What are my choices?

Once, when getting advice from someone, in order to get me to look at the problem rationally he asked me,

"What's the worst that could happen."

That's not a really a good question to ask a person with my imagination. I would have to say the worst is usually a slow death by burning, goring, or being stretched apart by ropes and pulleys so all your limbs dislocate, tear, and then rip off.

And I don't really like to dwell on any of those ideas.

But really, when he asked me this, it was in the midst of a bad situation, where there is no time for imagination but I was only left with feelings of obliteration. I couldn't say losing ones I love or injury, because neither had much to do with the circumstance, so the worst I could come up with was:

"Jail. Never able to enter my profession again - not to mention life being put on hold indefinitely."

And he brought up the most obvious story in the Bible. Joseph. Falsely accused and thrown in jail for many years, and then raised up to second in command. The comfortable Bible story suddenly took on a humbling and terrifying relevance all at once. Would it still happen today? Would God let that happen to me? Am I guaranteed a glorious and victorious full circle?

The mature Christian will tout his or her faith that God is good, etc. I was pretty sure I believed all these things. And I still do. I guess. At least on paper. But I may be freaking out a little bit in real life.

Maturity-shmurity. I know nothing.

Tolga and I were talking about the apartment we are selling the other day. We need many things to fall in place - the list is overwhelming. I seem less and less capable of making decisions because of the stress, but when I was looking over the paperwork again tonight, I realized I have more options then I realized. Or maybe I don't. I just know I've been swinging away, desperately in many directions - not really sure even what I'm swinging at or for, just trying to not let things happen but rather make things happen. But, it's exhausting. It's exhausting when you keep applying for jobs, keep trying to resolve money issues, keep trying with little seeming result. We felt so disheartened the other day when it seemed the Coop would block our sale - it felt as if we couldn't ever let our guard down, even for a second, for its a ongoing war here.

I always get that image of Lord of the Rings, when the band went out as a last stand for Mankind, a few against tens of thousands - fearfully outnumbered and their hope resting on two halflings to surmount equally difficult odds. The courage of the moment and humbling beauty of their salvation always brings tears to my eyes.

I wonder if I could ever do the same.

I will write

I will write.

I will not go longer without writing.

See . . . I'm writing.

I taught all day kindergarten today. All day kindergarten is just wrong. These kids were tough, and held up throughout the day pretty well, but parents don't even have the option of a half-day here. I said,

"When did this happen?"

"Three years ago."

"Oh."

And then all the subs (because there were a lot of subs that day) started talking about where they sub and how often. I'm a bit on the extreme end. I'm registered in four districts to be sure I have a sub job every day, and I'm looking for a third job. I called the Human Resources of St. John's hospital to further pester them as to how I could bypass the impersonal web and get myself an interview. I was told to keep applying on the web.

That's what we're doing.

***

Last winter, my dad, husband, and I were all playing a game of Monopoly. I was losing, going in debt, mortgaging properties. I began whining about losing and becoming irrational because the game was too close to real life. And then, suddenly, the game changed - I don't remember what happened, but somehow I made all the money back and nearly bankrupted the others. Even in the game I couldn't stifle a very satisfied smile.

The game keeps coming to mind because even while I was playing the game I was seeing myself in the bigger picture of things. How emotional I was in my reaction to the game - with its ups and downs I was not a steady character. It seems I wouldn't be a good banker because my responses were to the immediate, I could see it, and I couldn't stop myself.

I started thinking about real life, and how much I was whining and complaining about EVERYTHING. And how, in a very short time many things could change, for the better or the worse. In some ways, I'm always expecting things to change for the better (thus my continual bitter disappointment when it doesn't). If things did change, would I grateful or find something else to complain about? Would I be happy with a satisfied grin? Is money really the only issue here? Is the feeling of "losing" the issue?

When I come back to the basic question of what do I really want . . . I'm just not that sure.

So . . . I will write.

Fifteen

What was I doing at fifteen?

Let's see, I was in ninth grade and thought I was on the verge of conquering the world. We were still living out in the country. At school, I was playing three sports, a couple of instruments, doing well in school, working different jobs, and I was pretty sure things would keep coming to me pretty easily.

But things didn't come easily, maybe things never came easy and I was fooling myself. I wonder why we don't teach kids how life is hard. How to be grateful for the things we have and to look at it all as good fortune. I always found the story of Job pretty unbelievable, how he could gain everything, lose everything, and then gain it all again - how the loss and gain could ever be called just, but now maybe I am beginning to see glimpses of how maybe the losses and gains are irrelevant (but I'm not sure I'm ready to grasp how these losses and gains are irrelevant).

In the last fifteen plus years I've lived in Kansas, Jersey, and New York. I've traveled many countries, I've earned a couple of degrees, I learned some new skills, I bought a place, I was married. All great events that undoubtedly had their own struggles that I'm somewhat unwilling to go into. I was thinking of this today because at the school I taught, a fifteen year old had been shot and killed this weekend. He was at a friend's house, the kids were playing with guns, the gun got loaded at some point and one boy picked up the gun, aimed it at the back of his friend's head, and shot and killed his friend. The boy may be tried as an adult, the friends may have consequences as well. I could easily play the scene out in my mind - the kids' carelessness and disconnect from danger or consequences. I know I've done plenty of things out of my own ignorance or sense of invincibility, and I'm sure most can think of times we were spared the consequence of our mistakes.

But not these boys.

So what's going on here?

In my new trial habit of three things:

I never heard back from Saint Paul schools but I assume I wasn't hired, and I can hardly fathom any longer why that is . . . I wish I knew . . . sort of . . . I am not terribly disappointed that I didn't get the job, but it sure messes with the psyche - like, what's wrong with me? Maybe I'm not a good teacher . . .

On another note, maybe I could make a career out of Target. I was recognized as a fast friendly team member this month. I'm not sure what that means, or how important it was . . . but it felt good to be acknowledged amidst all of these things.

We had Thanksgiving part II here the other night. We cooked a whole other Turkey for the sole purpose of having something to go with Mom's delicious homemade cranberry sauce, which is more like a jelly. Aaron and Asher were over as well. Asher had been sick, but was pretty excited to be there. We put a plate of food in front of him to eat. He looked at his food. Played around some. Looked at his food some more. Complained a little about the food. Wanted to be fed. Aaron finally gave him a big mouthful. Asher chewed a little bit then froze, frowning some and looking a bit worried. He clutched his stomach and threw up. Aaron patted him on the back, and Asher threw up on Aaron. I had absently taken another bite, then realized what I was doing and no longer wanted to chew myself. Tolga took Asher to the bathroom, and as soon as Asher was gone, Aaron started gagging. I probably would have been okay, but when Aaron started gagging, I started gagging and choking because I still had food in my mouth.

Thanksgiving part three.

Three Things

I don't want to write, but I don't want to increase my habit of not-writing. So I will write briefly about three things.

1) We are on the verge of deciding to stop making payments on most things as it seems to be an endless uphill battle - especially with no regular work. I have begun to wonder if it is more wise to begin to save and pool what little money we have. We aren't paying our mortgage, we won't be paying our maintenance, we've been paying credit cards that keep increasing our interest and lowering our limits, and there are always those surprise bills (like: surprise - water leak; or surprise! medical bill from 2 years ago that insurance somehow never paid) - and in the end, our debt is only growing. It's a bad feeling not being able to make payments, but it is a hovering stress that won't change - particularly without jobs and so it seems to make sense to pool our money to pay for what is necessary: the home we and our family is living in, and cash for immediate needs.

2) In the television show "Meet the Tribe", five members of a tribe from a remote island are brought to America to learn about life in the USA. The members go from wearing loin cloths to Western outfits - and their observations were humbling:

"Your cows will not live well nor taste good if they don't eat grass" (Commenting on the feed concoction given to the cows).

"Those medicines going into the cows will be going into you. That doesn't seem good." (Commenting on the antibiotics being injected into the cows).

"It's a tragedy that with all this land, all these machines, and a fat wallet - with all these things you die like everybody else." (Commenting on the seemingly incredible wealth of the farmers).

"It looks like a cow but has the hair of a man." "It looks like the Devil!" (After stumbling across, and running away from, a buffalo.)

"Do you know Tom Navy? We want to bring to him a message of peace - to help America lay down its weapons. Guns should only be used to shoot animals. Not people." (Members repeating the mission given to them from their tribal chief for legend has it that a man named Tom Navy, from America, came to their tribe during the Great War and brought peace among the tribes and thus, the chief has commissioned the members to do the same, return the favor, to America).

3) I love my husband. It may sound redundant to write it down, but I am amazed everyday by such a gift. I have always felt loved, but I am finding such great strength in having a partner in life. Each day I am loved and affirmed by Tolga, it is a humbling revelation about what it means to be in an active relationship.

Roger That

I dreamed last night that I was trying to work my second job schedule around with my third job schedule. I woke up with more things on my mind and couldn't sleep.

Tolga wasn't home having worked the 2am shift, so I got up and made coffee and breakfast for when he got home. We had breakfast together, and then I went to work while he would sleep most of the day. We will have dinner together, and tomorrow will be another full cycle of school and Target.

We both feel grateful for the work. It is busy, but low-stress/responsibility because there are so many people helping out. I walk around with a walkie-talkie and scanner loading shelves, helping guests, and responding to calls over the radio. And I am always thanked.

In case you were interested

My day went like this:

I woke up, got ready for school, called the school, and learned I didn't have to be there until 915am. Sweet, I can go back to bed!

920 - Taught 8th grade Science. Had to confiscate a very large paper ball.

1014 - break

1100 - lunch

1130 - taught four more super annoying eighth grade classes.

215 - finished may day, went to library and returned movie

300 - stopped at Webster, the school two blocks from my house, to pick up the book I left there yesterday. Asked if they had seen my water bottle while they were looking. I was given a used water bottle. Found my orange water bottle later under the couch.

315 - did stuff at home

415 - went to shop and work at Target ( bought on sale food before work with discount card, and a long sleeve shirt for work for $5 during my break).

1015 - came home to messages of the NY apartment water leaking and our tenant wanting to buy our furniture.

And that's it.

The Immediate

It has been hard to keep up on writing. Things aren't harder or easier I suppose, they seem the same. Same old, same old. Applying for jobs, taking different sub jobs, fighting with various organizations about money money money and trying not to make that money king.

I look at my husband and I am encourage more and more. It is a gift to be married. A gift I never thought much about and assumed that I would receive one day. But I am humbled by the surprise and my own arrogance that I would ever have such a privilege as marriage. I, we - keep working for this, and for this I don't have as much doubt, because our marriage is our starting point and our returning point.

Both Tolga and I are working at Target now. It's a bit comical, and we both enjoy the mindless brawn they've hired. It is stress free, responsibility free, for barely above minimum wage. Tolga works the opening shift - 4am for four to eight hours, I work the closing shift for four to six hours. He works receiving lines, I work the sales floor. It's mindless and busy, and apparently only getting busier in the next week. Tomorrow I work at a middle school teaching Science, and then Target until close. I am happy with the work for now, and still hope for a job for Tolga.

I haven't heard back from St. Paul Schools yet, so I'm assuming I haven't got any of the positions and/or they are negotiating offers with other teachers. I'm not completely disappointed, as I surely didn't want a part-time position if I could make more working as a sub ... it is not an exciting choice, but a necessary choice. I want to be free our financial burdens here.

I applied for another job as an Emergency Room Technician at a local hospital. I actually had to apply through their mammoth website, a process I 've been doing, and continuing to do since last March, but I usually am rejected by email within a couple of weeks of applying. I went to the hospital the other day, hoping to bypass the system, and meet a person. I talked with the HR assistant, who could only check that my application was submitted. In the end, she relented and said I could call the office next week and she would connect me with the HR Generalist. In the meantime, I've decided my next strategic attempt will involve depositing my resume in certain people's mailboxes . . .

In the meantime, subbing is always a trip. Today I subbed at a school that was two blocks from my house. And apparently, my house is in the ghetto. Okay, not really the ghetto - but all the teachers at Webster seem to think so. There are many apartments around us that are low-income housing. Okay, and come to think of it, there was a shooting recently. But it's not that bad, is it? I told her I lived in the four-plex down the street, the teacher asked, "The one facing the street or the sideways one?" And proceeded to tell me of a student that had that used to live in "the sideways one".

The class was relatively fine, but as I always say - Elementary is exhausting. There are a million things that an elementary school teacher does in a day - that's what makes it fun. Coming in as an outsider, it gives me really bad headaches. The kids' day is one of a thousand routines. Come in, hang up things, set chairs, file homework, sign in attendance, participate in interactive on board - all in the first five minutes. I tend to fall behind in the elementary school day, and mine turns into one where I am late on snack, transitions, lunch and recess. Elementary school kids love their routines, and always tell me when I'm doing something different or forgetting something (even if that something they had only done one time because it's fun to know more than the sub).

The kids are extreme too. Tuesday I was subbing a class. At one point he went to the bathroom (a toilet was in the classroom). I had to count for him to come out as he was playing with the faucet. He came out and proceeded into a meltdown that started with elephant tears, turned into a scream and picking up a chair that he threw out into the hallway. He was six years old.

Kids used to throw desks in the middle school I taught at, and I was surprised at the first grader's outburst. Poor kid. I know the feeling. I subbed at my alma mater the other day, and one student - after hearing of the places I worked - asked, "Are you afraid for your life when you go home?"

It got me thinking about the differences between the cities, between the states. Why, when I go to one district, is the work independent, self-directed - while it takes so much management in city schools. Are the suburban kids more capable of making independent choices that will benefit their futures, while city kids are not. It seems so. The city kids are faced on the immediate, the basic the needs that have yet to be met.

Wait a minute.

I'm focused on the immediate too.

unseasonably

I was at North High again, teaching gym class. I love gym class. It was high school strength training class and my day was over by 12:15pm.

I came home and studied Turkish, read another Newbery Medal book, looked up recipes, went on a walk with my husband and my brother's dog in the unseasonably warm weather (56!).

I came home and started another project - logging fitness online. It was more work than actually exercising which I didn't have time for because the entries took too long.

Mom didn't work tonight, so we all stayed up and watched "Marley and Me".

The Governors

St. Paul Schools posted a position last week for an English Teacher at Johnson High - A school that is about 5 miles from where I live. I wasn't able to get through the web site until Wednesday, I applied then, and emailed the principal an introduction of myself. Thursday a sub position was posted a Johnson High and so I took the position thinking it would be a good chance to scout out the school.

The first person I met smelled like tacos. The second person I met smelled like Roman Noodles Soup.

The school runs on 90 minute blocks, and the day is over at 2pm, so I taught just three classes. I happen to be subbing for the teacher who is leaving, on seemingly not so great terms. It seems she has taken a job somewhere else, which I wonder where else she got a job? Especially at this time of year, in this economy . . . where could she be going?

I met the principal as well. The secretary introduced me, and the secretary recognized my name. She actually looked at me as if she recognized me. She said they were trying to speed up human resources so that they could begin interviews for the position by the end of next week.

We'll see.

Their mascot is the Johnson Governors.

Team

At Target, we're a team. A smiling, jump-to-it, willing, top-notch kind of team. Feedback is constant, positive, and reports all things big and small:

"Team members, we're doing great on Sales today!"

"This is Liz, going on break"

"Okay Liz!"

"This is Cher, returning from break, going on my loop."

"Thanks Cher!"

It struck me today that all this teamwork reminded me of AF - but AF still makes me feel a bit nauseous, whereas Target, I can't help completely enjoying it all.

Maybe its because I have no responsibilities to mention, and so I carry no burdens.

So what was the load I was carrying at AF?

SPED

I taught a middle school Special Education class today - labeled SPED DCD which I think stands for developmental and cognitive disability. I had three students, two paraprofessionals, and a parent in the room.

I've taught SPED before and it's humbling. The classroom is set up like a pre-school, where students are practicing identifying/remembering days of the week, months, numbers, and letters. Everything is a learning activity, from eating to playing games. We were playing "Chutes and Ladders" and the several large tasks we were working on was a) remembering which game piece was ours, and b) remembering whose turn it was.

Time is slowed down as we run on different schedules and allow plenty of time for students to accomplish, or not accomplish the most basic of tasks. All three students were non-verbal, but two could communicate with pointing, pictures and minimal sign language (as long as the fine motor skill wasn't too intricate). The third student was wheelchair bound, having no muscle control whatsoever, communicating with very subtle eye movements - but even these were delayed. Her mother attended to her, suctioning her mouth when she coughed, hooking up the feeding tube, and changing her if needed. The students were teenagers.

The world of disabilities is its own small community, and when I'm in this community, I start feel more aware of the small things, daily events and tasks that I've taken for granted.

My formula

Tolga's phone alarm isn't loud. It's musical, in a cell-phone-ish way. Vibrating and soft music together. It's what we've been waking up to. That and another alarm on by my head. And my phone. He got up at 3am, I got of at 3:30 and brought him to work, I went to bed at 4am, got back up at 6am, found a job and I'm not sure what happened after that because suddenly it was 7:30 and I was late. I was eating a bagel, drinking coffee, checking due dates on the library card and somehow I fell behind. How and why I do this, I do not know. I was annoyed at 3am when Tolga woke me several times to get us when it only took my ten seconds to put on clothes to drive him there, but I was admiring his discipline as I was racing to work.

I didn't exactly race. I took back roads because of rush hour traffic and the back roads turned out to be slow roads. I called the school when I was three blocks away to say I would be late, and little did I know it would take me another fifteen minutes to find my way to the right door.

And to think I used to call myself resourceful.

I found myself on one way streets passing a bunch of magnet schools and museums and community centers with little signs that I couldn't read fast enough. I finally parked in a lot next to a car that had plates and junk glued all over its body as 3D art. I made my way through the maze of non-traditional hallways (the building used to be owned by a corporation before Saint Paul schools took it over), eventually arriving at Capitol Hill, home of the cougars.

I was the Physical Education teacher today, and I was directed up to a classroom. I walked into an empty room, did a quick glance around for lesson plans or instructions, and then flagged a student down to help me find the gym. The Assistant Principal was monitoring the class and she handed me a pile of keys, telling me, as she was walking out, to ask for help if I needed anything. I immediately asked for help in finding her office and lesson plans, to which we found and I eventually began teaching.

Gym is fun. I used her whistle and thought afterwords that it might not have been a good idea if the teacher was out with the flu. ..

I had to teach a health class as well, which didn't go as well because the video we were supposed to watch didn't work.

It all gave me a pretty bad headache by the end of the day.

late = stress + unknown variables = headache.

Check.

Soaking up each other

Our day went like this:

3am - Tolga gets up for work (we've both started at Target as seasonal help).
630am - I get up for a teaching job.
730am - I go to North High School to teach Family Science
11am - Tolga comes home from work
1120am - I come home from work because a) I forgot my sandwhich and b) I have to travel to another school right next to our house for the afternoon classes.
130pm - I am done teaching for the day, I leave school and head over to Goodwill to find a red shirt to wear to Target. After trying on over twenty different red shirts, button-ups and sweaters because I'm hesitant to spend any money these days, I find a 70s style track jacket. It kind of smells.
230pm - home and nap.

I napped because I was stressed. I was stressed because of money. I hope I will eventually learn to not let money/debt rule. In the meantime, I've headaches hover nearby constantly.

Tolga prepared a bath for me to relax. I took a book, lit a candle, and soaked in the hot water for a long while.


Worries aren't as important when you know you are loved.

Technology in different places

When I taught in Brooklyn, we had SMARTboards and tablet PCs as a result of a huge technology grant awarded our school. Teaching in Minnesota, I've seen some districts have the SMARTboards as well, and I've noticed some differences as well.


Their SMARTboards are secured to the wall.
Mine was on a wobbly stand that I secured with ropes to the steel frame windows so no one would knock it over.

Their SMARTboards are lit up by projectors on the ceiling.
Our ceilings were 20 feet high, and so our projection screens were on carts on the floor. Cords needed to be secured and everytime a student bumped the cart, the screen had to be re-calibrated. Not to mention, all loved to play shadow puppetry during the period.

They use Infinite Campus, and so did I - but why was it such a headache when Iused it?

Their students sometimes have laptops with carrying cases.
Ours sometimes dragged their laptops behind them like a dog on a leash, complaining that the 4 lbs tablet was "too heavy".

Okay, maybe that was just one kid named Frankie.

Now versus Then

I've been thinking lately of how foolish I was in my twenties (and I wonder how foolish I will see my thirties as). Tolga calls the difference experience, and I suppose he's right. But, I truly felt I couldn't relate with my peers in my 20s because I was living a different life. I had responsibilities and commitments. But I look at it now and realize I didn't have a mortgage or really anything of financial consequence. I wasn't caring for my own family and future. I had, as one friend pointed out, something to fall back on. In some ways, it seems we don't have to live with our decisions as much when we are younger, or something. And for some reason, now, it seems like our decisions have a much greater consequence. For example, having bought a place in Harlem at the peak of the market.

But, I'm going to try and live in the here and now more. For example, here and now my husband is grinning at his computer screen. Why is he grinning at his computer screen? He is grinning at his computer screen because he is watching a Turkish television show with commentators that are doing an in-depth post-game analysis of today's soccer match. In-depth carries a slightly different meaning in Turkish. Here, after, let's say a football game, there might be an hour post-game show. I'll even stretch to say it may be two hours long. My husband has been watching the show for three hours, and it isn't over yet.

The game being analyzed is the Fenerbahce (Fenner-bachee) versus their arch enemies Galatiseray (Gala-tis-er-rye). Both are Istanbul based football teams with over a hundred year history of rivalry. You are born (or married) into the allegiance, and so I have dutifully put on my jersey today and cheered alongside my husband. We watched with Tolga's family on Skype, cheering alongside. I actually enjoy soccer, and love watching the game (despite falling asleep at half-time).

Fenerbahce won and fans around Turkey will be gloating for quite some time.

World's Worst Volunteer

Today was my last day at my volunteer job. I ended the commitment because, as I told the director, it was becoming a source of contention between my husband and I. That was a bit of an understatement. And, it didn't paint a full picture because it was more of source of contention for me, while my husband was my sounding board. I was stuck in the cycle of resenting the commitment but refusing to quit because I have this proud streak in me that use to have something to do with loyalty and stick-to-it-ness but has possibly been reduced to bitterness. I continued at this job while I built up a case against it: I didn't accept jobs that would make ten more dollars than the regular job because I would be late to the job I should have been making ten dollars at as well, I couldn't pursue junky jobs, couldn't visit the work force center, was having trouble making all the phone calls during business hours to deal with our apartment...

When will I ever learn to let go and be at peace.

Alternatives

When I was subbing yesterday at North High, I walked in and asked another teacher for a key to the room. Before she even turned around, she said,

"Oh hi there!" Like she remembered me. I asked her how she remembered me and she said, "You have a very unique voice." I paused for a couple of beats. Distinct was good, eloquent or melodic are desirable, but unique is questionable.

Today I subbed at an alternative high school - a school for those having trouble in a regular setting. They were small classes with many absent. The day was low-key - in high school classrooms especially, I seem to have plenty of time to study Turkish or read a book as students work. Today the students were finishing up projects. One new teacher in her fifties led a morning class (much to the student's chagrin). It was a good lesson, but the kids were uninterested. The woman herself was interesting, but I guess it was the way she presented the lesson, or herself that left the kids quickly bored. The class finished and she told me, "They were at 125% today." I wasn't sure if she was serious or not, but later in the day, the other teachers were surprised I was coming back the next day. I guess I'll see how it goes tomorrow.

The woman told me her son-in-law and daughter had been unemployed for a year. He's a lawyer and she is currently doing wedding coordinating on the side.

These times sure seem wide spread.

With what we have

I've taught the last few days in Oakdale for a teacher. The classroom had Smartboards, a TV fell on someone's head, and one student - when taking attendance, instead of saying "here!" said "hot dogs!" which I thought was really funny. That's the recap of my day.

Tolga and are testing a new theory - holding out for the better paying jobs. It's not that dramatic, actually, it's just ten dollars. But ten dollars every day is fifty, and fifty for at least two weeks is one hundred. And one hundred is how much I'm not making at my volunteer position. So we're holding out.

Not really.

But we are trying to make better choices. I'm not sure how you make better choices when it doesn't seem that you don't have many choices, but we are. We have taken minimum wage jobs that will cut into the holidays and family time, and I'm tempted to find three more jobs to fill all my spare time with one goal of paying off debt. But this isn't our life goal either - so we try to juggle our sanity and choices for the now.

Seasons

This picture is taken in the back of my old high school on October 11th, 2009. I was substitute teaching a math class, feeling nostalgic as usual even though I didn't really like high school. . .

Anyhow, notice the leaves still alive and green, clinging to the trees. The trees didn't even get a chance to turn its colors and fall . . .

It seemed poetic.

Today (five days after the mini-snowstorm) we made it out to Pine Tree Apple Orchard. My first job was here. I packaged apple cinnamon donuts and apple turnovers. Abigail kept telling me I should know where the little pumpkins are since I worked there.

We also came across some other family members. . .

Bayport Granpa-isms

Tolga and I have been bringing my grandfather to the VA hospital for the last couple of days for treatments.

Grandpa is a creature of habit. I tend to wonder off in thought or conversation when giving directions but Grandpa didn't miss one. He says the same things, at the same spots,

"This elevator is the slowest elevator!"

"If this radiation is so good for me, how come nobody stays in the room with me?"

He's losing his hearing, and I imagine sometimes that it becomes lonely or discouraging, but Grandpa does his best to at least entertain himself.

He reminds me for the umpteenth time how Kinsey reminds him of me. "That girl, she can do anything." He inquires after our work, but Grandpa is more of a doer . . . and has also been down to Bayport elementary school to ask after a job for me.

He tells me about a cousin applying to work for the prison. "I'm not sure he's cut out for the job."

"Why's that Grandpa? Am I cut out for the job?" (I take after my Grandpa I guess, because I'm laughing at my own jokes too).

"I'm not to sure," Grandpa starts, "You might be to concerned about the prisoner." (I'm instantly quietened by his observation). "They asked me when I started if I'd shoot a prisoner if he was escaping, I said, 'Do I have too?' And they said yes, so I said yes too. I'd shoot him in the thumb first."

I pictured Grandpa shooting an escaping prisoner in the thumb.

We went back to our place for soup and sandwiches. The Russians are working on our siding. Grandpa asked why the boys weren't doing the work. I didn't know. Grandpa laughed,

"Wait until I tell the rest. The Petersons had to hire out help."

I'm not sure I found it as funny.

I had to be at Target for an interview. Grandpa and Tolga ran some errands, and as I came out of the office, they had already finished and were waiting at a bench. Grandpa asks,

"Did they give you a raise yet?"

It sure is nice having a Grandpa on your side.

I brought Grandpa home, to his town of Bayport. Small houses on wide streets, his house blending in with the rain, the fall, and the quiet of fifty years.

I wouldn't mind walking these streets.

Losing my religion

I feel torn these days between sharing too much and not sharing enough.

There is a part of me that is desparate and so I blurt all, share all, and filter little. I usually regret it. I am constantly meeting new people, new teachers, new staff . . . and so each day is the same conversation with a different group of people. Inevitably, I begin volunteering my opinion for some reason - and I began spouting an educational philosophy that I haven't really thought all the way through, nor do I really care enough to make a platform about. Then I feel regret for having opened my big mouth.

Like today. A teacher came in to teach the class I was subbing. I'm not sure why, but there he was teaching with the Smartboard a great lesson. His wife worked at the school, and his three children used to attend the K-12 school, but opted this year to switch to regular elementary schools.

He came in a bit wild, hyped up on coffee, but by the end of two periods he had lost quite a bit of pep. It was a good lesson, but the students didn't respond well, maybe because it was too hard for them. Anyhow, he asked me about the different schools I had been teaching and what I thought of the different districts, and I told him and my words sounded pretty hollow as I explained how I enjoyed the diversity of city schools, how they pushed the limits and suburbia was boring because kids did what they were told and stayed within the norm. He asked me what I meant, and I couldn't really say more.

Then, other times, I wish I would have said more. Shared more. Showed more of who I was rather than the standard answer.

None of it feels really honest, and this makes me nervous. I feel myself wall up around people, not wanting to show anymore. To keep what I have left to myself.

Whatever that is.


Oh no, I've said too much.
I haven't said enough.

Faults as gifts?

I suppose life without the drama would be boring, monotonous, etc. No suspense, no struggles, no triumph for those that overcame.

We'd be like those on the planet of Camazotz from L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time - our very breath governed, while "the burden of choice" has been lifted. In this story - the kids resist IT, the governing brain that forces all into submission, painting it as an easier life. The one character, Meg, when setting out to challenge IT and rescue her father, is even given her faults as her gift.

How could faults be a gift?

I have to admit, the governing brain did sound a little appealing to me. I have to admit, I've been kind of expecting a perfect world. But, showing it in this extreme made a strong point in the picture of "perfection" (boys bouncing balls in rhythm, girls jumping rope, mother's calling their children in, men walking in sync) - there were no freedoms, no flexibility, no learning, no discovery, no suffering, no joy, no nothing - just an efficient machine.

Maybe I could make a fantastic story about our struggle now - it is like a siege here, from multiple directions. Is there good and evil here? Are we fighting for our survival? What exactly am I fighting against? Surely despair. But, I can't punch despair. So who or what is our enemy?

I wonder how all my faults could ever be used for good...

No box is big enough

Some jobs that I apply for ask questions like:

"I am cheerful even when there are problems."

"I feel upset when things change at the last minute at work."

or

Choose one that describes you more: I am - A - Joyful or B- Content

The intent of these questions are clear - to weed out those that seem to live under the circumstances.

I am very well aware of the fact that I might live under the circumstances. Call me childish, but indeed, I do have trouble looking cheerful amidst so many problems. Sometimes it is hard for me to flex when situations change last minute. And, when given a choice between joyful or content - I am stuck.

Does this make me a bad employee? A bad human? Underdeveloped?

Teaching kids, it is different for me. It is much easier to sacrifice what I am feeling for their sake. I don't expect a child to know, understand, or even desire to know about me. It's my job to teach and I'm okay with that. With adults, it is much harder for me. I suppose I have a different expectation on adults. I expect adults to understand the many factors that make us who we are - an idea that cannot ever be limited to multiple choices or check boxes.

Example - what is your most recent job and who was your supervisor? My most recent job is actually four different jobs and my supervisor is the Internet platform that assigns me the jobs. Okay, I suppose you could say my supervisor is Human Resources, but then it asks for the first name (Human?) and last name (Resources?).

Then it will ask for my addresses for the past ten years in order to do a criminal background check. That's another fun one. I run into a few problems. For 2001 to 2002 I traveled abroad. For a few months here and there I was in between homes. Last year I lived in Kusadasi for five months. Do they really want the address to Kusadasi? Okay . . . 17 Akdeniz Cadasi . . . county of Aydin.

Do you plan on taking any days off in the next 6 months? Really?!? Well, yes.

What can I say? I am a hard worker. Loyal to a fault. Sometimes resentful. Hire me.

I have been trying to get some financial advice for a pile of issues, but it's like I told our advisor: the problem with this plan is that it doesn't fit in life. I can take a guess at how much I will make this month - if I get a job everyday, I can approximate how much money I can divide up to our different debtors, but the fact is: if Tolga's family can't come up with the money for the month's house payment, this is where all of our earnings will go because they are four family members that we are committed to first.

Minimums

It was my third day teaching in the same middle school. A bit of a novelty to have such consistency. I was covering a teacher who has been out often for meetings, and is working with a student teacher - someone who fell to my watch. Today, after one of the last classes, a heavy-set girl had words with the student teacher about me. The young teacher explained to me later how this particular girl had trouble with female subs. This particular girl had also waltzed in late, whilst the young teacher was talking announcing something - a double disruption. And you think the girl has a problem with female teachers?

And then, I catch myself. I used to not be such a proud teacher. I'm not sure where this has come from, but while I scramble for a living, scramble to keep together some sort of dignity - I realize I'm trying to stand on what I was, what I accomplished, because I feel no pride in who I am now. Who I am seems to hold little value in relation to the present. I can't help feel angry. Angry at the things lost. Things not gained. Things at a standstill. Maybe, mostly I'm angry at myself for not taking adversity by those thorny horns and showing it who's boss.

I sat in an interview today to work for 6 hours a week at the community center for eight dollars an hour. I sat and smiled a small phony smile (which, by the way, I'm not very good at), while the director explained the history of the community center, the best and worst of it. His only questions were if I had any questions. I had a couple of questions that simply repeated bits of the thousands of bits of information that he had prattled off to me. And that was it. There were no personal questions. I had waited 15 minutes for the interview to begin, and then, the public service announcement was over, informed that I would be told Monday (after 7 other interviews), whether I would had the job.

Then, I went to my volunteer job (is it still volunteer when done with such resentment?). I am supposed to be in charge of the afterschool care. I arrive to the masses running around outside. Sometimes there is a teacher outside, sometimes there is none. I ask, "Who's here with me?" And everyone conintues running around and playing. Then I go all Tasmanian-Devil on them, tearing up the grass and most yell, "My mom's in the parking lot over there!" because the kids' parents are charged by the school if with me passed a certain time. The kids continue to play and run around, I learn that two are with me, and one takes off before I get her name. Tolga says,
"You're like a shepard, but the sheep don't know you."


No kidding.

Super powers

We asked the students today: if you could have one super power, what would it be?

To fly.

To be invisible.

To turn things into money.

To have more power?

To be a shape shifter? (One boy told me today that the first shape he'd turn into would be a girl so he could listen in on their conversations.)

But I suppose that with all of these powers, they'd all turn eventually into

a lot of responsibility.

So maybe I'll just be me.

Ordinary.

Once in a while, living

an extraordinary

life.

Liquidate my body?

Our tenant is moving out and did not pay us.

He did not pay us because the property managers took the deposit and won't give it back.

The property manager even set up a date and time to give the tenant the check, but then didn't show up to the meeting. So, nobody has any money - but we sure have the bills. And the collectors. And the debts.

Take. Take. Take.

Bill. Bill. Bill.

Bleed. Bleed. Bleed.

I have some gold bracelets. My furniture I'll sell when I get my hands on it. I already tried donating plasma, but failed the vein test. Forget "Locks of Love", I wonder if I could get some money for my hair.

Why am I trying so hard?

Because I want to stop losing.

I want to start keeping, building, creating - something for our future.

But instead, our finances, our investments, are all going

down

down

down

the

drain.

Now what?

Kindergarden

I was near my home today, teaching a kindergarden class. The younger the kids, the more work it is for me: guiding each transition from chair to floor, from book to hand, from drawing to writing your name. There usually isn't time for me to read. Just lunch where I was on hold with two phones trying to sort out my own distant business issues - so distant from blocks and stories about a little mouse name Chrysanthemum. But, it's easier too. In the middle of lessons, or story time, or songs - I get told by little fingers that they like my hair, or my necklace, or my earrings. And then I will have a few tangent stories told to me about pets, siblings, and skinned knees. We practice bus safety, we wash our hands, I taste a blueberry smoothy made in the play kitchen. And, at the end of the day I get a picture with letters that don't exactly spell words . . . yet. These are good days. Where life and love are given so freely.

Like my nephew Asher says after a long hug,

"Is your love tank full yet?"

"Yes, it's full."

"Is it flowing over?"

Yes, its overflowing.

Home Base

I am thankful for my home. I was thinking of this tonight. During these scary times, there is a certain amount of safety or covering I do feel being at home. We are struggling through hard times, making hard decisions, trying to make something of our futures . . . and in the meantime, we are literally under the shelter of my parents. When we do get jobs, it will be another transition with its own difficulties, but for now we can eat dinner with our families, sew with my sister, play with my niece and nephews, walk dogs, have church, watch a television show with my mother, and share all these times with those that we care about.

I do appreciate this and I want to be more purposeful to enjoy those things.

What Stress does

I think in some cases stress can help you focus.

In some cases it will improve performance.

In some cases, it will help you win.

In most cases, I think, it ties up your brain into an the un-tie-able knot.

Dad is re-doing the roof and siding of the house, competing with time, rain, and cold.

knot.

We are trying to help.

knot.

Josh has some suggestions.

knot.

Aaron is helping.

knot.

Knots are complicated. They involve many different strands of life. We all want to help dad, but we are all tied to our own dilemmas, and our father - who wants our help, is forever tied to wanting to help us as well. And so the knot just gets tighter and tighter.

How do you untie a knot?

Nostalgia?

I taught at my old high school today. I feel so nostalgic when I'm in high schools - the pep rallies, the sports and clubs, the school pride, orchestra . . . yes, I was in orchestra and proud of it.

I see my picture on the wall. Even then, our school had just under 2000 students. I'm standing with horrible bangs on the Varsity soccer team my Senior year. We got second that year, but it doesn't tell my story. I actually played JV all year long, and was pulled up to warm the bench during state. I actually had quit the sports I loved, but I was still enjoying soccer until I was pulled up to boring ole' Varsity. I did not fit in. I wasn't good enough. I didn't care enough. Who knows.

High school - it was such a small world. I feel regret for the not trying more things, not being more involved. I feel intimidated and forgotten among the thousands.

And I also feel that old nudge - that Stillwater isn't enough for me. The world here is too small and too limited. I've missed home, I'm enjoying being home - but Stillwater always reminds me that this is not my home, and I'm not sure why.

How do you spell poison?

I'm not sure what to pray for or ask for any longer.

Maybe I don't really want money or jobs or our apartment to sell.

Maybe I'm afraid to gain anything because I'm afraid I will just lose it.

Maybe I'm afraid to ask because maybe what I want isn't what I need.

Maybe what I think I need will really hurt us.

We are still working very hard to find any job, to sell the apartment, to get our money back, to settle with the tenant, the Coop, our bank, etc.

In some ways, being so unsure about so many things is forcing me to live day to day.

I get up, grab a cup of coffee, make a sandwich, eat some cereal - drive my dad's '97 Cavalier convertible with the "For Sale" sign in the window to my assignment for the day.

Today I was assigned to "Phalen Lake Hmong Magnet Elementary School." There were two Hispanic kids in the class, and one white kid. The school was near my home, and I taught third grade. Elementary school tends to be a lot of work, but only in Elementary school do I get hugs. I'm a complete stranger, but it never fails that one of the students will feel the need to wrap their arms around me - uninhibited love.

In the one class, the student's were writing about their trip to "Valley Branch" - some sort of nature center, and drawing pictures under their sentences. The third graders were constantly asking for spellings, and one boy wanted to know how to spell poison. Poison? At the nature center? Another drew a picture of poop.

How can you not love a third grader?

What I like about kids

What I like about kids is how much their emotions are on the surface. Like at Ben's soccer game - the boys were pushing a lot, and at one point one boy said,

"Stop pushing me!" To which the other responded,

"Stop elbowing me!" The play continued and in the next tangle, the one was pushing, the other was elbowing.

I covered a couple of 3rd grade teacher's at a city-school near my home. The kids were needy, but the school building was impressive. Within its walls was a YMCA, a job center, family center, center for most types of needs (including winter coats!) a clinic, and financial education center. The teachers I subbed for were excellent and had so many things in place in their room. Each grade level has its difficulties, but I am always most impressed by elementary school teachers. So many details need to be thought of in order to encourage learning with the students - the details are exhausting in its importance to focus on such minute procedures as how to sit in a desk, put a book away, sharpen a pencil - and so on, simply to avoid chaos and confusion while allowing for the clumsy energy of so many small bodies.

The teachers that I was subbing for were not even absent, but using the time to test student's reading levels individually. In the meantime, I went through the day with simple lessons while trying to figure out procedures and student quirks of two classes. As much work as elementary kids are, they are fun and break my heart at the same time. They break my heart because they are so needy but I am unable to fill all their needs - needs that boil down to one-on-one time.

And so occasionally, I'll take one to the side. One boy, I was standing next to him near the door. He'd been unable to stay focused without a teacher's aid nearby. He hadn't started his next task, but sat on his feet, looking around the room. He got up, in one of his wanderings to ask for a band-aid. I found one and put it on his scraped knuckle (a wound he told me was because his cousin stuck his hand in the fan). He wandered over to me later to show me that his finger had turned gray - having played with the band-aid and putting it on to tightly his formerly black skin was now gray. I readjusted his band-aid, and he began pestering me about the bathroom. We were standing near where his teacher was testing, looking in, waiting to speak with her - and to boy absently picked up my hand and put my hand on his head.

I don't know why, but I understood the feeling.

Thinking about it now, I can imagine the feeling - support, protection, covering, caring, contact comfort. I get it, because I need it too. When I'm stressed, but can't really express all the reasons why. When I'm somewhat powerless to resist all the environmental, circumstantial and historical factors around me - I need a hand on my head too.

Misfit

I had poetry on my mind the other day. I wish I had pulled over and wrote it down because I am rarely moved to poetry, but in the moment - it seemed to be the only form of expression. I hope it comes back. Was it about things changing in an instant? Was it about the bear? Was it about money? (probably).

A bear is roaming these parts.

Misdirected.

Afraid.

The people and the bear.

Where are our Superheroes?

Those with the strength of steel.

That can leap buildings in a single bound.

A family of Incredibles?

I dreamed once of a hero

Who looked very very weak.

And no one realized

He was very very

strong.

He carried no weapon.

He was not very fast.

He didn't even stop evil in the nig

ht.

He was part of a band of misfits, as heros usually go.

...to be continued.

Hope true

There was a bear in North St. Paul today. Not figuratively. Not the ugly white plaster polar bear. An actual black bear. I was teaching and informed to not let students out of the classroom. I heard later that an administrator was called by a frantic parent that had heard there was a bear in school.

Sweet.

It was most likely my last day with the ESL class - at the end of the day, Fernando has a long piece of hair in his hand (supposedly one of mine).

"Ms., I read your air."

"My what?"

"You air. I read your air. You've been cheated on? You're boyfriend cheat on you?"

blink. blink.

"Actually, I have been cheated on. Big time. My husband and I have been cheated out of some money."

"You see Ms. I could tell. Your hair is straight, but near the end it goes around like this--" Fernando proceeds to swirl his finger in a downward spiral.

Yes, that is my hair fraying from stress - nothing mystical there.

Tolga and I continue to struggle to sort issues out. I find myself feeling hope when I get an email, or read about the perfect job prospect, etc. I was driving home today, marveling at how excited I felt that our property management was promising, once again, to make a payment by a certain date. Hope gave me so much energy and courage.

Is hope fickle? Is hope like adolescent hormones?

Is hope true?

Blood Stone

I tried to apply for a new credit card to transfer our balances for lower interests rates and the creditor - one that has been sending me mail offers for years - was less eager to do so. After long session of the details of our income and expenses, the creditor concluded (with some regret) that our expenses exceeded our income.

Well I knew that, that's why we are applying for a credit card with a lower balance.

Our property manager, who took our tenant's rent money but did not forward this money to us, finally responded in an email to me today stating that he knew I was frustrated but calling him eight times a day will not change anything because "You can't get blood from a stone."

Wow.

He's a poet.

Tolga said, "I have some poetry for him too."

Looking for a New Dream

I enjoy teaching, but I still fear the future and feel a bit haunted by the past. What are we investing ourselves in? Our lives? Where am I going? It's maybe strange to be asking these questions now that I am "home" with an education and a career, near family and with my husband and new hopes.

I've always wanted to impact lives - whether nannying, teaching, or writing. To impact the tide. When I worked at AF, we were starting something incredible - but the flip side was that our impact was being watched, discussed, evaluated, copied, or critiqued. I did not thrive under a spotlight. It was no one's fault, yet I still cringe when I think about it. The logical business model is strategic - pinpointing these weaknesses in order to provide help. But with my weaknesses pinpointed, I became frozen, stuck, and self-defeating. The harder I tried, the deeper I became stuck. I finally gave up. I became that teacher I couldn't really imagine before, the one that stopped trying. In the seemingly most ideal environment - a dynamic-tide-changing-achievement-gap-closing school, I began bitterly going through the motions of eating, commuting, teaching, and returning home.

I invested my hopes into this ground-breaking school and utterly failed. I guess I was investing in the wrong things: education, AF, living in Harlem, New York.

Tamam

I taught at North High School, just down the street, today. An ESL class - so they were small class sizes with very low level students. One boys name was Tamam - he was Ethiopian, but I informed him that his name meant "Okay" in Turkish. He informed me in mumbling High School/English-as-a-Second-Language-type speech that he'd lived here for quite some time. I said, "tamam, tamam", finding myself very funny while he, did not.

I came home to my husband, brother and father all working on the roof. They are re-shingling the garage first. Tolga and Aaron were working together, my dad was rooting around the backside of the roof. I ca

n only imagine their work day. My dad said, "You must be feeling proud of your husband" which I think was a

not-so-subtle reference to our lack of Scandinavian-Protestant work ethic. Which when, I think about it, makes sense considering Tolga's Mediterranean-Muslim background. But that's another topic. What I was really feeling, more specifically, was pride in seeing my family work together. This has always brought me pride.

I headed over to Sherah's later to test-drive her new sewing machine.

Sherah and I both have pants whose hems have fallen out, and so I brought a couple of pants to sew. We struggled through the setting up and threading of the machine - learning about bobbins, foot presses, and dog teeth. We've both sewed in 7th grade Home Ec - I remember it quite clearly because I made a really cool pillow of a light bulb . . . but that was a while ago. I've more recently sewed my Anne (Tolga's mom) but that lesson was all in Turkish and I mostly watched and said, "Tamam." Today, I worked on my first hem - black pants - and I forgot to put the foot press down so the first few inches are quite bunched up. Then I remember to put the foot press down and it looks pretty great . . . except I was on such a roll I got careless and sewed part of the pant leg together.

The second pair of pant were gray, and I used the same black thread which I thought would be inconsequential. I also seemed to conclude it was okay to experiment with the stitch type/size switches while sewing.

Is there an Un-Sew machine?

Keep Spirits Up

It's hard to keep your spirits up. It's work. Maybe it's a choice, but I'm not sure how great of choice when choosing to keep your spirit high, a positive outlook, a belief that things will work out . . . when it seems to lend itself to disappointment(s).

I was disappointed today when I paid $15 for postage. Disappointed is an understatement. Why am I disappointed over $15 when we are facing foreclosure? I don't know . . . I guess I'm trying to recover something, build something back up for Tolga and I, and it is discouraging because life happens and charges you fifteen dollars for postage.

We need to keep our hopes up. We must. We are glad to be here with family. We look forward to the days when we can be with Tolga's family again. We look forward to creating and building our own home.

We just want to contribute something, and subbing isn't quite cutting it. But I'm grateful for this at least. And we are continuing to pray that the Lord's will be done. And we are continuing to try to submit to this.

Iyi Bayramlar

The phrase is a greeting Turks give to each other during holidays (this weekend being the end of Ramadan) - it means "good days" or in effect - Wishing you many good days.

We called Tolga's family and his aunt, wishing all iyi bayramlar. And they wished us the same.

I'm thinking about good days, and I suppose everyday is a good day, depending on perspective.

Today was a good day because:

It was a cool morning.

Meredith stopped over (with ice cream!)

Iyi Bayram

Vitamin D

I subbed at Central High the other day - the police came and I felt like I was right at home. What's a day in school without the po-po? I like the school and their minutemen and their Asian Culture club that you-don't-have-to-be-Asian to join. The grades were 9-12 and I had each grade: the 12th graders were cool, the 9th graders had a few that were still acting like obnoxious middle-schoolers - the difference here is they won't last long here. In middle school, being obnoxious is cool, in high school, its just plain lame.

Tolga and I went to the doctor after that - he has had some sort of infections in his scalp that have been coming and going and leaving numerous spots on his head. Our doctor was an odd character whose mouth and eyes kept twitching. He spent approximately 20 seconds diagnosing possible problems with Tolga's scalp, and 15 minutes talking about other cultures, languages, Vitamin D, and tied the whole odd experience up by reciting Chinese tongue twisters. He prescribed Tolga a 2-week dose of antibiotic, so we'll see if it helps.

I came home, exhausted from my days, and slept 14 more hours - I am thankful I have this.

Tolga made sure I took my vitamins.

Give it to God

Without a doubt, we are stressed. Surprisingly, I think the signs of stress have been relatively low - but lately, maybe a little higher. Tolga seems to get hair infections when he is stressed and its currently out-of-control in the tender spots all over his head. I had full sinuses last week, either some allergy or cold that has drained into my lungs and chest congestion. But most of all, we are both tired. Really tired. I'm tired just writing how tired I am. We shouldn't be tired - its not like we are doing strenuous work everyday, or staying up late. But sleep is interrupted, and during the day - it seems all "down time" is just taken up by stressful items. I think the onslaught of stress is just plain tiring.

I started to write out the minute details but realized there are few people in this world that really care about these details besides the one involved - and me being one of those persons was already feeling bored of the tiresome details.

So what do we do with our stress? Ignore it? Go for a run? Give it to God? I'm not sure how this is supposed to work because no matter what, we still have to deal with it, daily - the minute details of many ordeals going on. I still have to make the phone calls, write the emails, connect with people, search for solutions. It isn't as if any of this will be gone with a snap of the fingers or a magic phone call - -- so what are we really praying for when we "give it to God"?

10 million dollars?

That would help.

Direction?

Preferably a highlighted route with mile markers from point to point.

Peace? Wisdom?

I'll take it.

So what's left?

My fear.

My anxiety.

The unknown.

Self-doubt.

Am I doing all I can? Am I missing something? Have I let go enough? Did I let go too easily?

Exciting so far

Maybe I'll start my own critical review of the schools like the magazines do of the top schools - but I'll set my own criteria. Instead of test scores and graduation rates and checked boxes, I'll be looking for the more practical pieces: supplies (books, overheads, markers, lesson plans, etc.), programs that meet community needs, clear communicating adults that don't wear jeans and chew gum, and any reference to our Indian cultural heritage (because according to the licensing supervisor at the MNDOE, that is the essence of all human relations and the reason I my own experiences with diversity are not qualified).

I was at Arlington High School today - very diverse! (But no Indians). It has been a failing school for several years now, and a victim of restructuring. Apparently about thirty teachers were laid off this past spring. I was substituting with another substitute who was retired from Mounds View and was trying to "give back" to the community (but it feels a little bit like taking when I look at the limited amount of jobs out there). She asked if I'd substituted here before, I said no. She asked if this was my first day, I said yes. She asked if I just graduated college, I said no.

Sigh.

I enjoyed teaching even on the weak lesson plans, and at the end of the day talked some with two teachers who were licensed from out-of-state. One was older and had come from Pennsylvania, the other was young and had gone from Cornell, to Hawiaii as a TFA (Teach for America), and the Slovakia before returning back to Minnesota. Both didn't seem to have to much trouble transferring their licenses (which I resented) and they suggested I have my license evaluated by another University (which I will, except that all the other universities are private and $$$). Anyhow the young Cornell grad said, after hearing some of my story, "Wow! You did like what every person from Minnesota could only dream of - New York then Turkey! What an exciting life so far." I'm not sure why she said that, considering what she has done and considering our own temporary stagnation . . . she made me laugh, almost.

Part-time on call work

I took my first sub job for the year last night, and went down the road to Battle Creek Jr. High School. As I started my day at school I was thinking about how much more I enjoy public schools (than private), how I enjoy a bit of the anonymity, I enjoy how diverse the school is (ahem . . . culturally that is, for anyone who might be confused by what I mean by diverse (see future blog about aggressive Minneapolis school principal)). I even enjoy the beauracracy and unions that ensure I get a regular paycheck with increases, health insurance and benefits. I was feeling less and less sure (in spite of our desperation) whether I wanted the Somalian night school teaching job. My day at Battle Creek just reinforced the idea that middle school is my area. The school used many of the techniques we used in the NYCDOE - including making the large school into smaller academies. The academies were segregated by sex, and all students were required to wear uniforms (which most were). They seemed to have a strong, visible staff. When I commented on the lack of windows, the janitor explained to me that the school used to literally be and "open school" back in the 70s when it was built. That worked for approximately two seconds before they came in and added walls.

Later in the day, I received a phone call from the Somalian night school - it was job phone call rejection number 8 (which is loads higher than an email/letter rejection or no response at all).

Making It

Yesterday was a late post because I was stressing (surprise surprise).

Lots of times I don't want to write anymore, but what good is any story if you're just reading/writing about and such an uneventful life? The events in my life, maybe I will enjoy more tomorrow, but today I am really really tired.

I had my second interview at the Somalian night school. It went fine, I guess. I was nervous, but it was more nervous energy from what is going on with our finances than the job interview. So, in that sense, I was able to enjoy teaching a little bit more - it was a bit of a break from my real life. I didn't really even mind that five people were observing me - they were all pretty nice people. I taught the high schoolers a middle school level lesson. I can't help it. I researched a lot of fun ELL lessons, but I decided to stick with what I knew. My students were pretty unresponsive. I couldn't read whether they were uninterested, annoyed, or just depressed. I went ahead and pushed a few to respond, and most did - semi-positively - but it was like pulling teeth. I tried the wait technique . . . where you simply wait as a teacher until its so uncomfortable that a student, out of embarrassment, feels they have to say something. It doesn't always work, in fact, it can work in the reverse - but I'm pretty patient. In the end, I just picked up student papers and read different lines from their papers, or pushed someone to share what he or she read. Maybe I was too brazen, but I didn't want to do all the thinking up front.

I'm not sure what my observer's response was - I hardly even glanced at them other than to give each copies of worksheets I was handing out. In my summary, when I was checking for understanding, I'm not convinced the students learned a thing . . .

The lesson I was teaching was about how visualization encourages reading comprehension, and we were practicing identifying sensory detail - words that invoked sight, smell, taste, touch, or sound. I read the short story "Eleven" by Sandra Cisneros - a great heartbreaking short story about a girl on her eleventh birthday who doesn't really feel eleven, but feels sometimes three and sometimes five. She is in school and humiliated by teacher and wishes she was "one hundred and two" . . . the imagery is powerful, but I'm not sure the students were impressed - we'll see what the faculty says. They'll tell me tomorrow.

In the mean time, I'm substituting tomorrow.

And, in the mean time, the Coop decided to not vote on my request for an extension on the sub-leasing of my unit because the by-laws only allowed for one year - thus their vote was to not vote - their intention meaning that I cannot continue to sub-lease our apartment. They wouldn't even entertain my petition as the group was busy arguing about charging extra fees for this and that.

Tolga and I have some decisions to make, but right now I have a stomach ache and I'm really really tired.

I look forward to the day we can look back on this and say, "wow, that was hard, but we made it."

Three Hours!

Saturday morning Owen and Asher came over. I was already up, having gone out for a walk and set up a treasure hunt for the boys. Owen hopped out of the truck with a transformer in his hand and I announced, "I'm staying here for three hours!" Asher was lifted out of the truck and had on yellow eye glasses and a Nerf gun . . . ready for war.

Tolga and I brought the boys to a nearby park. I like seeing Owen read and his bright eyes light up when he "gets" something.

(However, lately, he's been shy - trying to stifle a proud smile when he figures something out).

We trekked through the woods, and I had tossed plastic Easter eggs filled with M&Ms into the field at the end for them to find :)

It's one way to keep 'em busy.

Three hours later, we had to bring them home.

Job and Job

I don't really want to talk about my day today because it involved tears and headaches and people's woes are never interesting to read. Why is that? Are we inherently selfish, and while we like to support people in spurts - why do we recoil from decaying spirits.


I don't want to be a decaying spirit or the person that recoils from woe.


I hate the story of Job (does anybody like it?). It has been on my mind for the last few days, maybe simply because its homonym has been on my mind as well. I was thinking to myself this morning how through all his sufferings he never once cursed God - which is pretty amazing, and I concluded this morning that Job must have been emotionally shut down, or a robot.


Not because he didn't curse God, but because he didn't freak out, on anybody or anything. Which I must conclude that he didn't allow himself to feel anything too deeply, understanding from the beginning or along the way that life can be fickle and things taken from you in blink. But what kind of life is that when you don't risk feeling anything? Then again, who can continue to find hope through so many trials?


That's why I'm not talking about my day.




Instead, I will give a brief introduction to the game of tavla. That's the game of Backgammon in Turkish. It is Turkey's "national sport" as Tolga says. On the streets you will often come across men sitting on stools around a table, drinking cay, with spectators looking over their shoulders as the game is being played.



When Tolga is home, is father and him will dance around the game - challenging each other, while the other will claim to be "too tired" or "not now." Eventually, after a few days, Tolga will bring out the board, and his father - who is normally slow moving and unresponsive - will suddenly be up, on the edge of his seat, looking sharply down through his eye glasses at the tiny die, scooping them up before I have even had a chance to read the die. They move the pieces without counting, and the next one is already rolling. The room is soon filled with the clatter of dice and the clack of playing pieces. Intermitently one will call out disgustedly, "Ay da bay" or "cok chance!" The whole family seems to enjoy their banter, and with the Tosuns, there's no time for tea.



Since coming here, I've got up-to-speed on tavla. Tolga no longer has to move the pieces for me or wait (as much) as I painfully count out the moves.





Now, my dad plays as well. Definitely not as sharp. It takes a few reads of the die before he gets the number right, and even then, its a 50/50 chance he'll moved the piece to the right spire.

As you can see . . .

Even so, it has become a nightly practice . . . and a connection between families.



And maybe there is some hope in this.

Tomatoes Can Kill

This morning I was running late, but I didn't forget the squirrel.

We caught a small red squirrel in our animal-friendly trap yesterday. We had put next our garden where some animal had been stubbornly struggling with pulling a ripe tomato through the wire fence. The tomato had been left wedged between the wires with the incriminating tooth marks so we tossed a couple of tomatoes in the trap-door cage, and sure enough - we caught a small red squirrel. It pranced and scurried and struggled with the ceiling of the cage. We discussed marking its tail, then relocating the squirrel at least 5 miles away - none of us were heading out, and I said I'd do it this morning.

This morning, the little red squirrel was laying in a still little curled up position. It died! Poor evil little animal, we were going to let it free but it didn't make it, and I felt bad for not releasing the night before. I'm not sure how it died, but here are my guesses: 1) cold 2) heart attack or 3) tomato overdose (it ate BOTH tomatoes in the cage).

Today I:

Interviewed as an Adjunct online English instructor after taking a Microsoft Office Skills test.

Was called back to do a demo lesson with the Somalian night school.

Met with the U of M person, straying from my well-prepared notes and receiving some relief to the number of classes required.

Visited Sherah at her bank, ran into the director of another school I had interviewed with a couple of weeks ago - they had never gotten back to me because (as he informed me today) they put a freeze on the position.

Waited a very long time for Sherah to which my banking question was answered but the "answer" isn't working.

Got my St. Paul schools ID badge.

Drove Sherah home.

Watched middle-school kids in after school program.

It seems I have my pots on a lot of stoves right now . . .

hire education

I have been looking through a lot of paperwork today for the University of Minnesota. I have a meeting tomorrow with the Associate Director of Graduate & Professional Support Programs. What a title.

I've already obtained three degrees, including a Master's in Teaching from a program approved by the National Council of Teacher of English. Is it not a conflict of interest for the U of M to evaluate my coursework in order to "recommend" courses that I am required to take through the U of M in order to obtain a teaching license (that I already have. ..)?

I've searched, and written, and called the MN Department of Education (DOE) and I cannot get a definitive list of what the requirement is - or more to the point, why/how my current degree, NY State license, and teaching experience don't qualify as equivalent standards. My understanding of the situation is that the DOE defers course requirements to universities in Minnesota to determine whether an applicant's out-of-state coursework meets the standards set by the Minnesota Board of Teaching. While each university's course title and description may be different, even within Minnesota, the assumption is that the universities in MN have adhered to all the standards set.

Plan B - Career change.

I like school, I really do - and I would love to go back to school - to wear the paraphernalia, have academic discussions, join clubs that have matching uniforms . . . But I hate seeing a movie twice.

Heels

Today I:

Called our property manager, spoke to our property manager (finally), received more promises of payments and promises to not make promises any more.

Wrote a letter to the Coop requesting permission to extend the lease with our tenant.

Sat in the Roseville district office to get my substitute badge while four persons in front of me tied up the machine.

Stopped at the library to pick up "Microsoft Office 2007 for Dummies" in hopes that it will give me an edge for my interview on Thursday as an adjunct online part-time instructor.

Wore my black heels to my interview at Volunteers of America.

I know I am supposed to dress up for an interview, and I usually do. I'm very conscious of my outfits and the impressions they give. My consciousness of this has more often led me to dress down because I hate to stand out. I don't know where I got that feeling from, but in general I make choices like tying my hair back, no hair band, dull necklaces, black pants, flat shoes, etc., because these things inadvertently cause people to draw immediate conclusions about you: glasses = academic, hair band = hippie, and so on. For this reason, I don't usually where heels either. People notice heels. You are tall and possibly intimidating. Your feet click with determination and power. Heels are not gentle. Heels with a suit strikes me as shrewd. Heels remind me of my younger sister.

Today I needed heels.

VOA's "Opportunity High School" is ninety percent Somalian student population, and geared for English Language Learners. I could better prepare for the interview by anticipating some of the questions (like: how will you differentiate work for ELL students? How do you teach or compensate for culture in the classroom?), but while I'm interested in learning about new schools - I'm hesitant to invest myself so fully into an interview because all need to ask "Why did you choose our school?" and my answer at this point is the same, "I need a job."

The director led me through the school. I caught my escort continually glancing at my shoes and I felt immediately self-conscious. We stopped in a classroom of five students and the teacher sitting casually on top of a desk. As soon as I crossed the threshold I smelled bad body odor - my immediate cultural reminder.

We continued down the hallway into the meeting room, and the interviewing staff of four seemed very "present" in their questions. The staff was familiar with my New York City Teaching Fellows program actually having had a former staff member who had been a Fellow and was from Stillwater. Weird. The director was also familiar with Achievement First's different models, and had said they were putting their techniques into use for professional development for starters. Really weird. They were the first group to glean from me that I wasn't hundred percent sure our long term plans would keep us in Minnesota, but I tried to assure the group that these were our plans for now -- to which all of them scribbled a note at the same time.

What can I say, its hard to commit fully when asked directly - we are with family and are happy, but our long term plans right now we are basing on Tolga's job placement.

In any case - they knew where I was coming from and where I was going in a way, and that's the kind of environment I needed.

Upon my exit, another man got out of his seat and opened the door for me as I exited the building.

It's the heels.

Hogsbreath to Trees

Farm Grandma used to remind me that I needed to cut myself some slack. She wouldn't actually say it, but she would chuckle, or murmer, and punctuate my endless stories with "God is good." Or "We are so fortunate to have Him to handle all our cares."

My feelings seem to be often nearing hysteria, but with Farm Grandma I felt the freedom to be a trusting child - and I would leave the visit comforted (and desperate not to lose that feeling of security).

I guess this is on my mind because these days are just so bizarre and full and I want not to feel everything so extremely, but distance myself a little to chuckle and murmer and punctuate the day with faith, hope, and love.

I can timeline Sunday by three dogs.

First, I drove over to Aaron's house to feed Tia, their chocolate lab. Chocolate labs are hyper by nature, and Tia is no exception. She came to me with her deliriously happy grin, quivering and dancing around my legs - crouching in a quasi-sit look after I hissed at her for ripping up my toes with her sharp scrambling paws. After petting her, she went in the house and sat by her dog dish looking expectantly at me. I fed her then kicked her ball to her ten times (Owen's morning chore), and refilled her water dish. Tia drank, paced, dropped the ball in the dish, drank, paced, dropped the ball in the dish (the water turning more and more muddy from dropping the slobbery tennis ball in repeatedly). I was standing on their deck looking out at the lawn - it is a well-used lawn. I looked at the neighbors' lawns north and south of them, their lawns had grass. I looked back at Tia who had dropped the ball at my feet again.

I decided to stay and keep her company. I sat on the deck and finished reading my book.

I needed to grocery shopping as well, but on the way home I noticed a restaurant in a shabby lot with a brand new deck built out back. I spotted the sign "Hogsbreath Bar & Grill", and instantly pictured the advertisement I had read in the newspaper a couple of weeks ago - "Servers wanted. Apply in-person." And so I did. I walked in, the three customers at the bar, the bartender, and the server all stopped, turned and watched me, and so I said, "Hi! Are you still hiring?" The guys at the bar looked half amused, half embarrassed (I knew how they felt), and the bartender responded,

"We're always hiring." And the waitress said,

"Most of the time, not always."

I filled out the application and my hand was shaking. I don't know why. I felt like I was fourteen years old again, applying for my first job at the Pine Tree Apple Orchard. The owner and manager would be in on Monday or Tuesday, the bartender told me, I gave him the completed form, shook his hand and left. The Hogsbreath waitress said, "Bye Sweetheart."

I think she was fifteen.

After shopping, I stopped by Seth's house. I pulled up and their was a bike in the street, the car parked away from the garage, the garage door open (but no one playing anywhere in sight), and a ladder laying in the front lawn next to a lot of brush. It looked liked an accident had just happened, I was thinking while shaking my head at the chaos. And it had. Ben was indoors with ice packs, sweating, and periodically screaming that the pain was too much. He had taken a handlebar to the gut, Seth was holding him, Abigail, and Lynn - Libby's mom who had just arrived from out-of-town - were all hovering around him.

Candy had been sleeping on the floor and came over to me playfully growling for attention. She is a sweet natured golden retriever who responds to my arrival because I'll often take her out for a walk. I wrestled a ball from her mouth whilst learning the details of the accident to which it was still trying to be determined if Ben was seriously hurt or not. Fortunately he was okay, and I returned a bit later with Tolga, mom, and dad for a barbeque and basketball game. Ben's getting to the age where he can compete and is learning fast what it means to play Peterson basketball - a game that's more about teasing than winning, and most everything is fair play - balls being redirected, out-of-turns, and even the dog getting a tooth on the ball just adds some variety.

That evening we also stopped by dog number three, Whipper the Red Lab. That's Sherah's dog. Sherah had invited us over for a bonfire, but had no wood. We came inside and Mike restrained the dog as she ran-in-place anyhow in stubborn persistence to greet us fully. We stayed and played games late into the night.

The next day, Tolga and I were wakened by sirens. It seems that all emergency vehicles make a special trip down our streets, but this morning it was one after another and I was sure it was fire. I even imagined that I smelled it as I realized the vehicles were heading to the apartments behind us. Later I heard a helicopter hovering in the area which meant whatever had happened had become newsworthy. But it wasn't a fire. This morning in responding to a domestic dispute, a local police officer was killed, along with the suspect and another officer being shot in the wrist.

I worked and lived in ghettos of New York and already I've witnessed a robbery and slept a few hundred yards from a murder. Triple D's "barber shop" is looking more and more friendly to me these days.

Later in the day, Tolga and I decided a barbeque in Minnepolis with Aaron and Bethany would be more relaxing. I eventually found the park, but it was an hour-and-a-half later before we found them and a cold grill. Aaron knows that it simply takes two boys to smooth anything over with us. We found them in this tree:

I had to zoom in so you could see Owen . . . at the top:

And so, these are our days. Days where at the end, I need to sigh and murmer and nod towards the heavens our trust in God.