Righting Again

Two months since I’ve written anything but checks and e-mails.  Instead of letting the words pour out to make sense of things and remind myself that despite my travails, my life is rich with satisfactions.  I’m getting a head start on my 2019 resolutions—Smoke and eat less.  Write more.

I am switched to a new classroom.  The daytime teacher has literacy classes and the room conjures my 1963 Kindergarten class.  It’s crammed travel trinkets, colorful readers and all manners of alphabets: traceable, plastic, wood and postered. The closets, filing cabinets and desk however are chock full of crap and the room is very dusty. Still, there is a friendliness and now, with shorter days, it is a comfort to step inside from the dark.

I am in a new classroom and also using a different textbook.  It is not the one I would have chosen but, nevertheless it is an improvement.  I’d needed to create a lot of supplementary materials myself, but the new book has a good selection of enrichment possibilities.

The class, per usual is comprised of mainly Spanish speakers. There is one older Korean man, the first Asian student I’ve had, but he texts me almost every day. “I working. Not school.  Thank you Sincerely.” I also have an Ethiopian student.  Despite practicing before class, I am unable to pronounce his name.  For these purposes, I will call him Mayu, as these represent two of the eight syllables.

We are talking about the simple present, but many students can’t make the distinction from the present progressive.   “I going to school on Wednesday.”  “Does she eating dinner?”  We work on schedules.  “What do you do on Wednesday?”  The propositions of time are also baffling.  “My birthday is in March.” “My birthday is on March 30.” “In the morning.”  At night.” And then there are “when questions.” “When do you go shopping?” But, “When does she go shopping?”

I make little cards with questions.  “What does your friend do on the weekend?” “What do you do on Sunday morning?”  We walk around, asking and answering.  I ask Mayu what he does on Saturday morning.  “I read the Bible…”  My filter is off kilter, due to a rough week and when Mayu asks me what I do on Sunday mornings, I blurt “I don’t read the Bible. Mayu is devasted and frustrated that he isn’t proficient enough in English to save my soul.  “I’m Jewish,” I tell him.  He shrugs.  “Jesus was Jewish.”  “No missus, Jesus, the light. The light!”  I smile and head over to another group, wishing that I’d kept my mouth shut.

I’ve managed to make it to school every night.  My hastily prepared “emergency” lesson plan kept on file, is a big bore and it’s easier just to show up than create a better one.  For every month of perfect attendance, I receive a multicolored parchment-esque certificate and my name posted on a prominent school bulletin board, commending my perfect attendance.  This offends me.  We are professionals.  There are no malingerers and if a teacher is absent, I can’t imagine that it would be for anything other than a damn good reason.  I presume that none of my attorney or physician friends receive “atta girl” acknowledgments for simply showing up and performing professional duties.  

The arrival of a new female principal has resulted in the Faculty Women’s bathroom being papered with treacly affirmation stickers.  I urge one of my male colleagues to file a discrimination suit, as no such admonishments to think positively and practice self-care appear in the men’s room.  Knowing that video cameras are not permitted in restrooms and how unlikely it is that a school administrator will read these words, I confess to vandalizing a sticker or two each time I visit lavatory.   

This week I have to sell 60 World’s Famous Chocolate bars, just like we did for high school fund raisers.  The bars are still a dollar but have gone from jumbo to fun size.  The money does go for student activities.  I buy a couple and give them as prizes to students who win a game and bring a couple home for Himself and Spuds. The envelope is stuffed with crumbled singles and $10 in change.  I know it’s for a good cause, but I feel sorry to see them waste their money on such shitty candy.

I assiduously avoid, and take every opportunity to snipe about, anything that can be categorized as “team building.”  There is an exception.   The best holiday decorated classroom door will garner a pizza party.  I am determined to win.  The whole idea hasn’t quite gelled but sewing buttons on felt and color portraits of the students are likely in play.  Plus, maybe some sort of subtle acknowledgement of Hanukah.  Maybe the thing about the lights will assuage Manu a bit.  

It looks like Individual One’s days may actually be numbered.  He might squirm out of it, but nevertheless, I am at least pleased that so many of the candidates I volunteered for are successful.  It is a shame about O’Rourke, Abrams, Gillum and Espy.  All have particularly odious opponents but there is at least the satisfaction of the miracle that any of them are even serious contenders.  With regard to the House, the time I spent phoning, texting, writing and postcards will be remembered by the sense of urgency that inspire these labors.  Which make a difference.

My meager efforts to affect a Blue Wave, and the time I spend actually teaching, distract me from the angst, which for the most part, defines 2018.  This is a time when one stupid decision made by a sociopathic, intellectually challenged, bereft of self-control, narcissist could mean Armageddon.  I watch the news slavishly, eager for more dirt and indictments.  After a year, we have still not had our conclusive day in court in a legal matter with a vexatious tenant.  It is unlikely that the presidency or the struggle for an eviction will have any earth shatteringly deleterious consequence for my life.  What chaps my hide is that so much of one of my year has been wasted in a miasma of hateful thoughts and revenge fantasies.  My classroom and political volunteerism have been a refuge from a year of, otherwise too much mean-spirited ideation.  And my years grow fewer. 

I am certain that our rental property and the White House will eventually be repopulated.  The former will force us to figure out the course of action we’ll need to optimize the quality of the years we have next.  The latter will radically reduce my obsessive appetite for political news and satire.  I guess a lot of pundits and satirists will end up repurposed, but the work of historians who recount these times will require infinite lifetimes.