Dar Gracias

I am beyond thankful for the same things all lucky people are thankful for: my friends, my family, my job, my health.  My friends are a step above.  The ones in New York make living across the country from home a wonderful, communal experience, and the others who are far flung remind me it's worth traveling and picking up the phone.  My family, too--people who live far away, but talk like me and look like me and love me unconditionally; I am thankful to spend this holiday together.  I am thankful for my job.  Somehow, waking up at 5:30 in the morning feels okay when you get to work with inspiring people, laugh all day long and never doubt that you are doing something important and meaningful.  I am thankful, too, for my youth and health--my only real concern being spots from too much sun. For all this, I give thanks and knock on wood. 

On this holiday that asks for reflection and thanks, I want to thank a few other things as well: 


The B62 bus: I take this bus to work every morning at 6:26am. I get on at the beginning of the line, and although I know the exact time of departure, I am thankful that if the bus driver sees me crossing the street a minute late, he'll hold up traffic to wait for me.  I'm thankful for the gossipy, Christian ladies who get on 10 minutes later to entertain me, and I'm thankful for the sleepy kids who ride it all the way to school.

Hummus: Because it comes in many delicious flavors, and I'm not sure I could be a vegetarian without its protein-y goodness.

Down comforters: My mom taught me years ago that the best way to sleep is beneath only a down comforter. We live in a household free of top sheets.  I am thankful for a blanket that provides cozy warmth in the winter and comforting weight in the summer.

Coffee: For ritual, warmth and the ability to talk to adolescents at 7:30 in the morning, I am eternally thankful.

The bagel guy: I am thankful for this guy who wears gold chains and a velour jacket and tells me to "have a great day, babe" when he gives me my fresh-outta-the-oven bagel at 6:15 in the morning. 

Gchat: Some may try to swear off techy addictions, but in fact I'm thankful for mine.  Though a powerful tool for procrastination, Gchat allows me to chat with friends across the country during the work day. I can look at bridesmaids dresses with Julianne, talk about weekend plans with Claire and make fun of Ian all while "getting work done." I am also thankful for my worrisome but useful ability to multitask.

My students: The best and worst part of every day. I am thankful for 75 kids with all different personalities, one of whom asked if he could come to Texas with me because he's always wanted to ride a horse.


Paul Simon: I am thankful for music that never gets old and fits every occasion besides Saturday night.  From roommate dance parties to morning productivity sessions, I am thankful for "Graceland."

Happy Thanksgiving!

Don't Mess

Every person could have been many things she is not. Who you end up is the result of the choices you make, but also choices others made long before your birth.  To this end, I sometimes remind myself I could have been a Texan.  A card-carrying member of that most prideful, contentious state.  My almost identity is equal parts dodged bullet and missed opportunity.  Disturbing, yes, but also intriguing.  A very different fate that so easily could have been my own.

My mom is a Texan living in Oregon.  There are probably more Texans living in Oregon than there are Oregonians living in Texas, but she is a rare breed nonetheless.  Generally speaking, Texans don’t leave Texas. A fierce loyalty dictates you stay in state.  People simply see no reason to leave its expansive boundaries.  My mother, the loveable black sheep, did exactly that: packed her bags for faraway places like Colorado, Massachusetts and ultimately Oregon where she landed and would not leave.  And because of those choices made years before my birth, I am not a Texan but instead its antithesis: a first-generation Oregonian. 

In Oregon, Texas is not well-liked. Texas is everything Oregon abhors contained in one land mass: the Bush family, SUV’s, beef far from free-range, beer far from micro, sticky air and flatness.  There’s a widespread dislike of Texas, particularly among those who have never been and never plan to go.  The haters consider Austin the exception, a liberal oasis in a desert of belt buckles and homophobia, but prefer not to sully its name by association with the nation’s most despicable state.  Texas is the scapegoat for all that’s wrong in our country; Texas has encroached on us before and it could happen again at any time.  Cue hysteria, phobia.  Oregonians and liberals nationwide just don’t like Texas.  

When I was a kid and sometimes still today, I’m often met with thinly-veiled distaste when I tell people I’ll be spending a holiday in the land of Texas.

“Really?? Why?”

“Does your family own guns? Do they hunt?”

“Do you actually like it there?”

The answer is yes, I do like it there, but not in the way I like trendier locales like New York City or San Francisco.  I like the way Texas smells, like humid air, pinto beans cooked long in animal fat and my grandma’s Cover Girl foundation. I like driving a gigantic, gas-guzzling SUV high above the freeway even though it goes against every liberal sensibility I swear by.  I like that my cousins listen to country, and that my cowboy boots are actually from D&D Ranch and Supply. I like salty, fatty Tex-Mex from places that start with El and La. Places that are neither clean nor vegetarian.  And I like that I know how to ride a horse and elongate my vowels. 

So I staunchly defend Texas, but I do not wish I were from Texas. I like too many things about being an Oregonian, so I'm content to call Texas home once removed. Still, though, had my mother done what was expected of her, I would be a Texan. No questions asked, most likely there to stay.  If you change something crucial about your identity—the state from which you hail, for example—how much of you really changes?  That, I do not know.  What I do know is that tomorrow I'm getting on a plane heading South not West, and it's exactly the direction I want to fly. 

I Like The Way You Move

My teacher training program drilled the moves of classroom management into my mind until I was dreaming in teacher-speak.  I mean moves in the most literal sense.  Plays like in Football, moves like in chess, calculated game at a bar.  It was a packaged deal: learn to control a classroom of hormonal adolescents in nine easy steps (no money back guarantee, though).  This precise method to managing the madness is progressive and mostly effective, a hallmark of the “no-excuses” classroom.   And for this method, my sanity is forever grateful.  Distill something massive into an exact, replicable science and practice, practice, practice until the impossible becomes second nature.  Like a puppet master, use non-verbals and hand gestures to make kids sit up, turn around, face forward.  Modulate your voice while delivering consequences.  Stop and stare.  Self-interrupt.  Be emotionally constant. 

I had a reunion dinner this week with several of the people who completed the teacher training program with me.  We talked about the endless perks of being a second-year teacher.  My friend Andrew mentioned that he lets his personality show through a lot more in the classroom—that he actually uses his personality as a management tool.  While this move was never taught in our teacher training curriculum, I got what he meant.  My teacher-self is no longer at odds with my normal-self, she’s just a slightly more-in-control version with frumpier clothes.  No longer a manic Sybil, my unified self is contented.  My classroom is also a much saner place.  This is probably not a coincidence.

This prescribed method of classroom management can look like a robo-teacher conducting a tiny military, but this doesn’t have to be the case.  What my program failed to emphasize—or maybe a nuance I failed to internalize—is that within this disciplined framework, there is ample room for personality and modification.  That, in concert with a firm background in these moves, your personality is the single greatest classroom management tool you’ve got.  Conversely, if you’re lacking in the personality department, these moves may lose their effectiveness. 

More than anything, kids long to see humanity in their teachers.  To know that you make jokes and laugh when things are ridiculous. To know that you do things (sub-free things) on the weekend, have interests and hobbies and brothers and sisters.  To know that you are quirky just like them. Kids respect personality more than much else.  A shared understanding of what’s happening around us makes the classroom a happier space.  I faulted my program for removing the humanity and personality from the profession.  It seemed to clash so irreconcilably with my West Coast sentiments.  I see now, though, that with a firm grasp of the moves, you free up space to layer on personality and use it to your advantage.  Within reason, imbuing your teacher self with your normal self yields great results. 

Why We Slide

I spent many years of my life under the impression that I loved art museums.   Those monoliths of culture, those labyrinths housing the relics of our time, those places where I belonged and felt inspired.  I knew museums were important, the type of thing I was supposed to love, and so I dutifully visited their hallowed hallways. I traipsed through museums in several continents and dozens of cities—with friends, family, boyfriends and strangers—until they turned into a giant unrecognizable blob of oil paint and gift shops.   But I didn’t admit that to myself.  I was a proud museum-goer, pretentiously soaking up culture and loving every ounce of artsy cred I was getting.  

It wasn’t until recently that I started to wonder about me and the museum—coincidentally, the pending title of my upcoming instructional manual on how to pretend you like museums.  As my already-pathetic attention span dwindles down to close to nothing, I find it increasingly difficult to buy into the idea that I love museums.  I have loved specific museums and specific exhibits, but I’ve begun to realize that I might not be the museum type I once assumed I was.  Huge buildings that require quiet contemplation without definitive end time are not exactly my thing.  This realization is mildly disorienting.  Have I changed as a person or was I lying to myself all along?

My best friend Majken is a graduate student in museum studies.  Not only is she a museum lover in the purest sense, but she’s interested in what museums say about society, what role they play in our communities, how they function in a much broader sense.  Majken’s totally genuine interest in museums is awesome.  Talking to her about this field, I’ve realized a few things that shed light on me and the museum. Not all museums are for everyone. It’s okay if I like some museums—read: small, interactive ones—and would rather avoid others.  It’s okay if I don’t want to look at 16^th Century Italian art for very long. Or ever.   In some ways, this helps legitimize my budding identification as a non-museum lover. I can pick and choose which museums I visit and for how long.  This is a relief.  I can casually like museums.   Love some, abhor others, spend no more than an hour in any one.   

This brings me to the slide.  I’ve always liked the New Museum—small, modern, close to Brooklyn, with a sweet roof-deck and bookstore attached.  When I heard the New Museum was installing a 40-foot slide I was as excited as most 24-year-olds get when they hear the word slide.  I went to the exhibit—Carsten Holler—on opening weekend and waited an hour to race down a three-story tunnel slide on the Bowery on a strip of canvas.  In addition to the slide, there was a mirrored carousel, a nude sensory deprivation-tank and upside down goggles.  I’m not sure if any of this is art. If it is art, I’m not sure it’s any good or what it means. Moreover, I'm not sure I care. What I do know is that the exhibit was really fun.  Kids and adults were chatting, laughing, experiencing the odd dissonance between playground and art museum.   As I left the museum, I didn’t feel that faux-sense of cultural validation—thank God that’s over and I can eat—but I did feel happy and intrigued.  Maybe, for me and others in my camp, that’s exactly what we need from a Sunday trip to the museum.

   

Baring All on October 31

I had catch-up dinners with two different friends this week. Once we'd covered job, friends and love life, we got into what really matters: Halloween. Fodder for conversation. Costume decisions and bar-hopping routes are the just the tip of the Halloween iceberg, entry points into a more philosophical discussion. For twentysomethings still riding high on the coattails of college, Halloween is an institution—everyone’s favorite or least favorite holiday—rife with story, connotation and debate.  

Yesterday, I got an email from a college friend—subject line “Halloween”— saying only: “I’ve figured out a way to my wear my nude bodysuit again this year!”  Like your favorite black cardigan, a nude body suit is a useful transition piece—from Lady Godiva to the Coppertone Girl to a Never Nude to a streaker.  When you shell out for such an item at the Claremont, California sex shop, you expect it to deliver until it gets too snug.  For those who have made similar investments, rest easy: Slutty Halloween is here to stay.  Your tight-fitting nude bodysuit will always be en vogue on October 31. 

For whatever reason, the holiday formerly marked by Reeses Cups and friendly ghosts has become a nationwide slutfest starting around age 18. From unknown origins, Halloween has burgeoned into a yearly excuse to bare all under infinite guises. 

The first dinner was Brooklyn Thai with a friend who also experienced life as a women’s college undergraduate. As such, we share a similar set of jumbled feminist values that we can conveniently pull out or obscure at will. She expressed a general distaste for slutty Halloween, a tradition she forcefully defies every year.   Intellectually, I totally agree.  There’s a feminist disconnect inherent in Slutty Halloween that doesn’t sit well when I stop to think about it. How is it that empowered women spout gender theory in co-ed classes, best their male counterparts on exams and hold their own in every professional field, yet still relish the autumn opportunity to dress like a costumed slut and let booze drip down their insides for the benefit of barely-costumed men? More personally: How is it that I studied feminist literature with professors I admire and still dressed up as a slutty Pikachu one year? And, embarrassingly generic, a slutty firefighter the next?  Couldn’t I have just been Jane Austen?

The feminist in me objects to the objectification, the explicit provocation for men who spend little time on their own costumes.  But a new strand of feminism insists that we’re past all that—that the choice to dress provocatively is empowering in its own right. The stereotyped posterchild for this way of thinking is Samantha from “Sex and the City.”  As powerful women, we can do what we want with our bodies and our wardrobe. It shouldn’t affect who we are or where we stand.  In some ways, Halloween embodies this power of choice, but I do think the costumes would make Betty Friedan and co. blush for more than one reason.   It doesn’t quite add up, but the question is: Does the apparent disconnect really matter? Of all the feminist battles to fight, is Slutty Halloween really worth our time?

The second dinner was Manhattan Italian with a close male friend from college, someone whom I’d probably drunkenly encountered on four separate Halloweens.  Sipping red wine, we rehashed our college costumes.  When I got to “cowgirl,” he repeated twice, “oh yeah. I remember that one.”  While my friend is mostly an upstanding gentleman, I had a feeling his memory was more exposed pushup bra and denim mini skirt than the  historical accuracy of my Annie Oakley—handstiched boots and bolo tie imported directly from the Lone Star State.  But he can’t be blamed. I dressed up as a sexy cowgirl of my own free will, implicitly for the benefit of the men I was sure to encounter.

Southern California was the perfect backdrop for slutty Halloween.  Still warm well into October, we had little choice but to masquerade as glorified prostitutes once a year (one year, a group ironically dressed up as actual prostitutes, because why not?) Anything can be turned slutty—the hoochier the better.   At the time, I don’t think dressing up as a non-slutty nurse, lobster, cadaver, Pokemon, Sarah Palin, Steve Jobs even crossed my mind. Why bother going out? Slutty Halloween is institutionalized. Well into our twenties, we can’t shake the connotation, nor do most seem to want to.  The conservative among us get a chance to cut loose and the already loose among us are vindicated.  The formerly-wholesome holiday has officially been degraded, but only the slimmest minority seems to want to reverse the trend: http://takebackhalloween.org/.  

I asked a coworker for her thoughts on Slutty Halloween. “Well, it works,” she responded, and explained that she met a long-term boyfriend at a Halloween party.  I was reminded of my college roommate, who is now engaged to a man she started dating on Halloween.  I doubt either of these respectable women was fully clothed. These tales of Halloween love are definitely coincidence, right?

Frankly, Slutty Halloween is fun and harmless.  This year, I’m dressing up as Amelia Earhart.  My choice to dress up as an overly-clothed, independent woman is not meant to be a feminist statement.  At all. I just wanted to buy some aviator goggles and a cap.  When a male friend asked if I was going to be Amelia EarWHORE, I laughed. Because it’s funny.  And if Amelia does ends up wearing a push-up bra and shorts instead of pants: sue me.

Middle School 101

Fact: Middle schoolers have a bad reputation.  Arguably deserved. 

No one thinks too highly of these awkward in-between years. Kids have mostly shed their cute factor, but have yet to replace it with any other factor. They are loud and run in packs--leaning on the safety of blending in when individuality seems terrifying. There’s a common perception of middle school kid as volcano, a sweaty Vesuvius waiting to explode with the slightest provocation.   Middle schoolers are known for hormones, animal noises, bad smells.  Hence the reputation.  

When I tell anyone I teach middle school, the response is a clenched grin and one of these stock diplomatic phrases:

“Wow, that’s a rough age.”  (read: that sucks)

“God bless you!” (read: I know neither of us is religious, but I can’t think of anything better to say)

“I hated middle school.” (read: I had braces twice and boyfriends never)

“That’s a lot of hormones in one building.” (read: middle schoolers smell and get their periods. Don’t you want a desk job?)

Thanks for the support, friends.  Sometimes I try to defend the age group, but mostly I just change the subject.

“So, what do you do?”

Middle school is an undeniably awkward stage of life. The bad reputation is mostly deserved, but I’ve developed a soft spot for hormonal 7^th graders.  It’s not Devonte’s fault that his best friend is literally twice his size with twice as many girlfriends.  Nor is it Kevin’s fault that his mom calls his teachers every day to check up on his homework completion (maybe if he did his homework, she’d stop, but that’s beside the point). It is Alisha’s fault that she asked me for a “pad for her period” in front of half the class. Nice alliteration, Alisha, here's a pass to go to the office.

Middle schoolers are starting to come into their own, slowly developing budding senses of self. This is terrifyiningly exciting.  The road is obstacle-ridden like Downtown Brooklyn, and they need all the help they can get  navigating it.  As a middle school teacher, you get to help out 75 kids during their bleakest hour. All in a day's work.

Teaching middle school involves endurance.  You must endure millions of unwarranted eye rolls and buckets of sass worse than anything you remember dishing out. You must endure a classroom that smells like the amalgamated body odor of 25 pre-teens.  You must endure note-passing, teeth sucking, classroom flirting, constant lip-gloss application.  But as a middle school teacher, you are rewarded for your endurance.  You are rewarded by the student who uses every single vocabulary word you've taught her on her unit test--each accompanied by a smiley face.  By the thank you notes and cartoons dropped on your desk. By the priceless running document of quotes on your desktop.  The bad reputation middle schoolers have garnered is maybe deserved, but it masks a lot of the cute stuff about the age group.  The skeptics probably haven't spent a day in a middle school since they were learning the periodic table.  I'm not sure I blame them, but still.

A sense of humor and yoga help me keep calm and carry on. Mostly, though, I remind myself of one fact:  It is so much better to teach middle schoolers than it is to be a middle schooler.  So. Much. Better.   On particularly trying days (today, for example), this becomes a wise mantra.  Someday, each of my students will have a similar sense of perspective. For now, I repeat it in my head during choice interactions--moments of extreme endurance--and this job actually becomes pretty fun.

Traveling Pants

Women’s college instilled in me persistent ideas about sisterhood—a concept that’s related to but distinct from feminism.  Along with traveling pants, there are hallmarks of sisterhood; there are unwritten rules.  In the iteration I know best, sisterhood involves fierce loyalty, red wine and late-night voyages to either the frozen yogurt shop or a more grown-up shop. Both in one night for the ambitious.  As a graduate of a place where the water was metallic with the taste of sisterhood, I carry with me an outline of how I should treat other women and how they should treat me in return.  Then, how all this corresponds to the way we date. The outline can be titled, crassly, “Chicks Before Dicks,” but the sub-points are infinite and nuanced.

As a mostly single woman, I attempt to navigate hetero-dating terrain while staying true to the sisterhood.  This can be tricky.   At school, whenever I started to date someone, I felt a pang of guilt for spending my Friday nights with a boy rather than with the sisterhood.  Intellectually, I knew this was crazy, but it always felt like I’d broken a rule, betrayed my sisters for a co-ed who may or may not turn out to be important. No matter who I chose—the sisterhood or a boy—guilt was unavoidable.   It was a near-impossible balancing act: admitting to yourself that you did, indeed, want to date, but that you also wanted to be a genuine part of the sisterhood. Not the flakey sister who came and went with the unpredictable tides of relationships.  When a friend left the flock for a boy, we’d be excited, but there were undertones of less enthusiastic emotions from the sisters left behind.   The seedy underbelly of sisterhood. 

This weekend, I messed with the rules of sisterhood by putting a dating desire over the feelings of another woman.   This isn’t really my style.  There’s not much space in sisterhood for that type of girl, but suddenly I was strutting in her ill-fitting shoes.  I felt guilty about the minor betrayal, but mostly I started to think about contemporary sisterhood more broadly.   How should sisterhood play out as we date and try to keep balance?

In the past, I have strained relationships by being too distant.  When I isolated sisterhood at the peak of the priority mountain, I realize looking back that I wasn’t much of a girlfriend.   On the flipside, I have made irresponsible, embarrassing dating decisions—blatantly going against the advice of my girlfriends and knocking over others on my way.  Being a member in good-standing is no easy feat.  You practice and learn from your mistakes, but there are always more to be made. Hurt feelings, confused boys, offended girls.  I have been on both sides.  Sisterhood is important, but so too is functional dating in your twenties. Isolating one too dramatically can lead to an imbalance from which it might be hard to recover.  Maybe the answer is to wear your traveling pants on a date and your sexiest underwear out with your girlfriends. Subtle reminders to stay conscious while pursuing what feels right.