I Am Teacher

I could have gotten my Real Estate license.  I could have only gone to school for two years and would have made a very efficient paralegal.   The local Starbucks is always in need of friendly help.  This is the daily morning conversation with myself on my way to school.  I could have done any one of those things.  But I didn't.  I chose to teach English to unruly teenagers instead.  I have to remind myself of why I made this decision, though it often escapes me.  I'm shaping young minds, I say.  I'm making a difference.  I am molding the future of my children to come.  All of that does not matter when the heel of my black pump french kisses the wad of blue gum stuck onto the hallway floor and I am rooted in place, in the midst of dancing teenage eyes.  All of this does not matter when I discover that that same gum has found itself into the key hole of my door. It does not matter when I am stuck in a showdown with a young man who could throw me over simply by breathing in my direction because he is late for the third time without a pass.  It does not matter when the class has performing a coup de tat and I have been overthrown.  It especially does not matter when I have spent over ten hours on a beautiful Saturday preparing a well-thought out lesson only to be interrupted by, 

"Can I have the pass?" 

"Mrs. S, new shoes? They're ugly"  

"I thought teacher's were smart."  

"We had homework?" 

"You're not fair" "

I don't want to." 

"You can't make me."

"What are you gonna do about it?"

Why is this a noble profession again?  Why am I not on a farm in the middle of Virginia growing my own organic tomatoes, weaving baskets barefoot, strumming on an old guitar by the "crick" watching the sun set from my dilapidated porch front yelling to Jimmy, the boy next door with the fishing pole to "Catch a big 'un!" 

Why?  Because I am shaping young minds in New Jersey.  I am attempting to shape young minds in New Jersey.  I am praying that the young minds may let me speak for at least ten minutes of the class period.  I am asking God that the young minds would perhaps not be so hostile to the good little teacher.  I am seeking refuge in the Teacher's bathroom hoping the young minds won't find me for another minute while I wipe tears of frustration.  I am hoping the young minds will sit down in their seats instead of on the window ledges and stop using profane language-at least not be so loud when my supervisor walks by-and that they will not eat in my classroom and that they stop telling me to piss off-and that perhaps they will realize that I actually care for them but the space in my soul is getting smaller and smaller....

I am teacher.  For now.  For as long as I can make it in this noble profession.  However, for the record, making espresso is more than a job.  It is an art.  

Day Off

I don't think I'll go to work today.  I think I'll read the first Harry Potter book out loud to myself-using all of the voices.  I think I'll go for a walk, find my favorite house, pretend that I own it and then imagine which color I would paint the front door.  I think I'll go to the fancy high-priced grocery store and find the greenest asparagus, the reddest tomatoes and the sweetest smelling mango and eat them all raw in the car.  I think I'll go to the bookstore just to look at all of the pictures and sip a latte with too much foam.  I think I'll practice my Portuguese saying, "The dog is under the table" simply because I like the way the words feel in my mouth.  Cachorro...

I think I'll watch the Lord of the Rings Trilogy back to back without ever once getting up to make a sandwich. I think no matter how many times it rings, I won't answer the phone. I think I'll take a shower until the water runs cold and sing only songs that I've made up and run out frantically to write down the ones I like.  I think I'll call an old friend from college while she's at work, only to leave a message on her voicemail bragging about my day off.  I think I'll pretend I'm a painter, just for a few seconds and buy fresh flowers for the bedroom.  Something purple.  I've always hated purple, but not today. I think I'll write down all of the things I love about my husband, then call him at work and read it all in one breath.  I think it is going to be a great day.

Things that end in "IE"

I believe I have more than an average command of the English language.  That is not a statement made in arrogance nor one tempered in humility.  I have perfected the fine-art of English language snobbery.  A fact, plain and simple. I hold back waves of nausea as teenagers giggle back in forth in some foreign mutilated version of said beloved language.  I quiver when a "yous guys" is thrown in my general direction.  But most of all, the offense above all offenses is the dreaded  "IE".  

 You know exactly what I am referring to.  Mother's especially have perfected this somehow universally accepted adaptation at the end of all uncomfortable nouns.  "Does Charlie have to go "poopIE?" "Let's go right down to the pottIE, then!"  "Time to put on your jammIES!" "Don't forget to change your pantIES!" I have such physical adverse reactions to the "IE" that I now have to remove myself from the situation entirely in order to avoid confrontation or spontaneous combustion.  Who was the one who decided that an "IE" addition somehow made words that are otherwise awkward, socially acceptable?  Forgive me if I'm wrong, but there is no possible way to make poop endearing if it is interjected in a cocktail party conversation no matter how many suffixes are added.  

Now, I want to make it clear that though most "IE"'s evoke cold sweats and jitters, I do not carry a malicious prejudice.  When the odd couple is interjected in the middle of a word,   such as "belIEve"  and "achIEVe", I can breath easily again the breath of one whose love has been redeemed.  Just as any other citizen moved by social injustice, I am merely expressing my outrage at such abuse.  Something must be done!

If there is anyone else that shares my "IE" aversion, take a stand.  Let us bring forth a united front.  For the sake of our children.  For the sake of our nation.  It all begins with a step in the right direction.  I'd be willing to discuss it further over dinner-only, no foodIE's please.

kindalikeoprah

 This evening I surprised my husband by making reservations at a restaurant we've both been wanting to go to ever since we moved to the Montclair area.  After several courses and more wine than my 5'4 frame can handle, we began giggling and telling stories while he watched T.V. and I checked my e-mail.   One story in particular always makes me laugh (with or without the wine) and it just so happens to be the catalyst of this very blog.  My husband is a social worker, and a few months ago he was doing his utmost to assist a client as he took down some information concerning her background.   Upon the discovery that she had a daughter, he requested to see the child's birth certificate.  There, in official black letters blared the legacy of her middle name.  Kindalikeoprah, all one word with a capital K.   No laughing, please.  Needless to say, in the dark of night on a Friday after a considerably delicious meal and an excessive vino consumption, this name was chosen among the masses to grace the face of my new blog.  I may regret it tomorrow.  I may not remember it tomorrow.  But, for now I have to say, Ikindalikeit.