The Little Things

It's funny how the prospect of moving on provokes you to start counting off the things you won't miss where you're currently at.  This happened when I moved off to college eleven years ago and when I considered moving to a different school a few years back, and it's happening now that I may or may not be buying a house.

I'll be glad not to occasionally get locked out of the house simply because the lock decides not to work.  I'll be glad not to have to mow the lawn anymore, or to endure neighbors' sharp glares when I don't mow it.  I'll be glad that my toilet doesn't ring when I flush it.  I'll be glad that my kitchen cabinets won't come off the hinges.  I'll be glad that my A/C doesn't make knocking sounds in the middle of the night.  I'll be glad not to be eaten by a thousand mosquitoes every time I walk out my back door.  In fact, I'll be glad that I won't have to walk out my back door as much because my washer and dryer will be inside of the house.

Of course, there will be plenty of new things that I don't even know about yet.  New houses (especially the ones that are actually really old) come with a host of quirks that one discovers over time.  "Quirks" may be understating it.  Hopefully "hugely inconvenient and expensive repairs" is overstating it.

As I start this slow parting of ways, my heart is a little torn.  Despite all these things I won't miss, there are plenty of things I will.  Most of all, I will miss the fact that every night when I pull into the driveway, walk up the stairs, enter the screen porch, and open the door, that I am home.  I have lived here in this house for the last three and a half years, and it has been more like home than any other place I've lived since I was seventeen.  I have had awesome years and tough years while living here, and it has always been my place of refuge, where I come back to when I need some quiet time.  I will miss that, but I know that having my own house--owning my own house--gives me the opportunity to create home somewhere new.  And to stay.

I have to remember, though, that just like when I considered switching jobs, that sometimes, a planned move doesn't pan out.  Sometimes you realize that where you're at is most likely better than where you considered going.  I have more than 30 days until closing on this house, a chinese drywall inspection to hope turns up negative, and a lot of negotiation to do in the next week.  By Friday, I should know whether or not this house is a go.  It won't be definite until I hand over that check on Halloween, but at least I'll know enough to start saying goodbye to this wonderful house, to my home.

Home at the "Jolly Wilson"
(Yep, we named our house)

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Parent: He fights me hard about studying.

Me: That seems to be a common problem in this class.

Yesterday was conferences, and for the first time since I've been at my school, every single parent in my homeroom wanted a conference.  Usually, I give them the option to just swing by and pick up their child's report, and normally at least five parents take that option.  I love that option; it's 50 less minutes of conferences and 50 less minutes of trying to either fill time or cut people off before the next conference begins.

Writing progress reports and sitting down for conferences is always a game of Do I or Don't I.  It's like those Choose Your Own Adventure books we used to read in the nineties.  Do I write that the kid does obnoxious things and cross my fingers that I don't get a wrathful email the next day?  Or do I just handle it in my own class, in my own way?  Knowing the parents helps this decision.  Not knowing them means writing about concerns becomes a game of Russian Roulette.  How much will I regret this afterwards?

I didn't have any emails as of leaving work yesterday, but just in case, I've committed myself to not checking my email over the weekend.  After the week I had, the last thing I need is to spend 45 minutes carefully crafting a respectful response to a rude and accusatory parent email.  Because those happen all the time.  Last year, I got this one-liner gem:

You realize you sent this email the morning if the quiz, right? [sic]

No, woman, I didn't realize that because I actually sent it three days ago, trying to be helpful and remind you despite the fact that I've already reminded your kid three times in class and it's in his agenda and it's on my website and he has a study guide in his binder.  Also, if you're going to be rude, can you at least spell of right?  Thanks.

It turns out that the school-related server I used tends to delay messages for an unpredictable period of time. Once, I sent out a message, and unbeknownst to me, it didn't actually go out until a couple of months later.  Thanks, no thanks, Powerschool.

At our school, parent rudeness and accusations are part of the game.  Yesterday, I had two parents talk to me about another teacher at the school who was "mean to their kid" or "picking on their kid."  One told me about it, and left it at that.  One asked me what I thought she should do, but didn't like my answer too much.  I think she wanted me to rail on the teacher instead or go talk to him/her. (No way, this isn't Survivor.  These are my friends and colleagues.)

Parent 1: (tells me the story of her kid being "picked on")  He isn't the only one doing these things, but he's the only one getting punished.

Me: Well, he seems like an honest kid, but you only have one side of the story.  Sometimes a kid's perspective of things is not the same as reality.

Parent 1: No, I can tell that he's telling the truth.

Me: I'm not invalidating what you're saying.  If I were you, I'd email the teacher, saying "I'm concerned about his behavior in your class, and I'd love to meet with you to find out what's going on."  Don't accuse, just find out what's going on.

Parent 2: She said that that's not the way her teacher did it last year, and then the teacher called her up to the board and said [in a sarcastic/biting tone] show me how your teacher did it last year.

Me: Well, your daughter is a pretty sensitive kid, and she doesn't like being wrong in front of others.  Regardless of what was said, or in what tone of voice, she gets upset pretty easily when she's not right.  That happens when things come easily; the fall is harder.  Trust me, I know.  It might be good for her to deal with conflict like this now.

If you've ever seen the 1960s to Now school meme (below), I am here to tell you that it is absolutely, unequivocally on point.  I was only in fifth grade eighteen years ago, but had I come home and told my parents that my friends and I were goofing off in class, regardless of who got punished, they would've asked why I was goofing off in the first place.  Had I come home and said that the teacher was mean to me, they'd essentially tell me to buck up.  I'm sure they would've stepped in if something really serious was happening, but me getting fussed at would never have resulted in a nasty email.

And that's the thing.  Parents and teachers didn't communicate via email then.  Email with teachers is still a relatively new thing, and many people (teachers and parents alike) haven't yet learned how to communicate in a respectful manner.  They are emboldened by the lack of a human face or voice on the other end, and they say things they'd never say, or in a way they'd never say, if they were on the phone or sitting at a table.  Our social skills desperately need to catch up with our technological ones.

It's not just technology, though.  Recently, I found out that years ago, the administration had told one of my fellow teachers that I was "cold" and "dry" and that I "didn't make enough eye contact." (What?  I mean, I'm not the most effusive person ever, but what?)  They wanted this teacher to talk to me about it.  He didn't, because it wasn't his place and it would've likely hurt our relationship as peers.  Let me repeat that again, years ago the administration was unhappy with me, but I heard about it yesterday.  From my peer.  All I've ever gotten from them directly is compliments and accolades.  I mean, I was just in the principal's office just a month ago, hearing about how well I was doing.

At least in this country, we seem to be becoming more and more afraid of conflict face-to-face and less and less afraid of virtual conflict.  We say nasty things in an email, and then we smile at the person in the hallway.  We tell everyone how unhappy we are with someone, except for the person we're actually unhappy with.

I am not exempt from this.  I find that I'm fairly willing to face conflict in person, and I am very cognizant of the way I approach disagreements in writing, but I have once or twice gotten into it via email with parents.  And I have avoided being honest with a person to bypass the resulting firestorm.

Speaking honestly can be hard, but in a work environment, there's an added financial risk.  I'm happy to face a peer and talk through a conflict, but disagreeing with your boss is a totally different thing.  Speaking out always requires a prior self-reflection, How likely is this going to get me fired?  How much do I need this job?

It shouldn't be that way.  A workplace should be an open community, where people feel free to speak honestly, so long as they do so respectfully.  We teachers can't necessarily change how the administration operates, though, so we're forced to think smaller.  We have to change how we interact with each other, with parents, and with our students.  We have to model good communication in our every day encounters.

It's like Gandhi said, "Be the change you want to see in those horrid people who keep sending you mean emails."

Just makes me glad I'm not in IT or customer service.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Change is hard, and uncertainty is a bitter pill to swallow.  Also, a rolling stone gathers no moss.  That only barely relates to this, but I feel like I might as well throw it in since I'm clicheing the hell out of this post.

Tomorrow is September 20th, which is a big day for me.  Specifically, it is the day that my contract with Sprint expires, and I am free to find greener, faster pastures with better reception and lower monthly costs.  That is, I'm free to switch to Verizon, which seems to be the only verdant pasture in this city.  To say that New Orleans is an island is not always a literal statement.

Admittedly, I'm nervous.  I've had Sprint as long as I've had a cell phone.  My dad worked (and works) with the company, so it was a no-brainer for them.  When my parents kicked me off their plan after college, and I delved into the world of online cell-related research, Sprint seemed to be my best option, despite its high cost.  I renewed with hesitation at first, but with each successive contract expiration, I thought about it less and less.  I hopped right back on that mule of a service provider, as though it were a purebred stallion.

Sprint is not all bad.  In fact, when I was in Virginia, I had absolutely no problems with them.  Good reception, good data, good service.  Of course, data speeds weren't really a thing at the time...and I wasn't particularly worried about the cost; I was a college student mooching off my parents, after all.

What's that, dad?  I went over the text message limit this month?  Oops.

It has taken a lot to get me to a point where I'm willing to end my cellationship with Sprint.  We had a lot of good times together, and we've tried to make it work.  We've got history, you know?  With Sprint, I know I can amass ridiculous fees, call up customer service, and pull the "I've been a customer for more than a decade!" line to make things go away.  But even that safety net can't make me renew again.  I can't keep up this charade any longer.  I can't continue, knowing that I'm completely unable to send or receive text messages, call, or do anything even remotely helpful with my phone anytime there are two or more people nearby.  I can get Jesus, but I can't get cell reception.

For some people, reception in a crowd probably isn't much of a factor.  But this is New Orleans.  We pass our lives, moving from crowd to crowd.  Have you ever tried to find someone during Mardi Gras without cell reception?  I have.  It's terrible.  A few years ago, I was sandwiched between a huge police horse and a large drunk man, alternating between waving my phone in the air and yelling at it: Worthless piece of crap! I just want to know where my ride went!  I will never get back home if you won't send this text message!  Please!  Please just let me send these thirteen characters (sob), please.  Anger turns to begging, begging turns to tears.  I would've been embarrassed, but it was Mardi Gras.  Crying and shouting are not uncommon in this great city at carnival time.

So, it's time to make a change.  As with all changes, there's no guarantee that my service will be better.  Mardi Gras will probably still kill my phone.  The Superdome will probably continue to act as a giant, wave-blocking shield.  Living within a mile of Jazz Fest will probably still be too close to avoid a tower overload.  But who knows?  Maybe next time I'm stuck between a drunk and a horse, I'll be able to save my shouting for the Mister on the float and my tears for the impending toe-stomp.

Now I just have to figure out what phone to get.

Can you hear me now?

Sometimes You Just Need to Laugh-Cry

Yesterday, I came home pretty low.  Between the stress of preparing for conferences and the emotional beat-down that was the house inspection (and its associated question of do I proceed?), I just didn't really have anything left in me.  I didn't want to write a blog post.  I didn't want to cook myself food or make a sandwich.  For the first hour I was home, I didn't get any farther than the couch, which is less than ten feet inside the door.  I didn't even have the energy to use the bathroom.

This is it, I thought.  This is the day that my up-till-now consistent and at least partially coherent blog falls apart.  Maybe if I just explain why, my readers will understand.  Surely they'll grant me a raincheck.  I could just make it up this weekend.

So I started to write an explanation of why I was too tired to write a full blog post...and ended up writing a full blog post.

Somewhere between the first and last words I typed, I found some peace in the proceedings of my day.  A lightness of heart, if you will.  Somewhere in that hour and a half of type-type-backspace-type, I eased my own sorrows a little.  Of course, searching through dozens of Stephen Colbert GIFs will do that to a person.

When my piece was complete and published to the world at large, I realized that it was only 8 o'clock.  Too early to go to sleep, I thought.  And since I just didn't feel like taking a shower, I logged into Hulu with the thought that I would just watch a little mindless TV before I went to sleep early.  No shows caught my attention, so I returned to my mainstay, my one and only, Jimmy Fallon.

One Fallon clip turned into two Fallon clips turned into watching a twenty minute episode of Silent Library with Jimmy and The Roots.  If you haven't seen this yet, it's a must.  But save it for a bad day.  You know, one of those no good, downright bad days when you feel like crying or quitting your job or punching pillows.  Keep in mind, there is almost no talking in the whole video.  It's just six guys laughing hysterically at each other while trying to stay quiet in a fake library.  I promise you, you won't regret watching it.

Yesterday, comedy saved my spirit from an evening of worried and distracted quiet, just as I knew it would when I opened that first clip.  Comedy is how I got through high school.  Every night at ten, peanut butter jar in hand (because my brother read that it improves your mood and suggested it as a way to fend off my constant anticipation of world-ending overload), I would sit down in front of the television and watch an hour-long episode of Whose Line Is It Anyway?  Sometimes my family would watch it with me, but for me, it was a daily ritual.  A rain dance, if you will, to end the drought of joy that was a typical day in the life of high school me.

When I got to college, I didn't really need comedy in the immediate way I did in high school, so I forgot about it for a while.  I probably could have used it throughout my five years in Virginia, as well as during my first years of teaching, but I didn't really seek it out again until my third year back in the city.  A friend of mine told me about this improv group called Stupid Time Machine.  I blew it off for a little while until I saw them at a bar in the hipster part of town one Saturday night, and I was hooked.  It became a weekly thing: a big cup of froyo and a second-row seat in a small t-shirt print shop in uptown New Orleans.

Not long after, one of the guys in the group convinced me to buy a pass to take an improv class.  He touted various benefits of the purchase, but the one I just couldn't wrap my head around was the idea of getting onto that stage and making things up as I go.  I'm just not a performer, I told him.

Well, in the spring, for reasons I still won't admit publicly (read: a guy), I signed up for a Level One class with The New Movement, a budding comedy theater here in New Orleans.  And it turns out, once I set my fear of embarrassment aside, I wasn't half bad at the whole making-people-laugh thing.  The class ended with an ensemble performance, and we killed it.  I went from body-shaking nervous to top-of-the-world.  What is this rush? I wondered.  I was happy.  I felt good.  I wanted to do it again.

I only ever made it through Level 2.  As much as I loved being on stage and as much as I loved this newly discovered side of myself, I knew that being a powerful comedian required time and commitment, two things I didn't (and don't) really have available at my disposal.  Successful comedians are devoted to their craft.  They put in their time.  They practice most every day.  And these days, I'll be lucky if I'm free every other Monday.

Recently, the comedy theatre put together a Kickstarter to fund their move into a larger building.  Forking up some cash to help a theatre that made me more confident in my own skin seemed like a small way to say thanks, so I chose to give just enough to earn me a free improv class.  Because, while it might be a while before I get the chance to use it, I know that the only thing better than laugh-crying in the audience is seeing tears roll down a laughing person's face...and knowing you caused them.

I Am Tired And House Buying is Mean

Student: (pointing to my ID badge) How old were you when that picture was taken?
Me: I don't know.
Student: How many years ago?
Me: I don't know...a few years ago, maybe.  (pause) Why?
Student: You look younger.
Me: I was younger.
(Student smiles)

Today was inspections day.  I left school immediately after dismissal to rush back to the house I might buy, where I then dawdled around for half an hour until the inspector finished up and unloaded the bad news.  The house needs a lot of work, and not the cheap kind.  Oh, and if you're worried about money, don't forget that this bad news will cost you five hundred dollars.  The inspector left.  The seller's realtors left.  My mom left.  My realtor opened her passenger door for me, and we sat in the air-conditioned refuge of the car, working through everything we'd learned.  Over and over, I puzzled: is it worth it?

The answer still eludes me.  I've got a lot more information-seeking to do before I make a decision, and a little soul-searching is in the cards, too.  House buying seems to be as much a mental health decision as it is a financial choice.  If being a home-owner feels the way I do right now (which is exhausted beyond belief), do I really want to buy a house at all?  I'll have gray hairs by December.  Kids will look at my ID badge, and instead of insinuating that I look older, they'll ask who that woman is in the picture.

Is that your daughter?

And so, I currently sit on my couch in the home I have happily rented for the last three and a half years, staring out through the beautiful glass front door and wondering whether it wouldn't be better to just live here all my life.  It would be easier, at least in the short term, and it would be cheaper, too.  For now, anyway.

On the bright side, I had two great things happen to me today.  First, a kid called my binding of their cell project books--and I quote--"swag." (Who's boring now, suckaaaaa??)  Second, my real estate agent told me I looked tan.

Looks like we're even, universe.

My Girls

The placard for our fake sorority: a tribute to our eternal friendship and the faith that brought us together.

I met a lot of people in college that I still keep in touch with, but there are a core few that continue to be some of my closest friends.  I met all of them through the Catholic group on campus, and within the first year of knowing each other, we were practically inseparable.  These women are brilliant, unbashedly passionate, and driven.  We are similar and different in ways that never cease to surprise me.  Thinking of us together reminds me of that book my mom read to me all the time as a kid, The Berenstain Bears and the Spooky Old Tree.

Five young women.
One writing for homeland security.
One in relief work in the middle east.
One teaching English to five year olds.
One studying medieval texts.
One writing this very post you read.

A winding life full of surprises.
Do they dare embark upon that winding life full of surprises?

What is probably most surprising about this winding life is how well we've kept in touch and how many times we've seen each other over the last six or seven years since graduation.  Only two of the women live in the same city (now in the same apartment).  Two of us live in other U.S. states, at least a day's drive from the first two.  One lives in Israel.  Sometimes we go months without talking, but that never stops us from constantly wondering how the others are doing.

This summer, I drove up and down the East Coast, and each time I stopped to see one of them, we talked from the moment we woke up to the moment we forced ourselves to get some sleep.  We talked endlessly, wherever we were: on the screen porch, by the river, over meals, in the car, at parties, laying in bed, on the beach, under July 4th fireworks...

The thing about friendships like this is that they never get old.  When we're together, we laugh harder than we have in months.  We share things we can't share with anyone else.  We wonder what we'll be like in ten years.  We wish for more time together.

Recently, I sent out an email to these four girls to tell them about my potential house purchase and this blog, and the reply-all turned into a litany of life updates: housing, work, family, men (or lack thereof)...you name it.  It was as though we were back in college, crammed onto the rose-patterned couch someone's neighbor let us have, chatting about anything and everything.  The difference between then and now is us.  We're different now.  We're happier.  We're more fulfilled.  We're more self-aware.  We're more confident.  Our emails are not littered with unspoken insecurities the way they were when we first graduated and moved away.  Instead, they're full of hope and promise, even in the face of tough times:

"As for my personal life, it's a bit of a zoo... [But there are] beautiful moments every day."

So much in my life is different than the expectations I had as a nineteen year old.  I even feel differently than I thought I would.  But these women, they are my rock.  My constant.  My joyful reminder of where I came from and where I want to go.  I hope that my children are blessed with friends like this some day.  But in the meantime, I'll keep embarking on this winding life. Alongside four strong women.  My girls.  From the beginning to the end.

When we're together, we huddle near a computer and watch youtube videos for hours.
When we're not, we send each other youtube videos and huddle together in spirit.
http://www.jibjab.com/view/kc8Gha7wz8OiMqZRv8gq

I Am Bored And Ms Olinde Is Mean

Well, it turns out that today might not have been my best day of teaching.  I've got to say, I'm a little bit surprised by this fact.  It felt like an okay day, school-wise.  My fourth graders got to examine spores and see a celery stalk's water transport system.  Some even got to play my newly invented game, "Plant Survivor: Photosynthesis Edition"...Where 7 Chosen Cards Determine Your Final Fate.  The right ingredients to photosynthesize or not to photosynthesize?  That is the question.

In fifth grade, my students got to work on the children's book about cells they're writing for their kindergarten buddies, and we did a Close Reading on the carpet about viruses.

That's where I made the mistake.

Close Readings always take a chunk of time, usually somewhere between 20 and 30 minutes.  I've found that trying to do it as a whole class is disastrous, so we've taken to breaking up into groups and rotating through different activities.  Less than 9 kids in a group seems to be the sweet spot.  Enough to have a functional conversation that allows them to break down the text together.  Not so many people that someone is getting away with silence or spending their time drawing tornadoes on their paper.

Today, the tornadoes happened.  I was trying to get through the reading activity in two shifts to save time (12 kids each), and it just didn't work as well as it usually does.  The text was a little harder, too, and with an increased group size, my reading level range was just too wide.  My lower readers got frustrated by the pace.  My higher readers got frustrated by the pace.  I had people playing with pencils, doodling, talking, staring at the floor...  But I didn't realize the extent until a student brought me one of the clipboards we'd been using, where someone had written, "I am bored and Ms Olinde is mean."

Kind of stings, I'm not going to lie.

I don't do well with the moniker of "mean."  Personally, I consider myself to be a fair and understanding teacher who wants the best for my students and regularly acts in accordance with that desire.  Yes, I get short.  Yes, I'll call you out in front of everyone if you're goofing off in my class.  I'll try to do it kindly, but you kind of brought it on yourself, kid.  "Strict" and "tough" are more what I'm going for.  We humans don't get too far by being coddled.  I'll have your back, but I won't spoon feed you.

The phrase "I am bored" just frustrates me.  What exactly during the period was so boring?  The fact that you got to work on a children's book, which gives you significant freedom in terms of design and creativity, as well as clear parameters in terms of what's expected?  Or maybe it was the twenty minutes on the rug where you learned how viruses are like body snatchers and use your cells to multiply themselves?

To me, bored in my class means one of two things: (1) you are not disciplined enough to accept new information in a straight forward, non-game approach (welcome to life) or (2) you have not yet figured out how to bring learning to your own level.  For some students today, the Close Reading was barely above reading level.  In that case, dig into the content and figure out what you didn't already know, or how it relates to things you've seen or heard about before.  For some students, the Close Reading was well above their reading level.  In that case, use the support I'm giving you through my questioning to dig deeper and be successful in understanding the passage.  Ask questions.  Make analogies.  Make it fun for yourself.

Most likely, my Clipboard Culprit was just upset because they were having a tough time understanding the article, and instead of accepting the challenge (and my support), they avoided their confusion by playing around.  And I probably called them out on it.  If that's the case, then maybe it wasn't such a day teaching day after all.  Challenging students is my job.  But I'll still keep my groups small from here on out, just in case.