Just a few days ago someone mentioned communication between parties who did not speak the same language. I don't remember the context, but it did make me remember one of my favorite moments on my trip to Italy.
We were in Venice. We'd only been in the country for a few days. We decided to check out the island where Ezra Pound is buried. You know, the island that is nothing but a cemetary? Anyway, I don't have a particularly strong need to see where famous people are buried but I didn't want to leave the group, so when we got there I found a nice quiet place to sit with my journal. Some seemingly magical moments happened while I sat on that little wall. I saw a little lizard, and watched people enter and exit the cemetary. Birds flew in, chirped a bit, and then flew out. It was all incredibly picturesque, as is most of Italy.
As I sat there, I heard the sound of a woman's heels clicking along accompanied by the sound of little wheels hitting small cracks in the pavement. Suddenly, as the sound grew closer, I heard the sound of the woman trip. I spun around to make sure she was okay. She was still standing and was taking a moment to regain her balance. She was a little old lady with grey hair, not much taller than the average Italian grandmother. She saw me, smiled, and then began rattling off to me in Italian. She paused for a moment, waiting for a response from me. I smiled and politely shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. She understood. I didn't speak Italian.
She could have just smiled and walked away. But instead she did something much more touching. She started the story over again, this time acting it all out while she talked (still in Italian). She took a few steps back, began to walk, tall this time with her shoulders back, and then, woops!, she trips. She mimes brushing off her knees and wiping off her forehead. Then she grabs the handle to her wheelie bag, smiles at me, and walks away.
That woman, whoever she was, will be with me forever, and we've never shared a single word.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Elevated Temperature
My normal body temperature is 96.5. I'm always cold. I have an impressive sweater collection, and I don't understand why people get excited when fall rears her ugly head. So when my body temperature rose to 98.3, and sometimes 99.1, and stayed there from Friday to Monday I got worried. I also suddenly understood why people liked air conditioning. And I suddenly had the strong urge to take an ice bath, which had always seemed like the most effective use of torture one could use on me. Was this what it felt like to have a normal body temperature?
My appointment happened on Tuesday, and of course, by the time I got there my temperature had already lowered to a 97.9. Still high for me, though. I explained to the nurse that my normal body temperature was much lower. She nodded and led me to my exam room.
When the doctor came in, we went over my symptoms again. We got to the temperature part, and I explained once again that my normal temperature is much lower. She looked at me and said, "yes, but you don't have a fever."
"Yes, but my temperature is elevated."
"But it's not a fever. Anything below 99 is not a fever, regardless of normal body temperature."
"Well, my body temperature is elevated, and it must be elevated for some reason, right? I mean, my body is reacting to something."
"Probably not." Now all I can think is there has to be something wrong with this. My body is exuding heat at an astronomical rate, and I still want to take an ice bath, but it's for no reason at all? But then she said the one thing that is certain to piss me off. "Is your period about to start? Because the woman's body elevates its temperature up to two weeks before the period begins."
Yes, doctor, in fact it is! You're a genius! In the past 12 years I've been a menstruating woman, I've never noticed the 5 day long heat wave before! How unobservant of me! I must be crazy. I'll stop wasting your time and go home now. And take a nice ice bath.
It is like the time I went to the women's center to talk to the nurse practitioner about the possibility of me having PMDD. Her response? "Here's a pamphlet on PMS." The end. No discussion, no probes into why I would feel that way. Just a pamphlet on the symptoms I should be experiencing once a month, and in theory have been feeling every month for the past 11 years at the time. Because at the age of 24I wouldn't have a clue as to what PMS is, or that I'm sure the symptoms are getting worse.
But I'm not that mean ever in person to say the cynical things I'm thinking, so I just nodded. The doctor diagnosed me with some mysterious virus, told me if I developed a skin rash to stay home from school, and asked me if I wanted a flu shot.
Overall, she was very nice, and awfully compassionate, and she even looked at the warts taking over my heel for me for free. But why do doctors think that women don't know how their bodies react to their cycles? Nothing in a woman's life is more personal and nothing is a woman more aware of than how her body and her uterus work together. Just, FYI.
My appointment happened on Tuesday, and of course, by the time I got there my temperature had already lowered to a 97.9. Still high for me, though. I explained to the nurse that my normal body temperature was much lower. She nodded and led me to my exam room.
When the doctor came in, we went over my symptoms again. We got to the temperature part, and I explained once again that my normal temperature is much lower. She looked at me and said, "yes, but you don't have a fever."
"Yes, but my temperature is elevated."
"But it's not a fever. Anything below 99 is not a fever, regardless of normal body temperature."
"Well, my body temperature is elevated, and it must be elevated for some reason, right? I mean, my body is reacting to something."
"Probably not." Now all I can think is there has to be something wrong with this. My body is exuding heat at an astronomical rate, and I still want to take an ice bath, but it's for no reason at all? But then she said the one thing that is certain to piss me off. "Is your period about to start? Because the woman's body elevates its temperature up to two weeks before the period begins."
Yes, doctor, in fact it is! You're a genius! In the past 12 years I've been a menstruating woman, I've never noticed the 5 day long heat wave before! How unobservant of me! I must be crazy. I'll stop wasting your time and go home now. And take a nice ice bath.
It is like the time I went to the women's center to talk to the nurse practitioner about the possibility of me having PMDD. Her response? "Here's a pamphlet on PMS." The end. No discussion, no probes into why I would feel that way. Just a pamphlet on the symptoms I should be experiencing once a month, and in theory have been feeling every month for the past 11 years at the time. Because at the age of 24I wouldn't have a clue as to what PMS is, or that I'm sure the symptoms are getting worse.
But I'm not that mean ever in person to say the cynical things I'm thinking, so I just nodded. The doctor diagnosed me with some mysterious virus, told me if I developed a skin rash to stay home from school, and asked me if I wanted a flu shot.
Overall, she was very nice, and awfully compassionate, and she even looked at the warts taking over my heel for me for free. But why do doctors think that women don't know how their bodies react to their cycles? Nothing in a woman's life is more personal and nothing is a woman more aware of than how her body and her uterus work together. Just, FYI.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Tolerating Intolerance
I feel it is time to introduce you to my grandfather.
There's no particular outline or timing I'm following. I felt it was better to tell you what he just did rather than get out of my be to go yell at him. My parents tell me I'm not allowed to do that. They tell me he's old, and so I need to be tolerant.
I have trouble being tolerant towards people who are not tolerant themselves. And my grandfather's intolerance has little to do with him being 86. Or rather, it's not that he's old, it's that he was born a long time ago. And that's why I don't tolerate his hate, because it's not a result of his old mind slipping. It's been there all along, and I don't think we should tolerate hate just because that's what they learned back then. Just because most people did it or believed it back then doesn't make it right. Old dogs need to learn new tricks.
Briefly, before we get started on today's story, I'd like to share with you some history between me and my grandfather. When I was in high school I had a black boyfriend. My grandfather disapproved, and harassed my parents about it continuously. My parents did make me end things with the boy, but not because of his skin color, like my grandfather thought. It was because the kid was into drugs. That's a fair reason to make your daughter stop seeing someone. But I'm certain to this day he thinks he won. I've never forgiven him for what he put my parents through.
So back to today. My grandfather has a tendency to talk out loud when he thinks no one is around. Usually, it's because he forgot that I was in the other room. Often he's bitching about how horrible my mother is as a house keeper. My mother is not a horrible house keeper. My mother is running her own business, working around the clock, so sometimes the dishes don't get done right away. My grandmother was a house keeper. She raised my father, cleaned the house, and cooked dinner. That is what she did. She was an excellent cook, and she kept her house spotless, but mostly because that was her job. And so my grandfather can't figure out why my mother can't do her job. Not as a photographer. As a house keeper.
Today, though, it was a different rant. He was on the phone with the newspaper people. Something about not getting his Friday or Sunday newspaper. He explains the situation, gives them the required information, and then has trouble hearing the last question. "I'm sorry I didn't hear you....What? I still didn't understand you...oh, no, that'll be all." He hangs up the phone and then says, "Can't they get people who speak English?". He mutters a few other things about being in America, and then falls silent, reading the newspaper he did get.
Certainly it is frustrating when someone on the phone has a thick accent. And certainly immigration into this country is a touchy subject, especially with the fact that many immigrants have not gone through the proper channels. I get that. But here is what made me mad: my grandfather's parents didn't speak English.
My great grandparents are straight from Italy. "Off the boat," as they say. I've found them on Ellis Island's passenger logbook. I have heard countless stories about my dad being able to communicate with his grandmother even though she knew no English and he knew no Italian. My great-grandfather had to learn English, but he certainly never mastered it, and I'm sure his accent never went away. So why is my grandfather so intolerant of people who have not mastered English? The person on the phone certainly knew enough English that he was able to understand them up until the very final question. So why, oh why am I required to be tolerant of his intolerance?
There's no particular outline or timing I'm following. I felt it was better to tell you what he just did rather than get out of my be to go yell at him. My parents tell me I'm not allowed to do that. They tell me he's old, and so I need to be tolerant.
I have trouble being tolerant towards people who are not tolerant themselves. And my grandfather's intolerance has little to do with him being 86. Or rather, it's not that he's old, it's that he was born a long time ago. And that's why I don't tolerate his hate, because it's not a result of his old mind slipping. It's been there all along, and I don't think we should tolerate hate just because that's what they learned back then. Just because most people did it or believed it back then doesn't make it right. Old dogs need to learn new tricks.
Briefly, before we get started on today's story, I'd like to share with you some history between me and my grandfather. When I was in high school I had a black boyfriend. My grandfather disapproved, and harassed my parents about it continuously. My parents did make me end things with the boy, but not because of his skin color, like my grandfather thought. It was because the kid was into drugs. That's a fair reason to make your daughter stop seeing someone. But I'm certain to this day he thinks he won. I've never forgiven him for what he put my parents through.
So back to today. My grandfather has a tendency to talk out loud when he thinks no one is around. Usually, it's because he forgot that I was in the other room. Often he's bitching about how horrible my mother is as a house keeper. My mother is not a horrible house keeper. My mother is running her own business, working around the clock, so sometimes the dishes don't get done right away. My grandmother was a house keeper. She raised my father, cleaned the house, and cooked dinner. That is what she did. She was an excellent cook, and she kept her house spotless, but mostly because that was her job. And so my grandfather can't figure out why my mother can't do her job. Not as a photographer. As a house keeper.
Today, though, it was a different rant. He was on the phone with the newspaper people. Something about not getting his Friday or Sunday newspaper. He explains the situation, gives them the required information, and then has trouble hearing the last question. "I'm sorry I didn't hear you....What? I still didn't understand you...oh, no, that'll be all." He hangs up the phone and then says, "Can't they get people who speak English?". He mutters a few other things about being in America, and then falls silent, reading the newspaper he did get.
Certainly it is frustrating when someone on the phone has a thick accent. And certainly immigration into this country is a touchy subject, especially with the fact that many immigrants have not gone through the proper channels. I get that. But here is what made me mad: my grandfather's parents didn't speak English.
My great grandparents are straight from Italy. "Off the boat," as they say. I've found them on Ellis Island's passenger logbook. I have heard countless stories about my dad being able to communicate with his grandmother even though she knew no English and he knew no Italian. My great-grandfather had to learn English, but he certainly never mastered it, and I'm sure his accent never went away. So why is my grandfather so intolerant of people who have not mastered English? The person on the phone certainly knew enough English that he was able to understand them up until the very final question. So why, oh why am I required to be tolerant of his intolerance?
Friday, September 4, 2009
Ignorance Breeds Ignorance
My happy image of the strong, intelligent America is slowly being shattered. Shattering is an interesting verb to slow down. Imagine, one big piece of glass slowly crack, and then slowly, one by one, pieces crawl towards the ground.
It began when I spent the first half of 2005 in England. Nothing helps you see your country better than leaving it. Now, I certainly do not agree with much in relation to W. Bush. But then there was this incident. There was a picture of Bush holding hands with a man from Saudi Arabia (I think?). The man had come from his country to Bush's ranch for a meeting or visit. To show respect to this man, Bush held his hand. Holding hands between men shows trust and respect in some countries. What did the American people do when this picture hit the papers? They made fun of Bush. Some called him gay. Others simply laughed at him. Why, someone please tell me why would we all laugh at Bush for holding a man's hand when we had done nothing but ridicule him for his inability to show respect towards other cultures. Bush has done a lot that deserves ridicule; his ability to speak in public alone has offered years of fodder. But this time he was stepping out of his comfort zone, taking a step in the right direction towards international diplomacy, and we, like a bunch of 5th graders, laughed at him and called him names. We were the laughing stock of the world. Not Bush. I was horrified and ashamed for all of my fellow Americans. And I was suddenly embarrassed to be out in public in a foreign country.
Recently, the health care reform issues boiled my blood. People sported signs reading, "leave my health care alone!". How selfish are the people in this nation? So because it is working for you we should let all the millions whom it's not working for suffer? They aren't even willing to look at possible options. They don't care what kind of reform it is, or what the reform entails. They just don't want anything to be different. And the lies. The length people went to to get their way. Death panels? Really? And because one draft of said reform isn't perfect, we should just give up and go home? We're Americans. We're supposed to fight. Fight for each other. Fight for what is right. Not cower behind our set ways. There is a solution, and I may not know what it is, but I do know that "leave my health care alone!" is not it.
But I think the thing that boils my blood the most right now is the petty, ignorant behavior I've seen in people who do not like President Obama. This is most evident in the recent uproar over Obama's scheduled speech to the youth of America on the 8th. Parents are refusing to let their children go to school. Schools are prohibiting their teachers from showing the speech in their classes. The reason is they feel that Obama wants to brainwash and indoctrinate the children of America. Many presidents have addressed the students in the past, telling them to work hard and stay in school. Obama will probably say the same. He will probably also tell them that they have the power to change their world, which is not a lie. But the parents are so blinded by their hate for Obama, they cannot bring themselves to let their children hear what will probably be a positive and encouraging message from the President. Instead of stepping up to the plate and telling their children how to formulate their own opinion, how to constructively disagree, these parents are teaching them to simply not accept other views. Never has there been such an uproar about a presidential speech aimed at the youth of America. Ironically, this is because now more than ever parents are trying to shield their children from the real world.
Did you know that America is one of the leading nations when it comes to banned/censored books? Thought that only happened in dictatorships, didn't you? But no, it happens right here in our schools all the time. We are not talking about censored for age appropriateness. What are we talking about? Here is an example. "Fox" is a picture book written by Australian author Margaret Wild. It is geared towards adolescent readers, not small school children. It is a story about two friends, Magpie and Dog (who are a magpie and a dog, respectively). The two have a mutually beneficial relationship because Dog cannot see well and Magpie cannot fly. Magpie rides on Dog's back directing him as Dog runs. One day Fox shows up. He tries to get Magpie to leave Dog and ride on Fox's back instead, saying that Fox can run faster and can show her what it's really like to fly. Magpie says that she will never leave Dog, for she is his eyes and he is her wings. On the third time Fox tempts Magpie, she gives in. After running very fast and very far, Fox drops Magpie in the middle of the desert. He laughs at her and as he runs away, says, "now you and Dog will know what it is like to be really alone". Magpie realizes what she's done to Dog and wants to give up, but she gets up anyway and begins the long journey home to Dog. Why is this book banned? Because of the allusion to an adulterous affair? Maybe the mild thoughts of suicide at the beginning of the book I didn't mention? No. It's because it doesn't have a happy ending. This book is banned from high schools because it doesn't end with a happily ever after.
Parents are sheltering their children. What is wrong with this? What could be so bad about a kid who has never read a book that didn't end happily? Or what about a child who has never seen the President of the United States speak? A lot. A hell of a lot is wrong with that. Sheltered children turn into closed-minded adults who cannot function in the face of different opinions or real turmoil. They cannot think for themselves. They accept whatever is handed to them as fact. They are, ironically, brainwashed. This is the reason racism has lasted for as long as it has in this country. What eleven year old boy can hate another child just because his skin is a different color? Children are not born with hate. It is handed to them by the ones they love and trust the most. Visit that child's house and I guarantee you the parental figure in that house feels the same way. It a scary proposition to ask a parent to let go of the control over their child. But by letting go of that control, we are doing what we should be doing as parents in the first place: teaching the children how to live in the real world, and how to make their world a better place.
We cannot program our children to be robots. We need to expose them to the world little by little as age allows, guiding them through the reality, teaching them how to cope, helping them sift through the noise to find their own voice. They cannot choose their life, their beliefs, their opinions if they do not know the options. Give them all of the options, and then guide them. Show them how to navigate this world instead of hiding from it. They, and this country, will be better for it.
It began when I spent the first half of 2005 in England. Nothing helps you see your country better than leaving it. Now, I certainly do not agree with much in relation to W. Bush. But then there was this incident. There was a picture of Bush holding hands with a man from Saudi Arabia (I think?). The man had come from his country to Bush's ranch for a meeting or visit. To show respect to this man, Bush held his hand. Holding hands between men shows trust and respect in some countries. What did the American people do when this picture hit the papers? They made fun of Bush. Some called him gay. Others simply laughed at him. Why, someone please tell me why would we all laugh at Bush for holding a man's hand when we had done nothing but ridicule him for his inability to show respect towards other cultures. Bush has done a lot that deserves ridicule; his ability to speak in public alone has offered years of fodder. But this time he was stepping out of his comfort zone, taking a step in the right direction towards international diplomacy, and we, like a bunch of 5th graders, laughed at him and called him names. We were the laughing stock of the world. Not Bush. I was horrified and ashamed for all of my fellow Americans. And I was suddenly embarrassed to be out in public in a foreign country.
Recently, the health care reform issues boiled my blood. People sported signs reading, "leave my health care alone!". How selfish are the people in this nation? So because it is working for you we should let all the millions whom it's not working for suffer? They aren't even willing to look at possible options. They don't care what kind of reform it is, or what the reform entails. They just don't want anything to be different. And the lies. The length people went to to get their way. Death panels? Really? And because one draft of said reform isn't perfect, we should just give up and go home? We're Americans. We're supposed to fight. Fight for each other. Fight for what is right. Not cower behind our set ways. There is a solution, and I may not know what it is, but I do know that "leave my health care alone!" is not it.
But I think the thing that boils my blood the most right now is the petty, ignorant behavior I've seen in people who do not like President Obama. This is most evident in the recent uproar over Obama's scheduled speech to the youth of America on the 8th. Parents are refusing to let their children go to school. Schools are prohibiting their teachers from showing the speech in their classes. The reason is they feel that Obama wants to brainwash and indoctrinate the children of America. Many presidents have addressed the students in the past, telling them to work hard and stay in school. Obama will probably say the same. He will probably also tell them that they have the power to change their world, which is not a lie. But the parents are so blinded by their hate for Obama, they cannot bring themselves to let their children hear what will probably be a positive and encouraging message from the President. Instead of stepping up to the plate and telling their children how to formulate their own opinion, how to constructively disagree, these parents are teaching them to simply not accept other views. Never has there been such an uproar about a presidential speech aimed at the youth of America. Ironically, this is because now more than ever parents are trying to shield their children from the real world.
Did you know that America is one of the leading nations when it comes to banned/censored books? Thought that only happened in dictatorships, didn't you? But no, it happens right here in our schools all the time. We are not talking about censored for age appropriateness. What are we talking about? Here is an example. "Fox" is a picture book written by Australian author Margaret Wild. It is geared towards adolescent readers, not small school children. It is a story about two friends, Magpie and Dog (who are a magpie and a dog, respectively). The two have a mutually beneficial relationship because Dog cannot see well and Magpie cannot fly. Magpie rides on Dog's back directing him as Dog runs. One day Fox shows up. He tries to get Magpie to leave Dog and ride on Fox's back instead, saying that Fox can run faster and can show her what it's really like to fly. Magpie says that she will never leave Dog, for she is his eyes and he is her wings. On the third time Fox tempts Magpie, she gives in. After running very fast and very far, Fox drops Magpie in the middle of the desert. He laughs at her and as he runs away, says, "now you and Dog will know what it is like to be really alone". Magpie realizes what she's done to Dog and wants to give up, but she gets up anyway and begins the long journey home to Dog. Why is this book banned? Because of the allusion to an adulterous affair? Maybe the mild thoughts of suicide at the beginning of the book I didn't mention? No. It's because it doesn't have a happy ending. This book is banned from high schools because it doesn't end with a happily ever after.
Parents are sheltering their children. What is wrong with this? What could be so bad about a kid who has never read a book that didn't end happily? Or what about a child who has never seen the President of the United States speak? A lot. A hell of a lot is wrong with that. Sheltered children turn into closed-minded adults who cannot function in the face of different opinions or real turmoil. They cannot think for themselves. They accept whatever is handed to them as fact. They are, ironically, brainwashed. This is the reason racism has lasted for as long as it has in this country. What eleven year old boy can hate another child just because his skin is a different color? Children are not born with hate. It is handed to them by the ones they love and trust the most. Visit that child's house and I guarantee you the parental figure in that house feels the same way. It a scary proposition to ask a parent to let go of the control over their child. But by letting go of that control, we are doing what we should be doing as parents in the first place: teaching the children how to live in the real world, and how to make their world a better place.
We cannot program our children to be robots. We need to expose them to the world little by little as age allows, guiding them through the reality, teaching them how to cope, helping them sift through the noise to find their own voice. They cannot choose their life, their beliefs, their opinions if they do not know the options. Give them all of the options, and then guide them. Show them how to navigate this world instead of hiding from it. They, and this country, will be better for it.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Student Teaching Abroad (or 3 words that can make my mother cry)
To finish my Master's in Education (M.A.T.) I must complete student teaching hours. Generally speaking, that means they'll assign me to some local high school. There's certainly nothing wrong with that. Or rather, for the average person there's nothing wrong with that.
But I'm not and never will be the average person. I debunk the system all the time. I hate rules. I hate red tape. I hate program models and requirements. I want to do it my own way. Someone once said rules are meant to be broken. I believe that you cannot break a rule until you understand that rule. Then you know and understand when it is okay to break that rule. Rules exist for a reason. They exist for the people who need them, for the people who do not know how to safely cross the street. I know how to safely cross the street, so I'm not going to use the crosswalk or wait for the little green/white man to tell me to cross. So, I do things my own way.
So, student teaching. How are we going to make this a different and unusual experience? I know! I know! Teach abroad!
There are several perks to teaching abroad. First of all, it's an excuse/reason to live in a foreign country. Now, I have done a semester in England, traveled around Italy for 3 weeks, and visited all the smaller parts of the UK. I love traveling. I love living in different countries. And I love any excuse that lets me do so. Secondly, it gets me out of my hometown at least 4 months ahead of schedule. This alone is reason to go.
But that is also the reason that broke my mother's heart.
I got the idea in the first meeting of my second ED grad class. The professor of that class is in charge of a global program. She travels all over the world. Shortly after class began, she offhandedly stated that if anyone was interested in doing their student teaching abroad they should let her know. I lit up like a Christmas tree. It was brilliant. It was hope. So I let her know.
I knew this idea would upset my mother. She loves that I live at home, even if I'm rarely there. She likes to buy food for me and talk to me in person about my day and her day, and she likes to know that I'm in the house. So I knew this would not make her happy. I had said all along I was guaranteed to be home for at least a year and a half, and now I was attempting to cut it short.
She was making dinner when I came home. Dad was also in the kitchen, so that made it easy. One swift blow. "So I have a great idea! I'm really excited about it!" Often if I make it about how excited I am, they take my unsettling ideas easier. "But you're not going to like it," I added, trying not to catch them off guard. They mumbled back prompting questions about the idea. And then I spilled it. And then there was silence.
Suddenly the coarsely chopped onions became minced as my mother asked, "and where will you go?"
"Not sure. I have 34 countries to choose from. I'd like to go somewhere where the native language is English so I can concentrate on teaching literature."
"Somewhere safe?" My mother has this inherent fear of anywhere not in the US. She has this inane belief that the rest of the world is utterly unsafe. It's a little embarrassing at this point, especially since I'm such a world traveler and, knock on wood, have yet to experience anything truly unsafe or horrible.
"Yes, somewhere safe. Plus, this professor says she has had great success. Several of the students got jobs in the US immediately after finishing their student teaching. One student was offered a life-long position at the school abroad."
"So she never came back? That's what I'm afraid of. You'll never come back."
I tried to explain to her that this was only an idea, and that I had almost a year to think about it. The onions weren't getting any smaller. So I tackled it head on. "I love you, mom. I love being near you. But I hate being here. In this small town."
She brushed the onion pulp into the pot. "So where do I need to move to?" she asked. I think there were tears in her eyes. Sadly, I know for a fact that chopping onions has never made my mother tear up. Ever.
"I don't know, mommy. But as soon as I do, I'll let you know."
But I'm not and never will be the average person. I debunk the system all the time. I hate rules. I hate red tape. I hate program models and requirements. I want to do it my own way. Someone once said rules are meant to be broken. I believe that you cannot break a rule until you understand that rule. Then you know and understand when it is okay to break that rule. Rules exist for a reason. They exist for the people who need them, for the people who do not know how to safely cross the street. I know how to safely cross the street, so I'm not going to use the crosswalk or wait for the little green/white man to tell me to cross. So, I do things my own way.
So, student teaching. How are we going to make this a different and unusual experience? I know! I know! Teach abroad!
There are several perks to teaching abroad. First of all, it's an excuse/reason to live in a foreign country. Now, I have done a semester in England, traveled around Italy for 3 weeks, and visited all the smaller parts of the UK. I love traveling. I love living in different countries. And I love any excuse that lets me do so. Secondly, it gets me out of my hometown at least 4 months ahead of schedule. This alone is reason to go.
But that is also the reason that broke my mother's heart.
I got the idea in the first meeting of my second ED grad class. The professor of that class is in charge of a global program. She travels all over the world. Shortly after class began, she offhandedly stated that if anyone was interested in doing their student teaching abroad they should let her know. I lit up like a Christmas tree. It was brilliant. It was hope. So I let her know.
I knew this idea would upset my mother. She loves that I live at home, even if I'm rarely there. She likes to buy food for me and talk to me in person about my day and her day, and she likes to know that I'm in the house. So I knew this would not make her happy. I had said all along I was guaranteed to be home for at least a year and a half, and now I was attempting to cut it short.
She was making dinner when I came home. Dad was also in the kitchen, so that made it easy. One swift blow. "So I have a great idea! I'm really excited about it!" Often if I make it about how excited I am, they take my unsettling ideas easier. "But you're not going to like it," I added, trying not to catch them off guard. They mumbled back prompting questions about the idea. And then I spilled it. And then there was silence.
Suddenly the coarsely chopped onions became minced as my mother asked, "and where will you go?"
"Not sure. I have 34 countries to choose from. I'd like to go somewhere where the native language is English so I can concentrate on teaching literature."
"Somewhere safe?" My mother has this inherent fear of anywhere not in the US. She has this inane belief that the rest of the world is utterly unsafe. It's a little embarrassing at this point, especially since I'm such a world traveler and, knock on wood, have yet to experience anything truly unsafe or horrible.
"Yes, somewhere safe. Plus, this professor says she has had great success. Several of the students got jobs in the US immediately after finishing their student teaching. One student was offered a life-long position at the school abroad."
"So she never came back? That's what I'm afraid of. You'll never come back."
I tried to explain to her that this was only an idea, and that I had almost a year to think about it. The onions weren't getting any smaller. So I tackled it head on. "I love you, mom. I love being near you. But I hate being here. In this small town."
She brushed the onion pulp into the pot. "So where do I need to move to?" she asked. I think there were tears in her eyes. Sadly, I know for a fact that chopping onions has never made my mother tear up. Ever.
"I don't know, mommy. But as soon as I do, I'll let you know."
Wondering about this thing called Love
So, love. Some get to experience it. Most get to, anyway. I never thought of myself as being one who never experienced love. And then I fell in love. And now I'm painfully aware of how many people I did not love in the past.
But I've fallen into the unrequited category. It should be outlawed. The universe should not let your first love experience be unrequited. How can I feel so strongly about someone who claims he does not feel the same? Or doesn't know what he feels. How can you not know what you feel? Are you trying to be nice? Trying to protect me from the truth? And if that's so, then why do you hug me like you never want to let go? Or come up with clever ways to put your arm around me, touch your thigh against mine? Why do you send me conflicting messages?
I understand why women stay in abusive relationships. It is wrong. It is very very wrong, but I get it. I understand loving someone so much you'll forgive them for anything. When it comes down to it, it's your responsibility to take care of yourself. Respect yourself. If you don't respect yourself and stick to how you feel people should treat you, then other people will have the opportunity to disrespect you. So why is it so hard to stick to those rules?
My rule is that you love me and you show me that you love me. This is easy. It involves holding my hand, hugging me close, and being totally committed to me. So why am I able to let him go about his life as he peruses the market and sends me mixed signals and still love him? Or still be ready in an instant to let him back in if he wants to after finding no one else he likes?
As of right now I am not a fan of Love, and until further notice he and I will have a tumultuous relationship that will involve me pretending that he doesn't exist and him grabbing hold of my heart and squeezing for all he is worth. Grrrr.
But I've fallen into the unrequited category. It should be outlawed. The universe should not let your first love experience be unrequited. How can I feel so strongly about someone who claims he does not feel the same? Or doesn't know what he feels. How can you not know what you feel? Are you trying to be nice? Trying to protect me from the truth? And if that's so, then why do you hug me like you never want to let go? Or come up with clever ways to put your arm around me, touch your thigh against mine? Why do you send me conflicting messages?
I understand why women stay in abusive relationships. It is wrong. It is very very wrong, but I get it. I understand loving someone so much you'll forgive them for anything. When it comes down to it, it's your responsibility to take care of yourself. Respect yourself. If you don't respect yourself and stick to how you feel people should treat you, then other people will have the opportunity to disrespect you. So why is it so hard to stick to those rules?
My rule is that you love me and you show me that you love me. This is easy. It involves holding my hand, hugging me close, and being totally committed to me. So why am I able to let him go about his life as he peruses the market and sends me mixed signals and still love him? Or still be ready in an instant to let him back in if he wants to after finding no one else he likes?
As of right now I am not a fan of Love, and until further notice he and I will have a tumultuous relationship that will involve me pretending that he doesn't exist and him grabbing hold of my heart and squeezing for all he is worth. Grrrr.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Strange Happenings
Every time I leave my house something strange happens. The problem with this is not that something strange has happened, but that no one is awake to explain to me what exactly is going on when I get home. Generally speaking, I am a night owl. Add to this that I work about 4 nights a week, and don’t get home from said job until after midnight. All around, I see my family for a few hours in the middle of the day after I emerge from my room in the afternoon and before I set out for the night. They also all seem to not know how to use their phones to communicate. So I’m left in the dark when I get home at 12:06 am.
Two nights ago I had no idea anything was wrong. I left in the early afternoon to go to a ball game with some friends, and didn’t return until close to 1 am. Nothing seemed out of sorts. Both cars were at my sister’s barn, so I assumed that she and her husband were home. All of the cars at the main house were there, and the porch light was on, as it is when I’m out late. Nothing seemed out of sorts. My mother always hears me come in, as her bedroom is right next to the front door. I sneak in as quietly as I might, but she always hears me come in. Or at least that’s what she claims. I stayed up until 3 am goofing around on the computer, and then turned over for sleep that I figured would last until at least noon.
9:30 am my parents come in to my room with the phone. Both of them. They tell me PNC Bank is on the phone with some questions about some suspicious activity on my account. I take the phone and listen to the woman list off 3 transactions that happen the same day, and I verify that all of those were, in fact, of my own doing. I appreciate their alert attention on my account, but is it really that far fetched that I would buy candy at the beach in the morning, pay ETS for the PRAXIS I test in the afternoon, and buy gas in a town an hour away from the beach much later that night? I guess most of their customers are nowhere near as mobile as I am.
Once I’ve verified my ability to be in more than one place within a 24 hour period, I hang up and hand the phone back to my mother. My mother then sits on my bed and says, “honey, we didn’t want you to find out on facebook, so we wanted to tell you now.” I am one of those lucky 20-somethings who is friends with her parents on facebook. I find out things through my mother’s status updates. One night, while I was on my computer in my room, which is just off of the living room, I received a wall post from my mother, who was in the office, which is just off of the kitchen, which is right next to the living room. The post said, “Hey Lauren! Dinner is ready and we’re having barbaque (sic) spareribs, homemade mashed potatoes and cheezy (sic) mixed veggies and we’re sitting on the couch to eat!” I’m not making that up. So my mother’s concern that I would find something out on facebook is, in fact, a valid one.
“Your sister was admitted to the hospital last night around 8:30.” My sister, by the way, is 6 months pregnant.
“What?” I was still half asleep, and now I was also confused. I was confused about my sister being in the hospital, but more importantly, how no one decided to call and tell me. Certainly there was nothing I could do, but now I felt guilty for hanging out with my friends and then so peacefully sleeping when my sister and my unborn niece were in the hospital. How could I be so selfish? How could I not tell something was wrong? Where is my ability to subconsciously sense when something was amiss with someone in my family? What is wrong with me?
“It was a severe urinary tract infection. She’s okay. So is the baby. As soon as she can keep down food she can come home. I’m going to go sit with her right now.” Should I go with her? I felt guilty that I wasted all that time when I didn’t know she was in the hospital not caring that she was in the hospital. Maybe if I sacrificed sleep and sat at the hospital with her until she stopped puking I’d redeem myself for being so ignorant of such a medium level family emergency.
“Okay. I’ll be here,” I said. I’d remembered that it was my parents’ decision to not tell me that my sister was in the ER, not my decision to not worry about her, and thus felt it would be okay if I kept sleeping. Plus, I really like sleep much more than I like watching my sister puke. When I woke up later my dad told me that my sister had been released and was on her way home. She was doing so well, in fact, that she went to the state fair later that afternoon.
I wish I could tell you that that isn’t a running theme in my family, that my family told me things, or contacted me to give me a heads up about things. But they don’t.
Last night I got home from work just after midnight. I head through the living room when I notice a semi-tall cage next to the bathroom door. The only thing in the cage is a small pile of blankets in the bottom left corner. Now, my household is mostly comprised of furry, two- and four-legged creatures. Cats, dogs, goats, chickens, ducks, ferrets, a rabbit. We have a lot of pets. My mother is Dr. Doolittle. For reals. The problem, though, is that I seem to have developed an allergy to the ferrets. Plus they stink. And I’ve been trying to convince her to find them a new home for several months. Now I come home to find a new cage with a mystery animal. Because we need more animals.
At first I ignored the cage. If I pretended it wasn’t there then it wasn’t there. But I had to go to the bathroom. So I went to the bathroom. Before I got to the bathroom, though, I was met with a horrific sound. I can’t even describe it other than to say it sounded like something small and mean that could bite me and give me rabies. I jumped back, muttered some profanities, and then found myself stuck. I had to go to the bathroom, but every time I moved, something from under the blankets in the cage told me to stop moving. And it didn’t matter that that thing was behind bars. I was still scared.
Eventually I was able to take a wide enough path around the cage to appease the mystery creature. I noticed a box of stuff on the dining room table, and moved closer to inspect it. It was food. And the bag was labeled “Sugar Glider Feed”. A clue. I went back to my room and got onto my computer. My mother’s facebook status said, “sugar bear!!!!” Another clue. Now, lucky for me I’ve seen enough police procedurals. I googled “sugar bear” so I could see what this little hissing thing looked like. Damnit. They’re cute. I heard noise out in the living room, and snuck out to see what was going on. The sugar bear had come out of hiding. Again, damnit. It was cute. And it was curious about me. So we stared at each other through the bars for a while, him deciding whether or not I was safe, and me deciding whether or not I’d accept his existence.
I told my parents this story when I got up, and they laughed. My mom said she even thought about contacting me and letting me know. Those bastards think its funny. They know how to use their phones, they just know the amusement they’ll get out of the results when they don’t contact me.
Two nights ago I had no idea anything was wrong. I left in the early afternoon to go to a ball game with some friends, and didn’t return until close to 1 am. Nothing seemed out of sorts. Both cars were at my sister’s barn, so I assumed that she and her husband were home. All of the cars at the main house were there, and the porch light was on, as it is when I’m out late. Nothing seemed out of sorts. My mother always hears me come in, as her bedroom is right next to the front door. I sneak in as quietly as I might, but she always hears me come in. Or at least that’s what she claims. I stayed up until 3 am goofing around on the computer, and then turned over for sleep that I figured would last until at least noon.
9:30 am my parents come in to my room with the phone. Both of them. They tell me PNC Bank is on the phone with some questions about some suspicious activity on my account. I take the phone and listen to the woman list off 3 transactions that happen the same day, and I verify that all of those were, in fact, of my own doing. I appreciate their alert attention on my account, but is it really that far fetched that I would buy candy at the beach in the morning, pay ETS for the PRAXIS I test in the afternoon, and buy gas in a town an hour away from the beach much later that night? I guess most of their customers are nowhere near as mobile as I am.
Once I’ve verified my ability to be in more than one place within a 24 hour period, I hang up and hand the phone back to my mother. My mother then sits on my bed and says, “honey, we didn’t want you to find out on facebook, so we wanted to tell you now.” I am one of those lucky 20-somethings who is friends with her parents on facebook. I find out things through my mother’s status updates. One night, while I was on my computer in my room, which is just off of the living room, I received a wall post from my mother, who was in the office, which is just off of the kitchen, which is right next to the living room. The post said, “Hey Lauren! Dinner is ready and we’re having barbaque (sic) spareribs, homemade mashed potatoes and cheezy (sic) mixed veggies and we’re sitting on the couch to eat!” I’m not making that up. So my mother’s concern that I would find something out on facebook is, in fact, a valid one.
“Your sister was admitted to the hospital last night around 8:30.” My sister, by the way, is 6 months pregnant.
“What?” I was still half asleep, and now I was also confused. I was confused about my sister being in the hospital, but more importantly, how no one decided to call and tell me. Certainly there was nothing I could do, but now I felt guilty for hanging out with my friends and then so peacefully sleeping when my sister and my unborn niece were in the hospital. How could I be so selfish? How could I not tell something was wrong? Where is my ability to subconsciously sense when something was amiss with someone in my family? What is wrong with me?
“It was a severe urinary tract infection. She’s okay. So is the baby. As soon as she can keep down food she can come home. I’m going to go sit with her right now.” Should I go with her? I felt guilty that I wasted all that time when I didn’t know she was in the hospital not caring that she was in the hospital. Maybe if I sacrificed sleep and sat at the hospital with her until she stopped puking I’d redeem myself for being so ignorant of such a medium level family emergency.
“Okay. I’ll be here,” I said. I’d remembered that it was my parents’ decision to not tell me that my sister was in the ER, not my decision to not worry about her, and thus felt it would be okay if I kept sleeping. Plus, I really like sleep much more than I like watching my sister puke. When I woke up later my dad told me that my sister had been released and was on her way home. She was doing so well, in fact, that she went to the state fair later that afternoon.
I wish I could tell you that that isn’t a running theme in my family, that my family told me things, or contacted me to give me a heads up about things. But they don’t.
Last night I got home from work just after midnight. I head through the living room when I notice a semi-tall cage next to the bathroom door. The only thing in the cage is a small pile of blankets in the bottom left corner. Now, my household is mostly comprised of furry, two- and four-legged creatures. Cats, dogs, goats, chickens, ducks, ferrets, a rabbit. We have a lot of pets. My mother is Dr. Doolittle. For reals. The problem, though, is that I seem to have developed an allergy to the ferrets. Plus they stink. And I’ve been trying to convince her to find them a new home for several months. Now I come home to find a new cage with a mystery animal. Because we need more animals.
At first I ignored the cage. If I pretended it wasn’t there then it wasn’t there. But I had to go to the bathroom. So I went to the bathroom. Before I got to the bathroom, though, I was met with a horrific sound. I can’t even describe it other than to say it sounded like something small and mean that could bite me and give me rabies. I jumped back, muttered some profanities, and then found myself stuck. I had to go to the bathroom, but every time I moved, something from under the blankets in the cage told me to stop moving. And it didn’t matter that that thing was behind bars. I was still scared.
Eventually I was able to take a wide enough path around the cage to appease the mystery creature. I noticed a box of stuff on the dining room table, and moved closer to inspect it. It was food. And the bag was labeled “Sugar Glider Feed”. A clue. I went back to my room and got onto my computer. My mother’s facebook status said, “sugar bear!!!!” Another clue. Now, lucky for me I’ve seen enough police procedurals. I googled “sugar bear” so I could see what this little hissing thing looked like. Damnit. They’re cute. I heard noise out in the living room, and snuck out to see what was going on. The sugar bear had come out of hiding. Again, damnit. It was cute. And it was curious about me. So we stared at each other through the bars for a while, him deciding whether or not I was safe, and me deciding whether or not I’d accept his existence.
I told my parents this story when I got up, and they laughed. My mom said she even thought about contacting me and letting me know. Those bastards think its funny. They know how to use their phones, they just know the amusement they’ll get out of the results when they don’t contact me.
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