And I told them to read another person’s essay and answer the question: “Is the story exciting to read?  Why?  Why not?” and one kid answered “No, because bloody gorilla heads aren’t scary to me.”

Now this is a story I’ve got to read.

But more important is the emotional exhaustion.  I’ve ended the last three days in tears for one reason or another.  It’s not really that I have anything to cry about in particular, but it’s just my hormonal body mixed with the stress and strain of having the weight of the world on my shoulders each class period that wears me down.  I’m trying my best but I’m still acutely aware that I make dozens of huge mistakes every day in managing my classroom.  (Acute, by the way was one of our vocabulary words from reading “The Tell-Tale Heart.”  Oh man, I’m such a teacher.)  I’ve always been a perfectionist and I’m finding that this is the worst possible thing that a teacher can be.  The very fibers of my being rebel against the fact that I am not excelling at every aspect of this job.  I’m in the learning process, but I’m learning by trial and error and I hate that.  It’s just so hard to get used to the idea that I will get better with time but that it’s ok to screw things up here at the beginning.

One of the lunch ladies said something about dealing with the kids at lunch that I thought was extremely applicable to my classroom.  In the lunchroom here, because it’s so small, the classes come in on a rotating basis and we have to seat the kids in order based on when they get their food.  So they have to sit by whoever is in line next to them, and obviously sometimes kids get separated and they’re not happy about it.  (I don’t blame them.)  So every once in awhile a few kids will get away with somehow sitting in a spot they were not supposed to sit, or changing seats with someone when they are not allowed to do chaotic things like that.  So rather than stress over the kids who got away with things, generally the lunchlady will just cut her losses and keep seating the other students.  She told me that we won’t catch everyone, but that we’re just going for 90%.  If we get 90% of the kids where they’re supposed to be, we’ll be just fine.

I like that because when I apply it to the classroom it means that there will be kids who don’t get it or refuse to work or who get a 10 on the vocabulary quiz.  And there will be kids who act up in class every day and manage to pull the wool over my eyes and get away with things.  But that’s ok because as long as things go smoothly 90% of the time, and in any given lesson 90% of the students get it, then we will be doing just fine.  “90% is still an ‘A,’” says my perfectionist mind.  “I like getting ‘A’s.”

P.S. I realize that I just said I didn’t have time to update this blog, but then I proceeded to update it.  Just chalk that up to the writer in me: once I started the entry, my inner author emerged and took over, but I went to bed late as a result.  Somethin’s gotta give.

They say that these first days of school are called “The Honeymoon Period” because the kids are very well behaved for now.  Theoretically, at least.  That doesn’t really apply to Damon in my first period who wouldn’t stop interrupting until I explained what the consequences would be.  (Actually I’m not completely sure about that one.  In reality, I kinda like it when the kids blurt things out: it makes the class more of a conversation.  But I don’t know where the line is, and I’m pretty sure things would get out of hand if I allowed that, so I’m going to have to stick with the raise your hand rule, unfortunately.)  But for the most part, the kids have been pretty good and cooperative.  At least they haven’t yet done the thing I fear the most: have a classroom mutiny.  Even Damon shut up after I laid down the law a little bit.

So why is The Honeymoon Period my reason #4 for not teaching English?  Because it has to end.  What will they be like when they’ve gotten comfortable?  Will I be able to handle it?

In college they teach us a thing called withitness, that we should all be observant enough and on the ball enough to notice what’s going on in our classroom and to stop things in a non-disruptive way.  I have almost no withitness.

I also have very little ability to memorize names.  It’s times like these that I wish I had become an elementary school teacher.  They only have about 30 names to memorize.  With everything that’s running through my head, I’ve only managed to remember a couple of names so far.  Now that I think about it, I’m actually considering playing the name game tomorrow, at least for first period.  But even then, will they speak loud enough for me to understand their names?  And will I be able to pronounce them all?

The upside in all this?  We’re still in the honeymoon period.  Also, my biggest class so far has been 19 kids.  I can handle 19 kids.

I have been meaning to post something about my teaching preparations, mostly because of what happened a few days ago in the workroom, or as I like to call it: the den of the devil.

Why is the workroom called the den of the devil?  Because the laminator lives there.  The laminator is the devil.

It all started when I went into the workroom one afternoon after a long day of training.  I needed to make some dye-cut letters to decorate my room.  I had a list and I was making the letters and chatting with the other teachers who came in to make copies.  I remember joking innocently with one of the teachers, saying that I wanted to change out the pad on the dye-cutter because it wasn’t cutting well, but that I was afraid to break it.  She replied that as long as I didn’t break the laminator or the copy machine, I would be fine.  I laughed.  Oh how carefree I was then.

Not long after, someone came in, saw me cutting, and suggested that if I wanted to laminate the letters, the best way was to laminate the paper first, then cut the letters to save on time.  “Brilliant!” I thought.  I cut a few more strips of paper and started to laminate them.  All was going well.

Then a coach came in to laminate some posters so I let him go ahead since I was pretty much taking up residence in the room anyway, so a little time made no difference.  He laminated his posters and left, so I started laminating a bit more.

Big mistake.

He had left the little sliding cutter on the laminator in the middle of where the laminated paper would come out, and guess what! all the paper I tried to laminate hit the cutter and started rolling back up into the laminator.  Instant laminator jam.  I broke the thing that I was not supposed to be broken.  Oh crap.  After a few vain attempts to fix it, I asked my principal for help (since he was one of the few people around, and because I wanted to be completely on the up and up in admitting what happened rather than fleeing the scene.)  He was really nice about it, and though I felt horrible and had an emotional breakdown about it after he left, he evidently got someone to fix it the next day and all was well.

So I thought maybe I had simply had some rotten luck.  The laminator wasn’t all bad; it was just that guy leaving the cutter in the middle.

So I decided to move past my fear and continue to laminate.  With my mom’s help, I laminated some paper to make some of the dye-cuts I didn’t get to make that first time.  Half of them didn’t really laminate well enough (they ended up peeling later), but I still got enough to work that I was happy enough.  The laminator and I were on neutral terms, at least.

Then, inspired by my semi-success, I went back to laminate a poster and a few little signs for my classroom.  The poster was one that I had hand written using stencils and markers to depict my classroom expectations.  It was beautiful.  I should have known better than to put it in the laminator first.

But I didn’t know better.  I put it in, but apparently the laminator was exhausted from a long, bitter day of constant lamination.  Everyone and their dog was in the den of the devil making reams of copies and laminating up a storm.  But when I entered there was no sign of a problem.  The laminator looked normal enough.  But I guess it decided to take out its frustrations on my poster because it decided to start laminating, then mysteriously malfunction, eating one end of the poster.  Another teacher helped me try to wrestle the poster from its clutches, but it was too late.  I had to leave right then so that I didn’t have an angry outburst right there in front of the other teacher.  I left the poster because what good is half a poster, anyway?

Needless to say, the laminator and I have not spoken since.  Luckily the other teacher got out enough of my poster that I was able to tape more posterboard behind it and recreate the missing parts.  It looks good enough that when I put it up high on my wall, you can’t really tell it had reconstructive surgery.

I’m not sure whether I will attempt to laminate more whenever the laminator gets fixed.  One thing is for sure: I will never trust it again.

I guess the only upside in this story is helpful people who came to my rescue during the incident, like my principal and the other teacher who helped me.  I’m really working at a great school that has welcomed me with open arms.  I can’t even count how many times someone has told me that if I ever need anything that I can ask them.  And I’ve gotten that even from 6th grade teachers I may barely see again and elective teachers that I may hardly contact either.  Now if only they were willing to teach my class for me so I wouldn’t have to face my fear…

If I never post again, you will know that it was because the kids ate me on the first day of school.

Either that or the laminator and I had a duel to the death.

By the way, it wasn’t looking like I would have 36 students ever, so I got rid of five desks.  Here’s hoping I can get rid of even more after tomorrow!

It’s a good classroom, even if it’s a bit different than the ones I grew up with.  The floor is tiled, which is weird to me.  I’ll have to try to make it homey to counteract the echoey feeling.  Also, it has a projector built into the ceiling and two white boards, and now that I met a helpful teacher, it has a table near the door where students can turn in homework.  (She helped me to “steal” the desk from the hallway, and then, influenced by her delinquent behavior, I even pilfered a chair later to go with my student computer.)  It has a bookshelf and a supply cabinet and one small trash can which is curiously smaller than the recycling tub.

My classroom also has 36 desks.

It’s a lot of desks.  Those 36 desks represent 36 students times 5 classes.  Those 36 desks represent a possible 180 students I will be teaching this school year.  Those 36 desks represent 180 narrative essays I will grade and 180 journals to keep track of and 180 sets of parents to think about and 180 unique needs to cater to.  It’s intimidating, looking out across those desks and seeing the future, walking in between them, imagining little hormonal 8th graders who, whether they know it or not, are depending on me to teach them some life skills.

Those 36 desks could turn into 180 students who hate me and can’t stand my class.  They could become 180 failing TAKS grades and 180 more negative statistics.

But if I play my cards right, through prayer and blind faith that even if I have no clue what I am doing, I am somehow making a difference, those 36 desks could represent 180 chances to impact a life.

Those desks represent 180 reasons to become an English teacher.

I’m both excited and nervous.  I’m excited to get started and meet my kids and establish relationships with them.  I’m nervous that I will totally fail at this job and that, even if I do well, it will be the most stressful year of my life.

So I suppose I’m excited to get this year under my belt.  They say it gets easier after this.  But I also realize that this is my only shot at having my first year of teaching.  I can teach for thirty years after this, but I will never be able to recreate this first year experience.  This realization makes me even more glad to have begun this blog; I will have a way of documenting the process, no matter how incoherent I may seem here.  Maybe someday I’ll get it published as a book.  Or maybe I should just focus instead on getting the novel I wrote published.

HA!  Like that’s ever going to happen.

I suppose I’d have to actually edit the thing for that to even be an option…

But I have digressed enough.  The real focus of this post is to begin laying out reasons not to become an English teacher.  This is what you have all been waiting for.  And I know, I know, I’m not technically a teacher yet, considering I’ve never taught a class.  Indeed, I was intending to wait until the fall to get this started, but I’m inspired now, so why not?

Reason #1: It’s expensive.

Do you realize how much junk teachers need to properly fill a classroom?  Not only do I need binders and post-its and file folders just to outfit my desk, but I need supplies for my kiddos (especially because I don’t want to require these kids to buy anything).  I want them to each have a folder, preferably with brads, and then I need crates to box all of these folders in, and I also need markers and crayons and other various supplies for them to use in class.  And don’t get me started on wall decorations for the classroom.  All the coolest posters are expensive.

Then on top of that I had to go and get the hairbrained idea that I want my kids to each read at least one book outside class each semester.  Again, I don’t want to require them to buy anything, so that means I have to provide books for over 100 kids.  And most of the hundreds of books I already own would not exactly be pleasure reads for 8th graders.  So I have, in the last couple of weeks, embarked on an aggressive book bargain-hunting campaign.  I have spent an inordinate amount of time in  a couple of Goodwill stores, a few garage sales, the resale shop in my hometown, and the clearance section of about four Half Price Books stores.  I haven’t counted recently, but I would say I’ve acquired about 75 books so far.  And I’ve managed to spend less than 100 bucks, which is a pretty good deal considering I still don’t qualify for the Half Price Books 10% discount because I don’t have an ID or pay stub yet (the ultimate irony if you ask me: when you need the discount the most, you don’t qualify for it).

But the thing is: I didn’t exactly have 100 bucks laying around waiting to be spent.  In fact, getting set up in my apartment is pretty darn expensive in itself.  AND I have to buy a teacher wardrobe.  AND I don’t get paid until September.  It’s a sticky situation.  I have the sinking feeling that my credit card is about to get a workout.

But then again, I must admit that it’s pretty fun to shop for these bargains.  I really can’t help getting excited about all of the stuff I’m buying for my classroom when I think about what the kids will think of my room.  I hope they enjoy all of my art and movie posters and the twinkly lights I bought after Christmas.  And I hope they get excited when I dump out all of the books I bought on tables in the classroom and tell them to choose one to read.

I hope.

Two of the most recent movies I have watched have prompted some philosophical thinking for me.

The first is Saving Private Ryan.  True, it is not exactly an “old” movie (and actually I didn’t even watch it on TCM), but it is old enough that I was too young to see it when it first came out.  I mean, typically it’s not advisable to let a ten-year-old watch a battle scene where a man holds his severed arm in his other hand.  That’s the stuff nightmares are made of.

But I wanted to watch it now, and I taped it when it came on TNT in hopes that the television edit would cut down on the language and some of the violence.  But it was still an extremely powerful movie.  It really affected me to see these soldiers–men who had lived entire lives and had childhoods and spent years growing up with hopes and dreams–become expendable fodder for a machine gun or a bomb or a rifle.  It’s something that we often say but that rarely hits home: each man who dies in war is an individual, not a statistic.  He has a life, a family, a heart–and he is important.

But strangely, that sobering reality was not what hit me the hardest.  What really shook me up was the parallel between the soldiers who saved Ryan and Christ, who saved me.  In the movie, eight men set out on a near-impossible journey to find and rescue one man.  Six of those eight die.  Six lives are sacrificed for one life.  From the outside, it doesn’t make logical sense.  In fact, most of those eight complain at one time or another that they are risking their lives for one undeserving man who may or may not even be alive.  They all express that he had better be worth all of the fuss.

When they finally discover him, he actually refuses to come with them.  They came all that way, fought that hard, suffered that much death, and after everything, he refused to cooperate.  One of them even shouts out, “Two of our guys died trying to find you, all right?”

But still he refuses.

Four of the men die in battle still trying to save him, and the captain’s last words to Ryan before he dies are, “Earn this.”

Woah.  The similarity between this man being saved based on no action of his own and me being saved when I am utterly undeserving astounded me.  It drove home the idea that when I refuse to follow Him after everything He has done for me, it is like saying, “You died to save me from this battle, but I refuse to come with you.”  I wonder if Jesus has that look of unbelief on his face when we reject Him like the soldiers had when Ryan refused to let them complete their mission.  I wonder if He feels that same despair.

This message also convicted me in another way.  Ryan feels incredible guilt for being the cause of the deaths of the six men, and he feels obligated to live his life to “earn this.”  He even comes back to the captain’s grave and tells him he has done all he can to earn it every day.  Like him, I have been saved by an enormous sacrifice, and it is my duty to live my life for my Savior.  I should strive to earn this.

I actually have to admit that for the rest of the night after I watched this movie, and even the next morning, this phrase bothered me immensely.  How can I ever possibly live up to such a calling?  How can I earn something–deserve something–so big?  How could Ryan ever deserve the sacrifices of so many men?  What if he cured cancer?  Would that be enough?  What if I told a million people about God?  Would that do it?  Would that make me even a fraction worthier of Christ’s sacrifice?

Then at church my pastor was discussing why we should resolve disputes among believers, being of the same mind in everything.  He said that if someone has wronged you, you should show them grace, just as God showed us grace, and forgive them.  Then he spoke the phrase that answered all of the turmoil in my heart: “The thing about grace is that it’s never deserved.”

I think I probably let out an audible sigh of relief.  Yes, that’s right!  I’m not enough.  Nothing I can do could ever be enough.  That sacrifice was beyond my ability to repay.  When God saved me, He did it because He loved me, not because He expected some kind of return on His sacrifice.  True, I should attempt to live every day to follow Him more, to obey Him more, but that does not mean that it will ever come close to earning anything He has done for me.  I am free from the pressure of trying to live up to something impossible.  You can’t earn the lives of six men, and you certainly can’t earn Christ.

It’s funny sometimes how important it is to relearn the things you already know.

The second movie that prompted my philosophical thinking was a movie that practically begged you to think philosophically: The Fountainhead.  It’s a story about an architect who refuses to live by the rules.  He wants to build modern buildings even while everyone else is satisfied with recreating the same styles and structures over and over again simply because they are popular.

I say the movie begged for philosophical thinking because I don’t think I have ever seen a more artificially dramatic movie in my life.  For example, when a newspaper decided to launch a smear campaign against the architect, one woman stands against it, saying something to the effect of:  “There is so little true beauty left in the world.”  The characters are basically vehicles for trumped-up ideals like the struggle not to be mastered by desires and the battle for ultimate integrity.  They behave as if every architectural dispute is the beginning or end of the world–the difference between life and death.  In addition, the characters articulate their underlying motivations unbelieveably well, like one man who says that he claimed a mediocre man was great just to discredit all greatness.

But I digress.  In the end, the biggest ideal that the movie promotes is the concept of individualism.  The architect designs a new, efficient housing system that will better humanity, and some other architects muddy it up with so-called “improvements” that make it look hideous.  In protest, he blows the buildings up, and he is arrested and charged because, as his opponents claim, he has an obligation to humanity that supercedes his own desires or ideas.  He argues in an impassioned speech that men are always trying to make everyone conform just so they can have more power, and that a man has the right to live only for himself.  In his speech he even seems to promote the idea that people should live only for themselves so that they do not become mindless drones.  He says, “The world is perishing from an orgy of self-sacrificing,” implying that self-sacrifice equates a lack of person-hood.

I completely disagree.

Ok, I guess I do agree with bits of his argument.  I agree that we should not be forced into sacrifice unwillingly.  I agree that if a man chooses, he should be allowed to be a selfish pig who exists “for his own sake.”  But I also utterly disagree with the notion that self-sacrifice is somehow corrupting the world.  Doesn’t he know that living for yourself is bound to leave you with a hollow and empty life?  Doesn’t he understand that, whether he likes it or not, “no man is an island” and our lives are interconnected?  Can’t he see that his “right” to individualism was only made possible by men who were forced (drafted) into conforming and sacrificing themselves?  And doesn’t he realize that submission is not bad in-and-of-itself, but the object of this submission might be what is bad?  As long as we are aware of what we are conforming to, and willing to enter into this submission, it will not destroy humanity, but it will be the only thing that can save it.

I, for one, choose individually and freely to conform to a God who leads me and molds me into His image and teaches me to sacrifice myself for His glory.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Last semester, my friend Chelsea and I had discussed rooming together because I was moving back to Dallas after graduation and she was looking for an internship in Dallas for the summer and graduating in August.

It seemed so perfect so that we wouldn’t be lonely and we could have an amazing roommate to fellowship with and encourage.  I mean, sometimes a single girl just needs to feel like a friend is always there to listen.

Not to mention I’m probably going to be bursting at the seams with teaching stories next year, and at the moment I’m not sure who will listen to them.  My mom?  My best friend over Skype?  My teddy bear?

…You?

But I suppose God had other plans for us.  Chelsea officially got an internship in San Antonio, and I’m incredibly excited for her.  She’ll get to save some money right at first by living with her parents, and then evidently there’s the possibility that, if they like her, they will transfer her to their headquarters in another state.  She’s more adventurous than I am and I think she would love to experience a new place like that.

So it’s sad, but I know that it’s right where God has us right now.  Evidently her hiring experience was similar to mine: there were really no open doors, and then all of a sudden this one opened wide, and even though she specifically didn’t want to live in San Antonio, she knew she had to take it.  Isn’t it wonderful when the path is so clear?  We decided you can usually tell what you’re supposed to do if it’s not quite in line with your own preconceived plans.  For instance, I had my heart set on working in Allen, but that door was clearly closed and Mesquite was clearly open.

I was listening to a Breakaway podcast the other day about making plans.  Ben was talking about how David started making big plans to build God a temple, and he got really excited about the whole thing before his friend, Nathan, told him that God said he would not be the one to build the temple; his son would.

I guess that’s a bit how all of this is: we made plans that seemed so ideal and so in-line with things that would glorify God, but He had different, bigger plans for us.

The important thing is to hold our plans loosely, which is sometimes a difficult thing to do.  I’ve been trying to practice this more lately.  I picture my life in my hands–all my dreams and hopes and desires.  Then I lift them up high and open them, laying them all bare before Him to take or leave, add to or change.  It’s a strangely liberating experience, to give up control.

Ruin my life, the plans that I’ve made.  Ruin desires for my own selfish gain.  Destroy the idols that have taken your place, til it’s You alone I live for.

So what’s the plan now?  I’ll be getting my own apartment!  It’s actually quite exciting because I’ve never had a place all my own, where I can decorate everything just how I like it and where I can watch TV and laugh aloud at Charlie Chaplin or some incredibly cheesy Disney movie with no one thinking I’m crazy.  And maybe I can crack out the old french horn again, and no one will care that I stink at it now.  Except maybe my neighbors…

And I won’t be completely alone: I’m hoping to adopt two kittens and name them Fred and Ginger.  I’ve never had a pet all my own before (well, except my pet fish, Wilbur, but he went the way of most fish…the big flush).

And maybe, after all, having plenty of peace and quiet will be good for me after long days teaching rebellious teenagers.  Perhaps I can even get some papers graded every now and again!

How do I feel about this upcoming year?  I am unbelievably excited.  I am eager to decorate my classroom, meet my students, make some teacher friends and become a part of this crazy circus we call public school!

But along with my excitement, I am also unbelievably frightened.  I will be in a new town…with no friends.  I am only 21.  I am only 5’4″.  My students will probably eat me for breakfast on the first day of school.

But I know I can do it.  Somehow, I know that when I am thrown into that classroom and told to sink or swim, I will fight my way to the surface.

So come August when that first bell rings and I close the classroom door, staring wide-eyed out across my first classroom full of jaded high schoolers, you will be right there with me reading about all of the difficulties I never saw coming and learning about all of the logical reasons why I should just throw in the towel.

It will be difficult, and I know that at some point or other I will want to pull my hair out, but I also know that this is right where I am supposed to be–right where God has willed for me to be–and no setback will convince me otherwise.

Stay tuned for the feature presentation.  For now we wait.