It's taking me back to the Season of Unemployment in 2005 when I spent hours and hours per day sending out resumes and cover letters to companies via email.

Eventually, I contacted Dialogue Direct, which is an on-the-street solicitation service for organizations like North Shore Animal League and Children International.

I kicked ass at the interview and blew the others at orientation out of the water.

I got hired in August.

I spent eight hours a day trying to get people to sign up to sponsor animals at North Shore. The amount of money I made was dependent on how many people I chatted up enough to get them to sign up. This twisted into my mind that I was personally a terrible person if I didn't get anyone to sign up. I went home crying every day.

It's the only job I've ever quit.

I spent most of that time in great debt to my mother and S. S and I had just moved across the country and were living in a small sublet in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.

I'd spend my days sitting on the couch, directly under a skylight, in the dead of summer. I'd buy Chinese food downstairs for lunch and save half of it for dinner. I'd run between the TV and our back room, where our computers were set up. I sent my information to anyone who was hiring any kind of administrative assistant at all, wasting most of my time on craigslist. I visited temp agencies that told me that I didn't score high enough to get placed with them.

I bought a three-piece suit and went on twenty-three interviews. Yes. Twenty-three.

I finally discovered Idealist.org and eventually interviewed at Population Council, a sexual health non-profit organization on the campus of Rockefeller University--it was interview #22. Pop Council was the first place I had interviewed where all of my directing and managing experience as a theatre major counted for something, even though it wasn't paid.

A few days after the interview, I got an email that said I had not gotten the job. Then, I had a dream that the manager called me and told me that email was incorrect and that I had been hired.

I DID get hired--and told the manager about my email and my dream--as an office assistant and worked there for over two years. It wasn't the perfect job and I didn't get paid enough and I didn't use a lot of the skills I'd honed my whole life, but it was a paycheck.

These days, it's wildly satisfying to be looking for jobs with higher degree requirements. I'm still scouring Idealist.org for the perfect fit and just sent out a few resumes for Program Director positions in Boston.

I also decided to check out craiglist and found a post for a teaching position at a day care center in my neighborhood.

Then, out of curiosity, I Googled the center and the only hit I came across was about how the custodian was beaten to death in 2005.

So, um, maybe I won't follow up with them.

Word of the Day, XVI

Word of the Day: SCHOOL

I’m sort of cheating with this post. I’ve been wanting to fill you all in on my OTHER most embarrassing moments, both of which involved distinctly shoving my foot in my mouth. Conveniently, they also both occurred while I was in school, so just roll with it.

High school was tough. I moved from New York City to Cambria, California the summer before my freshman year started. (And, there is a reason you’ve never heard of that place. It’s tiny. And not really worth mentioning). But, I was the new kid and it took me a good year to feel settled with friends I liked. Still, it wasn’t the most fun four years ever. Of course, whose high school experience is?

I went to a few football games. Our team sucked. But one night, I was there with a bunch of friends, and one of them commented about the coach. How he was such a nice guy or some shit. And, suddenly, I had diarrhea of the mouth and was complaining about how arrogant he was. How much he thought he knew everything. I think he had recently substituted for one of my teachers and I had been frustrated again by how much smarter I felt I was compared to my teachers.

Several moments passed and suddenly I heard behind me, “Who was talking about Coach?” And felt a jab on my shoulder. I reluctantly turned around.

“This is his wife and this is his daughter.” This woman pointed out two totally lovely looking women who were sitting right behind me.

Whoops.

I apologized profusely and sat forward the rest of the game. His daughter said she’d hated him growing up too. But still.

Stupid small town.

The other incredibly tactless moment happened when I was very drunk, so you can’t really blame me. And it was my birthday.

Beckett’s is an Irish pub near Berkeley’s campus, and we ended up there late in the night on my…22nd? Birthday. I don’t even remember where else we were that night, but a big group of us piled into a booth and the waiter came over and asked a question I didn’t understand.

“OH MY GOD! ARE YOU EVEN SPEAKING ENGLISH?!” I asked, too loudly.

An awkward silence fell. And everyone pulled out their IDs, which is what he’d asked for, in his Irish brogue.

“OH! OH! YOU WANT MY ID!”

My friends were appalled. I was sure I was going to get kicked out of the bar, the big, bald, Irish waiter was so pissed.

“Are we gonna have a problem here?” he asked me.

I apologized profusely and explained I was drunk and it was my birthday.

He eventually came back with our drinks and sat next to me, needling me for another apology and a kiss on the cheek, and then all was good.

Moral of these stories is you can’t take me anywhere.