The First Week Of School Is Over
Note: I posted this a week ago, but for some reason it didn’t show up.
A week and some change ago, I shaved. Took off the bread and made sure it stayed off. Then school started and I remembered why I have worn a beard for the past 4 years.
No, it is not so I don’t look too young to be a high school teacher, though that is true. It is also not because I just think I look good with a beard, esp. since it took a while to get used to it. No, it is simply because I don’t have the energy to get up early enough in the morning to shave. That is way too much effort.
And I don’t have it.
The week was good. Three sections of World Lit and Comp with Jrs. none of whom have had me as a teacher before = fresh meat. I love it. They live in amused terror. They’ve heard the rumors, now they are faced with the reality. So far, so good.
Two classes of Philosophy, the class I introduced to the school district. A class that was 8 people 2 years ago, now hosts 50+ (about 25 in each class). And they are hurting already. They’re in the weeds, and I’m loving it. Daily updates from other teachers of kids asking them for help or to discuss and idea, kids in my room borrowing my books, or asking questions, or giving me excuses for why they may not perform well later.
One section of Culture and Identity (which the school calls ‘race and identity’ but that’s stupid), which is really an Intro to Sociology class. Most of them have not figured out the idea that you will be tested every day on everything we covered the day before until I am satisfied they have done the reading. One person passing the first two quizzes doesn’t bother me; but after I chewed you all out, 80% of you passed the third quiz with a B or higher. Go figure. Classical conditioning at work.
There is a sign on the outside of my door with the following inscription and picture:
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here”
i.e. Welcome to Hell . . .
When I woke up today, slightly drooling, while sitting at my desk at work, pen suspended in my hand, and staring down at a paper for my masters, it dawned on me: I’m getting old.
My beard has a growing patch of grey: it is only a few strands at the moment, but there will be more.
I can submit some grad credit for a raise at work on Monday, and have another by January. Not that I notice the money, but I have undergrad loans, grad loans, and a car loan to pay for. Suddenly money matters.
I’m sitting on over 100 essays to read this weekend and some quizzes to grade, and an apartment to clean and masters books to read.
I need a nap.
And I wouldn’t exchange any of this for the world. Amid former students stopping by my room daily to see me, sending emails, or text messages. Current students slowly coming into their own and figuring this all out. The spirit of the school changing now that the previous force of evil has been removed (though not killed . . . yet), and . . . well hell, there are reasons to smile.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find time to shave.
My Mom Complained
She wanted to see pictures of me while I was working on my masters, not just pictures I took of other people while I was in Santa Fe. Well, you get what you ask for:
A Poem I Didn’t Write
Joy, use me like a whore.
Turn me inside out like Donne
Desried God to do with him.
Show me some muscle,
Sunlight on black stone.
Coldcock me about the head
Till I moan like a bell, low
As the one Goya could hear
Through the walls of
Qunita del Sordo.
Tie me up to the stocks Puritains
Handled so well in Boston streets.
Don’t let me down. I bet
You to use all your know-how
In one throttle. Please, good God,
Put everything into your swing.
Yusef Komunyakaa
Kindness
. . . goes SUCH a long way.
It can make someone’s day, change their outlook on life, make them care for the first time in a long time.
Don’t weigh the act by how much it “costs” you - how much of a sacrifice it is. Rather ask simply: “What will this do for the other to be loved?”
The answer is amazing every time.
And yes, sometimes, you are rewarded as a result, beyond the good deed.
On Mary, The Moms Of Jesus
I read this collection of poems for my masters:
Mary Speaks of Her Son, by Carl Winderl.
Prof Winderl is one of my old teachers from Eastern Nazarene College, though he has moved on to greener teaching pastures since then. I bought this book and read it, and have been trying to find my footing ever since.
The book is just what the title says: Mary speaking about her Son (Jesus) and the events which surround their life. More than this, Winderl added anachronisitc, modern tales wherein Mary comments on the world around us today:What is it like for the Mother of God to
- Walk around and see people wearing her Son around their necks?
- Have whole denominations and colleges dedicated to your child?
- Contemplate suicide every Christmas because you know it brings Easter?
This is an excellent collection of poems which force you to reconsider the character of Mary.
Buy a copy, or borrow mine.
For a more thorough analysis of the book, here is the paper I wrote on it.
Mary Speaks of Her Son <- Clicky