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.