And a Struggle Never Wins

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100 days, administration, bully, feminist, Jackson Browne, Merle Haggard, middle school, power struggle, special education, Stevie Wonder, teaching, The Grateful Dead, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, tug of war, women's march

I woke up early this morning thinking about Tug of War. Yes, the game with two teams of people, sometimes person against person, where the objective is to pull the rope from a ribboned center to a team’s specific side. Then you win.

Tug of War is interesting. Perhaps you sign up for it on Field Day, or it’s the way to award a winner, like arm wrestling. Fairly barbaric and out of date, I presume. I’ve seen it in movies done on a muddy field, which with deep consideration, feels pretty dirty. No pun intended.

Now, I am one to always take on a challenge–any challenge–and meet it face on. I’m not

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Open Your Big Eyes, Take in the Sunrise

When I was a little girl, maybe 6…7, we would have Sunday night dinner at my Gram’s house. We would drive home at the end of the night, 2/5 of the car asleep, and we would suddenly fall above something I used to call Fairyland. Not sure if my parents or I coined the term, but it was at the top of the hill, where all the lights of Almaden would shine, and it was Fairyland. It was my favorite thing. I was reminded of it when I landed at SFO last week: Magic.

You see, lately, I feel very small. Not like I’m minuscule, or powerless, but as I’m always reminded, I’m just a piece in the puzzle we call life–a contributor.

I had several ups and downs this summer, from moments of helplessness, to feelings of being on top of the world. And I’m so happy to have experienced them both, along with the nuances in between.

It makes me human.

I’ve been thinking a lot about being human lately. Feeling very small. Friends have had babies, friends have dealt with loss. I was on a boat in the Chicago River in July with my mom, looking up at the great American Skyscraper, and I felt tiny. I was pulled inside the circus tent I bought my 2 year-old Goddaughter last week, and once again felt like a child. This summer, I experienced water balloons with 5-year-olds, a car break-in, and weeping like a child at the news that one of my students was finally in remission. I felt very small.

But not in a bad way.

When I was 22, wet behind the ears, fresh from college, I set out one morning to Clement street, a few blocks from where I lived, following rumors that I would run into Robin Williams, a “neighbor”. I was selling books back to Green Apple, one of the finest independent bookstores, which have always been close to my heart.

Half of the Time We’re Gone, but we Don’t Know Where

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15, end of the year, mean girls, teaching

When I was 15, I experienced Mean Girls. Ok, we know that’s not true–I definitely experienced Mean Girls way before I was 15, but they didn’t associate with me. They were usually the cool kids, and I wasn’t. But when I was 15, that changed. My circle of friends branched off, and the newly cooler half tormented the rest of us. Maybe they didn’t, maybe that’s just how it felt.

The closest thing I have felt to that since was a few years ago, when a grown up Mean Girl, a co-worker, belittled me frequently, often in front of her students. Behind closed doors, she told me that the reason my students (who were one of those groups that simply complained about everything, and never turned in any work) didn’t turn things in was because of me–that I was a bad teacher. I was back to 15 years old again, when someone–my peer, made me feel inferior. And I was so overwhelmed, and stressed, and baffled that I began to believe it. 

Roll, Muddy River, Roll Muddy River, Black Muddy River, Roll

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analogies, Autism Spectrum, harried, I love my job, muscle fatigue, new experiences, new job, postaday, special education, teaching, The Grateful Dead

Let’s say I was a marathon runner. We’re playing hypothetically, just so you know. I don’t run. So let’s say suddenly, I decided to quit training for my marathons and become a rower. Although I am an athlete and I am very strong (we’re still in the hypothetical), my arms aren’t used to the muscle strain. Suddenly, I experience muscle fatigue unlike anything else, but it’s a familiar feeling that I recognize and welcome. This is how I describe my new role as a special education teacher. I don’t have the muscle memory, but I know that the old adage no pain, no gain rings true.

This might be a ridiculous analogy for some, but after 12 years of teaching English, I am using a very new set of muscles. I’m a little sore, and my reflexes are slowly returning to those when I taught English, but IT’S DIFFERENT. I wish I could explain it better.

I’ve been asked to dive head-first into a pool of unknowing, blindfolded. And here’s the kicker: there are butterflies, but I am not afraid to let my feet leave the diving board.

When I began teaching in 2001, I had left finance and found myself in the unchartered waters of teaching. Talk about a fish out of water. I was told by the very wise Victor:  go with the flow, ask when unsure, voice concern and frustration before you really feel this way.

I hold on to these sage florets of advice.

So the past five days have been trial and error. There are so many variables outside my control, and thank God I realize this. I haven’t even given these variables a second thought. My students run the gamut of Cancer support, Autism Spectrum Disorders, your classic “learning disabilities” like dyslexia and spacial issues, if those are considered classic. And then there are those that fall into no category, something that more and more teachers, both mainstream and special ed are experiencing. It’s not cut and dry (although, let’s be honest. No PERSON is cut and dry).

Today I had an out-of-body experience. I asked a student to step outside to congratulate him for an amazing goal he reached yesterday in another class. He was still focused on a negative situation from earlier in the day, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I said, “We need to put that thought into a box temporarily, and take a look at the thought I am handing to you right now”. Oddly, I remember using the analogy of a box for thoughts with one of my kids over a decade ago in Connecticut. It came naturally. And today, when I pulled it out of nowhere, it worked.

After a harried day of no preps, teaching through lunch, meetings before and after school, and putting out fires every class period with a very struggling student, it hit me. I know more than I think I do. Like riding a bike, I remember how to do things.

This realization kept me going all day, even past my grad school classes that finished after 9pm tonight.

Yeah, keep rolling, muddy river. I got you.

It’s going to be a mostly bumpy ride, but thank God I love roller coasters. And that I LOVE my job.

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Is She Really Going Out With Him–Joe Jackson

We Can Touch the Stars–The Jayhawks

Misty Mountain Hop–Led Zeppelin

Black Muddy River–The Grateful Dead

Freedom–Blues Traveler

The Boat That I Row–Neil Diamond

A Candle to Carry Us

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family, realizations, shooting stars, The Decemberists, transitions in life

There are certain things a person misses being away from home. The greyed chocolate lab walking with his sad owner. John, the corner store guy, asking me to marry him for the fortieth time. A new shop going in, and a favorite gone. The adage of there’s nothing like home always seems to ring true.

I’ve come home to wilted plants, copious stacks of mail, and things I realize I’ve neglected–my books, my writing, my curriculum. Friendships change, for better and for worse.

I’ve had a sick baby brother, and the opportunity to take care of his two kids, my nephews that I don’t ever get to spend enough time with.

I experienced the amazing opportunity called Squaw Valley Writer’s workshop and the realization that I need to dedicate much more time to my writing if I’m going to be serious about publishing this novel.

I’ve met at least five new people who could very well end up changing my life, monetarily, personally, and professionally.

I worked with kids who might not make it to high school.

I watched the joy of my nephew and niece seeing their first ball game, making many of my nephews, niece, goddaughter, and friends’ kids belly-laugh, and realize that life does (thanks, John Lennon) indeed happen when we make other plans.

I’ve seen my parents grow older and make new life changes, for the better.

And I realize after spending time with all of these people, learning all these lessons that I could never learn myself, I am humbled. But I still saw the stars over Tahoe and made wishes on a few that fell–one for me, and a few for those I love–and oddly, my life remains the same.

Thank God for that.

I start a new endeavor in the world of special ed tomorrow, and I realize that I will never know all the answers, nor do I want to. My life is what I have created, and it makes me happy–the joyous, the heartbreaking, and the humbling. And the simple watching of the stars.
——
All Around the World or the Myth of Fingerprints–Paul Simon
All Down the Line–The Rolling Stones
Clementine–The Decemberists
Dust Bowl Dance–Mumford and Sons
Get to Know You–Mayer Hawthorn
Thick and Thin–The Black Crowes
I Feel Better–Gotye