You Can't Stop Us on the Road to Freedom

"Tupelo Honey," Van Morrison

This week, we started reading The Catcher in the Rye in my junior English class. Catcher was arguably my favorite book in high school-- at least, until I read A Prayer for Owen Meany at the end of senior year, and decidedly understood what Holden Caulfield means when he says: "What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wished the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it." Drained by Hawthorne's beautiful but drawn-out prose and relatively unfazed by the antics of Abigail Williams, I not only identified with Holden Caulfield, but clung to Salinger's easier diction and tell-it-like-it-is style. Teaching the novel today, I am still endearingly attached to Holden, but nowadays it's more because I see him in the movements and complaints and shiftiness of my students. Perhaps because I myself am grown growing up, Holden's once-amusing sarcasm and negativity is instead a little more aggravating; his sense of entitlement and unfounded arrogance is a little more tedious. At the same time, however, I sense myself agreeing with him on quite a few valid (albeit trite) observations: People do tend to repeat themselves for effect, even if you've acknowledged their statement the first time. And, if you think about it, most of the time "good luck" really is an insincere and insignificant phrase, used only to maintain social niceties and end a conversation. At 27, I find myself torn between empathy and annoyance at this lost and frustrated 17-year-old, and when I think about where I am in my own life, that's not surprising.

Perhaps because I still need help with TurboTax, I still eat box macaroni and cheese for dinner approximately once and a week, and I still consider Blue Moon to be the "expensive" beer, sometimes I feel like I'm not a real grown up yet. Sometimes I still get "trapped" in Disney channel shows. Sometimes I like Justin Beiber's latest radio hit. Sometimes I want to shop at Forever 21 and wear blue nail polish. But then the (outrageous?!) Verizon bill arrives, and suddenly Bailey needs $400 of work at the vet, and we're out of laundry detergent and paper towels, and I am reminded of the fact I am most certainly an Adult. With Responsibilities. And Deadlines. And Consequences.

Really, though, I think it's a pretty normal feeling for where I am in my life. And rather than being irritated by this occupancy space of "in-between," I prefer to consider myself floating contentedly between two different and necessary worlds. I like that I don't feel the need to rush into an adulthood of fancy dinners and 3-inch heels and operas. I like that, while I do know how the "wine-flight" menu at most restaurants works, I may just as well be sneaking a 40 into a movie theater or having a dance party in my living room to Young Money and Jay-Z. I like that my apartment smells of peanut butter and wetsuits, and that sometimes my go-to cure for a bad day is still Red Grammar's "Teaching Peace" and chocolate milk.

On Monday, before we began the first chapter of Catcher, I gave my students the journal prompt: "True or False: Adults just don't understand teenagers." One of my students (respectfully) asked: "What do you count as?" And while the defensive, I-need-to-remain-the-Authority-Figure part of me told him I'm an adult, there was a big part of me that inwardly smiled at the question. Especially after he continued with, "No, I know. I didn't mean that to be mean. I guess I just...I mean...you do get us. And most adults don't. At least, you get us sometimes. Right?"

Right. Well, at least in some ways. Because there is still a part of ME that adults just don't understand. My husband, too, for that matter:

To some, I might currently be living my life in a gray area between Aimless Post-Graduate and Responsible Parent, but I don't feel that's the case. Maybe I'm hovering at the edge of adulthood; many days thrust forward into Unknown Territory and Life-Changing Decisions, and other times occasionally spun backwards into Childhood Pranks and Adolescent Unawareness. In any case, I'm aware of life's terrific expanse of possibility and promise, anger and shame, hope and deceit. I'll continue to impress information, share life experiences, and tell jokes to my students, hoping to influence and intervene, empower and empathize. But above all of the labels and expectations and worries and uncertainties, I know I'm enjoying this ride. So I'll keep on keeping on, both by listening to advice from the likes of Charles Bukowski:

one learns to endure because not to endure

turns the world over to them

and they are less than 

zero.

And also Rebelution: 

"Well it's a struggle-- everyday we're stressin'

but what's a life without dedication?"

After all, I learned from some of the best:

My mom and her sisters; October 2009

Put A Candle in the Window

"Long as I Can See the Light," Creedence Clearwater Revival 

  

As the memorable William Parrish in Meet Joe Black, Anthony Hopkins, gazing out at the illustrious scene of his birthday party, says to his daughter: "What a glorious night. Every face I see is a memory. It may not be a perfectly perfect memory. Sometimes we had our ups and downs. But we're all together, and you're mine for a night. And I'm going to break precedence and tell you my one candle wish: that you would have a life as lucky as mine, where you can wake up one morning and say, 'I don't want anything more.' 65 years...don't they go by in a blink?" It's poignant and endearing and impossible to watch through clear, dry eyes. Two nights ago, we celebrated my great-uncle's 89th birthday, and I was reminded of this scene as I sat next to him. 

"It feels like yesterday," said my Uncle Jim, "that I was turning 69. And I remember thinking, 'I hope I make it ten more years; I'd really like to see the turn of the century.' And now here I am, a decade after that, and I'm still blowing out my birthday candles. The time just flies by..."

On the heels of Uncle Jim's birthday celebration, however, I joined members of my community to celebrate the years of a life taken too soon. Last night, I attended a memorial service for a student of mine who was killed in a hit and run last week. It was heartbreaking. I watched former and current students wipe their eyes and bow their heads in remembrance, cautiously placing their hats in their laps and tripping over their Vans, which were caught in the awkward length of their hardly-worn black pants. I watched photos of Steven's short life flash across the screen; an 8-year-old with a missing tooth and a baseball bat, a 12-year old with a goofy grin and a face full of birthday cake. I watched his mother hug an almost-endless line of people expressing their condolences. Memories. Hurt. Love. It was devastating. As beautiful as it was to watch the students of Carlsbad come together in reminiscence of their peer and friend, it was equally disheartening to accept the death of an 18-year-old. It was one of life's most dramatic reminders that, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, a tomorrow is never guaranteed. And in the wake of my uncle's 89th birthday and my student's extinguished life, it's easy to appreciate life's little things today. Bailey waking up this morning, tangled in the blankets, stretching with half-closed eyes. The e-mail from a former student informing me she was accepted to New Mexico State. Grilled chicken in the fridge and 2 new episodes of Always Sunny saved in the DVR. The harder part, however, is remembering to appreciate life's little things always. To not get too angry at the impatient driver who cut me off on the 5. To dust off today's mistakes and move on, with a clear head, to tomorrow. Because to do so is to plan for a life where, one day, I can look around and confidently say, "I don't want anything more."

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!

-"The Charge of the Light Brigade," Alfred Lord Tennyson


Steven Anthony Kelley
1992-2010
Rest in Peace

A Place Where it's Always Safe and Warm

"Shelter from the Storm," Bob Dylan

Like all professions I'm sure, some weeks of teaching are easier than others. Some weeks I leave school relatively early, with only a few class sets of assignments looming on my desk or in my storage cabinets; next week's tests copied and the IEP kid's itemized grade print-out ready to go for Monday's meeting. Some Most Fridays, I leave school with piles of essays spilling out of my hands, 3 dirty coffee mugs bursting out of my book bag, and ink/food/Expo marker stains across my shirt. Lately, however, I feel like I've been leaving with a heavier heart. This is a common occurrence, I think, around this time of year. Kids feel more comfortable in class-- as do I, I'm sure-- and therefore feel more confident, inclined, and relieved to talk. To discuss their personal frustrations, familial ailments, lives. For the most part, it's great. I love learning about my students, knowing their interests, families, friends, sports. Some teachers I know create an invisible wall around themselves, never allowing students to understand or appreciate their personal lives. At the same time, these teachers silently ask students to keep their own personal, emotional, and social conquests and demons swept under the rug, away from the classroom and curriculum. While of course I understand the importance of maintaining classroom respect and ensuring students recognize authority, I also think allowing students to see into a window of your own life, as a teacher, makes you that much more accessible, genuine, and human.

I love almost every single part of my job. I know I've written so before, and perhaps that statement sounds a little trite and unnecessary. But it's true: I get to teach some of my favorite books in the world to teenagers, many of whom actually give a damn about the literature. As for the ones that don't-- sometimes they're the best challenge of all. I get to talk with my team-teacher, excitedly, about the color symbolism in Gatsby-- "Did you notice the Buchanons' house went from red and white to rosy to crimson! Fitzgerald's a genius!" I get to watch my sophomores tackle East of Eden, a 600-page monstrosity full of Biblical allusions and the ultimate struggle of fate vs. free will and good vs. evil, and enjoy it. Discuss it. Argue (effectively!) about it. READ AHEAD.

However, I never had any idea how much I would take home with me, emotionally, as a teacher. As rewarding as this profession is, over the last two weeks I have found myself worried about certain students, wondering about home lives, and questioning kids' decisions. Questioning parents' decisions. Questioning my own decisions. Should I have used a different tone with her? Did I refuse to listen and send him outside too fast? Was it really his fault? Should I have taken her phone away? Forced him to go to try-outs? Called her mom back sooner? Given him more credit? Given her less? Warned his parents? Watched my mouth?

And I get overwhelmed. And frustrated. And I wonder if the "difference" I'm making is counteracted by the mistakes I make. And then, it's easy to forget they analyzed every color reference throughout all of The Great Gatsby today, understanding why Jordan's eyes are grey while Eckleburg's are blue but his spectacles are yellow. It's easy to forget her telling me it's the first book she's ever really read, and enjoyed, and did Zusak write any others? It's easy to forget him coming to my class for the entire period, and taking grammar notes because he "misses it" and "needs to know the fourth sentence type," even though he was transferred to a home education program two weeks ago. Because it's easier to dwell on the errors and the faults and the oversights. It's easier to remember I let a bad word slip--two!-- today, and I should have let that parent know about his behavior weeks ago.

I let school consume me too easily. I know that. I'm trying to get better about over-analyzing and worrying, but it's hard when the "product" happens to be measured in human lives, and there isn't a scripted response for "My dad told me he can't love me like my brothers because I look too much like my mom" or "Do you and your husband have an extra room because my mom kicked me out?" So I'm doing my best to enjoy the hundreds of successes and smiles and achievements and stories that result from A Day in the Life of a High School Teacher. I'm taking deep breaths and crossing my fingers for all of my kids; the veritable array of shining, glazed, or detached faces that grace my classroom every week. And I'm remembering, with a full heart, the boys awaiting me at home:

Because I have to find the happy medium where I can care about my students and address their needs while at school, but fully embrace these two lovely, wonderful, happy souls who add immeasurably to the quality of my life. Because while my kids are absolutely one of my biggest priorities, my family has to come first:

Remember to Breathe

Dashboard Confessional

Tired.

Sore. 

Impatient.

Exhausted.

Underpaid.

Restless.

Temperamental.

Busy.

Late.

Stressed.

Detached.

Bristly.

Apologetic.

Agitated.

Human.

Well sometimes this life is like being afloat
On a raging sea in a little row boat
Just trying not to be washed overboard
But if you take your chances and you ride your luck
And you never, never, never, never, never give up
Well those waves will see you safely to a friendly shore

-"Charmed Life," Divine Comedy