I thought I would take advantage of a brief and unexpected moment of calm in an otherwise mixed-up, muddled-up, shook-up world to write a little blog post. Way back in February, and another lifetime ago, in a little town called Mythaca, our young-ish heroine (What, I can call myself whatever I want, get your own blog) was delighted to discover that on her second day of student teaching school was canceled due to snow. And there was much rejoicing in all the land. Fast forward six months and our rapidly-aging-but-still-considered-young-ish-in-some-circles heroine is on her second day of no-longer-student teaching, otherwise known as Shit Gets Real. At this time, Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom knows she can't go throwing a snowstorm in mid-August, and so reaches into her natural disaster bag and pulls out something I like to call--Earthquake Day!!! In other words, this is all my fault, guys. (Actually, it was the Earth's fault (line)--get it?) Sorry. Citing the mantra of better safe than sorry, the powers that be decided to close the schools one day post-quake, a fact that I only learned after dragging my sorry carcass from bed pre-six in the morning, throwing myself in the shower, and slapping on my face paint and my professionally boring clothes. Which means that I probably could have gone to DateMeDC et al's happy hour last night instead of lesson planning and feeling sorry for myself and crying into my pillows, but then, I couldn't have known that.
So, a brief rundown of the state of me with roughly 1.7 days of actual classroom experience under my belt: Stressed. Anxious. Ball of nerves. Overwhelmed. I do not think I can do this, guys. (You can totally do it! Go you!) Ok, I do not think I want to do this, guys. The one thing I have determined: All teachers are masochists. There is no other explanation. These are...these are...these are kids with neck tattoos, guys. These are kids with kids, and another on the way. These are eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds on their fifth year of high school who are still considered freshmen. These are kids who don't give a shit about learning French, and tell me so. These are also kids who come up to me on the first day and sweetly tell me that they aren't very good at French, but they are excited to learn. Or who write on their questionnaires that they are very professional and will work hard in my class. Or who write on their questionnaires that they don't like "getting yelled at," and I want to say, oh baby, who's yelling at you? But I can't even see them. They disappear in the mess and they are quiet and I am so grateful for them that I forget they even exist. Instead I am tap-tap-tapping sleepers, head up, head up, phone away, you can't have your phone, put your phone away, two times, three, five times in one class and still the phones are out and it's not like I can pretend not to see it because it's on me, it will come back and come down on me. They, not the kids, but the powers that be, they are observing, they are watching, they are judging me and they are judging me through my kids, and my future and my money depend on it, depend on them, depend on the kids staying awake, staying off their phones, listening to me, learning French, somehow, some way. But how? But what way?
Anyone who mentions Dangerous Minds will get a virtual ass-kicking and a lecture on reality vs. the product of someone's fertile and highly optimistic imagination. Meanwhile, the grocery store next to my house sells wine. I'd stopped keeping alcohol in the house for a while there, but I'm thinking it might be time to stock up.