Weekly Digest - What's a Digest?

-For the first time in my brief teaching career, I am administering a quiz, returning a test, and announcing the next quiz all at once.

-Graduate school beckons. Criminology it is, with a mild possibility for education. UPenn, John Jay, U of Maryland, and Rutgers contend. UC Irvine, SUNY-Albany, and U of Cinci are on the outside looking in. The middle two have a substantial lead over the bookend two based on tuition and quality. The former two have location going for them. Penn would put me near my sister and in Philly. John Jay would leave me living a different life in this same great city near people I love and care about.

-I have been relegated to being excited about wild card movies like Cirque Du Freak: The Vampire's Assistant, Astro Boy, and Antichrist. These movies are exciting in that I will definitely either be glad I paid to watch them having known little to nothing about them, or I'll be really disappointed that movies still suck. Where's Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes when you need it?

-This is that stretch run to Thanksgiving. Several relentless, full weeks until that one two-day week that buffers us from the anticipation of Winter Break. In the end, what will have been best about returning to school as an adult are the kids and the breaks. Not the homework, not the stress, not the specific-college aspirations, not even my wonderful colleagues. Kids, and breaks.

-I am playing in the Alumni Soccer game tomorrow at our school's Homecoming. I'm getting my kids riled up about that. With the imminence of allegedly heavy rains tomorrow, the alumni game may very well be a 5 on 5 affair. I possess no soccer fundamentals and am hoping only to rely on the experience of the dozen or so pick-up games that I played this summer.

-Bear Mountain on Sunday, or perhaps elsewhere, for a long overdue hike for a wonderful day with a beautiful woman. Let's hope the day is up to snuff.

French Moments of Young American Brilliance

In the midst of discussing La Martinique in French class this morning, we came across the expression "la mer Caraïbe." "What do you think 'la mer' means?" I asked my seventeen nascent Francophones. Guesses galore until I shared a hint that had just dawned on me, "Think 'mer-maid.'" One student finally got it, "The sea!"

"'La mer' is not to be confused with 'la mère'," I added, referring to a word I had already taught them. "What does 'la mère' mean?" I got all sorts of guesses: boat! sea! rabbit! I then offered a hint, "Without her, none of you would be alive." One boy, a budding conservative, earnestly responded, "God! Mary!" In amused awe, I ended it, "It means mother." The boy seemed embarrassed. I told him, "I appreciate the way you think."

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"You don't have to add an article when speaking about what you do for a living (financial or intellectual, in the of studentship). For example, 'Je suis prof' is what I would say when talking about being a teacher. For emphasis, I could say, in case you guys act out, which, of course, you never would, 'Je suis LE prof.'" One boy, something of a wild card says, "Yea, about that..."

A split second later, intrigued, I said, "M, you didn't finish your sentence." He perked up, "I don't think you would want me to." Finding myself oddly relaxed in the face of my first veritable, direct challenge from a student in four years as an educator, without skipping a beat, I proffered, "Make a choice." He sat back in his chair and slumped in that way I often ask him to refrain from doing; this time, I was relieved to see him slump as a manifestation of a choice well-made. Someday, I'll commend M for that mutual learning opportunity. Kids have a knack for dispelling tension that may or may not exist, so, another boy asked, "How do you say 'choice' in French?"

Choix.

Not Just a Game

I called my father well past an ungodly waking hour to revel with him in the Yankees' victory in game 2 of the American League Division Series. He answered the phone groggily and let me know, without so much as a gripe, that he had gone to bed. It didn't matter.
He seemed quietly content to have received more calls in one day from his son than he had during the entire rest of the month of October. The Yankees had taken a two to nil lead in the semi-finals of Major League Baseball's tournament and seemed destined for the World Series for the first time in, well, forever, and definitely since he and I were as purely father and son as one can fathom. There I was, sitting in a bar, with my brother-from-another-mother, having shared hugs and high-fives with one another and with strangers, thinking mostly about how joyful it once was to share our team's success with my father, and how that opportunity went away for several years for more reasons than the Yankees' lack of success. There I was enjoying the present moment at Lion's Head Tavern as much as looking forward to sharing the victory (victories) with my father at the very least via telephone. Here I am writing about it because it matters to me still that we retain this seemingly superficial bond, that of our team, one of few elements in this world that unite that old man from a tropical island and this boy from much farther north.

Yin and Yang

"Mr. L, how do you want us to not see tests as a big deal when my mom is going to kill me if I don't do well?" - A girl's response to my asking the students to relax now that the test was over. Then a brief pep talk about the literal/figurative meanings of "to kill," my role as her teacher, and my desire only to see her try her best

"Mr. L, you're really good at cheering people up after a test." - From the smiling rendition of the rare face that I can look down at, after the same Spanish test and the subsequent news that I would drop their two weakest sections and double their two strongest

Those Two Days Not of the Week

The problem with the weekend is that it's so much just an end to the week as it is a pair of days, or two days and one half for those half-full folks, to define for yourself. The weekend arrives and immediately the week begins. Cheekily, as an older man, I spend much of Friday evening unwinding, relaxing, and contemplating how to best approach that thing I have needed for so long and whose adequate acquisition ("adequisition"?) has eluded me, that thing we call "rest." (As it turns out, rest can be found neither at a restroom, with its cacophonous funk and shoddy decor, nor at a rest stop and its fast food restaurants, souvenirs, and other trinkets to look at and not purchase.)

Saturday arrives and all I want to do, naturally, is sleep in. I like to think of it as "sleeping off" the monkey on my back, or elephant, or boa, depending on the onerousness of the week. I usually fall asleep on Friday with little to no idea how Saturday will play out. Planning would help, but that would require planning to plan, which is just too much already. My weekly challenge is to wake up on Saturday as if I were waking up for a school day, which I already execute poorly 85% of the time, hitting the snooze button thrice before finally cartwheeling out of bed and into my hamper. Saturday invariably features a wrestling bout with sleep which I lose until noon, after which I wake up and lament the loss of most of my day. This usually begins with a mental "Shit...". Saturday also stars that tri-demon which reminds me I should do work today, because then I wouldn't have to do it tomorrow, but, wait, I should have done it yesterday, which would have been great, but I could get away with doing it tomorrow, Sunday, plus, wouldn't that be the perfect start to my wee? Warming up with Sunday evening work? That's always where the coin lands. Late night, Sunday Night Football distracting me from my work, but I work nevertheless. It's decided. Tonight, I go out...

...Or stay home and watch all the TV I missed during the week. Put in a few phone calls to friends and family whom I now remember almost vaguely. Work sucks not only the life out of me but my recollection of loved ones as well.

Going out on Saturdays often means I get home really, really late. The A train acts up late at night on Saturdays, and I live on the other end of Manhattan.

Sunday is when I pay for staying out and/or up late on Saturday. Sunday, so promising, a holy day, and there I am sitting in close to nothing, wondering where all that sweet free time went and why weekends are no longer as satisfying as they used to be. Is this what it means to be an adult? Is it our fault for choosing to list Sunday as the first day of the week? Would it be any different if we took the European approach and started our week on Monday? Why am I sitting here lamenting the weekend rather than thinking about starting to do that work I should have done on Friday, could have done yesterday, and will not do until too late today...

Football. Contemplation. Life. All of it gets in the way of life.

Here comes the breakthrough. Next weekend, we'll do it again?

C'Era Una Volta

-I'm really looking forward to listening to today's "Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me".

-My sister returns to New York next weekend for the second time since moving away to college, this time to take her road test on which I wish her luck.

-I couldn't get through Lush Life by Richard Price without stopping, so I've decided to eschew it for Philip Roth's American Pastoral for now.

-It has been very special, comforting, and at least somewhat altering to spend the week with my mother while the Italians stay in my apartment. I have not had such a consistently great, adult experience with her since, well, I was a kid. We've walked to the subway together in the morning, she has prepared me dinner without hesitation, and, this morning, earnestly (sans being overbearing) offered me a cup of coffee which I will enjoy all the more because of that proverbial love she put into this one. My Italians depart this evening, and I return to my apartment tonight, but a piece of my heart has once again set up camp near and with my mother.

-The Italians. They love shopping. I love having them here as exhausting as it has been. I spent four days with them during their eight day stay, and, well, we're all tired. I spent my final evening with them last night and can sum up our week together as follows: tardiness, shopping, love, diarrhea, "stanchezza," steak, shopping, theft, lost luggage, jinx moments, translation, gratitude, shopping, walking, late nights, shopping, graciousness, invitations, re-invitations, one person's priceless reactions, shopping, photography, the Brooklyn Bridge, local irrational anger, Max Brenner, and chili bulbs over Indian food. I know I'm forgetting some things, but I'm looking forward to adding to the list (or starting a new one) when they return or when I take them up on one of two dozen invitations and return to Italy come spring or summer.

-School:

...In four weeks of school this year I have fielded 6th grade tears of social and academic frustration more times than I had in my two previous years combined.

...I am getting better at being an adviser, a mentor, an educator, a coach, and a colleague, but my teaching has stalled somewhat.

...We had our annual evening this week where parents arrive and meet us in the context of 15-minute presentations, of which I led 5 to a room full of adults who have entrusted their children to us. To me. Each presentation was better than the last, and, as happens every year, I both enjoyed it and learned something about myself. "I'm here for your children beyond the walls of this classroom," I told them. "They can and should count on me if they have any questions about Spanish/French, or if they just want to practice. Moreover, please encourage them to come to me if they would just like to take a break from the day and chat about anything. I am available to them all day minus the one period I take for lunch." That last suggestion is a bit tricky; it seems necessary to be wary of telling parents you want their kids to come to you to talk about all of their problems (at home or otherwise). That said, it's my strongest and favorite facet of what I do for a living. I would love being a Dean of Students, but only if I didn't know any better. Teaching is integral to advising/mentoring. What I realized: I'm dead serious about my caring for and about their children.

...I paused in each of my classes this week while going over formal and familiar greetings in Spanish and French and shared with my students and anecdote from my college years. My Italian professor sophomore year very eloquently cited the one major difference he has noticed between Italian culture and American culture, "In Italy, when people ask how you are doing, you are expected, encouraged, and allowed to share with sincerely. Here, in America, people seem to want neither more nor less than 'fine.'" At least three students that perked up at my anecdote feeling something akin to marvel at realizing how true this has been in their lives. I said to them, "I fall into the normal American way as well; it's easy to. But know this. For the rest of the year, when I ask you how you are doing, in whatever language, I expect and want an honest answer. So please feel free to share." A handful of them have already taken me up on it.

...We are due to turn in mid-trimester reports on Wednesday. I have a hunch this year's reports will be unlike those of the past several years for me. This year's passel of over twelve dozen is younger, less mature, more in need of organizational guidance, less attentive, but equally observant, and simply a rowdier, less manageable bunch, but they're also the most charming group (which has nothing to do with the six sets of twins in the grade nor the fact that I taught them briefly as third graders) I've had in my three years. Something is really special about a group when it gets one of the senior faculty members to say to me "I'm getting too fucking old for this" with a dollop of joy.

...We had an assembly yesterday morning with the 6th graders in our large theater in order to practice our fire drill/fire exit procedure. What should have been the intended ten minutes turned into a twenty-minute kid-asco. We laid out the fire exit procedure and were ready to enact it. "Alright, any questions before we begin?" was our dean's lethal mistake. Fifteen hands shot up, the first seven of which produced the most repetitive, least necessary, and funniest series of 11-year old questions, all representing some variation of the same "what-if" fire emergency scenario. Another hand shot up directly in front of me. The dean asked, "E., is this a sensible question?" The boy thought for a second and went for it with a nod and a half-shrug. "Ok," she allowed, wanting nothing more than to just get the kids out and to class for the day. The boy asked, "So, what if that exit, and that one, and that one, and that one are all blocked by fires, what should we do? Should we get a fire extinguisher and..." "No, you're not putting any fires out," she snapped in the most composed way any adult can manage. That was the end of questions for the day. The little me in my head was rolling on the floor laughing all day after that.

-The Italians depart tonight. I return to my apartment thereafter and look forward to spending tomorrow with someone I love Deeply. I am off on Monday for Columbus Day and am devoting that day to the accomplishment of simple work. It's the first real productivity day of the academic year. Hopefully. I am so fond of New York football and my Yankees right now, and am looking forward to what the next five months will bring to this great city in that realm. In dire need of rest, I will spend much of the nooks and crannies of my time sleeping, reading, and writing. Here's a start:

Once upon a time, there was this, here, and now...

The Italian Job, and 24 Hours is an Eternity for Everyone Some Time

I am hungry, surprisingly rested, waiting for the arrival of four Italians, and unable to think about little more than the possible disasters that may arise between the verbs "uscire" (to leave; to go out) and "uccidere" (to cause to exit this Earth; to kill).

I hope to remain rested enough to avoid recommending they kill the city rather than go out on the town; suggesting they kill dance rather than "go out to" it; or wishing them a happy and safe killing rather than a kosher departure.

They are staying in my apartment for eight days in the middle of what may ostensibly be to them a really intimidating 'hood or a wonderful neighborhood. In the meantime, I will bed down elsewhere.

I have not seen two of my Italians since half a decade ago when I lived a wholly other life. The other two, I've never met....

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...or so I thought. They arrived late last night after a long incazzanti adventure with lost luggage. The one they lost? It had their surprise gift for me. I didn't know how to express sympathy and resilience in Italian without seeming like I didn't give a flying fart.

They were tired, nearing 24 hours of consecutive alertness. I was tired as well, the work of molding sixty minds comparable to the formidable nature of jet lag. Communicating was difficuly for various reasons, but I didn't cross up my "go out" and my "kill." A piccola vittoria, which I found myself scrounging for on a rough first night. Today, I may drive them around or break them in with the city subway.

Piu dopo...


-- Jammin' in Motion

Bagel in the Toaster

Yesterday was Flu Shot Day at my school. My colleagues go wild over this and end up lobbying for a higher spot on the list for the doctor's visit. I never get the shot because I neither believe in it nor can disregard my egg allergy (there is an egg derivative in the shot). This particular Flu Shot day got me thinking...

I ran into a colleague who had wanted to get her flu shot but was turned away by the doctor. I asked her why, and she said, "Estoy esperando." "Esperar" is the Spanish verb for "to wait," "to hope," or "to expect." I instantly figured she meant she would rather not wait in line and would prefer to wait for a later day. Or that her number simply had not yet been called, hence the waiting. But I asked, "¿Esperando qué?" "Waiting for what?" She looked at me like I'm about as dense as I am, and said, "Estoy embarazada." She's pregnant. Why didn't she just say that at the outset? It would have been more preg-matic. (Tee hee.)

Women seem to tend to say they're "expecting" when they are really just "pregnant." Is it a faux pas to let people know you're filled to the brim with baby? Is it a matter of the kind of superstition born from the concern over the process and outcome of pregnancy? Are they actually just cutting themselves off and meaning to say "I'm expecting to have my life wonderfully altered by the arrival of my child"? To expect, in English, is the bland result of a foreseen outcome, while in Spanish, "esperar" carries with it the triple connotations of expectation, patience, and, above all, hope.

In conclusion to this faux essay, women should either be "pregnant" or "esperando."

In other news, our school's been struck with a preg-demic; several colleagues of mine are expecting.

A Day in the Life

I walked to the cafeteria, the veritable heart and soul of our school, and ran into many students: high school, middle school, current, former. I complimented one senior on an intense, borderline illegal attack on a ball during his soccer game last week. I knew he was #15, but never caught his name. When he sprinted towards the ball, reached it, and, with just an arm, nearly bowled his opponent over, I knew I would commend this kid for playing with the heart often mistaken for brazenness. "You're #15, right?" I said to him, to which he responded in a slightly guarded manner. "Come here," I channeled my inner Thelma, "that play you made, on the ball the other day, it didn't seem like much, you nearly knocked the guy over, but one thing was made clear to me by that split-second: you want to win." He smiled and thanked me.

Walking away, I noticed in the eyes of another senior that je-ne-sais-quoi that tells you a young man is up to bad. Holding a bag of chips in one hand, he eyed the line and seemed to make a decision he might regret if caught. I tailed him for three seconds to make sure, and, sure enough, he was on his way out of the entrance with a bag of chips. I called his last name. "Oh, hey, Mr. L," on the sly. "Did you pay for that bag of chips?" I probed. "Yea, ask Ruthie," he responded with as tame a hint of defensive as he could muster. Why would I think he is doing such a thing? "Ok," I took up his offer. As we walked toward the register, he confessed, "Ok, Mr. L, I didn't pay for it, but I have class." "Alright, guy, you either leave the chips and go to class or you wait in line and pay for them." He chose the latter, something about his choice revealing what dormant honor there lies in him: eschew the chips and escape this situation speedily, or face the discomfort of falling in with rule-abiding students under the gaze of watchful educators, especially difficult after being caught. I hope he thinks about this, if not me, next time he considers stealing a bag of chips. Teaching opportunities take two.

On my way back from my small-time bust, I was approached by a grade dean who wanted to speak with me and one of my students, a boy whose name is the Anglicized version of my own which I have hispanified my Spanish class. I loved irony of standing there with my present-day counterpart each of us sporting a hand on opposite shoulders from a woman who was my 8th-grade dean and is now his. As we walked away, I shared my thought with him, and he grinned the grin of a boy who has no idea how little he knows about what the future holds.

Reaching my office at the end of this series of quotidian events, I was met with a now-familiar chorus of girls asking me if I remember their names from when I taught them once a week three years ago. "Of course, I remember you," I tell them, because I have a hard time forgetting a face, and confess the few instances where I don't recall their names.

These are the enjoyable moments of my teaching day. The ones in class are on the rise again after a relatively rough start to the year.

I hope all is well out there.

2009

...has been a great year. Wow.

La Vieillarde

Her soul is too crushed for her to realize it is not. At all. She treads in color and sex, having forgotten long ago to love and started to doubt the existence of love. Just beneath the surface for herself, but, deep down, she doubted the possibility of love in the lives of others as well.

She greets a greeting with the strain of a smile, a wordless one. Perhaps she imagines we ask after her out of courtesy; perhaps she ceased to care to discern between those who only talk the talk and those who care the care.

She elicits anger and forgetfulness from most in spite of a troubled past, illness, betrayal. Perhaps "because of." This erstwhile warrior sage queen who taught others to read a word or series of them for what it is has gone from instructor of life to a shadow of fire, the lingering ashes graying her hair, clouding her eyes, obstructing what flowed from a heart. What can. What may never again. Not for hers formerly.

can I be your friend?

I just had the first middle school student send me a message on Facebook...

Subject: can I be your friend?

"Hi."



My answer? Maybe when you graduate. If.