I feel awful about never participating. Everything I feel like writing, though, is ruminations on teaching, and not very relatable.  Teaching is just my whole life right now.

Here's a response to poetry, something new: not mine, but my new favorites. Nagi...what do they say about lawyers?

What Teachers Make
by Taylor Mali

He says the problem with teachers is
What’s a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life
was to become a teacher?
He reminds the other dinner guests that it’s true
what they say about teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.
I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the dinner guests
that it’s also true what they say about lawyers.
Because we’re eating, after all, and this is polite conversation.

I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor.
Be honest. What do you make?

And I wish he hadn’t done that— asked me to be honest—
because, you see, I have this policy about honesty and ass-­‐kicking:
if you ask for it, then I have to let you have it.
You want to know what I make?
I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honor
and an A-­‐ feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time
with anything less than your very best.
I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won’t I let you go to the bathroom?
Because you’re bored.
And you don’t really have to go to the bathroom, do you?
I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
Hi. This is Mr. Mali. I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something your son said today.
To the biggest bully in the grade, he said,
“Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don’t you?
It’s no big deal.”
And that was noblest act of courage I have ever seen.
I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.

You want to know what I make? I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write.
I make them read, read, read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math
and hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you’ve got this,
then you follow this,
and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this.

Here, let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
Teachers make a goddamn difference! Now what about you?

To be of use

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

--Marge Piercy

Tillie Olsen, "I Stand Here Ironing"

"She was a miracle to me...but...I had to leave her daytimes with the woman...to whom she was no miracle at all."
"Let her be. So all that is in her will not bloom—but in how many does it? There is still enough left to live by. Only help her to believe—help make it so there is cause for her to believe that she is more than this dress on the ironing board, helpless before the iron."
--Tillie Olsen, "I Stand Here Ironing"

My mother sends me updates every day, because she can't be with me. She's fine--she sleeps, she eats, she plays dollies in the stroller and makes crafts--but she's so small.  So small, and though I've learned to be big, I'm not there to share my size. And I'm afraid she'll grow while I'm not there.
I'm fortunate to live in an age where being a working mother is more acceptable than it was fifty years ago, because I'm not strong enough to stay home.  In the comfort of home, I don't work hard.  My organizational skills and work ethic get weaker inside the doors of my home.  A stay-at-home me is a slovenly, sloppy, unhappy me.  When I'm working, I prioritize, I work harder; I'm happier because I have more experience outside the home and I feel like I'm milking life for all that it's worth.  Those sound like strengths until I have to wonder if my "strengths" will lead to my daughter's weaknesses.  Is it possible that she will feel a lack because I stopped breastfeeding when I went back to work? Will I be unable to govern her later if I'm not there to do it now? Will she resent me for doing what's best for me?
My mother worked my entire life, and I've always been proud of that; maybe, though, I was only taking on her views. She's proud of herself and so maybe I'm proud of her. (Maybe I'm so weak in judgment and opinion because I didn't have a stay-at-home mom; who can say?) I hope my daughter can be proud of me, but maybe she'll wistfully look at other stay-at-home moms and wonder what was important enough to be away from her.  Maybe that will ruin her.
I work for my mind. My job is physically and mentally exhausting.  I work to keep my mind fluid and flexible and inspired.  I'm ashamed to say that I also work for the money; I like things and foods and celebrations and vacations, and all those require money.  Would I give those up for my daughter? Maybe, if you told me that would being a room mother and being there every time she calls home from school would save her a lifetime of heartache.  If you told me staying at home guaranteed her happiness, I would live like a monk.  But who's to say that she won't also benefit from my work, my happiness, my experience and the example of me juggling my life? Who's to say I'm not better preparing her for a world we can't forsee now?
I go back and forth every day.  Every time I get a message from Mom, telling me what she's doing without me and I envision her sharing her Finn-ness with everyone but me (and I do envision her, vividly, every hour of every day) I cry a little and the debate starts again.  Leaving her is hard, and seeing her only in the evenings, her grumpy time, is unbearably hard.  I have yet to see the benefits. So the debate rages...who can say?

Self-reflection upon completion of my first week of my first year as a teacher

I would love to say right now that I'm inspired. That I'm monumentally thrilled to be here. Or even that I've decided I'm not cut out for this and I'm desperately scrambling for a way out before I'm doomed to...thirty-nine? more weeks as a teacher.

None of those are true. I'm mostly just exhausted.

There have been good moments in the last week, like when Mark-who-calls-himself-Marcus wouldn't talk about anything but black authors (except he didn't know any) in our brainstorming discussion of American lit, and then he brought up Poe and I said "He's white, you know," and another kid piped up with "But his work is dark," and I just about laughed my face off--and so did the rest of the class.  There have been bad moments, like when one mouth asked if he could call me Crotch instead of Crouch and I almost couldn't talk, I was so mad at his immaturity. (It's one thing to ask if I'm related to Barty; it's quite another to be deliberately insulting.)  Mostly it's just been overwhelming. So much to plan! So many things they need to know! So many standards to meet! And they're starting off from such a low point.  It makes me so mad/sad/depressed to think that these kids will be out in the world in a year.  It's all well and good to say in education classes that you should set high standards, but where do you even start when the bar that is supposed to be the "norm"--not the high, the norm--is so high they can't even see it? 

I love the high school setting. They are so full of energy (well, except for the ones who are slackadaisical as to be comatose) and so full of hope and everything's so big to them, however cool they try to play it. There are so many fun things about teenagers.  I'm so excited to go to their football games, to see their assemblies, to watch them get ready for dances. I love, love, love being a part of something big.  But at the same time, my job is so huge, and I'm responsible for so many--and I want so badly to do well. I want to inspire, I want to teach, to give them new information; I want them to learn practical skills; I want them to enjoy words and internalize them like I do.  I want them to think deeply and walk out better, happier and more determined. 

A word on diversity:
My biggest internal struggle this week has easily been understanding those who are different from me.  I don't honestly give a flying fart in space what color my students' skin is, or their sexual orientation, their sex, or their economic background. I can say that honestly.  But there is a part of me, not a part I'm proud of, that looks down on those I don't understand--those who haven't ever picked up a book voluntarily, who don't care if they fail a class, who don't see citizenship in this country and a free education as a privilege, who don't care or maybe even think to try to contribute positively to society after graduation.  I don't understand these students.  I don't understand how you can care so little about your surroundings and yet still be disruptive or mocking to those who do.  What do I do with these kids? They're still mine for a year.