Today I finally feel like a writer again. Until recently, I forgot about the highs of journalism and writing. We get the little rewards along the way--responses to queries, story assignments, paychecks, story coming out in print--that make all the work seem worth it.
Last night I turned in an article for Scholastic's Instructor magazine. Although I'm not a huge fan of service journalism (don't tell D. Ran!) and would rather write investigative pieces or personal essays, I liked writing it. I feel like stories for this magazine are articles that will help people do better things for themselves and kids. That, and I got to add a little bit of personal essay-esque qualities.
In general, though, I really feel like a true writer again. I find myself doing the things I did in college when I wrote often and actually started freelancing. I have a notebook that I keep with me nearly all the time so I can take down facts, names, dates. I keep a running tab of pitchable story ideas in it. I am actually querying publications again with these ideas. I am applying for journalism jobs.
I'll really feel like a writer when I go to Barnes and Noble next month and see my name in a magazine there. (sidenote: I also expect The Lunch Club to pick up the Instructor issue because I'm telling you now to--you'll be happy you did) Yep, my name should be in two magazines' September issues along with stories I wrote (I'll tell you the other one once I make sure it's coming out in that issue!). Woohoo! I'm a weal witer!
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Thursday, July 28, 2005
"How is the job?"
Well, sometimes I feel like I'm lying when I tell people about my work at Harlem RBI. It's not that I mean to. I just can't decide how I feel about it. I love the program. I think it's an awesome concept. It's so neat to see kids who love sports getting a free and "fun" reading program. It's also just as great to see kids who love reading playing a team sport for the first time in their entire lives.
But, do I like what I'm doing? Yes. No. Both. I mean, technically it should be easy, right? I'm at the school from 9-1 each day. 9:15ish-11 is reading time with leveled reading classes, which includes book clubs, silent reading and then independent reading. Two college "interns" (RBI's slaves) help out for most of this time, but leave for a meeting for 1/2-hour, and then come back at 11. From 11-12:20 is clubhouse time; kids are now with their baseball/softball teams (balanced for reading and playing abilities)--they do important things like discuss team issues (who pushed whom and got mad, who called someone "dirty," who cheered a lot yesterday), do team-building activities, and then work on a clubhouse project. This time is generally led by the coaches. Then, it's lunch. Then I go home. So really, I'm only teaching for 1:45 each day. Four days a week (Fridays I'm a field-trip chaperone). And I get paid well for this.
I still find it hard, though. 5th and 6th graders are FAR different from 8th graders. They do not understand what "attention" or "directions" truly are. I've got the lowest-level readers. Thus, that means students who are truly low-level readers, ESL students, students who don't like taking school or tests seriously, students with learning disabilities and students with behavioral disorders. One kid can't sound out words. Another constantly plays with his cup (he's ADD). Another flips out with any kind of reprimand. I wanted a challenge, and I got it. By the way, it's also un-air-conditioned. When it's 105 (with the humidity), everybody gets cranky.
Thus, this summer has been trying in the mornings for me. I left on a high note with my Nimitz kids, but this job has reminded me of why I am not meant to be a teacher. This is not my calling. It is definitely not my passion. My afternoons are spent working on journalism gigs or trying to find a permanent job once I get back to LA. This excites me. I LOVE it. I know this is what I'm meant to do.
Today, however, I didn't rush home at 1 to work on the story that's due tomorrow. Instead, I went to watch my team (from clubhouse and lunch time) play a game. They've been asking me all week why I never go watch them (most/all of the other teachers have). So, with the weather much cooler today, I decided to push back my work time. Today was game #10 for them. They'd been down because they'd only won one game so far. Today was win #2. They were so cute. They kept telling me throughout the game that I was their good luck charm. Crap. Guess that means they want me to come back more often. But, I have to admit: it was the first time all summer that I really felt like they knew that I cared. It was the first time all summer that I really enjoyed my job.
But I'm still going back to journalism.
But, do I like what I'm doing? Yes. No. Both. I mean, technically it should be easy, right? I'm at the school from 9-1 each day. 9:15ish-11 is reading time with leveled reading classes, which includes book clubs, silent reading and then independent reading. Two college "interns" (RBI's slaves) help out for most of this time, but leave for a meeting for 1/2-hour, and then come back at 11. From 11-12:20 is clubhouse time; kids are now with their baseball/softball teams (balanced for reading and playing abilities)--they do important things like discuss team issues (who pushed whom and got mad, who called someone "dirty," who cheered a lot yesterday), do team-building activities, and then work on a clubhouse project. This time is generally led by the coaches. Then, it's lunch. Then I go home. So really, I'm only teaching for 1:45 each day. Four days a week (Fridays I'm a field-trip chaperone). And I get paid well for this.
I still find it hard, though. 5th and 6th graders are FAR different from 8th graders. They do not understand what "attention" or "directions" truly are. I've got the lowest-level readers. Thus, that means students who are truly low-level readers, ESL students, students who don't like taking school or tests seriously, students with learning disabilities and students with behavioral disorders. One kid can't sound out words. Another constantly plays with his cup (he's ADD). Another flips out with any kind of reprimand. I wanted a challenge, and I got it. By the way, it's also un-air-conditioned. When it's 105 (with the humidity), everybody gets cranky.
Thus, this summer has been trying in the mornings for me. I left on a high note with my Nimitz kids, but this job has reminded me of why I am not meant to be a teacher. This is not my calling. It is definitely not my passion. My afternoons are spent working on journalism gigs or trying to find a permanent job once I get back to LA. This excites me. I LOVE it. I know this is what I'm meant to do.
Today, however, I didn't rush home at 1 to work on the story that's due tomorrow. Instead, I went to watch my team (from clubhouse and lunch time) play a game. They've been asking me all week why I never go watch them (most/all of the other teachers have). So, with the weather much cooler today, I decided to push back my work time. Today was game #10 for them. They'd been down because they'd only won one game so far. Today was win #2. They were so cute. They kept telling me throughout the game that I was their good luck charm. Crap. Guess that means they want me to come back more often. But, I have to admit: it was the first time all summer that I really felt like they knew that I cared. It was the first time all summer that I really enjoyed my job.
But I'm still going back to journalism.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
What Guys are Looking for
If only I had a dollar for every time someone told me, "You're what every guy is looking for!" Like many of my gal pals have in the past, a college chum exclaimed this yesterday. A few guy friends have told me this as well. However, I'm convinced that my qualities are what guys say they're looking for, but they truly don't want.
My girls seem to believe that my independence is what would make me desirable. Guys don't want to be smothered, they say. Ah, but I think they secretly want to be coddled and smothered. The fact that I care more about my life, my career (I'll have one soon, OK!) and me more than I do for them is not what they want. They want someone who puts them on a pedestal and never forgets about them. They want to be first in our lives. So, independence=undesirable.
The other quality that others seem to think will attract guys is my love of sports. After playing basketball one day, I had drinks with my roommate and her guy friend who refuses to understand my lack of long-term relationships. When I talked about my day's events and the fact that I was bored and just wanted to go throw a football around at the beach, he tried to tell me, "There are a million guys who are saying, I wish I had a cool girl to be with who just wanted to do stuff like throwing around a football." This is a lie. Guys do not want these types of girls. That is what their guy friends are for. They would much rather spend their time tackling each other and tossing around the football to the dudes than playing it with a girl. They like to play sports with girls, so they can show off. They do not want a girl who really likes sports. They want a girl who giggles at their own lack of athletic prowess, needs help with it and oohs and aahs over their skills. That's who they want to throw the football around with.
So, just what are the worth-it guys looking for? That was a question four girls pondered in TriBeca last night. Just as important, what am I looking for? I can't answer that, either.
My girls seem to believe that my independence is what would make me desirable. Guys don't want to be smothered, they say. Ah, but I think they secretly want to be coddled and smothered. The fact that I care more about my life, my career (I'll have one soon, OK!) and me more than I do for them is not what they want. They want someone who puts them on a pedestal and never forgets about them. They want to be first in our lives. So, independence=undesirable.
The other quality that others seem to think will attract guys is my love of sports. After playing basketball one day, I had drinks with my roommate and her guy friend who refuses to understand my lack of long-term relationships. When I talked about my day's events and the fact that I was bored and just wanted to go throw a football around at the beach, he tried to tell me, "There are a million guys who are saying, I wish I had a cool girl to be with who just wanted to do stuff like throwing around a football." This is a lie. Guys do not want these types of girls. That is what their guy friends are for. They would much rather spend their time tackling each other and tossing around the football to the dudes than playing it with a girl. They like to play sports with girls, so they can show off. They do not want a girl who really likes sports. They want a girl who giggles at their own lack of athletic prowess, needs help with it and oohs and aahs over their skills. That's who they want to throw the football around with.
So, just what are the worth-it guys looking for? That was a question four girls pondered in TriBeca last night. Just as important, what am I looking for? I can't answer that, either.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Mmm . . . burgers
$2.75. That's what my lunch cost me today. Good thing, too, because once again I forgot to check my balance and overdrew earlier this week. Nuts. At least my savings account is with WAMU as well.
But back to lunch. For $2.75 at a lovely establishment known as "Homer's," which is 1/2-block from my apartment, you can get two "sliders" (mini-burgers) and curly fries. Passing the sign daily, I decided to take them up on it. Since I pretend I'm a vegeterian, meat fills me up pretty quickly. I couldn't even get through the second one. I can't wait to go back. The burgers were OK, but I'm most stoked about the deal. And the size reminded me of great college times. Back in CoMo, Booches had the small burgers, but they were way greasier (greasy=good). That's where I went with my pal Nina and her folks. I haven't seen Naked, Nympho Nina for two years now (darn Peace Corps), though. My 1 1/2 mini-burgers also reminded me of college Sundays -- 1/2-price burger bar at Boone Tavern. Ah, a de-frosted cajun burger, beer and journalism buds.
Pause . . . take a moment of silence to remember your college eating memories . . .
Four hours later, I'm still excited about my lunch. Who can beat $2.75 for burgers, fries and a plate full o' college memories?
But back to lunch. For $2.75 at a lovely establishment known as "Homer's," which is 1/2-block from my apartment, you can get two "sliders" (mini-burgers) and curly fries. Passing the sign daily, I decided to take them up on it. Since I pretend I'm a vegeterian, meat fills me up pretty quickly. I couldn't even get through the second one. I can't wait to go back. The burgers were OK, but I'm most stoked about the deal. And the size reminded me of great college times. Back in CoMo, Booches had the small burgers, but they were way greasier (greasy=good). That's where I went with my pal Nina and her folks. I haven't seen Naked, Nympho Nina for two years now (darn Peace Corps), though. My 1 1/2 mini-burgers also reminded me of college Sundays -- 1/2-price burger bar at Boone Tavern. Ah, a de-frosted cajun burger, beer and journalism buds.
Pause . . . take a moment of silence to remember your college eating memories . . .
Four hours later, I'm still excited about my lunch. Who can beat $2.75 for burgers, fries and a plate full o' college memories?
Monday, July 18, 2005
Weekend Rewind
After Friday night's party/karaoke/breakfast, the rest of the weekend kept up with great fun. Saturday, I went with a visiting LA friend to see his friends perform in Brooklyn. Who would have ever thought of covering Air Supply's music in a metal manner? Hair Supply was Hairlarious. (If you're too lazy to visit their site, at least listen to them here.) After that came the headliners, Mr. Brownstone--a Guns 'n Roses cover band. They made me realize how much I loved listening to Q106 growing up--back when I would make mixed tapes by pressing "record" and "play" at the same time during song breaks, hoping a good song would be coming up.
Wedding Crashers was a Sunday break from writing. Everyone must watch this movie. It should get an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. Vince Vaughn could be my new favorite actor. AND it has a great movie montage.
Woohoo for weekend entertainment!
Wedding Crashers was a Sunday break from writing. Everyone must watch this movie. It should get an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. Vince Vaughn could be my new favorite actor. AND it has a great movie montage.
Woohoo for weekend entertainment!
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Is texting the devil?
1-inch screen reads: 1 new text message. How do you feel?
Last night/4 a.m. I had a heated discussion on whether text messaging was an appropriate form of communication. This seems to be a popular debate among my group of friends. I have a couple of friends who have said the main form of communication we use with people indicates how we feel about them. Basically, if you have something good/bad happen in your life you should:
Last night/4 a.m. I had a heated discussion on whether text messaging was an appropriate form of communication. This seems to be a popular debate among my group of friends. I have a couple of friends who have said the main form of communication we use with people indicates how we feel about them. Basically, if you have something good/bad happen in your life you should:
- tell the most important people in person (if at all possible)
- call the next most important people (and the most important that you can't see)
- email so-so friends
- mass email people who are acquaintances, not friends
Beyond that, things can get a bit muddy (blogging hasn't been included in their rankings). They do seem to agree, however, that texting is the lowest form of communication. Last night, one friend explained his view: "It's like saying, 'Hey, I see your number, I know I could call you, but I choose not to talk with you.'" Last night's group agreed that texting can be essential for meeting up with people and relaying small bits of information such as "we're at the back of the bar," but beyond that it should not be used.
I don't agree. I do feel that people often overuse texting and are often rude about public texting. (When you're with people, excuse yourself, call the person, and have a true conversation if information needs to be conveyed. When you interrupt a conversation with a real person to read something else and 12-key it back, it's boring for the other person, moreso than sitting around while you're on the phone with someone else. Even more annoying when it continues to happen throughout a conversation. At least wait for a lull in the conversation -- when people jump up for their phone in the middle of a conversation, it's as if saying, "At last! A break from this heinious banter! I will give my full attention to my flashing screen instead of a real being!")
So, I guess I find texting annoying as well, but not in the same way as these other people. But exactly where does texting fit into our lives? Is public texting rude? Is texting rude in general? Does it mean we do not value the other person?
For me, I enjoy texting when there are funny things that I want to share with others, but don't really have enough in my head for a true conversation. It's great for avoiding conversations with long-winded folk (if only my mom could figure out how to use texting!). It takes less time to go through the text inbox than a voicemail inbox--I'll always read texts immediately; I may not listen to voicemail for a couple of days. Texting provides a medium for the self-concious when you want to call someone but don't know if you should.
That said, waiting for a text back can be frustrating. Why aren't you texting me back??? runs through my head if hours have passed and no beep beep beep letting me know I've got a reply.
So, today I changed my alert for text messages. When I receive them, my phone doesn't beep anymore; it now lets me know by playing Ode to Joy.
More pictures
I've added another album to the left. This time it's pictures of hanging out with MU folk last weekend, pictures of my classroom, the Harlem RBI Field of Dreams (mentioned earlier), the apartment's dog, Tina and I, pictures of the crazy people waiting in line to buy Harry Potter (who I passed on my way to Anand's party) and one from Anand's party but a few of people karaoking it up afterwards.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
jaynamorphs
Almost as classic as the montage, another cheesy yet (in my opinion) enjoyable part of coming-of-age comedies are the scenes where the character looks in the mirror and a younger (or older) version of the character has a conversation with said character. I would like to participate in the many wardrobe changes of a movie montage, but I would rather sit in on a conversation between 18-year-old me and 24-year-old me.
As I walked past a CVS Pharmacy yesterday, I had to do a double-take at my reflection. I honestly didn't recognize it at first. I quickly began adding up the ways in which my appearance has changed in the last two years. Although I feel like I'm the same, I know I'm a bit different, when my college friends comment on some of the things I wear or how my hair looks. Then, compare that to fresh-out-of-high-school Jaynar, and that's a whole nother story. She was about 7 pounds lighter, had stick-straight hair down to her waist, talked with a country accent, hadn't heard of "bootleg" jeans and thought flannel shirts were the only way to go.
Today, I've realized just how much my personality has changed, as well. There are parts of me that 18-year-old me wouldn't recognize. (We all know what those things are . . . ) But, I've always been idealistic, and I've always been driven to be independent. I have craved a life of simplicity and purity. I have avoided people who chase dreams of money and fame. When I met these types of people I gave them a half of a chance, but no more. Since college I have become plain picky in who I allow into my life. I don't even know if they get half of a chance anymore. When I meet up with people who are not idealists, who are not craving independence, who are not simplistic and pure, and who chase money and fame, I want to run screaming into the hills.
Yes, as I glanced back at my reflection in the window, Jaynar, in all her Seven for all Mankind jeans, Coach purse, curly hair and bold MAC eyeshadow, thought about running away from her image. But then she looked back at her reflection. She still believes the world can be changed. She believes that there are far better things to do with life than we young'uns do. She believes that she has to do something to change the world. Maybe nothing has changed.
As I walked past a CVS Pharmacy yesterday, I had to do a double-take at my reflection. I honestly didn't recognize it at first. I quickly began adding up the ways in which my appearance has changed in the last two years. Although I feel like I'm the same, I know I'm a bit different, when my college friends comment on some of the things I wear or how my hair looks. Then, compare that to fresh-out-of-high-school Jaynar, and that's a whole nother story. She was about 7 pounds lighter, had stick-straight hair down to her waist, talked with a country accent, hadn't heard of "bootleg" jeans and thought flannel shirts were the only way to go.
Today, I've realized just how much my personality has changed, as well. There are parts of me that 18-year-old me wouldn't recognize. (We all know what those things are . . . ) But, I've always been idealistic, and I've always been driven to be independent. I have craved a life of simplicity and purity. I have avoided people who chase dreams of money and fame. When I met these types of people I gave them a half of a chance, but no more. Since college I have become plain picky in who I allow into my life. I don't even know if they get half of a chance anymore. When I meet up with people who are not idealists, who are not craving independence, who are not simplistic and pure, and who chase money and fame, I want to run screaming into the hills.
Yes, as I glanced back at my reflection in the window, Jaynar, in all her Seven for all Mankind jeans, Coach purse, curly hair and bold MAC eyeshadow, thought about running away from her image. But then she looked back at her reflection. She still believes the world can be changed. She believes that there are far better things to do with life than we young'uns do. She believes that she has to do something to change the world. Maybe nothing has changed.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Good Cop/Bad Cop
I really hate LAPD. I have my bazillionth traffic ticket that must be paid off by tomorrow, if I don't appear in court. Well, I can't fly back to appear in court, and I've been trying to pay it for a while now. The idiots can't figure out how to type. For some reason my license and birthdate aren't correlating to any citation at the court website (which I now have memorized). Last time that happened, the web picked it up a few days before my due date.
However, it's due tomorrow at 9:30 a.m., which correlates with my work time. I tried again to locate it today. I called the house in CA to get the ticket number. I logged back onto the website. I called the handy-dandy number. nada. You would think the internet and phone system would be helpful in finding the ticket. It's not. I feel like this is my karma for being a little bit of a know-it-all to the jerkface cop. But, now I'm just hoping that someone answers the darn phone tomorrow at the courthouse -- that is if I can talk my boss into letting me get out of lunch duty to call. Grrr.
Why can't LA cops be more like NY cops -- friendly, gregarious, buy my drinks. I think LA cops feel more important because they have vehicles, even if they're only scooters.
Actually, though, it would be kind of fun to go to prison when I get back to California. I'm sure it would make a great blog. And, I wouldn't feel so bad for being unemployed when I return, either.
However, it's due tomorrow at 9:30 a.m., which correlates with my work time. I tried again to locate it today. I called the house in CA to get the ticket number. I logged back onto the website. I called the handy-dandy number. nada. You would think the internet and phone system would be helpful in finding the ticket. It's not. I feel like this is my karma for being a little bit of a know-it-all to the jerkface cop. But, now I'm just hoping that someone answers the darn phone tomorrow at the courthouse -- that is if I can talk my boss into letting me get out of lunch duty to call. Grrr.
Why can't LA cops be more like NY cops -- friendly, gregarious, buy my drinks. I think LA cops feel more important because they have vehicles, even if they're only scooters.
Actually, though, it would be kind of fun to go to prison when I get back to California. I'm sure it would make a great blog. And, I wouldn't feel so bad for being unemployed when I return, either.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Lighter note
Picture albums have been added to the left. They're under the blog list. More will be added eventually.
Sex Toys and Dreams
Yesterday I went with two friends to a store selling all forms of sex toys. Now, let me tell you, the only time I've been in a store such as this has been to buy gag gifts for bridal showers. This time, however, said friends were actually considering buying things for themselves. This was a new side to "toy" shopping for me. I, however, could not get the image out of my head of my oldest sister. (Yes, this is not going to be quite as risque as the title sounds) When I was about nine, I recall a time when my oldest sister (the one I never talk about or sometimes leave out of the sibling count) left the house to live somewhere else. My mother was cleaning out her room and discovered a vibrator in a purse in her closet. Silence. Uncomfortable moment between mother and me. Mother quickly puts it away and thinks I don't know what it is. So, this is what I thought of repeatedly as we perused the fun of Babeland.
When I slept last night, I had a dream of this oldest sister. This is weird for many reasons. I have not seen her since I was a senior in high school. The last time I spoke with her was when I 20 -- she called me in my dorm room at college; I convulsed in tears during the entire conversation and refused to talk to anyone for hours. So, I rarely think of her -- out of sight, out of mind. But, when I do, I become confused about things like life, family and love.
For whatever reasons she couldn't take her life in Missouri. She walked out on us: parents who gave everything they could (physically and monetarily) to help her, sisters who joked around with her, and a son that still does not understand why she left without a goodbye. She had left many times (as evidenced by the time when she was 19), but she always came back. But something in her changed in her late 20s. She married a jerk, and he controlled her life. Now, she has chosen to be unfindable. My parents finally adopted her son a couple of years ago; even a private investigator couldn't track her to sign the papers.
So, obviously this person is a source of confusion for me. I am baffled at how someone can turn their back on people who obviously loved them for a need for romantic love -- she was always one for showing low self-esteem, but being with her second husband was the clencher. Her desire to feel desired overpowered everything else. I am also baffled at how we as people can love someone who does not love us back. Bafflement #3: how we can say we aren't hurt when people do not love us back. For the past six years I've been brushing her off in conversations. I attribute her actions to serious mental problems (which I no doubt believe could be there), and I say it doesn't matter any more. But my dream last night made me think about how I truly feel. For the past few years I've thought about using my stealthy journalism skills to track her down (I have an unfailing confidence in my research abilities), but I don't even know what I would say if I found her. I don't even know if I would want to say anything. For all I know, her downward spiral of self-hatred and drug use has produced someone who will only use me for money (that is why she called me when I was 20).
Last night, though, there was Leslie showing up unexpectedly at Christmas (which happened a couple of times while I was in high school). She looked just like she did when I was in middle school. Everyone in the family was happy to see her. She gave us all gifts and hugs. The family was big and happy. It was as though no time had passed. The dream ended with her leaving and me rushing over to her. Before she left, I pulled out a picture I have in an album at my parents' home. In it, I'm three, Trina's six, Leslie's 13 -- we're all truly smiling. "See, I never forgot you!" I tell her. "I'm glad you're home."
When I slept last night, I had a dream of this oldest sister. This is weird for many reasons. I have not seen her since I was a senior in high school. The last time I spoke with her was when I 20 -- she called me in my dorm room at college; I convulsed in tears during the entire conversation and refused to talk to anyone for hours. So, I rarely think of her -- out of sight, out of mind. But, when I do, I become confused about things like life, family and love.
For whatever reasons she couldn't take her life in Missouri. She walked out on us: parents who gave everything they could (physically and monetarily) to help her, sisters who joked around with her, and a son that still does not understand why she left without a goodbye. She had left many times (as evidenced by the time when she was 19), but she always came back. But something in her changed in her late 20s. She married a jerk, and he controlled her life. Now, she has chosen to be unfindable. My parents finally adopted her son a couple of years ago; even a private investigator couldn't track her to sign the papers.
So, obviously this person is a source of confusion for me. I am baffled at how someone can turn their back on people who obviously loved them for a need for romantic love -- she was always one for showing low self-esteem, but being with her second husband was the clencher. Her desire to feel desired overpowered everything else. I am also baffled at how we as people can love someone who does not love us back. Bafflement #3: how we can say we aren't hurt when people do not love us back. For the past six years I've been brushing her off in conversations. I attribute her actions to serious mental problems (which I no doubt believe could be there), and I say it doesn't matter any more. But my dream last night made me think about how I truly feel. For the past few years I've thought about using my stealthy journalism skills to track her down (I have an unfailing confidence in my research abilities), but I don't even know what I would say if I found her. I don't even know if I would want to say anything. For all I know, her downward spiral of self-hatred and drug use has produced someone who will only use me for money (that is why she called me when I was 20).
Last night, though, there was Leslie showing up unexpectedly at Christmas (which happened a couple of times while I was in high school). She looked just like she did when I was in middle school. Everyone in the family was happy to see her. She gave us all gifts and hugs. The family was big and happy. It was as though no time had passed. The dream ended with her leaving and me rushing over to her. Before she left, I pulled out a picture I have in an album at my parents' home. In it, I'm three, Trina's six, Leslie's 13 -- we're all truly smiling. "See, I never forgot you!" I tell her. "I'm glad you're home."
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Desperate to Not Sleep
Go to Desperate Housewives "Which Housewife Are You?" quiz to find out which character you're most like. According to said quiz, I'm like Teri Hatcher's character. I've got good intentions, but things don't always go how I plan. At least I wasn't the hussy again. When I took the Sex and the City one, it told me I was most like Samantha.
Safety in Cities
This morning I was greeted by the news that it could rain today (although it had been earlier predicted to be a "sunny" day) and the first reports of the London bombings. Sad, I was; a little weary of riding the crosstown bus to East Harlem this morning, yes, I was that too (No, not because of the rain). Before I was forced to leave, I was reading the latest briefs, but I was apalled at some of the United States' reaction. OK, just one comment, really: something along the lines of "The reason London was a target is because the US has done such a fabulous job of homeland security." Malarky. I know there are plenty of illegal aliens who've recently crossed the Mexican border. I came back into New York through Canada two months ago, and nobody checked my passport or looked in the back of my truck. I was upset that someone here would use this incident overseas to create a false sense of America's security. But, I had to leave my analyzation of politics and media to go learn how to create a physically and emotionally safe learning environment.
Once upon the M96 heading into Central Park, I was greeted by four college Harlem RBI interns. They joked about their jobs and were annoyed and in disbelief when the police stopped the bus outside of Central Park. An officer boarded, walked through and then got off. "What good will that do?" they quipped. I wanted to talk to them about this, but I understood we were on a different plane and my comments would seem like a lecture. Luckily by the time I made it to training with the other teachers, we were ready to discuss the issues. Here there was no joking of the jobs. We were intent on discussing who did this, why they did and what this means. We teachers understood the gravity of the situation, the symbolism that this means as far as security in ALL major cities. Was it our age that made us more concerned? Was it the fact that we're all teachers and understand how small cracks (not to trivialize 37 deaths) mean bigger systemic problems? Either way, this was not something to be brushed off (in our opinions).
Training soon got underway, and my day ended with an all-staff softball game and pizza party. As I stood out on Harlem RBI's Field of Dreams, I began to truly realize the need and the beauty of the program. From the field, you could look up at the immediate buildings and know you were in the ghetto. Just beyond the immediate horizon, the signs of gentrification loomed. But right underneath me lay the greenest grass I've seen since I played in fields as a child. The benches are still perfectly flat and without warps. The fence is a bold painted black. The infield is kept raked and watered. This is what every inner-city child needs. A place to play. A place where they feel valued. A place where their parents can look out their window and know they're OK. A safe place within a city. Where things like racial divides, terrorists flashing signs and handguns and terrorists with bombs on buses are forgotten in the freshness of recently cut grass, laughter and cheering.
Once upon the M96 heading into Central Park, I was greeted by four college Harlem RBI interns. They joked about their jobs and were annoyed and in disbelief when the police stopped the bus outside of Central Park. An officer boarded, walked through and then got off. "What good will that do?" they quipped. I wanted to talk to them about this, but I understood we were on a different plane and my comments would seem like a lecture. Luckily by the time I made it to training with the other teachers, we were ready to discuss the issues. Here there was no joking of the jobs. We were intent on discussing who did this, why they did and what this means. We teachers understood the gravity of the situation, the symbolism that this means as far as security in ALL major cities. Was it our age that made us more concerned? Was it the fact that we're all teachers and understand how small cracks (not to trivialize 37 deaths) mean bigger systemic problems? Either way, this was not something to be brushed off (in our opinions).
Training soon got underway, and my day ended with an all-staff softball game and pizza party. As I stood out on Harlem RBI's Field of Dreams, I began to truly realize the need and the beauty of the program. From the field, you could look up at the immediate buildings and know you were in the ghetto. Just beyond the immediate horizon, the signs of gentrification loomed. But right underneath me lay the greenest grass I've seen since I played in fields as a child. The benches are still perfectly flat and without warps. The fence is a bold painted black. The infield is kept raked and watered. This is what every inner-city child needs. A place to play. A place where they feel valued. A place where their parents can look out their window and know they're OK. A safe place within a city. Where things like racial divides, terrorists flashing signs and handguns and terrorists with bombs on buses are forgotten in the freshness of recently cut grass, laughter and cheering.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Driving in NY
Right before I left, my roommates were attempting to put together and install the new Verizon wireless hub. I quickly left the room and busied myself in the kitchen. I laughed as I told them working with them on that as they read the instructions would stress me out. They agreed that neither of them were stressed and went about plodding through the various steps.
Today I found out that I was right. I would have been stressed. As part of the Harlem RBI program we took a personality test to determine how we will best work with the two college interns who will help out in our classrooms. There were four personalities: expressive, analytical, amiable and driving. I'm a "driver." I was the only driver of the 13 teachers. According to the handy-dandy sheet, I like to work by myself; I hide emotions; I try to approach things in a business-like way; I do not delegate responsibility; I avoid emotional confrontations; I dismiss others who feel emotions; I am goal-oriented; I make sure things get done; I want things to be done in what I perceive to be a timely manner; I listen to know when it's my turn to talk, etc.
Even thinking about the roommates working on the Verizon project makes me a little jittery. I think I'll go write down my goals for my time in NY now. Just kidding. I think.
Today I found out that I was right. I would have been stressed. As part of the Harlem RBI program we took a personality test to determine how we will best work with the two college interns who will help out in our classrooms. There were four personalities: expressive, analytical, amiable and driving. I'm a "driver." I was the only driver of the 13 teachers. According to the handy-dandy sheet, I like to work by myself; I hide emotions; I try to approach things in a business-like way; I do not delegate responsibility; I avoid emotional confrontations; I dismiss others who feel emotions; I am goal-oriented; I make sure things get done; I want things to be done in what I perceive to be a timely manner; I listen to know when it's my turn to talk, etc.
Even thinking about the roommates working on the Verizon project makes me a little jittery. I think I'll go write down my goals for my time in NY now. Just kidding. I think.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Friday, July 01, 2005
Put it on a shelf . . .
Finally, my room is clean. My laundry is done. I can now begin packing for tomorrow's flight. Needing a break from cleaning, packing and journalism junk, I've decided to discuss something I discovered about myself today.
My life is my bookshelf. It's a cheap light-colored IKEA shelf, but it epitomizes me as a person. Up until today, it was overflowing. There was no room for any new books, and all the ones I needed in there didn't fit. It's like my life. I kept trying to put interesting things in there, but nothing seemed to fit. Until now. Done with teaching, LMU and TFA, I cleaned out the un-needed binders, professional development books and such. Everything that needed to fit, now does. It now has room for more.
More than a metaphor, it also says everything about who I am, where I've been, what I love and where I dream of going. There are three Bibles (one of mine, two from my dead aunt in which I've found notes 6-year-old Jayna wrote her), Shel Silverstein books, a book on NY nightlife, East Coast photo books, many books of non-fiction, fiction books that are supposed to sound like they're non-fiction, a book about living in our 20s, books and magazines that I've been published in, 1/2 a shelf of journalism and writing books, a personal journal, my WriteGirl journal of writings, a notebook of poems I wrote in high school that nobody else has read, scrapbooks from college, a book on educational inequity, a dictionary. There is one book about love -- a memoir of a journalist who goes searching for the five men who broke her heart. There is a guide to screenwriting. There is another memoir of a man who's been paralyzed and left unable to speak who is looking back on his life -- he is not wistful; he is content. I love it. I've read it three times already. Writing about it, I think I want to read it again.
So, yes, as much as I hide who I am and what my dreams are, anyone can really find it out. You can peruse my bookshelf (or read my blog).
My life is my bookshelf. It's a cheap light-colored IKEA shelf, but it epitomizes me as a person. Up until today, it was overflowing. There was no room for any new books, and all the ones I needed in there didn't fit. It's like my life. I kept trying to put interesting things in there, but nothing seemed to fit. Until now. Done with teaching, LMU and TFA, I cleaned out the un-needed binders, professional development books and such. Everything that needed to fit, now does. It now has room for more.
More than a metaphor, it also says everything about who I am, where I've been, what I love and where I dream of going. There are three Bibles (one of mine, two from my dead aunt in which I've found notes 6-year-old Jayna wrote her), Shel Silverstein books, a book on NY nightlife, East Coast photo books, many books of non-fiction, fiction books that are supposed to sound like they're non-fiction, a book about living in our 20s, books and magazines that I've been published in, 1/2 a shelf of journalism and writing books, a personal journal, my WriteGirl journal of writings, a notebook of poems I wrote in high school that nobody else has read, scrapbooks from college, a book on educational inequity, a dictionary. There is one book about love -- a memoir of a journalist who goes searching for the five men who broke her heart. There is a guide to screenwriting. There is another memoir of a man who's been paralyzed and left unable to speak who is looking back on his life -- he is not wistful; he is content. I love it. I've read it three times already. Writing about it, I think I want to read it again.
So, yes, as much as I hide who I am and what my dreams are, anyone can really find it out. You can peruse my bookshelf (or read my blog).
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