Around the world in 80 days

This weekend I bought a pair of ankle-length black jeans and a purple bicycle with a basket. All I need is an Hermes headscarf and a cobblestone street, and I can teleport to 1950s Rome. Spring is in the air, and I can taste summer. Can't wait. I want to eat summer with a steak knife and fork. Summer means sleeping in and books and vacation and food and beach and family and, best of all, no students. There is a weird conundrum occurring in my class: I feel less able to actually teach my students, but I also realize that I am getting to know them better and forging relationships. I don't want to leave them, and I feel a protectiveness toward them (maybe not the ones who write Fuck Ms. Ludwig on the desks, although I appreciate their formality). However, I'm pretty sure that I will only last 2 years in the teaching profession, tops. It makes you 'do too much,' as my kids say.

In an effort to think of greener pastures, Dawson and I have been debating the merits of moving vs. traveling. He claims they are not mutually exclusive, whereas I monitor the pursestrings and contend that at this point in our lives, they very well may be. I know that we have at least one more move in us, but I don't know when or where. I also know that it's been nearly five years since we've traveled abroad (it turns out being married takes a bite out of your wallet), and I'm coming down with a case of wanderlust. Also, serious contemplation of a map of the United States didn't help. It all seemed very red and/or cold. I drank a lot of wine to see if inspiration would strike. It did not. If we move, I kinda want it to be internationally for about a year, but that means learning another language. At this point, more school makes me nauseous. Also, there are the nephews to consider. They are getting too big too fast. Six to choose from, and you'd think at least one would have the grace to slow it down, but no. On the other hand, the older they get, the more able they'd be to visit. And who wouldn't want to visit a Tia and Tio who live in, oh, I don't know, Paris? The Woof is already well-suited for the French, what with her haughtiness and aloof ways. And she does love cheese...

For a minute there, I lost myself.

The last words I wrote were "I'll let you know how it goes." That was 71 days ago, as I was on the cusp of my very first solo teaching job. 71 days ago. That's how it went.

Friends and family want to know if I've had any teaching horror stories since then. "Well, can you be specific?" I think. "What do you mean by horror story?" As I've been trying (probably unsuccessfully) to teach my kids, context is everything. One teacher's horror story is another teacher's day in the park. I consider it a success if my students:

a.) don't tell me how bored they are

b.) don't cuss me out and/or slam the door as they storm out

c.) don't cuss another student out and/or slam the door in another student's face

d.) don't have two lockdowns in one week because there's a gunman in the neighborhood (sorry mom; dad knows)

e.) all of the above

On the whole, I love my students, I love my school. Most of my stress doesn't come from teaching, but rather the program that is supposed to be teaching me how to be a teacher. The state of California has made it harder to get your credential without providing the actual tools you need to survive the first year of teaching (like a Cat O'nine Tails). My Master's degree (an actual intellectual challenge) was a breeze in comparison. You cannot come out of this inane ridiculousness unscathed. Not unless you have a proclivity for stupid questions (oh yes. There is such a thing; and stupid answers, for that matter) or endless checklists.

In other goings-on, I went to a meditation retreat this weekend to slough away the torture that is test prep and first year teaching. This is something that I would have NEVER done before, but I actually really like meditation (humming, if you're talking to my dad). The best part about this retreat was that I was responsible for doing absolutely nothing but eating, sleeping, and meditating. We were encouraged not to talk on our phones or even read books, and alarm clocks were banned. It was like being in an episode of Dharma & Greg. The worst part was that I was coaxed into a state of blissful relaxation but then given one hour lectures on the effect of meditation on the brain and body. This negated all of my friendly feelings. At one point, I started playing "here is the church, here is the steeple" with my hands. Plus, the instructor kept talking in a somnolescent voice that was meant to be comforting but started to grate on my nerves....especially when he used that same voice to tell corny dad jokes. I have a dad for that; he lives up to the challenge. I realize, however, that the problem is me. Whereas most people probably used this experience to become a better person, I used it to truly fall in love with the iPhone, which I surreptitiously used to check my email and read the New York Times after lights out. I also used it to fall a little more in love with Francie Nolan, the bedraggled protagonist of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Whatever my feelings on the book, it will probably always remind me of having to read sneakily, like a girl at summer camp after quiet hours. Although, maybe the retreat did give me more motivation and clarity. I finally updated my blog, after all.

Signs of Struggle

So, I'm that teacher. You know the one -- the teacher that's covered in chalk (or in my case overhead markers) and has several pencils in her hair by the end of the day? I also answered my own question and decided that I can wear the same pair of pants at least twice in one week; I'm pretty sure that doesn't make me any cooler. Looking back, I realize that the teachers I had who were chalk-covered and unkempt didn't have time to care. Neither do I, but my plight is also partly to blame on my genes. My mom, sister, and I are graceless. My sister could trick you -- she looks and walks like grace itself, but if you watch her for awhile, you'll notice she's just like me.

My master teacher would just laugh and say that "certain things are hard for you, eh Ludwig?" But now she's gone. Friday was her last day; she has entered the last few weeks of pregnancy and confidently left me in her stead. I think she may be too confident. I woke up with a stomachache every day last week. All the seasoned teachers tell me that it's normal to be nervous, and that, if I in fact weren't nervous, something would be wrong with me. This is no comfort. My mom's reaction? "Oh mija, you're going to be wonderful. Those kids are so lucky to have you!" Also no comfort. She'd say the same thing if I became a professional dog-walker, just replace 'kids' with 'dogs'.

To add insult to my psychological injury, my credential program has made sure to keep me drowning in busy work for the foreseeable future. This means that my favorite stress-relieving activity, reading, is not really an option. The last book I read was Freedomland. I started A Confederacy of Dunces (my new favorite way to refer to my credential program as a whole), but it was unfortunately hilarious from the jump. It took everything in my power to put it down. Now Ignatius Reilly is mocking me, staring up at me from my nightstand. Even worse, my brain turns mushy when I don't read, which perpetuates my fear cycle that I won't be a good teacher, but to be a good anything, I need to have me-time, but there is no me-time, so alas...

I'll let you know how it goes.

Too Legit to Quit

Last night as I was walking home, I passed a gaggle of overdressed teenage girls standing about 10 feet away from a homeless man and his dog.

"I don't want just a homeless person. I want, like, a legit homeless person," whined one of the girls, looking in the man's direction. She appeared to be the leader of the troop; the other girls clucked around her, nodded in agreement, and put their cameras down dejectedly. They went clicking down the street in search of more squalid pastures.

I spent the rest of my 15-minute walk home alternately angry and amused at their audacious idiocy. What is a legit homeless person, I wondered? Do they have to have dreads? Smell like urine and feces? Look hungry and hopeless? Be doing drugs on the street? Does their dog have to look emaciated and rabid? Should they be crying uncontrollably at their lot, or just muttering unintelligibly? What about the new wave of homeless people who lost their abodes because of the recession? Are they automatically discounted because it's not 'legit'?

I went to a baby shower this weekend, where I could only hope that the baby girl to come doesn't grow up to be the type of teen who trolls for human misery. Before the shower, I dutifully and excitedly went shopping for a gift -- I have six nephews; shopping for a girl seemed like fun. No. Babies R Us is, I think, the first test of parenthood. Who organizes their stores? I'll admit, I'm not a great shopper (my sister can attest), but I only lasted about five minutes before becoming completely overwhelmed and overheated. Why are there two different rows of baby washcloths, for instance? And why are the swaddly-things in different locations? Better yet, why are babies now sleeping in sacks? It's like we're raising an entire generation to live in the Swiss Family Robinson treehouse. Every time I thought I located something on the registry, I'd match up the sku numbers like I had won the lottery, only to realize that the last two numbers didn't match. When I finally located a harried worker for help, she chirped, "Oh, that's right over here." We then walked across the entire store (any further and we would have been outside), and even she couldn't find the promised item. I briefly contemplated telling her the true meaning of 'right over here' but was too tired.

By the time I was finished, I was actually sweating. I found Dawson in the parking lot (he had wisely chosen not to come in), and flopped heavily into the passenger seat.

"Never!" I claimed.

"Never," he answered. And then Virginia climbed into my lap.

Is This Real Life?

"I’m not prepared for this." - Jack Donaghy

"I know. I’m not drunk either, but we’ll manage." - Cooter

Alas, I do not really know what to write about this week. So much happened, and yet so little of it seems worth talking about. I am slowly resigning myself to the fact that Dawson and I have become like two ships passing in the night (literally, not emotionally. I may not have a blog theme yet, but it isn’t going to be that). Our schedules have become hectic, and most days we only see each other for 20 minutes to pass off the dog, the hassle of which only further demonstrate how outrageously spoiled she is.

These separations are new for us; one or both of us was usually working from home or unemployed for the majority of our marriage. While our apartment now is pleasantly small, we cut our wedded teeth in a New York City apartment the size of a shoebox. Seriously, the place didn’t even have a closet. Fortunately, I really like him, and he really likes me, so we got used to working in the same room, taking breaks together, and generally being unhealthily attached. It works for us. This bifurcated life we’re currently leading does not. Even Virginia seems stressed out. Well, more stressed out than usual. She eats less and refuses to go to the bathroom when I take her out at night, cowering at every noise and plane in the sky, waiting for Dawson to return, and looking at me disdainfully, as if to say, “This is your fault.”

To make matters worse, this topsy-turvy existence has made us edgy and oversensitive. Last week, Dawson was laboriously trying to mount our new TV to the wall when I broke apart the stud-finder thing. For the first time ever, he responded to my clumsiness by saying, “What’s wrong with you? How do you manage to do things like this?” Normally, he has an endless supply of patience and good humor. My eyes welled up with tears. Normally, I do not cry and would have found the situation funny. Luckily, he quickly apologized and retrieved his sense of bemusement at my lack of grace, and I swallowed the traitorous lump in my throat and retrieved my dignity. To borrow a line from David After Dentist, “Is this going to be forever?” Because this grown-up business is hard work.

Brave New World

In You've Got Mail, Meg Ryan says, "So much of what I see reminds me of what I read in a book, when, shouldn't it be the other way around?" I remember being momentarily stunned by this. First, because I don't really have common sense, and it took me a minute to suss out the meaning; and then, because I didn't understand why she seemed forlorn about her question. It rings true for me, and I've never thought there was anything wrong with my bookworm status, other than it's slightly expensive. (For example, my mom instituted a moratorium on the purchase of new books when I was 14 and instead presented me with a library card. To this day, I insist on owning my own books. Hardbacks and library books are for those who are self-disciplined enough not to bend and write and eat and bathe whilst a book is in their hands.)

In fact, it was a book that made me face an ugly truth about myself: I am not brave. I am sure of this. I just read Freedomland by Richard Price. I can only describe it as detective fiction having sex with The Wire. It is about a black detective who gets the case of Brenda, a white woman who claims that she was carjacked by a black man in the projects and that her four-year-old-son was in the car. At some point, Brenda states, "I am not brave. I've always known that about myself." I was struck by this because I never actually admitted my own cowardice, but instantly recognized the truth of it in Brenda's statement. I don't mean it in a daring-do sort of way (although it applies), but more about everyday decisions. I hate change, mostly because I'm scared of the new and like the path of least resistance. I avoided becoming a teacher because I was paralyzed by my own fears -- that I would be ineffective; that I wouldn't be able to explain content in a way that was understandable; that the students would see right through me.

Well, I am knee-deep in my teaching credential program and on the cusp of taking over a classroom full time. Although there are days when I feel effective, my fears remain -- the successes yo-yo with the failures. I am constantly questioning myself. How do I know which battles to fight (with and for my students)? How many times can I say the same thing before my students or I go crazy? How shrill does my voice sound right now? How many times can I wear the same pair of khaki pants in one week? Why don't they just shut up? This week, I had a kid say "Fuck you" to me because he was mad he had to wait for the bathroom pass and because I told him he had to apologize to the girl he made cry. The best part was he tried to waltz back in class after he said it, like it was a normal farewell, "Fuck you Ms. Ludwig. Have a great weekend!"....On the other hand, I managed to get a student who hadn't turned in any work for 3 months to write an entire essay. You win some, you lose some.

take a walk on the wild side

This week, I saw Avatar. At the risk of being redundant, it truly was an amazing visual experience. But I kinda hated it. For the first hour and a half, I just kept thinking, "This would be awesome if it were a silent movie." I wanted to be able to take in the beauty of that made-up land -- it was like watching a Planet Earth episode on acid -- without the awful dialogue distorting it (a personal favorite: "If there is a hell, you should go there for some R&R after a tour on Pandora"). For the rest of the movie, I vacillated between irritation and amusement. It was Disney meets Heart of Darkness, and it didn't work. Avatar tried to send a big message about colonialism and environmentalism and the rights of indigenous people and yet the savior of Pandora was white guy Jake Sully, who manipulates the Na'vi's history and religious beliefs to spring them to action. Give me a break. Plus, watching James Cameron's ego-stroking via gratuitous violence and 30 extra, should've-been-edited minutes was annoying. And, the reused 3D glasses grossed me out, but I'll admit that now I'm just being picky.

In other happenings, Haiti was devastated by an earthquake, and I feel disgustedly helpless. I've noticed that despite the continuous news coverage (a Haiti Earthquake Relief link is even on Dictionary.com), it is hard to talk about with other people. What can you say besides truisms like 'it's so tragic'? Talking about it implicitly brings responsibility. We know we should help and do something and speaking the tragedy aloud makes our unspoken obligations hang heavy in the air until somebody starts talking about Avatar or something equally banal. What do to, what to do? Oh sure, we donated money, but a reality check tells us that it isn't doing anybody in Haiti any good yet. Pat Robertson seems to have it figured out. He boomeranged any guilt and/or responsibility right back on the Haitians. He is either brilliant or a despicable fool. My money's on the latter, but it seems as though Patty's money is safe either way; he probably won't be giving any to help the relief effort. Not unless those heathens repent -- live on the 700 Club! Hmm. An Anglo-American manipulating the history and religion of a poor nation to further his own agenda. Sounds familiar. Maybe James Cameron can direct a movie version.

Happy Birthday!

I am twenty-seven today. As is my wont, I started the festivities about three days ago and the closing ceremonies will be Monday (it’s like Mardi Gras). My actual birthday was good…Dawson bought me a bright red raincoat that is so damn beautiful it makes me wish I was a cuter version of myself. Or more aware of my appearance. Or a combo. I love that he buys me presents based on the version of me that he has in his head: Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada post-Stanley Tucci versus Anne Hathaway in that god-awful teal Gap sweater (I have it in black; I wore it last Thursday).I didn’t really think about getting older until my mom called me up and said,

“So, mija, I was talking to my very-best-friend-since-fourth-grade-Veronica (no lie, this is how my mom talks), and we can’t believe that we’re middle-aged and have children who are almost thirty. You’re not a young woman anymore, mija!”

Alas. I guess not. I’ve been married for almost four years now, so that part doesn’t make me feel old, but Dawson and I are officially entering that phase where everyone we know from high school is preggo. It’s freaking me out. I keep waiting for one of us to light candles, ply the other one with wine, and declare that we’ve been surreptitiously poking holes in my Nuva-Ring because we really are just dying to have a child. Is something wrong with us?

Virginia Woof just came up and laid her beauteous head on my lap. This is kind and unexpected. I think she knows I broached the subject of human children. Or she’s hungry. Or she read my mind and wants to eat our future children. She looks suspicious and disapproving. Yep, she definitely knows. Her brown eyes have hypnotized me…I think she might be the reason we don’t want real children. Would we have to kick her off the bed? Would she sense that I was pregnant and try to eat the baby, and thereby me, in my womb? Should we just get life insurance and take the chance? If the baby survived gestation, would she disfigure it or just pee in the house out of spite? Worse still: would we love her less? Such questions make it not worth it. Our date night conversations are already pathetically dominated with post-game analyses of her bitchy ways.

For now, 2010 is off to a great start. I am twenty-seven; we are happy.