Which pool are you?

I got all of the best parts in the musicals when I was High School. It's true. According to me, that is. In each part I was able to portray the villain, the harlot, the rogue, the outcast, the loud-mouth, the extrovert-it was a hell of a lot of fun to have the license to act entirely out of the box for my personality. All of the characters I played were dynamic, authoritative, risky- in real life, I'm about as risky as a kiddie pool. I needed to get it out somewhere, and on stage was the safest place to be risky without any consequences.
As I've grown older I haven't had the stage to fall back on. My heart's been yearning for something daring. Something dangerous, even. But truthfully, I'd simply settle for something different. Even if I were still a thespian, if you will, I think I would still feel the same. There comes a time when we are mature enough to recognize that we are being called out. Called forth by God. To be daring in our faith. To be bold. To lay claim to the joy he's promised. Being on stage and pretending just wouldn't cut it anymore.
It proves to be quite a quandary, considering my still kiddie-pool status. How do I step up? Make bold leaps of faith? Simply BELIEVE that God will provide, that he loves me, I am his child and that he desires me to have the desires of my heart? How do I embrace the fact that he may be calling me into deeper waters? The diving pool even?!?
Calling all kiddie pools- panicked, demure, non-invasive, subtle, soft-spoken kiddie pools- let's figure this out together.

Mad Organic Disease

    

 I eat fairly well. I love green veggies. I drink lots of water. I don't even like soda or soft-drinks of any kind. Save my weekly, late-night love affairs with an ice-cream carton (maybe two if I'm feeling scandalous), I would qualify myself as a healthy eater.
That is, until I read a book that currently has me hyper-ventilating every time the fridge looks a little low at the thought of having to traverse to the grocery store. The title will not be mentioned as this is not a rant or diatribe of any sort- it was a fabulous book. Well written, well researched and well thought-out. Trouble is, it successfully scared the ever-loving crap out of me.
"Organic" has become more of a trendy word than one with substance. It's emblazoned across shelves of brightly colored canned goods, splotched haphazardly onto meat products. It graces the faces of popular facial cleansers. I simply thought it was synonymous with "cool".
"Fair trade" and "grass-fed" were grouped into the "cool" category as well. I knew inherently the deeper, truer meaning of these words but there was no connection other than the superficial. Until...
The nightmare began when I opened the first few pages. They spray my veggies with what?!?! It costs how much to fly bananas to New Jersey so that I can eat them in November? In what living conditions are my hamburgers sitting in when they are cows? They feed chickens...chicken? I am single-handedly taking the food out of the mouths of poor local farmers children if I so much as glance longingly at the asparagus displayed in aisle three just in time for Christmas dinner?
Those who know me understand that I am prone to panic. I think, secretly, I must love to do it since it frequents me so often. I am panicking. I have to rid my kitchen of any and all non-organic items. Looking at the tomato I've just purchased in the morning at our neighborhood grocery store makes me queasy.  I was so proud of it only a few hours ago.  Big as a softball.  Now all I could think of was the horrific chemical cocktail  it must have been fed in order to get to be that size.

 I am examining everything. I believe I can actually smell the hormones injected into the sirloin I was defrosting for dinner. Suddenly, images of leering veggies in my fridge are haunting my thoughts. I know they are laughing at me in secret. Pointing their stems. "You're going to eat me," they taunt, "and you have no idea that I'm not even an eggplant! I am mechanically separated, processed cornstarch and have sat on a truck for 5 days without refrigeration! HA!"

However, I do come down after a while and resort to some sort of reason. I cannot live one-hundred percent organically on a teacher's salary. I am not solely responsible for the suffering local farming population. Oh, and this is not A Beautiful Mind. My vegetables are certainly not laughing at me. But, I can make a few choices that will alleviate the organic gorilla sitting on my chest.
So, I'll go to the local farmer's market and buy some organic produce on the weekends-and maybe make a farmer friend or two- (and probably feed his kid just to avoid any lingering guilt.) If I can't afford to buy grass-fed, organic meat all the time, maybe we just won't eat meat as often. I still cannot bring myself to return to Shoprite after I had cannibalistic cow dreams-small steps, small steps. But as soon as they start making organic ding-dongs, we're back in business.

Gee, Whiz

I have lunch duty. It is the most rediculous, thank-less, pitiful task that comes with being a teacher. I meander around the cafeteria half-heartedly reminding kids to throw out their garbage. Take off their hats. Put their cell-phones away. Stop giving me the middle finger as I walk away. Only to have to do it all again on my second, third time around. Hard earned, tax paying dollars have me baby-sit sixteen year olds and observe their daily eating habits. Sometimes I stop to chat. Be friendly. Attempt to rid myself of the acquired Gestapo title.
It is during these times of short-lived interest that I have begun to notice something rather unsettling.
"Hey, Mrs. Shannon," they grin, braces swimming in what appears to have been blue slushy.
"Mrs. S, up top!" one of them calls, one hand outstretched while the other clings to a frisbee sized soft pretzel. "Miss- we got any homework?" Another inquires between bites of a chocolate chip cookie that I'm positive if I were just a bit closer I would be the first person on record to inhale diabetes. Finally, after a cheese whiz assault on my new sweater I ask the question no one seems to be concerned with, "What the hell are you eating?"
Needless to say they were much more enamored with my choice of vocabulary than the concern I expressed for their dietary needs. They giggled. Standing stone-faced I tried to atriculate that partially hydrogenated soy what-have-you is no laughing matter. That there was enough dye in one of those blue slushies to breathe the life back into my stone-washed jeans. And, do you even know what cheese whiz is? It's not cheese. That only leaves one other option.
Apparently, I am making jokes. I try to make suggestions. There are some beautiful apples over there, wouldn't you rather have that? Carrots are a beautiful color- a natural color, why don't you try them? How about bringing some real cheese from home? Something with a decent name? Cheddar? Or Gouda, perhaps? They giggle. They think I'm hilarious. I'm imagining the next job assignment for lunch duty would be to grease the doorways. I'm picturing my students bloated faces and bodies bouncing in the halls, taking turns coming through the doors. And they think this is funny.
With all of this emphasis on physical education, why isn't anyone teaching these children that carbohydrates are only one part of a balanced diet? Apparently I was wrong to believe that it is common sense not to eat if you are unaware of the contents. Bemused, I walk away shaking my head. "I'm afraid," I call after them, "you'll begin eating the wrappers soon." They giggle again as they pour neon orange goo down their throats. Oh, little do they know how validated that fear truly is.

Thank you, Baz Lurhmann

There are few things that ever change in public school- Shakespeare, for example. I, for one, seem to be the only one in favor of that. If you were a fly on my wall in my fifth period Freshman class this past week you may have mistaken it for an auction. "Who wants to be Romeo today?" "Romeo, anybody?" "Romeo, going once, going twice..." Kids are just not interested in the tragic plight of the star-crossed lovers. I have no idea why. It's full of violence and sex, baudy humor and horror-everything they seem to "be into", as they say.

Needless to say, after the fourth day of cohercing them, bribing them, screaming at them and threatening them I had quickly run out of options and I resorted to the "I am a terrible teacher" standby. I brought in the movie.

However, I did't bring in just any Romeo and Juliet- Mr. Zeferelli, I mean no offense-but Baz Lurhmann's action packed, pretty face-filled animated and theatrically colored "Romeo and Juliet."

The scene was beautifully played out as they walked in to a dimmed room and the all too familiar blue screen.
"Yo, Mrs. S, we watchin a movie?" Oh yes, I nodded.
"It ain't gonna be that old Romeo sh*t, is it?" Oh, no I smiled. Not that old Romeo sh*t. During the opening scene I sat at my desk to watch their faces and grinned wickedly at my immediate victory. No one has complained in 5 minutes. No one has thrown anything. Gotten in my face. Asked for the pass. Gotten something in their eye. Recieved a purple nurple. All is silent- save the echo of glocks and shouting, and an occasional musing from Mr. DiCaprio.

"Yo, Mrs. S they got guns?!?" "That sh*t is wack" are the only comments as the movie progresses. The girls sigh during the love scenes. The boys tap each other during the gun fire. But the best thing is- they are learning without having any idea. I am brilliant.

I have to stand to get ready to turn it off- the period will be over in 2 minutes. In the flickering blue glare I detect the tear-streaks on a few girls faces as Romeo takes his final swallow of the poison that will kill him. As I stride toward the television to cut it off, the room echos with the first sounds from living beings that I have heard during the entire period- "NOOOOOOOOOOO" they bellow in unision with the bell. They all get up- to crowd around the screen to catch Juliet's last breath before she blows her brains out. Shouts rise up- the first not to come from Leo. My kids are yelling. Screaming even. Kicking desks. They are angry. They are more than angry. Maybe I am not so brilliant.

"Why it gotta end like that, Mrs. S? Shakespeare some kinda sick ****?" "I mean, what the ****?" "Come ONNN!" I'm trying to keep the peace. Trying to explain. This is a tragedy. "Why the hell didn't you tell us that???" I again, peddle quicker, saying I did. You just weren't listening. You needed to witness.

They are all late for their next class but I am trying not to think of how many calls I will be getting to my room. I am secretly thrilled at the idea of having to explain to my co-workers how my students couldn't get enough of old William today. The screen fades to black and they reluctantly shuffle to the door but not before of them turns around,

" Hey Mrs. S? If we read tomorrow, I'm Romeo- a'ight?"