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november 30, 2000.A year ago, I became engaged. What a distance we all have come since then, hmmm? I have no deep thoughts on the matter, other than the thought that maybe it's time to stop wearing my engagement ring. Some of the women in my family accumulate rings to the point where an entire joint is covered in ornaments of gold - I don't really think I want to go down that route. But it's such a pretty ring that I'm loathe to give it up. I never ever thought that I'd own a diamond - it's a surprise to actually like it.
I was severely traumatized last night. Severely fucking traumatized. It all started on Tuesday, when I fetched a message from Pixie off the machine. She wants to talk Christmas schedule, I thought. I'll call her when I get the chance. I made that call last night after spending an hour in frustrated research; it was time for a break, and there's nothing like calling home to restore your equilibrium, right? Q: "We have news." It's true though. It's been in the works for at least a month, according to my evil spy sources (and even they thought that it was an improbable April Fool's joke.) The Boy flat-out refused to believe me at first. But there it is. How do I feel about this? Confused, mostly. The first part of the revelation made me kind of upset, like I and I alone was being targeted for abandonment. The second part just bewilders me. I know objectively that joining the military will allow him to go back to college and not end up in the poor house (which would be our house, I think), but it's an enormous, unprecedented commitment. Well, I guess I can't say unprecedented, since he & Pixie have been married for more than two years - that's a damn big commitment right there. Still. We were talking about it in the car this morning, mostly about the queasy fascination our generation has about the military. It became a kind of "I know this guy in the Air Force and he's blah blah blah and his experience is like this..." conversation. It's almost like the military is the new homosexuality: when it comes up among my subculture, we generally feel uncomfortable to a greater or lesser degree and say things like, "it can be really positive" and "I have a friend who -". Oddity.
I taught my very first lesson today! After the trauma bomb last night, I struggled to gather together the rags of my work ethic. I was all set to teach a lesson on Joseph Campbell and the mono-myth, but I had squat-all prepared: no overheads, half a hand-out and no idea how I was going to structure the period. By the time I snuggled into my big empty bed, I had all of those things corrected, plus the lyrics to "Killing An Arab" arranged nicely with photos of Camus & Smith - all ready for Friday. By the time I had risen today, I was having a crisis of confidence. No teenager in their right mind would want to learn about the mono-myth. Not only that, but a bet that a whole whack of them hadn't seen Star Wars. They were going to ignore me and I was going to crash & burn. Crash & burn!! While doing the first period attendance, my stomach clenched into a shrinking ball of nerves. I hadn't scripted the lesson, so I laid my lesson plan within easy reach and prayed that I wouldn't screw up & fall silent. We began. In the very first minute, I called one student by another's name. When she corrected me, I drooped dramatically like a puppet with cut strings and apologized. And then when I went to turn on the overhead projector, it wasn't plugged in. Shock and horror. But here's the surprising part: I didn't panic. Throughout the period I wasn't thinking about much of anything except the lesson. I wasn't trying to be funny or charming or anything, but I think I was at points. I was almost relaxed. I was almost at ease. And after talking Star Wars for 40 minutes with enthusiastic kids, I felt fan-tastic. They were sooo great for me. There were kids talking again & again about plot details who had been completely silent the whole time I'd been in the class. I was ecstatic. And then I had the hell class. It was last period of the day, but I was cocky from the success of the first go-around. There were 36 of them in all, and there were at least 8 kids who hadn't seen Star Wars. They talked all the time I was talking - I had to do that teacher trick of proximity, but an hour of walking from side to side to side to side wore me the fuck out. They fought the metaphor, reacting to my questions without enthusiasm. Three quarters of the way through, a kid raised his hand and said, "can we switch it to the Matrix?" in a tone just this side of surly. For my mistake was that I had mentioned the Matrix, but not talked about it as we went through. The earlier class had done just fine with Star Wars, so I had overestimated its currency. (By the way, I wouldn't have included the Matrix at all if Stacy hadn't suggested it. She saved my bacon long-distance and definitely.) By the end of the period, I felt like I had gone 10 rounds with Ali. There was no point at which they came to me: I had to drag the concept out of them at instructional gunpoint, sifting through blurted-out silliness for the direction I needed to work in. But we got through it. And the really funny thing is that when I assigned the summary paper to work on in class, the same percentage of kids went to work as did in the first angel class. I didn't know what to think. One of my earliest concerns in this class was that one kid would not stop playing rock-paper-scissors with the guy behind him. I had to talk to them three times before they got bored of defiance, and somewhere in there I found myself making a deal with the guy who wanted attention most. He wanted to play rock-paper-scissors with me, but I delayed. "If you're good, I'll play you at the end of class," I said. And during the work period he waved me over. Tie scissors. Tie rock. Tie paper. Quick breather. And then I won. He wanted another match; I promised that I would play him again the next day. "If you're good," I added. When I get back to class, they'll ask me about classroom management. I'll have to mention this. (Petra reports that a strange kid walked up to her in the hallway and demanded a high five. She refused at first, then slapped his hand as hard as she could. Upon discussion, we determined that it was the same one - although he's in none of her classes, Mr. Rock-Paper-Scissors strikes again.)
Heard on the ride home: "So he has this empty whiskey bottle in his desk. And he keeps saying, 'Aw miss, smell this! It's really gross!' And I asked him again and again to stop playing with it, but I finally had to say, 'Look, put the bottle away, I'm not going to smell it. Maybe I'll smell it later but Not Now.'" The general consensus of the car is that she should've stopped before "maybe I'll smell it later." But Petra & I were in weeping hysterics, so I think it was worth it. (Speaking of the car, I realized tonight that I know a frightening amount about Petra. Rocketgroom & I were over at her place for a few minutes tonight, and we ended up talking about school and our lives and everything in between. Petra & I would start giggling about something, and I would have to stop to explain it to Rocketgroom. It was after the dozenth such explanation that it hit me - I could almost teach a course about Petra. I mean, we see each other for a bare minimum of 3 unoccupied hours a day. If we eat lunch together in the staff room, then there's another 45 minutes. We talk about our lessons endlessly, but there's also a fair bit of personal and intellectual conversation that goes on during the car ride. I know these girls better than some people in Toronto that I consider close friends. It's out of this world.) |
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