It's Stood the Test of Time

I had a student teacher in 2007-- a really good one-- and I agonized over what to buy her for a congratulatory gift at the end of her tenure with me. “How about a Barnes and Noble gift card?” a colleague suggested. “No, it has to be something she can keep,” I thought.

The gift needed to be like the apple.

I have on my desk an entirely basic ceramic apple. It's complete with a nondescript stem, and sits about 3 inches tall in between my tissue box and three- hole- punch. It probably looks really generic on my desk-- a teacher's apple: what cutting edge décor.

The ceramic apple has traveled with me from Smithfield, RI-- where I received it-- to my first job in W., to my first desk in the old building of my current job, to my barely used work station in our top- of- the- line, 21st- century, bastion of technology that is the new building. I've dusted it several times, and placed it in various prominent positions on said desks, but it looks the same as when I got it in 2000.

My cooperating teacher Christine bought me the apple-- along with a nice pen (though I have no idea where that went), and probably some other things as she bid me farewell and sent me off into the world of teaching. I thought the apple a kind gesture, but I didn't think it would last long. Surely I'd clumsily shatter it in a move, or a kid would bump into it, or I'd slide it too near the edge of the desk and it'd find itself in ruins on the classroom floor. I've lost mugs, a desk clock, and a few other gadgets to classroom accidents over time, but the apple is in tact. It just sits. Still bright red but basic, it sits.

Each year when I set up my room, I carefully arrange my personal affects: I need a catch- all basket on the desk that houses scrap paper for hall passes, white- out for neurotic kids, and scissors for when the students need only a skinny column of paper to write their quiz answers. Next to that, I need a ceramic bowl with name cards so I can call on kids. Then there is the 3- hole punch and the tissues, and my poetry blocks, with which I can have some fun arranging words as a respite from grading. I also carve out space for the books we are reading and for stacks of “to grade” and “to return” papers. When I pull the apple out of the storage box each fall, I'm always surprised I still have it.

This trinket, in addition to weathering many physical moves, has trudged with me through the emotional mire of the past 13 years. It's seen me through difficult conversations I've had to have with kids about their grades or their anorexia or their dad's complete and utter abandonment of them. Kids have shed tears near the apple, and I have too. I've sobbed over personal grievances, like finding out my ex had moved on to someone else fast, and over job frustrations, like the three or four times I've felt burned out and that I. Just. Couldn't. Do. It. Anymore. The apple has sat next to me when I napped at my desk while pregnant, and even once when I was hungover after St. Patrick's Day wildness. It's watched me race to get my semester and term grades in by 12 noon. It's heard me vent with fellow teachers about having no time to get all our administrative obligations met, and it's watched kids come and go for detention and extra help. The apple has seen thousands of kids during its life-- thousands have come and gone from my rooms, from class students to study hall inhabitants. The apple has probably laughed watching me scurry to get my objectives and agenda on the board before class in case an evaluator were to come in, and the apple has rooted me on when those evaluators did come to watch me. The apple has to be my most consistently supportive classroom pal.

Now, it's not because of my distaste for the martyr- mom syndrome (which I wrote a recent blog about), but I really hate when people say “Being a stay- at- home mom is the toughest job you could ever do.” I don't disagree that staying home to raise your kids is difficult-- of course it is. But I don't like classifying ANY job as the “hardest job ever.” I don't think you can possibly qualify any career that way. Because difficulty is such a relative quality. What's hard for one person might not be for someone else and vice- versa. I think being a surgeon would be unreasonably challenging, but maybe surgeons think custodians or airline pilots or news reporters have the toughest job. And so I scowl when people say teachers have the hardest jobs ever and that's why they should get paid more and blah- blah- blah. There are shizzy things about my career, but can anyone name a career that is exempt from shizziness?

So I hope I've made my caveat clear that I don't think teachers have it worse than the next person. (And we all know that teachers get the summer “off” [it's actually unpaid leave time, and many, many teachers have to work in the summer or take classes-- last summer was the first one in which I did neither of the two] but, yes, we have the opportunity to be work- free in summer). BUT I'm gonna go ahead and go to the “crappy things about teaching” segment for just a moment, because teaching is the only job I've known, and thinking about the cruddy stuff actually makes me feel even more relieved that the apple has been with me.

In the old building, we had no air conditioning. There were days in late August and in June when the classroom would be so sweltering that kids were nearly passing out. Paper fans only go so far. In school, we are run by bells. I can't go to the bathroom when I want to, and I can't make phone calls. Most rules that apply to kids apply to teachers too, so we can't have cell phones visible or drink anything that is not in a screw- top bottle or take a quick walk or go out for lunch. In fact, lunch is 22 minutes. (I now finish most meals in that time, and feel like a caveperson when I have scarfed down my food but nobody else around me at dinner has.) We have a Poland Spring water cooler, but we have to pay for it every month. Same goes for the “coffee club”-- you can pay, or bring your own K- cups. Once a year, we get a lunch provided (on Teacher Appreciation Day); other than that, you're on your own. There are no office snacks-- someone may treat the group to some munchkins and that's a very good day. Yes, we are “out” by 3 (that's still an eight- hour day, with only a 22- min lunch break), but we have after school contractual time we have to spend in the building, and I won't go into the grading you have to do on your own unpaid time because that's just a boring topic everyone has heard six ways til Sunday already. I read in some article that you field like 300 questions a day as a teacher. You are “on stage” for most of the day. You can't sit behind your computer and turn people off if you're in a bad mood. Kids can be terribly obnoxious and/ or needy. A lot of kids don't want to be in school, let alone discussing The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail. There have been a few distinct times I have decided willfully that I can't do this job anymore. That I am giving up. But I'm still here. I know I love it deep- down, but anything you love brings along with it much stress, much tension, much frustration and even some tears.

And that's where it's kind of awesome that I can look back over some storms I've weathered as a teacher and be thankful that something always reeled me back in. I don't know what those somethings have been. I've just waited, and then I've felt better – I've decided I want to stick with it. The apple has never argued with me or told me I need to buck up, but it's just sat there-- maybe smirking-- knowing I'm going to come back to my senses eventually.

A couple years ago, I tried to find my cooperating teacher from back in 2000. She wasn't listed on the school's website anymore, and I wondered where she went when she moved on. I wondered if she had any other student teachers, and if she bought them the same apple, the old failsafe that any future teacher might appreciate. I bet she'd be surprised that what probably cost her 6 bucks is a permanent fixture on a now veteran teacher's workspace.

I'm not going to say the apple is a prized possession. I don't like anything particular about it, and I don't associate it with any specific fond memories. But it's stood the test of time. That mothereffer is a strong piece of ceramic. And despite its ordinariness, it's outsmarted me. It's still there. And I'm still there.

I don't remember what I ended up buying for my student teacher in 2007. I have no idea whether it was useful or interesting. While I remember putting time and thought into the gift, I guess it wasn't enough thought to make the image linger in my mind. Maybe it was entirely commonplace like my desk fruit.

Out of the Bubble

This week, for the WSL class that my friend teaches (and that I've been flattered to help out with and attend), she assigned the prompt: "If I knew then what I know now..."   I had to think long and hard about this one, not because I had difficulty thinking of a subject, but because SO many topics came to mind.  Isn't this prompt the very truth of life-- live it, learn it?  Anyway, here goes.

  The year was 1996;  I was on the red line T wearing my jeans with the hems cut and purposely left stringy, and my mauve waffle- pattern short- sleeve shirt with a matching flannel over it.  (What the hell was up with 90s fashion, anyway?)  Lots of college kids were riding the T that day, as my friend and I headed over to Cambridge for a tour of MIT.  (Before you start laughing, no, I was not applying to MIT.  This girl, whose 5th- grade science class rocket ship did not take flight, and whose 11th- grade physics class egg- holding contraption did not protect said egg in the free- fall, would never apply to the most prestigious technical university in the world.  My friend M. was applying and I was just along for the ride.)  A day on the subway, traversing the city from Boston to Cambridge-- ahhh, the independence was palpable.  And in just a few short months, I'd be experiencing that independence all the time.  I liked high school, and was sad to leave it behind, but I couldn't wait to dig my heels into fresh sand and find a whole new everything.

I couldn't wait to go to college.  What a cliche, you're probably thinking.  But I remember feeling suffocated, stuck beneath what I arrogantly thought were oppressive shackles-- AKA parents who cared about me. They had me locked down, or maybe, just positioned inside the bubble. 

As a kid, I remember a few tragedies happening: at school, we watched on the old Panasonic TV with the rabbit ears when The Challenger blew up.  A few kids lost moms and dads to cancer or accidents or heart attacks.  But even in writing this entry, and trying hard to remember other tragedies without going to Google, I am falling short.  I don't remember really sad things happening around me.  And the terrifying things I DO remember were the stuff of the news: the Oklahoma City Bombing, the Gulf War-- I'd see the story, shudder, maybe ruminate on it for ten minutes, and then say, "Well, it'd never happen here."

That's the essence of the bubble: the invincibility complex.  And while this phenomenon is correlated to age, it also seems to be, the more and more I think about this concept, correlated to time period.  I think of my parents' generation: assassinations of larger- than- life figures; killings at college protests; a grueling draft for the Vietnam war and subsequent deaths upon deaths upon deaths of kids you went to "grammar school" (as my mom calls it) with; bomb shelter drills in 4th grade.  And now, in the Millennium, 6- year- olds being shot at school, terrorizing violence and death at Marathon races, unprecedented amounts of gang violence, shootings at movie theaters.  The last thing I feel today is invincible. 

So we had it good in the 80s and 90s, right?  Was it a period of relative peace, or was I just so far into the bubble that I didn't know any better?

Because for sure people still died.  Cancer was everywhere even back then.  So were heart attacks.  They had to have been.  But for the maybe two or three kids who lost parents when I was in high school, my mom would offer me comforting rationale when she would see me get nervous: "He must have had a pre- exisiting condition.  That's why we go for annual check- ups."  Or, "That kind of cancer is hereditary."  And I'd take the heartbreaking story and gingerly rest it way back in the annals of my mind.  It was a self- preservation mechanism, but it worked.

Was my mom blocking me from pain, limiting me to the bubble when perhaps it was time to burst out, or was she doing what I am likely to do for my children-- help them stop worrying when worry is not productive?  Does it do any good to take on the burdens of others and wait for them to befall you when you are twelve?  Is it selfish to cast other people's hardships aside?

Maybe home seemed so insufferably boring and constrictive when I was 17 because of the bubble.  On some level, I must have known that I wasn't really IN the world.  And while I certainly didn't want to experience tragedy, I must have been able to feel the earth shifting somewhere below my safely- in- place Birkenstocks, and I had to have been craving a more genuine feel for what was out there. We are convinced at that age that home is so lame, and so are our parents, and we are going to just DIE of ennui.  What we don't see is that the bubble, whether it's 1985 or 2000 or now, is there for our benefit.  Living in the bubble, while seemingly childish, is actually pretty fantastic.

After the Newtown tragedy occurred, I was stunned that my students dealt so well.  A couple of days of tears.  Many questions-- especially ones like, "What do we have here that can prevent that??"  But then they were back to good.  We had counselors at our call to deal with those who felt too afraid to be in school.  Yet, none of my kids sought those counselors.  Within a week, they were back to complaining about the prices of concert tickets and their not being allowed to drink coffee in school.   I think they came close to bursting through the bubble, but that teenage invincibility complex suctioned them back in.  I envied them.

In the months following, I'd wonder what it was like to be sending a senior off to college soon.  Parents must have been reminded of what happened at Virginia Tech.  They had to have been worried that their caring hands were slipping away too quickly from their kids' backs.  Surely, they could see the bubble about to pop.  While I sympathize with my teenage self and my need to leap from the bubble, I empathize now with parents who are loath to set their dear puppies free from the litter.

I wonder now if the bubble varies in its scope and force-- it seems that many factors shape the bubble.  What generation we grow up in, the level of our parents' oversight in our lives, and our own willingness or refusal to leave behind a proverbial security blanket-- all of these things mold the bubble. What's traumatizing is that now I don't see the bubble in my life at all.  I can't even recognize its outline.  While we were children, it always seemed that bad stuff happened to certain families, to certain individuals, and in certain places.  And we commonly felt far away from vulnerability.  But now-- having witnessed devastating and terrifying happenings to people from even those supposedly safe families-- and even going through a little trauma myself-- I have to wonder if people after a certain age are capable of seeing the bubble.  It might be like one of those high- pitched whistles that keep kids from loitering at store- fronts because only people younger than 25 can hear them.

What I know now and wish I knew then was that the bubble was something not to be taken for granted.  I'm happy I was one of the kids who was ready to move on at age 17.  It was fun to be excited about leaving home.  But I'm also relieved that for those 17 years, I felt utterly safe.  I walked from building to building on my high school campus, with no fear of an intruder following close behind me.  Fatal illnesses were in newspapers and medical journals, and in descriptions for charity foundations, not in the families of way too many people I know and care about.   The outside world back then was welcoming.  And it wasn't just about physical safety-- I was free from tormenting thoughts and questions about existence.  I never wondered why I was here, or what my role or task as a human being was.  I couldn't see beyond my immediate world, and the rest of the world was just ready to be unearthed.  Exiting the bubble carried with it a hopeful promise for the future.

There's a line in Death of a Salesman in which Willy Loman says he "still feel[s] kind of temporary."  Clearly Willy wasn't talking about the bubble, but every year when I teach this play I can't help but think of it.  That's exactly how I feel as an adult and a mother.  Everything seems temporary-- there are no promises that things will turn out all right.  Reminders of comfort that existed in the bubble are nowhere to be found: the smell of my mom's brownies on Sunday nights; the theme song to "Family Ties" blaring through our TV above the clunky, paneled cable box; even that tick- tick- tick of the "60 Minutes" intro that hauntingly reminded me I hadn't yet started my homework.  As a parent, I am supposed to now provide those instances of comfort and safety.  I am supposed to create a bubble.

I suppose it's silly to expect a 14- year- old to worry more about anything than whether she's getting the new hot- pink telephone she wants for her nightstand.  It's not realistic to think kids have any sense of stepping outside of their bubbles.  I wish I knew twenty years ago how awesome my safe space was, but I sure am glad I didn't know the safe space would eventually evaporate. 

Enough with the Victim Stuff

There is this status on Facebook that I've seen people post before, and that I saw yesterday again, which drives me nutso.  It goes like this:

To all the UNSELFISH MOMS out there who traded sleep for dark circles, salon haircuts for ponytails, long showers for quick showers, late nights for early mornings, designer bags for diaper bags & WOULDN’T CHANGE A THING. Lets see how many Moms can actually post this. Moms who DON’ T CARE about what they gave up and instead, LOVE what they got in return! Post this if you LOVE your LIFE as a mom ♥

I can't decide whether I should laugh or vomit each time I see this post.  I mean no offense to the women who post it-- probably with good intentions as an act of solidarity given how grueling parenthood can be.  I get that.  And I get wanting to feel good about something that can make you feel like a totally inept piece of shiz on some days.  But let's face it-- this post unfairly puts those who chose to be mothers on a creepy, martyrish kind of pedestal.

First, this post makes parenthood sound like a chore that has been put upon some folks.  Oh, poor you, you're a mom.  I don't think motherhood should be known as pitiable.  Even on days when I'm bitching my face off about Mabel's temper tantrums, I know I'm lucky to have her, and there are wonderful women all around me who are facing the agonizing devastation of infertility.  Yeah, there are tough days.  But parenthood is still a magnificent gift.  It's hard to feel sorry for the people who are lucky enough to receive it.

I'm also bothered by this dumb- ass status because of its insinuation that mothers are in some sort of elite club.  They are unselfish, and all other people are selfish.  When I was single and on the dating scene, hoping to someday have a family but fully aware of the possibility I wouldn't, a post like this would have made my blood boil.  (I'm glad I didn't see it back then.)  People who get to go to the salon because they have more free time at night, or who spend a lot of money on shoes and clothes because they can and want to, should not feel less.  They aren't any less.  Their lives are different, yes, from those of mothers.  But those lives are still fulfilling.  While I was living on my own, I didn't have Mabel's face to cheer me and to marvel at each day, but I had my own hobbies and loves and pursuits.  That life was not any less meaningful than the lives of my mom- friends.  I hate the assertion that non- mothers are lepers.

Perhaps most irritating about this garbage is that it suggests that once you are a mother, you give up every piece of your own, pre- baby life.  I have gotten a salon hair- cut and color every 5 or 6 weeks continually since we've had Mabel.  If I were a single mom, making the time would be harder, but I would do it.  Yes, I have a diaper bag now, but I still have a purse I like.  Why would you have to pick one or the other?  I have never been a buyer of expensive bags-- they're just not me-- but if I were, I'd find a way to still do it now, even if it meant giving up something else.  And that's the point people should be making-- maybe you have to give up some stuff you used to purchase because the expenses of the baby demand doing so, but you got a delightful gift in return, so STFU.  And really, if you can't manage a long shower-- even if it has to be at night after the kid goes to sleep-- then you've got other issues.  Why does this status suggest you have to give up all your activities and joys because you are a mother?

I've observed that most posts like this-- that include some sort of "share if you believe this!"-- exist to validate people's troubles.  Some mom out there is having trouble navigating the challenges of parenthood-- or she is resentful of it--  so she wants this thing to go viral so she feels better about herself.  Let's make the mothers into martyrs and everyone else into personas- non- grata, and that will make all the hard stuff seem worthwhile.  In the meantime, you seem an attention- seeking victim, chanting "Woe is me!"

I've mentioned in my blog before that I don't think my being a mother makes me any more human than the next person.  I think back to a lunch- table conversation at work years ago, when a well- meaning colleague told another (single and non- parent) colleague that he "couldn't understand" how hard it was to hear some news story (I forget what it was) because he wasn't a parent.  Yeah, THAT makes sense.  You can't understand pain and suffering if you're not a parent.  You can't empathize.  You're basically devoid of human emotion.  Man, that thinking chaps my butt.  I know many unbelievably caring, unselfish, and emotionally in- tune people who don't have kids.  While they might not immediately picture their own kids when they see a commercial for fundraising for Children's Hospital and feel their anxiety levels rise, they know what it's like for a little kid to be sick.  They've got families, and they WERE kids once, and they know how fear and fright feel.

And so, for the moms/ dads/ parents out there who feel yourselves to be praiseworthy or pitiable or whatever it is that compels someone to post that silly status, please remember a few things: you wanted this, you've got a great deal going, and you are supposed to still have a life.  If you don't, it's not for other people to "like" or "share" to give you validation.  Go put cucumbers over your eyes, get your butt to the hairdresser, and quit the complaining.