My favorite books:
Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury
The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
Atonement by Ian McEwan
Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells
And Then She Found Me by Elinor Lipman
Seabiscuit by Laura Hillenbrand
Stargirl by Jerry Spinnelli
Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson
Primavera, Ecstasia, Dangerous Angels, I Was a Teenage Fairy, all by Francesca Lia Block
The Crucible by Arthur Miller
Girl With a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers
The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things by J.T. LeRoy (pseudonym)
Lake Wobegon Summer 1956 by Garrison Keillor
In the Time of the Butterflies by Julia Alvarez
The Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver
Strip City by Lily Burana
Distant Land of My Father by Bo Caldwell
Old School by Tobias Wolff
Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen
Atticus by Ron Hansen
Night by Elie Weisel
King Dork by Frank Portman
The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Neffenberger
Vanishing Acts by Jodi Picoult (she's my brain candy)
The Devil in the White City
Under the Banner of Heaven by John Krakauer
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
How to Teach Junior High and Live to Tell About It : Submission for Busenhalter Magazine, July 2004
Junior year of high school, experience truly great teaching in the person of a twenty-three year old Stanford alumna and decide you want to be her when you grow up. After graduating from the same university she went to, go to work for a public relations agency in California's Silicon Valley.
Learn how awful hourly billing is (if you go to the restroom, do you bill that to the client? The company? Or just work more hours to make up for it?), and that a college degree means nothing if you can't get a reporter to talk to you on the phone about your client's product. Suck it up for a year, then join the dot-com revolution. Learn how easy it is to run a company into the ground. Get a writing job at a second dot-com. Expect it to be a perfect fit, as the salary would indicate. Realize it is the side projects--writing a column, volunteering as a Girl Scout troop leader at a homeless shelter in San Francisco's Tenderloin, the poorest, most drug-addled neighborhood in the city--that feed the soul. Decide to find a new career, away from technology and and the corporate sector. Determine that being a full-time musician is not an option when the band breaks up. Establish that a passion for literature and writing, and a sense that the most important work to be done is with children, means that teaching is the logical next career step.
During further dead time at work, apply for a credential program. Get in. Get bronchitis. Get laid off from the copywriting job. Get an interview for a job teaching seventh grade English after three weeks of beach-going, hair-dying, and partying, at a school who fired a seventh grade English teacher for throwing a desk at a kid. Ponder the fact that you have never, ever, in a million yers, pictured teaching junior high school. Decide it's time for a challenge. Take the interview. Take the job. Take a 50% pay cut. Take teaching credential classes after beginning to teach. Realize that lesson planning is helpful, as is knowing how to respond when a twelve-year-old boy who can barely speak or read calls you a bitch.
Work with kids who are poor, who have family members in jail, who are on free or reduced lunches, and realize how truly sheltered you have been in this country. Go home many days and cry from exhaustion and empathy. Learn as much from them as you teach. Get as creative as you can. Connect fun activities, like T-shirt making and peach bake-offs, to books like Holes. Read The Outsiders and create pretend families and job charts, role-playing the book on a personal level. Act out scenes from Shakespeare. Realize that fundamentally, you love it. Love being in a classroom and not at a desk. Love being "the cool teacher." Love sharing music and poetry with adolescents. Love hearing about, and meeting, their families. Love the hugs, and the stories, and the stickers, and their journal entries. Love that if you show caring for an adolescent, he or she will care about you back. Come to understand that this is your calling.
Understand, too, that without support from adults, you cannot survive teaching so many difficult children at once. Transition to a new school district that pays more, has fewer behavior issues, and is more focused on curriculum. Learn that children's issues are the same everywhere; no matter how much money or education a child's parents have, that child might still be abused, neglected, or going through a divorce. Kids everywhere have learning disabilities that make school hell. Kids everywhere have social issues that make school hell. Become responsible not just for delivering high-level curriculum, but for counseling, managing parents, serving on committees, organizing events, chaperoning dances, and grading papers. Acknowledge that no matter how much mentoring you have, a lot of teaching skill is developed by doing.
Get really good at memorizing 150 names within a week. Also memorize each child's handwriting, so if they don't put their names on their papers, you can still give them the grade and return it to them, and writing style, so that if they plagiarize, you notice, and catch it via Google Advanced search. Chat with parents at the Back to School Barbecue, Back to School Night, at various events and at the local supermarket. Constantly have the impulse to say, "Nice to meet you" to parents because you've got enough to remember already without also remembering which parents go with whom. Get to know the nice ones best, because they compliment you and share insight about their child in a non-demanding way, and even send gifts sometimes. Hug the ones who tell you they thought you were 22.
Get in touch with your last name and wish it was something simpler, like Smith. Realize that your tattoos will be front page news. Realize that at least your Stanford degrees will, too.
Be happy that even though you have to wake up at 6:30 every morning, which means that you are always the first to leave any weeknight social gathering, you at least get the afternoons to work out and do things like go to museums, readings, and plays, and read books. This somewhat makes up for the fact that you never meet eligible bachelors and can't stay awake on a Friday night past 11 pm.
Deliver curriculum all day, in as engaging and creative a way as possible, to adolescents who would rather complain and show their midriffs and boxers. Never sit at your desk, no matter how desperately you might want to, because you have to be up there teaching a lesson. Remember who came in late, who has to leave early for the orthodontist, what you said yesterday about the book report and whether it was said to first period or just second through seventh, who needs to come in at lunch to make up a test, whose birthday it is, and who is probably PMSing. After school, there are staff meetings, committee meetings, parent conferences, parent emails to respond to, school events to attend, and the occasional kid needing counseling.
When kids tell you that you are a role model, and have inspired them, realize that it is all worth it. Hold your head high and be proud of your work. Count on the support of friends and famikly to stay alive in this job. Be grateful to everyone who has listened to ranting and raving, weepy stories, and funny anecdotes. Alice Walker once said that in time of social repression, the best thing you can do is to be as creative as possible. Teaching itself is creative; it also makes room for creativity in your own life. Join a teacher band. Realize that this is the most important work you have ever done, and the hardest. We all have something to offer society, and we can all find the right path for ourselves if others support us. Hope that someday, you get to see some of your students in the classroom, carrying that torch of love for literature, writing, and other humans on. Smile.
Junior year of high school, experience truly great teaching in the person of a twenty-three year old Stanford alumna and decide you want to be her when you grow up. After graduating from the same university she went to, go to work for a public relations agency in California's Silicon Valley.
Learn how awful hourly billing is (if you go to the restroom, do you bill that to the client? The company? Or just work more hours to make up for it?), and that a college degree means nothing if you can't get a reporter to talk to you on the phone about your client's product. Suck it up for a year, then join the dot-com revolution. Learn how easy it is to run a company into the ground. Get a writing job at a second dot-com. Expect it to be a perfect fit, as the salary would indicate. Realize it is the side projects--writing a column, volunteering as a Girl Scout troop leader at a homeless shelter in San Francisco's Tenderloin, the poorest, most drug-addled neighborhood in the city--that feed the soul. Decide to find a new career, away from technology and and the corporate sector. Determine that being a full-time musician is not an option when the band breaks up. Establish that a passion for literature and writing, and a sense that the most important work to be done is with children, means that teaching is the logical next career step.
During further dead time at work, apply for a credential program. Get in. Get bronchitis. Get laid off from the copywriting job. Get an interview for a job teaching seventh grade English after three weeks of beach-going, hair-dying, and partying, at a school who fired a seventh grade English teacher for throwing a desk at a kid. Ponder the fact that you have never, ever, in a million yers, pictured teaching junior high school. Decide it's time for a challenge. Take the interview. Take the job. Take a 50% pay cut. Take teaching credential classes after beginning to teach. Realize that lesson planning is helpful, as is knowing how to respond when a twelve-year-old boy who can barely speak or read calls you a bitch.
Work with kids who are poor, who have family members in jail, who are on free or reduced lunches, and realize how truly sheltered you have been in this country. Go home many days and cry from exhaustion and empathy. Learn as much from them as you teach. Get as creative as you can. Connect fun activities, like T-shirt making and peach bake-offs, to books like Holes. Read The Outsiders and create pretend families and job charts, role-playing the book on a personal level. Act out scenes from Shakespeare. Realize that fundamentally, you love it. Love being in a classroom and not at a desk. Love being "the cool teacher." Love sharing music and poetry with adolescents. Love hearing about, and meeting, their families. Love the hugs, and the stories, and the stickers, and their journal entries. Love that if you show caring for an adolescent, he or she will care about you back. Come to understand that this is your calling.
Understand, too, that without support from adults, you cannot survive teaching so many difficult children at once. Transition to a new school district that pays more, has fewer behavior issues, and is more focused on curriculum. Learn that children's issues are the same everywhere; no matter how much money or education a child's parents have, that child might still be abused, neglected, or going through a divorce. Kids everywhere have learning disabilities that make school hell. Kids everywhere have social issues that make school hell. Become responsible not just for delivering high-level curriculum, but for counseling, managing parents, serving on committees, organizing events, chaperoning dances, and grading papers. Acknowledge that no matter how much mentoring you have, a lot of teaching skill is developed by doing.
Get really good at memorizing 150 names within a week. Also memorize each child's handwriting, so if they don't put their names on their papers, you can still give them the grade and return it to them, and writing style, so that if they plagiarize, you notice, and catch it via Google Advanced search. Chat with parents at the Back to School Barbecue, Back to School Night, at various events and at the local supermarket. Constantly have the impulse to say, "Nice to meet you" to parents because you've got enough to remember already without also remembering which parents go with whom. Get to know the nice ones best, because they compliment you and share insight about their child in a non-demanding way, and even send gifts sometimes. Hug the ones who tell you they thought you were 22.
Get in touch with your last name and wish it was something simpler, like Smith. Realize that your tattoos will be front page news. Realize that at least your Stanford degrees will, too.
Be happy that even though you have to wake up at 6:30 every morning, which means that you are always the first to leave any weeknight social gathering, you at least get the afternoons to work out and do things like go to museums, readings, and plays, and read books. This somewhat makes up for the fact that you never meet eligible bachelors and can't stay awake on a Friday night past 11 pm.
Deliver curriculum all day, in as engaging and creative a way as possible, to adolescents who would rather complain and show their midriffs and boxers. Never sit at your desk, no matter how desperately you might want to, because you have to be up there teaching a lesson. Remember who came in late, who has to leave early for the orthodontist, what you said yesterday about the book report and whether it was said to first period or just second through seventh, who needs to come in at lunch to make up a test, whose birthday it is, and who is probably PMSing. After school, there are staff meetings, committee meetings, parent conferences, parent emails to respond to, school events to attend, and the occasional kid needing counseling.
When kids tell you that you are a role model, and have inspired them, realize that it is all worth it. Hold your head high and be proud of your work. Count on the support of friends and famikly to stay alive in this job. Be grateful to everyone who has listened to ranting and raving, weepy stories, and funny anecdotes. Alice Walker once said that in time of social repression, the best thing you can do is to be as creative as possible. Teaching itself is creative; it also makes room for creativity in your own life. Join a teacher band. Realize that this is the most important work you have ever done, and the hardest. We all have something to offer society, and we can all find the right path for ourselves if others support us. Hope that someday, you get to see some of your students in the classroom, carrying that torch of love for literature, writing, and other humans on. Smile.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Becoming a Teacher
When I was a junior at Los Altos High School, in the San Francisco Bay Area, my honors English teacher was twenty-three, held a Stanford B.A. and M.Ed., shared my liberal, feminist ideology, and was well-rounded enough to teach a range of demanding and fascinating English classes, coach the track and cross-country teams, and even chaperone the school dances. I wanted to be her when I grew up.
We kept in touch when I, too, went to Stanford. I took creative writing classes, so she had me come back and teach a creative writing unit every year. We met up for Hobee's coffee cake and talked about teaching and running and Stanford. I called her the night I heard Jaime Escalante (the movie "Stand and Deliver" is about his success teaching Calculus AP to struggling math students) speak, to tell her how inspired I was and that I knew I would become an English teacher at some point. But somehow, I sensed that I would not be ready to walk into a classroom and lead teenagers to academic success--or even enrichment--at twenty-two. Margaret had done it. I did not feel strong like her. I wanted to try other things.
I was seduced by the technology boom in Silicon Valley when I graduated from Stanford with B.A. degrees in English and Feminist Studies and an M.A. in English. I had worked for the English and Feminist Studies departments, worked in student services as a residence assistant, and worked at a nonprofit. Yet I searched for a job that would make my boyfriend at the time proud. Something that would help me break the corporate glass ceiling. I went to work for a Public Relations agency in which I learned a great deal--mostly things like how awful hourly billing is and that there are many careers in which a college degree means nothing. I stood it a year and joined the dot-com revolution, in which I learned how easy it is to run a company into the ground (just have a lot of parties) and screw people who aren't in management positions (at least I got to take a loss on my taxes for the worthless stock options I exercised; our VP's and CEO walked away with huge bonuses).
I got a writing job at another dot-com. It was supposed to be my perfect job. I certainly made enough money that it appeared that way on paper. But there wasn't enough work to do. The site wasn't feeding anybody's soul, least of all mine. I still wrote for fun on my own, and went back to my high school to talk about writing and how even if you never become a writer, the skill is important. That summer, I realized that it was my side projects--writing my column, volunteering as a Girl Scout troop leader at a homeless shelter in San Francisco's Tenderloin--were feeding my soul, and that my regular job was depressing me so much that when people at parties asked what my job was like, I would actually say, with an Eyore-like sigh, "You know, I hate to be rude, but I'd really rather talk about something else." Obviously, it was time to find my true calling. I knew how my work and skills were valued monetarily in the corporate sector. I knew what qualities good managers possessed, and how to make friends and adjust to a new work environment. I had participated in staff meetings at many different companies and nonprofit organizations. I had attended conferences, even spoken at some, and had been to and organized training sessions. I had experience, and I was ready to be fulfilled. Money was no longer an object.
I soul-searched for weeks--summer in San Francisco lends itself well to that--and I determined that while creativity is something that has to be in my life for me to feel whole, I cannot be a full-time musician or writer. I rely on the structure of the work day and office environment for direction, and I do not do well imposing such structure upon myself. I also knew that I felt most important when working with children. I considered and rejected social work, because I also knew that whatever I did still had to incorporate my intense passion for good literature and writing. My clear purpose emerged, as if it had not been at the back of my mind since high school: I would become an English teacher.
During further dead time at work, I applied for a credential program at Notre Dame de Namur University in Belmont. A month later, I got in. I decided I would begin the program in January, either full-time (I would quit my job) or part-time if I chose to keep working for some extra money. At the beginning of October, I got bronchitis. When I went to get my antibiotics, the pharmacy told me I no longer had insurance. That was how I knew I was getting laid off, though the HR people refused to explain why my insurance had been cancelled; in fact, they waited until 6:00 P.M. the following day to call and let me know I had been let go. I regard that ridiculous situation as a message to me--leave corporate America; it's never going to feed your soul. Clearly, the major change I had sought had arrived. I recovered from my illness and went to Baker Beach every day for a week. The next week, I dyed my hair pink and partied every night. The third week, I hung out with my family in Los Altos. I felt that I was making a symbolic transition to a new life. I could sense that something important was about to happen. It did. During my week in Los Altos, I got a phone call from the credential administrator Notre Dame. "I don't know if you're even working, but we got a call from a school that needs an English teacher right away. They had to fire someone [for throwing a desk at a kid, I found out later]."
"Which high school?" I asked.
"It's actually a junior high. Parkside, in San Bruno."
"." I had never, ever, in a million years, pictured myself teaching junior high.
"Would you like to interview with them? You would get paid while you complete your credential, and it's near the city."
Why not? I'm not exactly a shrinking violet when it comes to personal or academic challenges. What the hell. "Sure, I'll interview."
She gave me the phone number, I called, and they had me come in the next day. In two hours, they had hired me. In three hours, I had signed a contract. I called my mom to tell her. "That's great, hon!" She told me later she was shocked, yet confident that I had made the right decision. She didn't raise me to live life in anything but the fullest way, that's for sure. I remember her telling me once never to avoid anything that seemed "too hard."
I took a 50% pay cut to start teaching. I was also paying for my teaching credential program, so looking at my tax returns from 2000 to 2001 is rather amusing. The first year was unbelievably hard. I taught in a community I didn't know, that was incredibly diverse. Most of the kids were on free or reduced lunches (watch the film "Super Size Me" to get a sense of the nutrition options available to such children, and you'll have an idea of the resultant behavior issues I had to deal with). Many kids had family members in jail. I have no idea how I did it, but somehow I created a curriculum that was fun, engaging, and actually taught them something. We read Holes and made T-shirts with clever, book-related logos on them (my favorite--Camp Green Lake: Can You Dig It?), then had a peach bake-off. We read The Outsiders and created pretend families and job charts, role-playing the book on a personal level. We acted out scenes from Shakespeare. I read most of the books out loud to my kids to ensure that they understood them AND paid attention. It was grueling. I went home many days and cried.
But I loved it. I loved being in a classroom and not at a desk. I loved being "the cool teacher." I loved sharing music and poetry with them. I loved hearing about their families. I loved the hugs, and the stories, and the stickers, and their journal entries. I knew this was my calling.
There is something unique about junior high, when a kid that age feels that you love them. They love you back. The notes and pictures I have from that year reaffirm that I really created a little community at Parkside.
I couldn't hack it two years in a row, though. I didn't have enough support there and I was ready to move out of the city. I wanted to move down to Palo Alto, where I'd grown up and gone to college. I wanted to try working in a district that focused on academics and see what that was like. I got a job teaching 8th grade English and Newspaper at my junior high.
That fall, there were new challenges. I shared the same background as most of the kids at my school, but learned that children's issues are the same everywhere. No matter how much money or education a child's parents have, they might still be abusive, neglectful, or going through a divorce. Kids everywhere have learning disabilities that make school hell. Kids everywhere have social issues that make school hell. As a teacher, I was responsible not just for delivering curriculum (and in Los Altos, that curriculum had better be strong in grammar, vocabulary, reading and writing), but for counseling, managing parents, serving on committees, organizing events, chaperoning dances, and grading papers. My principal is hugely supportive, and the other 8th grade English teacher experienced and fantastic, but now one can mentor you completely through your first year at a new school. You just have to slog through it yourself to figure out what works.
Start by remembering the names and faces of your 150 students. Gradually memorize what their handwriting looks like, so if they don't put their name on their papers, you can still give them the grade and return it to them. Internalize their writing style so you can catch them plagiarizing (Google Advanced search, baby!) if, heaven forbid, they make that poor a choice. Meet their parents at the Back to School Barbecue, Back to School Night, and at various events. Try to avoid saying, "Nice to meet you," the third time you see them, because you've got enough to remember already without remembering whose parents go with whom, too. Get to know the nice ones best, because they compliment you and share insight about their child in a non-demanding way, and even send gifts sometimes. Hug the ones who tell you they thought you were 22. Get in touch with your last name.
Realize that your tattoos will be front page news. Realize that at least your Stanford degrees will, too.
Be happy that even though you have to wake up at 6:30 every morning, which means that you are always the first to leave any weeknight social gathering, you at least get the afternoons to work out and do things like go to museums, readings, and plays, and read books. This somewhat makes up for the fact that you never meet eligible bachelors and can't stay awake on a Friday night past 11 pm.
Teaching is some of the hardest work in the world, and I teach at a very well-run school, with few behavior problems. Still, there's so much to juggle. I deliver curriculum all day, in as engaging and creative a way as possible, to adolescents who would rather complain and show their midriffs and boxers. I never get to sit down at my desk, no matter how desperately I might want to, because I have to be up there teaching a lesson. In addition to that, I have to remember who came in late, who has to leave early for the orthodontist, what I said yesterday about the book report and whether I said it to first period or just second through seventh, who needs to come in at lunch to make up a test, whose birthday it is, and who is probably PMSing. After school, there are staff meetings, committee meetings, parent conferences, parent emails to respond to, school events to attend, and the occasional kid needing counseling.
When kids tell me that I am a role model, and have inspired them, I realize that it is all worth it. I can hold up my head high at cocktail parties, because now I really like talking about my work. I count on the support of my friends and famikly to stay alive in this job, as does every teacher. I am so grateful to everyone who has listened to all my ranting and raving, all my weepy stories, and all my funny anecdotes. This is the most important work I have ever done, and the hardest. I think I'll probably stay in it, because apparently I'm good at it. But the critical thing that I have realized is that we all have something to offer society, and we can all find the right path for ourselves if others support us. I have found my place, at least for now, largely because others have helped me along the way. And I'll do the same--for my friends, for my students, for their parents, for new teachers. I am not my junior year English teacher, but I am like her in the ways I wanted to be. I hope that I have inspired some of my students too, and that someday, I get to see them in the classroom, carrying that torch of love for literature, writing, and other humans on.
Alice Walker once said that in time of social repression, the best thing you can do is to be as creative as possible. I think my job is creative. It also allows me to be creative. I have time to read and write on my own. I am encouraged to take classes in literature and psychology. I play in a band with other teachers. I have found my place in the world, and it feels great.
When I was a junior at Los Altos High School, in the San Francisco Bay Area, my honors English teacher was twenty-three, held a Stanford B.A. and M.Ed., shared my liberal, feminist ideology, and was well-rounded enough to teach a range of demanding and fascinating English classes, coach the track and cross-country teams, and even chaperone the school dances. I wanted to be her when I grew up.
We kept in touch when I, too, went to Stanford. I took creative writing classes, so she had me come back and teach a creative writing unit every year. We met up for Hobee's coffee cake and talked about teaching and running and Stanford. I called her the night I heard Jaime Escalante (the movie "Stand and Deliver" is about his success teaching Calculus AP to struggling math students) speak, to tell her how inspired I was and that I knew I would become an English teacher at some point. But somehow, I sensed that I would not be ready to walk into a classroom and lead teenagers to academic success--or even enrichment--at twenty-two. Margaret had done it. I did not feel strong like her. I wanted to try other things.
I was seduced by the technology boom in Silicon Valley when I graduated from Stanford with B.A. degrees in English and Feminist Studies and an M.A. in English. I had worked for the English and Feminist Studies departments, worked in student services as a residence assistant, and worked at a nonprofit. Yet I searched for a job that would make my boyfriend at the time proud. Something that would help me break the corporate glass ceiling. I went to work for a Public Relations agency in which I learned a great deal--mostly things like how awful hourly billing is and that there are many careers in which a college degree means nothing. I stood it a year and joined the dot-com revolution, in which I learned how easy it is to run a company into the ground (just have a lot of parties) and screw people who aren't in management positions (at least I got to take a loss on my taxes for the worthless stock options I exercised; our VP's and CEO walked away with huge bonuses).
I got a writing job at another dot-com. It was supposed to be my perfect job. I certainly made enough money that it appeared that way on paper. But there wasn't enough work to do. The site wasn't feeding anybody's soul, least of all mine. I still wrote for fun on my own, and went back to my high school to talk about writing and how even if you never become a writer, the skill is important. That summer, I realized that it was my side projects--writing my column, volunteering as a Girl Scout troop leader at a homeless shelter in San Francisco's Tenderloin--were feeding my soul, and that my regular job was depressing me so much that when people at parties asked what my job was like, I would actually say, with an Eyore-like sigh, "You know, I hate to be rude, but I'd really rather talk about something else." Obviously, it was time to find my true calling. I knew how my work and skills were valued monetarily in the corporate sector. I knew what qualities good managers possessed, and how to make friends and adjust to a new work environment. I had participated in staff meetings at many different companies and nonprofit organizations. I had attended conferences, even spoken at some, and had been to and organized training sessions. I had experience, and I was ready to be fulfilled. Money was no longer an object.
I soul-searched for weeks--summer in San Francisco lends itself well to that--and I determined that while creativity is something that has to be in my life for me to feel whole, I cannot be a full-time musician or writer. I rely on the structure of the work day and office environment for direction, and I do not do well imposing such structure upon myself. I also knew that I felt most important when working with children. I considered and rejected social work, because I also knew that whatever I did still had to incorporate my intense passion for good literature and writing. My clear purpose emerged, as if it had not been at the back of my mind since high school: I would become an English teacher.
During further dead time at work, I applied for a credential program at Notre Dame de Namur University in Belmont. A month later, I got in. I decided I would begin the program in January, either full-time (I would quit my job) or part-time if I chose to keep working for some extra money. At the beginning of October, I got bronchitis. When I went to get my antibiotics, the pharmacy told me I no longer had insurance. That was how I knew I was getting laid off, though the HR people refused to explain why my insurance had been cancelled; in fact, they waited until 6:00 P.M. the following day to call and let me know I had been let go. I regard that ridiculous situation as a message to me--leave corporate America; it's never going to feed your soul. Clearly, the major change I had sought had arrived. I recovered from my illness and went to Baker Beach every day for a week. The next week, I dyed my hair pink and partied every night. The third week, I hung out with my family in Los Altos. I felt that I was making a symbolic transition to a new life. I could sense that something important was about to happen. It did. During my week in Los Altos, I got a phone call from the credential administrator Notre Dame. "I don't know if you're even working, but we got a call from a school that needs an English teacher right away. They had to fire someone [for throwing a desk at a kid, I found out later]."
"Which high school?" I asked.
"It's actually a junior high. Parkside, in San Bruno."
"." I had never, ever, in a million years, pictured myself teaching junior high.
"Would you like to interview with them? You would get paid while you complete your credential, and it's near the city."
Why not? I'm not exactly a shrinking violet when it comes to personal or academic challenges. What the hell. "Sure, I'll interview."
She gave me the phone number, I called, and they had me come in the next day. In two hours, they had hired me. In three hours, I had signed a contract. I called my mom to tell her. "That's great, hon!" She told me later she was shocked, yet confident that I had made the right decision. She didn't raise me to live life in anything but the fullest way, that's for sure. I remember her telling me once never to avoid anything that seemed "too hard."
I took a 50% pay cut to start teaching. I was also paying for my teaching credential program, so looking at my tax returns from 2000 to 2001 is rather amusing. The first year was unbelievably hard. I taught in a community I didn't know, that was incredibly diverse. Most of the kids were on free or reduced lunches (watch the film "Super Size Me" to get a sense of the nutrition options available to such children, and you'll have an idea of the resultant behavior issues I had to deal with). Many kids had family members in jail. I have no idea how I did it, but somehow I created a curriculum that was fun, engaging, and actually taught them something. We read Holes and made T-shirts with clever, book-related logos on them (my favorite--Camp Green Lake: Can You Dig It?), then had a peach bake-off. We read The Outsiders and created pretend families and job charts, role-playing the book on a personal level. We acted out scenes from Shakespeare. I read most of the books out loud to my kids to ensure that they understood them AND paid attention. It was grueling. I went home many days and cried.
But I loved it. I loved being in a classroom and not at a desk. I loved being "the cool teacher." I loved sharing music and poetry with them. I loved hearing about their families. I loved the hugs, and the stories, and the stickers, and their journal entries. I knew this was my calling.
There is something unique about junior high, when a kid that age feels that you love them. They love you back. The notes and pictures I have from that year reaffirm that I really created a little community at Parkside.
I couldn't hack it two years in a row, though. I didn't have enough support there and I was ready to move out of the city. I wanted to move down to Palo Alto, where I'd grown up and gone to college. I wanted to try working in a district that focused on academics and see what that was like. I got a job teaching 8th grade English and Newspaper at my junior high.
That fall, there were new challenges. I shared the same background as most of the kids at my school, but learned that children's issues are the same everywhere. No matter how much money or education a child's parents have, they might still be abusive, neglectful, or going through a divorce. Kids everywhere have learning disabilities that make school hell. Kids everywhere have social issues that make school hell. As a teacher, I was responsible not just for delivering curriculum (and in Los Altos, that curriculum had better be strong in grammar, vocabulary, reading and writing), but for counseling, managing parents, serving on committees, organizing events, chaperoning dances, and grading papers. My principal is hugely supportive, and the other 8th grade English teacher experienced and fantastic, but now one can mentor you completely through your first year at a new school. You just have to slog through it yourself to figure out what works.
Start by remembering the names and faces of your 150 students. Gradually memorize what their handwriting looks like, so if they don't put their name on their papers, you can still give them the grade and return it to them. Internalize their writing style so you can catch them plagiarizing (Google Advanced search, baby!) if, heaven forbid, they make that poor a choice. Meet their parents at the Back to School Barbecue, Back to School Night, and at various events. Try to avoid saying, "Nice to meet you," the third time you see them, because you've got enough to remember already without remembering whose parents go with whom, too. Get to know the nice ones best, because they compliment you and share insight about their child in a non-demanding way, and even send gifts sometimes. Hug the ones who tell you they thought you were 22. Get in touch with your last name.
Realize that your tattoos will be front page news. Realize that at least your Stanford degrees will, too.
Be happy that even though you have to wake up at 6:30 every morning, which means that you are always the first to leave any weeknight social gathering, you at least get the afternoons to work out and do things like go to museums, readings, and plays, and read books. This somewhat makes up for the fact that you never meet eligible bachelors and can't stay awake on a Friday night past 11 pm.
Teaching is some of the hardest work in the world, and I teach at a very well-run school, with few behavior problems. Still, there's so much to juggle. I deliver curriculum all day, in as engaging and creative a way as possible, to adolescents who would rather complain and show their midriffs and boxers. I never get to sit down at my desk, no matter how desperately I might want to, because I have to be up there teaching a lesson. In addition to that, I have to remember who came in late, who has to leave early for the orthodontist, what I said yesterday about the book report and whether I said it to first period or just second through seventh, who needs to come in at lunch to make up a test, whose birthday it is, and who is probably PMSing. After school, there are staff meetings, committee meetings, parent conferences, parent emails to respond to, school events to attend, and the occasional kid needing counseling.
When kids tell me that I am a role model, and have inspired them, I realize that it is all worth it. I can hold up my head high at cocktail parties, because now I really like talking about my work. I count on the support of my friends and famikly to stay alive in this job, as does every teacher. I am so grateful to everyone who has listened to all my ranting and raving, all my weepy stories, and all my funny anecdotes. This is the most important work I have ever done, and the hardest. I think I'll probably stay in it, because apparently I'm good at it. But the critical thing that I have realized is that we all have something to offer society, and we can all find the right path for ourselves if others support us. I have found my place, at least for now, largely because others have helped me along the way. And I'll do the same--for my friends, for my students, for their parents, for new teachers. I am not my junior year English teacher, but I am like her in the ways I wanted to be. I hope that I have inspired some of my students too, and that someday, I get to see them in the classroom, carrying that torch of love for literature, writing, and other humans on.
Alice Walker once said that in time of social repression, the best thing you can do is to be as creative as possible. I think my job is creative. It also allows me to be creative. I have time to read and write on my own. I am encouraged to take classes in literature and psychology. I play in a band with other teachers. I have found my place in the world, and it feels great.
Monday, May 03, 2004
The Coachella Valley Music Festival is sort of like the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival: I’ve always wanted to go, but never got my act together to do it. This year I finally did, and boy have I been missing out. It didn’t hurt that the lineup (Radiohead, The Pixies, Death Cab for Cutie, The Cure) was comprised of rock legends, or that my school started standardized testing (requiring me to do little more than pass things out and read scripted directions) the week after the festival. My high school buddy Dan and I hit the road (well, Oakland and San Jose airports, respectively) to Coachella Friday after work, and the rest is rock history.
We had some planning issues. By the time I called to book a hotel (I purchased my two-day pass as soon as they went on sale, but the hotel thing took a while), everything in the area was sold out, so we ended up staying at a resort in Indian Wells, two towns away from Indio, where the festival takes place. This cost us a pretty penny, but the room was nice, and they did have a fitness center, and the Sahara Hotnights (a Swedish rock band comprised of all women) were staying there, so there were some serious perks. We flew into Ontario airport on Friday, dodged several hundred NASCAR fans to grab our Dollar Rent-a-Car, then sat in traffic for two hours before arriving at the hotel in time to eat dinner before the restaurant closed down.
One could feasibly fly into Ontario or Palm Springs for the festival Saturday morning, and drive straight to Indio. With traffic a certainty, it would take about three hours from Ontario, one and a half from the Palm Springs airport, or around four hours from LA. We only had three towns to go through, and it still took us about an hour and a half to get into the parking lot, due to high traffic on one and two lane roads in Indio.
We arrived at 1:00 P.M. to start seeing bands at the beginning of the day, though I did see many groups of people arriving later in the day. It was incredibly hot, so I don’t know how anyone chose not to wear shorts and a T shirt, but I did appreciate those who came in (mostly 80’s) style. We’re talking asymmetrical haircuts, that gelled Mohawk ‘do that’s coming back (thank you, Gwen Stefani), little flat shoes with colored polka dots, striped tube tops, pegged pants, the whole 80’s thing minus the acid wash. Definitely some cute outfits. I also saw four other people wearing my Old Navy tank top, and five colors of the tub top with the maternity skirt thing that must be Banana Republic’s latest spring must-have, so there was a range of fashion (or lack thereof, on my part).
We started out watching Erase Errata, whose lead singer left her trumpet in San Francisco, but wailed a competent set anyway. They were followed by one of my favorite bands, Sahara Hotnights. I remember bursting into a smile when I heard their album, Jennie Bomb. These 23-year-old girls write all their own stuff, and they can rock and sing. Plus, they’re adorable.
Doused in our own sweat, we moved on to hear the Stills, Trail of the Dead, and Death Cab for Cutie on the smaller of the two outdoor stages. I had only heard the Stills’ single, but they played a great set. Trail of the Dead, whom I had never heard, sounded great, too, and Death Cab for Cutie were in top form. Benjamin Gibbard’s voice is so melodic, and the band really has a strong following. There were a lot of “moments” at this festival—when you’re listening to a really fantastic band and the world just sort of stops while you hear one song. I was having such a moment when my personal space was accosted by a group of drunk people who seemed to think that the Death Cab for Cutie set was the place to continue their beer bash. Totally annoying. We moved, fortunately. Gibbard played many songs off Transatlanticism, which came out earlier this year.
After that, we caught Sparta, from Texas (but they don’t like George W., either—they even wrote a song about it), on the larger outdoor stage. I expected them to have a really heavy metal/punk sound, but they were still poppy, like most bands at the festival. I was pleased to find that I really liked their sound and their manner with the crowd. Lead singer Fred Ward thanked us several times for being there and mentioned that opening for the Pixies, the band that inspired him when he was twelve, made this the best day of his life. The Pixies’ set probably made Saturday the best day of many people’s lives—it seemed like the entire crowd stopped to hear the Pixies’ set. I had such an immensely prideful moment in Generation X at that point—I think most of the people there who are around my age last heard this great band in 1991, as I did. We’ve been listening to them ever since, learning to appreciate all the hard work that goes into music of that caliber, and then suddenly, here they were back on a stage, and they played and played and rock history was made. The guy next to me was the happiest man alive, dancing away. He knew the words to every song.
Radiohead was on next and again, the entire crowd seemed to focus in on them. They are truly one of the greatest bands playing today. The innovation in each of their songs, the uniqueness present in their lyrics, rhythm, and melodies is unrivaled. Thom Yorke’s performance was upbeat and intense—it is so clear that this man loves his job with a passion. They played “Creep,” and he giggled every time he forgot words. He closed by saying that the Pixies and R.E.M. changed his life in college and that he felt like a creep coming after the Pixies, but of course we all realize that we have the Pixies to thank for a great band like Radiohead even being around. And then Dan and I went through the list of great bands of our time, and we only could come up with a small list of new bands that might achieve that caliber, and then we decided we were showing our age and being arrogant.
The last band we heard was another favorite of mine, Phantom Planet. It seemed like the real music connoisseurs went to hear Kraftwerk, from Germany, in the tent next door, but I love my Phantom Planet, so the other college students and I stuck by them. They were jumping around, so excited to be there, getting the crowd to dance after a full day of dancing in 100-degree heat. I was impressed with their energy, and with the enthusiasm of the kids in the crowd. They didn’t play my favorite song, “After Hours,” but they did whip out “Big Brat,” “First Things First,” “The Meantime,” and a new song from the just-released album. Their new drummer, who replaced Jason Schwartzman of “Rushmore” fame, was solidly churning out beats, so I think the band has a good future ahead of them.
The only bummer of the day was that we then spent two hours waiting to get out of the parking lot and didn’t get home till 3:00 A.M., but it was still one of the best days of my life. We waved off Sunday, because we had flights to catch that were too early to allow us to see Mogwai, Belle and Sebastian, Air, Le Tigre, The Flaming Lips, Bright Eyes, or The Cure and still make it to work the next day. Instead, we ditched the heat and went hiking in Idlylwild before heading back to the airport. One would need to plan to stay Sunday night if going to the Sunday shows and head home Monday. I think that’s what most people did.
We had some planning issues. By the time I called to book a hotel (I purchased my two-day pass as soon as they went on sale, but the hotel thing took a while), everything in the area was sold out, so we ended up staying at a resort in Indian Wells, two towns away from Indio, where the festival takes place. This cost us a pretty penny, but the room was nice, and they did have a fitness center, and the Sahara Hotnights (a Swedish rock band comprised of all women) were staying there, so there were some serious perks. We flew into Ontario airport on Friday, dodged several hundred NASCAR fans to grab our Dollar Rent-a-Car, then sat in traffic for two hours before arriving at the hotel in time to eat dinner before the restaurant closed down.
One could feasibly fly into Ontario or Palm Springs for the festival Saturday morning, and drive straight to Indio. With traffic a certainty, it would take about three hours from Ontario, one and a half from the Palm Springs airport, or around four hours from LA. We only had three towns to go through, and it still took us about an hour and a half to get into the parking lot, due to high traffic on one and two lane roads in Indio.
We arrived at 1:00 P.M. to start seeing bands at the beginning of the day, though I did see many groups of people arriving later in the day. It was incredibly hot, so I don’t know how anyone chose not to wear shorts and a T shirt, but I did appreciate those who came in (mostly 80’s) style. We’re talking asymmetrical haircuts, that gelled Mohawk ‘do that’s coming back (thank you, Gwen Stefani), little flat shoes with colored polka dots, striped tube tops, pegged pants, the whole 80’s thing minus the acid wash. Definitely some cute outfits. I also saw four other people wearing my Old Navy tank top, and five colors of the tub top with the maternity skirt thing that must be Banana Republic’s latest spring must-have, so there was a range of fashion (or lack thereof, on my part).
We started out watching Erase Errata, whose lead singer left her trumpet in San Francisco, but wailed a competent set anyway. They were followed by one of my favorite bands, Sahara Hotnights. I remember bursting into a smile when I heard their album, Jennie Bomb. These 23-year-old girls write all their own stuff, and they can rock and sing. Plus, they’re adorable.
Doused in our own sweat, we moved on to hear the Stills, Trail of the Dead, and Death Cab for Cutie on the smaller of the two outdoor stages. I had only heard the Stills’ single, but they played a great set. Trail of the Dead, whom I had never heard, sounded great, too, and Death Cab for Cutie were in top form. Benjamin Gibbard’s voice is so melodic, and the band really has a strong following. There were a lot of “moments” at this festival—when you’re listening to a really fantastic band and the world just sort of stops while you hear one song. I was having such a moment when my personal space was accosted by a group of drunk people who seemed to think that the Death Cab for Cutie set was the place to continue their beer bash. Totally annoying. We moved, fortunately. Gibbard played many songs off Transatlanticism, which came out earlier this year.
After that, we caught Sparta, from Texas (but they don’t like George W., either—they even wrote a song about it), on the larger outdoor stage. I expected them to have a really heavy metal/punk sound, but they were still poppy, like most bands at the festival. I was pleased to find that I really liked their sound and their manner with the crowd. Lead singer Fred Ward thanked us several times for being there and mentioned that opening for the Pixies, the band that inspired him when he was twelve, made this the best day of his life. The Pixies’ set probably made Saturday the best day of many people’s lives—it seemed like the entire crowd stopped to hear the Pixies’ set. I had such an immensely prideful moment in Generation X at that point—I think most of the people there who are around my age last heard this great band in 1991, as I did. We’ve been listening to them ever since, learning to appreciate all the hard work that goes into music of that caliber, and then suddenly, here they were back on a stage, and they played and played and rock history was made. The guy next to me was the happiest man alive, dancing away. He knew the words to every song.
Radiohead was on next and again, the entire crowd seemed to focus in on them. They are truly one of the greatest bands playing today. The innovation in each of their songs, the uniqueness present in their lyrics, rhythm, and melodies is unrivaled. Thom Yorke’s performance was upbeat and intense—it is so clear that this man loves his job with a passion. They played “Creep,” and he giggled every time he forgot words. He closed by saying that the Pixies and R.E.M. changed his life in college and that he felt like a creep coming after the Pixies, but of course we all realize that we have the Pixies to thank for a great band like Radiohead even being around. And then Dan and I went through the list of great bands of our time, and we only could come up with a small list of new bands that might achieve that caliber, and then we decided we were showing our age and being arrogant.
The last band we heard was another favorite of mine, Phantom Planet. It seemed like the real music connoisseurs went to hear Kraftwerk, from Germany, in the tent next door, but I love my Phantom Planet, so the other college students and I stuck by them. They were jumping around, so excited to be there, getting the crowd to dance after a full day of dancing in 100-degree heat. I was impressed with their energy, and with the enthusiasm of the kids in the crowd. They didn’t play my favorite song, “After Hours,” but they did whip out “Big Brat,” “First Things First,” “The Meantime,” and a new song from the just-released album. Their new drummer, who replaced Jason Schwartzman of “Rushmore” fame, was solidly churning out beats, so I think the band has a good future ahead of them.
The only bummer of the day was that we then spent two hours waiting to get out of the parking lot and didn’t get home till 3:00 A.M., but it was still one of the best days of my life. We waved off Sunday, because we had flights to catch that were too early to allow us to see Mogwai, Belle and Sebastian, Air, Le Tigre, The Flaming Lips, Bright Eyes, or The Cure and still make it to work the next day. Instead, we ditched the heat and went hiking in Idlylwild before heading back to the airport. One would need to plan to stay Sunday night if going to the Sunday shows and head home Monday. I think that’s what most people did.
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