Ritual Read/Writing into the Day 6/13: Superman (Sherman Alexie), Spiderman (poem)
I never wanted to be a superhero, really. It looks like too much work. Every day it's the same thing: fight the bad guy, save the victim; fight the bad guy, save the city; fight the bad guy, save the world. Sheesh. Do they ever get a break? A day off? A thank you card, or a nice gift basket? Never seems like it. Sure, sometimes they get a hug or even a kiss from someone they just saved, but you know what? I'm married, and I think my husband would get jealous. So, that's that. And what about the costumes? Who decided that spandex would be a good idea? Not flattering, even a little. The colors are all similar, too. You could easily confuse Superman, Spiderman, and Captain America as they sped past you on the way to save someone else. Then the wrong person would get the credit! My son is absolutely convinced that his Superman t-shirt actually says Spiderman. He refuses to believe me when I try to correct him. Superman's been saving the world for, what, like 80 years, and he doesn't even get recognized as the right guy by a three-year-old Dang. No superhero work for me. No way. I would kind of like to be able to fly, though.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Friday, June 27, 2014
Montana Writing Project, Day 4--I am WAY behind in typing these up
[So, today was actually the last day of the class. We've had so much work, I haven't had time to type any of my writing up to post. I'll try to get caught up over the next few days, but I still have a ton of writing to do to finish my portfolio and stuff by July 9.]
Writing Into The Day 6/12: Response to Linda Ellis' "The Dash"
I've seen this particular poem a number of times, but the place and time it takes me to is September 2004, to the memorial service for my maternal grandmother. My dad, her son-in-law, chose the poem (which struck me a little because they often didn't get along). But I spent some time at the service, and since, thinking about my grandmother, and her "dash".
Our relationship was sometimes a rocky one: I felt she was stern and boring--my other grandmother, if she'd seen the kids playing in the dirt, would join us; my mom's mother would tell us to stop getting dirty. It wasn't until she had passed away that I learned some details about her dash.
Born in 1907, she lived through the Great War, the Roaring Twenties, the Depression, World War II. In her teens, she exercised cavalry horses with her sister on the nearby army base. She and my grandfather, both teachers, married in secret in the 1930's and kept it a secret for several years. You see, female teachers back then couldn't be married; married women should be at home starting families. My grandmother loved her job teaching shorthand and typing, and didn't want to give it up. She was stubborn like that. I've been told I inherited some of her stubbornness--I don't see it.
[Funny side note: My grandfather had played baseball in college and was offered a position on a farm team for Philadelphia. He turned it down because he loved teaching, and because you couldn't make any money playing professional baseball.]
My grandmother had my mom at age 36, the same age I had my first child. My mom was a preemie, in an incubator for the first few weeks of her life, and my grandparents did not try again. I often wondered what my mom's childhood was like, living with my un-fun German grandmother. My grandfather was the fun one: he loved jokes, took my mother to Flyers games, and even let her have a pet squirrel. I never heard of my grandmother joining in such antics. She always came across as the killjoy in my mom's stories, not liking the squirrel, not attending the sporting events, not enjoying the practical jokes.
I often felt gypped growing up--my grandfather had passed away at age 63 four years before I was born. I wondered why I was stuck with the boring grandparent and never got to know the fun one. My grandmother always wanted me to be a girl. Now, I AM a girl, but she wanted me to be a girly-girl. Every year for my birthday or Christmas or Easter--holidays for which she was frequently present, since most of her family was gone and my mom was an only child--my grandmother would give me a sweatshirt. Pink or mint green or peach (which is really NOT my color), one had knitting sheep on it, another had ballet-dancing teddy bears, and the third had seashells outlined in glittery puff paint. My God. Had I worn those to school, or even out of the house, I would have been a laughing stock. Gifts from my grandmother were acknowledged with a "thank you" and then tucked away in a drawer or on a shelf in my closet, waiting for an opportunity to put them in a rummage sale at church or give away to a younger associate who was more receptive to glitter paint and knitting sheep.
I don't know if I understand even now the intent of my grandmother's gifts; did she know so little about me that she thought I'd really like a sweatshirt with ballet-dancing teddy bears as a sophomore in high school, or she wanted me to be the kind of girl who would like such a thing, or she viewed me as being girlier than I was, or she wanted me to BE girlier, or she simply didn't know me well enough to know what I'd like, or she didn't know my age group or generation well enough to know what I'd like...and now, I think, was it because I never took the time to LET her get to know me well enough?
There may have been a lot about me that my grandmother didn't know, but there was also a lot about her that I didn't know. I will probably never know those things about her. My mother has passed away as well, and my father doesn't know or doesn't remember a lot of stories from my mother's family. My grandmother's brother and sister are long gone as well, and I haven't stayed in touch with my mother's cousins, the only other living relatives from my mother's side of the family that I know still exist. I should check with my father and see if he has their addresses. I inherited all my mother's family photo albums when she died; I see faces in fading black and white photos that look vaguely familiar, but most of the pictures aren't labeled. I turn the pages in silence, and mourn the loss of family that I never knew I had. I also mourn the family that I did have, but didn't ever take the time to know. I know my grandmother probably had a hell of a dash. I just wish I knew more of the story.
6/12 How might the reading, writing, and discussions that you've experienced here inform your work? What are the implications for your work?
Prior to the institute, I had essentially no training in IEFA. Oh, I had a few handbooks, and I think I might have sat through a conference session or two, but nothing other than that, and those obviously hadn't made much impression on me. I knew we had required IEFA texts at every level, although not in every semester, and the only ones I've taught are The Winter People and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. This institute is giving me far more resources than I knew existed as far as material I can use in my classroom and ways I can relate it to the texts we already discuss, but more importantly it's given me an understanding of WHY it matters to do so. High school is such a marginalizing experience anyway; if I can make it less so, I will.
Writing Into The Day 6/12: Response to Linda Ellis' "The Dash"
I've seen this particular poem a number of times, but the place and time it takes me to is September 2004, to the memorial service for my maternal grandmother. My dad, her son-in-law, chose the poem (which struck me a little because they often didn't get along). But I spent some time at the service, and since, thinking about my grandmother, and her "dash".
Our relationship was sometimes a rocky one: I felt she was stern and boring--my other grandmother, if she'd seen the kids playing in the dirt, would join us; my mom's mother would tell us to stop getting dirty. It wasn't until she had passed away that I learned some details about her dash.
Born in 1907, she lived through the Great War, the Roaring Twenties, the Depression, World War II. In her teens, she exercised cavalry horses with her sister on the nearby army base. She and my grandfather, both teachers, married in secret in the 1930's and kept it a secret for several years. You see, female teachers back then couldn't be married; married women should be at home starting families. My grandmother loved her job teaching shorthand and typing, and didn't want to give it up. She was stubborn like that. I've been told I inherited some of her stubbornness--I don't see it.
[Funny side note: My grandfather had played baseball in college and was offered a position on a farm team for Philadelphia. He turned it down because he loved teaching, and because you couldn't make any money playing professional baseball.]
My grandmother had my mom at age 36, the same age I had my first child. My mom was a preemie, in an incubator for the first few weeks of her life, and my grandparents did not try again. I often wondered what my mom's childhood was like, living with my un-fun German grandmother. My grandfather was the fun one: he loved jokes, took my mother to Flyers games, and even let her have a pet squirrel. I never heard of my grandmother joining in such antics. She always came across as the killjoy in my mom's stories, not liking the squirrel, not attending the sporting events, not enjoying the practical jokes.
I often felt gypped growing up--my grandfather had passed away at age 63 four years before I was born. I wondered why I was stuck with the boring grandparent and never got to know the fun one. My grandmother always wanted me to be a girl. Now, I AM a girl, but she wanted me to be a girly-girl. Every year for my birthday or Christmas or Easter--holidays for which she was frequently present, since most of her family was gone and my mom was an only child--my grandmother would give me a sweatshirt. Pink or mint green or peach (which is really NOT my color), one had knitting sheep on it, another had ballet-dancing teddy bears, and the third had seashells outlined in glittery puff paint. My God. Had I worn those to school, or even out of the house, I would have been a laughing stock. Gifts from my grandmother were acknowledged with a "thank you" and then tucked away in a drawer or on a shelf in my closet, waiting for an opportunity to put them in a rummage sale at church or give away to a younger associate who was more receptive to glitter paint and knitting sheep.
I don't know if I understand even now the intent of my grandmother's gifts; did she know so little about me that she thought I'd really like a sweatshirt with ballet-dancing teddy bears as a sophomore in high school, or she wanted me to be the kind of girl who would like such a thing, or she viewed me as being girlier than I was, or she wanted me to BE girlier, or she simply didn't know me well enough to know what I'd like, or she didn't know my age group or generation well enough to know what I'd like...and now, I think, was it because I never took the time to LET her get to know me well enough?
There may have been a lot about me that my grandmother didn't know, but there was also a lot about her that I didn't know. I will probably never know those things about her. My mother has passed away as well, and my father doesn't know or doesn't remember a lot of stories from my mother's family. My grandmother's brother and sister are long gone as well, and I haven't stayed in touch with my mother's cousins, the only other living relatives from my mother's side of the family that I know still exist. I should check with my father and see if he has their addresses. I inherited all my mother's family photo albums when she died; I see faces in fading black and white photos that look vaguely familiar, but most of the pictures aren't labeled. I turn the pages in silence, and mourn the loss of family that I never knew I had. I also mourn the family that I did have, but didn't ever take the time to know. I know my grandmother probably had a hell of a dash. I just wish I knew more of the story.
6/12 How might the reading, writing, and discussions that you've experienced here inform your work? What are the implications for your work?
Prior to the institute, I had essentially no training in IEFA. Oh, I had a few handbooks, and I think I might have sat through a conference session or two, but nothing other than that, and those obviously hadn't made much impression on me. I knew we had required IEFA texts at every level, although not in every semester, and the only ones I've taught are The Winter People and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. This institute is giving me far more resources than I knew existed as far as material I can use in my classroom and ways I can relate it to the texts we already discuss, but more importantly it's given me an understanding of WHY it matters to do so. High school is such a marginalizing experience anyway; if I can make it less so, I will.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Montana Writing Project, Day 3 (I'm getting a little behind in getting these pieces typed up)
Writing into the Day 6/11: Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd's apology to the aboriginal people of Australia
Why is it so hard to say sorry when it's something big, something important? Why do we wait so long when it matters so much? My dad and I recently discussed the Pope's apologies for some of the darker events in the history of the Catholic Church. I regularly have to remind my 3 1/2 year old son to apologize when he hurts someone (usually his little brother). I shouldn't have to remind him, but I do. It shouldn't have taken hundreds of years for people to get an apology from the Church. It shouldn't have taken hundreds of years for the aboriginal people of Australia to receive an apology from the Australian government. Why? Why is it so much easier to say sorry to someone for a minor infraction, like bumping into someone on the sidewalk? Why is that so much easier than saying sorry when we've caused harm or hurt? It is because we view "sorry" and regret and apologies as admissions of guilt? Is recognizing the enormity of our own fault what keeps us silent for so long? Do we hope people will eventually forget our transgressions, if we remain silent long enough? Saying sorry shouldn't be so hard or take so long. But it also shouldn't be tossed out casually and carelessly, because that cheapens the sentiment. We should be able to look the person, or persons, or descendents of those people, in the eye, maybe take their hand, and say, "I am sorry." It shouldn't be hard, but it shouldn't be easy. And it should be followed with "I'll do better next time." And mean it. It's not going to erase the bad things, but it can make things better from that point on. My son sometimes says, "Sorry, Mommy," when he's done something, and I've responded with "No, you aren't. If you were, you wouldn't keep doing it." I'm sure I shouldn't say that to him. I should tell him "Thank you" and "We'll both do better next time."
Response to Marcia Beaumont's TIP Demonstration 6/11--"What's in a Name?" activity
I didn't realize I had so many different names. I kept thinking of more and more, and the funny thing is that I didn't write down any negative ones on the paper plate. I know I've been called some bad things over the years, but none comes to mind. Out of all the names I've been called, the most powerful is "Mrs. McKnight". I guess that's because it means several different things. I married my husband on August 21, 1999, almost fifteen years ago. As soon as I got back to Memphis, I filled out the paperwork to change my name. I didn't keep my original name, as my sister-in-law has since done. I didn't hyphenate my last name, as some of my friends did. I was proud of my new name, glad that my husband loved me enough to change my name to his. It's also what students have called me. I hear it in varying forms: "McKnight," "The Knight", even "McNugget" from a student with a bad memory. But I like it best when I hear it as "Mrs. McKnight, I loved your class." It shows different levels of respect, depending on how it's said, I'm sure, but I've never heard it as anything but me myself.
Why is it so hard to say sorry when it's something big, something important? Why do we wait so long when it matters so much? My dad and I recently discussed the Pope's apologies for some of the darker events in the history of the Catholic Church. I regularly have to remind my 3 1/2 year old son to apologize when he hurts someone (usually his little brother). I shouldn't have to remind him, but I do. It shouldn't have taken hundreds of years for people to get an apology from the Church. It shouldn't have taken hundreds of years for the aboriginal people of Australia to receive an apology from the Australian government. Why? Why is it so much easier to say sorry to someone for a minor infraction, like bumping into someone on the sidewalk? Why is that so much easier than saying sorry when we've caused harm or hurt? It is because we view "sorry" and regret and apologies as admissions of guilt? Is recognizing the enormity of our own fault what keeps us silent for so long? Do we hope people will eventually forget our transgressions, if we remain silent long enough? Saying sorry shouldn't be so hard or take so long. But it also shouldn't be tossed out casually and carelessly, because that cheapens the sentiment. We should be able to look the person, or persons, or descendents of those people, in the eye, maybe take their hand, and say, "I am sorry." It shouldn't be hard, but it shouldn't be easy. And it should be followed with "I'll do better next time." And mean it. It's not going to erase the bad things, but it can make things better from that point on. My son sometimes says, "Sorry, Mommy," when he's done something, and I've responded with "No, you aren't. If you were, you wouldn't keep doing it." I'm sure I shouldn't say that to him. I should tell him "Thank you" and "We'll both do better next time."
Response to Marcia Beaumont's TIP Demonstration 6/11--"What's in a Name?" activity
I didn't realize I had so many different names. I kept thinking of more and more, and the funny thing is that I didn't write down any negative ones on the paper plate. I know I've been called some bad things over the years, but none comes to mind. Out of all the names I've been called, the most powerful is "Mrs. McKnight". I guess that's because it means several different things. I married my husband on August 21, 1999, almost fifteen years ago. As soon as I got back to Memphis, I filled out the paperwork to change my name. I didn't keep my original name, as my sister-in-law has since done. I didn't hyphenate my last name, as some of my friends did. I was proud of my new name, glad that my husband loved me enough to change my name to his. It's also what students have called me. I hear it in varying forms: "McKnight," "The Knight", even "McNugget" from a student with a bad memory. But I like it best when I hear it as "Mrs. McKnight, I loved your class." It shows different levels of respect, depending on how it's said, I'm sure, but I've never heard it as anything but me myself.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Montana Writing Project, Day 2
Today passed in somewhat of a fog. I got less sleep than I would have liked last night, due to a rough patch by Ian (woke up and cried a number of times, then pulled off his pajama bottoms and diaper and proceeded to pee all over his bed--Ian had to be changed, the bed had to be stripped, and Ian needed to be rocked back to a calmer state before he'd go back to sleep). As bad as it sounds, I couldn't immediately tell you everything we wrote, read, or discussed this morning. The afternoon was dedicated to a writing on a strong memory, which is something we'll be able to refine and add to our memoirs that are due Monday. We finished with a research-and-share discussion of the Essential Understandings of Indian Education for All and some Indian history. We didn't quite get finished, so we'll have to finish tomorrow. We signed up for our daily duties; I wish I'd brought my schedule home to write on the calendar so I can remember what I'm supposed to be doing. I think I'm responsible for something on Thursday. Not sure. Anyway, here are the two pieces I wrote today.
Writing Into The Day 6/10: "Why I Write" intro to Creating A Life by Donald M. Murray
It's interesting to consider why I write. I love to write; I always have. In school, I churned out plenty of angsty teen poetry. I was an enthusiastic albeit erratic diary writer, at least until I was about to graduate high school, when my mom admitted that she had been reading my diary for years. Bitterly spiteful, I rebuffed her offer of a new diary since my old one was nearly full, and threw the old one in the trash. That didn't stop me from writing in college, though. I wrote lengthy letters to friends, and more questionable poetry for classes and for myself. In this glorious age of technology, I am a blogger (duh)--with a few lean years when parenthood, exhaustion, and depression made it hard to muster enthusiasm for anything. I am also a Facebook addict. I love seeing posts from friends and former students, but I get selfish pleasure from responses to my own posts: "You are so funny! You should compile your statuses into a book!" I think I write for the affirmation, not necessarily that I am clever or funny, but that I am still here. I can look back at my writing and think, wow, I thought/said/did that? How far I've come! Or, do I truly feel that way? How far I have yet to go. I can see the evolution of my style: habitual user of ellipses, dashes, parentheticals; ritual breaker of the fourth wall in asides to my reader. I can hear the "rapids" Donald Murray referred to; I need to start paddling.
Place-Related Memory 6/10: Half Mile of Hell on the Ocoee River, TN
The rapid, although it isn't much of a rapid, just class II "boogie water," is usually referred to as "Half Mile of Hell" by the other paddlers I know, but I don't know if it has an official name. It isn't really half a mile long, either--maybe a quarter or even an eighth? I'm a terrible judge of distance. And it's not that it's "hell" exactly. It just requires some balance, some boat control, and a willingness to play a game I call "Wave, or Rock?" It was my first trip down the Middle Ocoee in a kayak. I'd put on the river at the alternate put-in that missed three of the more difficult rapids. I'd successfully negotiated the first two rapids on that section of the river, a bouncy chute called Moonshoot (because of a butt-shaped rock in the middle), and the "sneak" line at the notorious hydraulic Double Suck. I was feeling pretty confident (although I still felt a healthy dose of apprehension, as I always do), which might be why I got a little sloppy, a little loose, and leaned back a little too much. I was following another boater, either too closely or not closely enough. As it was my first time on the Ocoee, Phil, who was an experienced boater, told me to follow his lines. His exact words were "Follow me, and when I turn my boat, you turn your boat." I have since pondered this advice, wondering how much fault lay with Phil and how much was my own. Were I closer to Phil's boat, turning when he turned might have helped me dodge the rock or hole or wave or whatever it was; were I farther behind, the same move might have missed the obstacle altogether. As it happened, Phil angled his boat to the left, so I did the same. Doing so brought my boat with a "thump" against a barely submerged rock masquerading as a wave (see the aforementioned game "Wave, or Rock?"), and suddenly I was upside down. No matter how many times I've practiced my "eskimo roll"--the move that rights a kayak using the paddler's body and paddle--the sensation of suddenly being surrounded by water instead of air when I don't expect it is disorienting and disconcerting. I'm sure there are other boaters whose immediate response to such an event is to flip themselves back over without a thought; I have never reached that point. My thoughts usually go through the following process: "Oh crap! I'm upside down! I can't breathe! Ow, that was a rock! I should set up to roll. I wonder if anyone else has noticed that I'm upside down. I should set up to roll. I'll try to roll. Well, I'll try after I quit thumping over all these rocks. I wonder if anyone is coming to get me. I haven't heard any thumps on my boat that might be anyone else setting up for a T rescue. I should try to roll. I'm running out of air. Oh crap." Sometimes this process has been followed by "Hey, wow, I did it! I actually rolled!" More often, however, the process was followed by "Tried to roll, didn't make it all the way. Tried to roll again, didn't make it all the way. Guess I'll pop my sprayskirt and swim." That's mostly what happened at this particular point in the river. I did indeed set up to roll--I bent at the waist towards the left side of my boat, thrust both hands skyward with my paddle clutched in my fists, rotated my wrists as though I were revving the throttle on a motorcycle...and punched my left fist really hard against a rock. I know this is what must have happened, although I really don't have a clear recollection of it. I remember realizing that I was only holding my paddle with my right hand. I know some people can roll a boat one-handed (or even without a paddle at all); I am not one of them. I let go of my paddle and pulled the grab loop on my sprayskirt. Once I had popped the skirt off the rim of my cockpit, I pulled myself out of the boat much like pulling off a pair of pants. I didn't do much to "self-rescue"--I let my paddle and boat float downriver without me, and swam towards the bank. It wasn't a great place to swim--lots of rocks, obviously--and it wasn't a great place to try to get out of the water, either. I had ended up on the inside curve of the rapid, right at the bend in the river before the rapid Double Trouble, a big wave train. The road that followed the river was perhaps 20 feet above me, up a steep rocky embankment. I scrambled to the top without any problems (not slowing down enough to consider the possibility that there could be snakes sunning themselves on the rocks as they do along much of the river). It wasn't until I got to the top and reached for the road's guardrail to pull myself up and over that I noticed my left hand. Specifically, my index finger. The section between the two lower knuckles had already swollen to twice its usual size, and the skin was stretched and shiny, like the casing of a sausage. That section of the finger had gone almost white, while the rest of the finger was starting to turn purple. My first thought was, I've broken my finger. Then I noticed my Timex digital watch. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking, the ads said. Well, this Timex was licked. Period. I had broken the face; it would not tick anymore (not that it ticked anyway; it was digital). I walked along the roadside, careful to hug the guardrail as cars and large trucks could come barreling around the curve quickly and potentially swinging wide. About 50 yards, maybe as much as 100 yards (remember, bad at distances), I climbed back over the guardrail and worked my way down the path the river outfitter photographers used. As I clambered back down over rocks and tree roots, I thought two things: "I hope they got my paddle and my boat" and "I can't believe I only made it two rapids before I swam." You see, in kayaking, swimming is portrayed as something to be ashamed of. It means you screwed up, probably twice: once when you didn't successfully negotiate an obstacle, and once when you failed to roll. On a lot of paddling trips, at the end of the day, the swimmers must "drink from the boot." Someone will take a neoprene bootie, like a thick rubber sock with a sole, and fill it with beer. The offending swimmer or swimmers must then drain the boot. Other times, the swimmer is expected to buy the beer for that night's campfire. Either way, it's a moment of shaming, even if relatively good-natured. I wasn't concerned with drinking from the boot or buying the beer at that moment, however; I was overwhelmed with the feeling of failure, the feeling that I'd let my friends, and more importantly my husband, down. While kayakers are generally a community who look out for each other, a "newbie" on a trip puts other more experienced boaters in an instructional or support role. They must guide the newbie down the river and be responsible for helping that person out if he or she gets in a jam. A newbie on a trip means the other paddlers aren't as free to paddle in their own way, at their own speed, or stop and play as they might usually do. A newbie, in return, is expected to listen, follow instructions, and try not to screw up too badly. I had screwed up, big time. I felt like I had let my paddling buddies down. When I got to the bottom of the trail, I found one of our friends, Drew, sitting in the eddy with my boat. I pulled it up on the bank. I looked downstream, and there was my husband, sitting behind a rock with my paddle across his boat. My gear had been recovered without too much effort, thankfully. Attention then turned to my hand. Drew turned to a photographer and asked if he had a first aid kit. He didn't, but a raft guide who was sitting in the eddy waiting for the rest of his trip to pass by did. He got out one of those cold packs, the kind you twist to break open the chemical pouches and then shake to activate the cold. He told me I should keep it on my hand for about fifteen minutes. The rest of the boaters in my group had to decide what to do--should someone stay with me? I assured them I was fine. I said that after I'd iced my hand for a little while, I could hitchhike down to the takeout, get our truck, come back up and get my boat, and then meet them at the takeout when they were done. I didn't want to take any of them away from the river, away from the fun of paddling. I sat on the bank with my legs in the water, watching my friends and my husband paddle away. While I sat there, a few boaters who came through asked me if I was ok; others asked what had happened. And I noticed a few who came through didn't ask me anything because they were preoccupied with their own problems. Some had rolled; some even came through swimming. One's companions had to chase his boat through three rapids before they were able to catch it and get it to an eddy. I started to realize that I was not the only one who wasn't having a good day on the river. I also realized that my finger probably wasn't broken; although my hand was swelling alarmingly, I could move all my fingers--I had just popped the blood vessel on the top of that finger (the bruise that developed after the initial swelling subsided gradually worked its way across most of my hand, making me look super tough and causing some dismay for my mother, which is a story for another day). My paddling day, and in fact weekend, was done for sure, though, because I couldn't grip my paddle with that hand very well because of the swelling. I hitched down to the takeout, river karma granting me a quick pickup from a nice fellow boater, got the truck, went back up and picked up my gear, and met my friends at the bottom. They'd had a great time, which I couldn't help but be a little jealous of. But that night, in the campsite, I was not made to drink from the boot, nor was I expected to provide the alcohol for the group. Instead, various people oohed and aahed over my injury, we all shared our own perspectives of the event, and other boaters shared stories of their own swims, many of which made mine pale in comparison (especially the newbies from Mississippi who had tried to tackle the river with no ability to roll and no one to guide them; again, a story for another day). Ultimately, what I took away from the experience was an adage that several of the boaters repeated to me: "Everybody is just between swims." There are no boaters who ever do it perfectly, there are no boaters who can make it through their entire paddling career without an occasional mistake. Sometimes those swims result in nothing but slightly hurt pride and a drink from the boot; sometimes those swims create great stories to tell back at camp; sometimes those swims end in catastrophe. But swims are always learning opportunities for everyone in the group--what mistake was made, what could have been done to avoid it, how it was handled when it happened--and everyone takes something away from the experience. I must admit, I've never swum in exactly the same place on a river twice. And I guess that's life, really. We have all those sayings about making mistakes, about how you have to try and try again, about how you have to get back up on that horse that bucked you off. For me, it meant learning that I could make mistakes, that I would make mistakes, and that the best I could do would be to learn from the experience and try to avoid making that same mistake again. In boating, that meant leaning forward, keeping an active blade in the water, reading the water better, trusting my instinct when playing "Wave, or Rock?" and knowing that my instinct might occasionally let me down. And practicing my roll.
Writing Into The Day 6/10: "Why I Write" intro to Creating A Life by Donald M. Murray
It's interesting to consider why I write. I love to write; I always have. In school, I churned out plenty of angsty teen poetry. I was an enthusiastic albeit erratic diary writer, at least until I was about to graduate high school, when my mom admitted that she had been reading my diary for years. Bitterly spiteful, I rebuffed her offer of a new diary since my old one was nearly full, and threw the old one in the trash. That didn't stop me from writing in college, though. I wrote lengthy letters to friends, and more questionable poetry for classes and for myself. In this glorious age of technology, I am a blogger (duh)--with a few lean years when parenthood, exhaustion, and depression made it hard to muster enthusiasm for anything. I am also a Facebook addict. I love seeing posts from friends and former students, but I get selfish pleasure from responses to my own posts: "You are so funny! You should compile your statuses into a book!" I think I write for the affirmation, not necessarily that I am clever or funny, but that I am still here. I can look back at my writing and think, wow, I thought/said/did that? How far I've come! Or, do I truly feel that way? How far I have yet to go. I can see the evolution of my style: habitual user of ellipses, dashes, parentheticals; ritual breaker of the fourth wall in asides to my reader. I can hear the "rapids" Donald Murray referred to; I need to start paddling.
Place-Related Memory 6/10: Half Mile of Hell on the Ocoee River, TN
The rapid, although it isn't much of a rapid, just class II "boogie water," is usually referred to as "Half Mile of Hell" by the other paddlers I know, but I don't know if it has an official name. It isn't really half a mile long, either--maybe a quarter or even an eighth? I'm a terrible judge of distance. And it's not that it's "hell" exactly. It just requires some balance, some boat control, and a willingness to play a game I call "Wave, or Rock?" It was my first trip down the Middle Ocoee in a kayak. I'd put on the river at the alternate put-in that missed three of the more difficult rapids. I'd successfully negotiated the first two rapids on that section of the river, a bouncy chute called Moonshoot (because of a butt-shaped rock in the middle), and the "sneak" line at the notorious hydraulic Double Suck. I was feeling pretty confident (although I still felt a healthy dose of apprehension, as I always do), which might be why I got a little sloppy, a little loose, and leaned back a little too much. I was following another boater, either too closely or not closely enough. As it was my first time on the Ocoee, Phil, who was an experienced boater, told me to follow his lines. His exact words were "Follow me, and when I turn my boat, you turn your boat." I have since pondered this advice, wondering how much fault lay with Phil and how much was my own. Were I closer to Phil's boat, turning when he turned might have helped me dodge the rock or hole or wave or whatever it was; were I farther behind, the same move might have missed the obstacle altogether. As it happened, Phil angled his boat to the left, so I did the same. Doing so brought my boat with a "thump" against a barely submerged rock masquerading as a wave (see the aforementioned game "Wave, or Rock?"), and suddenly I was upside down. No matter how many times I've practiced my "eskimo roll"--the move that rights a kayak using the paddler's body and paddle--the sensation of suddenly being surrounded by water instead of air when I don't expect it is disorienting and disconcerting. I'm sure there are other boaters whose immediate response to such an event is to flip themselves back over without a thought; I have never reached that point. My thoughts usually go through the following process: "Oh crap! I'm upside down! I can't breathe! Ow, that was a rock! I should set up to roll. I wonder if anyone else has noticed that I'm upside down. I should set up to roll. I'll try to roll. Well, I'll try after I quit thumping over all these rocks. I wonder if anyone is coming to get me. I haven't heard any thumps on my boat that might be anyone else setting up for a T rescue. I should try to roll. I'm running out of air. Oh crap." Sometimes this process has been followed by "Hey, wow, I did it! I actually rolled!" More often, however, the process was followed by "Tried to roll, didn't make it all the way. Tried to roll again, didn't make it all the way. Guess I'll pop my sprayskirt and swim." That's mostly what happened at this particular point in the river. I did indeed set up to roll--I bent at the waist towards the left side of my boat, thrust both hands skyward with my paddle clutched in my fists, rotated my wrists as though I were revving the throttle on a motorcycle...and punched my left fist really hard against a rock. I know this is what must have happened, although I really don't have a clear recollection of it. I remember realizing that I was only holding my paddle with my right hand. I know some people can roll a boat one-handed (or even without a paddle at all); I am not one of them. I let go of my paddle and pulled the grab loop on my sprayskirt. Once I had popped the skirt off the rim of my cockpit, I pulled myself out of the boat much like pulling off a pair of pants. I didn't do much to "self-rescue"--I let my paddle and boat float downriver without me, and swam towards the bank. It wasn't a great place to swim--lots of rocks, obviously--and it wasn't a great place to try to get out of the water, either. I had ended up on the inside curve of the rapid, right at the bend in the river before the rapid Double Trouble, a big wave train. The road that followed the river was perhaps 20 feet above me, up a steep rocky embankment. I scrambled to the top without any problems (not slowing down enough to consider the possibility that there could be snakes sunning themselves on the rocks as they do along much of the river). It wasn't until I got to the top and reached for the road's guardrail to pull myself up and over that I noticed my left hand. Specifically, my index finger. The section between the two lower knuckles had already swollen to twice its usual size, and the skin was stretched and shiny, like the casing of a sausage. That section of the finger had gone almost white, while the rest of the finger was starting to turn purple. My first thought was, I've broken my finger. Then I noticed my Timex digital watch. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking, the ads said. Well, this Timex was licked. Period. I had broken the face; it would not tick anymore (not that it ticked anyway; it was digital). I walked along the roadside, careful to hug the guardrail as cars and large trucks could come barreling around the curve quickly and potentially swinging wide. About 50 yards, maybe as much as 100 yards (remember, bad at distances), I climbed back over the guardrail and worked my way down the path the river outfitter photographers used. As I clambered back down over rocks and tree roots, I thought two things: "I hope they got my paddle and my boat" and "I can't believe I only made it two rapids before I swam." You see, in kayaking, swimming is portrayed as something to be ashamed of. It means you screwed up, probably twice: once when you didn't successfully negotiate an obstacle, and once when you failed to roll. On a lot of paddling trips, at the end of the day, the swimmers must "drink from the boot." Someone will take a neoprene bootie, like a thick rubber sock with a sole, and fill it with beer. The offending swimmer or swimmers must then drain the boot. Other times, the swimmer is expected to buy the beer for that night's campfire. Either way, it's a moment of shaming, even if relatively good-natured. I wasn't concerned with drinking from the boot or buying the beer at that moment, however; I was overwhelmed with the feeling of failure, the feeling that I'd let my friends, and more importantly my husband, down. While kayakers are generally a community who look out for each other, a "newbie" on a trip puts other more experienced boaters in an instructional or support role. They must guide the newbie down the river and be responsible for helping that person out if he or she gets in a jam. A newbie on a trip means the other paddlers aren't as free to paddle in their own way, at their own speed, or stop and play as they might usually do. A newbie, in return, is expected to listen, follow instructions, and try not to screw up too badly. I had screwed up, big time. I felt like I had let my paddling buddies down. When I got to the bottom of the trail, I found one of our friends, Drew, sitting in the eddy with my boat. I pulled it up on the bank. I looked downstream, and there was my husband, sitting behind a rock with my paddle across his boat. My gear had been recovered without too much effort, thankfully. Attention then turned to my hand. Drew turned to a photographer and asked if he had a first aid kit. He didn't, but a raft guide who was sitting in the eddy waiting for the rest of his trip to pass by did. He got out one of those cold packs, the kind you twist to break open the chemical pouches and then shake to activate the cold. He told me I should keep it on my hand for about fifteen minutes. The rest of the boaters in my group had to decide what to do--should someone stay with me? I assured them I was fine. I said that after I'd iced my hand for a little while, I could hitchhike down to the takeout, get our truck, come back up and get my boat, and then meet them at the takeout when they were done. I didn't want to take any of them away from the river, away from the fun of paddling. I sat on the bank with my legs in the water, watching my friends and my husband paddle away. While I sat there, a few boaters who came through asked me if I was ok; others asked what had happened. And I noticed a few who came through didn't ask me anything because they were preoccupied with their own problems. Some had rolled; some even came through swimming. One's companions had to chase his boat through three rapids before they were able to catch it and get it to an eddy. I started to realize that I was not the only one who wasn't having a good day on the river. I also realized that my finger probably wasn't broken; although my hand was swelling alarmingly, I could move all my fingers--I had just popped the blood vessel on the top of that finger (the bruise that developed after the initial swelling subsided gradually worked its way across most of my hand, making me look super tough and causing some dismay for my mother, which is a story for another day). My paddling day, and in fact weekend, was done for sure, though, because I couldn't grip my paddle with that hand very well because of the swelling. I hitched down to the takeout, river karma granting me a quick pickup from a nice fellow boater, got the truck, went back up and picked up my gear, and met my friends at the bottom. They'd had a great time, which I couldn't help but be a little jealous of. But that night, in the campsite, I was not made to drink from the boot, nor was I expected to provide the alcohol for the group. Instead, various people oohed and aahed over my injury, we all shared our own perspectives of the event, and other boaters shared stories of their own swims, many of which made mine pale in comparison (especially the newbies from Mississippi who had tried to tackle the river with no ability to roll and no one to guide them; again, a story for another day). Ultimately, what I took away from the experience was an adage that several of the boaters repeated to me: "Everybody is just between swims." There are no boaters who ever do it perfectly, there are no boaters who can make it through their entire paddling career without an occasional mistake. Sometimes those swims result in nothing but slightly hurt pride and a drink from the boot; sometimes those swims create great stories to tell back at camp; sometimes those swims end in catastrophe. But swims are always learning opportunities for everyone in the group--what mistake was made, what could have been done to avoid it, how it was handled when it happened--and everyone takes something away from the experience. I must admit, I've never swum in exactly the same place on a river twice. And I guess that's life, really. We have all those sayings about making mistakes, about how you have to try and try again, about how you have to get back up on that horse that bucked you off. For me, it meant learning that I could make mistakes, that I would make mistakes, and that the best I could do would be to learn from the experience and try to avoid making that same mistake again. In boating, that meant leaning forward, keeping an active blade in the water, reading the water better, trusting my instinct when playing "Wave, or Rock?" and knowing that my instinct might occasionally let me down. And practicing my roll.
Montana Writing Project: Day One (Monday, June 9)
For the next three weeks, I will be participating in the Montana Writing Project, an intensive college course on writing instruction. I have always enjoyed writing (hence the blogs), but I have never felt all that great about writing on command in particular genres. I know we have several big projects we'll be doing, and that I have to perform well on them in order to get a good grade in the class. I need these credits to renew my teaching license, so it's really important that I do well. I want to keep a record of my writing, so I will be adding at least some of my writing pieces to this blog. That will also help me when I have to assemble my portfolio at the end of the class.
Writing Into The Day (a ritual free-write at the beginning of each class) 6/9:
"Love in the Classroom" by Al Zolynas
"A sudden, sweet, almost painful love for my students." Last Monday I sat down at my desk when the bell for first period rang. I don't really know why; I didn't have any students. All I taught this semester was SciFi and Fantasy Lit, a senior English class. All 137 of the students I had started the semester with were gone. Most had graduated the morning before, not even 24 hours before. A few had given up at some point in the semester, either in my class or another, and did not graduate--I don't know if I'll see them in the fall when they try again, or if they'll finish during summer school, or if they'll simply move on. A couple dropped out during the semester. I wonder, do my students all know how much I, how much we, care and how much we love them? Do they know how oddly lonely I was, sitting at my desk in an empty room on Monday? Do they know? And will they remember?
10 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Rocket Wraps
So, here we are, full of burritos and chips. Looking around the room, I notice all different kinds of people: young people, businessmen, families, workers. But, at closer inspection, are they really different? All seem well-dressed, well-behaved Caucasians. Place-based learning. Place-based writing. What can I learn about Billings from this place? What can I learn about writing in this place? What makes this place special? I must begin with what I see--it reminds me of that line from Silence of the Lambs: "How do we begin to covet?" "We covet what we see every day." I see people like these every day at school, on my street, in my mirror. What makes them Billings? I seek the identity of this place. So many other places I've lived have had strong personalities, shouted them, rubbed your face in them. What do I find here? A small town? A city? A cow town? A place of culture? Of cultures? Reveal yourself to me, Billings. Show your cards. What have you got? Let's see your hand.
15 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Outside Trailhead (across from the Rex)
I am woefully ignorant about Billings for someone who has lived here almost five years. Sitting across from The Rex (never eaten there) and the Rainbow Bar (know nothing about it), sitting in front of the Trailhead (don't know what kind of brewery or distillery it might be, but a beer would be nice on this warm summer day). This is supposed to be a sketchier part of downtown where homeless people wander, I think. I don't see anyone wandering now. But it makes me feel guilty, and a little ashamed. Why don't I know more about Billings? I guess I've never made much of an effort to get out and meet people. I don't know why. I met a few teachers when I subbed the first year we were here who seemed friendly, but I felt like an outsider because I was just a sub. Then I spent a lonely summer, pregnant and tired, and only subbed a few times that fall. I didn't meet anyone. Once I had Brendan, our first child, I was home with him and no one else. I loved bonding with the little guy, but I missed my friends from Memphis, going kayaking every weekend or so, and just getting out. When I was an LTA that spring at Skyview, I didn't get out of my classroom much to meet people because I had to pump (I don't miss those days). Then home in the evenings and back to the baby and Ross. Didn't get a sitter to go out, just stayed in. We went out a few times as a family to eat, but mostly we just stayed home. That summer, I had Brendan in swimming lessons (mom and tot); I could have befriended a fellow parent, perhaps, but they all seemed so much younger than me. I guess that's the downside to having your first child at age 36. I just stayed home with Brendan, otherwise. Then that fall I started as an LTA for the full year. Why didn't I go out with any of my fellow teachers? I think I still felt like an outsider. By that time, I was pregnant again. Hard to go clubbing or bar-hopping when you are pregnant and have a 1-year-old at home, I guess. But I'm ashamed at not making more of an effort.
5 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: On the steps of the Western Heritage Museum
Hey there, horse (haha, see what I did there?). I try to make sense of your design: yellow body, blue head, lavender nose, elephant toes? I catch glimpses of familiarity--a tipi, a crow, a lizard. But is that...seaweed growing up your legs? A poisonous lionfish on your side? Do you have, uh, crabs? I'm confused. I'm sure there's a story to you, some magic lines that will weave your images together. But the museum is closed on Mondays, so your story goes unheard. I hope it's a good one. To my untrained eye, it looks like Sergeant Pepper exploded all over you. (Note to self: museums are apparently closed on Mondays in Billings.)
20 Minute Writing Marathon 6/9: the lobby of the Northern Hotel
Sitting in a fancy cowhide (I think) chair in the lovely lobby of the Northern. It's not exactly quiet, as I can hear plenty of talking by the employees and the groovy soft jazz over the speakers, but it does not seem to be very "busy". I've heard that the Northern is struggling, having put a lot of money into the renovation without much return so far. It's very pretty--large railroad ties framing a gas fireplace, beautiful prints recessed into the walls, have bronze pieces by Remington on the table. Beautiful, and "western" in its own way. But I don't know if this is Billings either.--I'm having trouble writing; I'm not comfy in this chair. There's nowhere to put my notebook to write comfortably. It's like Will Smith in Men In Black when he's trying to take the aptitude test...But back to Billings. As we've walked the streets downtown, I've enjoyed the green leaves on the trees, the beautiful flowers in the pots outside businesses, the smiles of people walking around town, either with purpose or without. Perhaps this IS Billings after all, fine dining, antique shops, and galleries rubbing elbows with bars, dives, and shelters. I need to see more. There is personality here. I can feel it. I'm looking forward to this place-based learning more than ever. I've already seen more of Billings than I had before, even though all the museums we've tried to visit have been closed. I wonder what other places we'll visit? I know we're going to Pryor. I've only been there once, and we spent most of our time in the play area rather than the museum. Little kids are just not helpers when it comes to cultural activities. At least, mine aren't.--I must admit, this write is more difficult. I want to stop, to rest my hand, doing so much writing. My thoughts become scattered, disconnected, fragmented. Variations on a theme, within a theme. And I'm listening to the conversation of the hotel employees and being distracted by it. No wonder some of my students SNARL at their classmates who try to talk, even whisper, during writing assignments. I must be better about shushing them.
15 Minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Yellowstone County Veterans Memorial
Trees, grass, breeze,
The rattle of the cables on the flagpole
Names etched in somber stone
Sacrifice and stillness.
Purple hearts and purple flowers
Timeless memory from otherwise forgotten past
Paying homage to the call of duty
Calling out the names in the muteness, their permanence,
These lists of those who gave some or all.
The sentinel of a bell that does not ring
Watching the names of the dead.
Homeless men lying in the shade, or where shade was before
Are they forgotten veterans of a forgotten war?
Do they come here to remember or forget?
Perhaps here to pay respect to the fallen, even as they are falling themselves.
I want to run my hands down the lists of names
Feel their depth, their void
Although they are not mine.
Part of me wonders if there are more, from recent wars, that have not yet been honored.
Part of me is horrified that there might be more.
A state with a relatively small population--
How many names?
Too many. More than I am willing to count.
Someone has come to help one of the homeless men.
She is talking to him, rubbing his shoulders.
For a moment I am panicked--have I watched while someone has struggled to live?
He pops up and walks easily to another spot, then lies down again briefly.
While he may not be struggling to live, he surely is struggling with life.
And I am ashamed to document his shame.
Will he someday have his name carved in a stone slab somewhere?
I do not know.
Writing Into The Day (a ritual free-write at the beginning of each class) 6/9:
"Love in the Classroom" by Al Zolynas
"A sudden, sweet, almost painful love for my students." Last Monday I sat down at my desk when the bell for first period rang. I don't really know why; I didn't have any students. All I taught this semester was SciFi and Fantasy Lit, a senior English class. All 137 of the students I had started the semester with were gone. Most had graduated the morning before, not even 24 hours before. A few had given up at some point in the semester, either in my class or another, and did not graduate--I don't know if I'll see them in the fall when they try again, or if they'll finish during summer school, or if they'll simply move on. A couple dropped out during the semester. I wonder, do my students all know how much I, how much we, care and how much we love them? Do they know how oddly lonely I was, sitting at my desk in an empty room on Monday? Do they know? And will they remember?
10 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Rocket Wraps
So, here we are, full of burritos and chips. Looking around the room, I notice all different kinds of people: young people, businessmen, families, workers. But, at closer inspection, are they really different? All seem well-dressed, well-behaved Caucasians. Place-based learning. Place-based writing. What can I learn about Billings from this place? What can I learn about writing in this place? What makes this place special? I must begin with what I see--it reminds me of that line from Silence of the Lambs: "How do we begin to covet?" "We covet what we see every day." I see people like these every day at school, on my street, in my mirror. What makes them Billings? I seek the identity of this place. So many other places I've lived have had strong personalities, shouted them, rubbed your face in them. What do I find here? A small town? A city? A cow town? A place of culture? Of cultures? Reveal yourself to me, Billings. Show your cards. What have you got? Let's see your hand.
15 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Outside Trailhead (across from the Rex)
I am woefully ignorant about Billings for someone who has lived here almost five years. Sitting across from The Rex (never eaten there) and the Rainbow Bar (know nothing about it), sitting in front of the Trailhead (don't know what kind of brewery or distillery it might be, but a beer would be nice on this warm summer day). This is supposed to be a sketchier part of downtown where homeless people wander, I think. I don't see anyone wandering now. But it makes me feel guilty, and a little ashamed. Why don't I know more about Billings? I guess I've never made much of an effort to get out and meet people. I don't know why. I met a few teachers when I subbed the first year we were here who seemed friendly, but I felt like an outsider because I was just a sub. Then I spent a lonely summer, pregnant and tired, and only subbed a few times that fall. I didn't meet anyone. Once I had Brendan, our first child, I was home with him and no one else. I loved bonding with the little guy, but I missed my friends from Memphis, going kayaking every weekend or so, and just getting out. When I was an LTA that spring at Skyview, I didn't get out of my classroom much to meet people because I had to pump (I don't miss those days). Then home in the evenings and back to the baby and Ross. Didn't get a sitter to go out, just stayed in. We went out a few times as a family to eat, but mostly we just stayed home. That summer, I had Brendan in swimming lessons (mom and tot); I could have befriended a fellow parent, perhaps, but they all seemed so much younger than me. I guess that's the downside to having your first child at age 36. I just stayed home with Brendan, otherwise. Then that fall I started as an LTA for the full year. Why didn't I go out with any of my fellow teachers? I think I still felt like an outsider. By that time, I was pregnant again. Hard to go clubbing or bar-hopping when you are pregnant and have a 1-year-old at home, I guess. But I'm ashamed at not making more of an effort.
5 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: On the steps of the Western Heritage Museum
Hey there, horse (haha, see what I did there?). I try to make sense of your design: yellow body, blue head, lavender nose, elephant toes? I catch glimpses of familiarity--a tipi, a crow, a lizard. But is that...seaweed growing up your legs? A poisonous lionfish on your side? Do you have, uh, crabs? I'm confused. I'm sure there's a story to you, some magic lines that will weave your images together. But the museum is closed on Mondays, so your story goes unheard. I hope it's a good one. To my untrained eye, it looks like Sergeant Pepper exploded all over you. (Note to self: museums are apparently closed on Mondays in Billings.)
20 Minute Writing Marathon 6/9: the lobby of the Northern Hotel
Sitting in a fancy cowhide (I think) chair in the lovely lobby of the Northern. It's not exactly quiet, as I can hear plenty of talking by the employees and the groovy soft jazz over the speakers, but it does not seem to be very "busy". I've heard that the Northern is struggling, having put a lot of money into the renovation without much return so far. It's very pretty--large railroad ties framing a gas fireplace, beautiful prints recessed into the walls, have bronze pieces by Remington on the table. Beautiful, and "western" in its own way. But I don't know if this is Billings either.--I'm having trouble writing; I'm not comfy in this chair. There's nowhere to put my notebook to write comfortably. It's like Will Smith in Men In Black when he's trying to take the aptitude test...But back to Billings. As we've walked the streets downtown, I've enjoyed the green leaves on the trees, the beautiful flowers in the pots outside businesses, the smiles of people walking around town, either with purpose or without. Perhaps this IS Billings after all, fine dining, antique shops, and galleries rubbing elbows with bars, dives, and shelters. I need to see more. There is personality here. I can feel it. I'm looking forward to this place-based learning more than ever. I've already seen more of Billings than I had before, even though all the museums we've tried to visit have been closed. I wonder what other places we'll visit? I know we're going to Pryor. I've only been there once, and we spent most of our time in the play area rather than the museum. Little kids are just not helpers when it comes to cultural activities. At least, mine aren't.--I must admit, this write is more difficult. I want to stop, to rest my hand, doing so much writing. My thoughts become scattered, disconnected, fragmented. Variations on a theme, within a theme. And I'm listening to the conversation of the hotel employees and being distracted by it. No wonder some of my students SNARL at their classmates who try to talk, even whisper, during writing assignments. I must be better about shushing them.
15 Minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Yellowstone County Veterans Memorial
Trees, grass, breeze,
The rattle of the cables on the flagpole
Names etched in somber stone
Sacrifice and stillness.
Purple hearts and purple flowers
Timeless memory from otherwise forgotten past
Paying homage to the call of duty
Calling out the names in the muteness, their permanence,
These lists of those who gave some or all.
The sentinel of a bell that does not ring
Watching the names of the dead.
Homeless men lying in the shade, or where shade was before
Are they forgotten veterans of a forgotten war?
Do they come here to remember or forget?
Perhaps here to pay respect to the fallen, even as they are falling themselves.
I want to run my hands down the lists of names
Feel their depth, their void
Although they are not mine.
Part of me wonders if there are more, from recent wars, that have not yet been honored.
Part of me is horrified that there might be more.
A state with a relatively small population--
How many names?
Too many. More than I am willing to count.
Someone has come to help one of the homeless men.
She is talking to him, rubbing his shoulders.
For a moment I am panicked--have I watched while someone has struggled to live?
He pops up and walks easily to another spot, then lies down again briefly.
While he may not be struggling to live, he surely is struggling with life.
And I am ashamed to document his shame.
Will he someday have his name carved in a stone slab somewhere?
I do not know.
Saturday, June 07, 2014
Same sh*t, different day
Wow, so it's been almost a year since my last post. Some things have changed: my sons are older, I'm a little fatter and a lot slower. Also, looking back at my last post was pretty hard, since we no longer have Maerlyn. He made it until November (almost fourteen years to the day since we had brought him home from the breeder), but his sight and hearing were almost gone, he'd started to have major problems with peeing and pooping in the house, and he was losing weight. It was incredibly hard to have him put to sleep. Ross and I both went to the vet, but Ross was coming from work and meeting me there, so I made the final trip in the truck alone with Maerlyn. I sobbed the whole way. We petted him and held his paws and told him what a good boy he was, and then it was over. It still hurts. I know he was in pain, but I also know the last few years of his life weren't the best, which makes me sad. I miss him terribly. I'm sure we'll get another dog at some point (probably next summer or the summer after, when the boys are a little older and more likely to treat a puppy carefully--also, Ian is afraid of dogs right now for some reason, so he probably wouldn't be happy if we brought a dog home), but that dog won't be Maerlyn. Sigh.
Anyway, on to my other subject:
Today's weigh-in (after breakfast): 239.0
So, I did absolutely nothing on the weight-loss front all year. I'm still in the same place I was last summer. Today is the first official day of summer, since yesterday was the last day of school, and although I plan some "bad" eating this weekend (my younger son's second birthday is tomorrow, so I'm working on birthday cake, and we're grilling steaks tonight because my dad is in town) and really don't plan to do anything super healthy this weekend, I figured I'd go ahead and post about my summer goals.
We have to report on Monday, August 25 for the opening of the school year (which starts Wednesday the 27th), which gives me 11 weeks to work with. I am taking a writing course for the next three weeks, which means I won't have a lot of time to work out, but I will try to go in the mornings before it starts at 9 each day--I'm still taking the boys to the sitter's at 7 each morning, so I can head to the gym and get maybe an hour workout in before needing to get dressed for my class. The class shouldn't be horrible for my health; although there will be snacks each day, I probably won't eat as much because people will be "watching" and I'll be occupied in the writing assignments, and also, we will be doing some walking around here and there for the class, so I'll get a little exercise in as well. I've also committed to walking a 5k with my mother-in-law over the 4th of July weekend, so I need to get some walking in.
My goal for the summer is to lose 15 lbs. If I can lose 1.5 lbs each week, I'll lose 16.5 lbs. If I can manage 2 lbs each week, I'll lose more than 20 for the summer. I've got to at least lose 10 lbs; I can't bear to be so close to 240 lbs. It's horrible. I feel like crap every morning: my feet hurt, my back hurts, my knees have started to bother me a bit (although the squats challenge I did in the month of May might have contributed).
I'm just sick and tired of being sick and tired. And fat. I'm sick and tired of being fat.
Friday, June 21, 2013
I'm a horrible person
So, I have something I need to confess, and I know it is going to make me sound like a horrible person who is doomed to burn in hell. But it needs to be said, so that I can get my thought process in order.
I kind of wish my dog would die.
OK, so before you get out the torches and pitchforks, let me explain.
My dog is not happy. As a matter of fact, I think he's probably miserable. But it isn't a medical thing. I can't just take him to the vet. I can't get him some pills or a shot and make it all better.
First of all, he's old. He'll be 14 years old in September, and he's really starting to show his age this past year. His hearing seems pretty bad--where you used to walk into the house and have the dog already waiting for you, now you'll walk into the house and he's sleeping on the chair, and you can walk past him three or four times before he has any idea you're there. His eyesight is also poor. He's got cataracts in both eyes. If you look into his eyes, you'll see the milky white sheen inside the pupil instead of the dark black (or green, which he used to have when his eyes reflected light). I think because of the eyesight problem, he is much more cautious with his movements than he used to be. He really seems unsure about jumping up on or down from things. He'll stand at the top of the two little stairs to our back porch, just gauging his chances, sometimes until you push him out with your foot. Then he flings himself off the top stair, not sure where the landing zone is, rather than just stepping down onto the next step.
He seems sort of lost or purposeless most of the time. He wanders through the house, randomly. He can't seem to settle in to one location for long. He wants to go out, but then barks to come back in after only a minute or so. He fusses to go into the bedroom (the door is closed to keep the boys out) but then immediately barks to come out when you close the door behind him. He just seems unsettled. I don't know if he just doesn't know where he is, or if he's uncomfortable and can't figure out how to make it better. He does have some loss of kidney function, but I don't know if that contributes to his desire to constantly go outside. When he goes out, he doesn't pee all the time or anything.
Worst of all, the boys will get fixated on him, and they won't leave him alone. Ian likes to "flap" at him, and also grabs his collar and tags and pulls on him. When he catches Brendan's eye, Brendan tries to grab him. He'll grab hold of his back hips or his tail and won't let go. Maerlyn is surprisingly well behaved--he's never snapped at the boys or tried to bite them--but I know he can't stand them. He has always been the star of the household, the only child, and he doesn't grasp that he needs to move himself out of the way or remove himself from their zone in order to avoid their attentions. He's very stubborn: it's his house, so he shouldn't have to move.
I just don't know what to do. He doesn't like other people--it truly did take years before Maerlyn ever allowed any of our family members other than us to pet him--so giving him to someone else is pretty much out. When he's with other people and we aren't there, even in our own house, he'll try to escape out of the house at the first opportunity. He somewhat enjoys spending time at my in-laws' home out in the country, but the same problem persists. If we aren't there, he sulks: he won't come inside, he tries to get out whenever possible, and he won't eat. My mother-in-law gets really worried about him. So that isn't really a good option either. And of course there's no way I could put him to sleep. There would have to be a really significant medical problem for me to even consider it, and right now he's reasonably healthy. Obviously I can't get rid of my kids either. So what do I do? I have no idea how to make the dog happier, and it makes me really sad to see him like this every day.
So, that is why I said I kind of wish he would die. Yes, it's a horrible thing to say, and it makes me sound like a monster. But the dog simply isn't happy, and I'm afraid he never will be again. It's selfish of me to say, but it would be a relief. That doesn't mean I'm going to do something to end his life; like I said before, there is no way I would do that. But if he passed away from natural causes, I would cry and miss him terribly, but I would also feel better that he was finally in a happier place.
Yeah, I'll probably burn in hell for even thinking that.
Tuesday, January 01, 2013
Happy 2013 (I hope)!
So, it's been a really long time since I posted anything on this blog. I have another, parenting-themed blog that I post on more often (although not that often). One of the goals of thus particular blog was weight loss, which I was moderately successful at about seven or eight years ago. Since then, I have gained back all the weight I had lost and then some. Sure, having two kids didn't help, but that shouldn't be an excuse. I know plenty of people who had kids and are still in shape.
So, I need to get back to my roots, so to speak, when it comes to blogging. I guess this counts as a New Year's resolution of sorts. Or two, really. 1) I need to lose weight, and 2) I need to blog more regularly, to keep myself honest.
I didn't weigh myself this morning, because the baby woke up and I had to go get him quickly. Although I have eaten and it won't be very accurate, I will weigh myself when I get a shower today (whenever that might be). I will also do what I really, really don't want to do: I will take a pic of myself in bra and undies to really document the horrible shape I am in. Maybe a little shame will help get me moving. I apologize in advance for how horrible it's going to be; feel free not to look.
I have other 2013 goals as well: be more patient with the boys, be more attentive to my husband, be more organized at work and at home, keep the house cleaner, being better with money, stuff like that. But a lot of my current dissatisfaction with things stems from my unhappiness with my physical condition, so I will put a focus on that. It will mean trying to squeeze in workouts, possibly getting up earlier and going to bed later, and of course it will entail eating better.
My general goal is to get in better shape. Specifically, I would like to lose 20 lbs by the end of the school year (end of May). By next ski season, I would like to fit in my cute ski pants (which are a size 14, I believe). That's about a 3-size drop, if you consider the sizes to be even; I am currently hovering around a 20.
I will post my weight and starting picture a little later today. Right now I'm soloing with the boys because my husband is trying to sleep off a NyQuil hangover.
So, cross your fingers, and let's get going.
Saturday, September 08, 2012
So much fail
Today's weigh-in (clothed): 229.2
Things just are not going as I had hoped. We've been in school for 2 1/2 weeks, and I'm really not enjoying it this year. Instead of teaching just English, as I have done for the eight+ years I was in my own classroom, I am "teaching" four periods of a class called Academic Success. It's pretty much a glorified study hall. The kids who are doing poorly in their other, academic classes end up taking the class. It's a chance for them to get assignments done at school. They are expected to bring their assignments and books with them and work the whole period, and they are awarded points for doing so. They also must keep in regular contact with their teachers, especially those whose classes are not going so well for them. And each grading period they get points for their grades in their other classes.
It seems like a great idea, but the "teacher" of such a class has to be kind of a hard-ass, which I am not. I am not good at, nor do I enjoy, riding kids to force them to do their work. I have always looked at it as, it's their choice to do it or not do it. That isn't a good attitude for me to take. I need to be a lot tougher with the kids, which I hate doing. I always felt like I motivated kids in my classes to do their work because they enjoyed the class. There really isn't anything to enjoy in the Academic Success class, and I'm certainly not teaching. Then, in the one English class I have, I'm not bonding with the kids. As a matter of fact, I don't really like many of them. The girls are OK, and a few of the boys, but there are a lot of obnoxious boys in there. I think I was spoiled by my single-sex classroom.
I haven't lost any weight; I haven't been able to motivate myself to work out. I just don't have the energy to get up and go. I need thinks to change, and soon.
Saturday, August 04, 2012
It's been a while...
Amazing how I don't have much time to blog these days, and not much to blog about. The only thing new with kid #2 is colic, which kid #1 didn't have much trouble with. That definitely takes up a lot of my day, trying to figure out ways to get kid #2 to stop crying. It's frustrating, to say the least.
Now that I'm 8 weeks out from my c section, I am ready (and desperate) to start losing weight. Since I'm not breastfeeding this time around, I'm not getting any weight loss from it. I've lost not quite 20 lbs from my heaviest pregnancy weight, and I'm about 10 lbs below my heaviest non-pregnancy weight. I've decided to go for a pretty easy (so I say) goal: to lose 20 lbs by the end of the school year (May 31). It's essentially 2 lbs each month for 10 months. It should be easily accomplished, but I notoriously suck at weight loss, exercise, and sensible eating. I'm hoping that bribing myself with $20 per lb lost might help. Cross your fingers
Friday, June 22, 2012
No way to cover it all...
So, just a tiny, brief little post...
Had our second child two weeks ago today. Just trying to get the hang of things. Brendan is almost 20 months old (tomorrow), and he's definitely entered the Terrible Twos. It's pretty frustrating. He kicks the dog, drops to the floor to avoid being picked up if he doesn't want it, smacks his little brother on the head, and throws tantrums. Annoying. I just hope it wears off quickly.
I do have a full time job again for the fall. This time, it's my own position, instead of a long-term sub job. Unfortunately, it isn't entirely English--only one teacher retired at the end of the year, and another teacher who had been at the school for a while had designs on that position, so I'm moving into the position she had. It'll be mostly a study hall type class, for kids who are academically...distressed. Plus at least one class for kids who are also emotionally troubled. Hopefully I'll have an English class as well; that was the plan of my department head. Keep your fingers crossed.
Well, that's really all I have time for. The baby is starting to fuss, which means it's almost time for him to eat again. And I need to get the dishes out of the dishwasher and the laundry folded before big brother comes home from the sitter's house. Balancing all this is not nearly as easy as it could be...
Monday, January 02, 2012
So, Happy New Year! Here we are, 2012. Less than a year from when the world is supposed to end, if you listen to those darned Mayans, anyway. I suspect they either ran out of room on the calendar or got tired of chiseling and said, "Hey, surely someone will add on to this later."
Anyway, just an update on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
First of all, weight: 217.4 as of this morning. This is a little surprising to be because, second of all, I'm three months pregnant. Yep, having kidlet #2 in mid June. So the weight thing is surprising, because the 20 lbs I've lost have been since I found out I was pregnant. Just haven't felt like eating much. Haven't necessarily been morning sick, just not hungry and nothing sounds good. I wasn't surprised to see weight loss in the first weeks, but now that I'm into my 16th week of pregnancy, I really would have thought that the weight loss would have stopped. Don't know if it's a problem. Anyway, I have my first appointment with my OB in two weeks, so I'll discuss it with her if things haven't changed by then. I really hope everything is going OK. This pregnancy seems much more of an "afterthought" than the last one did, and I just haven't paid as much attention to it. We'll just have to wait and see.
Work is plodding along. I really haven't bonded with the kids this year, not like I have in previous years at St. Agnes. There are a few I'm fond of, but there are a lot more that I am ambivalent towards, and more than a few that I would be happy to never see in my classroom again. I've never experienced such a dislike for any of my students before. It makes me very disappointed in myself, because I'm sure it has to do with me and whatever impractical expectations I may have had for these students at the beginning of the year. In any case, we've got two weeks left of the semester, and then I won't have most of them second semester. Sadly, a few of the ones I most wish I wouldn't have again I will have, and the ones I like best (my sophomores) I won't have at all because I'm teaching juniors second semester. It should be fun, science fiction literature, but at the same time I'll miss the sophomores. They have been a bright spot in my day on most days.
Brendan is a wild and crazy 14-month-old. He had a great time at Christmas. This Christmas wasn't his first, of course, but it was the first one he could participate in since he was so little last time. He helped open some presents and played with all of his toys (and some of his cousins'). He loved all the attention he got from the whole family. We didn't decorate much this year because it is so hard to keep Brendan out of things--he's very curious and extremely determined. Next year will be better; he'll be old enough to understand that he needs to not touch things, and the baby will be little enough that he or she won't be getting into anything yet.
Anyway, that's the state of things currently. We're just preparing ourselves for the new little bundle o' joy in June, by going through all of Brendan's things to see what we can reuse and what will need to be replaced and by planning the completion of our basement. Half of it is finished, a family room type space, but the two other rooms and the bathroom are unfinished. Both of our kids will be housed upstairs with us, so any guests who visit will need a place to sleep. One room down there will be a guest bedroom, while the other will be an office with the potential to be used as a guest room. We have two queen beds to deal with, one in one room and I guess the other will go in the office unless we figure out something else to do with it. We'll move our office furniture and computer in there, and we'd like to build some kind of storage unit along one wall. Then we can use the space freed up in the family room to put Brendan's toys and turn it into a play area. But we really can't use the spaces for any of that until we get the bathroom down there finished. Otherwise it's a long walk to the bathroom upstairs.
So cross your fingers that things continue to go well and that we can get our basement finished off. It will make things so much easier!
Anyway, just an update on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
First of all, weight: 217.4 as of this morning. This is a little surprising to be because, second of all, I'm three months pregnant. Yep, having kidlet #2 in mid June. So the weight thing is surprising, because the 20 lbs I've lost have been since I found out I was pregnant. Just haven't felt like eating much. Haven't necessarily been morning sick, just not hungry and nothing sounds good. I wasn't surprised to see weight loss in the first weeks, but now that I'm into my 16th week of pregnancy, I really would have thought that the weight loss would have stopped. Don't know if it's a problem. Anyway, I have my first appointment with my OB in two weeks, so I'll discuss it with her if things haven't changed by then. I really hope everything is going OK. This pregnancy seems much more of an "afterthought" than the last one did, and I just haven't paid as much attention to it. We'll just have to wait and see.
Work is plodding along. I really haven't bonded with the kids this year, not like I have in previous years at St. Agnes. There are a few I'm fond of, but there are a lot more that I am ambivalent towards, and more than a few that I would be happy to never see in my classroom again. I've never experienced such a dislike for any of my students before. It makes me very disappointed in myself, because I'm sure it has to do with me and whatever impractical expectations I may have had for these students at the beginning of the year. In any case, we've got two weeks left of the semester, and then I won't have most of them second semester. Sadly, a few of the ones I most wish I wouldn't have again I will have, and the ones I like best (my sophomores) I won't have at all because I'm teaching juniors second semester. It should be fun, science fiction literature, but at the same time I'll miss the sophomores. They have been a bright spot in my day on most days.
Brendan is a wild and crazy 14-month-old. He had a great time at Christmas. This Christmas wasn't his first, of course, but it was the first one he could participate in since he was so little last time. He helped open some presents and played with all of his toys (and some of his cousins'). He loved all the attention he got from the whole family. We didn't decorate much this year because it is so hard to keep Brendan out of things--he's very curious and extremely determined. Next year will be better; he'll be old enough to understand that he needs to not touch things, and the baby will be little enough that he or she won't be getting into anything yet.
Anyway, that's the state of things currently. We're just preparing ourselves for the new little bundle o' joy in June, by going through all of Brendan's things to see what we can reuse and what will need to be replaced and by planning the completion of our basement. Half of it is finished, a family room type space, but the two other rooms and the bathroom are unfinished. Both of our kids will be housed upstairs with us, so any guests who visit will need a place to sleep. One room down there will be a guest bedroom, while the other will be an office with the potential to be used as a guest room. We have two queen beds to deal with, one in one room and I guess the other will go in the office unless we figure out something else to do with it. We'll move our office furniture and computer in there, and we'd like to build some kind of storage unit along one wall. Then we can use the space freed up in the family room to put Brendan's toys and turn it into a play area. But we really can't use the spaces for any of that until we get the bathroom down there finished. Otherwise it's a long walk to the bathroom upstairs.
So cross your fingers that things continue to go well and that we can get our basement finished off. It will make things so much easier!
Thursday, November 10, 2011
I'm going to be stereotyping here, so just a warning. Don't want to get anyone's knickers in a twist.
Preface: Some of my favorite people are interested in the Japanese culture and language. Several have lived in Japan for a period of time. Several of them teach, either English to Japanese people or Japanese to American people. I do dearly love and respect these people that I know. Just wanted to get that out there.
That said, Americans who are deeply interested in Japanese culture tend to be...weird. Case in point: I have "adopted" the Japan Club at the high school where I teach, since the teacher I replaced is living in Japan for the year himself. They needed a sponsor, and I was the logical choice. I don't have to do anything for the club; they are basically using my room as their meeting ground twice each week, and if they need a teacher to sign for something, I'll do it. But two seniors are responsible for the running of the meetings and the preparation and delivery of all the material. And they are...weird. They come to my room wearing pink and black and ruffles and army boots and giant fuzzy hats on their heads, hats which resemble my old Cookie Monster stuffed animal (which is 35 years old and not in the best condition anymore, as their hats also seem to be). Their meetings, while informative, are also punctuated with discussion about anime, and how to cuss in Japanese, and anime, and their favorite comedy routines, and anime, and (today) whether they themselves, and their favorite anime characters, would survive a zombie apocalypse.
Really?
How much anime is there? And why does it all end up looking the same?
The rest of the club is as eccentric as their fearless leaders. They're all very nice; they're just...weird.
I don't know why I felt like mentioning this. Just did. Weird.
Preface: Some of my favorite people are interested in the Japanese culture and language. Several have lived in Japan for a period of time. Several of them teach, either English to Japanese people or Japanese to American people. I do dearly love and respect these people that I know. Just wanted to get that out there.
That said, Americans who are deeply interested in Japanese culture tend to be...weird. Case in point: I have "adopted" the Japan Club at the high school where I teach, since the teacher I replaced is living in Japan for the year himself. They needed a sponsor, and I was the logical choice. I don't have to do anything for the club; they are basically using my room as their meeting ground twice each week, and if they need a teacher to sign for something, I'll do it. But two seniors are responsible for the running of the meetings and the preparation and delivery of all the material. And they are...weird. They come to my room wearing pink and black and ruffles and army boots and giant fuzzy hats on their heads, hats which resemble my old Cookie Monster stuffed animal (which is 35 years old and not in the best condition anymore, as their hats also seem to be). Their meetings, while informative, are also punctuated with discussion about anime, and how to cuss in Japanese, and anime, and their favorite comedy routines, and anime, and (today) whether they themselves, and their favorite anime characters, would survive a zombie apocalypse.
Really?
How much anime is there? And why does it all end up looking the same?
The rest of the club is as eccentric as their fearless leaders. They're all very nice; they're just...weird.
I don't know why I felt like mentioning this. Just did. Weird.
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Winter is arriving. We had our first official snow flurries yesterday, although nothing stuck to the ground. And today was pretty chilly, maybe only up to about 40, with a lot of wind. It's funny, but I'm sort of looking forward to winter. Winters here aren't bad. Billings is in what the locals call the "Banana Belt", meaning our weather is surprisingly temperate for as far north as we are, and at 3000+ ft altitude to boot. Most of our winter days will be between 30-45 degrees. Oh, sure, we'll have enough 20 degree days to make it wintry, and we'll have a week or two of -0. But really it's not bad. Also, we don't have a lot of snow that hangs around. It'll snow, then melt, then snow, then melt, and over and over. In sheltered, shady areas, the snow might not ever melt off, but in most places it will. So it really shouldn't be too bad.
And of course we can go skiing and snowboarding. Gotta be careful that I don't hurt myself, of course. I really need new ski boots. After the pregnancy last year, my feet grew, and my boots no longer fit. Good excuse to buy new stuff, anyway!
And of course we can go skiing and snowboarding. Gotta be careful that I don't hurt myself, of course. I really need new ski boots. After the pregnancy last year, my feet grew, and my boots no longer fit. Good excuse to buy new stuff, anyway!
Sunday, October 02, 2011
Apparently I'm going to have to do something about my blog: recent changes to Blogger have affected the template I've been using. The picture I had as a background to the title of my blog has somehow disappeared. And sadly, I probably don't have the picture available anymore, so I guess I will have to find something else. Oh well.
I'm also needing to do something about myself. We're now into a new month, October, with all the assorted milestone imminently approaching. I will be 37 years old in a few weeks, and my son will turn 1 a few days later. And I am not appreciably lighter nor in any better shape than I was at this point last year, although I was pregnant at the time and am not now. I've basically wasted the whole year "recovering" from pregnancy, with nothing to show for it.
I need to start working out. I'm going to start small; this week I am going to walk or ride my bike to work (except Friday--I have an eye doctor's appointment after school). I'll try walking on Monday. The weather should still be nice (although probably cool in the morning), and I don't have any after-school obligations. Tuesday and Thursday I'll definitely ride my bike; I'm helping sponsor the newspaper, and we meet after school so I'll need to be able to get home more quickly. We'll see about Wednesday; if Monday goes well, maybe I'll walk again.
Let's see if I can get it started.
I'm also needing to do something about myself. We're now into a new month, October, with all the assorted milestone imminently approaching. I will be 37 years old in a few weeks, and my son will turn 1 a few days later. And I am not appreciably lighter nor in any better shape than I was at this point last year, although I was pregnant at the time and am not now. I've basically wasted the whole year "recovering" from pregnancy, with nothing to show for it.
I need to start working out. I'm going to start small; this week I am going to walk or ride my bike to work (except Friday--I have an eye doctor's appointment after school). I'll try walking on Monday. The weather should still be nice (although probably cool in the morning), and I don't have any after-school obligations. Tuesday and Thursday I'll definitely ride my bike; I'm helping sponsor the newspaper, and we meet after school so I'll need to be able to get home more quickly. We'll see about Wednesday; if Monday goes well, maybe I'll walk again.
Let's see if I can get it started.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
I continue to fail. We're four full weeks into the school year, and the best weigh-in I've had yet is 232. I have not ridden my bike or walked to school once, despite living less than a mile away. I don't feel like I'm eating that much (I generally have a Healthy Choice meal of 350 calories or less for lunch, and maybe an apple and a handful of nuts or a granola bar as a snack at work; I only have instant cappuccino for breakfast, and I have nothing too impressive or unusual for dinner). I guess I'm still taking in more calories than I should, but it doesn't seem like it. Guess I need to scale back.
And I am going to force myself, starting on Monday, to walk or ride my bike at least a few days a week. Some days I may have something after school (I work with the newspaper kids on Tuesdays and Thursdays), or I may have to run to the store or the ATM, and that tends to be why I have been driving. I need to get stuff like that done on weekends so I have my afternoons open.
Here goes nothing...well, I guess nothing is what I've already been doing, so hopefully here goes something...
And I am going to force myself, starting on Monday, to walk or ride my bike at least a few days a week. Some days I may have something after school (I work with the newspaper kids on Tuesdays and Thursdays), or I may have to run to the store or the ATM, and that tends to be why I have been driving. I need to get stuff like that done on weekends so I have my afternoons open.
Here goes nothing...well, I guess nothing is what I've already been doing, so hopefully here goes something...
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
I must admit to being somewhat disillusioned with my job right now. While I am really glad to be back in the classroom full time, I can't help but long for the "good old days" at my old school. I was pretty spoiled and sheltered by the all-female, generally upper-middle-class students and their higher achievement abilities. I just don't know that I'm cut out for public school. The kids are much less inclined to put much effort into anything; they'd rather do the minimum available. While my previous students clamored for extra credit assignments, these kids are hardly interested in completing the assignments they are required to do. I've got several students who occasionally miss class to meet with probation officers, I've got one who is a runaway and hasn't been to school since the fourth day of the school year, and I've got one who is in some program that entails his missing my class (I'm guessing it is drug or behavior-related, but I don't know for sure). I would have expected the counseling center to have given the teachers some kind of update or information on these students, so we are aware of any issues that might affect our classes, but we receive nothing. I'm just used to the higher level of communication I seemed to receive from the administration and counselors at my old school. While these kids are nice, I just don't feel like I'm forming the kind of bonds with them that I did with my former students.
I don't know; maybe I'm just being silly. Maybe this is what school is supposed to be like, and my old school was an anomaly. But it was an anomaly that made me comfortable. Maybe that comfort will come with time.
Or maybe I need a day off.
I don't know; maybe I'm just being silly. Maybe this is what school is supposed to be like, and my old school was an anomaly. But it was an anomaly that made me comfortable. Maybe that comfort will come with time.
Or maybe I need a day off.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Quick post (since I'm at work)
Today's weigh-in: 234.0
That means I've lost three pounds since...was it Sunday? Or Monday? Don't remember. I could look, but I'm too lazy.
It's all because I can't snack as often at work. I don't have much food with me, basically one snack (nuts, an apple, a granola bar) and my lunch (an under-300-calorie Healthy Choice dry pasta/rice dealio) and that's it.
Still no exercise yet. Just haven't had a chance to get into the routine. I'm working my way towards getting up before 5--right now my alarm goes off at 5:10. But even getting up that early (I was getting up at 5:30) isn't getting me much of a headstart on my daily routine. I'm afraid it's going to end up being 4:30 in order to get a work out in. Urgh.
Today's weigh-in: 234.0
That means I've lost three pounds since...was it Sunday? Or Monday? Don't remember. I could look, but I'm too lazy.
It's all because I can't snack as often at work. I don't have much food with me, basically one snack (nuts, an apple, a granola bar) and my lunch (an under-300-calorie Healthy Choice dry pasta/rice dealio) and that's it.
Still no exercise yet. Just haven't had a chance to get into the routine. I'm working my way towards getting up before 5--right now my alarm goes off at 5:10. But even getting up that early (I was getting up at 5:30) isn't getting me much of a headstart on my daily routine. I'm afraid it's going to end up being 4:30 in order to get a work out in. Urgh.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
First day of school: a success.
Weight loss before school started: dismal failure.
Today's weigh-in: 237.0
Starting next week, I will try to work out at least three days a week, before school. I also intend to ride my bike or walk to work most days. Hopefully that will help. Also, once we get into the swing of things, I won't be able to snack much during the school day. Maybe that will improve things as well.
Fingers crossed.
Weight loss before school started: dismal failure.
Today's weigh-in: 237.0
Starting next week, I will try to work out at least three days a week, before school. I also intend to ride my bike or walk to work most days. Hopefully that will help. Also, once we get into the swing of things, I won't be able to snack much during the school day. Maybe that will improve things as well.
Fingers crossed.
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