From the Archives of Standardized Test Samples

Why haven’t I been blogging lately?

a. There’s so much going on I don’t have time.

b. There’s absolutely nothing going on, so there’s not much to say.

c. The band director googled me and found my blog and told me that he’s read everything I wrote about him.

d. I’ve been consumed with testing out my newly discovered telekinetic powers.

The correct answer is b.

Status Quo

status quo n. the existing state of affairs

Lately, I've been getting fed up with the status quo. The problem is, however, that sometimes I feel like everything I'm doing is simply contributing to it. How can I justifiably complain if I'm a part of the thing that's bothering me?

I don't mean to sound . . . flippant about this, but so many times people have given me a "word" telling me that I'm going to do something great for God's kingdom. That God is going to use the gifts and talents He's given me. Don't get discouraged. Your labor is not in vain. Stay faithful to Him.

That's great, and I receive it. I accept it, and I feel that I am willing to do whatever He has for me to do. I don't plan on throwing in the towel any time soon. But why do I feel like I'm the servant the lord gave the 2 or 5 talents to, but instead am behaving like the one he gave only one to (See Matt. 25:14-30)? It's unnerving and frustrating to feel that I'm not doing what I should be doing with what He's given me.

Is there anything wrong with what I am doing? And if so, what in the world am I supposed to be doing? Because right now, I feel lost at sea.

The 'Cool' I'm Not

I don’t write this to gain sympathy at all. It’s just the facts.

The fact is that I’ve never been cool. I know, that sounds ridiculous, like, who in the world cares or even thinks about whether I’m cool other than me? But I was just thinking (a dangerous activity sometimes), and that was one of the thoughts that crossed my mind.

As a child, I was a teacher’s pet in school and outside of school I spent the days skinning up my knees as a tomboy. As an adolescent, I was a bit of a misfit because we made a big move back to the States after being overseas for most of my formative years, and I was looked at like I had just come from Pluto. That was back when my family first found a church home, and even there, as the new girl, I was out of place. In high school, things got a little better. I was always a nerd, but I went to an all-nerd high school (an academic magnet school), so at least I fit in. I then became counted as a nerd among nerds, and in that environment, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. (To my credit, I did get voted as “Most Likely to Succeed” as a senior.) But now that I was a “church girl” I was also a goody-goody. And “goody-goody” doesn’t usually equate with “cool.”

But the problem was that, though I was a goody-goody at school, I wasn’t counted much differently among my peers at church. I was never one of the ones that took glee in courting the edge, and many kids (most of them a few years older than me at the time, now that I think about it) did. Yet, it wasn’t just my aversion to courting the edge that branded me as uncool church-wise as a young(er) person. I was never the one to have the “diva” thing down either. Some of y’all know what I mean. I never developed a following for my singing ability. I never swapped badges with any boys at Youth Camp. I never had a date to the pizza party. I never owned a set of hot sticks. Let me back up and say that I was not an outcast. I had friends, good times, all of that. It’s just that I was never cool.

But then I went off to college. College was really freeing, because nobody cared. I really recommend college to everyone. I still felt slightly uncool, though, especially on the weekends. I was never a football fan, and I never frequented The Strip. Except to go to the Crimson Café.

And now? I don’t think I’ll ever be cool, but that’s okay. (I mean, one look at how many people I’m linked to on EC is proof of that.) I guess if I somehow became cool, that would mean that I was somehow not being myself.

But you know, I guess what it all boils down to is one’s definition of ‘cool.’ Maybe the ‘cool’ I’m not is only one definition of many.

Back to School Night

Tonight we had Back to School Night at the Middle School, and, as I'd hoped, "His Musical Hotness" was there.

What is it about being around him that makes me revert to my junior high self? With everyone else I was smiling, talkative, etc. With him, I couldn't do it. The liquid electricity that shoots through me in those moments has some kind of paralyzing effect. Of course, I greeted him when I walked in, but beyond that, no small talk.

The principal was going to put us at a table together to meet and greet the parents, but at the last minute decided I should have my own table and moved my little sign. He jokingly said, "Oh, I've been abandoned." lol.

There were a few caught glances, but otherwise, nothing. Honestly, it's not that I want "something." I just want to get over my junior high-ness and be able to talk to the guy. Ask him how his first year is going so far, just chit chat. But I haven't even been able to do that. And I don't see him very often. We both work at the middle school but our paths rarely cross since I'm going back and forth between middle and elementary and he's always in the Performing Arts Building unless he comes to the MS building to check his box or whatever.

I feel sort of girlish and immature talking (blogging, whatever) about him the way that I do, but he really does seem like a genuinely good guy. He's cute, yes. But from how I've seen him interact with people, he's more than just a handsome face. I would be okay if he were cute and shallow. But he's cute with substance. (From what I can tell so far, anyway.) And that's what makes it worse.

Can You Relate?

I wrote a silly little list for 90&9.com—Top Ten Things Said to the Single Church Girl.

I got a kick out of writing it, so I hope some folks get a kick out of reading it. And I wonder . . . what kinds of things are said to single church guys? "Will you marry me?" Bwahhahahaha! Due to their scarcity, I wouldn't be surprised. When supply is low and demand is high . . .

(sigh.) It's the age we live in.

One of the first

questions I think I'll ask God (not related to my previous post at all, btw) when I hopefully get to Heaven is this:

"God, why did you make roaches?"

They are the most disgusting, filthy, simply yuck things to ever grace the face of this planet. I mean, what are they good for? I mean, really? I had an incident at school today, and it unnerved me so much, I am taking a break to write about it now.

I opened one of the drawers of my teacher desk to take out a file folder. Big deal. But then I saw a black, shiny, scurrying creature and I nearly freaked. Why, God? Why now? I planned to crush the nasty sucker with a big tub of crayons. But each time I smashed down, rattling the metal drawer of my desk, it scurried to another corner, and another corner, and finally hid under bunches of papers. Great! Then I had to carefully remove all teacher paraphanalia from the drawer in order to crush him good. I prayed, "God, wherever this thing is in the drawer, please, whatever You do, please, do not let it crawl on my hand while I am taking these things out." I finally had a clear spot to really get him. I brought the tub of crayons down a few more times and kind of nicked him. Then, he did that nasty roachy thing that I hate--flipped on its back and started wriggling around. It took all I had to stifle my screams.

But then I had an idea. Expo whiteboard cleaner. "That'll teach you to scurry around in my desk drawers!" I said out loud. "Die, die, die," I repeated with each spray. I went to the girl's bathroom and came back with a gignormous wad of paper towel to dispose of him. By the time I got back, the wriggling had stopped. Another one bites the dust.

Now I can go back to my day.

I Asked God

I asked God for strength,
that I might achieve . . .

I was made weak,
that I might learn humbly to obey.

I asked for health,
that I might do greater things . . .

I was given infirmity,
that I might do better things.

I asked for riches,
that I might be happy . . .

I was given poverty,
that I might be wise.

I asked for power,
that I might have the praise of men . . .

I was given weakness,
that I might feel the need of God.

I asked for all things,
that I might enjoy life . . .

I was given life,
that I might enjoy all things.

I got nothing that I asked for,
but everything I had hoped for.

Almost despite myself,
my unspoken prayers were answered.

I am among all men, most richly blessed!

-Anonymous-

This Is Ridiculous

Grrr . . . I don't even know the band director. And he barely knows I exist! Those are the givens.

But this morning I was doing my usual building hop (from Elementary to Middle School), bustling towards the Middle School office to drop off my lesson plans for the week and make copies. Then I spotted him. Bam. He was on his way out, I was on my way in. Our paths were to cross, period. I looked up, smiled, cheerily said "Good morning," and kept walking. (I wasn't about to stop and try to strike up some kind of mundane conversation; he probably had things to do, and so did I.) He did the exact same thing in kind. Big deal, right?

It wasn't until after I put my plans in the principal's box and stopped at the copier that it hit me. A delayed adrenaline rush that caught me off guard. An irrepressible smile. It was him! It was him!

And this is what I hate. That such an infinitesimally small, insignificant nothing can cause me to respond this way. This has got to stop. This is ridiculous.

The New Band Director, Part III: The Golden Boy

The new band director, as I’ve mentioned previously, is hot stuff. (Parts I and II, for your convenience.) Everyone thinks so. I mean, everyone. During inservice, he played the saxhorn (I think . . . some kind of smaller tuba looking instrument) with the choral director on the piano—they did a duet, and everyone was transfixed. The teacher next to me nudged me knowingly, and teachers in my vicinity were giving me winks and conspiratorially pointing towards him. I know, I know. Yes, he’s cute. But just because he’s cute in my book, it doesn’t necessarily follow that I’m cute in his.

I think of him as the golden boy, the wonder child, the young prodigy that everyone loves. He’s already splashed in a full-color photo all over the pages of one of the local newspapers. Everyone raves about him. I’m 100% sure all of the middle and high school girls in band will have fervent crushes on him. He’s the hot new thing.

I guess I was sort of the hot new thing when I was hired last year. The teachers were impressed with my Spanish ability. The kids liked me because I’m a younger teacher, full of energy; I’d jump around and do crazy, fun stuff—I got a few comments and emails from parents saying how much their kids enjoyed my class. That’s how new band director is now, except like times 50.

I just couldn’t bring myself to approach him when we had little breaks during inservice. Part of it was that I felt like everyone was like . . . watching me? No, more like they were watching him and if people saw me approach him they’d be all . . . you know, since they’re trying to fix us up anyway. But the main thing was that I just felt . . . awkward. I regressed into my junior high self (yeah, Alabama was way behind on the middle school concept). He’s cool and he’s golden and people gravitate towards him. I wanted to say something to him, like, you know, give some friendly encouragement from a former first-year teacher, no harm in that, right? But I just . . . couldn’t.

Today was the first day of school. It went along well. My teacher buddy (they’ve partnered all teachers with other teachers from different departments and we’re to work together to create three team lessons for the year) sweetly sent me a bag of candy with a note wishing me a great first day. That inspired me . . . I sent an “I hope you had a great first day” email to all the new teachers individually (band director included, of course). After all, I remember all too well what it was like when I was new. He was the first to respond back to me. It was something generically nice, like, “Thanks, my first day is going well, I’m having a blast, I hope your day is going well too.”

Sigh. I hate being attracted to the guy that everyone else is drawn to. It makes the junior high me begin to emerge, and I can testify that I’ve spent too much energy doing everything I could to leave the junior high me behind.

I Feel . . . Like Sanctus Real . . .

If weakness is a wound
That no one wants to speak of
Then “cool” is just how far we have to fall
I am not immune
I only want to be loved
But I feel safe behind the firewall
Can I lose my need to impress?
If you want the truth, I need to confess

I’m not alright
I’m broken inside, broken inside
And all I go through
It leads me to you, it leads me to you

Burn away the pride
Bring me to my weakness
Until everything I hide behind is gone
And when I’m open wide
With nothing left to cling to
Only you are there to lead me on
Cause honestly, I’m not that strong

I’m not alright
I’m broken inside, broken inside
And all I go through
It leads me to you, it leads me to you

And I move, and I move, and I move...closer to you
And I move, and I move, and I move...closer to you
And I move, and I move, and I move...closer to you
And I move, and I move, and I move...

I’m not alright
I’m broken inside, broken inside
broken inside, broken inside
And all I go through
Leads me to you, leads me to you

I’m not alright, I’m not alright, I’m not alright...that’s why I need you

It's a pretty real song. Check it out here. Watch the music video here.

Aargh!

Teacher inservice is tomorrow and Thursday, and the first day of school is on Friday (albeit a half day). I am so not ready.

Blast it all! How did the summer go by so fast? How have the days slipped by leaving me so exposed, so unprepared? What am I going to do?

I have this insane idea that things are just going to fall into place. And the funny thing is, usually, when I have this anxious, I-don't-know-what-I'm-gonna-do feeling, they do. Now, I'm not banking on it. I mean, I have prepared some things here and there. I'm not a total wreck. But Lord Jesus, I know, I know it's going to all fall on me like a ton of bricks as deadlines loom closer, and I'm preparing myself for some sleep-deprived days.

But doesn't the Bible say somewhere that He's a God who never sleeps or slumbers? So I hope He'll be there with me, helping me dig myself out of this procrastinatory hole.

Honor to Whom Honor Is Due

I promised I was going to do this. First a confession: The title of my blog is not original. I, in effect, borrowed it. Why I did not think it would cause even the slightest irritation, I do not know. I guess I was thinking along the lines of "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery" or something. But had I known that my "borrowing" would even slightly irritate, I would have never done it. Especially not without giving recognition/acknowledging that it was borrowed. Okay, backstory:

My friend Homegirl, as I've mentioned before is a writer. A poetess. She printed a pseudo-"chapbook" (as they call it in the writing world; pseudo because she said it wasn't a real chapbook)—in other words, a collection of poems. She titled it Where You Can Find Me . . . For Now. The "for now" was slyly printed in smaller font underneath the former part of the title. We both had a really good laugh about it, the title that is, because of the classic Homegirl-ness of the elusive "for now" part. You can only find me here temporarily. I go where the wind blows. Just be grateful that you were ever able to find me at all, even if for a fleeting moment. Of course, I know Homegirl better than that, but that's what we were laughing about—her seeming desire to put forth a . . . transitory, elusive, ephemeral image. Oh, so writer. lol.

So, I became endeared to the title and adopted it when I started my blog, leaving off the "for now." Of course I informed Homegirl of my blog's debut, and since she didn't say anything about it then, as time passed, I honestly nearly forgot that her chapbook title was the inspiration for my blog title.

But I went to visit the other day, and she was going through old stuff and she pulled out the famed chapbook.

"Where you can find me for now, " I read with a laugh. "Yeah, that's where I got the title of my blog from." And then, she made an admission I had been ignorant of for over a year now. She said that it bothered her a little at first. Gasp! I never knew that. Shame flooded over me. We were discussing it again later and she tried to soften it saying that it didn't bother her that much, it's just that . . . and I finished the sentence for her. It's just that I didn't give her recognition for it.

So now, Homegirl, I admit my wrong. I humble myself before you, before the entire realm of the blogosphere and admit that the title of my blog, Where You Can Find Me, is not my own. I hereby give all honor and due respect to the genius of my friend, who is the rightful recipient of any credit given for having invented said title. I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy . . .

Here's to You, Butterfly

I caught this bittersweet moment in life on a street curb. This butterfly, though part of one of his wings is torn off, is still alive. I just saw the little guy there and didn't know what to do. He caught my eye because he was just sitting there, fluttering away on a street curb. Why doesn't he fly away? Then I looked closer and realized why. I couldn't put his wing back on for him, so I decided to immortalize him on the web. Here's to you, butterfly.

Arby's Orange Cream Swirl Shake

I've fallen in love with you, Orange Cream Swirl Shake. I don't know what it is about you. Is it your soothing creamy texture? Your mysterious vanilla swirl within the tangy orange? Is it that your Dreamsicle-esque savor brings me back to the days when I was younger and carefree and shamelessly licked left-over Dreamsicle stickiness off from around my lips?

What have you done to me, Orange Cream Swirl Shake? In days when I have professed my love for other cold, creamy concoctions—Caramel Frappucinos, Iced Chai Tea Lattes—you singlehandedly burrowed your way into my heart in the space of one slurp.

What does this mean, Orange Cream Swirl Shake? And I don't even like orange that much. You tantalizingly beckoned to me from off of the Arby's poster which boasted your novelty. There was something in that first glance that made me feel you were the one. But when I held you in my hands and swallowed that first slurp, I was assured, and you erased all doubt.

Channy Oakley

We had a western themed 5th Sunday dinner today, and I went all out . . . yee-haw! I had a toy gun in a holster too, but the kids were going crazy trying to pull it out and shoot it in church, so I thought it best to leave my gun-totin' days behind.

Time to Get Crackin'

My parents left for Atlanta this morning to go to the UPCI's Black Evangelism Conference. I wanted to go, but extenuating circumstances prevented my attending. Later on this afternoon, my mom called me excitedly on her cell.

Mom: Chantell! You won't believe who I ran into!
Me: Ummm, someone I know?
Mom: Yeah, guess who it is!
Me: Ummm, a friend of mine?
Mom: Yes.
Me: Ummm, a a girl friend or a guy friend?
Mom: (clearly relishing this little game) A guy friend.
Me: Is the guy friend my age?
Mom: Uh, no . . .
Me: Mom, just tell me who it is.
Mom: I met Professor Beardsley!
Me: Beardsley? Really? That's pretty cool. I didn't know Beardsley was going to the Black Conference. That's awesome.

Beardsley was my brilliant professor at UGST. My mom went into the story of how she ran into him and how she met his dad and his kid, yadda, yadda. I thought it was pretty cool. But then she said, "And I was telling him how you wanted to come but weren't able to and how you're going to be so sorry you missed seeing him and then he said, 'Yeah, she has a paper due for me in about two weeks. No ifs, ands or buts about it.'"

Yipe! Beardsley is awesome and a great guy, but he is no joke. Perhaps it was best that I didn't go and run into him and possibly have had to admit that I haven't started writing the paper yet. I will take my parents' running into him as a nudge from Providence telling me it's time to get crackin'. Yea, Lord.

The New Band Director, Part II

Okay, so if any faithful readers out there remember, I was all in a tizzy because my co-workers were driving me crazy about the new band director. It was insane because ever since he was hired to replace the outgoing band director, not a day would go by that someone wouldn’t mention something about his cuteness and how I’d just love him and how I just had to meet him and all of this.

As I suspected, the reason we’d be so perfectly suited, in my co-workers’ eyes, was that we shared an overwhelmingly strong common bond—African-Americanness. It sort of felt like an unspoken, “You and the black guy are just made for each other. I mean, you are a black girl, right?” Aw, black guy, schmack guy. It was just annoying and, yeah, so I hopped up on my soapbox in the previously linked post.

But (sigh, there’s always a ‘but’ in these kinds of things), I finally met him today. Since I’m an exploratory teacher, I could choose to go to any of the team meetings I wanted to, but I chose the 8th grade one since it was closest to school starting back up and it would give me a chance to touch base with everyone, I could go check up on the progress of my new room on the elementary side, yadda, yadda yadda. So in the middle of the meeting, the new band director walks in late because he was finishing up summer practice with some of the kids in band, all apologetic.

It dawned on me: This is the new band director and my co-workers were not lying when they said that he was cute. My inner monologue—Be composed, make sure your mouth isn’t hanging open, act normal. Oh, great, what if all the stuff they’ve been saying to me about him they’ve been saying to him about me!

I very cordially introduced myself to him, trying not to stare at how nicely his long lashes framed his eyes. Good googly. His fine, boyish face was reminiscent of that once-in-a-lifetime, Euro-black man I met in Paris. Ay, caramba, I was not expecting this.

My Current Song

You know how songs get stuck in your head and become your theme song for a while? I present to you "Lost at Sea" by Jimmy Needham. I plan on getting his CD Speak when it comes out August 15. Click play and enjoy!


Upload music at Bolt.

Me vs. Procrastination

Me: Procrastination, I am sick and tired of you thinking you can have free reign in my life. I don’t think you realize how much I hate waking up in the morning knowing I have things to do and then going to sleep that night realizing I haven’t even attempted to do any of them. Geez, I don’t know how I even got this far with you around. I’m a pretty patient person, and I’m pretty non-confrontational, so I usually grin and bear it. But sometimes things reach a point where I just have to be for real and tell you. Procrastination, you’re getting on my nerves. Go away and stop trying to tell me I have more time. My summer’s almost over for goodness sake! The first day of school is in a little over two weeks, and I haven’t even started writing the Paul paper yet . . . well, I’ve done some research and found some good sources, but still, I haven’t done any major strides toward applying for grad school yet, and I have nothing organized curriculum-wise for the new school year. This is the last straw, Procrastination. I’ve never told you these things to your face, but it’s high time that I stand up and refuse to be punked by you any longer. Get that silly grin off of your face! I’m being serious.

Procrastination: I just couldn’t help but note that you’ve wasted even more time in writing your little rant against me when you could have been doing something more, uh . . . constructive? (snickers) Sucker.

Me: AAARGH! Okay, point taken, but this doesn’t mean you’ve won. (realization flooding my brain) In fact, you’ve never won! Ha, ha! No matter how much you persuade me to keep putting things off, I somehow always get things done. You’ve never gotten me to a point where I have missed a deadline or failed to come through. Sure, you may have kept me up late some nights, or forced me to get up at ungodly hours in the morning to finish the job, but isn’t that the point?—I finish the job, despite your wily ways. I get it done, regardless of your skullduggery. So there! What do you have to say to that, scurvy knave?

Procrastination: (rolls eyes languidly, sighs, and sullenly begins to walk away)

Me: Nothing. That’s what I thought. That’s right, get on out of here. (under breath) I told him, humph. Couldn’t even say nothin’ back.

I don't know why

I wrote this, and I don’t know what everything means. Homegirl, a former Iowa Writers' Workshop attendee, MFA candidate in Creative Writing friend of mine said that sometimes you don’t know why you write what you write or what it all means until years later. And really (disclaimer time), I don’t take my writing that seriously because it seems that I know enough to distinguish between the good and the not-so-good that I read, but I don’t know enough to do what’s good and steer clear of the not-so-good when I write, poetry especially. So, you won’t hurt my feelings if you laugh at my peanut butter hope and jelly dream sandwiches. lol.

If you could see beyond
My molecules of fickle flesh
If you could not be blinded by
The blur of my electrons
As they whiz round
Chunks of insecure nuclei,
Colliding into one another
Like immature marbles set free
In the dust of schoolyard passion,
If you could catch
The good my tears do
When they soften the cracked earth
And are sprinkled into soup
Meant to warm the lonely,
If you could probe
My mind, winding labyrinth,
Strewn with Rubik’s cubes of stalwart logic
3D Viewmasters of memories, and
Cartoon lunchboxes filled with
Peanut butter hope and jelly dream sandwiches,
If you could delve into
The constructed bloody pulp that is my heart
If you wouldn’t mind
Getting a little messy
Shooting through my veins
Mingling with adrenaline
Not knowing whether it’s in response to
Excitement or fear,
If you could tell me
What my eyes are made of
Why my hands get so cold and
How my boisterous laugh is infectious,
I’d scramble all over the world and
Pick the finest
Similes, metaphors,
Hyperbole, synecdoche,
Metonymy and personification
Harvested by language farms of renown,
I’d slice them up delicately
Removing the skins and the rinds and the seeds
Arrange them on a silver charger
Garnished with a verse from Shakespeare
Lay it at your feet and hope,
As surely Ruth hoped as she lay at Boaz’s feet,
That you’d wake up and take me in.