For months, friends have been telling me I should start a dating blog because I have so many dating stories. However, I resented that my achy heartbreak was fodder for their enjoyment; I felt that some of my smug coupley friends loved to ask me about my love life just so they could live vicariously through me and reap the excitement of first time sexual experiences without the precarious uncertainty of “will he call me again?” and “was I good in bed?” and “what did he think of my body?” I, paranoid I know, was grudgingly accusatory. My stories were reinforcement for my smug coupled friends that they had indeed made the right decisions to remain in the warm comfort of their relationships. For, though the sex might be routine, and maybe this wasn’t the person they saw themselves marrying, it is rough out there in the world of dating. It’s not for the faint of heart. Unfortunately for me, I am rather faint of heart. I am, as Maya Angelou also characterized herself, “tender-hearted.” I am sensitive. I dislike superficial exchanges. I tend to take things at face value, and I don’t play games. These are not desirable qualities in the dating world. Thus, my many dating stories. So, I guess I’ve accumulated a few lemons. Let’s make some lemonade, y’all!*
The first question I shall tackle: have I-- and all those other smart, adorable single gals out there like me-- been dating dogs?
Most would acknowledge that I’ve encountered a long string of bad dating juju since breaking off my last long-term relationship about a year ago. I fell hard for my first date back in the game—tall, dark, handsome, and sensitive; he was totally my type. Unfortunately, I never saw him again after our first date, despite many reneged upon promises of further dates. Hmmm. No worries on my part yet; it was all clear skies for me at this point.
The disappointments continued to pile up though, as 20-something-year-old-boy after 20-something-year-old-boy failed to follow through. One, thank god, was up front with me. “I’m really not looking to rush into anything serious or exclusive,” he informed me on our third date. Why oh why didn’t I believe him? I suppose it was because of a linguistic nuance—he said “rush.” Hence, I thought perhaps he might like to slowly mosey into something exclusive. O, what fools these mortals be!
Others though, have exhibited true lameness. There was Aaron who slept with me, then facebook-messaged me a month later to apologize for being so out of touch. There were also a multitude I dated who then faded away and flaked. A classic example of douche-dom was Darren. I went on three dates with Darren. He pursued me. I thought I was way cooler than him. He invited me over to his place to bake eggplant parmesan together. He tried to sleep with me (of course), but we arranged to get together again a week later. I texted him to figure out where and when to meet up, and got a very jovial email in response informing me that he’d decided to “try and make a go at it” with someone he’d been seeing. Did she know this same guy had been actively pursuing me until two days before?
Proof that not only 20-somethings can be lame, but also 30-somethings can: A 35 year old baby whom I was supposed to meet for drinks, texted me moments before to say, “The game’s still going, but the bigger issue is I’m all out of cash.” Moments like when I received this text make me think I’m crazy. Whoa. On what planet is this acceptable-- let alone gentlemanly-- behavior?
Or what about Mark? He said he “[had] a lot of respect” for me. He would lose respect for me if he had sex for me. So, he wanted to keep me on a pedestal; he wanted to preserve this untainted image by not fucking me. That would be wrong. I was that nice Jewish girl he wanted to introduce to his parents. I dunno, I think sex is beautiful and vital. Disappearing and not ever calling someone again (which is what Mark did): now that’s disrespectful.
Do I sound bitter? I guess so. But here’s the thing. Most of the guys I’ve dated over the past year are nice guys. They were respectful and kind and interesting. They were guys I could imagine having as friends or cousins; guys I would want to have as friends or cousins. I know that many of my own cousins and guy friends have exhibited douchey-ness upon occasion. Up until the point where they turned lame, I thought almost all my dates were awesome. Open communication is difficult. I have a hard time handling it with my own roommate and my sisters, let alone near strangers in whom I have a sexual interest. Still, I believe it is kinder and stronger to be honest and straightforward.
Finally, I know I can be lame, too. I just returned from a “re-run” date today. He was a nice Jewish boy I met six months ago. Smart, goofy, good-looking. I had a great time on our first date. He kissed me goodnight and asked me if I’d like to hang out again. I said yes. Then, when he texted me about getting together again, I freaked out because I was already somewhat wrapped up in one of the afore-mentioned lame-o’s. I said something to the effect of, “I’m really busy and don’t have much of myself to give right now. I’d like to just be friends.” If that had been true, it would have been alright. But, given my earlier behavior and the fact that I did honestly like him, it was totally LAME. I’m lucky to have run into my re-run out on the town, and I’m extra lucky that, despite my lameness, he agreed to go out with me again.
So, boys and girls, what do you say? Why don’t we stop being such cowards? Why don’t we start being kinder and more honest with one another? What’s so scary about being kind and honest?
*All resemblances to real people... are not coincidental! But, take comfort in the fact that all names have been changed to protect your anonymity. And who knows, maybe when I'm a famous published author, you'll brag about how lame you acted towards me :)
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Knocked Up
18 years old, full of spring fever, college fever, senioritis, probably all hickeyed up, I received the call from Ms. (let’s call her) “Smith”: “Annie, can I see you for a moment.” I loved her and hated her. She was so intense, smart, academic and opinionated, though she herself told us on the first day of class, “Opinions are like assholes [dramatic pause, eye contact, and circulation of the room]… Everybody has one.” She had a white Cruella DeVil like stripe of hair running from her forehead through the length of her bristly hair.
What could she want to discuss with me? Foucault? Feminist theory? Said’s criticism in Orientalism? It was kind of exciting to get called aside by Ms. Smith. “Can I ask you a question?” she asked me. Of course. Anything.
“Are you pregnant?”
Whoa. That one certainly caught my attention. “No,” I giggled nervously. “Do I look like it?” I smoothed down my shirt. I still remember what I was wearing that day. In fact, I think if I think hard, I could remember every outfit from every important memory of my life. But probably I remember this outfit, a simple tanktop and jeans, because I decided that day that it made me look horribly fat and I would never wear it again.
Ms. Smith went on to explain, without apology, that she merely asked because of some other student she’d had, smart, full of potential, who also had a tendency to embarrass others with her and her boyfriend’s hallway displays of affection. That student got knocked up and didn’t go to college, I guess.
“Oh no,” I reassured her. “I’m on the pill.” I said it without thinking. Instinctually, I trusted her. She was an adult, a representative of the school, my teacher, and she did not communicate with my parents.
“Great!” Smith breathed a sigh of relief. “It makes your period so regular doesn’t it, and it clears up your skin—at least it did mine.”
I smiled uncomfortably, happy she wondered, happy she cared, happy she noticed my life.
****
In retrospect, I wonder at this memory. What gave Ms. Smith the cojones to ask me this intrusive, personal question out of nowhere? Was the question really warranted? Did Ms. Smith think it over carefully before confronting me? If she weighed the options, how did she reach her decision?
I know that I now am many students’ Ms. Smith. I challenge my students intellectually and sometimes I don’t feel like I’m very nice about it, yet they mostly seem to trust me unquestioningly. Ricardo is so relieved to unburden to me the stress of having a 12 month old daughter and another one on the way, simply because I take the time to ask him, “How are you?” Karina told me before writing her own autobiographical short story, “I think I feel comfortable writing something a bit more edgy, risky, and personal.” Indeed she did, writing me the story of discovering she was pregnant while locked in Juvenile Hall. She was transported involuntarily to an abortion clinic where she compliantly signed the paperwork and submitted herself for the procedure. Karen showed me her hickeys, given her by my other student, Cole, and told me about the techniques she’d been using to try and get rid of them. “I’m so sick of wearing scarves!” she said.
What is my responsibility in these cases? Where do I draw the line about what students may share with me? Is there even a line? Perhaps my job is really to mentor kids through these rocky stages of adolescence and sexual experimentation, while also doing my best to teach them a little something about writing along the way. I don’t think I would ever ask a student point blank if he or she was pregnant, though. To me, that seems inappropriate, potentially offensive.
I did have a student last quarter who I suspected was pregnant, but I never considered asking her straight out. That seemed rude and random, grounds for a lawsuit by her parents. But the thought of Mary dealing with this big, real-life stuff as her failure to complete homework assignments caused her grades to dip lower and lower made me wonder a couple of things. What is the real value and purpose behind every piece of work students do for my class? What exactly is my job, and what are my responsibilities toward others, both as a teacher and as a human being?
What could she want to discuss with me? Foucault? Feminist theory? Said’s criticism in Orientalism? It was kind of exciting to get called aside by Ms. Smith. “Can I ask you a question?” she asked me. Of course. Anything.
“Are you pregnant?”
Whoa. That one certainly caught my attention. “No,” I giggled nervously. “Do I look like it?” I smoothed down my shirt. I still remember what I was wearing that day. In fact, I think if I think hard, I could remember every outfit from every important memory of my life. But probably I remember this outfit, a simple tanktop and jeans, because I decided that day that it made me look horribly fat and I would never wear it again.
Ms. Smith went on to explain, without apology, that she merely asked because of some other student she’d had, smart, full of potential, who also had a tendency to embarrass others with her and her boyfriend’s hallway displays of affection. That student got knocked up and didn’t go to college, I guess.
“Oh no,” I reassured her. “I’m on the pill.” I said it without thinking. Instinctually, I trusted her. She was an adult, a representative of the school, my teacher, and she did not communicate with my parents.
“Great!” Smith breathed a sigh of relief. “It makes your period so regular doesn’t it, and it clears up your skin—at least it did mine.”
I smiled uncomfortably, happy she wondered, happy she cared, happy she noticed my life.
****
In retrospect, I wonder at this memory. What gave Ms. Smith the cojones to ask me this intrusive, personal question out of nowhere? Was the question really warranted? Did Ms. Smith think it over carefully before confronting me? If she weighed the options, how did she reach her decision?
I know that I now am many students’ Ms. Smith. I challenge my students intellectually and sometimes I don’t feel like I’m very nice about it, yet they mostly seem to trust me unquestioningly. Ricardo is so relieved to unburden to me the stress of having a 12 month old daughter and another one on the way, simply because I take the time to ask him, “How are you?” Karina told me before writing her own autobiographical short story, “I think I feel comfortable writing something a bit more edgy, risky, and personal.” Indeed she did, writing me the story of discovering she was pregnant while locked in Juvenile Hall. She was transported involuntarily to an abortion clinic where she compliantly signed the paperwork and submitted herself for the procedure. Karen showed me her hickeys, given her by my other student, Cole, and told me about the techniques she’d been using to try and get rid of them. “I’m so sick of wearing scarves!” she said.
What is my responsibility in these cases? Where do I draw the line about what students may share with me? Is there even a line? Perhaps my job is really to mentor kids through these rocky stages of adolescence and sexual experimentation, while also doing my best to teach them a little something about writing along the way. I don’t think I would ever ask a student point blank if he or she was pregnant, though. To me, that seems inappropriate, potentially offensive.
I did have a student last quarter who I suspected was pregnant, but I never considered asking her straight out. That seemed rude and random, grounds for a lawsuit by her parents. But the thought of Mary dealing with this big, real-life stuff as her failure to complete homework assignments caused her grades to dip lower and lower made me wonder a couple of things. What is the real value and purpose behind every piece of work students do for my class? What exactly is my job, and what are my responsibilities toward others, both as a teacher and as a human being?
Gimme a Later Curfew... Or Else!
Those nearest and dearest to me know how much I’ve struggled with my third period class this year. They are all nice kids individually, and I have good relationships with most of them—and with the parents of the rest. Marina loves to read, Alejandro, TJ, Sam and Abdul all play on the football team together, Carlos’s girlfriend is pregnant with their second child, Kora is a refugee from Burma, Lisa is involved in church activities every single day after school. But together as a class, they truly are a pack of little monsters. A typical day with this class involves involves DJ wandering aimlessly around the room throughout my lesson, Bobby alternately yelling, whispering, or gesturing at his friends while staring at me defiantly, Kevin slumped asleep on his desk (he gets really grumpy when I wake him up every day), Tyson doing his very best to ignore me, and general mayhem and chattiness from the rest of the class.
We are currently working on writing editorials in this class. Today, I gave a mini-lecture with a powerpoint presentation on Aristotle’s rhetorical appeals: pathos, logos, and ethos. I asked students to come up with three arguments (one using each type of rhetorical appeal) to convince their parents to make their curfew later. Things started out fine with logos (arguing through the use of logic, reasoning, or facts). “You should let me stay out later because I’m a responsible student; I get good grades, thus I’ll also be responsible when I’m out at night.” We took a turn for the worse, though, with Sarah’s suggestion, “You should let me go so I don’t have to sneak out.” I told her that sounded more like blackmail than reasoning to me.
Things deteriorated further as we began discussing how to appeal to their parents’ emotions (arguing using pathos). Students came up with such persuasive techniques as crying, yelling, and staying locked in their rooms until their parents met their demands. I kept reminding them of our definition of rhetoric—persuasive LANGUAGE, not a dramatic display. The worst was, “A good persuasive technique would be to cry and shout at them till you get your way! It works. I do it till my parents give in.” I am a little horrified.
Finally, we reached ethos (citing a credible authority). Irene suggested telling the parents, “My teacher says I need to do my homework, so I have to go work on a project at a friend’s house,” in order to weasel her way into a later curfew. Again, I tried to redirect our course back towards argument using persuasive language. The point is to convince your parents to agree to let you stay out later, not to trick them into it.
At the end of all of this, Bobby pipes up with a question, and it just makes me grin: “Do you have kids, Ms. Sterling?” Thank god I don’t. And thank god I taught this lesson; I can now appreciate how WELL my students are behaving around me, as compared to what they apparently serve to their parents! I’m so happy to meet them in the classroom and not at the dinner table.
We are currently working on writing editorials in this class. Today, I gave a mini-lecture with a powerpoint presentation on Aristotle’s rhetorical appeals: pathos, logos, and ethos. I asked students to come up with three arguments (one using each type of rhetorical appeal) to convince their parents to make their curfew later. Things started out fine with logos (arguing through the use of logic, reasoning, or facts). “You should let me stay out later because I’m a responsible student; I get good grades, thus I’ll also be responsible when I’m out at night.” We took a turn for the worse, though, with Sarah’s suggestion, “You should let me go so I don’t have to sneak out.” I told her that sounded more like blackmail than reasoning to me.
Things deteriorated further as we began discussing how to appeal to their parents’ emotions (arguing using pathos). Students came up with such persuasive techniques as crying, yelling, and staying locked in their rooms until their parents met their demands. I kept reminding them of our definition of rhetoric—persuasive LANGUAGE, not a dramatic display. The worst was, “A good persuasive technique would be to cry and shout at them till you get your way! It works. I do it till my parents give in.” I am a little horrified.
Finally, we reached ethos (citing a credible authority). Irene suggested telling the parents, “My teacher says I need to do my homework, so I have to go work on a project at a friend’s house,” in order to weasel her way into a later curfew. Again, I tried to redirect our course back towards argument using persuasive language. The point is to convince your parents to agree to let you stay out later, not to trick them into it.
At the end of all of this, Bobby pipes up with a question, and it just makes me grin: “Do you have kids, Ms. Sterling?” Thank god I don’t. And thank god I taught this lesson; I can now appreciate how WELL my students are behaving around me, as compared to what they apparently serve to their parents! I’m so happy to meet them in the classroom and not at the dinner table.
The Elephant Joke- You know what they say about a big trunk...
Today a student asked me, “Ms. Sterling, do you wanna hear a joke?”
“Sure…”
“What did the elephant say to the naked man?”
“Uhh, I have no idea. What did he say?”
“How do you suck water through something so little?”
I crack up, then feel a little uncertain if I should laugh so hard at the mildly inappropriate joke this 14 year old boy has just told me.
Dan boasts, “I made it up myself!”
“You did?” I say, slightly impressed.
“Yeah, I was in the shower, and I just thought of it.”
Suddenly, I flash on this disturbing, cringe-worthy image of my student peering down at himself in the shower. Luckily, the period is over, and I can walk quickly away.
“Sure…”
“What did the elephant say to the naked man?”
“Uhh, I have no idea. What did he say?”
“How do you suck water through something so little?”
I crack up, then feel a little uncertain if I should laugh so hard at the mildly inappropriate joke this 14 year old boy has just told me.
Dan boasts, “I made it up myself!”
“You did?” I say, slightly impressed.
“Yeah, I was in the shower, and I just thought of it.”
Suddenly, I flash on this disturbing, cringe-worthy image of my student peering down at himself in the shower. Luckily, the period is over, and I can walk quickly away.
On Receiving a Pink Slip
My job encompasses the roles of actress, speech-writer, therapist, crowd control/ security, researcher, typist, data entry, mother, coach, motivational speaker, disciplinarian, custodian, and advocate for the rights of students. I groggily arise every morning at 5:30 am, pound a cup of coffee as I get dressed, and carry another with me on the road to work. There, I give a five hour long original, interactive, and educational performance for 120 moody, somewhat reluctant participants. Finally, I spend a couple hours assessing and giving feedback to my participants, and a couple more hours preparing for the next day’s original production. I’m in bed by 10 pm to grab a couple hours sleep before tomorrow’s marathon begins again. What, you might ask, could my profession probably be? I’m sure many have already recognized themselves in this description, though. Of course, I am a teacher.
As a 25 year-old first year high school English teacher, I often have moments of panic and disbelief. What am I doing hanging out all day long with a bunch of oily, fidgety, awkward 15 year olds? What am I doing working my ass off, teaching all day long, grading and prepping in the evening, while my friends who work 9-5 jobs get to party and hit the bars at night? I graduated high school and college with straight A’s. I really thought I had school all figured out. As I quickly discovered, being a teacher is nothing like being a student, and most of my students are not the kind of focused perfectionists I was.
Figuring out ways to teach 120 students with different needs, learning styles, linguistic backgrounds, and often conflicting personalities is a continuous challenge. I have lessons that fall apart completely, when I end up scrapping everything I’ve so meticulously planned, and just try to hold on till the bell rings at the end of the period. I’ve fought back tears while trying to reign in 30 boisterous sophomores who seem to have forgotten they’re in a classroom. I’ve watched students with enormous intelligence and potential fail my class because of plagiarism, extreme depression, eating disorders, deaths in their families, and having to take care of their own children at home. And through it all, I do not give up. I get up again every morning, and drag my tired, worn out ass over to school.
Because I also know that when I get there, my students will give me energy. I laugh with my students all the time. There was the moment we were working in the computer lab and Tyler called me sheepishly over to his computer, “Uh, Ms. Sterling, I don’t know how this happened, but I think my nose ring fell into my keyboard.” My first period class deciding to call Hephaestus “Hepatitis” and fifth period calling synonyms “cinnamons.” Or there are the little, goofy questions I get like, “Ms. Sterling, do you got swagger?” Damn right, I do.
Finally, there are the moments I teach for, seeing students get worked up discussing the author’s message about human nature in Lord of the Flies, having to calm students down who get too worked up during their competitive vocab review games, and watching students perform their own interpretations of the fight scene between Tybalt and Romeo in Romeo and Juliet. Some did it with paper bag puppets, another group with light sabers and a beat box chant.
This past week, though, my school board voted to deal with the budget shortfall in my district by doing “reductions in force.” Lay-offs. On March 10th, I will receive a pink slip notifying me that, despite my stellar performance evaluations and hours of labor, I will not have a job next year at my school. How do I feel about this? I’ve been told that receiving a pink slip as a first year teacher in the state of California is something like a rite of passage; this is my initiation. But why? Why do we undervalue education, our children, and teachers so much in our state? Before becoming a teacher, I never fully understood how much teachers did. We are truly public servants. My colleagues and I have so much love in our hearts for all of our students. Parents send their kids to us at school day after day, and we are dedicated to educating them, protecting them, making them feel safe, and helping them grow up and find their own voices.
I feel angry that after giving all of myself to my students and my school this past year, I am getting fired. But this anger is somewhat diffused, because who can I direct it at? My school board? The governor? The state of California? The entire population of the state that has neglected to vote in support of education?
Mainly, though, I feel sad. Sad, because I love my students and the community I work in. Us teachers are something like a rock or a constant in our students’ lives; often we are the only stability they know and they come to depend on us and trust us. I know I will be missed, and I am sad because I may not be able to continue to work and grow with this community I’ve come to love again next year.
As a 25 year-old first year high school English teacher, I often have moments of panic and disbelief. What am I doing hanging out all day long with a bunch of oily, fidgety, awkward 15 year olds? What am I doing working my ass off, teaching all day long, grading and prepping in the evening, while my friends who work 9-5 jobs get to party and hit the bars at night? I graduated high school and college with straight A’s. I really thought I had school all figured out. As I quickly discovered, being a teacher is nothing like being a student, and most of my students are not the kind of focused perfectionists I was.
Figuring out ways to teach 120 students with different needs, learning styles, linguistic backgrounds, and often conflicting personalities is a continuous challenge. I have lessons that fall apart completely, when I end up scrapping everything I’ve so meticulously planned, and just try to hold on till the bell rings at the end of the period. I’ve fought back tears while trying to reign in 30 boisterous sophomores who seem to have forgotten they’re in a classroom. I’ve watched students with enormous intelligence and potential fail my class because of plagiarism, extreme depression, eating disorders, deaths in their families, and having to take care of their own children at home. And through it all, I do not give up. I get up again every morning, and drag my tired, worn out ass over to school.
Because I also know that when I get there, my students will give me energy. I laugh with my students all the time. There was the moment we were working in the computer lab and Tyler called me sheepishly over to his computer, “Uh, Ms. Sterling, I don’t know how this happened, but I think my nose ring fell into my keyboard.” My first period class deciding to call Hephaestus “Hepatitis” and fifth period calling synonyms “cinnamons.” Or there are the little, goofy questions I get like, “Ms. Sterling, do you got swagger?” Damn right, I do.
Finally, there are the moments I teach for, seeing students get worked up discussing the author’s message about human nature in Lord of the Flies, having to calm students down who get too worked up during their competitive vocab review games, and watching students perform their own interpretations of the fight scene between Tybalt and Romeo in Romeo and Juliet. Some did it with paper bag puppets, another group with light sabers and a beat box chant.
This past week, though, my school board voted to deal with the budget shortfall in my district by doing “reductions in force.” Lay-offs. On March 10th, I will receive a pink slip notifying me that, despite my stellar performance evaluations and hours of labor, I will not have a job next year at my school. How do I feel about this? I’ve been told that receiving a pink slip as a first year teacher in the state of California is something like a rite of passage; this is my initiation. But why? Why do we undervalue education, our children, and teachers so much in our state? Before becoming a teacher, I never fully understood how much teachers did. We are truly public servants. My colleagues and I have so much love in our hearts for all of our students. Parents send their kids to us at school day after day, and we are dedicated to educating them, protecting them, making them feel safe, and helping them grow up and find their own voices.
I feel angry that after giving all of myself to my students and my school this past year, I am getting fired. But this anger is somewhat diffused, because who can I direct it at? My school board? The governor? The state of California? The entire population of the state that has neglected to vote in support of education?
Mainly, though, I feel sad. Sad, because I love my students and the community I work in. Us teachers are something like a rock or a constant in our students’ lives; often we are the only stability they know and they come to depend on us and trust us. I know I will be missed, and I am sad because I may not be able to continue to work and grow with this community I’ve come to love again next year.
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