COVID Woes

I promise: Genres of My Life will not turn into my personal diary full of narcissistic whining about things that really aren't that bad. But, for now, I am just slinging up anything that may have one good sentence in it (aka, gaining traction). 

But, when one gets COVID and is in forced reclusion, there is very little to post about. Narcissistic Whining must be a genre; if not, the linguistic community needs to get that shit canonized before "bruh" is. 

I'm not going to complain about how awful I feel. Because I have a fantastic immune system, my symptoms are minimal. My two BFFs, whom I gave it to, not so much. They are such good friends that they took on the more than their share of COVID pie. 💖you ladies!

No, my bone to pick with the universe is not that I have COVID, but it is because of when I have COVID.

My rah-rah teacher day is Monday and I have students on Wednesday. As you read this, I should be in my classroom doing my contract-anointed "float day," but I can't get within 10 miles of campus. I have not been in my classroom since they waxed the floors. If you are a teacher, no other explanation is needed; the collective gasp can be heard around the world. 

For those who don't fall under the educator umbrella, what that means I have to plug in everything (and in a classroom, plugging into the Matrix in no easy task), clean up my decorations (there has been a mad game of Tic Tack Toe going on the construction paper that lines my back wall), and xerox . . . something (digital age or not, GenX teachers don't feel they are ready for a new school year until they photo-copy for at least an hour). 

Being 26 years into my career, I can roll in and throw down some bullshit for a couple days (if any of my administrators are reading this . . . deliver pre-planned, relevant and rigorous lessons that build relationships). Nevertheless, I was going to prepare for the new year for 2-3 long days in my classroom before the year started. Roost around a little bit: clean some shelves, organize my teaching library by genre, organize some desk drawers, put up the posters I never got around to putting up last summer, transfer my 20 meeting invites from my inbox to my new bougie planner that I'll use for a month. Reline the back wall with clean construction paper for the 2023-24 Tic Tack Toe season. Xerox . . . something.

Nope, no roosting, nesting, settling, pulling-shit-together for me. I'm behind before anything has even started. 

But hey, COVID didn't leave me totally hangin'. According to isolation and return-to-work instructions, it is safe for me to return to work just in time for rah-rah teacher day. Great! Can't get my room ready, but I'll be front and center for all those welcome back meetings.  

COVID,🖕.

(Hey, let me know where the good sentence was. The narcissistic whining I can find easily enough.)

Professional Development

I never have, nor ever will, manage my money to get by in the summer. Even with my district managing the academic calendar so that teachers get paid 11 months out of 12 (rather than the traditional 10 months), I still stress out in August as I watch my balance shrink and my bills remain robust.

Meh, fiscal responsibility is for wimps. 

Instead, I do a lot of professional development to earn some extra cash. Pay me, I'll do it. I'll workshop the shit out of any teaching technique you want. I'll learn how to teach math, science, underwater basket weaving . . . whatever. Attend trainings for online teaching programs that I'll never use during the school year? Done. (If any of my principals are reading this, I PD in the summer to grow and hone my skills as a teacher. And those online education platforms? Love them 😍)   

Of course you are all probably snickering as you think "She can pole dance" but then I must remind you that one of my new themes for the blog is that I'm fucking 50. I need to earn money not go to jail. 

Regardless, I do try to go into teaching workshops and the like with an auspicious attitude. Even if I don't learn something new, it helps refresh best practices that I might have left by the wayside. Sometimes, they reinforce that I am doing a couple things right.

In July, I virtually attended my first AVID training. AVID stands for Advancement Via Individual Determination. The program seeks to provide disadvantaged students access to resources and rigor to "close the gap" in their learning. It is basically moving through a series of teaching techniques that provide students success with reading difficult texts and writing cohesively. 

How's that paragraph for sounding professional? Well, the development stops there.

Like a good conference attendee, I did all my prework the night before: I watched the tutorial to learn how to use the meeting platform; I tested my technology so that everything would work the next day.

Ya, that last one: as if. 

So, I wake up Monday morning with enough time to make myself camera presentable, brew some coffee and enjoy a few quiet moments waiting for all neurons to start firing-- or at least a couple neurons. But of course, the moment I sit down at my desk and turn on my computer to join the training, I realize my internet is not working. No idea why. It was working 12 hours previous and I hadn't done anything online since my technology check. But, if anyone can jack-up her technology without even being on said technology, it's me.

I restart my computer. I restart my modem. No internet. Both seem to be powered up and there are no alarming red lights flashing. I turn off my power strip to hard restart everything in my office. Still, the computer telling me it cannot find any available wireless connections. I am close to restarting my entire apartment by throwing the breaker. Unfortunately, being "camera ready" does not mean I should actually leave the house. 

I say the f-word a lot. 

Turns out the problem is with my desktop, but I don't have time figure it out. It's 10 minutes to go time and I need a minimum of 2 hours to fix my tech. So I grab my laptop, which isn't charged. To be comfortable, it would be better to sit in a my large, loungy-like chair called a "cuddler" but I have to crawl over the back to reach the electrical socket. I plug in my laptop, grab my coffee and put it on the C-table, then settle myself in. I secure a bolster pillow under my knees, put my lap desk in place. Of course, as I grab my laptop, the power cord hooks my coffee cup and sends my survival juice sailing across the room and my auspicious mood out the window.

More f-words. Climbing out of my gauntlet of comfort, I throw a few pillows across the room, refresh my coffee.

I am now officially late. I regroup: add some Bailey's to the coffee, snuggled back up in my chair. Prep the lap desk and laptop so that it won't tangle on anything when I move it. Place the coffee on the table. Make the sign of the cross, bow to the east, sacrifice a couple chickens. I crawl back into my cuddler, get myself all wedged and propped, and log on in time just as the welcoming message is ending. 

Next time, I'm not checking shit before an online training. I'm just gonna roll out of bed 10 minutes before and log on late. 

Finesse My Seat, Not My Hair

Tweens and teens of the 70's and early 80's wanted only one thing:  to look like Charlie's Angels (well, and marry one of the Dukes of Hazard or Hardy Boys). 
Every girl wanted to have that straight glossy hair with the sides feathered back: wings of beauty hardened by Aqua Net.

Being in junior high school during this fashion trend, my frizzy, curly, sky-scraper-defying hair only added to the trauma of those years. Straightening, let alone adding a wispy flip, was impossible. And since my most loathsome chore was ironing my dad's clothes, I sure as shit was not going to iron my hair. 

Finesse Shampoo and Conditioner was my last hope to be trendy and cool. It advertised the end of frizz and the beginning of soft manageable hair.

It didn't work as well as I hoped. It tamed my afro a bit, but not enough to impress Charlie. I just had to wait it out until the later 80's when it was fashionable to for a girl to look like she stuck finger into a light socket.

It wasn't until last year when a freshman brought the word "finesse" back into my life. This will give those who know me pause because in my 21 years of teaching I have NEVER taught freshmen, and it is best that I NEVER do teach freshmen. The problem is definitely me not them. I am not emotionally, mentally, hell or even physically equipped to be in the same room with more than say two at a time. They have no control over their bodies, they don't get my sarcasm, and they don't respond well to my "suck it up" and "stop complaining" method of compassion.

Once in a great while, I would watch a colleague (and friend's) freshman study hall if need be, but only if she had a bonafide emergency: she stroked out, her arm fell off, or her house was on fire.

It was on one such occasion when I discovered how kids today use "finesse." I had about 15 freshman in my room, all settled into desks and ordered to work on their homework if they planned on surviving their 25 minutes with me. Freshmen cannot be still for longer than 30 seconds nor can they go more than 30 seconds without antagonizing one another, so when one young man got up to flail about the room in search of a trashcan, another one slipped into his desk. As I began to hound the one that was up to get back in his seat, his excuse for not doing so was that his friend had, "finessed his seat."

Being a Czar of language, I was aware of the definition of finesse as an adverb for something done with grace, skill, and ease. I've heard it associated with a review a person's athleticism. And trust me, freshman are nowhere near graceful, skillful, or at ease.  No. Where. Near.

Based on my Sherlock Holmesian powers of deduction, I figured out "finesse" means to steal with stealth and a style (two more adjectives not within 3-4 years of a freshman).  The implication is that the "finesser" is to be admired for his/her expertise, subtlety, and smoothness. The connotation detracts from the negativity of the act. Taking what is not yours is softened with the s sound.  "Stealing" squeals and crashes; "finessing" slides and whispers. It brings admiration to the culprit the way James Bond brings class to a governmental assassin.

Did the freshmen survive their 25 minutes? Barely. Things became much better after I duct-taped them all to their seats.

The Party Never Stops

Teaching writing is far more challenging than teaching literature. With literature, a teacher has fascinating characters, engaging plots, and important themes that they can easily get behind.  English teachers, even those who are just paying the bills until they get their great American novel published, did not choose their major because they loved writing essays (or even novels). They did so because of literature.  Teaching straight, expository writing is much more challenging because it’s hard to make the writing process interesting to students.

At least I can make the topics of writing more edgy and fun when I teach my college students.  For example, when introduce the classification and analysis essay, I ask students to break up the guests of a typical House Party into different categories.  The term “guests” is a bit of an euphemism because very few people at House Parties are actually invited.  For those of you whose rebellion happened before the 21st century, House Parties, formally known as Flyer Parties (90s), formally known as Ragers (80s) occur whenever a teen’s parents have gone out of the town for the weekend and word gets out that there is an adult-free abode in which to indulge in iniquities.  Concept has been around for decades (hell, centuries) but the name has changed.

Same with those who attend.  As the students shared their categories, I learned some new labels.

For those who for the tradition of drinking:

·         The hot heads: The ones that start drinking and just want to get down. “Getting down” means to fight. I thought it was a reference to sex. In context, both definitions make sense to me.

·         Flops: People that can't handle their alcohol

The fact that no one offered a category of silly, jovial drunks makes me wonder just how much fun is to be had at House Parties.

For those who are into a little bit more than alcohol:

·         Burnouts: People who come to do drugs

·         Fiends: People that are just looking to smoke weed and just want people to smoke them out. I assume they differ from burnouts because they are cannabis-focused where burnouts will take anything.

·         The Dealer: The person that comes to make money from drug selling.

·         Ballooners: Go to party to do noz from the noz tank until they forget how to speak. This party behavior is new to me.  Apparently, if it’s a good party, then there will be a tank of nitrous oxide to take hits off of (kind of like a step-up from inhaling from helium balloons).  And yes, the goal is to become a drooling idiot.  I also pointed out that the goal is to kill off your brain cells. Permanently.

For those looking for a little tail:

·         The thirsty: people desperate to have sex.  Before submitting this category, a student asked me if I know what “being thirsty” meant. I was a little suspicious: either they think I’ve been ballooning too much or if it was too scandalous to put into spoken (or written) language. I told them I assumed that it referred to a bonafide alcoholic. I stand corrected.

·         Smashers: girls only good for sex.   

·         Outcasts: socially awkward people that show up so they could get noticed.

As a teacher and possible mentor, even to college students, I did take this opportunity to point out that these highly destructive behaviors are all ways to escape.  Those who frequent House Parties are probably suffering some sort of personal trauma or self-esteem issues.  I commented on the irony of parties becoming the stage to let all the things that are no-so-fun about us to come out.  Our social lives, which are meant to be a reprieve from stress and anxiety, are quickly becoming the fuel for more stress and anxiety.

Not sure anyone understood me. Maybe too many Ballooners in the room. Maybe I have fallen into the Party Pooper category.

Smarter Than I Look

I understand that most teenagers believe teachers (hell, adults) behaved differently when they were teenagers.  We went to sock-hops. We loved school.  If we felt like rebelling, we wore racy clothes and drove our cars too fast. Maybe smoked a cigarette; maybe took a couple sips from a beer occasionally. Honestly, I don't blame them.  I thought the same thing too.

                

What strikes me is that they think we are not akin to their subterfuges.

                

The high school I teach at starts a half-hour later on Fridays; combined with the fact that this occurs at the end of their week makes hitting Starbucks a must for adolescents.  I  sympathize and have no problem with that as long as students arrive to class on time and don’t spill that Venti, blended goodness all over my floor.

                

But this morning, a little lady told me a bold-face lie so that she could retrieve her beverage after class had started.  One thing I have no patience with or tolerance for is lying.  She asked me is she could go to the restroom. I gave her permission.  She came back with a Venti passion tea.

               

Really?

                

I hauled her tush outside and said, “Samantha, don’t ever lie to me. You ask to go to the bathroom and you come back with Starbucks. Did you really think I wouldn’t catch that?”

                

Her eyes get real big.  “I didn’t lie. I just happen to run into my friend, and she had an iced tea for me. I swear.”

                

My response: “Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

                          

“I swear that’s what happened.”

Yes, she thinks I'm that stupid.
               

“So, you expect me to believe that the exact same moment you had to ‘go to the bathroom’ your friend happened to be walking the halls with an ice tea for you? You really think I am going to believe that?”

                

“I swear.”

                

“I don’t believe you.”

               

 She stands there blinking at me. 

                

“Don’t ever lie to me again.”

                

She huffs and storms into the classroom.

                

(Little does she know that next time --or the next dozen times-- she asks to go to the restroom, the answer will be “no.”)

                

I tell my students from the beginning of the year that they will always win with honesty and never win with lying. Honestly doesn’t mean no consequences, but they will come down soooo much easier.  All Samantha had to do was say, “Hey Ms. Vance, my friend just brought me an iced-tea. Can I go grab it?”

                

It’s Friday. We are just doing some leisurely reading.  She’s playing it straight. I would have said, “Sure, but this is an exception. Don’t make this a habit.”  The end.

                

Instead, she lies. Instead, she assumes that I’m not going to catch on.  She assumes that I am stupid. I’m a lot of things, but stupid ain’t one of ‘em.

                

Trust me, I was not a straight-laced kid. I rebelled. I rebelled hard.  And I used the same tricks they try to use on me.  When I set my watch back 20 minutes so that when I arrived home after curfew I could raise my little doe-eyes to my parents and show them how my watch says I’m on time? When I forged my own notes to get out of school early (I had an “injured knee” my junior year and had many, many doctor’s appointments) did the attendance workers know I was lying and just didn’t have a way to call my bluff? (They never called my mom, which is good, because then I’d be well . . . dead).  My parents never have been push-overs.  If I got caught doing wrong, punishment was severe and swift.  Yet I still ditched; I still snuck out; I still lied. I wonder how much they actually knew and just didn’t address because I was still bringing home good grades and treating them with respect?  Were they just worn by the demands of their daily lives so they would allow a few transgressions?

               

The message I’d like to send to all teens is this: we know a lot more than you think we know.

Don't Be an Ass

My future husband

The "evolution" of communication brought about by technological advancements does not negate basic grammatical structures.

In other words, now that y'all are using nothing but abbreviations and acronyms in written communication, at least use them correctly, dammit.  It may not seem to matter while texting, tweeting, snap-chatting, tik-toking, but those mistakes will transfer to an arena where it does matter.

Abbreviations are shortened versions of a word, but that doesn't mean they aren't just as important as what they stand for. Missus David Draiman (my name once he skips out on that gorgeous , model wife and adorable me for little ol' me) implies no more than Mrs. David Draiman; I am no less a wife by using Mrs. (Actually, I'm not a wife at all, but that's not the point). 

By the same token, Lieutenant Van Buren doesn't lose any of her brash, ball-busting authority by signing her name Lt. Van Buren when she writes up Briscoe for being a smart-ass or Curtis for being a tight-ass.

Acronyms are a type of abbreviation. A basic abbreviation is the shortening of one word; an acronym is the shortening of a phrase into a single word which is constructed from the first letters of each word.  For example, NASA is an acronym for National Aeronautics and Space Administration. NASA is both an abbreviation and an acronym; Mrs. is just an abbreviation.

What abbreviations do is make communication (and filling out forms) a bit easier. Who wants to say, "I have to get up at 5 ante meridian," when it is so much easier to say, "5 A.M."  Even the word "abbreviation" has an abbreviation: abbr.  But just because it's shorter, doesn't mean there aren't any rules:

1)  The period and capitalization can affect meaning.  Abbreviations only capitalize the first letter or each letter after a period; acronyms are always written using all caps and no periods.  A B.S. in physics is not the same as using BS to get through physics. Albert Einstein had a B.S. in physics; the closest thing I come to having knowledge in physics is BS. 

2)  Abbreviations are written not spoken; acronyms are both written and spoken. Saying "Mrs. Draiman" sounds the same as "Missus Draiman;" one does not pronounce my future name as "Mmmrrrsss Draiman." Detective Curtis called Lt. Van Buren "L-T" but he's still a tight-ass.

3) Abbreviations are not arbitrary.  There is a correct way to abbreviate things; one can't just shorten a word any way he or she likes and consider it correct.  Take the following example from a student's paper:

"One of the cadets absent was our Class Sgt. and the other was our Class Ass. (Class Assistant).  Another cadet volunteered to become to new Class Sgt. and I volunteered to become the new Class Ass. because I knew it would please the instructors by being a leader.  I moved from my position from the right to my new position, the Class Ass. Position on the left."

I don't know about other teachers, but my class ass is never absent.  But I guess I'm supposed to put all the asses on the left side of the classroom. 

My student's error may have provided me with a few laughs (and material for a blog post), but the panel of judges grading his project will just think he's an ass. BTW, the correct abbr. for assistant is asst. 

Maybe being an ass is conducive for being an assistant, but I wouldn't put that in writing. 

You Fahrenheit 451ers are totally ignoring these basic rules.  LOL is usually written like an acronym, but we don't pronounce it like one. We say "L-O-L" not "loll." Technically, it's an abbreviation, not an acronym, and should be written like this: L.O.L.   So when those insurance commercials poke fun at the out-of-touch father who says, "loll," it is the insurance company, not the father, who is an idiot. 

I suppose asking teens to put their periods in the write place when engaging in social networking is setting the bar a bit high.  Let's get them to capitalize "I" first.  

Kill Me Now: Grading Papers

I hate grading papers. I HATE it.  I'd rather clean my apartment with a toothbrush after I leased it out to a fraternity for Rush Week.

And, of course, I teach the subject with the most amount of grading: English. That alone affirms that I'm a masochist.

I know most of my problem is psychological, but when it's me against my psychology, I get bitch-slapped every time.

Recently, I collected 100, six-page research papers from my high school seniors. Rough draft research papers, which means that I'm going to have to make copious comments to guide them through their revisions.

Imagine having to read badly written 600 page novel on a subject you could care less about while writing on every single page why you don't like it.

Have I provided enough instruction for students to produce drafts that shouldn't need copious comments? Absolutely. I'll admit that I do not teach everything well (Siddhartha is always a crap-shoot; Emily Dickinson--never knew how just a few words could confuse me so much) but the research paper? I am a genius. My instructions include brilliant analogies, handouts with simplified instruction to maneuver MLA formatting, and color-coded examples to highlight each aspect of a quality research paper. I hold their hands through every step of researching, developing quality thesis statements, creating supportive arguments, and inserting relevant commentary. In class, I model, model, model; students practice, practice, practice.

But it never fails: most of the students' first drafts are shit. And not the type of shitty first drafts that Anne Lamott writes about.

This has been a rinse-repeat process for my entire 21-year teaching career.  And no, to all you non-teachers, I can't just not assign the research paper.  It is a standard upheld by all senior English teachers, the district office, and God himself.  I could sooner teach the writings of the Marquis de Sade than not teach the research paper.

Every year, I have a ritual preparation for onerous this annual onerous task. This includes buying a lot of chocolate and a few bottles of wine, making sure all of my yoga pants are clean, and sending out a mass email to my friends and family to not even think about calling, texting, emailing, or in any other way communicating with me for a week.

As if it only took me a week.  One of my colleagues gets hers back in a matter of days; the others, a week to 10 days. Me? I am always the last to return my papers.  In fact, by the time I do pass them back, the students have forgotten that they wrote them in the first place. For those of you non-teachers, it takes me anywhere between 20-30 minutes to grade one paper.  Granted, I am slow, but I provide an individualized plan on how to revise their drafts.

Every year I approach the papers with a positive attitude and a promise to get through these papers more quickly than the previous year.  My school is generous enough to allow me a couple grading days (they provide a substitute for my classes at not cost to my sick days), of which I take full advantage. But no matter how determined, how optimistic, how "prepared" I am to blast through these drafts, the pattern is always the same.

Day 1 (Tuesday):  I wake up at 6 a.m., get dressed -- jeans and a cute crew-neck top, light make-up, hair styled--fill my bag with papers and walk up to the local coffee shop.  I power through about eight papers, jotting down comments like "You are on the right track," "Consider doing some more research in __________," "Expand here," "Clarify?," and "remember to refer to that handout I gave you on MLA formatting."  I have lunch, walk back to my apartment, grade a few more papers, take some time to watch TV for an hour or so, grade a few more papers, walk to a local restaurant for a romantic dinner with my papers, come home, have a glass of wine and some chocolate, grade one or two more papers and then go to bed feeling productive.

My second "grading day" (Wednesday) is fairly similar, but I do get up a little later, watch a little more television in the afternoon, dinner is take-out. Two glasses of wine. My comments are a little less euphemistic: "Need more research," "Need to write more here," "Not sure what your point is here," and "Do you need another copy of the handout on MLA formatting?"

Then I must return to my normal teaching day, with maybe 1/3 of my papers graded.  The pressure begins to build. And I do not have 1/2 the energy I had in my 20s.  Shit, even in my 30s. I know that teaching is not the only exhausting job out there, but my workday is a lot like chaperoning a juvenile hall fieldtrip to Disneyland.  After work, I may get through four papers before I collapse from exhaustion.

Day 5 (a weekend day): I wake up at 9 a.m., do not get dressed, do not put on any semblance of make-up, hair is in a ponytail. I do not leave my apartment.  At this point, in addition to my comments in the tone of "You are not sticking with your thesis," "Where did information come from?," "Huh?," "The period goes outside the parenthesis," I am circling brown and red smudges on the paper and writing, "chocolate," and "wine ring."

By the second weekend, I have dedicated at least 25 hours of my free time to reading a bunch of papers that could have been titled "Captain Obvious" littered with errors and some nearly incomprehensible. I am sending texts of "kill me now," to my friends and family.

Day 12 (a weekend day): I wake up at 9 a.m., clean my apartment, do some laundry, go to the supermarket. While I am gone, my cats attack and play with my stack of papers.  I step on them as I haul groceries in from the car.  By 2ish, I sit down to grade my first paper. There are few, if any, positive comments.  I don't even bother to identify the "mystery stains." Some papers will be returned with torn edges and puncture marks from my cats channeling my angst.

Day 13: I might get to my first paper by 4 p.m.  My comments have been reduced to "I have no idea what you are writing about," "Now you are just being random," "Did you hear anything I've said in class in the last month?," and  "Did you even look at the MLA handout?" What I want to write is, "WTF?" and "A drunk monkey with a serious head-wound could write better than this." I am convinced that I spent more time reading it than they spent writing it.  There are more wine-rings than comments.

Last day of grading: I have around 8 papers left.  I don't change out of my pajamas, bathe, and the hair is still in the ponytail I put it in three days ago.  I don't even know what the mystery stains are on the papers. I don't even have to order take-out because my food haunts know to show up with a shitload of carbs and chocolate around mealtime.  I drink anymore wine and I'll have to join AA. I am thinking of pulling a Anna Nicole Smith--overdose and all. If fornicating with an elderly man will keep me from having to grade another paper, I am in.

Eventually, the papers are returned. Students rush me with questions about my comments to which I answer: "I don't know what I meant; I graded ONE HUNDRED papers." (See post after this one on my memory).  I go back to bathing, eating veggies, drinking water. And I vow, that next year, I'll be more efficient at grading the rough draft research papers.

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?": A History Lesson

As the semester draws to a close and I read over student papers that reflect their newly acquired knowledge, I've come to a realization.

My students haven't acquired shit.

All juniors at my high school are required to write a research paper on one of America's greatest speeches. The content should cover the historical setting of the speech, a bit about the speaker him/herself, and why the speech qualifies as a great one.

Of course, we guide them through the rhetorical analysis part, but the historical setting we leave to Google and what they've picked up from their history classes. Not that I'm opposed to sprinkling historical tidbits into my instruction, but figure what I know they can easily find themselves on the Internet, or God help them, in their history textbooks. 

Recently, all the junior teachers gathered to grade the final drafts of these papers in order to share our success and bemoan our failures.  On this particular occasion, there was a lot of bemoaning.

Here is what we learned from our student papers:

• Malcolm X read the Torah while in prison
• The Cold War started in 1985
• Martin Luther King Jr spoke in 1929
• Teddy Roosevelt saw Patrick Henry speak
• "The Japs bombed us; it's time to retaliate!" (The teacher whose student produced this gem--Japanese.)
• "The Allied Powers accept the Armistice agreements so we could have Veteran's Day."
• Twins are the same age

And my favorite line: "If America is the land of the free, where the fuck is the freedom?"

We could have blamed the history teachers, but we English folks are kissing cousins to you history folks.  Besides, I know that my school's history teachers are stellar. And my colleagues of Language Arts?  Let's just say that one of them was recently a California Teacher of the Year--so you know we ain't playin' around.

Nevertheless, as an educator, I feel a certain responsibility to set a few things straight.

• Malcolm X might have understood Moses' demand to "set my people free" and approved of the violence rained down on Egypt for not doing so, but I think a black man trying to empower his oppressed race would not turn to the Torah.  Islam and Judaism--a wee bit at odds.
• In 1985, the only build-up in weaponry was happening in our hairstyles. 

  

  Headman for Flock of Seagulls

• Even though Martin Luther King Jr would have had contention with labeling the day the stock market crashed in 1929 as "Black Tuesday," his "I have a dream speech" probably would have included that he dreams that one day the sons of slaves and the sons of former slave owners can walk into and bank together and find their money still there.
• I know Teddy was known for his physical prowess, but unless he lived to be 144, he did not see Patrick Henry speak at the Virginia convention in 1775.  But if he had, he would have definitely jumped on the "Give me liberty or give me death" bandwagon.
• As for retaliating against the "Japs" we did that. Dropping the A-bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki is the mother of all retaliations. I think we can call it even-steven.
• Yes, Veteran's Day is based on an armistice which started on November 11, 1918 but countries don't end wars so that another holiday can be added to their calendars.
• As for twins being the same age, that is true.  I got nothing to correct there.

And as for "where the fuck is our freedom?" I can blog, can't I?

"Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving" -- William Shakespeare

Amen, oh god of the quill.

What favorable, even if "unmerited" reputation that I have just took a roundhouse kick to the face. And, believe it or not, it was not a result of anything I did. The possibility that another person out there can inadvertently make me look bad is terrifying--I can barely keep myself out of the hot-seat, let alone stop anyone else from burning my ass.

But the most recent, undeserving blemish to my reputation did make me the center of attention, so I guess there's an upside. What's that saying: there's no such thing as bad publicity?  Oh wait, as a teacher, my reputation is more fragile than that of any politician.  Really, do you think a teacher with surname Weiner who had an extramarital affair could ever set foot on a campus again?

During this past summer, my high school held a leadership.  I was not invited, my school doesn't dare ask me to lead anything except the damned into the apocalypse, but even though  I was not there in body, I was there in libido.

As an icebreaker, my colleagues were asked to share their most embarrassing moment.  One of my colleagues, Evie, who attended the retreat felt a shortage of humiliating anecdotes to contribute (a conundrum of which I cannot relate) and took the liberty of using one of mine. Since I consider Evie a friend, my fuck-ups are her fuck-ups, but her fuck-up of my fuck-up could land me in jail.

"One time I caught Holly having sex with a student," Evie shared with the more upstanding, more influential teachers of my school, which included my principal, my three assistant principals, and both my department heads. 

Not only did Evie throw me under the bus, but also hijacked it and backed it over me.

She tried to back-peddle by explaining that she had misplaced her modifier, but that just turned into some kind of sexual innuendo about me misplacing my modifier, so now my fellow teachers think that in addition to me boffing my students I am also a hermaphrodite. Trust me, if I wanted them to believe either, it would be the latter.

Now, just to clarify, that is not even remotely what she caught me doing. In fact, she didn't catch me doing anything.  A couple years ago, Evie, myself and two other colleagues had to "do our time" teaching in a set of portable classrooms--constructed to last five years but were around eight years old by the time I got into them.  Even though the teaching conditions were several degrees below adequate, they were perfect for misadventure.  While up there, my classroom flooded after every rainfall; the portable across from me was invaded by a swarm of bees; we were greeted daily by rabbits, squirrels, and the occasional coyote; and if any of us teachers found ourselves bored, we could just wander over to the abandoned greenhouse and catch a handful of students smoking weed. But the finale, literally and figuratively, was when the teacher across the way from me, Paul, saw from his classroom window two students having sex on the baseball field.

It was during the 6th period final on the last day of school.  These teens planned on ending the year with a bang.

I am not the one who caught them, I was the one elected to go and interrupt their fornicating because a) I didn't have a class that period and b) I am known for being quite ballsy.

I know, not helping with the hermaphrodite rumor.

"Hey Holly," Paul yells.  I go to my doorway to see him braced in his with sophomores trying to squeeze out of the room.  "Take a look around the corner of my classroom."

I peeked around the corner and a young lady riding a young man.  This was no amateur show; at her age, I would have had no idea how to do what she was doing.

My solution was to just turn the sophomores loose on them, but Paul was afraid of legal ramifications. As if there wouldn't be any for that 38 year-old teacher who strolled up on the soft-core porn and said, "Excuse me, do you think that behavior is appropriate?"

I may be a bit of a bulldog, but I am not stupid.  I was not going anywhere near that situation. Instead, I just went with prudence and phoned it into the office.  Of course, being the last day of school, the secretaries figured that I couldn't be calling about anything that serious --the seniors had graduated the night before so the margin for disaster was much smaller. As it turned out, when I called to notify the dean that, "two students are fornicating on the baseball field," I was on speakerphone.

So much for avoiding legal ramifications.

Evie could have used the phone call as "her" embarrassing moment.  But nooooo, instead I had to hear from what seemed like every one of my teaching fellows: "Evie announced at the leadership retreat that you had sex with a student." They quickly added, "She did explain what she really meant, but it was really funny."

How nice; I'm the life of the party even when I'm not there.

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?"

I am slowly but surely breaking down teenagers' mental stability. All those things that parents have done to make their children feel safe in the world they live in, I taint with my radical pedagogy. What little ego, what little self-esteem, what little confidence they have in their beliefs, I am picking apart like a vulcher tearing off the last bits of meat on a bone.

I am not producing articulate young men and women; I am producing cynics.

Sacred truths are being exposed in room R102. Look out Mulder, I am on the scene. Government conspiracy the cover up the existence of aliens? Whatever.  I, a mere school teacher, have recently ripped the mask of deceit from a sacred truth. 

That Van Helsing is not Hugh Jackman.

I know, some might think me callous. Some could rightly say that I've lost all reverence for faith, fantasy, innocent. But I cannot allow my students, my protegees, to go into the world blinded by such falsehoods.

Currently, I am teaching my seniors how to write a research paper.  In order to model this, I use the topic of vampires in literature. One of the keys to teaching is modeling, and I figured why not use a subject they might find interesting and a subject I know a lot about? I also find it a good opportunity to tune up their analytical skills: the vampire isn’t just titillating entertainment; it can be used as a way to interpret the beliefs of an era.

Don't get me wrong; we aren't watching The Vampire Diaries, True Blood, and Twilight (I do get to Twilight, but it at the end of a survey of all kinds of vampires). In fact, I start with some mythological background and then the first piece of literature I expose them to is Bram Stoker's Dracula. Throw in some classical vampires; go back to the roots, yo. I understand that the dense Victorian prose might lose them, but I make sure to pick the "juicy" parts to read. Yes, read; not watch.

This year, when I announced that next class Van Helsing will be making his appearance, students visibly perked up: they sat up straight in their desks, eyes popped open, a few excited "really?"s humm through the room. 

"Van Helsing is in Dracula?"

"Yep. Stoker created the original."

"Wow!"

They seemed more excited than students in the past at meeting the father of all slayers.

  

It's the next day and I am reading the parts from the novel where Van Helsing is introduced and examining poor Lucy (the first of Dracula’s English Victims—those who have seen the film, the hot red-head whose breasts will not be harnessed by any nightgown), I sense the energy that had carried over from the class before waning. Whispers. Students twisting around in their seats.

Pausing, I look up to make sure everyone is following along and am met with perplexed stares.

A student raises his hand. "I'm lost.”

"We are on page 123," I say.

“No, about Van Helsing." He stabs his book with a finger, "Van Helsing is some old guy?" 

“Well, I guess you might think him old. He’s a college professor from Amsterdam. Dr. Seward sends for him because he's an expert in strange diseases. He's the perfect balance of scientific man who has, as Dr. Seward says, 'a completely open mind'.  These characters living in this time would never think of vampirism as the cause of Lucy's illness. They weren't nearly as mainstream as they are now. Stoker needed a character who is both educated and yet a bit quirky, a bit nonconformist, if you will, to bring this to light.”

The student frowns. He is not pacified by my articulate and thorough justification of Van Helsing's character.

"He doesn't work for the Vatican?” the student almost pleads.

For a second, I think What in the Hell is he talking about? but then remember the Hugh Jackman flick. Laughing, I say, "You're thinking of the movie. That is not an accurate depiction of the original character."

Another student asks, “He turns into a werewolf, right?” His voice pitching, and it's not because puberty hasn't kicked in yet. It's panic. 

I make a mental note to add "accurate" and "depiction" to next weeks vocabulary list.

“That movie didn’t create character of Van Helsing. He’s been around for a while.” I hold up my copy of Dracula, “Stoker invented him. In fact, he’s based on a good friend of the author.”

The students are not impressed. At all.

I downshift to their mode. Picking up the DVD of Francis For Coppola's Dracula (if you want to stay alive, you have to intersperse movie clips throughout the study of a classic) I throw it in and hope that Anthony Hopkins' portrayal of Van Helsing will pull the students back in.

It doesn't. His social awkwardness, his sardonic humor, his ability to go from Victorian gentleman to blood-drenched avenger in the flash of a fanged mouth.

I emphasize how the original Van Helsing, a mere mortal without the aid of Rome, specialized weapons, the reincarnated soul of an archangel, and the ability to transform into a werewolf can still defeat such a powerful, nefarious preternatural creature as Dracula. 

Despite his accomplishments, my students are still disappointed. "The Van Helsing in the movie is cooler," a few reiterate.

Well, I guess I better not tell them that Frankenstein's monster and Dracula's stories don't really intertwine. But, there's no sense in kicking them when they are down. Not even am I that cruel.

Actually, I am. Did you know that Dr. Frankenstein not once says, "It's alive!" in the novel? Not once.

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?"

I promised myself that I would not use this site as a teenager-bashing forum. But, I just can't resist putting this up.  It just happened in one of my senior English classes.

Currently, we are reading Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger; we are seven chapters into it. This is one of my favorite unit to teach: I read it aloud to the students with plenty of dramatic flair, I am really good at connecting the protagonist's experience to theirs (and with teens, if you make it about them, they are in), and using it as a tool to build their skills of analysis.

This is the cover of their copies.

They've taken a couple of quizzes, we've had discussions, and they have had a copy checked out to them.  At this moment, the students are working on completing some analysis questions for those chapters we've read. I always preface these questions with the statement, "These are not recall questions. This story is not that hard to follow. These questions require you to think of the significance of what's happening in Holden's life."

Students nod, either to acknowledge an appreciation for their budding intelligence or because they just want me to shut up so they can figure out where they are going to get wasted this weekend.

I go to my desk to input attendance and to email my sister. Oh, and to check in on the blog.

I see the blur of a white T-shirt in my peripheral as a student approaches me.  "Uh, Ms. Vance, who is Salinger."

Without shifted my eyes from the computer screen, I throw out the side of my mouth, "The author of the book."

A few minutes later, an second student asks me the same question. Much to my chagrin, I realize that students are getting stuck on question #3: "Compare and contrast Ackley and Stradlater [characters in the novel]. Why do you think Salinger has Holden interact with them?"  To try to waylay further irritation, shuffled over to my podium so that I am at the center of attention and announced to the class: "J.D. Salinger is the author of the book."

A chorus of "Ohhhhhhh"s fills the room. I smile, give them a curt nod, and return to my computer.

One young lady, who is very pretty and therefore very popular and therefore, therefore hasn't seen the need to develop her brain says, "Oh my God, this is a biography?"

I peer from around my computer screen, "No, honey. Make-believe stories are written by humans too."

She blinks at me, and then to save face, flicks her hair back. I think two boys who sit across the room from her swoon. Fluttering her beautiful green eyes to the ceiling, she says knowingly, "Oh, so then he's one of the characters. But, which chapter was he in?"

Holy shit.  And it's only 2nd period. I have two more periods of seniors ahead of me.

For 3rd period, I decide to nip this in the bud. As soon as I pass out the questions, I tell the class to look at question #3 and then say, "Salinger is the author of the book. I just wanted to make sure you all knew that before ten of you ask me and I flip out because several people last period asked me who he was."

This time, I get a chorus of, "Who doesn't know that? What dumb-asses [I think the exact word they use is  'fuck-tards' but I find that really offensive and dumb-ass means the same thing]," but then I notice a few of their classmates studying the cover of Catcher, as their shoulders roll forward, they hunker down a bit, and then glance up nervously to see if anyone else noticed that they were one of those "dumb-asses."

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?"

The only good thing about starting the new school year is that my supply of funny teenage anecdotes will be replenished.

This is my fifteenth year of teaching, so those first few days of school have lost their novelty. I no longer spend days in the summer decorating the classroom (the posters from last year are just fine); I sleep soundly the night before; and I am not pulsing with excited, nervous energy as fresh new tanned faces come beaming into my room. It's kind of like birthdays after 30: whatever.

But I did learn a few things during this first week of school.

I learned that I am completely desensitized to teenage shenanigans. As an ice-breaker exercise, I have each student introduce themselves by paring an adjective that starts with the same letter as their first name with it and then explain how that word reflects an aspect of their personality. It introduces alliteration, helps them practice elaboration, and helps me learn their names more quickly.

Of course, I demonstrate: "I am Hilarious Holly because I love to make people laugh."

And to ward off trouble, I remind them that their adjective needs to be classroom appropriate.

But this year, first period of the day, first student to introduce himself says this: "I am Juicy Joshua because when you squeeze me you never know what's going to come out."

Day 1, people. Really?

My reaction: I yawned. Forty pairs of wide eyes stare at me. Silence blankets the classroom.  Smacking my lips together, I say, "Thank you Josh for demonstrating what is not classroom appropriate and for making me throw up in my mouth before it's even 8:30."

I also learned that I have "swag."  In case you don't know, "swag" is short for swagger, which means confidence and "game." So, I guess I'll add that to my dating profile and maybe I'll get matched with twenty-one year-olds. Groovy.

My colloquial lexicon continued to expand. When I asked "Beast Brandon" why he chose that word-- after I told him that it is not an adjective, so then he said, "I meant 'beasty'"--he looked at me and said simply, "Because I'm a beast."

"Well, you don't look very hairy to me," I said.  "And your hands aren't claws, so I'm not sure what you mean."

I wasn't sure I wanted to know what he meant; the echoes of "Juicy Joshua" ringing in my head.

"It means I'm tough," Brandon tells me.  Then he flexes his cannons, just in case I need a visual.

Upon asking for a more specific definition, I learned that a "beast" can take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. Stars of actions films are usually "beasts," like characters played by Chuck Norris and Jason Statham.

And finally, I can add "put her (or him) on the blast" to my harvest of knowledge for the week. In my junior college class, I have them introduce each other, and one student said about his partner, "She is very shy so she hates that I am putting the blast on her right now."

Being a trained professional and holding a master's degree in English, I was able to figure out what the student meant, but I inquired anyway. I want to throw down my slang accurately. What "putting the blast on someone" means is to draw attention to or put the spotlight on someone. I asked if I could shorten it to just "blasting him/her," but I was told that the "put her (or him) on" part was critical. "To blast" someone is totally different than "to put someone on the blast."

So, now that I've finished putting my first week of school on the blast, I'm going to use my swag to tame some beasts. But, I am not getting anywhere near anyone who is juicy.

A Teacher's Purgatory: Summer School and Technology

If you've read my posts about how the iPhone jacks up my life, or if you've interacted with me in person for more than fifteen minutes, you know that technology and I have a tumultuous relationship.

I accept the necessity technological competency; I accept the benefits of technological progress. If it weren't for computers, it would have taken a lot longer to produce my novels. And yes, I am willing to admit that it has contributed to my growth as a writer because I can type in time with my thoughts and experiment with different genres and styles more easily.

BUT

It complicates my life, much like the iPhone. My attitude doesn't exactly help: it bores me and because of that I don't spend a lot of time futzing with it. So when I have problems (which I frequently do), I am unwilling to spend a lot of grey cells or time on it. If I have a computer issue during one of my high school classes, I just freak out until a student helps me either out of pity or out of a desire to shut me up. If I have one at home, I call everyone I know until I find someone who knows how to fix it.  If I can't find a lifeline, I take my laptop to a repair shop run by a couple of Russian gentlemen and roll in with a lot of cleavage, batting my eyelashes and feigning helplessness.

I have yet to pay for computer repair, but I'm pretty sure they are on to my game.

The fact that I am publishing some of my work online is pure irony. Or hypocrisy. Whatever:  TomatO, TomAto. (Note that I can't even figure out how to add an accent mark to the appropriate letters. Oh well, can't capitalization be used in any way that I need it?)

Therefore, my feelings about technology + the importance of technology in contemporary society + the fact that I'm OCD + the fact that I have the worst memory = disaster.  Add to that the trials and tribulations of summer school and you'll begin to understand that I am armed to bring in the apocalypse (I need to give Apple some competition).

Allow me to explain.

I am teaching two classes this summer: one high school; one junior college. Two different campuses; two different classrooms (neither of which are mine during the regular school year).  FIVE different computers.

I try to avoid using my personal computer for work--courtesy of OCD--, but in the cases that I absolutely have to, I save everything to a flash drive. My personal computer has Microsoft Office 2010; the computer in my classroom has Microsoft Office 2007. Simpatico.  But I am not in my classroom for either of my summer classes.

No problem, the high school just bought me a laptop; I cart that sucker around.

Silly me. I should have known that even though the school was generous enough to purchase me a laptop, it couldn't help throwing in a monkey wrench: Microsoft 2003.

No problem. I happen to have bought Microsoft 2010 to install on three computers and since I only own one, that leaves two computers to benefit from my generosity. As it turns out, I can't even change the date and time on the computer without an administrative password, and believe me, no one in their right mind would put the word "administrative" anywhere near my job description.

I called one of the head mucky-mucks of technology for our district and asked if I could run my new laptop by his office so he could install the program for me. He told me that he couldn't do that. Apparently, only programs bought by the district can be installed on its computers. In other words, they can't install one program that I bought onto one of their computers, but if the district buys it, okie dokie. Only after I put in a work order and wait for two months for them to get to me.

My plan to install a program that will single-handedly bring down the entire school district under the guise of Microsoft 2010 was thwarted.

But, I had a plan B: I re-saved all my files onto a flash drive in Microsoft 2003 format  and then transferred them to my work laptop and if I used only that computer for work I wouldn't have to keep remembering to save in 2003, because with my memory, I'd forget more than I'd remember. And I didn't worry about not wanting to haul the laptop around because my OCD would demand it.

In the classroom that I teach my high school summer class, I use my laptop for instruction, but I have to use that room's computer to go online so I can take attendance and update grades. If the district won't allow me to install Microsoft, it sure as fuck isn't going to give me the password to tap into the wireless network (believe me, I've already asked about that. Their answer: NO ONE has the wireless access code).

Clearly, I don't get paid enough to understand this shit.

No biggie. Running back and fourth between computers gets some exercise in. It does get risky when it comes to printing, because I have to remember to eject my flash drive so I have it for my college class.

For my JC class, I have a computer in that classroom which is hooked up to a LCD projector, DVD player and surround sound speakers. But, no printer. I have to go down the hall to the part-time faculty lounge to print anything.

At least their computers don't have Microsoft 1800 on them.

Despite all of the differences between computers, I had been managing with few hiccups . . . until last week.

One of my JC students asked if he could take the final early so that he could attend a family reunion and I acquiesced. He was more than willing to work around my schedule and made sure to ask me before adding the class. When the time came to do so, I had to scramble to get it together because I had procrastinated. For those of you who aren't teachers, writing a test is actually quite difficult. And it takes a lot of time.  And if you are me, you will make it 10x more difficult than it needs to be (refer back to the formula for the apocolypse).

The night before I needed the final ready, I decided to go to dinner with a couple friends, drink some wine, and then go home and write the test.  Great plan, right?  It gets better: I left my work laptop at the high school.

But I had my flash drive (because I have that thing duct-taped to my body at all times).  After dinner, I simultaneously wrote my final, chatted with my friends, and drank more wine. Once finished, I printed that bad-boy up and put it and my flash drive into the bag I carry all my JC stuff in.  How responsible am I?

But, I did not lay the bag against my front door, so the next morning, I left WITHOUT it. No final. No flash drive. No brain.

I didn't realize my error until I had reached the high school. I live too far away to turn around and get it before my morning class, but I could go in-between my high school and JC class. But, the extra two hours that would put me on the freeway was not attractive.

Luckily, my friend Cher works from home and lives only blocks from me. And she has a key to my apartment.

I called her to tell her about my dilemma. After she finished laughing, she told me to email her all the passwords, name of files, etc she would need to get onto my personal computer and email it to me. She ducked out during her lunch break, emailed me every file with the word "final," "test," and "exam" in its title and even took my personal laptop home with her just in case.

Cher may be on a mission to ruin my playlist, but she also is on a mission to save me from myself. Thank God.

Six files were emailed to me; none of them was the final I had written the previous night. As I was reaching for the phone to give her a call, I remembered that I had saved the final to my flash drive only.

Fuck me.

Let's all say "yay" for OCD.

Cher would have been willing to go back to my place to get my flash drive, but I figured I had asked enough of her for one day. Keeping me alive is a tough job, and I wanted her to save her strength for the next time I screwed up. Also, all my materials for my JC class were also at home, and even though I have my JC files on my high school computer, they were probably out-dated (I revise my curriculum often). I had been willing to wing it, but now I figured I had better just man-up and drive home.

The round-trip commute should have taken about 1 1/2 hours. It took 2 1/2 because a) It was 3 p.m. and b) every street between my job and my home is currently undergoing major road construction.

I showed up to administer the final late, sweaty, and pissed. But the real bummer is that the only person I had to blame was myself.

Moral of the story: do not disrupt The Vancester's system.