Education Reform

This whole blog was intended to be about changes. At the start of it, I had no idea that even the changes I planned to make would change.

I've long been planning to enroll in graduate school to earn an MFA in Creative Writing. I love writing (though I don't do it nearly as often as I should).
But somehow, the application deadlines came and went. I did not apply. Primarily because there's always been this nagging doubt in a small, quiet corner of my mind. Also because, quite frankly, I didn't have the money.

As fate would have it, doors have begun swinging open in other areas. A growing part of my role at YES has been to support/mentor other teachers. It is something that comes naturally.

• I run into a teacher in the lounge.
• He/she mentions some issue in his/her classroom.
• Ideas pop into my mind about what could be done.
• I offer the suggestions (or other resources).
• I follow up with them later.
• I get a HUGE burst of satisfaction when the situation improves.
  

Now, there's a strong possibility that I could be eligible for a more formal position which would allow me to do just that!

I'm passionate about education. The "system", for reasons innumerable, is in desperate need of reform. Only recently have I begun to realize that I could have a much greater influence in the world of public education than what I've been able to make in my classroom...even in the classrooms of fellow teachers.

So now, I'm reforming my education plans. A Master's degree in Education - Curriculum and Instruction is beginning to make more sense. There are a couple of institutions that offer flexible programs for working individuals.
After that, I could pursue an Ed.D. in Educational Leadership and Policy.
Always a planner, I find myself thrilled by the feasibility...the almost tangible possibility of such a 5-6 year plan.

I have goosebumps right now.

Now, to get the ball rolling. Where do I begin?

Fringes

It is February (darn near the end of it actually) and I haven't written anything in over a month. How dare I call myself a writer!

The truth is, more has been going on with me than I even care to write about. I'm afraid that if I start, I'll never stop. I'm afraid that, if I write, I'll feel guilty because I should have been doing something else...like everything else on my to-do list.

Life is like this. A delicate negotiation (I heard this in a movie once...Dog Problem...Giovanni Ribisi). Right now, I feel as if I am precariously teetering on the fringes of sanity. Writing might tip me over the edge.
And it's not the process itself that I fear. It's the content.
Pardon me while I dance ever so lightly around the issues.

My daughter is going through a phase (I hope). Overly talkative and disruptive at school. Unusually clingy at home. Did I do something wrong? Am I an insensitive mother because all I really want, at the end of a long day at work, is an hour of solitude?

If I want a real chance at promotion next year, I must prove myself at work. This means getting more done in a day than I ever have before. But what about the balance I was aiming for? Why are my achievements never enough for them...or me?

My mother vehemently disapproves of my relationship. There is no compromise to be had here. It's either her or him. And I'm not sure I can live without either one.

As for him, well...change is in the air. I thought I wanted it. We're seriously talking about moving forward...moving in. But I never expected it to happen this way. Should we do it for LOVE or LOGIC? I used to vote for logic...the better choice. But now I want love. Can I switch parties on inauguration day?

There it is, in a wildly-spinning nutshell. I'm just hanging on for the ride. When the dust settles, we'll all see who wins.

Clari-Tea

Right now, I'm supposed to be grading. [This statement is likely to be true no matter what time you find yourself reading this post]

But, finally, after 4 years of teaching, I'm learning how to set time aside for myself. It has taken numerous breakdowns (and near breakdowns) to reach this point.

Instead of grading, I'm sipping a cup of tea, preparing to sit down for 30 minutes of reading before bed. This is part of my Balanced Life '09 plan. It's not part of a New Year's Resolution List (bound to be broken anyway), but rather 1 of 4 "boundaries" I've given myself.
They are as follows:

• Maximize every moment at work
• No more than 2 hours spent on work after school
• Read for 30 minutes every night
• In bed by 10:30 pm

I know. It sounds like these things should go without saying, but I need them.
I'm a person of absolutes. I've always had difficulty with ambiguous declarations like "cut back on..." or "do more...". Exactly how much is more? What does a little less mean?

When I was pregnant with Leila, the doctor said I shouldn't have too much caffeine. Not sure what "too much" was, I stopped drinking anything caffeinated. Done.

My return to caffeine has been gradual and closely monitored (tonight's tea is herbal). Perhaps I'll slip gradually back into workaholism one day. One day in the distant future. But for right now, I just want to enjoy my tea.

Living To Tell The Story

My life the ultimate tragicomedy. A frustration-enlightenment-apocalypse-adrenaline-procrastination soup.
A life perfect for writing about, but occasionally hard as hell to live. All of this because Murphy's Law (or Fate) finds its primary target in me.
That's why I'm sitting on a bench in front of Walmart; 0ne eye on the parade of circus folk who make up 99% of the population of Livingston, Texas...one eye on the "baskart" holding the contents of my car (a red suitcase, laptop bag, Ralph Lauren, Levi & Sephora shopping bags, a few library books, and a hooded hair dryer). I'm sitting here now, waiting, because at 4:00 pm on December 27, 2008, I did not die.

At 3:59 pm, I was cruising along US Hwy 59 headed south to Houston after a week-long absence...to my messy house, to my daughter's presumably underfed cat, Bastet, to my absent-minded boyfriend (thus the starving cat).
In some gap between time and space, in a place not governed by man, Fate appeared. Having already carefully laid an invisible sheet of water on the road, she lifted her arms to orchestrate the uncontrollable.
My car became her instrument.
I became the audience.
The tires slid across the water, turning sharply to the right, then the left.
The steering wheel jerked out of my hands. There was spinning, and squealing, and spinning. Spinning across lanes into the grassy median, backwards, then around, into a small but sturdy tree. Finally, as if perfectly timed, the song ended. The nose of the car jutting perilously into oncoming traffic.
Fate or God or I guided the car backwards then parallel to the road, safely in the grass.
Then I breathed...only because I was not dead...and somehow, my brain did not need my consciousness to do this.
I watched an unbidden instant replay and registered what had just happened.
My life had not flashed before my eyes. Only fear. A being-pushed-out-of-a-plane, gun-barrel-to-the-back-of-your-head type fear...and random regret. For a moment I turned the regret over in my mind. Not sure what to be sorry about, I gave up and turned off the engine.
The car, covered with patches of wet sod, sent whispy white smoke signals from the hood to the sky.
What followed was a drama of choking-sob phone calls, starring chipper insurance agents, dip-chewing city cops, a haggard old tow-truck driver (who looked eerily like the Gordon fisherman), and a hearing-impaired Walmart security guard. It was like a rainy day musical, sans music... and choreographed dancing. I watched.
My car will go to Kenneth's Complete Car Care of Kingwood. I will go home. Enterprise will pick me up...Monday.
All because I did not die.

I've gone through a range of emotions so far. Fear, Confusion, Helplessness, Anger, Depression and finally, Gratitude.
One day, this will make a great book.

You may want to reserve your copy today. Donations welcome.

Breathe Again

It has been too long since I last wrote. I have no real excuse, other than the fact that I've been inordinately busy.
Two days after Thanksgiving, Leila came down with a fever, swollen glands and sore throat that lasted, unabated, for 4 consecutive days. I took her to the doctor who diagnosed her with "the strep test was negative but we'll send her swab off for further testing, meanwhile give her antibiotics."
The antibiotic, expensive as it was, did nothing to lessen the symptoms. I called back. The doctor amended her previous diagnosis to "it must be viral".
Fast forward 3 weeks...Leila STILL has a nasty cough and nasal congestion.
She's tired of it, and so am I.

The last few weeks have been spent trying to teach the freshmen how to use figurative language to express themselves, more specifically, to describe who they are. The culminating event was a poetry night. I dashed between meetings, classes, rehearsals, Big Lots and local dollar stores in a desperate attempt to get everything ready for big night.
It was definitely worth it. The students' performances were amazing.
That night, I was proud to be a teacher. I was proud to be THEIR teacher. Whether or not I continue teaching in the same capacity, I know that giving people an opportunity to find and express their purpose is MY purpose.
This I must do.

Now that the holiday break has finally arrived, I can finally relax. Let the pressure of classes, planning and special programs slide off of my shoulders. I feel the fingers of overcommitment release their vice-grip on my throat.
I need this break. Leila does too.
Can't wait to breathe again.

The day the dam broke

For a number of reasons, the last few months have been quite difficult financially. So far, I've been able to put on a brave face to the world...juggling bills and paychecks...eliminating luxuries like pedicures and hair appointments. But today, the levees broke.
A quick check of the bank account before making my pre-Thanksgiving visit to Kroger brought me to tears. The money I thought was there...was not. Two unexpected debits from my account had sent things spiraling.

Before I could stop it, several months of pent up emotions crashed through my carefully constructed walls. I was crying. Choking, sniffing, wailing tears. The more I tried to stop, the harder I cried.
Even now, my soul feels so heavy. Weary.
I'm not just another struggling single mom. I refuse to be that. Why does it seem that the cosmos is so set against me?
Finally, the sobs have subsided. I am spent. But there is no time for self-pity.
I've already broken out the calculator, made a few phone calls, transferred funds.
Leila will still get her glasses today.
I will still bring a dish to Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow.
I will smile.
I'll keep right on living.

Seasons Sequesterings

This, after all, was the month in which families began tightening and closing and sealing; from Thanksgiving to the New Year, everybody's world contracted, day by day, into the microcosmic single festive household, each with its own rituals and obsessions, rules and dreams. You didn't feel you could call people. They didn't feel they could phone you. How does one cry for help from these seasonal prisons? - On Beauty- Zadie Smith

'Tis the season. Right? That must be why the only recent calls on my cell phone are to/from my mom or bf. Conversations with both consisting almost entirely of inconsequential details or random reminders.

Mom: Can you believe they're having the wedding shower in Sherwood? The wedding invitation didn't even have her parents' names on it!

Me: Sherwood's right across the river Mom.

Mom: It said something like ___ and ___ request the honor of your presence at the wedding of their children. Her parents' name nowhere to be found. What kinda stuff is that?

Me: (melodramatically) Oh my God! How dare they! Surely they don't expect you to GO!

Mom: Stop it....so disrespectful! You do your best to raise decent children and this is what you get. What did I do wrong?

And so goes my holiday. At the start of it we all wish each other well, and scatter like so many billiard balls. Impenetrable holiday walls rise up around families. The season demands we spend quality time with people we suddenly (annually) realize that we barely know....are tired of... or can't stand.

The characters of my "normal" life have all exited stage left, each to his own family gatherings. Who can I call? Who can I text? Who's probably not doing anything?
I'm left standing alone...early-bird sale commercials blaring in the background. Is this the break I had longed for?
I think. Yes.

Leila and I sit on the couch, stealing glances at each other, thankful that it's just us. Without the pile of grading between us, I notice for the first time that she sighs deeply, at random, just like I do.
How could I have missed this?
And then I understand the reason for the season (other than baby Jesus, boosting the economy, an old fat man's improbable mission, or eating). Americans live too fast.
If we weren't made to stop, hole up for a few days, we probably would be too busy living to see who we're really living for (besides ourselves).
Be thankful.