Society of the Sacred Hand of Drew Brees

Try to say something bad about Drew Brees in New Orleans.  Just try.  I'll tell you what happens.  You'll be cited statistics and records.  You'll get excuses blaming his offensive line, the run game, the defense's shortcomings.  You'll be reminded of the way things were in the years B.D.B.  You might even have your mother insulted.

In this city, #9 has become something of a god, an untouchable deity.  Think back to the spring after our Superbowl win.  A picture of him holding up his son graced the walls of so many New Orleanians, my younger sister included.  With that win, he, a man simply admired, became a man worshipped.  A man that everyone wanted to meet.  A man who became the third best-selling jersey in the NFL.  A man whose fence in uptown New Orleans was covered with "offerings" left by devoted followers.

Drew Bree's fence after 2009 Super Bowl-winning season

Five years and a 100 million dollar contract later, this undying devotion to our Legendary Quarterback has not faded in the least.  If he throws an interception, the pressure is blamed.  If he throws a bad pass, the receiver should have gotten there.  It's not just Saints fans, either.  Listen to the announcers on game day.  Criticism is timid, if it makes its way onto the air at all.  You could make a drinking game out of the number of times they cite Brees' history with the Saints and the number of records he's broken.  (If you want to get drunk, though, rewatch the 2010 season and take a shot every time they mention Jimmy Graham's basketball history.  You'll be passed out before the first game is over.)

The problem is, football is not a game of one.  It is not even a game of few.  There are more than twenty-five men who set foot on that field each Sunday, and each and every one of them contributes to the game at hand.  Many of them do not receive the laud and honor that Drew does.  Perhaps they shouldn't.  But in the words of Spiderman's grandfather, "With great power comes great responsibility."  Brees is both the leader of the team and the most valuable player on the team.  He is the face of the Saints.  When one part of the team falls apart, it is his responsibility to rally it back together again.  When he falls apart, we get quiet.

The First Amendment, and the rights its defends, is arguably one of the most central tenants of the American democracy.  Most specifically, the freedom to speak openly and with little restriction.  We are legally given the time and space to cheer for what we love and speak out against problems.  There are so many countries in history and in our present world that do not uphold this singular right, and we see clearly the flaws of these muted nations.  Having graduated from Virginia, a Thomas Jefferson quote is what first comes to mind: "We are not afraid to follow truth, wherever it may lead."

American Football should be no different.

I should be clear here that I am not likening Drew Brees to a dictator.  From what I know of him as a player, he strives to be a team player, to work hard, to encourage his peers.  It is rather we, the Who Dat Nation, that mute ourselves.  In our overzealous love of one man, we forget that he is just a man.  Full of flaws.  Short of perfection.  With room to grow.  With good games and less good games.

I think our history with Mark Ingram illustrates the need for honesty most clearly.  He came into the league during the first round of the 2011 draft, a Heisman trophy in one hand and a championship ring on the other.  We had great expectations; he had great faith in himself.  The next four years proved to be something significantly less impressive.  In 2009 alone, Mark ran for 1,658 yards with the BAMA offense.  In his three years in New Orleans combined, he's only run 1,462.  While there are plenty of factors that go into this reduced rushing record, it seems that a shear lack of execution ranks highest.  Personally, I saw his performance as that of an overpaid, overrated player that should be cut as soon as we get the chance.  "Bench him!" has been one of my favorite things to shout at the television during Ingram's "runs."  BUT this former college superstar has shown us a new side recently, a glimpse of that guy he used to be.  In the last two games, despite equal time-on-field granted to his fellow running backs, Ingram has picked up a total of 143 yards.  That's near a third of what he's averaged per season over the last three years.  In two games.

For those that don't know, Mark Ingram is in the last year of his rookie contract.  The Saints chose not to pick up the fifth year option on said contract this year, and the statistics I've noted above give you a good sense of why.  To get paid, to be a part of a team, you have to play hard and contribute.  You have to be the best.  If you don't, you'll hear about it, and Ingram has heard it loud and clear.  He said in June of his looming free agency, "It's motivation."

In the world of football, from PeeWee through the pros, coaches' calls and players' performances have always been topics for discussion.  Drew Brees and our beloved Saints should be no different.  Criticism reminds us that we're human.  It shows us where we need to grow.  It makes praise that much more powerful.

So, it's time to stop this stunting idolization of our beloved quarterback.  We have worshipped someone who eats, sleeps, and excretes like the rest of us for too long, and I'm afraid it's worked against him.  But there's still time.  There's still time to speak openly about the places that our dear Brees needs improvement and the skills he needs to refine.  There's still time to be honest about the effect that age will have on him, if it hasn't already started its slow grasping.  We need to remind him, as we remind ourselves, that we make mistakes, and that we learn from them.  Hopefully, starting with an 0-2 record will motivate him to correct some of the errors he's made, and motivate the rest of the team and coaching staff as well.

In the end, we should criticize Drew in much the same way that we remind our children not to draw on walls or walk along the edge of a pool: out of love and a desire to avoid chronic hypertension.

Rip Van Winkle and Other Ungrateful Characters

Yesterday, I came home from work, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep.  I've meant to go running almost every day this week, and it hasn't happened once.  I blame it on the weather, but the truth is, I'm just tired.  We're four weeks into school, but I'm still adjusting to a schedule of seven hours on my feet without down time.  What's that, self?  You want to watch six hours of Amazon Prime a day, like you did during the summer?  Well, tough.  You don't even have time for that over the weekend, anymore.  Not if you plan to see friends or have fun.

This blog doesn't help, either.  Don't get me wrong, I'm loving the daily writing exercise, and I've appreciated all of the positive feedback.  In fact, I find myself looking forward to setting up shop in front of the computer each evening when I come home.  But I also come home each evening planning on getting to bed earlier than I did the night before, and it never happens.  Instead, I harp on word choice and sentence variety and essay structure.  I'm not a fast writer.  It is my curse.

A few years ago, I was really into neurology and psychology, and one of the things that struck me most from my reading was the proven power of a good night's rest: the ability of your body to subconsciously make you calmer, smarter, healthier...

As I pulled into my driveway yesterday evening, exhausted by another full week of work, I wanted that calmer, smarter, healthier.  My first thought was, "Man, I could sleep for a thousand years."  (Well, actually, my first thought was, "Hmm, this Michael Che interview is really interesting.  I think I'm going to sit in the car and listen for a couple of minutes until it's over."  But then I really did want to sleep for a thousand years.)

It got me thinking about stories with sleeping people, like Rip Van Winkle and Sleeping Beauty.  As a kid, there was nothing worse than having to sleep longer than necessary.  Especially on a weekend.  Sleeping in on a Saturday in my house meant unwatched cartoons and cold pancakes (if any at all).  It meant missing out.  These stories follow in the same vein: time lost while sleeping.  These days, though, I can't help but look back on those stories and be jealous.  Oh, to be able to sleep twenty, or a hundred years!

Earlier this year, only two weeks into school, I came down with a cold, and it knocked me out.  I left work halfway through a school day, and upon arriving home, I immediately went straight to sleep and stayed unconscious for approximately 17.5 of the next 18 hours, as though I'd just drank a magic bottle of moonshine (read: NyQuil).  I awoke, suffered through a full day of school, and came home to sleep 10 more hours.  Upon awaking the next morning, I found myself in significantly better health.  It turns out, I just really needed some sleep.

I would, of course, actually hate to sleep and miss out on twenty years of life like Rip Van Winkle did.  I wouldn't want to miss my family growing up and have everyone forget who I am.  But Sleeping Beauty had it pretty good.  I mean, if everyone else was sleeping, too, it was as though time hadn't passed at all.  And a hundred years later, she awakes well-rested to a much-younger, brave, and handsome prince.  I wouldn't mind that right about now.

If You're Not Crying, You're Not Doing It Right

Today, as I waited for the only adult bathroom in the entire building to be free, I overheard third grade teachers in a nearby classroom coming out of a meeting.  One of the teachers, a recent college graduate and rookie to the profession, held a tissue held up to her eyes as she exclaimed, "It's just so overwhelming!"

I leaned over and said, "You know, if you're not crying your first year, you're probably not doing it right."

The other teachers nodded but contrasted our school to their past experiences: "It's a lot harder here than where I was."  To clarify, they did not mean that teaching elsewhere is easier than teaching at our school.  I know plenty of teachers who deal with a lot more difficult situations than I do on a daily basis.  What becomes overwhelming is our school's schizophrenic approach to excellence.  It wants to be an academic powerhouse.  It wants to be a haven of the arts.  It wants to keep things snappy in class, but improve attention span and study skills.  It wants to be a pilot school for various programs.  It wants every child to be culturally literate and engineering-minded and socially adept.  It wants to be the best at everything.  But an organization run by people can't escape one basic human flaw: we simply don't have the time and energy to be good at everything.

Hours later, I thought over my reaction to this woman's tears.  I didn't really cry my first year at all.  Not because it wasn't hard, but because I was so exhausted and overwhelmed that I didn't even have the energy or the emotional awareness to cry.  I hated it.  It hated me.  It was one of the less wonderful years of my life.

Since then, teaching has become easier, but it has never become easy.  In the last week, I have spent 64 hours at work and 10 or so hours at home doing school things.  I have been overwhelmed and exhausted.  I have not gotten enough sleep.  I have left my house dirty and belongings scattered.  And I have done it all in the name of getting school things done and doing them well.

It is times like these, though, that make me wonder if we teachers aren't doing a disservice to ourselves by giving our one hundred percent.  Is it really a good thing to have a harder job than someone else?

Non-teacher: Yeah, I wish I had three months off.
Teacher: It's really only two months, and I don't get paid for them.
Non-teacher: Not counting winter break, thanksgiving break, and all the other breaks.
Teacher: Don't worry, I make up for all of that by being at work 10+ hours every day during the year.
Non-teacher: There are plenty of people that work 50+ hours a week.
Teacher: Pretty sure they get paid more than me.

The problem--aside from the fact that there are plenty of people who work longer hours at shittier jobs and get paid less than me--is that winning the "whose life is harder" argument means that I'm not doing a very good job of taking care of myself or meeting my own personal needs.  Yes, children are important.  Yes, they are our future.  Yes, there are some that have nobody else.  But if I burn myself out, they won't have me either.

So, I challenge my fellow teachers out there: don't let your job be the hardest.  Even if it means that somebody doesn't get an email back immediately or your stations aren't perfect or you make something up to fill the last twenty minutes of class.

In education school, my professors regularly reminded us of the oft-quoted phrase: "Students may not remember what you taught them, but they'll remember how you made them feel."  In twenty years, when you look back on your teaching career, what will you remember about how you made you feel?

Sixteen Candles

James: Planes just ran into the World Trade Center in New York.
Me: No, they didn't.
James: Yes, they did.  I just saw it on TV.
Me: You sure it wasn't a movie preview or something?

We spent that day, thirteen years ago, glued to the television, taking in those same images of planes and towers and planes and towers and planes and towers.  We couldn't stop watching.  We watched, hoping that every news station was somehow horribly, terribly wrong.  Hoping that something that crossed the screen would be different, better, would make more sense.  I remember moving from classroom to classroom, from screen to screen.  Some teachers tried to teach, but we refused to learn.  This is not a time for poetry, we cried!

We just didn't know what it was a time for.

That day was also my best friend's sixteenth birthday.  She came to school gleeful and done up, with dollars pinned to her shirt and a wide smile fixed on her face, ready for congratulations and birthday wishes.  Instead, she spent the day feeling as though someone had blown out her birthday candles before she could.

Every year, the reminder comes again: 1 year anniversary, 5 years since, 10 years later.  We do not forget.  For the sake of those thousands of people who died, and their families who live on without them, we won't forget.  For the sake of our future, we cannot afford to forget.  For the sake of the people born on that day, we all but wish we could.

It's nothing new.  People's birthdays have fallen on days like this for thousands of years.  Any American born on December 7th and alive in the '40s knew that their birthday took second violin to the war in the Pacific.  Any New Orleanian born on August 29th will always share a birthday with Katrina.

In a much smaller way, I understand.  I was born on the same day as my paternal grandfather, and as a child, I spent many birthday weekends with my extended family, swallowing (sometimes not so gracefully) the fact that no one knew it was my birthday, too.  In fact, I carry with me to this day a distinct memory of spending a birthday party for Papa in the back room of my uncle's house.  I loved (and love) sharing his birthday with him.  I hated that his birthday was more important than mine.

Whether good or bad, the presence of these historical events fade with time.  We do not still mourn the day that Rome fell.  Even Lincoln's assassination ceases to be a well-known date (though we are well aware of the tax deadline that shares it).  In the same vein, September 11th will fade into history, and that day will slowly shed itself of the harrowing shadow of planes and towers and planes and towers and planes and towers.

Today, for the first time since 2001, no one mentioned the Twin Towers.  The music teacher didn't sing a patriotic song.  The students didn't share what they knew about it.  Adults didn't talk about where they where when.  I only remembered it because today is my best friend's birthday.  Which means that 13 years later, she can once again blow out the candles out on her own cake.

Happy Birthday, Nika!

Things That Go Bump In The Night

This past weekend, I spent approximately seven or so hours barely making a dent in the mound of grading that I somehow amassed but did not touch the week before.  It's not that I didn't try to touch it.  It was at the top of my to-do list every day.  Somehow, though, other things cut the line, and I found myself each afternoon rewriting "GRADE!!!!" at the top of the next day's to-do list.

Well, that can only last so long.  I finally broke down this weekend, and for the first time in a long time, I took work home.  This is a strict violation of my self-imposed "no work in the house" policy, but I just couldn't see myself getting it done at school at the rate I was going.  No need to incite riots from the parents who already hadn't seen a science grade yet this year...almost a month after school began.

Monday night, I brought things home again, to further claw away at my stack of ungraded papers, but upon arriving home, I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

Self: Grading is the worst!
Self: I know, but I really need to get this done.
Self: You hate doing work at home!
Self: What if I go into work early instead?
Self: You won't get enough sleep! Isn't 6am bad enough?
Self: What if I went to bed early, too?
Self: You hate going to bed early!  It makes you feel like an old person!
Self: I have no other options, self!!!!
Self: Fine. We'll go to bed at 9.

I didn't actually make it into bed until 9:30pm (because I am a slow writer and these blog posts don't type themselves), but with the help of another Benadryl, I quickly fell into a deep slumber...sometime shortly after my face went numb.

I've only done it twice, but I should probably stop using Benadryl for sleep.

Somewhere around 1am, I awoke to a loud "bang."  Now, my house has plenty of unique noises, and all of them sound like someone is trying to break in.  This was a new sound, though.  Maybe the new air filter?  It does click every time the air turns on.  But I heard that click after the loud bang.  Feeling unsure of what it could be, I got up.  Because the one time I don't get up will be the one time that someone actually IS trying to break in.

My first (reasonable) thought was that something had fallen in the bathroom.  I checked there (and used the toilet because Benadryl has a way of confusing priorities) before peeking out of the hallway into the living room towards the front door.  I remembered at this point that, on my way to the bathroom, I may have seen a light on in the front room--the light that's connected to a motion sensor on the porch.  In the half-asleep, half-doped state I was in, though, I couldn't be sure.

I allowed my head to barely pass the threshold into the dining room as I looked out toward the porch.  No one there.  I got closer to the door.  No one in the front yard or on the street either.  The slide lock was clearly latched, but I checked the door just in case.

Unlocked and barely open.

Even Benadryl couldn't stop me from freaking out ever so slightly.  I promptly shut the door completely and locked it, removed the key from the door, and quickly checked the back door, as well.  It was closed.  Locked.  No one around.

Deep breath, deep breath.

I got back into bed--what else could I do?--and went through the house's safety precautions in my mind: front door locked and slide-locked, wood posts nailed to window frames to keep the windows from opening more than a crack, back windows with ironwork over them, back door locked, door from kitchen to back room bolted shut.  Surprisingly, my worry quickly faded into face-numbing, benadryl-drunk sleep again.

Four and a half hours later, my alarm went off--much to my chagrin--and after a couple of snoozes, I finally pulled myself out of bed.  Looking back on my middle-of-night house check, I wondered if maybe I'd imagined the sound.  Sure, the door had been open, but that could've just been an error on our part; it's happened before.  I checked the air filter, in case that was it, but it was in the same place I'd installed it.  Nothing had fallen in the bathroom or any of the common areas.  My roommate never mentioned it, either.

I don't know what happened that night.  Maybe I dreamed it.  Maybe it was real.  Maybe it was a newly acquired house sound, like the air filter click or the recent ringing in the pipes after the toilet flushes.  I'll probably never know.  All I can say is: I got my eight hours of sleep, I finished a chunk of grading at school that next morning, and I have sure as hell triple-checked the front door lock every night since.

Just When You Least Expect It

They say that love strikes when you least expect it.  Thanks to romantic comedies and the Hallmark Channel, I'll be single forever.  Or perhaps one day I will finally be so jaded and without hope that love will have no choice but to show up on my doorstep.  Too bad no one wants to be with someone like that.

On Sunday night, I found out that the offer I'd made on a house the night before had been accepted.  This is a house that I had seen online on Friday, seen in person on Saturday morning, and put an offer in on Saturday night.  I was not expecting it to be accepted in the least.  In fact, I saw a voicemail from my realtor and my exact thoughts were: "Man, they're rejecting me already?"  I thought for sure I had at least until Wednesday night to pretend that someday I might own a home.  But, despite my certainty of its ill-boding, I listened to the message, and to my surprise I heard (for the first time in my eight months of house searching), "Hi Rebekah, it's Jessica.  I just got an email, and they've accepted your offer..."

I called my mom.  I called my realtor.  My dad called me.  I told my roommate about it.  I wanted to shout the news from the rooftops.  I wanted to swing from a lamppost, like they do in musicals.  But I didn't.  I've become wary and unsure of good news over the years.  You remember that book we read in high school by Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart?  No, neither do I, but apparently the title made a strong impression on me.  I've become gun shy in talking about things I'm excited or hopeful about because I get the distinct feeling that every time I do, things immediately go awry.  Take, for instance, all of my romantic relationships.

I only told one coworker about the accepted offer yesterday.  I don't know that my reluctance to share was so much paranoia as it was a deep and overwhelming anxiety about the financial, etc. obligations that come with home ownership.  Yes, I know I wanted this at some point this year, but as of only a month ago, I'd finally resolved myself to rent for the rest of my single life (aka my whole life).  The sudden change of plans threw me for a loop.  The only reason I got any sleep Sunday night was because of the two Benadryl doses I took at 11:30 after 45 minutes of laying in bed trying not to notice how hard my heart was pounding.  I mean pounding.  Because let's remind ourselves of the information I shared in post 1 of this 30 day writing adventure: I am nearly out of liquid assets.  Thanks to an expensive summer and a worthless number of shifts at the Gap, I have much less to my name than I did in early June.  Even though my financial situation is not actually anywhere near dire, it feels like I'm teetering on the edge of the world.  What if I can't feed myself?  Or worse, what if I can't go to the Fuds volleyball tournament in Florida next month?

Don't worry, fellow Fudders, I'll be there.  It might just be my luck that I haven't found a spot on a team, though.  That's seventy more dollars to soothe my aching bank account.

I've been told over and over again that buying a house is stressful, but I had no idea it would cause so much grief and sleep deprivation.  The last time I felt like this was when a guy I broke up with posted a picture of himself with a new, cute, more petite girlfriend on the same night that my brother announced an upcoming wedding and birth.  Don't get me wrong, my sister in law is the shit, and I knew that even then.  But I wasn't ready for quite so much change all at once.

All I can say is, thank God for Benadryl.  I woke up Monday morning feeling groggy and almost hungover, but I'd at least gotten some sleep.  Because I'm going to need sleep if I plan on surviving the next 6 weeks to closing and the renovations after that.  Is it pay day yet?

What sexy women do after they buy a house

What you are more likely to see at my house

Which Super Sense Would You Choose?

Every Wednesday morning as the bell rings at 8:20, classes across the school take seats in a circle for a class meeting.  My homeroom always starts every meeting sharing what's new in our lives, and we finish each meeting with a question that can be answered in one or two words.  It's a way to get to know each other.

One of my favorite questions to ask is, "Would you rather be blind or deaf?"   don't know which I would rather, personally.  I have seen some pretty magnificent sights in my day, and I wouldn't want to miss that, but think of all the sounds you would miss out on if you were deaf: music, birds, ocean waves, babies' laughter.  I'd miss the respite of a quiet evening after a loud day.

On their most recent quiz, I asked my fifth graders a question along the same lines, but this time, I gave them space to explain themselves: "If you could make one of your senses 1,000 times stronger than it already is, which would you choose?  Why?"  I asked it to find out if they knew their five senses, and I asked it to find out a little more about them, and I asked it because I really hoped someone would write something that would make me laugh.  What I got was completely unexpected.

A sampling of student responses (with spelling/grammar corrections):

"I would choose sight, so if I ever got lost, I could see all the way home."

"Hearing, so I can hear if people whisper things about me."

"Seeing because I would not have to go to the eye doctor."

"Hearing because I could listen to someone whispering about me."

"I would choose taste because there are so many wonderful things to taste."

"Hearing, so that I can hear if someone is after me."

"I would choose tasting, so I could know what they put in it, so I could make it myself."

"My sight because I could see if trouble is near, plus I don't have the best eye sight."

"I would want to increase my smell because if I went blind, I would still have my smell to resort to."
"Hearing because I would be able to hear someone sneaking up on me and everything else around me."

"It would be taste, so that yummy foods taste even better."

"I would want to make my seeing better because I could see what is happening before I go out to the place I'm looking at, in case there is something wrong."

"I would choose none because what use would I have for a super sense?  I would feel more pain, see bad things, hear bad news, smell terrible things, or even taste something weird."

"I would choose smell because I could find food more easily."

"I would choose hearing because I would be able to hear a gunshot and duck before they got to me."

"I would make my hearing better so I could know if someone is making fun of me by listening in."


I never expected anxiety to play such a huge part in the answering of that question.  I never expected my students to be so trapped by fear and worry.  Since when did ten year olds become so pessimistic?  So scared?  Was I like that?

My surprise has answered my own question for me clearly: I need stronger hearing to listen to my students better.

What would you choose?