Teachers are perfect

I was reading the archives of a blog and one entry made me decide to spend my time elsewhere. The author described a time when her evilmeannastyoppressive teacher was wrong and she was right. She ended the blog by asking her readers to describe a time when they were right and their teachers were wrong.

I wish I made only one mistake a day. Only one typo or copier error. One mispoken word because I should have had more coffee.

But that's the measuring stick used: one mistake and you're villified on a blog.

Teaching's a special job because most people feel they're experts by virtue of having been students. They figure they had an up-close experience with the education field and are qualified to judge.

Yeah right.

I'm amazed at the number of people who responded to her question. It's not like they were talking about yesterday. Years upon years, even decades, and these festered memories were presented- the wounds and the triumph over teacher evident.

Give me a break. Unless your teacher was whaling the shit out of you literally or figuratively, let it go. Forgive him or her and walk away knowing we're all profoundly flawed.

I don't want to be on that pedestal. It looks too much like a gallows.

Allow me to recommend...

Ask me to recommend a movie or a book, and I'll qualify the hell out of my recommendations.

"What are you reading?" "Do you like action movies?" "It's excellent, but only if you're into paranormal."

When I waited tables, I hated when people asked me for a suggestion. First of all, they were adults who should be able to evaluate the choices and choose on their own. Second of all, I didn't want to run the risk of ruining their night with a bad suggestion.

I also don't like when people tell me there's a book or movie I've got to see because it was incredible and changed their life. Or that there's a particular student that they absolutely adore.

By the time book, movie, or student get in front of me, I'm disappointed.

My teacher friend loves to recommend. He feels it's his duty to turn the kids onto true literacher, instead of the- in his words- books with "bright and shiny covers."

Because he's a beacon of all things literary and the denizens of the school should bask in the glory of his illumination.

As a fan of the bright and shinies, I can't stand the snobbery. My feeling is that if a student reads, great. Their teachers will give them canon, and they can read whatever they want for their personal taste.

I also think genre writing has the clearest models for students at this stage in their writing game. What can a student learn to put in their own writing from Mark Twain or Henry James or Conrad? Those writers don't provide anything for the students to use; no one can imitate what those authors do. But read a romance, fantasy, or horror, and the students can copy those tricks. Genre writing gives excellent examples of setting, point of view, characterization- all that good stuff. I think students can learn more about writing from Nora Roberts and Stephen King than the aforesaid writers.

Which isn't to say I don't love the canon. Of course I do; I couldn't be a happy English teacher if I didn't. But I shouldn't have to defend any type of reading. And students shouldn't be made to feel less than if they happen to prefer King to Dumas.

Hell, I do.

Give me the joy he's having

My nephew loves Halloween. When he loves something, he throws in his heart and dives after. The first time he saw a train in real life, he spread his arms and yelled, "My train!"

I use that as the measuring stick of enjoyment. I want to greet experiences with the same enthusiasm.

Which is sometimes hard to muster, prone as I am to twisted thinking.

I'm glad my brother lets my nephew choose his own costume instead of handing the kid a paper bag or bedsheet and saying have done. He chose the costume from Scream (and why a five year old would have knowledge of the movie is a rant against his mother I'll save for another day), but made my brother cut off the tubing that pumps blood around the mask. The blood scared him.

I loved Halloween when I was younger because it made me feel as if anything could happen. That's the closest I get to the heady excitement my nephew has. Certain things give me the feeling that the impossible can be: the Patriots winning the Super Bowl, the Red Sox winning the Series (bitter I was earlier in the week), and the get-up-and-go theme from the Pirates movies.

My mom and sister each gave me a musical card with the Pirates music and I open it at random times to give myself a little boost.

Doesn't take much to see the world as my train for a little bit.

What a pleasant world

Yup, I spent my Saturday night watching Superbad- first time as is and second with the commentary on.

I have an incredible admiration for the world Seth Rogen and Judd Apatow create. The screaming awkwardness of human interactions and the frailty of profoundly flawed individuals laid out plain as pikestaff. I like that the nerds are the focus and they inevitably win the day, the girl, and the respect.

The grossout humor satisfies the fifteen year old who hardly ever comes out to play, which is just as well since I don't think we'd get along too well.

The commentary was like being a part of a great conversation among friends. They didn't talk much about what was happening on screen, but gave tons of insight into the creative process and their relationships. When Jonah Hill mentioned a bad review in the Hollywood Reporter, Seth Rogen sounded legitimately hurt and justifiably pissed off. The critic had said the film lacked courage because it didn't go to the next logical step of having the two main characters sleep together (and also alluded to Tu Mama Tambien). What a stupid criticism. The movie didn't have to turn into Brokeback Superbad to depict an honest best-friendship between two males.

I loved hearing about the workings behind the movie and the genuine admiration the guys have for the people in the movie- Bill Hader (who turns up on Neil Gaiman's blog occasionally) garnered a lot of praise for his work and for being an awesome person to hang around with.

That's why I love a well-made commentary and don't consider any DVD truly watched until I've seen all the special features. I love a good conversation, and I'll never get tired of writers express their love of the craft.

Gotta love the Saturdays

Because I can't bitch all the time...

I spent yesterday in a pleasant laziness. I love that my weekends now align with the rest of the world. No more working on a Monday and saying, "This is my Friday," because I have Tuesday and Wednesday off.

I spent the morning talking to Tattoo Queen, our weekly ritual of going over our weeks and solving the problems of the world. There's something luxurious about being able to stretch out my enormous cup of coffee and go about the house in my pjs and unwashed hair, all the while hearing the news from the West Coast.

My brother needed me to babysit my nephew, which was no problem because he fit into my Saturday like a perfect piece of the puzzle. I reread a Julie Garwood and he drew pictures, asking for my opinion on them from time to time. We both enjoyed hot chocolates with marshmellows and then he read to me from the stack of books he bought over.

He's in first grade and just beginning to read. I give a lot of credit to elementary teachers. I wouldn't know where to begin with emergent readers and as I listened to him struggle with the words, I couldn't help but hope that he never loses the determination to keep at it until the words become fixed in his brain.

I don't know which is harder: learning to read or reading complicated text. I see my students struggle with Shakespeare, James, Austen and Conrad and I think it would be all kinds of difficult to be able to read just dandy and then come to an author who persists in complicating syntax and obscuring meaning. It's a humbling experience that some students don't want to undergo.

I think of the teenager my nephew's going to be and I want him to keep the courage I saw yesterday when he couldn't recognize the words "know" and "who" the first, second, and third times around, but got them on the fourth and fifth.

Somebody get me a cheeseburger

Apparently I've got a need to milk my venom sacs.

It's been one of those weeks when my colleagues have pissed me off to no end and I'm feeling dissatisfied with work relationships.

The petty bullshit that happens in school is no different from the petty bullshit that happens in other jobs, but I can't help feeling disappointed that we're not better. I'm tired of pissing contests and screw-overs and the battles over minutiae.

I had a hard time with my teacher friend. Sometimes I can overlook his flaws, other times not so much. I'm sick of being trapped in conversations where he holds forth as if I'm one of his students, even though I have as much knowledge on the particular subject as he does.

It's a myth that teachers are good listeners. Most of them are appalling listeners who are too used to captive audiences and don't have conversations, they hold forth.

I live with the fear that I'm going to be one of these teachers. I only hope that 40 years of a listening habit won't be broken by years of teaching.

He said a particularly hurtful thing Thursday, ridiculing my experience in the restaurant biz. In front of the department. I've been doing a slow burn ever since. I haven't told him I'm angry and hurt because his reaction would be one I've grown to hate: he'll put a "Gee, I'm a bad boy" expression on his face and give me a half-assed apology.

I'd rather ride out the emotion and skewer him in my thoughts and here.

After he made the comment, I wanted to lash out, but managed to suppress all the words piled up on my tongue- and they were legion. I was surprised in a hurt by a close person way and am more surprised that he didn't realize the hurtfulness of his remark.

He has a reputation for being a sensitive teacher, a big old pile of guts and empathy.

Shows how misleading reputations can be.

On a positive note, I know I won't be able to nurse the hurt for long and soon things will be back to normal between us.

Until the next mean comment. Or until I read this entry again.

Is that the bus?

My mom and I were talking about the way good cops protect bad cops and the church protected evil priests (she's a Catholic and while the atrocities don't dim her faith in God, they definitely dimmed her faith in humanity. The bonds of loyalty and silence made the situations worse.

I told her teachers weren't like that. They'd throw a colleague under the bus faster than scantrons can be corrected.

Not that I'm advocating cover up. If someone's doing evil, no misguided loyalty should prevent the truth from coming out, but I believe teachers feel a certain schadenfreude when one of their own hits hard times.

Two of my fellow teachers have told me on different occasions that they have my back. Bullshit. If you're loyal to someone, you don't have to say it. In fact, my cynicism points out that people who said they have my back in the past eventually used it as a target.

I got a little scared when I heard them say those words.

The most powerful temptation for disloyalty occurs when a student badmouths another teacher in front of you. The feeling of acceptance- not only are students confiding in you, but they're also saying they like you- is a heady feeling. On top of this, if the teacher being criticized is someone you can't stand, no one could blame you for listening to the validation. Not that you would add to it, but letting the student vent can't be harmful.

I'll admit, I get tempted. Students bitch about a particular colleague and I see they're justified in their complaints, but I don't let them know. My stock lines are that complaining about teachers is not allowed in my room and that I don't understand how two great people can't communicate and I know if the student talked to the teacher, they'd be able to work this out.

The reason I resist temptation is that I overheard a student bitching about me to a teacher, and the teacher said nothing. She sat in her room and soaked it up.

I don't think I'll be forgetting that soon, but I do know when students complain about her, I put Satan behind me and deliver my lines.

And I've never had to tell her that I've got her back.

Who's screaming

Dr. Phil had the maker of the new documentary The Bridge on his show earlier this week. I heard about the film last year, but this was the first time I saw clips of it.

The filmmaker placed a crew and camera in Golden Gate State Park and filmed people jumping off the bridge.

Now I can't get them out of my head. The clips showed people pausing at the railing, slinging their legs over, and sitting or standing on the ledge. The next parts weren't shown, but you can fill in the rest: one simple step or maybe a full-out jump.

One snippet showed a man who was taking a picture on the bridge and noticed a woman sitting on the ledge. He reached over and snagged her shirt and there was a sickly comical moment when he looked like he didn't know what to do with his camera because he couldn't let go of her shirt. He pulled her back on the safe side and she was hauled off. His last picture was of her, in cuffs, looking directly at him. He said that he didn't know what she was thinking in that moment, maybe that he was a son of a bitch for spoiling her attempt.

As I watched, I wanted to stop these people. Tackle them or hug them or scream at them to stop. The thought occurred to me that how could I do that with strangers when I'm not sure I do with the people I know.

When signs are obvious, I have told the appropriate authorities seeing as every teacher is a mandated reporter. I've had students who were cutters or scared they were pregnant or bent on beating someone up or tempted to kill themselves. I don't keep their secrets.

But I found those out through blatant means: an intercepted note, a desperate journal entry, or the red cross-hatchings on an arm. I don't have hyper-heightened teacher intuition. The signs were smacking me in the face.

I do wonder why they weren't smacking anyone else in the face. I always figure if the student reaches out to me, there's the faint sound of scraping the bottom of a barrel behind it.

Now I can't stop wondering how many of my students are on the railing of the bridge, screaming before they take the next step. I don't know. I don't know whose voice I'm ignoring, but I know someone's going unheard.

There is superstition

I used to be ruled by magical thinking, the superstitions that were part and parcel of my OCD. Seeing "12:34" was a special incident of bad luck and required me to look away until the clock was on "12:35." If I missed it, then it was double bad luck. Watching a light go from yellow to red while I was under it was also bad luck.

I've managed to get rid of most of these compulsive superstitions, but some have lingered. All of them are directed toward writing, which is better far than having them connected to daily living.

If I read a book that has the names of my characters, I take it as a sign of luck. Or if a book I pick up is set in the same state or city as my book. Or if I see an advertisement for a publisher I've queried.

I saw a praying mantis today and couldn't help but think that some good fortune is coming my way. I've only seen a praying mantis once before in real life.

Hummingbirds are good luck too. Although now that I think of it, they aren't good luck as much as they are a promise or reminder of better times. I've seen exactly four hummingbirds in my life and I guess the good luck is actually seeing them.

I still pray to Saint Anthony when things are lost. Of course, I exhaust extensive effort in searching for these items before I call upon the good saint. I wouldn't call him a superstition: he's never failed me. When I don't find the items I prayed for- like when I lost the disk for my first book- I know they're out of reach and beyond finding. I usually start discovering other lost things that I didn't pray for (some things are not really missed when they're gone) and know that he did his best, but not everything can be recovered.

I don't mind the superstitions and strokes of luck I have in my life right now because my life's not ruled by them. Wasn't too long ago that a green light meant a good day and two reds in a row meant a bad one. I wouldn't want to go back to that kind of magic.

On being a listener

There's a simple test for whether you're a good listener or not. If someone tells you they just had their wisdom teeth removed, do you: a) tell about the time your wisdom teeth were removed; b) rapidly change the subject to something you want to talk about; or c) ask them how it went?

I concocted this test when my wisdom teeth were yanked out and I found that most people- all the people in my circle at the time- opted for a and b.

I am a good listener, but I don't tell people that. Most good qualities don't have to be said out loud and tons of times, people who say they have the good traits are fooling themselves something awful. The best cooks in my acquaintance never say they're great cooks. The true romantics never have to say they're romantic. As a matter of fact, if people tell me they're a great cook or a romantic, I prepare myself for an aching belly or a mindfuck of the highest order.

I haven't decided if being a good listener is a good quality or not. I don't know why people feel comfortable talking to me; I'm not an especially nice or smiley person. Yet I often find myself listening as some poor soul pours out a life story and then says, "I've never told anyone this before."

My best friend, Tattoo Queen, became my friend because she knocked on my apartment door before we really knew each other and spilled out her woes to a stranger. My closest teacher friend started spending his free periods in my room my first year of teaching because he could tell me his stories.

There's a part of me that doesn't like this role. The small petty part that wishes for more attention. Sometimes a guy will be holding forth and the reason I'm listening is that I'm attracted to him, but he doesn't realize or care. Like my life is so unnoteworthy that I need to be regaled by his adventures. The conversation usually ends with him feeling invigorated and me feeling used.

Another test for listening is what you do when a person is interrupted in the middle of a story. When the interruption is over, do you: a) start with your own story or b) remind the person where the story left off and listen to the rest?

I wish everyone chose b. A story interrupted is a dead story; I've seen this happen when people are ignored or disrupted in the middle of telling, and all the words curl up dead and bitter on the tongue. It's one of the little soul-killers of human interaction, and I don't believe people would do this if they knew or remembered how much it hurt.

Then again, I think most people don't want to be good listeners. We all have lives of utmost importance, and listening to someone else means that someone else's life is more important than ours, if only for five minutes. It's a sacrifice.

The Sequel

I wish some books had sequels. The first author who comes to mind is Gaiman since Neverwhere and Good Omens beg for continuation. I wouldn't mind reading more about Shadow, even if his book consisted of his visit to the mall to buy shoelaces.

Poppy Z. Brite could write some more Liquor books and I'd be a very happy woman.

But I always feel a bit greedy in wanting more. I should be satisfied with what I have. To close a great book and whine about not being able to continue is a little ungrateful, yet it happens.

Speaking of continuation, I've been terrified for the past three books that James Lee Burke is going to kill off Clete. It's coming. The bell's tolling and it ain't playing no boogie. And when the big man falls, I'll cry my fool head off even though I knew it would happen, even though Burke has been foreshadowing for lo these many pages.

I still don't want him to die.

What about the girls?

I was having a beer with my teacher friend yesterday and I started complaining that there weren't many books or movies that showed great female friendships. He said my complaint reminded him of a Mencken quote: "Whenever I see two women kissing, I always think of boxers shaking hands."

Is that how the world sees the friendship between women? I pummeled my brain for some good examples on the big screen or in literature (TV doesn't count for the moment) and couldn't think of a standout. Thelma and Louise? Please...they're forced together by circumstance and I always wondered why they were friends in the first place. Put their friendship alongside Butch and Sundance and there's no comparison. Those men are together by choice. When Harry Met Sally? Again, I have no idea why the two women are friends, aside from the fact that the script says so. Harry and Bruno Kirby's character have a great friendship: they finish each other's sentences, Bruno has a little hero worship for Harry, and I had no doubt about the reason they were together. How did Nora Ephron flesh out that relationship without doing the same for the girls?

Hamlet and Horatio are best friends, but Shakespeare didn't bother to give a loyal and true buddy to his female characters. Desdemona and Emilia don't count. If you are oblivious to the fact that your husband wants to ruin your best friend and if you stay in the other room while your best friend's husband kills her, your best friend license is revoked. In fact, I think it bursts into flames on the spot.

Where's the female version of Damon and Pythias? Or even the female equivalent to the bonding scene in Jaws. Sure, the men are forced together, but the scene on the boat brings those different guys together and even lets them sing. I've no doubt Hooper and Brody remained friends after they paddled to shore.

Maybe female friendships aren't recognized as noble. A good male bonding scene gives the observer a glimpse into maleness. I watch or read those scenes and understand for a moment how men relate and express affection. There's a power in those scenes.

Why aren't the women getting the same write-ups? I know Hollywood is male-dominated, but even the female writers aren't reaching the same bar. What would it take to depict the nobility of female friendship?

Calloo Callay

A cause for celebration (Samhain wants my book!) and a $75 giftcard to Borders courtesy of my brother coincided with the yearly educators' discount at said store.

I love the freedom that a giftcard and a discount give me. Lord knows, I stick to what I know and love when I'm watching my pennies, but the minute it's free money, I go wild. I leave my comfort zone behind and head off on a spree.

Today I bought Picoult's Harvesting the Heart, Brooks's March, a Sandman graphic novel (I can't find mine), Durst's Out of the Wild (loved the first book), the latest Harlequin Nocturne, a Miles Davis CD, a Velvet Underground CD, and Prisoner of Azkaban (can't find mine- Harry's probably hiding out with Sandman). Such riches.

I ran into a student at the store, who was a little freaked out at seeing me. I swear the students think we teachers go into little cupboards just like the robots in "Marionettes Incorporated." He said that seeing a teacher outside of school was like seeing Santa Claus in jeans. I love that simile.

I also treated myself to a fancy-schmancy coffee even though it violates my principles to pay that much for a beverage that isn't served by a cute bartender.

The capper to this wonderful day? Chocolate cake and netflix (it's a toss up between Elizabeth and The Invisible).

The fact that Borders didn't have Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book was the teeny-tiny scratch in the statue to keep the gods from getting jealous and turning me into a spider or a fly.

The First Step

Yesterday, I wanted to leave school and start my weekend, but I decided to check my e-mail (yeah, yeah, it was four in the afternoon).

A message in my inbox from Samhain Publishing. The most beautiful message in the whole world: they want to publish my book. I reread the e-mail twice to make sure it didn't actually say "We don't want to publish your book."

The shock was electrifying and my fool eyes began leaking and I stuffed a fist in my mouth to keep from giggling and alarming the teachers who were in nearby rooms.

I had to write back saying I was interested, and I had to suppress the urge to gush all over my response. No, I couldn't tell the nice editor that I was close to bawling from happiness. I cobbled together a professional response and went home in utter bliss and validation.

I printed out the contract and necessary papers tonight and they'll be in the mail on Monday. All through today, I've been flashing on the fact that someone wants to publish my book. It's unreal in a glorious way.

Thanks for the memory

I've reached the point in the school year when I know my students' names in context. If they're in the room during the right period, I can match the names to faces. In the hallways between classes, sometimes I have no idea if they're current students, former students, or just the kids I see passing by all the time.

The students who claim my memory first are the misbehaving, and I begrudge them the first dibs. Why do I remember the student who dropped the f-bomb the first day instead of the student who wrote the brilliant essay on Lord of the Flies?

It's frustrating for me and them. I see the quick downturn of their face when I struggle with their names, as if they're thinking that they might not be worthy of remembrance. Of course they are. Trouble is, right now they're flying under radar and my brain's decided to give the ones who act out a lion's share of my frontal lobe.

But I'm glad to be past the dizzying whirl of the first weeks when the annual fear of "I'll never know these kids' names before June" hits me. Slowly, the names adhere to faces and as time goes on, I begin to memorize the absolute specialness that each student possesses.

I'd love it if one year my memory switched and all those flying under radar burned into my brain while those within my radar for whatever reason were no more than "Hey Yous."