It takes a village.

Andrew has been playing all summer with the girl who lives next door.  She is a year older than  him.  She has an older brother (let's say 19 or 20) who appears to do nothing all day and dropped out of high school.  Mom works in the medical field and is a screamer and a thrower of objects.  We share our living room walls and I can hear everything. 

I like the girl.  She and Andrew play well together; he's happy when she is here.  He's been bugging me for a sibling, which is not going to happen, so as many play dates he can have, the better. However, I'm wondering if her mom isn't dumping her here at my house.  As I write this, she is plunking away at my piano.  This is her second visit to my house today.  The first happened around 4:30, just before dinner. She was still here as I pulled dinner out of the oven at 5:45.  I could have invited her to dinner.  Instead, I said that I was sure that her mom wanted her home for dinner. The girl, H., said that she had already eaten dinner. Hmmm.  I sent her home. Then, I second guessed myself.  

I teach kids whose homes are in the type of chaos as H.'s. I know they need all the caring adults they can get.  I know that she's a bit lonely as she and Andrew are the only kids their age on the block. Still, I don't want to train her mother into thinking that I am going to feed her kid.  Kindness, yes. Doormat, no.

Class anxiety

I am not feeling anxious about the classes I am teaching.  As a matter of fact, I am, at this moment, feeling like a pretty competent teacher.  Instead, the class to which I am referring is socio-economic class.  Based on my income, I am  middle class.  I was born middle class, though I might not die middle class.  That's too morbid to muse on a Sunday morning, so let's not.

Thanks to the draconian educational policies that currently exist, I am not securely middle class.  Should I lose my job, who knows what I will do. I need, therefore, to try to put aside some money, and come up with some sort of investment plan.  I think I can do all of that and still travel.  This post isn't about any of that.

I have both spinal arthritis and spinal osteoporosis.  On most days, I don't suffer from too much pain.  A little here, a little there - nothing the heating pad can't handle.  I am, however, finding it more and more difficult to complete a handful of household cleaning tasks without being incapacitated for 24 hours. I know this going into the cleaning, thus I avoid these tasks for slightly longer than I should.  Eww. 

I hate letting things get dirty and I hate pain, so I have fully come to the realization that I need to hire someone to do clean five things in my house: the kitchen floor, the bathroom floors (one full bath and one w.c), both the toilets (the bases, not the bowls), and the tub. 

My problem is that I don't want to hire someone to essentially clean up my shit.  In high school, I cleaned two houses and did not enjoy the experiences.  I have read Nickeled and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich, I know that many cleaning companies treat their employees like dirt.  The injury rate is high for these women. And yet, I am aware that sometimes any job is better than no job.  I even know that I cannot physically handle cleaning these areas.  None of that seems to mitigate the guilt that I am feeling as I am about to look for someone to hire. I am feeling a kind of middle class guilt about hiring someone who has slipped to, what is essentially, the bottom of the food chain. To be honest, I'm not so sure that I won't slip that far myself.

This is first world problem that I am sure will be mocked by someone, somewhere. I can't help that.  I just hope that I am not the only person who has ever felt this way.

Trying to breathe

I always have butterflies before the first day of school.  I mark that as a good sign, that I still care after 16 years in the profession. Part of me sees significant similarities between being a teacher and a performer.  We both have audiences, with whom we interact, and we both present a body of information: be it American Literature, songs, or a script. Like a performer, I take great care in my presentation.  I know, however, that my presentation is supposed to stick with the audience, and help them attain skills that they will be able to use later.  For a school like mine, the ability to use those skills on tests in the spring has become a life and death matter.

I've talked about testing before, so I won't bore you with a rehash of how it works (though if you don't know, please comment and ask me).  If you read this blog on a fairly regular basis, you'll have a basic understanding of my school's demographics: high poverty, high percentage of non-English speakers or English as a second language.  Numbers like that don't bode well for standardized tests.  My students read too slowly to do well on a timed test.  They lack the cultural background to handle the reading passages on the ACT (part of our state's testing mandate). 

Anyway, if schools perform poorly on those tests for a long enough time, they will fall to the bottom of the state rankings and then all hell breaks loose.  If a school is in the bottom five percent, it becomes a "Priority School."  Yay us!!! We're a "Priority School." This does not mean that the state will pour extra resources into much needed areas. Nope, it means that we enter the year with the sword of Damocles dangling overhead. 

A weasel...I mean monitor from the state will be on-site.   I will have to not use the word weasel when addressing this person. We, as a staff will have to decide on one of four options, if we do not meet, as yet unstated, goals: a. closure, b. restart as a charter, c. turnaround (fire principal and 50 percent of staff), or d. transformation.

That is all I know.  We have no more details than that. 

I must try to stay positive, but I also cannot be oblivious.  The state will likely set unattainable (without cheating) goals.  I must not only teach my ass off, but I must really forge ahead on finding something else for me to do.  I must try to stay calm and not stress eat.  I must keep my son as my number one priority and not let him know the churning that is eating away at my insides. I'd really like to find a date or two. Who knows if there will be time for any fun?

Anyone want to hire one slightly used teacher?  

First Concert

Yesterday would have been Joe Strummer's 60th birthday. As sad as it is that he has been gone 10 years, I can't help but smile because the first concert I ever saw was The Clash. 

I was 15 and my parents had to drive.  They dropped me and my friend off at the Fox Theatre, which was yet unrefurbished (possibly not a word, I don't care).  Though I have no pictures of the event, I would bet good money that I wore some over-sized top, a pair of jeans (with naturally formed holes), and my favorite grey boots with the black straps.  I am also willing to bet that my hair was over my face.

I was there with other kids I kind of knew, all of whom were a year older than me. There isn't much to tell, really. I didn't keep track of the set list.  I've moved a gazillion times, so I know I don't have the ticket stub.  I do remember that we were seated to the left of the stage, only three rows from the most enormous amps possible.  My ears rang for a week after the show (no exaggeration). I remember that we stood on the chairs for the whole show because there was no way I was getting down front near the real punks.  I was just an angsty teenage girl from wonder bread land. And, I loved the show and kept the t-shirt until it fell apart.

The funniest part of the night had to be the guys behind us - four guys in varsity jackets!  Jocks! Oh the horror! Well, before the show started, they were completely stoned. They sat with their heads in their hands, looking miserable.  We all had a good laugh at them.  I just couldn't imagine paying all that money and not remembering a thing. 

What's the story behind your first concert?

Do you still love me? You're fuck!

Somewhere along the line in second grade, a clearly troubled child taught his classmates the "f-word." I did not hear this word until fourth grade.  My parents swore liberally, but the "f-word" was verboten.

I, also, am capable of swearing like a drunk sailor.  But, I have worked very hard to not swear in front of my child.  At first this decision was based on the notion that he was 14 months behind in learning English, so it was best to use the very best word possibly. Since Andrew was diagnosed with autism, and subsequently with child maltreatment syndrome, I am more pleased with my choice as I just don't want to hear him repeat those words over and over.  Sadly, another child intervened and my hard work has been undone. Damn that little shit with the dirty mouth.

This summer has been daunting.  Andrew has no filter and swears at least once every 10 minutes - usually, the "f-word." That on top of his incessant pinching of my arms and thighs and my head has spun every day. This past weekend was the straw that broke this camel's back.

As a family, the three (yes, all three of us) decided to take a road trip to Cleveland.  Andrew complains vociferously about me traveling to shows or to London.  "It's not fair," he whines.  I have talked before about how my family really didn't travel and I don't want that to be the case with my child.  So, we thought a short trip, only three hours away, would be a good start.  We were wrong.

Our first stop was at the Great Lakes Science Center where he was completely over-stimulated. That led to a temper tantrum in the hotel.  He actually laid on the floor in front of the elevator and refused to get up.  That, however, was not the worst moment.  In the gift shop at the Aquarium, on Saturday morning, he wanted some junky toy and I kept reminding him to not paw everything in the store.  He told me to "fuck off." What am I supposed to do?  Yell? Whack him? Nope, none of the above.  I deaden my emotions and growl that it is now time to leave.  But, thanks to "child maltreatment syndrome, this reaction scares him senseless. He begs, "do you still love me" and then in the next breath, he tells me I'm a fuck mom. This went on for a couple of hours.  I was in tears, driving home. His father was exhausted and distraught. I looked at him said, "We don't have the answers, we need professional help." I made that call today, and I will keep making whatever calls need to be made.

I wanted so much to write about London, but I have spent two days crying sporadically.  I guess I needed to get it all off my chest.

London 2012 - Day 1(ish)

This summer, one of my favorite cities in the world hosted the summer Olympics.  I kind of enjoys big spectacles like the Olympics and love London, so why not combine those and have a visit. My friend Gill kindly agreed to tolerate my presence in her house for a week and even arranged for tickets to see men's beach volleyball.  I bought my plane ticket and left on August 1st.

Sadly, a few days before my trip, I came down with a cold that would dog me for the duration of my visit, keeping me coughing and tired most days.  Oh well.

The first night, took us to The Pelton Arms, a pub in Greenwich.  Despite the fact no none of the my friends live in Greenwich, this spot has become the home base thanks to our favorite singer, Glenn Tilbrook. Simon, Nic, Cathy, Sue, Neal, and Roger all met me and Gill at the pub. We didn't stay too late as Gill, Cathy, and Sue want to get back to Gill's so we could watch a Steve Poltz Stageit show. A shocking side note to my trip is that I did NOT see Squeeze perform.  It feels weird, but I'll get over it.

Just because there was no official Squeeze action for me does not mean I did not get a little Squeeze fix.  I traveled about with Cathy and Sue to find important spots in early Squeeze history.  For example, we found the house where they wrote "Cool for Cats," and the shop where Chris placed a slightly deceptive ad for a guitarist which Glenn answered. It was great fun and Cathy should be proud of her abilities as a detective as she located all these spots through Google maps and the following video

After our Squeeze pilgrimage, we met up with Simon and Nic in Shoreditch.  I wasn't there long as I needed to meet Gill close to Hyde Park for a couple of free concerts.  Sadly, I suffered an Olympic career ending boo-boo on my knee as I slipped in line, but I'll survive.

Inside Hype Park, we met Roger and turned our thoughts to food, beverage, and music. The first show was a band called Dodgy.  I had never heard of them, but the show was enjoyable and free.

There was a little time before the next act, so food and a spot in front of one the many big screen television was our next goal.  The park had been turned into a big gathering spot for people who wanted a communal experience of the games, but couldn't afford tickets.  We watched Andy Murray beat Novak Djokovic.  Needless to say, the place exploded when  he match was over. Perfect timing, as it was now time for the next act.

Again, I had never heard of the band, Cast.  They obviously had a larger following as the crowd was considerably bigger than for the first gig.  I also enjoyed their music much more, though I can't really pinpoint why.

That's all for the first day.  More to come tomorrow.

Can music save your mortal soul?

Last night, I attended my fourth Squeeze concert of the year.  For this one, I drove, all by myself, to Milwaukee to attend the annual Summerfest.  Squeeze was scheduled to take the stage at 9:30 p.m.

I took advantage of the free admission before 3:00 policy and found the stage and wandered the grounds, which were about a mile from my hotel, for a little while.  I was tired and sweaty from my drive, so I went back to my hotel to freshen up and grab a bite to eat. As usual, I wasn't very hungry, so soup, salad, and a glass of Merlot filled my belly quite nicely.

The city runs a shuttle for Summerfest, so I hopped on and met two women from South Dakota,  They had driven all that way to see Hanson (not Simon).  They, Marilyn and Ashley, were a mother-daughter team and they were really sweet.  It turns out that the Hanson brothers were staying in my hotel ( as were the ladies) and Ashley had just met the guys and of course was floating on air.

The bus arrived and I walked around for a bit with Ashley and her mom, but we quickly parted company and I wanted to head the stage where Squeeze would be performing later.  I wanted to say hello, if possible and if not, I wanted to grab a spot up front.

That was to be, as I ran into Simon Hanson (not Mmm Bop) chatting with a couple.  He saw me, called me over and introduced me to Ken and Susan. They had been to the show on Saturday in Iowa.  Ken is a drummer, so he and Simon hit it off.  The four of us wandered the grounds and then Simon needed to go check in, so I stayed on with Susan and Ken.

I had badges, from a friend, to deliver to the guys in the band, Simon was the first to get his.  So occasionally, we would head back toward the stage to see if I could find anyone, to complete my mission.  As luck would have it, who wanders around the corner but Glenn Tilbrook.  We chatted for a bit (he was eating) and he said 'I'll see you after the show."

I'll skip everything else and jump right to the show.  I decided that on this night, I wanted to just be an fan.  I took very few pictures, danced like a mad woman, and did not write down the set list.  They played the usual set, along with two new songs: "The Honey Trap" and "Top of the Form" (my personal favorite).  The audience really seemed to enjoy both of those songs.  Glenn was chatty and happy from stage and during the encore, in honor of Neil Diamond playing a few stages over, played a little "Sweet Caroline."

The wonderful show ended, the crowd went home and I went back to say hello.  Stephen, John, and Simon all stopped to talk about how the tour was going and how brutal the weather had been. Then Glenn came out, signed a few autograph, and got caught by plastic people, including one Barbie and her husband Ken.

By this time, the only people left were me (by myself), Glenn, and the plastic people.  I at least wanted to say bye to GT, so I lingered around while Barbie and her husband talked.  Barbie saw me and made a very snarky comment to me.  I will not dignify her comment by repeating it, but clearly it was meant to size me up and determine whether she should be polite to me or not.  My response led her to dismiss me, which backfired on her as GT turned down her and her husband's invitation to walk around the festival grounds with the response, "No, I really want to get back to my book."  That made me smile. So they left and I asked Glenn what he was reading.  Hitch 22, by Christopher Hitchens is his current read.  This led us to a whole conversation about writing and editing. I mentioned that I had written a novel, which elicited the most delightful expression from GT, I can't quite describe it.

He asked me genuine questions about the book.  I told him it was about a high school English teacher.  He chuckled and said, "Really , where'd that idea come from?" Smart ass.  Then we had this great conversation about editing, including how it feels when someone else goes through your work.  He shared his experience about columns he had written for a paper in the UK.  He asked what my editor had done, if she had made story suggestions and I revealed a big plot point in my story that my editor thought needed punching up.

We were interrupted by Barbie, who wanted to tell him how much the songs and words meant to her when she was a teenager and finally by someone else who wanted a picture. I had no idea what time it was.  I just knew that I didn't want to miss the shuttle and end up walking alone through an unfamiliar city.  I didn't want to go.  I never get to talk to anyone about writing. Frankly, I think he was enjoying the conversation, too. He said he'll see me Saturday and I caught the shuttle back to my hotel.

I can't wait until Saturday.  I just want to talk about writing.