Poor grammar always feels like a personal attack on me.

Dear Tara,
Some items for you to improve on this upcoming week:

~Try to sleep six hours a night. And really, go for seven
~Do not substitute vodka-cranberries (Thursday) or a milkshake (Friday) for dinner
~Yogurt and Sunchips are not lunch. Yogurt and a sandwich is lunch. Start making sandwiches
~Also, please understand that the couch is not bed. Neither is the keyboard of your laptop
~Try your absolute best to not embarrass yourself any more than what is absolutely necessary. This is especially crucial during Back-to-School night on Tuesday
~Please strive to be more appropriate in public situations when you've been drinking
~And finally, definitely do not see that "going the distance" movie, unless you feel it's time for another bitter rant at yet another movie that gets your life completely wrong. Let's not relive The Proposal on Air Canada, okay?

Love,
Your health and wellbeing

Also, you damn fool, you were not the people who "owned" the civil rights movement in the first place. Believe me you, you were not on the "right" side of history.
King encouraged the federal government to do MORE to protect the rights of everyone. YOUR people were  the ones rallying for states' rights- you know, the right to lynch 'em and all that. I can't even imagine how you could delude yourself into thinking that this day has anything, anything to do with you and your teabaggers. You're not rallying for progress. You're just sad that whitey can't legally piss all over everyone anymore. No one has ever persecuted your old ass.
I really need to stop watching CNN and get dressed.

Dear Glenn Beck,
You are sick.
Love,
Me

So very many imperfections I have.

They have so many questions for me. I know it's normal for kids to be curious about their teachers, and especially new ones, but I feel that I spend so much of my time either answering or avoiding answering their questions. I wonder if they're just trying to distract me (a little), or if it's because I'm so young (a little.)

Take this conversation:

"How old are you?"
"Older than you."
 "Like 19?"
"Come on, I couldn't be your teacher if I was 19."
"Okay, so 25?"
(horrified) "NO!"
"You're 24!"
(startled) "Um, no, I'm not 24....hey look, a Venn diagram...."
"You're 24! She's 24, guys!"

or this one:

"Is your hair naturally that color?"
"What? Yes. Did you finish your current event?"
"Do you straighten your hair? How long have you been growing it for?"
"Yeah, we're getting off-topic here."
"My cousin straightens her hair. She looks a lot like you. You should wear your hair down more."
"Okay, people! We've discussed the mosque at Ground Zero and polled our class about their opinions on the the location. You all have your copy of the Bill of Rights, yes? Can anyone tell me what amendment a person who is debating the topic might refer to?"
*Several hands shoot up. I am encouraged*
"Yes, A?"
"Do you have your nose pierced?"

I called my parents after work today just to thank them for my happy childhood.
I'm glad they raised me to be soft. They ate dinner with me, and took me to the library on the weekends, and helped out with my softball teams and dance classes. They asked me for my opinion. They always told me they loved me before saying goodbye. They still do. Sometimes we say it when we're just leaving the room.

And yes, we were really poor and there were fights. But it was nothing, nothing like what I think many of these kids go home to every day. I had consistency. I had people who had my back. I didn't need to be tough around them, and I certainly didn't need to be the adult. All I ever wanted to do was make them proud, and they never had to beat respect into me. And they're always proud anyway.

 And so many of my kids talk about wanting money one day, as if that's the marker for success. I guess for them it is. For my family, I was taught to work toward a career, one that would help me provide for myself so that I wouldn't have to deal with financial stress. It was never about the flashy stuff. And I want to share with my kids that money isn't the point, that it isn't what's going to truly pull them out of their situation even if they do happen to cash in. But I can't. It's patronizing and I know that.

So instead, I hop on the freeway and drive myself back to the nice life I've managed to build. And then I try to ease myself down from my ivory tower the best I can. I don't know anything.

One of my favorites. I had my students rewrite it from their own perspectives the other day in class.


THEME FOR ENGLISH B
By Langston Hughes

The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you---
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me---we two---you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York too.) Me---who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records---Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white---
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me---
although you're older---and white---
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

And this was my own rewrite from my credentialing days (and I am no poet, but it served as a good example for my students):


It's not that simple, though it should be
I am twenty-two, female, raised in a small town.
I went to school there, then Sacramento, and now I seek to teach these students scarcely younger than me in this suburb of the city.
There are so many like me in my classes.
The road I drive to my home each night is long,
through a development, then a city,
then dozens more identical neighborhoods,
until I reach my hometown, where I rest for mere moments before beginning again,
never enough time to write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for me and them
at twenty-two. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear; Sacramento, Placerville, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we three--you, you, and me, talk on this page.
(I could never choose.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, laugh, and feel
I like to work, read, learn, teach, and understand.
I like a book for a Christmas present,
or sweets that I make with my loved ones.
I guess being young doesn't make me not like
Or understand the same things as other folks who are older, "wiser."
So will my page be naive that I write?

Being me, it will not always be clear
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are a teacher, legitimately--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's a teacher. It's what I strive to be.
Sometimes, after sleepless nights, perhaps you wish you'd chosen differently.
I may as well. But we have chosen because of what we are.
And we are.
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're wiser--and have completed these tasks before me already--
and have seen so many just like me.

This is my page for 387 EDTE.

If you read this (and there are about a handful of you), and would like to continue to do so, please feel free.
But I am removing the link from public profiles.
Kids with Internet and all that.

I'm becoming one of those people who only talk about work. Ugh.

Yes, I'm going to eat the whole thing. Yes, I know how many calories are in it, and no, I don't care enough to stop.
Do the words "I work with teenagers" mean anything to you?

So I'd like to know whose brilliant idea that was.

Well, they guessed my age.

And I got asked if I was a Mormon. Again.
Maybe it's the hair? I can't be the only teacher who doesn't tolerate bad language.

I wish I had a dollar for every spider I had to mercy-kill today.

T-minus 43.5 hours.
I have turned into a stressball, hoarding donuts and scribbling up lesson plans that contain projects for which I will never be able to create a decent sample. I need to hire an independent contractor artist.
I also just rediscovered my work email. That was helpful.
Also, I bought pretty flower folders for absent work and it made me immensely happy. Must remember that my classes will be approximately 77% dude.

Must....make it....to.....Monday....

For the second year in a row now, I am the newest, youngest teacher with the nicest classroom.

It's so strange, being this little half-child, half-adult creature. I frolicked around all summer, visiting all my people and having sleepovers and happy hours and discussing in depth the merits of Second Dessert somewhere in the desert between California and Nevada. And now I get to educate people. I have a car and an apartment and a salary and health insurance and various degrees. I have adult problems. I have adult pleasures. I also have a voice that sounds very much like that of a twelve-year-old girl (or boy, depending on the day) whenever I speak to my boss or one of my coworkers. Sometimes I still inadvertently go for cute when trying to convince people that they'll love working with me.

Capable. I am capable.
And I really am good at what I do. The classroom is the one place where I always belong. But when did this all happen?

I'm not allowed to make mistakes.
And I'm terrified.

What??? I'm proud to be a Californian again?

"Proposition 8 fails to advance any rational basis in singling out gay men and lesbians for denial of a marriage license. Indeed the evidence shows Proposition 8 does nothing more than enshrine in the California constitution the notion that opposite sex couples are superior to same sex couples." - U.S. District Judge Vaughn Walker 

Dear Obama,

I love you. No, I really do, even if it didn't seem that way at first (I REALLY had my heart set on Hills.) I eventually came around, and I was proud to vote for you. And I stand by my man. I'm not about to give up on you like so many others I know did once January 21st rolled around and they found out that you weren't actually the Messiah. I know you're human. I don't even care that you smoke (or that you don't. Or that you do...again.) I get that you're trying to make everyone happy, and while that is an unrealistic goal, well, you ARE the president, so it comes with the territory.

But COME ON, man! You think that all this self-congratulatory crap with Iraq is going to make us forget about Afghanistan or something? I know you're not parading around a "Mission Accomplished" banner like that one moron, but really, I'll believe it when I see it. For BOTH wars.

P.S. Republicans, back the eff off. You seem to be forgetting about that thing, that STD you gave us ten years ago. How convenient. I was barely 18 when I voted in the 2004 election and I STILL had half a clue.
And like it or not, Obama's going to be around for at least two more years, and even if he does flat-out fail, it's not like he's making all ya'll look good or anything. You lost your shot at that years ago. Tell me, GOP...who are you proud of?