And Now for Something Completely Different...

I just stared at my computer for almost 20 minutes, realizing that it had been a week since I last posted and trying to think about what I could write.

Really, nothing much is going on.

So, I thought, I'll write about that--give you lots of lists of all the Netflix I've been watching, or how I've cried at several holiday episodes this week, or that the St. Jude's Children's Hospital commercials with Jennifer Aniston and Morgan Freeman in them always make me cry. Or how I didn't really leave my bed for two days this week, partly because I've been fighting a cold and partly because I've been watching a steady stream of episodes of Say Yes to the Dress.

Ahem.

Instead, I'm going to tell you about the six hours of work a week I'm actually doing.

When I graduated, all I wanted was for RM to hire me as her personal assistant, and in October, that's precisely what she asked me to do.

Dude, now, I have keys to her apartment. And for those of you who know her, you realize that this is like...having the keys to Oprah's house. (And no, it's not because she's black.)

It's like I get to go to a celebrity's house every week.

Mostly, of course, what I'm doing, is organizing her life. She has piles of paper that haven't been looked at since she moved to Boston in 2001. (True story, she taught her first class on 9/11.) So I have spent the last six weeks, rifling through papers, filing them in corresponding folders and making piles of shit that she has to go through eventually.

Of course, the biggest pile is full of things I have no idea what to do with.

Sometimes, I sit in the office chair, she sits on the couch, and we just go through mail. Marking what is priority, what can be thrown out (four bags full, so far) and what she can't identify. I tease her by saying that if she can't tell what something is in 15 seconds, we're throwing it out.

We talk about men a lot, swap stories of getting catcalled on the street, or tell tales about our respective crazy families.

Last week, we purchased her a large wooden filing cabinet, so these piles of paper could live somewhere, so this week, I'm getting paid to put furniture together. HA! (I'm really good at putting furniture together. All that training with IKEA pieces has paid off.)

The first couple of days I worked with her, I said that we needed to make lists of things we "must do," "should do," and "wanted to do" in the time I'd be helping her out.

Doctors' appointments and important phone calls to be made went on the first list.

Organizing files and books and clothes went on the second.

The third, she had to think about, eventually deciding that things she "wanted to do" are join Facebook and create an online dating profile.

Yes, she is that awesome.

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.

But But But...I'm a PC!

Tuesdays are hard.

You all know my beef with Tuesdays.

I go from teaching for four hours straight to work for two. That doesn't sound like much but it's a HUGE shift in my gears.

Going from taking care of fifty teenagers and putting out their countless small fires to taking care of one middle-aged woman and putting out HER countless small fires.

I use the organizational part of my brain in both cases, and they're just as demanding.

Recently, RM purchased an iPhone...

This is the same woman who "loses" word documents when she clicks on different pages on her office computer.

The same woman who writes her agenda down in three different places and still can't keep the details straight.

The same woman who opens an old mailing system every day because she forgets we upgraded her.

The same woman has me call her when I wake up in the morning to remind her of her appointments for the day.

An iPhone is not helping her.

I assert that it's not as counterintuitive as she thinks it is. I show her how to enter text and dates and details and make sure she names and labels everything right. She asks me vague questions I can't answer and spends 5 minutes putting in appointments in the phone's calendar, then has to go back because the time was set wrong.

After not sleeping well and then being on my feet for four hours of teaching, walking her through the steps EVERY TIME she needed to enter an appointment made me want to scream.

And, of course, it's not her fault.

And, of course, she can laugh at herself about how ironic it is that she has an iPhone.

And, of course, she appreciates my help and patience.

I don't begrudge her any of this.

But I think, today, I'm scientific proof that iPhones rot your brain.

And I don't even have one!

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.

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.

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.

dude, where did the year go?

Has anyone else noticed how INSANELY QUICKLY this fall has gone? Or how INSANELY BUSY these last few weeks have been? It can't be just me.

There are officially two weeks until my production goes up. And 19 days until my semester is officially over.

My three brains are spinning; let's take a moment to reflect on how:

Work Brain: RM has also been INSANELY BUSY, and when I'm at work I am juggling emails and special events and her incredibly full calendar. Her spring is going to be ridiculous, with a special event in January, a full production she is directing in March, and the two classes she will be teaching here. Plus, she has been doing a ton of traveling, and she's on like 800 committees. The woman can't say no.

Class Brain: I have a final paper due in less than two weeks. I've got the format and the subject of it but have no idea how to begin or what exactly the content will be. Needless to say, this is sort of taking a backseat to my...

Director Brain: I keep thinking that things will settle down but there are 10 people in my cast, which makes it essentially impossible to get everyone in one room together at one time. Not to mention the fact that we've been rehearsing in a hallway for months, which, actually is pretty normal in my experience. I spent this week and last scrambling to find a "versatile and unconventional" space to put up this conceptually site-specific piece. This has proved much more challenging than I anticipated, so, of course, I've had to and am willing to compromise. Today is the first time that I've gotten any confirmation that we might actually have a space. This brings me some relief.

As does the fact that I'm taking tomorrow completely off. Except for maybe trying to write my final. And sending out scheduling emails. And probably doing lots of other responsible things.

Whew.

conversations with (a) teacher, special edition

When I graduate in May, I will be receiving a Master's degree as well as a Massachusetts state teaching license. Along with the requirements of my program, I am required to take certain classes, complete a two-part standardized test (both of which I've taken and one of which I've passed--I get results for the second part at the end of this month) and student-teach for 300 hours. The leg work it is taking to find a student-teaching slot in an urban high school, which is where I'd like to work, is consuming a lot of this month.

So at 6:30 this morning (after waking up every hour on the hour starting at 2:30 AM and really just dozing from 5:30 on) I got up to visit a high school in Cambridge. The theater teacher there is notoriously elusive and admittedly reluctant about taking on a student-teacher, but I think my persistence will pay off. I spent the morning with her, observing her introductory and advanced theater classes.

She begins each class with a check-in where each kid states a word or phrase describinghow he/she is doing that morning. She also has a large packet from which she asks thought-provoking questions that each student must answer, taking time to let them air their grievances or chat about changes they would make or stories they have to tell.

The beginning class is doing a unit on pantomime, so they spend the day doing physical exercises and engaging with imaginary objects. I was incredibly impressed with these beginning students' commitment, senses of humor, and general enthusiasm. She has obviously created an incredible environment, where the kids trust her and where her care and concern for them is evident.

The advanced acting class started with a totally casual chat and ended with them presenting the two-person scenes they have been working on in a playwriting unit. These texts were nuanced, deep, thoughtfully written, and generally solidly acted. I was so impressed and enthralled.

When one of her beginning students was leaving the class, after he had convincingly pantomimed a lizard crawling into his jacket, she said, "Be safe this weekend and remember your future is in theater." It broke my heart.

It made me think of something one of my professors says, that there are people on the planet because of her. And that there are only so many professions where that can be said.

conversations with my teacher, vol. V

My final paper for RM's class, Performance Theatre and Community, is a 10-page culminating essay, combining my application to Emerson, every paper I wrote for RM's class, details from an observation assignment for my Drama as Education class, and a lesson plan I wrote. It's also virtually the first draft of a grant proposal I will one day prepare to request money to start a performing arts center for urban youth, which I am swiftly realizing is my mission, and an attainable goal.

When I spoke with RM about it at today's final meeting, she said that it's easy for me to write academically, but that the personal is more compelling and, since that is what is propelling me toward this goal, I should "embrace the richness my past provides me." She told me I should not consider it "sentiment" but "poetry."

Her final notes on the paper itself were: "I appreciate the broad and personal basis for your proposal, and will be happy to support it however I can."

Maybe she'll serve on the Board of Directors of the organization one day.

conversations with my teacher, vol. IV

My relationship with my classmate, M, is love-hate. We're like eight-year-olds on a playground, chasing each other and pulling each other's hair and pushing each other down until our knees are skinned, because we love each other.

He works on the same floor as I do and walked by RM's office today. Stopping, he snarked at RM, "I can't believe you have to work with her. They should have paired you with someone better."

I screamed back, "YOU LOVE ME!"

RM intervened, "All I can say is that I could certainly do without her.

Not."

conversations with my teacher, vol. III

OK, this isn't exactly a conversation, just a comment left by my acting teacher on one of my weekly reflection papers.

"If all divorced kids are as smart as you, I think that we should require families to bust up . . . okay, that's not really what I mean but you get the point I hope. In order to have the level of openness and compassion that one needs to do the type of work that you would like to do with children, I find it imperative that one is as honest and clear as you are about what your motives are and where in your own life these motives come from. Stay with it. I really think that this program is a good place for you."

the world is very small

At work, I've discovered that the facilitator of one of the classes I attended during my visit to UT Austin is a colleague of RM's. His class was one of the highlights of my trip there, and I was disappointed to hear that he'd be leaving Austin at the end of the year to take up a position in New York.

Now, I regularly get emails from him through RM.

Of course, I shouldn't be surprised. RM knows everyone who's anyone.

conversations with my teacher, vol. I

I imagine this is a topic I will return to throughout my academic life over the next 2 or so years, so let's just commit it to a column today.

Yesterday, after my evening acting class--Principles of Acting, Augusto Boal--I ended up riding the T home with my teacher for about 20 minutes of my 30 minute ride. We chatted animatedly about how I ended up in the program: I told her I was from New York but had spent 8 years in California and graduated from UC Berkeley. I told her I'd moved back to New York after graduation and about my soul-sapping day job. I told her about how I started volunteering and discovered this latent gift with children and how grateful I am for it. I told her about how confident I am in picking the right program and place for myself, after what feels like a long time of feeling lost.

We talked about how the theater education students aren't all performers and how brave I think those who don't classify themselves as performers are. And how taking a class studying Boal is a risky move for people who don't consider themselves performers. I suggested that studying Stanislavsky, which can sometimes be about delving into past experiences and our psyches, might seem more intimidating than a practice of theater that is about the reality of one's situation, the routine of everyday life.

She told me that she had used this work in prisons and how everyone always comments that "that must be so hard." It made me think about the fact that, in this class, we're a group of white students sitting together and talking about oppression. And how my teacher (who is black) working in prisons is drastically different than me working in a prison. Obviously. And how that's such a charged issue.

She said, literally, as she exited the train, "We're attracted to our work because of our 'Stanislavsky.' You found working with children for a reason, and now it's your job to find out why."

I almost burst into tears on the subway.