Of taking on the 7th graders. Another day of rushing back to campus to make my 3:30 Spanish Linguistics class. This is the last week of my internship. Crazy. A couple of exams May 6th (Spanish and the College of Ed Exit Exam), and then Commencement. "Are you excited?" people ask. You better believe I am, but I'm coming to another realization. Somehow, I had this false notion that I would graduate and then be able to breathe a sigh of relief. Ahhhh, it's over. I've done it. Oh, not so. Once you finish college, it's not over. It'll never be over until I die, I guess. Life is just made up of phases and you go through them and keep living. I don't think I'll ever be able to say, "Yes, I have arrived." Not here on earth, anyway. I don't say these things with any sort of a melancholy air. It's just what I'm coming to realize.
Do I eat canned soup or chili or go get that chicken quesadilla that the Crimson Cafe makes just right? Choices, choices. Ohhh, but I'm too tired. Ugh, and I need a retouch (black folk talk for "straightening the roots of your hair with a chemical creme") like nobody's business. Oh, well, I guess it's dump out the contents of a can, nuke it, eat, and then get to work on this head. I need to learn how to cook. For real.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Monday, April 25, 2005
Red Light Musings
Have you ever been sitting at a red light and all of a sudden your mind gets assaulted with memories of all of the mortifying situations you've ever been in? I don't know why, but it happens to me all the time, without fail. I'll just be sitting at a red light on my way to the school or running errands or whatever, and all of a sudden I'll start thinking about that time when . . . and I'll literally cringe. I don't know what it is about waiting at red lights that triggers the whole embarrassing memories recall. Some of the things are funny-embarrassing, you know, the things that you self-deprecatingly tell in a lighthearted way to make your friends laugh, and the others are just flat out embarrassing. Those are the ones I want to stuff into the to-be-forgotten box of my mind. And those are the ones that most often come to me during the red light times. Others are those little awkward moments that nobody else probably remembers, but that you remember and you just want to erase from existence. Examples? Well, these are more of the funny-embarrassing kind, I guess.
1. There was a time in high school where I had a bottom locker. I was also a huge nerd and so I brought all of my books home all the time, so I constantly had a heavy backpack full of books. (Maybe that's why my posture is not the best to this day.) Anyway, one morning, I was squatting down, sort of on my haunches to open my bottom locker with this huge backpack on, and the weight was so much that I tipped backwards! I tried to discreetly rock myself back up onto my feet, but I was stuck. I finally just had to slip my arms out of my backpack straps and get back on my feet without all the extra weight. I don't know how many people saw my little predicament, or if they saw, I don't know if they cared, but that's just one example of the many things that haunt my mind during my red light waits.
2. Unfortunately, I have an oral fixation and I just happened to get a hold of one of those fake wood pencils (you know, the rubbery kind) during a Sunday School teen class back in the day, while we were all discussing . . . something about the lesson. Holding the pencil horizontally, I was sort of absentmindedly twirling it slowly as I bit it. I must've put a little too much weight on the "biting" end of the pencil against the hand that was twirling it because it suddenly broke with a loud snap. All eyes were on me as I was left with half of the pencil in my mouth and the other half in my hand. I felt like a dog with a broken pencil bone in its mouth. As the room erupted in laughter, I took the broken end out of my mouth and then began to involuntarily spit out the little flecks of "rubber" pencil that ended up in my mouth. Okay, maybe that one doesn't haunt me as much as it makes me smile.
Of course there are others that I daren't tell . . . I'm not a masochist. But it's a good thing that time has the ability to allow us to look back on things later, though they may not have been funny when they happened, and laugh.
1. There was a time in high school where I had a bottom locker. I was also a huge nerd and so I brought all of my books home all the time, so I constantly had a heavy backpack full of books. (Maybe that's why my posture is not the best to this day.) Anyway, one morning, I was squatting down, sort of on my haunches to open my bottom locker with this huge backpack on, and the weight was so much that I tipped backwards! I tried to discreetly rock myself back up onto my feet, but I was stuck. I finally just had to slip my arms out of my backpack straps and get back on my feet without all the extra weight. I don't know how many people saw my little predicament, or if they saw, I don't know if they cared, but that's just one example of the many things that haunt my mind during my red light waits.
2. Unfortunately, I have an oral fixation and I just happened to get a hold of one of those fake wood pencils (you know, the rubbery kind) during a Sunday School teen class back in the day, while we were all discussing . . . something about the lesson. Holding the pencil horizontally, I was sort of absentmindedly twirling it slowly as I bit it. I must've put a little too much weight on the "biting" end of the pencil against the hand that was twirling it because it suddenly broke with a loud snap. All eyes were on me as I was left with half of the pencil in my mouth and the other half in my hand. I felt like a dog with a broken pencil bone in its mouth. As the room erupted in laughter, I took the broken end out of my mouth and then began to involuntarily spit out the little flecks of "rubber" pencil that ended up in my mouth. Okay, maybe that one doesn't haunt me as much as it makes me smile.
Of course there are others that I daren't tell . . . I'm not a masochist. But it's a good thing that time has the ability to allow us to look back on things later, though they may not have been funny when they happened, and laugh.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
I'm Okay with That
Sunday afternoon, during that sleepy time between Sunday morning and Sunday night services--for me, at least. I'm too awake to catch a little nap, but the tiredness is still lurking behind my eyes. I'm listening to a CD of Spanish popular music that my host brother burned for me. Buscando lo que nunca encontré . . .
I've sort of come to a realization, and that is that it's Chantell all by herself again. Chantell afresh. No more do I have any hopes invested in any possible prospect. Friday night, I was writing the last entry in my now full journal consisting of about the last 2 1/2 years of my musings. I was comparing the times when my brain was consumed with thoughts of someone as opposed to the times when it wasn't. It seemed that I was always better off when it wasn't. Funny how I can remember the first and last names of every crush I've ever had going back even to 2nd grade (well, with the exception of Giuseppe, the son of our next door neighbors back in Italy . . . I never knew his last name. But he did have this really awesome red moped). Funny how you can forget where you've just laid your car keys (and that happens to me WAY too much considering that I'm just 23), yet can remember the finite details about some little guy you used to like.
Anyway, I think I'm coming to more fully accept and appreciate my season of singleness. The fact that there seemed to be no prospects in sight used to be a complaint, but now I'm beginning to see it as a good thing for right now. Because it's where I'm at right now. Instead of feeling depressed about it, I'm comfortable with it. I would be telling the lie of all lies if I said that all of a sudden finding that "special someone" is something that I don't think about anymore or that I don't desire. But perhaps God knows that my brain cell energy would be put to better use elsewhere for now. And I'm okay with that.
I've sort of come to a realization, and that is that it's Chantell all by herself again. Chantell afresh. No more do I have any hopes invested in any possible prospect. Friday night, I was writing the last entry in my now full journal consisting of about the last 2 1/2 years of my musings. I was comparing the times when my brain was consumed with thoughts of someone as opposed to the times when it wasn't. It seemed that I was always better off when it wasn't. Funny how I can remember the first and last names of every crush I've ever had going back even to 2nd grade (well, with the exception of Giuseppe, the son of our next door neighbors back in Italy . . . I never knew his last name. But he did have this really awesome red moped). Funny how you can forget where you've just laid your car keys (and that happens to me WAY too much considering that I'm just 23), yet can remember the finite details about some little guy you used to like.
Anyway, I think I'm coming to more fully accept and appreciate my season of singleness. The fact that there seemed to be no prospects in sight used to be a complaint, but now I'm beginning to see it as a good thing for right now. Because it's where I'm at right now. Instead of feeling depressed about it, I'm comfortable with it. I would be telling the lie of all lies if I said that all of a sudden finding that "special someone" is something that I don't think about anymore or that I don't desire. But perhaps God knows that my brain cell energy would be put to better use elsewhere for now. And I'm okay with that.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Hog-Doggin' It
I picked up the University of Alabama's campus paper, The Crimson White after a long day of taking on the 7th graders, and was appalled to find this article. I had never even heard of a "hog-dog rodeo." Ugh! I thought stuff like that was what people who sterotyped people from Alabama as being backwards and ignorant made up in the telling of some sort of redneck joke. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction. My, my.
Anyway, last night was the McNair Scholars Program Spring recognition program. My mom and brother and a friend from church came--it was really nice. The main thing was that our articles were finally published, and they presented a copy to each of the scholars. It felt so good to flip through and find mine in there, in print at last! I won't even go into the hours of research, transcribing, translating, writing, rewriting, listening to tapes, etc. that it took to form a final product. It was a nice little affair (although the main speaker's presentation sort of took a detour into a political diatribe--uh, oh), and gave me a chance to get really dressed up and have a good time.
Next week will be the last week of student-teaching, and the week after that--"Pomp and Circumstance" will be playing softly in the background as I march up there, snatch up that diploma, and give President Witt a high-five saying,"See yaaaaa!"
Oh, one more thing. There's a student in my 6th period who I just know has potential. I can tell that he is extremely intelligent. But he has a little image to uphold, gets into trouble because of his attitude, and doesn't do his work. This is not by any means excusable behavior, but I can tell he's bored. He's not being challenged. Sometimes the expectations we have of students directly affects their performance. No, not sometimes, it's a fact that it does all the time. Educational research has proven it. I wrote him a note today while they were watching a film. I bascially told him that he is an extremely intelligent young man and that I know he can do better. I said that I can tell he's bored in class and needs something to challenge him. I also said that he needs to at least try. He needs to put forth his best effort. I proposed to him that I find him some interesting books to read or some material that would interest him (I have this crazy idea of getting him into Harlem Renaissance Lit), and lastly I let him know that if he ever needs help with anything, he could always come to me. "Sincerely, Miss Smith," I signed it. When the bell rang, I gave him the note and said,"Keep this and read it when you get home." He looked at me, took it, and gave a funny sort of half-smile. I wonder if he'll read it and what he'll think. Will he take me up on my offer? As my mom always says, we shall see.
Anyway, last night was the McNair Scholars Program Spring recognition program. My mom and brother and a friend from church came--it was really nice. The main thing was that our articles were finally published, and they presented a copy to each of the scholars. It felt so good to flip through and find mine in there, in print at last! I won't even go into the hours of research, transcribing, translating, writing, rewriting, listening to tapes, etc. that it took to form a final product. It was a nice little affair (although the main speaker's presentation sort of took a detour into a political diatribe--uh, oh), and gave me a chance to get really dressed up and have a good time.
Next week will be the last week of student-teaching, and the week after that--"Pomp and Circumstance" will be playing softly in the background as I march up there, snatch up that diploma, and give President Witt a high-five saying,"See yaaaaa!"
Oh, one more thing. There's a student in my 6th period who I just know has potential. I can tell that he is extremely intelligent. But he has a little image to uphold, gets into trouble because of his attitude, and doesn't do his work. This is not by any means excusable behavior, but I can tell he's bored. He's not being challenged. Sometimes the expectations we have of students directly affects their performance. No, not sometimes, it's a fact that it does all the time. Educational research has proven it. I wrote him a note today while they were watching a film. I bascially told him that he is an extremely intelligent young man and that I know he can do better. I said that I can tell he's bored in class and needs something to challenge him. I also said that he needs to at least try. He needs to put forth his best effort. I proposed to him that I find him some interesting books to read or some material that would interest him (I have this crazy idea of getting him into Harlem Renaissance Lit), and lastly I let him know that if he ever needs help with anything, he could always come to me. "Sincerely, Miss Smith," I signed it. When the bell rang, I gave him the note and said,"Keep this and read it when you get home." He looked at me, took it, and gave a funny sort of half-smile. I wonder if he'll read it and what he'll think. Will he take me up on my offer? As my mom always says, we shall see.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Ketchup Fights in the Lunchroom
I think there's this thing that goes off in the brains of 7th graders that releases this hormone of badness anytime I'm teaching and there's a sub. There's just something about that student teacher-sub combo that does it. Now, today wasn't really that bad, I mean, I didn't feel like I didn't have control or anything like that, but it amazes me, its almost humorous, the things that they will try (and that they will do) because their "real" teacher isn't there.
Lunchtime, and I'm sitting there with the rest of the teachers, keeping my eye on the group (at least trying to), and the moment I turn away and turn back again, there are two boys with ketchup on their clothing and faces. How did that slip by me? I get up and walk over there--by that time the "fight" is over, and I don't freak out, I just look and them and demand an explanation. After they incriminate each other, I simply say, "Both of you are getting written up." And that was that. Anyway, tomorrow, I really have to be on the ball--I'm being observed. I was observed last Thursday too, and I got a really good evaluation. Let's hope tomorrow will be a repeat of that. (God, please?)
"Proshpects" are lining up nicely. Next weekend, I have an interview with the headmaster of the Montgomery area private school that seemed very interested in me. I really do hope all goes well. So far, it seems that it would be the most highly-paid and the most stress-free situation I could have. And the fact that the school is like, a 2-minute drive from where my parents (and soon I will) live doesn't make matters worse either. Pray, wait, and see.
"Time, why you punish me?"--Hootie & the Blowfish
Time is that thing I have the least of but that I waste the most. You should have seen me last night running a mouth marathon on the phone. lol. This time-wasting madness has got to stop. I could blame it on senioritis, I could blame it on my mouth marathon compadre, but no. The fault lies with me. So why don't I stop rambling on my blog and get to work?
Lunchtime, and I'm sitting there with the rest of the teachers, keeping my eye on the group (at least trying to), and the moment I turn away and turn back again, there are two boys with ketchup on their clothing and faces. How did that slip by me? I get up and walk over there--by that time the "fight" is over, and I don't freak out, I just look and them and demand an explanation. After they incriminate each other, I simply say, "Both of you are getting written up." And that was that. Anyway, tomorrow, I really have to be on the ball--I'm being observed. I was observed last Thursday too, and I got a really good evaluation. Let's hope tomorrow will be a repeat of that. (God, please?)
"Proshpects" are lining up nicely. Next weekend, I have an interview with the headmaster of the Montgomery area private school that seemed very interested in me. I really do hope all goes well. So far, it seems that it would be the most highly-paid and the most stress-free situation I could have. And the fact that the school is like, a 2-minute drive from where my parents (and soon I will) live doesn't make matters worse either. Pray, wait, and see.
"Time, why you punish me?"--Hootie & the Blowfish
Time is that thing I have the least of but that I waste the most. You should have seen me last night running a mouth marathon on the phone. lol. This time-wasting madness has got to stop. I could blame it on senioritis, I could blame it on my mouth marathon compadre, but no. The fault lies with me. So why don't I stop rambling on my blog and get to work?
Monday, April 18, 2005
Blaaaast!
The title of this post is meant to be said in an angered British accent with shaking fist upheld. All of a sudden, the Alabama State Department of Education decides that in order for me to be certified, I have to take the Praxis II. In both subject areas, I assume (Language Arts and Spanish). Now, I know in many states, in 39 of the 50, the Praxis is required for certification. Alabama wasn't one of them. Now all of a sudden, Alabama decides to jump on the "higher standards" bandwagon and spring this on us last minute. Not that I think I'll do terribly and I'm deathly afraid of standardized tests, it's just that I'm just sick of this . . . please don't get me started on No Child Left Behind and its fallacies. I'm tired of testing being shoved in teachers' faces and students' faces with ultimatums. Like a test can truly measure intelligence. Like it can accurately measure a teacher's performance.
But what am I complaining about? I'm the standardized test queen. PSAT, SAT, ACT, APTTP and soon GRE (if I want to go to grad school soon, that is.) Standardized tests got me where I am today. If it weren't for the dear old PSAT, I wouldn't have become a National Achievement Semifinalist. And if it weren't for the PSAT's daddy, Mr. SAT, well, would I have even been offered the sweet scholarship package responsible for luring me to this fine institution of higher learning? And if it weren't for the SAT's sidekick, the ACT, would I have been accepted into college, into honors programs, etc., etc.? Catch 22, yo. Catch 22.
But all of that aside, what poor college student has $150 to shell out unexpectedly for some test (well, two tests in my case)? (sigh) Guess it'll soon be time to hit up the 'rents.
I don't want to end on a sour note. Dealing with the 7th graders today wasn't bad. It's still weird being called Miss Smith. Even weirder, I can't go to any public place without being spotted by one of my former or present students. I guess when you're a teacher, the teacher persona never leaves you, even outside of the classroom.
There's still a million and one things to do and I don't feel like doing them. How did I make it this far with such reluctance to get things done? I'm like in the advanced stages of terminal senioritis. I gotta hang in there. 3 more weeks . . . 3 more weeks . . . .
But what am I complaining about? I'm the standardized test queen. PSAT, SAT, ACT, APTTP and soon GRE (if I want to go to grad school soon, that is.) Standardized tests got me where I am today. If it weren't for the dear old PSAT, I wouldn't have become a National Achievement Semifinalist. And if it weren't for the PSAT's daddy, Mr. SAT, well, would I have even been offered the sweet scholarship package responsible for luring me to this fine institution of higher learning? And if it weren't for the SAT's sidekick, the ACT, would I have been accepted into college, into honors programs, etc., etc.? Catch 22, yo. Catch 22.
But all of that aside, what poor college student has $150 to shell out unexpectedly for some test (well, two tests in my case)? (sigh) Guess it'll soon be time to hit up the 'rents.
I don't want to end on a sour note. Dealing with the 7th graders today wasn't bad. It's still weird being called Miss Smith. Even weirder, I can't go to any public place without being spotted by one of my former or present students. I guess when you're a teacher, the teacher persona never leaves you, even outside of the classroom.
There's still a million and one things to do and I don't feel like doing them. How did I make it this far with such reluctance to get things done? I'm like in the advanced stages of terminal senioritis. I gotta hang in there. 3 more weeks . . . 3 more weeks . . . .
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Lake Lurleen
Lurleen Wallace was the first, and so far only, female governor of Alabama. Yes, the wife of "stand in the schoolhouse door" fame, George. Well, thank you Lordy that old George didn't have his way for long . . . or else I wouldn't be so eagerly anticipating graduation in a matter of weeks from UA, now would I?
Anyway, yesterday some of the young people and other church folks went out to one of Lurleen's many namesakes, Lake Lurleen, for a Saturday afternoon of grilling out, fishing, canoeing and paddleboating. It was an absolutely beautiful day. I (further--lol) browned my arms and legs in the sun and just soaked it all in (quite literally, too--we had a water fight that left me looking like a denim-skirted water nymph). It was just a day of enjoying the beauty and majesty of God's creation while taking a respite from the craziness of the week. We need that. God knows we need it.
A song by Warren Barfield comes to mind. He's a young, comparatively new Christian artist whose slighty hoarse-sounding voice with a slight touch of soul is so endearing. The chorus from his song "Soak It Up":
Soak it up
Every little bit I can
Enjoy all my day
Before all my days end
And whatever I get
Always let that be enough
And never forget to soak it up
Anyway, yesterday some of the young people and other church folks went out to one of Lurleen's many namesakes, Lake Lurleen, for a Saturday afternoon of grilling out, fishing, canoeing and paddleboating. It was an absolutely beautiful day. I (further--lol) browned my arms and legs in the sun and just soaked it all in (quite literally, too--we had a water fight that left me looking like a denim-skirted water nymph). It was just a day of enjoying the beauty and majesty of God's creation while taking a respite from the craziness of the week. We need that. God knows we need it.
A song by Warren Barfield comes to mind. He's a young, comparatively new Christian artist whose slighty hoarse-sounding voice with a slight touch of soul is so endearing. The chorus from his song "Soak It Up":
Soak it up
Every little bit I can
Enjoy all my day
Before all my days end
And whatever I get
Always let that be enough
And never forget to soak it up
Friday, April 15, 2005
Toe Torture
I would have hated to have been my right pinkie toe today. All hot and squished up in the corner of my shoe. It was crying out to me. Well, both of my feet were kind of whimpering, but my right pinky was screaming out in agony. It was saying, "Chantell, let this cup pass from me." I'm telling you, I was tempted to get real Alabama and just take those suckers off and walk around barefooted today. Commandment One of being a student intern: Thou shalt not wear shoes that kill thy feet, especially when thou art in charge of instruction all day and on top of that, have to rush from the school at 3:05 to campus in enough time to park and make thy 3:30. The usual 3:25 brisk walk from the parking lot to the foreign languages building was more like a pained limp today. My walking rhythm was a droll metronome of ouches.
I have to give my right pinky toe props, though. It hung in there. It had guts. When I finally made it to my humble abode at the end of the day and took those babies off, my pinkie toe was like, "What? What? I can take it, c'mon, bring it on!" Must be something about brown pumps that have a way of toughening a pinky toe up. Well, at least encouraging one to develop a corn, if nothing else. Why do we torture our feet like this, ladies? I know it doesn't help that I'm super flat-footed, and that my feet are positioned so that I slightly walk on the outside edge of my feet so the heels of my shoes wear at an angle. Can't help it. But the toe torturing madness has got to stop. I think, a guy wouldn't wear shoes that hurt his feet like a big dog just for the sake of fashion, would he? But then, I've never been one to even think about claiming to know the innerworkings of the male psyche. Better leave that one right there where it is.
Toe torture aside, the rest of my day was filled with interactions with 7th graders (and being observed during 1st period), and oral exams in Spanish Phonetics and Syntax (which I should have taken while studying abroad in Spain last spring, but here we are.) Well, better get to grading those stacks of Daily Oral Grammar tests. Ah, isn't this just the life?
I have to give my right pinky toe props, though. It hung in there. It had guts. When I finally made it to my humble abode at the end of the day and took those babies off, my pinkie toe was like, "What? What? I can take it, c'mon, bring it on!" Must be something about brown pumps that have a way of toughening a pinky toe up. Well, at least encouraging one to develop a corn, if nothing else. Why do we torture our feet like this, ladies? I know it doesn't help that I'm super flat-footed, and that my feet are positioned so that I slightly walk on the outside edge of my feet so the heels of my shoes wear at an angle. Can't help it. But the toe torturing madness has got to stop. I think, a guy wouldn't wear shoes that hurt his feet like a big dog just for the sake of fashion, would he? But then, I've never been one to even think about claiming to know the innerworkings of the male psyche. Better leave that one right there where it is.
Toe torture aside, the rest of my day was filled with interactions with 7th graders (and being observed during 1st period), and oral exams in Spanish Phonetics and Syntax (which I should have taken while studying abroad in Spain last spring, but here we are.) Well, better get to grading those stacks of Daily Oral Grammar tests. Ah, isn't this just the life?
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Prospects
I would like the title of this post pronounced almost like "proshpects" with a backwoods, down-home, Alabama drawl. Picture a hunched-over, bushy-mustachioed, sun-burnt old man, rubbing his chafed hands together with a mischievous, cracked-toothed smile and a knowing gleam in his eye saying the word. Imagine him giving a dry, hearty cackle at the thought that he's marketable, that he's in demand, that he will soon be joining the world of the employed, and that he may end up making a bit more money than he previously thought.
Today that old man was me.
Today was the UA Recruitment of Educators day, otherwise known as UA-RED day, and I would say that it was a success. I'm a double major--Secondary Education Language Arts and Secondary Education Spanish. (It's taken me 5 years to do so since a double major is a bit more coursework and since I studied abroad for a semester.) Foreign Language teachers and teachers that are specialized in more than one area are in high demand, and I found that out today. I was a bit choosy, however, because I'm only really looking for employment in the Montgomery area since I'm moving back in with the 'rents to save up some money and get on my feet before launching out into the deep. There was a particular school, a private school, in the Montgomery area who seemed very interested in me. Usually private school salaries are less than those of public schools, but not this one. As the Academic Dean told me, "We're willing to pay for quality." You betcha. I'll probably be in touch with them and will hopefully have a more in-depth interview with the headmaster soon. I got another call back from the principal of a good school prospect in the same area--we keep missing each other. I'm still eager to hear what he has to say as well. But from here on out, it's kind of wait-and-see. I've mailed my application off to the state board, so I may be hearing more offers over the summer, once people have made a good assessment of their school's needs.
Today I felt like God gave me a big pat on the back and said, "Your labor is not in vain." Thanks, God. I needed that.
Today that old man was me.
Today was the UA Recruitment of Educators day, otherwise known as UA-RED day, and I would say that it was a success. I'm a double major--Secondary Education Language Arts and Secondary Education Spanish. (It's taken me 5 years to do so since a double major is a bit more coursework and since I studied abroad for a semester.) Foreign Language teachers and teachers that are specialized in more than one area are in high demand, and I found that out today. I was a bit choosy, however, because I'm only really looking for employment in the Montgomery area since I'm moving back in with the 'rents to save up some money and get on my feet before launching out into the deep. There was a particular school, a private school, in the Montgomery area who seemed very interested in me. Usually private school salaries are less than those of public schools, but not this one. As the Academic Dean told me, "We're willing to pay for quality." You betcha. I'll probably be in touch with them and will hopefully have a more in-depth interview with the headmaster soon. I got another call back from the principal of a good school prospect in the same area--we keep missing each other. I'm still eager to hear what he has to say as well. But from here on out, it's kind of wait-and-see. I've mailed my application off to the state board, so I may be hearing more offers over the summer, once people have made a good assessment of their school's needs.
Today I felt like God gave me a big pat on the back and said, "Your labor is not in vain." Thanks, God. I needed that.
Theme Songs
I have theme songs from time to time. Just songs that sum up how I'm feeling during my various stages. My current one? "I Don't Wanna Be" by Gavin DeGraw. I know it's mainstream, secular, whatever, but I was just seized by this song when I first heard it. The chorus:
I don't want to be anything other than what I've been trying to be lately
All I have to do is think of me and I have peace of mind
I'm tired of looking 'round rooms wondering what I gotta do
Or who I'm supposed to be
I don't want to be anything other than me
Now, of course, for me, knowing that God's got my back gives me peace of mind, but the spirit of this song sums up how I've been feeling, and is something I've known for a while but what I think is really finally starting to sink in, and that is this: I can't be anyone other than myself and neither should I try to be. At times I frustrate myself worrying about how I am percieved by others, worrying about whether I am where a newly-turned 23-year-old should be in her life, etc., and it's maddening. I could go on and on about the time in my life where I basically gave myself a complex because I was consumed with fitting in somewhere. For the sake of not going into a full-blown life story, suffice it to say that the formative/adolescent years of a black former military brat turned Alabama transplant were sometimes confusing and filled with many a crisis of identity. Imagine suffering more culture shock from returning to your country of origin than when you first lived outside of it. But I digress. For right now, enough already with the madness! (Or, "kill the drama" as my brother sometimes says.) I don't wanna be anything other than me. I wanna be me with a job though . . . got a call from a principal from a good school prospect, and tomorrow's the UA Recruitment of Educators Day. Details to follow!
I don't want to be anything other than what I've been trying to be lately
All I have to do is think of me and I have peace of mind
I'm tired of looking 'round rooms wondering what I gotta do
Or who I'm supposed to be
I don't want to be anything other than me
Now, of course, for me, knowing that God's got my back gives me peace of mind, but the spirit of this song sums up how I've been feeling, and is something I've known for a while but what I think is really finally starting to sink in, and that is this: I can't be anyone other than myself and neither should I try to be. At times I frustrate myself worrying about how I am percieved by others, worrying about whether I am where a newly-turned 23-year-old should be in her life, etc., and it's maddening. I could go on and on about the time in my life where I basically gave myself a complex because I was consumed with fitting in somewhere. For the sake of not going into a full-blown life story, suffice it to say that the formative/adolescent years of a black former military brat turned Alabama transplant were sometimes confusing and filled with many a crisis of identity. Imagine suffering more culture shock from returning to your country of origin than when you first lived outside of it. But I digress. For right now, enough already with the madness! (Or, "kill the drama" as my brother sometimes says.) I don't wanna be anything other than me. I wanna be me with a job though . . . got a call from a principal from a good school prospect, and tomorrow's the UA Recruitment of Educators Day. Details to follow!
Sunday, April 10, 2005
The Girl Who Had a Crush on Jesus
I sometimes wonder what Jesus's life was like when he was in his teens and 20s. The Bible sort of skips that whole part of his life. I mean, they do mention the part where he gets left at the temple by Joseph and Mary when he's like 12 and he's being "about his Father's business," but that's about it. The Bible does say too that he was "in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin," so, I like to think that maybe he had to fend off a girl or two.
I just like to imagine a pretty little Jewish girl who lived around the corner from Joseph's carpenter shop. Sometimes she'd find any excuse to come over and help Mary with the kids, or borrow a ephah of flour or something to make the daily bread. Meanwhile, she'd steal glances of Jesus out back, hammering away at a plank of wood.
Of course, being God, Jesus knew this would happen, and he's doing his best to keep his 19-year-old humanness in check. Hadassah is a sweet, pretty 17-year-old girl. Her intentions are innocent, but he knows he has to break it to her: it would never work.
Hauling a fresh supply of lumber on his way home one day, he runs into her.
"Shalom, Jesus!" she calls, her eyes shining with longing.
"Shalom, Hadassah," he replies, and continues walking toward the house.
"Uh, Jesus . . . " She lightly touches him on the arm, and he sets his bundle down and turns toward her.
"Yes?" He's trying to be . . . God-like about this whole thing. He can't let her break him down. He has to somehow get her to understand . . .
"I was wondering if you'd like to--take a walk with me after the evening meal tonight."
"Sorry, Hadassah, I can't. I still have a lot to do with Father at the shop. Not a good idea tonight."
"Tomorrow night then?" It took a lot for her to approach him this way. She was afraid he'd think she was being too forward, but since he's always so busy, how else would she ever get a chance to spend time with him?
"Hadassah, it's probably not a good idea . . . ever." He hated to do this. He hated to see her beautiful eyes fill up with tears, see the hurt look on her face. But it was the only way.
"Jesus, I don't understand, I--do you find me so--so unappealing?" Her lip quivers. Tears run down her lovely face.
"No, it's not that at all," he sighs. He runs his hands over his curly mop of hair. He looks at her at that moment in much the same way his disciples and other followers would later describe that he looked upon those by whom his heart was moved with compassion. He gently wipes the tears from her cheeks. "You must understand, " he continues. "I'm not--like other guys." He smiles inwardly as he reads her thoughts: But that's why I like you so much. "Please understand. I think you are a very beautiful young lady, and you will make a fine wife to a deserving man one day." I could tell you his name and your wedding date, if you wanted, he thinks to himself. "But believe me when I say that I am not the one."
"But Jesus, I--" she begins, but his intense look silences her. She doesn't know why, but she believes him. She already knew there was something different about him, but she now realizes this "difference" is something beyond understanding.
"Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy strength, and with all thy might," he says. Then he picks up his bundle and turns to go. She stares after him, transfixed, as he walks down the road to his house. Yes, the love in my heart for Adonai must be greater than the love in my heart for any man, she says inwardly. Little did she know that Jesus and Adonai were one and the same.
I just like to imagine a pretty little Jewish girl who lived around the corner from Joseph's carpenter shop. Sometimes she'd find any excuse to come over and help Mary with the kids, or borrow a ephah of flour or something to make the daily bread. Meanwhile, she'd steal glances of Jesus out back, hammering away at a plank of wood.
Of course, being God, Jesus knew this would happen, and he's doing his best to keep his 19-year-old humanness in check. Hadassah is a sweet, pretty 17-year-old girl. Her intentions are innocent, but he knows he has to break it to her: it would never work.
Hauling a fresh supply of lumber on his way home one day, he runs into her.
"Shalom, Jesus!" she calls, her eyes shining with longing.
"Shalom, Hadassah," he replies, and continues walking toward the house.
"Uh, Jesus . . . " She lightly touches him on the arm, and he sets his bundle down and turns toward her.
"Yes?" He's trying to be . . . God-like about this whole thing. He can't let her break him down. He has to somehow get her to understand . . .
"I was wondering if you'd like to--take a walk with me after the evening meal tonight."
"Sorry, Hadassah, I can't. I still have a lot to do with Father at the shop. Not a good idea tonight."
"Tomorrow night then?" It took a lot for her to approach him this way. She was afraid he'd think she was being too forward, but since he's always so busy, how else would she ever get a chance to spend time with him?
"Hadassah, it's probably not a good idea . . . ever." He hated to do this. He hated to see her beautiful eyes fill up with tears, see the hurt look on her face. But it was the only way.
"Jesus, I don't understand, I--do you find me so--so unappealing?" Her lip quivers. Tears run down her lovely face.
"No, it's not that at all," he sighs. He runs his hands over his curly mop of hair. He looks at her at that moment in much the same way his disciples and other followers would later describe that he looked upon those by whom his heart was moved with compassion. He gently wipes the tears from her cheeks. "You must understand, " he continues. "I'm not--like other guys." He smiles inwardly as he reads her thoughts: But that's why I like you so much. "Please understand. I think you are a very beautiful young lady, and you will make a fine wife to a deserving man one day." I could tell you his name and your wedding date, if you wanted, he thinks to himself. "But believe me when I say that I am not the one."
"But Jesus, I--" she begins, but his intense look silences her. She doesn't know why, but she believes him. She already knew there was something different about him, but she now realizes this "difference" is something beyond understanding.
"Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy strength, and with all thy might," he says. Then he picks up his bundle and turns to go. She stares after him, transfixed, as he walks down the road to his house. Yes, the love in my heart for Adonai must be greater than the love in my heart for any man, she says inwardly. Little did she know that Jesus and Adonai were one and the same.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Something about Sunny Days
I don't know why, but there's something about sunny days, a day like today, that gets my spirits up and makes me feel like all is right with the world and that my whole life is just waiting to be lived, ready to take me in with open arms. The Crimson Cafe is a popular spot on the Strip that a good friend and I frequent often. Too often, sometimes. We went "crimsoning" this afternoon for lunch and I told her, "I just wish the weather would stay just like this. Not get any hotter, not get any colder, just stay exactly like this forever."
I had to make some graduation preparations. May 7th, otherwise known as the Big Day, is approaching rapidly. Getting hotel reservations for graduation weekend this late in the game may have seemed like a futile attempt, but I ended up finding a nice place not incredibly far from campus and made reservations for my family and some out of town friends. Thank goodness Mom has offered to send out my graduation announcements for me. My black cap and gown hang silently and patiently in my cramped closet.
I'm also compiling my application for "certificated employment" with the Montgomery County Public Schools system. It still feels alien doing grownup stuff like writing and rewriting resumes and cover letters and such. As much as I feel like I'm getting tired of Tuscaloosa, of dorm life, and of being in school in general, I know that I will miss the college environment. I'm going to miss getting to hear Pulitzer Prize winning authors for free, getting student discounts, and meeting people from all over the world. I'm going to miss being able to claim that sacred student status, that socially acceptable quasi-independence. I'm going to miss being able to claim "poor college student" like a badge of honor.
The days of sitting lazily on a bench in the Quad wearing a t-shirt with "COLLEGE" printed on the front that you got from buying your books from The College Store along with plastic-sequined flip-flops bought while studying abroad in Spain will be replaced with days of standing in front of a classroom full of (hopefully high-school-aged) kids, professionally dressed, answering to "Miss Smith." Not that bad of a trade-off, I guess. I just pray that I'll be ready for it when the time comes.
I had to make some graduation preparations. May 7th, otherwise known as the Big Day, is approaching rapidly. Getting hotel reservations for graduation weekend this late in the game may have seemed like a futile attempt, but I ended up finding a nice place not incredibly far from campus and made reservations for my family and some out of town friends. Thank goodness Mom has offered to send out my graduation announcements for me. My black cap and gown hang silently and patiently in my cramped closet.
I'm also compiling my application for "certificated employment" with the Montgomery County Public Schools system. It still feels alien doing grownup stuff like writing and rewriting resumes and cover letters and such. As much as I feel like I'm getting tired of Tuscaloosa, of dorm life, and of being in school in general, I know that I will miss the college environment. I'm going to miss getting to hear Pulitzer Prize winning authors for free, getting student discounts, and meeting people from all over the world. I'm going to miss being able to claim that sacred student status, that socially acceptable quasi-independence. I'm going to miss being able to claim "poor college student" like a badge of honor.
The days of sitting lazily on a bench in the Quad wearing a t-shirt with "COLLEGE" printed on the front that you got from buying your books from The College Store along with plastic-sequined flip-flops bought while studying abroad in Spain will be replaced with days of standing in front of a classroom full of (hopefully high-school-aged) kids, professionally dressed, answering to "Miss Smith." Not that bad of a trade-off, I guess. I just pray that I'll be ready for it when the time comes.
Friday, April 08, 2005
The Case of the Anonymous Flowers
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Our protagonist walks into the all-female freshman dorm where she's an RA after a long day of student teaching. As she breezes past the front desk on her way to check her box, she notices a fresh arrangement of flowers, yearning to be picked up and admired by some lucky girl. "I wish someone would send me flowers," she says to herself. Someone other than my parents, she adds mentally. On her way to the elevator, some fellow RAs at the desk alert her that the flowers are indeed hers!
"Chantell you got flowers! Who are they from, who are they from?" They demand.
"They're probably from my parents saying 'good job' or something." She opens the card: "Happy Belated Birthday." She is shocked, however, when she flips the card over and finds only "no name" written at the bottom. Who in the world? Probably one of my crazy friends trying to make me think I have a secret admirer. "Well, it says 'Happy Belated Birthday,' but whoever sent it didn't leave their name."
"Ooh, a secret admirer!" they coo.
"Psshh, whatever . . . I seriously doubt it. But I will get to the bottom of this."
"Tell us when you find out who it is!" they call after her as she punches in the elevator code. Thoughts and doubts and possibilities whirl in her mind as she ascends to the 7th floor. It couldn't be my parents. Why would they send me something that says "Happy Belated Birthday"? We did birthday stuff when I was home. She gets off of the elevator, flowers in tow, and makes a beeline for her room. She immediately calls her brother. She relates to him the situation.
"So do you know who did this? Did Mom or Dad? Did you?"
"Uhh, it wasn't me. And I doubt Mom or Dad did. Happy Belated Birthday?"
"I know. Well, I think it might be Suspect 1*. Has he said anything to you about it, do you have any idea?"
"I don't know whether it was Suspect 1. He didn't say anything to me about it." After she makes him promise that he had absolutely no clue, she calls the house. Her father answers.
"Dad, guess what happened." She tells him. "So, did you or Mom do it?"
"No, it wasn't me, and I doubt your mother did it. Happy Belated Birthday? We did birthday stuff when you were here."
"I know, Dad, I know. But you know what, I think it might be Suspect 1, but I'm not entirely sure--"
"Could it be Suspect 2*?" She sighs. Suspect 2.
"Well, I'll admit that maybe a little part of me wishes it were Suspect 2, but I doubt it. Nah . . . he wouldn't do that."
"Well, when you find out, let me know." Who could it be? The suspense is driving me up a wall! She calls one of her crazy friends, determined to find out, and ends up leaving a voicemail message. She even calls someone really close to Suspect 1, but he only conveyed his doubts:
"I haven't even talked to Suspect 1 since we've been back, but I really doubt it's him . . . it's not his style. And anyway, I think he's sort of been broke lately. I don't think it's him."
She's beginning to get desperate. The uncertainty of not knowing who sent the flowers is starting to cloud over her pleasure in getting them in the first place. "If he didn't send them, who else could it be?"
"Probably Suspect 2," he retorts in a "duh" tone of voice.
"No, it can't be Suspect 2. He's very cautious. He'd be afraid I'd take it the wrong way . . . it just can't be him."
"Well, it isn't me."
"Are you absolutely sure it isn't Suspect 1? I mean--"
"Why don't you call him to find out for sure?" he says, a bit exasperatedly.
They hang up and she calls Suspect 1's house. No one answers, so she leaves a message: "Um, this is Chantell. (sigh). I'm calling to, um, find something out, so if anyone gets this message can you please give me a call back? Thanks." Click. Who could it be? Who could it be? The person I thought it was seems to be ruled out . . . wait a minute, wait a minute. A light illumines her brain. Suspect 3*! I'll bet you it's him. Why didn't I think of him in the first place? She calls Suspect 3, and he doesn't answer so she leaves him a message. "Hey, Suspect 3, it's Chantell. Someone sent me anonymous flowers that say 'Happy Belated Birthday' on the card, and I'm desperate to find out who did it. Call me back when you get the chance." Click. A little while later, she gets a call back from Suspect 3.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Suspect 3! Hey, okay, this is what happened . . . " and she goes on to tell him the whole rigamarole of getting the flowers, who she thought sent them, and who she slightly hoped it was, but doubted. Finally she asks, "So, was it you?"
"What kind of flowers are they?"
"Oh, they're friendly flowers. White and yellow daisies, purplish-pink carnations, violet snapdragon looking flowers. They're really nice."
"Well, I kind of had to leave it up to the florist. See, I wanted to get you something else, but they didn't have it, so I just told them, 'She's just a friend, so make sure they're really friendly-like, you know, don't go overboard.'"
She laughs embarrassedly. She wishes she hadn't told him the whole preamble of who she thought it was, who she slightly wanted it to be, etc. "Oh my gosh, it was you! I should have known . . . why didn't I think of you first? I'm telling you man, that whole anonymous deal was driving me absolutely insane!"
"I know," he laughs. "That's why I did it."
Our protagonist walks into the all-female freshman dorm where she's an RA after a long day of student teaching. As she breezes past the front desk on her way to check her box, she notices a fresh arrangement of flowers, yearning to be picked up and admired by some lucky girl. "I wish someone would send me flowers," she says to herself. Someone other than my parents, she adds mentally. On her way to the elevator, some fellow RAs at the desk alert her that the flowers are indeed hers!
"Chantell you got flowers! Who are they from, who are they from?" They demand.
"They're probably from my parents saying 'good job' or something." She opens the card: "Happy Belated Birthday." She is shocked, however, when she flips the card over and finds only "no name" written at the bottom. Who in the world? Probably one of my crazy friends trying to make me think I have a secret admirer. "Well, it says 'Happy Belated Birthday,' but whoever sent it didn't leave their name."
"Ooh, a secret admirer!" they coo.
"Psshh, whatever . . . I seriously doubt it. But I will get to the bottom of this."
"Tell us when you find out who it is!" they call after her as she punches in the elevator code. Thoughts and doubts and possibilities whirl in her mind as she ascends to the 7th floor. It couldn't be my parents. Why would they send me something that says "Happy Belated Birthday"? We did birthday stuff when I was home. She gets off of the elevator, flowers in tow, and makes a beeline for her room. She immediately calls her brother. She relates to him the situation.
"So do you know who did this? Did Mom or Dad? Did you?"
"Uhh, it wasn't me. And I doubt Mom or Dad did. Happy Belated Birthday?"
"I know. Well, I think it might be Suspect 1*. Has he said anything to you about it, do you have any idea?"
"I don't know whether it was Suspect 1. He didn't say anything to me about it." After she makes him promise that he had absolutely no clue, she calls the house. Her father answers.
"Dad, guess what happened." She tells him. "So, did you or Mom do it?"
"No, it wasn't me, and I doubt your mother did it. Happy Belated Birthday? We did birthday stuff when you were here."
"I know, Dad, I know. But you know what, I think it might be Suspect 1, but I'm not entirely sure--"
"Could it be Suspect 2*?" She sighs. Suspect 2.
"Well, I'll admit that maybe a little part of me wishes it were Suspect 2, but I doubt it. Nah . . . he wouldn't do that."
"Well, when you find out, let me know." Who could it be? The suspense is driving me up a wall! She calls one of her crazy friends, determined to find out, and ends up leaving a voicemail message. She even calls someone really close to Suspect 1, but he only conveyed his doubts:
"I haven't even talked to Suspect 1 since we've been back, but I really doubt it's him . . . it's not his style. And anyway, I think he's sort of been broke lately. I don't think it's him."
She's beginning to get desperate. The uncertainty of not knowing who sent the flowers is starting to cloud over her pleasure in getting them in the first place. "If he didn't send them, who else could it be?"
"Probably Suspect 2," he retorts in a "duh" tone of voice.
"No, it can't be Suspect 2. He's very cautious. He'd be afraid I'd take it the wrong way . . . it just can't be him."
"Well, it isn't me."
"Are you absolutely sure it isn't Suspect 1? I mean--"
"Why don't you call him to find out for sure?" he says, a bit exasperatedly.
They hang up and she calls Suspect 1's house. No one answers, so she leaves a message: "Um, this is Chantell. (sigh). I'm calling to, um, find something out, so if anyone gets this message can you please give me a call back? Thanks." Click. Who could it be? Who could it be? The person I thought it was seems to be ruled out . . . wait a minute, wait a minute. A light illumines her brain. Suspect 3*! I'll bet you it's him. Why didn't I think of him in the first place? She calls Suspect 3, and he doesn't answer so she leaves him a message. "Hey, Suspect 3, it's Chantell. Someone sent me anonymous flowers that say 'Happy Belated Birthday' on the card, and I'm desperate to find out who did it. Call me back when you get the chance." Click. A little while later, she gets a call back from Suspect 3.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Suspect 3! Hey, okay, this is what happened . . . " and she goes on to tell him the whole rigamarole of getting the flowers, who she thought sent them, and who she slightly hoped it was, but doubted. Finally she asks, "So, was it you?"
"What kind of flowers are they?"
"Oh, they're friendly flowers. White and yellow daisies, purplish-pink carnations, violet snapdragon looking flowers. They're really nice."
"Well, I kind of had to leave it up to the florist. See, I wanted to get you something else, but they didn't have it, so I just told them, 'She's just a friend, so make sure they're really friendly-like, you know, don't go overboard.'"
She laughs embarrassedly. She wishes she hadn't told him the whole preamble of who she thought it was, who she slightly wanted it to be, etc. "Oh my gosh, it was you! I should have known . . . why didn't I think of you first? I'm telling you man, that whole anonymous deal was driving me absolutely insane!"
"I know," he laughs. "That's why I did it."
I've Been Foiled Again!
For some reason, Blogger isn't being very nice to me. I've tried several times to post (what I thought) was a creative, interesting post about a little happening in my life this week, but to no avail. Maybe it was just not meant to be. But please stay tuned!
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
The Spirit of Blog
I'm getting into the bloggy spirit once again. (For details on my last blog baby, just visit http://chantelliverstravels.tripod.com ) It just hit me, the inspiration. And I'm coming to realize that if you don't act when you're first inspired, it quickly wanes. Much has happened since my trek to the Iberian Peninsula. Maybe the reason why I feel like blogging again is because I'm about to enter a new phase in my life super soon. Graduation looms. With that comes ecstasy--Tuscaloosa for 5 years was starting to weigh on me--and a great bit of uncertainty as well. For some reason, uncertainty and newness give me an urge for an outlet. And I guess, for a while, Where You Can Find Me will be just that.
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