Another Chicken Post

I wanted some chicken wings. I didn't want the leftover gumbo my mom made. So I went to Popeye's and got a 3 chicken wing combo. With a biscuit. With red beans and rice.

It was the first time in a while I ate really well. I had been picking at stuff because I had kind of a loss of appetite lately.

But I tore some Popeye's up. Hopefully, I can tear up grading papers this weekend.

Dear Lord Henry

Read The Picture of Dorian Gray and then come back and read this post.

Dear Lord Henry,

You are the Victorian incarnation of the devil, you are. What is so maddening (yet intriguing) about you is that it's quite clear what you are, it's quite clear you're a seducer. That in itself should be fair warning.

But your words, your words. Even though if studied hard enough with sharp, unfeeling eye, they're found to be nonsense, lies, twisted, hedonistic logic, all they need is a moment, a few soft, insecure moments to slither past defenses and embed themselves in the mind. What a snare for the trusting, open-hearted! To be presented with one who is at once dangerous and appealing, at once flattering and destructive. Your influence is your elixir, and once anyone dares take a sip you become their god and they your slave.

Though you are a fictional character, a projection of Oscar Wilde's fancy, it does not mean that you do not exist. That's the wonder, or rather, the terror of you. Lord Henry does exist. You exist in the form of living, breathing men ages removed from your literary conception. You live through manipulative words whispered to susceptible prey. You live in the machinations of the base desire of conquest, for no reason other than the lust for possession. You live in the cruel satisfaction some receive from watching the unsullied spoil before their eyes. You live in those who glory in efforts to make the principled succumb.

Lord Henry, you walk in the shadows down the corridors of my fears. But you shall not overtake me. I refuse to be your Dorian Gray.

Cordially,

Me

Another Sunday Night

I love the taste of my mom's pasta salad, this time with chunks of artichoke hearts. They and the bits of olive are chunks and bits of nostalgic Italian childhood.

I love the citrusy smell of deep conditioner invigorating my scalp. My hair's gonna be so soft. It's gonna be so soft.

Writing out heartfelt words on blank note cards, typing out ideas and games that amount to learning as lesson plans, sitting under a hairdryer while reading the colorful Sunday comics.

CNN and New York Times scans, a Facebook check, and the fuzzy few pensive moments before settling into a well-earned sleep.

Work

I have to work at it. It takes work.

I have to get up in the morning. I have to go to work. I have to plan. I have to be ready. I have to push against the friction, against the grind. I have to overcome inertia.

A body at rest will remain at rest unless an outside force acts on it.

I must say no and follow through. I must say yes and follow through.

A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.

I must make a conscious decision every day to love. I must make a conscious decision every day to shine. I must make a conscious decision every day to hope. I must make a conscious decision every day not to drown.

What makes you think

that a handful of heartfelt prayers is all it takes?

that ingrained things disappear for good?

that the disconnect between your actions and words is negligible?

that another human being would ever be able to save you?

that your impatience is a result of your situation instead of the other way around?

that the same things will somehow produce different results?

that giving up is an option?

Sick Day

Ugh. Today I woke up drowning in it.

At least I got my grades posted.

At least I had time to eat breakfast today.

Tomorrow will be better.

I begged for a chicken biscuit today.

Today started out as a slumping day. A lumpy, disjointed, moping in my airy world time because people won't do what I want them to do. Now. Be patient. Be prayerful. Take care of God's business and He'll take care of yours.

It wasn't even a regular workday. No kiddies to contend with, but meetings nonetheless. By 10:35, I was starving and I only wanted one thing: A Chick-fil-a chicken biscuit. (They've gotten me into trouble before.) I don't know how to convey to you how much I absolutely had to have one. There was only one problem: They stop serving breakfast at 10:30. After my slumpy lumpy funk of waking up, I didn't care. I was going to speed to the drive thru and beg. I made it at approximately 10:47.

Me: I know you stop serving breakfast at 10:30, but is there any possible way I could pleeeease have a chicken biscuit?

Lady: No, ma'am, I'm sorry.

Me: Are you sure? I just really have to have one today. Please.

Lady: I'm sorry, but I'm not going to be able to do that.

Me: (long, sorrowful sigh) Okayyyy. Well, I guess I'll get a chicken strips meal, thr-

Lady: Hold on for just a second. I'll be right back. (long pause) Well, actually we have one more chicken biscuit left! Is there anything else you'd like?

Me: Yes! Yes! Thank you! Okay, I'll also get a medium waffle fry and a lemonade. Thank you so much! You just made my day!

Why can't everything else in life work like the Chick-fil-a drive thru?

An Actual Saturday

This is the first Saturday in a long time that I've felt like I can actually enjoy.

It's not like I don't still have stuff to do. There's always something to do. But I don't feel like there's this heavy cloud of ohmygodihavesomuchtodoswirling about me. This breath-taking, hyperventilation-inducing pressure that boils my brain into a thick cauldron of cerebral stew.

But I still have stuff to do.

This week kicked off my professional development Spanish class. So far, so good, I must say. I had a principal in my class make a few positive comments to me and to my supervisor about my energetic, engaging style. Hurray! However, any time something starts off with a bang, there's the pressure to keep it up. I can't lose steam.

My day job is still all the way live. But I'm learning how to handle it. No matter how horrible some of my kids are, there still exists a blessed remnant which I believe makes it worth it.

I will allow myself

a slight break in this 11:30 p.m. coffee-induced burst of productivity to say that I wish this mission-minded me would come around more often.

The me that usually decides to manifest is the slothful worrywart. Lots of energy is produced, but it's all kept internally. No measurable progress is made, and it does no good but burn up my brain cells before they get a chance to do anything productive.

But the mission-minded me, when she decides to emerge, is much easier to stomach. No guilty aftertaste.

Here's to finally delving into grading the tests my students keep nagging me about!

Got ma check

Ey. I fin'ly got ma check. You'ont eeeven know. Shoooooot. Been waitin fo dat check. Das MAH check. Das mah PAYcheck, cuz. Gon pay sum bills wi dat junk. Gon pay sum loans wi dat junk. Gon pay sum cret cards wi dat junk. Gon buy me sum shoes wi dat junk. Gon buy me sum lotion wi dat junk.

You'ont eeeven know. Shoooooot.

Naïve

While baking a batch of caramel-filled chocolate chip cookies this evening, I wondered: If you are aware of your naïveté, are you truly naïve?

Gotta hold it together, son.

I'm a procrastinator.

Nothing new here, move along folks, nothing more to see.

Though the procrastinator in me usually reigns and the overachieving nerd kicks in at the last minute, there are times, precious few times, when the overachieving nerd gets going from the get go.

I like those times.

I've got more to do, so I'm getting more done. I have less time to get things done, so I'm forced to use my time more efficiently.

I feel productive.

In addition to my day job, I'm also going to start teaching a Beginning Spanish class for teachers and administrators in my school system in the evenings. (Not necessarily in order of importance: experience, exposure, and cha-ching!)

Gotta hold it together, son.

Cures

Cure for the Saturday morning blues: Listening to Chopin nocturnes while driving through the still morning while watching the color-changing leaves begin to drift to the ground.

Cure for the cold soggy soul: A friend embrace, a sister to see in the flesh, commiserating smiles over hot and iced lattes and warm pastries.

Cure for the procrastinatory bog: A place apart, background music, a free drink (for filling out a survey), space to spread out and drown in the monotony of grading, grading.

Rest for the weary, solace for the lonely, a spot to observe the curious phenomenon of rainfall in the sun.

Salsa

So, I've decided that I have to focus on having fun with my off the chain students. And even though many of them are enormous enough to pound me into the ground, at the end of the day, they're children. Plus today's Friday. It was destined to be a fun day. (Even though I must be 100% and say today started out completely live. There was a food fight during breakfast in the packed-to-capacity cafeteria before school even started today.)

We played a game I've coined "Tic-tac-toe en Español" which is a tic-tac-toe-like review game. In each tic-tac-toe square is a category. The teams take turns choosing categories and if they get the question right, they get to put an X or O in that spot. First team to get three in a row wins.

The last few minutes of class, I blasted some Celia Cruz and taught them how to salsa. Some classes were more into it than others, but the class who was the most into it was the class which is usually the wildest.

I had some kids comment on how fun today's class was and I even had a student tell me I was their favorite teacher, which of course made my teacher heart swell with warm fuzzy pride. These are the things I need to remember during the down days.

What Is "This"?

The weeks slip by slowly. On the dawn lit drive to work, there was one phrase reverberating in me: "This cannot continue."

There are no specifics. I guess that's what's maddening about my state. "This" doesn't refer to any particular thing, even though the word by its very definition indicates specificity. It's just this place, this place that I'm in career-wise, physically, emotionally, spiritually. Something has to be decided upon. This limbo-ness, that's what I'm talking about. This is what cannot continue.

Career: It really is going to be fine. I can't get away from teaching. It's what I do. But yet, what am I going to do? This now isn't going to be this forever. So what is going to be this forever?

Location: It's family. The closest place to home that will ever exist. But it's just kind of a launch pad. A base that I'll return to now and again. Here now can't be here forever.

Emotional: I'm me. No matter how much I'd wish bits of me away, it's ingrained. My sensitivity. My tears. My overanalysis. My wishful thinking. I realize that these are little me-blocks. But why do I feel so badly about their presence?

Spiritual: Wandering in the wilderness. Conflicted. I love my toddlers. Last Sunday, they were completely consumed with scooping dry macaroni out of containers and pouring it into other ones. They're delighted by simple things. But can I stay in my Sunday School Teacher cocoon forever and think that will make the balloon float?

This thing that I'm in, this insecure existence, it simply cannot continue. Not for too much longer.

This is a major grade.

Name: ___________________ Date: _______ Period: __

Answer the following questions in complete sentences.

1. What are the policies and procedures involved in "giving it over to God"?

2. What does it mean not to live in the past when we are indubitably formed and molded by our past experiences?

3. In Chapter 1, the issue of Things was discussed. How do you stay on top of them?

4. In the case study of C.S., there were details of ponderous, tearful Saturday mornings. What was it that reassured the subject and why?

Essay Prompt

"That which does not kill us makes us stronger" is probably one of Nietzche's most memorable quotations. Argue for or against this assertion using evidence from your own life. Cite where appropriate.

Bonus

Applying inductive reasoning, what are the odds (in ratio form) of a 28-year-old, wanderlust-laden, indecisive, insecure, impatient, stubborn, sensitive, overly-analytical black female chilling out?

White fudge covered pretzels

are what I'm eating right now while listening to Brazilian pop. While writing in French to Swedish friends. While plunged into the molasses of life in the former capital of the Confederacy. While realizing that I love my students somehow. While wondering what's next.

Rainbow Morning

I saw this promise in the sky before I rolled away to work this morning:

Red and yellow and pink and green

Purple and orange and blue

I can sing a rainbow,

Sing a rainbow,

Sing a rainbow too.

A Sunday Night, Like Many Sunday Nights to Come

Sitting here, blogging as procrastination. Avoidance. That's nothing new.

I'm trying to hold on to the last shred of this weekend before the new week comes pouring in, drowning me in its tide of sheer existence.

I like teaching, I do. I like the little details of being a teacher. Freshly sharpened pencils, post it notes, seating charts, gesticulating while walking around the room, hoping my word seeds will plant themselves into my students' brains and that little knowledge seedlings will sprout. I like answering questions that show curiosity about the world. I like giving out star stickers for correct answers and participation. (You'd think high school students would utterly shun the very idea of star stickers, but you'd be surprised.)

But the one thing I despise, the one thing that makes me want to curl up into a fetal position in a corner and die is grading papers. And I have a million and one students. Take me now, sweet Jesus. Take me on home. The papers mock me, daring me to make an insignificant dent.

There's a flying saucer of insecurity that constantly hovers over me. I don't have it together. I'm grasping at loose ends and more sprout before I have time to tie them. It's daunting. I'm doomed to slogging through. I'll never be a hot knife through butter.

Sometimes the cool, soothing genie in my brain says just a day at a time. You can only do what you are able to do. It looks nice typed out. It sounds reasonable out loud.

But tomorrow I'll unlock my paper-decorated door (an attempt at morale-boosting festiveness), and step into my chilled room. There will be desks, a podium, a tardy log, a clock. These are concrete things.

There will be a sea of humanity in the hallways which will come flowing into my room. Here we are now, entertain us.

Call: Buenos días, clase.

Response: Buenos días, Señorita Smith.

Invitation

What: Miss Señorita Smith's Detention!

Where: Room 127

When: August 27th from 2:55 p.m. sharp to 3:40 p.m.

**Failure to attend will be an office referral! Gum scrapers provided!**