Toby, unlike Molly, is a rather enigmatic fellow. While Molly is very clear in her demands (pick me up, play with me, pet me, love me, NOW!), I feel like we misinterpret Toby. So here’s your challenge, if you choose to accept it: What’s he thinking?
Put your suggestions in the comment box to be eligible for the ultimate Readncook-Round-Of-Applause Award, so don’t miss out! : )
I have a pretty good facade as an English teacher– sometimes too good. It makes people act, or feel like they have to act, on their best behavior. To compound this issue, I am hard of hearing, so I watch everyone, too. Everyone, I think, can feel my eyes on them as I seemingly wait for them to slip: to not say please or thank you, to swear (Oh, my virgin ears!), or to say something uncouth. No group has been more obedient to me as my second period class; they have been so obedient that they haven’t even talked. My goal since January has been to get them to develop some kind of personality and to have the girl in the back stop rolling her eyes at me. They have been recently coming out of their shell by whispering during the school announcements. However, last week we had an incident that burst the dam and let out a flood of talking. What happened? I read them the first chapter of To Kill A Mockingbird.
If you’re not familiar with the first chapter (well, then, shame on you!), it includes such incendiary words such as “jackass” and “son-of-a-bitch”, both of which I said out loud. No one made a sound when I said jackass, but then they erupted into giggles when I said son-of-a-bitch. I paused the reading, perplexed, “Now why did you laugh at that, but not at jackass?” Apparently, s.o.b. is worse, and it’s funny when I say it. I leveled my gaze at them, “Don’t you think I know these words and say them everyday?”. They gasped and exclaimed, “You do?!” I then told them about teaching English AP and using Anne Lamott’s chapter from her excellent book Bird by Bird titled “Sh*ttty First Drafts” to explain the writing process. They were speechless. “And guess what we all said that day in class? Yep, you’re right, sh*t.” They laughed appreciatively and I could feel my ranking on the “cool”-o-meter raise from the basement to the first floor (but not quite to the mezzanine).
Since then three things have happened: one, I continued my policy of not swearing in class (and they know I won’t stand for it if they do it). Second, they have opened up, talked more, joked around with me– once I revealed that I, too, am human, they became more human. Third, the girl in the back has stopped rolling her eyes at me and smiles instead.
My last post was about my stats page addiction and what I could do to get over it. I didn’t expect the higher powers at WordPress to intervene and shut down my blog. It’s a rather unpleasant experience having one’s blog shut down. On my dashboard there was red box stating that my blog had been deactivated because I violated the TOS and advertising policy, and if I was going to continue in such activities, I could take my posts and leave. The likes of me weren’t welcome. It was followed by a line stating that they do occasionally make a mistake.
I racked my brain for what I could have done. I’m not selling anything, making any money, or providing get-rich-quick schemes, and if people want to buy Pride and Prejudice based on my posts, I only benefit by knowing that other people will find enjoyment in the book. (I am an English teacher, so please do not have any notion that that profession is a way to get rich quick. Or at all.) The only thing I could think of was linking a post to Amazon three weeks ago, so my readers could read a review. In the meantime, my blog was branded with the Scarlet Letter, and anyone who looked at it would see that I had violated something. It prompted my mother to email me to ask what happened.
I contacted WP twice, hoping for a speedy recovery. I didn’t want to move my blog or start from scratch; I’ve spent a lot of time developing this one. Fortunately, the powers that be felt my repentance, reviewed my blog, and reactivated it. It was shut down because it was flagged in an anti-spam check. While everything was dealt with promptly, I, and I’m sure all of you, would appreciate it if they reviewed the blogs flagged prior to deactivating them. It may have been routine on their end, but it caused a mini-heart attack on this end.
Anyway, I’m back and am glad to be amongst all of my wonderful bloggers again.
Ever since I’ve started blogging last month, my stats page has been my new BFF. And it’s been a very good BFF. It’s always there when I need it, ready to proffer up the amount of views, gossip about the tags that are most popular, and spy on those from Nepal and the Republic of Georgia who read my blog. My new BFF has made me care about numbers and percentages in a way that I have never cared about before . (Don’t believe me? Ask my high school Algebra II teacher who let me pass the class even though he admitted that I was “terrible, terrible at math”.) My stats page has been generous with its time and views.
But I have to look at myself in mirror and ask “Have I been good to my stats page?” For all its beneficence, I have turned into a needy, clingy, bunny-boiling blogger. I sit at my computer demanding everything and more from my poor, abused BFF. I constantly refresh the page calling out, “I will have new views…. Now! Gosh darn it! Still stuck at 8. Hmmm…. Now!”. My ability to focus is diminishing as I am like the anorexic who repeats everything she has eaten that day, steadily re-calculating the calories and fat grams, “I shouldn’t have eaten that one M&M!”. I believe I see a little orange box in the corner of my Word documents, imaging that someone out there likes the lesson plan I am typing up. I drift somnolently up to the office in a trance to my computer. The boundaries have been obliterated between me and my BFF.
It has to stop. But how? I’ve wandered the aisles of Rite-Aid and Walgreens and they have patches to ease pain, quit smoking and relieve car sickness, but do they have a patch for Stats Page Stalking? Is there a gum? A 12-step program? Do I contact Tony Robbins to get results in not tracking my stats? Do I seek Deepak Chopra’s help in creating a stronger, healthier body, mind, blog connection? Do hypnotists specialize in stats pages or is it just losing weight only? Or do I cut it out cold turkey? But what about my i-Phone? Could I fall off the wagon by checking my WordPress app? Maybe I should drop it in the toilet again– that solved my Words With Friends addiction.
Oh, wait! My box is orange! Gotta go!
Photos via picgifs.com and empowernetwork.com.
At the Punctuation Prom, you know where everyone is making their mark. The favorites, the exclamation points, are boogying down in their excitement on the dance floor; the studious question marks query together around the punch bowl, but the discussion is dominated by the quotation marks; the colon leads the conga line; the apostrophes cling to their partners shooting dirty looks to others that say, “My date belongs to me.”; the commas scheme to bring clauses together; and the dance is chaperoned by the periods: they will be there to the end. But where, oh where, is the semi-colon?
The semi-colon smokes silently behind the gym. Confused and misunderstood, he questions his role in sentences. He wonders if he’s just superfluous and irrelevant; does he have a real purpose? He knows his stated purpose: to join independent clauses and set off elements in a series that use commas. He takes a long drag and slowly expels the smoke. But why can’t others see him, understand him, ACCEPT him for who he is? Why does everyone want him to be something he’s not? Why just yesterday someone used him in a sentence as a colon: “Lydia has three requirements for a husband; good looks, military service, and charm.” What part of semi-colon don’t they get? Why does his sign have to be so confusing? People can never figure out what he signifies. Because if he’s not thought of as a colon, he’s thought of as a comma. For example, the previous sentence would be: “If he’s not thought of as a colon; he’s thought of as a comma.” Don’t people know that semi-colons don’t separate subordinate and independent clauses?
But that’s what really stings, he thinks as he reaches into his jacket for his flask. He takes a swig, reflecting on the fact that those people who think they know him best are the ones who constantly mis-use and abuse him. They, in their arrogance, feel they can place him willy-nilly in sentences; they breezily think, “Oh, a semi-colon will do here.”
Was that special person out there? The one who would really understand him? The one who knew his potential? The one who would see his rhetorical greatness? Someone who would use him the way he wished, no, needed, to be used?
Someone who will use him a sentence connecting two independent clauses? “Jane looks for the best in everyone; Elizabeth judges too quickly.”
Someone who will use him to connect a series? “I have three favorite characters: Mr. Darcy, who strives to win Elizabeth’s heart; Elizabeth, who learns the error of her ways; and Jane, who teaches us all about the virtue of patience.”
Or that very special someone who will use him in elliptical constructions? “In Derbyshire, one can find a good husband; in Meryton, a soldier.”
As the music floats through the air, the semi-colon looks up at the stars, crushes his cigarette into the ground, and walks off alone into the darkness.
Somewhere, I have a student drawing of an aristocratic duck name “Mr. Darcky”. Where did I put him?!
Today in the library I fought the urge to smack one of my boys upside the head. Repeatedly. What was his crime? Criticizing me in front of the class? Nope. Asking a question I already answered multiple times before? Nope. He said, “I don’t know why my girlfriend’s complaining about finding a dress for prom. Just pick out a dress and buy it! What’s the big deal?”
As I restrained my arm, the girls nearby gasped and exclaimed, “You don’t know how it is!” He continued to brush it off until I sided with the girls. I never went to prom, but I do know the horrors of shopping for a dress (it ranks right up there with swimsuit shopping). Since I am a female teacher, and therefore not as silly as teenage girls, I had his full attention; he waited for me to explain why we couldn’t “just buy a dress”. I stopped as I realized that I have my reasons why, but did I really want to share them with him?
Did I really want to divulge the information that many dresses are sculpted for women who have boobs, and that I often compete with my walls for flatness? What would I use all of that extra space for? My coin purse? Kleenex? Socks in case my feet get cold? Did I really want to tell him that dresses are very tall and I am very short? That the straps are long and the top will hang down below what it’s supposed to cover? That dresses look better with cleavage? That a padded bra is ridiculous? (I can just imagine people coming up to me, “Man, those really are not yours! Are you planning on using those as pillows if you want to take a nap?”) That junior’s dresses are too young for my *ahem* mature age? That most of them are strapless, and I had nothing to hold it up? That I shop in the petites department and all of those dresses are staid and conservative? That after trying on a multitude of dresses to take on a trip to Hawaii, I ended up buying a smock at Old Navy? In my most authoritative tone, I said, “Trust me on this. Don’t take dresses lightly. Get back to work.” He shrugged as I moved on.
I moved on to another couple “researching” on the computer. They were supposed to research an event that happened between 1750 and 1850; apparently corsages were big back then. “Um, this isn’t the research I want you to do.” They nodded their heads, and the boy said, “She wants me to get her a corsage, but she wants to make me a boutonniere.” Huh. I looked around to see another one of my students passing out coupons for $30.00 off tuxedos. I heard a girl chiding her classmate who wasn’t going to go to prom, “But you HAVE to go! It’s a big deal!” I intervened to state that I never went; the chider retorted, “Don’t you regret it?!” “Nope. Get back to work.”
Prom is 25 days away. I wondered how many of them will have broken up by then; I wondered if the research paper and Pride and Prejudice could compete (I know the answer to that one, you don’t have to tell me). I didn’t care about it in high school, and I don’t care about it now. I never went, yet somehow I managed to survive, go to college, land a career, and –gasp– get married. But I don’t know how I’m going to survive teaching before prom.
After school book clubs are ideally supposed to be fun. The students kick back and discuss books; the teacher gets to kick back after a day of teaching “Birches”, prepositional phrases, and discussing Pride and Prejudice and, most importantly, doesn’t have to rouse her tired self to teach some more. Today after school I was much more tired than usual, having returned yesterday from a five day trip to SoCal with the health academy students. I know this makes me a bad advisor, but I really wanted today to be a quiet club.
Since my group all reads the same book, but unfortunately not at the same pace, this makes discussion a bit difficult. To bridge this gap and make connections to the novels, I began creating projects that connect to the themes. Today’s dilemma: I hadn’t read our current novel, and therefore, had no project. After listening to their discussion I determined that the theme was change and learned the protagonist has an out-of-body experience. So in my infinite wisdom, I suggested, “How about you all write a poem about change or out of body experiences?”, thinking this will keep them occupied for at least a half an hour.
Immediately I was peppered with questions about the required length, the form, rhyming, use of imagery and figurative language, and what to do if you really suck at writing poetry. Feeling like I was back in my teacher role (the school day’s over, kids!), I explained that they could make it as long as they wanted, use any form they wanted, imagery and figurative language are always good, please don’t rhyme if you hate it, and we’re just writing to express ourselves, so it doesn’t matter if you suck: Just. Write. A. Poem.
My contentious girl, who startled us last week by announcing that she doesn’t really like us, but doesn’t hate us either, asked, “What’s the point of poetry if there’s no rhyme or form?” Of course she would ask this, I thought. The centuries of poetry’s existence have all been rendered moot since poems don’t have to rhyme or have a mandated form. So long, Shakespeare, take your sonnets and shove off. I gave her a pat reply that the point was to convey an idea, emotion, or event as concisely as possible using meaningful words, imagery, figurative language. Fortunately, she accepted that response with a grunt and began to write.
They wrote their poems and my one boy plucked his guitar in the background. Finally they shared. One wrote to her future college about about her ambivalence to the change it would make her face. One wrote about how change and nature can drive people mad, but is ultimately a good thing. One combined the ideas of change and the out of body experience that reflected her growth in life. My contentious one wrote about how we can change who we are on the outside, but we always remain the same inside (in our roles as heartless jerks nonetheless).
Then my quiet one read her poem. I leaned in with interest to hear her; she rarely speaks but smiles benignly during our discussions. She softly read about happy memories and how they sustain her. Halfway through her poem her eyes watered and reddened; a tear slid down her cheek as she let out a sob. We froze in uncertainty, taken off guard by her display of emotion; a couple of girls reached over to give her hugs and I grabbed her a paper towel. She pulled herself together as another girl finished her poem aloud for her. Her happy memories transformed into sad memories with a recent death in her family.
I wanted to revise my answer to Contentious; I wanted to say the point of poetry is to have an outlet for us to express our thoughts, worries, and hopes. It lets us share life’s disappointments and successes. It lets us tell our stories in a personal form, that is our form alone and in a way that is ours alone. It allows us to express our kernels of truth. It gave my quiet one a voice for her sorrow. Of course, by this time the meeting was over and she bounded out of her seat with, “It’s time. I’m leaving.” She marched out without saying goodbye, and left me alone with my thoughts.
Picture via:grizzlymedia.wordpress.com
You know what they say, a day without playing with your diction is, well, a day wasted. To help you meet your daily dose of diction fun, I bring you this exercise from Sage Cohen’s book, Writing The Life Poetic.
Guidelines: Choose one (or two or three) of the following sentences. Fill in the blanks with the most surprising words and phrases you can imagine. If you take delight in your new sentence, please share with others in the comment box.
1. I was afraid to tell you _______________________
2. If only the _________________ would believe _____________________
3. She had always wanted to ___________________ but ____________________
4. Lately, the ________________ was _________________ despite the ________________ it once was.
5. No two __________________ will ever be ____________________
Have fun!
Source: Cohen, Sage. Writing The Life Poetic: An Invitation To Read And Write Poetry. Cincinnatti: Writer’s Digest Books, 2009. Print.
Yesterday my friend got carried away by away by a bird. Never to be seen again. You can only imagine our devastation, and not to mention our surprise. My friend was over six feet tall and no slouch, so it must have been one big-ass eagle that carried him away. Our fearless leader faltered as he failed to bring down the ferocious beast. We had left St. Louis months earlier and it was nearing October; the weather turned frosty and we were plagued by a persistent chill as we made our way out west. I feared our party would go “Donner” on the wintry plains as we only had little sustenance and our meager covered wagon for protection. And we had yet to make it to Independence. Our leader faced near mutiny as one member succumbed to cholera, dysentery, typhoid, and multiple leg fractures; measles brought me down and a snake bite and a broken leg hindered my recovery; and another member broke his arm and was also whisked away to feed baby chicks, but we found him a day later clinging to tree for dear life. Watching our strongest friend be carried away as bird-bait demolished our already fractured morale.
Unlike our avatars traversing the Oregon Trail, the five of us were ensconced in the safety of the hotel lobby, sheltered from the 65 degree Southern California weather with ample lattes and snacks at hand. We were the leaders of 43 students attending a three-day health careers leadership conference. Our charges were busy making last minute preparations and competing in their events, providing support for and attending different workshops, and networking with students from across the state. We were busy… waiting. While we had our own responsibilities (the main being the care and feeding of our teenagers), most of our time was spent holding the fort, getting stuff for them, and monitoring where they were. Instead of falling victim to the ravages of cholera, we cultivated relationships with our iPhones and iPads and blasted snorting green pigs, frustrated friends with words, read blogs, and of course, survived (?) the untamed West.
I realized that all of this answered a question that long festered in my brain: what do adults do? Granted I’ve been one for a while now (it still surprises me– especially when my one gray hair made a friend and is now fostering a clique), but as a kid I always wanted to know what exactly do adults do? How do they spend their time? I thought, this is it, this is what we (granted we’re teachers, a specific, if slightly insane, breed of adult) do: we wait around and kill time. But this moment of being in the hotel lobby represents more than this. It is the culmination of a year of helping our students prepare for their events by staying after-school, helping them work through their processes and problems, and being lead by our real-life leader who worked tirelessly to make all of this happen. It is more than battling typhoid, cholera, and human-eating birds; it is being there for our students and preparing them for their own journeys across their wild, uncharted terrain to adulthood.
Bookin' It 