Mumbling Madly

There was a time, years ago, when I first treked off to the Folk Life Festival…my roommate, Dena, told me about it, and at the time it was wonderful because it was free and we were poor and in college. I have to admit, in the span of one afternoon she and I danced barefoot in three seperate drum circles. We ate the cheapest food we could find, but splurged on strawberry shortcake. I bought a cd from a steel drum band called the Toucans, one of the songs was later used in several dance pieces I choreograped for Origami Girl Productions. Anyway, my life moved forward and became busier. Memorial Day weekend would roll around and I would be out of the city, engrossed with school, or later, living in Colorado.
I knew it would be hard to muster up the strength to head out to the Folk Life festival this year, knew it even before Josh and I found ourselves lying around the house on Monday afternoon. After all, the days of going to the Seattle Center for the sole purpose of being ‘noticed,’ to be swept up in a crowd, to appear young and carefree are pretty much over. Gone is my long, stringy, hippie hair from my early twenties and my embossed leather Birkenstocks were thrown out years ago. But, like going to my Saturday morning ballet class or jogging around the block, I knew that once I made myself do it I would be very happy I did.
Classic pictures of the International Fountain (you can’t escape the Seattle Center without snapping at least a few):

So, no drum circles this time…I wasn’t wearing the right shoes and it was super soggy so I couldn’t go barefoot. We ate a ton of classic fair-type food…except chicken skewers. While surveying the menu, this woman got in my face and said, “I’m in line, just so you know!” I said, “OK” and we could have left it at that except she kept going, “I mean you just sort of swooped in there.” So I said, “I’m outta here” and left without getting a skewer. She had a very un-earthy, peace-lovin, attitude that super bummed me out. Luckily, I shook it off and enjoyed the rest of the afternoon.

Today, we traveled to a farm…it was pretty awesome. It was a neat organic place out in Redmond with horses and ducks, the kids had a blast. The ride home proved to be exciting too: one of my student’s nose started gushing blood. We were almost back at school when a kid yelled, “Bloody nose! Bloody nose!” Sure enough, one of my youngest students (at age four), was panicky holding her head back as bubbles of blood freely flowed. I went into this incredible, turbo powered, teacher mode. I flung myself toward the front of the bus where I had spotted a roll of paper towels on the dashboard. I tossed them to the center of the bus to my co-teacher, who caught them and began unraveling an enormous pile of towels for the kid to hold up to her nose. Once things were under control, our student revealed she had stuffed a melty bead up her nose earlier that morning. I carried the little girl into the school the second our bus pulled up, a gesture that made me feel incredibly maternal and in control of the situation. I plunked her down, paper towels and all, and gave the office administrator the run down. A few seconds later, the kid blew her bloody nose into a tissue and out came the melty bead. I was so relieved; I think I actually said, “Well, I think we learned a valuable lesson” or something equally asinine.

All the children act like they’re on speed, and we still have two weeks to go…somehow they know the end is near and they’re bouncing off the tables and chairs with no regard. I recently described my job to Josh like this:
Remember when we took the bus down to Lake Washington so we could watch the Blue Angels fly over the water? Remember on our return trip there was that severely handicapped man strapped in next to where we were standing on the crowded bus? Do you recall when he thought he had missed his bus stop and he started shrieking and shaking his wheelchair? Remember how nervous and unsure we felt, trapped next to this man who’s only source of communication was a keyboard strapped to his lap…and even though he managed to type out what he needed to the bus driver he was still kinda freaking out? Remember how we got off at the next stop because we felt overwhelmed? That’s how my job feels… every day there is some huge freak out, something that get’s my heart racing and my pulse amped up…kids with the communication skills of a keyboard are trying to navigate their way through a full day of kindergarten. I know the ‘bus stop’ is near and I’ll be stepping off into the luxurious, yet poor, world of the part-time worker.

You would think that with a mere three weeks to go, that we as kindergarten teachers would be marking a lot of progress. I would imagine you would picture us hunkered over a child, body tense, our mouths working over and over to stress the importance of fractions or vowels, maybe a pencil is bering hammered onto the paper to drive home a point or an incorrect answer. Yes, you might imagine this scenerio, and it does happen on occasion…but these days you are much more likely to see us coaching through emotional growth versus academic. Instead of championing a burgeoning child to read, we’re cheering on the kid who finally, finally, takes the initiative to tell a friend that they were accidently hit by their lunch bag. Time and time again I find myself having the same conversations about respect and listening and “well, how would you feel if someone sat on YOUR hand on purpose?” Over and over again, throughout my day I find myself having to raise an eyebrow at a kid who’s wiggling, pause during a read-aloud and wait for a certain child to stop talking, and actually having to ’shush’ the kids from time to time–I HATE shushing! You know, we’ve been doing this all year, I don’t know why I’m tiring of it right now, perhaps I thought they would all grow up and miraculously cease being children.

I had really hoped by succumbing to the inevitable that I would be released from my fashion addiction prison: I finally broke down and bought a pair Seven jeans. This is the way that I looked at it: I have been spending money needlessly on items that I keep hoping will compare or come close to an actual pair of these designer jeans. Finally, I laid down the law with myself: Just a buy a damn pair, already! With my monthly pay-check soon to be cut in half for the summer months I realized that I would not be able to afford them in the near future.
So with a tingle of excitement I marched to my nearest Nordstrom with the sole purpose of walking out with a pair of Sevens. I sort of felt like the spirit of my grandmother was lurking behind the designer denim rack as I chose my selected pair with pride and purpose. Grandma Peggy loved Nordstrom, and every now and then when I walk in and inhale the make-up counters and take in the glorious array of colors and well placed merchandise, I think of my grandmother. The soft lighting may have added to the romance and allure of the second floor, my destination specifically the ‘fashion boutique’ filled with designer couture. Ah, such a far cry from shopping at the Brass Plum, a mere floor up and filled with loud penetrating music, tween girls, and cookie cutter clothing. The dressing rooms were like large walk in closets, each with their own three way mirror. Never in my life have I shopped so quickly and with purpose, (I swear, I was shaking when I handed over my Visa). I pressed my bag to my chest as I walked over to the men’s shirt section where Josh had dropped a ridiculous amount on dress shirts–seriously, two shirts had cost more than my jeans!
When we returned to our car to drop our purchases off, Josh checked his shirts and angrily realized they were not Wash and Wear–damn them! With no time for ironing, the new shirts were lacking. Because he couldn’t face the saleswoman a second time, I re-entered Nordstrom and returned the items for him. Yes, by this time I had slithered into my new jeans–changed into them in the backseat of my car. I marveled in the mirror, briefly, over how great my pockets looked. Sure, they were a hair too long, and, OK, maybe they were getting a little loose and may require a belt…but I was wearing a pair of Sevens! And, yes, I know, everyone is walking around wearing a pair of these expensive jeans, but they really are fantastic and everything I had hoped. Sadly, I found myself searching the web for a capri pair…yes, I know, I thought I would be fine once I bought the jeans. I had really hoped to stave off my lust for Sevens, and the capris are, like, $178! I peeked at EBay, I lingered around the Nordstrom’s website, and I finally disciplined myself and turned the computer off.

Van: Mara?
Me: Yeah?
Van: Will you wrestle me?
Me: What?
Van: Will you wrestle me?
Me: Are you serious?
Van: Yeah…
Me: I don’t know about that, Van, I think you might win.
Van: Really?
Me: Well, I could get seriously hurt…so for safety’s sake I don’t think we can wrestle…you know who I used to wrestle?
Van: Your brother?
Me: Yeah, how did you know?
Van: Because that’s who I wrestle all the time…my brothers.
Me: Oh, wow, what are the rules, like, how do you know who wins?
Van: Well, it’s usually whoever yells, “Mercy,” “Uncle,” or “Stop” first…or whoever cries.

I endured a party recently where the attendees were, on average, five years younger than us. Among the fresh, young, graduates all of them were either working at Amazon, Microsoft, or Boeing. They all came together for Cinco de Mayo with the sole purpose of getting wasted. I haven’t been to a party like that in a while. While Josh found it refreshing, I found it uncomfortable and immature. Perhaps I burned out on the endless waving of middle fingers, the shrill screaming of the newly drunk, and the constant reference to things being ‘gay.’ Another thing I found amusing was that so many of these techies consistently used the phrase, “What do you want from me? I’m a NERD.” This was the response to any remotely vague criticism, whether it a question upon their integrity or a request for more tequila. At one point, one of the drunken nerds protested against the accusation of his crush on the neighbor with, “No way! I don’t like her, dude, she’s OLD.” I realized that by old, he probably meant someone my age, and I immediately looked around for the door.
OK, so the party wasn’t all that bad, there was something intriguing about sitting around with a bunch of twenty-three year-old software developers, computer scientists, and I.T. business graduates. The gatherings I usually attend are much milder, a group of teachers sitting around with a slowly sipped beer in one hand, the other hand waving in heated gesture regarding a recent quibble with the “higher-ups.” Politics are frequently discussed, maybe books if we feel like it, and always, always, we return to the subject of teaching. We rail against the current administration, the lack of funding, and our joint struggles of finding work in a country that values education on such a sliding scale. Sitting around watching a bunch of engineers and computer techies hooting and hollering about how someone was recently fired because they weren’t a ‘team player’ and ’slow in the field’ is probably the equivalent to teachers complaining about not getting rehired at the school we’ve all been slaving for the past ten months. The difference is largely monetary, as these individuals are working for giant tech companies at preposterous salaries. When it was revealed that I had a Theater and Dance degree someone said something to the tune of, “We could never do that, being nerds and all.”
I found myself sitting on the leather couch flipping through 100 Classic Recipes , heavily engrossed in the correct way to bake a ham. Suddenly, I was reminded of something I saw in The Squid And The Whale: One of the sons questions the term “Philistine.” The term is officially defined by Wikipedia as is a derogatory term used to describe a particular attitude or set of values. When a person is called a Philistine (in the relevant sense), he is said to despise or undervalue art, beauty, intellectual content, and/or spiritual values. Philistines are also said to be materialistic, to favor conventional social values unthinkingly, and to favor forms of art that have a cheap and easy appeal (i.e. kitsch). Let’s say I was being dramatic, but perhaps this term could loosely be applied to the majority of the people at the party. I say this until I remember the hostess of the party reflecting on the single piece of art she has hanging above her fireplace. It was a painting she had been eyeing for a while at a local sushi restaurant. She finally contacted the artist with a plea for the painting at a lowered price, the current cost coming close to her monthly rent and student loan bills. Eventually the artist sympathized with her and allowed the painting to be sold at a lower sum. So, my dear hostess was not a Philistine, but I would probably figure the guy with the sombrero screaming at his tequila shot was. Or perhaps his artistic side has yet to be cultivated; either way it’s an interesting term to ponder. My family was largely opposed to the Philistine idea, although my parents have nice works of art hanging alongside several humble framed photos of our cats. With age, I’ve lapsed into my cookbook reading, opera listening, comic book drawing self…the person who was once comfortable sitting next to a keg discussing another person’s sexual exploits while inhaling second hand smoke is no longer. My patience for Philistines is low and while I know I need to be nice and show up to Josh’s work related events, it doesn’t change the fact that I have very little in common with these “technical” folks.

Haven’t blogged in a while due to reoccurring illness and student report writing. Yes, it’s that time again: I have to spend hours concocting the perfect sentence that says (in a nutshell): Your kid pouts in a corner when she’s pissed in order to gain attention from peers. Suddenly, I have to use terms like ’self-advocacy,’ ‘pro-active,’ and ‘environmental print.’ I find myself drowning with horrible verbs and adverbs like ‘peer modeling,’ ‘cheerleading,’ and ‘cheerfully scribes the word KAT.’ I’ve also interviewed each child in the class for a so-called Spring Survey that reveals very little but the obvious: Favorite thing during the day is recess, least favorite thing is Extended Day Care for those whose parents work full time or Reading, Writing, and Math for the kids that are still struggling in those areas, (because if you’re not doing any of those things competently at age five there’s something wrong). I’m still surrounded by nine other Resident Teachers who are flailing around to find a job. Many of them disappear furtively in the afternoon for interviews at nearby private schools–no love has been given to any of them from the surrounding public schools. Many of the Residents are subjected to long interviews with a call-back in a few weeks requesting a teaching session. One private school requires a hand written essay to be filled out on-site, a multiple choice aptitude test taken on one of their computers, a teaching session, and a panel interview.
I will return to teaching dance and answering phones behind a desk this summer. While I had hoped to be adopted by a financially stable, dance program seeking private school, the option to return to the relatively comfortable if not low-paying job as a dance teacher was welcome. There is a small part of me that feels like I failed, that if I had truly tried harder or carried myself differently during the year, I might have identified more readily as a classroom teacher and found a dream position somewhere. Could it be that the huge amount of work trying to find a job as a teacher in Seattle has deterred me from the time being? Could it be that I am merely lapsing back into the familiar only to flail around and try to ‘find myself’ this summer? It’s true; the idea of working less and sleeping more is truly valuable for me, what with my health going to shit this past year. It still doesn’t answer any concrete questions of “What am I doing?” “Should I go back to school and for what?” “How the hell did I end up teaching in the first place?” There are times when I wish for a well-meaning dream, something to inspire me upon waking up, a dream that provides the insight I can’t seem to find during my waking hours. Turns out that Josh and I both dreamt about spiders last night. After looking up “spider” in several Dream Dictionaries found on cheesy New Age websites the only consistent and interesting revelations that spiders signify are:
The larger the spider, the bigger the rewards. To dream of a spider, denotes you being careful and energetic in your labors and fortune will be amassed to pleasing proportions. Domestic happiness. Little annoying or irritating things that are left undone. Can be a fear of gossipy things said about you – or the consequences of gossip you engaged in regarding someone else.
Nothing about teaching, no revealing tidbits about what I should be doing with my life…unless you consider all the hard work I’ve been expending somehow coming back to me in ‘pleasing proportions’ and the reminder that I need to stop gossiping (specifically about the amazing wealth some of my students enjoy).