I am not really self-conscious about my age; after all, it is only a number within my mind. Often, I have been complimented about my age and how I never really look like someone in their thirties. It is also those same compliments that never make me lament about how old I am getting every year. In addition, my occupation, my non-marital status, and my whimsical and noncommital attitudes towards life have always had people guessing my age at around 25-28. I never complained.
I never really thought about how old I am. It is not something I obsess about... until now.
Recently, I have been toying with the idea of teaching abroad. There are times when I miss Japan and the experience I had there: I miss the cultural exchange and history of a new country, the daily intellectual stimulation of working in a different school environment, the interaction with students who have different ideas and experiences, and most of all, the traveling and touring of a local or regional area. In preparation for this venture, I began updating some professional documents. As a seasoned educator, my experience should be a marketable asset; I have so much to offer to any school. I am at the top of my game. Unfortunately, my age is working against me. Of all things, who would have thought that age would become a disadvantage?
Teachers are like cars. We cannot deny that they are needed in our daily lives, but everyone wants the new one. The 2009 model will have built-in GPS, DVD/TV screens, rear camera, satellite radio, MP3/CD player with iPod capabilities; the new model may even parallel park itself. The old 2002 models will have some outdated features like adjustable seats and steering wheel, digital radio, and CD/tape deck. And it does not matter if the 2002 model upgraded on a few things: new rims, new MP3/CD player and digital radio, new paint job, attached GPS and XM Satellite radio... those things don't matter when you look at its mileage: 130,000 miles. It's old. It's outdated.
As I submit résumés and applications for teaching abroad, there are moments when I despair that I am in competition with young graduates. Is there some subliminal message that thirty-year olds should just settle down already? Were we meant to fade into our forties and leave other goals and dreams unfinished? Young teacher graduates and I have so much in common: optimism, energy, open-minds, love for travel, love for teaching, and love for cultural diversity. But my age and experience will set me far off from them... so far off, that I am pushed aside to make way for the youth.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Monday, December 08, 2008
Represent?
The talk of the school today was the boxing match between Oscar de la Hoya and Manny Pacquiao. The Mexicans were disappointed that De la Hoya lost, while the one Filipino student in class gloated with pride. During some down time, the Filipino student asked me if I watched the fight, and I told him that I didn't watch boxing or any type of sports. He informed me that Pacquiao was Filipino and that I should have watched it.
Inside, I was rolling my eyes. Really? Because I'm Filipino, I have to watch another Filipino person? For what? I hate it when my mother watches the Filipino Channel. My student said that I had to watch the fight in order "to represent" Filipino pride. I flat out told him, "I don't believe in representin'."
"You're whitewashed," he said with disgust.
"I know I am," I shot back with pride.
"You should be ashamed." He rubbed his index finger across his other index finger like a six year old.
"I'm not," I said with a smirk, and at that point, I had to bite my tongue before I said, "Fuck you, you little FOB. Don't tell me what I should be representin, don't tell me what I should be ashamed of, don't tell me what I should do and how I should think when it comes to representin Filipino culture. I know I'm whitewashed, and I'm not ashamed--so don't tell me what to do or how to feel pride. You know who should be ashamed? You should. Your parents left the Philippines. You should be ashamed for not adopting your new home country. You should be ashamed for not representin America. If you have so much love and pride for the Philippines, then go back there. Why do you think I said NO to advising your Filipino Club?"
It is because I am a teacher that I'm not allowed to spew personal diatribes. I do not represent Filipino pride because let's get one thing straight: I never had any. When it comes to representin', it's all about me and my ideas and my beliefs and my individuality. Collective cultural pride does not mean anything to me.
Inside, I was rolling my eyes. Really? Because I'm Filipino, I have to watch another Filipino person? For what? I hate it when my mother watches the Filipino Channel. My student said that I had to watch the fight in order "to represent" Filipino pride. I flat out told him, "I don't believe in representin'."
"You're whitewashed," he said with disgust.
"I know I am," I shot back with pride.
"You should be ashamed." He rubbed his index finger across his other index finger like a six year old.
"I'm not," I said with a smirk, and at that point, I had to bite my tongue before I said, "Fuck you, you little FOB. Don't tell me what I should be representin, don't tell me what I should be ashamed of, don't tell me what I should do and how I should think when it comes to representin Filipino culture. I know I'm whitewashed, and I'm not ashamed--so don't tell me what to do or how to feel pride. You know who should be ashamed? You should. Your parents left the Philippines. You should be ashamed for not adopting your new home country. You should be ashamed for not representin America. If you have so much love and pride for the Philippines, then go back there. Why do you think I said NO to advising your Filipino Club?"
It is because I am a teacher that I'm not allowed to spew personal diatribes. I do not represent Filipino pride because let's get one thing straight: I never had any. When it comes to representin', it's all about me and my ideas and my beliefs and my individuality. Collective cultural pride does not mean anything to me.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
What Would a White Man Do?
I hope my audience does not think I am a racist or a sexist for writing such a title for this entry, but I wanted to expand on what I had previously written four years ago: The Psyche of Asian Submissiveness. In that entry, I reflected on my experience as a submissive Asian person who was too shy to take any iniative at job fairs and so naive to think that I could be a suitable employee anywhere. I was a complete contrast to Caucasian counterparts--individuals who had the ambition and the drive to hunt, not just for a job, but for a suitable employer.
There are days that I still think I am a novice when it comes to navigating through Americanized social mannerisms. And when I say "Americanized," I mean "white ways." It does not matter that I consider myself American and was raised in an American social environment; at the heart of it all, I was raised with Asian mentality and mannerisms. The behavior and the mentality are so innate that I do not even notice how I act unless I come across some other behavior that starkly contrasts to what I know. It is at those particular moments when I find myself asking, "What would a white man do?"
Today I needed an important document from a former professor. I gave him two weeks advance notice that I needed his assistance. I have deadlines coming up, and he has not responded. If he procrastinates any further, I could be losing a golden opportunity that could definitely change my life.
My submissive Asian side tells me that I should passively wait. I had already emailed him once before to remind him. I'm sure that he understands the importance of his assistance in this matter.
But what would a white man do? Would he sit passively and wait? Or would he take some form of action so as not to lose that life-changing golden opportunity? Would he politely ask for his professor's help as a gentle reminder? Or would he assertively request that the professor take some urgent action? Would a white man be bold and audacious to just write up the document and ask the professor to verify it with his stamp of approval? Or would he be breaking social conduct if he did that?
I ask myself: what would a white man do?
There are days that I still think I am a novice when it comes to navigating through Americanized social mannerisms. And when I say "Americanized," I mean "white ways." It does not matter that I consider myself American and was raised in an American social environment; at the heart of it all, I was raised with Asian mentality and mannerisms. The behavior and the mentality are so innate that I do not even notice how I act unless I come across some other behavior that starkly contrasts to what I know. It is at those particular moments when I find myself asking, "What would a white man do?"
Today I needed an important document from a former professor. I gave him two weeks advance notice that I needed his assistance. I have deadlines coming up, and he has not responded. If he procrastinates any further, I could be losing a golden opportunity that could definitely change my life.
My submissive Asian side tells me that I should passively wait. I had already emailed him once before to remind him. I'm sure that he understands the importance of his assistance in this matter.
But what would a white man do? Would he sit passively and wait? Or would he take some form of action so as not to lose that life-changing golden opportunity? Would he politely ask for his professor's help as a gentle reminder? Or would he assertively request that the professor take some urgent action? Would a white man be bold and audacious to just write up the document and ask the professor to verify it with his stamp of approval? Or would he be breaking social conduct if he did that?
I ask myself: what would a white man do?
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Veteran's Day
Growing up in San Diego, the military was always around me. My father served in the Navy, most of my friends' fathers served in the Navy; a few of my friends served and are still serving in the Navy, Army, Air Force, and National Guard; and now I have students who serve the military as well. I am proud of the United States military, and sometimes I wish I could do more than just declare my support for them. Veteran's Day is one way to do that, and I am glad that our veterans are here to remind us about what they fought for, and why they should be honored on November 11th.
Veteran's Day is a holiday that originated in World War I to commemorate Armistice Day. Of all the wars that I have studied during my high school years, World War I is the most dismal and grievous. Never have I read about a war in which most of the soldiers were under the age of twenty-one, most of them fresh out of high school. When the war dragged on, the recruits were getting younger and younger. So many young men, who had their whole lives ahead of them, inspired by the new technological era of the twentieth century, suddenly vanished into a valley of death created by that same technology. Never have I read about a war in which most of the soldiers never knew what they were fighting for or were confused about the reasons for the war. Nearly an entire generation of intellectual young men disappeared, men who could have contributed to our world in more positive ways than being sacrificed in a war that was deemed meaningless and tragic.
Ninety years later, I like to hope that mankind has learned something from that first world war. Yet we still find ourselves in the middle of international conflict. The soldiers range from high school graduates to experienced leaders. They are not as naive or innocent like the young men of World War I. I like to hope that our experienced leaders--whether they be on the front or here at home serving office--not only protect our freedom, but also value the lives of our young soldiers who are fighting, not discount them as expendable resources. We should honor our military so that they know they are not taken for granted. These men and women put their dreams and goals on hold to keep a threat at bay, and many have already given their blood to protect the freedom of others as well as for those here at home.
Ninety years from now, when this is all over, I hope that the future generation will not look back and say that we have sacrificed an entire generation of men and women to what might be called a meaningless and tragic war. This Veteran's Day and for all future Veteran's Day holidays, we should always remember that all our veterans in all the past wars gave their lives for their country and for their fellow man. It should not matter if the war was won or lost; we should always remember that someone died protecting us, our values, and our country.
Veteran's Day is a holiday that originated in World War I to commemorate Armistice Day. Of all the wars that I have studied during my high school years, World War I is the most dismal and grievous. Never have I read about a war in which most of the soldiers were under the age of twenty-one, most of them fresh out of high school. When the war dragged on, the recruits were getting younger and younger. So many young men, who had their whole lives ahead of them, inspired by the new technological era of the twentieth century, suddenly vanished into a valley of death created by that same technology. Never have I read about a war in which most of the soldiers never knew what they were fighting for or were confused about the reasons for the war. Nearly an entire generation of intellectual young men disappeared, men who could have contributed to our world in more positive ways than being sacrificed in a war that was deemed meaningless and tragic.
Ninety years later, I like to hope that mankind has learned something from that first world war. Yet we still find ourselves in the middle of international conflict. The soldiers range from high school graduates to experienced leaders. They are not as naive or innocent like the young men of World War I. I like to hope that our experienced leaders--whether they be on the front or here at home serving office--not only protect our freedom, but also value the lives of our young soldiers who are fighting, not discount them as expendable resources. We should honor our military so that they know they are not taken for granted. These men and women put their dreams and goals on hold to keep a threat at bay, and many have already given their blood to protect the freedom of others as well as for those here at home.
Ninety years from now, when this is all over, I hope that the future generation will not look back and say that we have sacrificed an entire generation of men and women to what might be called a meaningless and tragic war. This Veteran's Day and for all future Veteran's Day holidays, we should always remember that all our veterans in all the past wars gave their lives for their country and for their fellow man. It should not matter if the war was won or lost; we should always remember that someone died protecting us, our values, and our country.
The Five-Year Cap
In the past few months, well before I resigned my position as a department chairman, I had been feeling restless and anxious. As much as I love starting a new school year, some part of me also dreaded having to face another year of nonstop grading, meetings, lesson plans, and student apathy. Every day of my job is never ever boring, but some aspects of my daily routine are mundane, and they have lost their stimulation. If I am no longer curious or intellectually stimulated, my day can be filled with ennui and frustration.
Someone told me that five years is the cap of any career before one starts to get bored. I have been teaching for six years now. I guess this explains my restlessness. Despite the economy and the job insecurity--even for teaching, I want something new. I just don't know what will bring back that stimulation.
Someone told me that five years is the cap of any career before one starts to get bored. I have been teaching for six years now. I guess this explains my restlessness. Despite the economy and the job insecurity--even for teaching, I want something new. I just don't know what will bring back that stimulation.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
I Didn't Ask
Eleanor Roosevelt once said, "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."
I am very careful when I ask for someone's opinion, especially when I ask about myself. I often ask for objective opinions from friends when my own thoughts obscure self-reflection and inner musings. It is not everyday that I ask for others' opinions, so those moments are rare, but it is annoying when someone just has to share their observations--even when I never asked.
Friendships--no matter how close or distant-- still hang on delicate balances. In the past, I know I have offended friends when I opened my mouth and said something. I took it for granted that friends would forgive me because I was being honest and truthful. But just because what I had to say was honest or truthful does not mean it has to be said openly. Most times, people do not want to hear truth out loud. Spoken words are like the knells of church bells, announcing truth to everyone.
I grew more conscious about this as years passed, and I am more careful about the things I say when I am around anyone--whether they are close friends or new acquaintances. No one wants to hear things said about themselves.
Recently a friend emailed me... a long dogmatic email, of which I do not know what prompted such a response. He just had to tell me his observations about me over the past four years--when I never asked. I grew irked that he had nothing to do but keep mental notes about me. Not only that, everything this individual shared was stuff I already knew (because I am self-reflective that way). Did he think he was doing me a favor by telling me this? Did he think he was enlightening me? What was the point, other than to share what he thought about my life and career like it was a casual intellectual discussion one can have about Tolstoy.
I was annoyed. I never asked for his opinion; he just had to share. Nothing he said was hurtful, nor did it make me feel inferior, but I guess I am more annoyed because he was analyzing me all this time. Ugh.
My bottom line thought: Reflect on your own life, not on mine.
I am very careful when I ask for someone's opinion, especially when I ask about myself. I often ask for objective opinions from friends when my own thoughts obscure self-reflection and inner musings. It is not everyday that I ask for others' opinions, so those moments are rare, but it is annoying when someone just has to share their observations--even when I never asked.
Friendships--no matter how close or distant-- still hang on delicate balances. In the past, I know I have offended friends when I opened my mouth and said something. I took it for granted that friends would forgive me because I was being honest and truthful. But just because what I had to say was honest or truthful does not mean it has to be said openly. Most times, people do not want to hear truth out loud. Spoken words are like the knells of church bells, announcing truth to everyone.
I grew more conscious about this as years passed, and I am more careful about the things I say when I am around anyone--whether they are close friends or new acquaintances. No one wants to hear things said about themselves.
Recently a friend emailed me... a long dogmatic email, of which I do not know what prompted such a response. He just had to tell me his observations about me over the past four years--when I never asked. I grew irked that he had nothing to do but keep mental notes about me. Not only that, everything this individual shared was stuff I already knew (because I am self-reflective that way). Did he think he was doing me a favor by telling me this? Did he think he was enlightening me? What was the point, other than to share what he thought about my life and career like it was a casual intellectual discussion one can have about Tolstoy.
I was annoyed. I never asked for his opinion; he just had to share. Nothing he said was hurtful, nor did it make me feel inferior, but I guess I am more annoyed because he was analyzing me all this time. Ugh.
My bottom line thought: Reflect on your own life, not on mine.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Time
"Time is money." This is an expression we have heard many times in the past. Given that we are a society that is paid by the hour, time is measured by the money we earn. We give our time to the companies and businesses that pay us; but with the economy in such decline, and the complexity of modern life so all-consuming, time is precious commodity that should not be measured by dollar signs.
About a month ago, I resigned from my position as a department head. It was a decision I made based on very personal reasons, and I had to tell myself that this was for my own good. It was difficult, at first, to let go of something that I have gotten used to over two years; there was still this inexplicable longing to continue to fight battles and not give up. I think that was the thing that bothered me most: I felt I gave up. Disappointing myself was the worst feeling.
I openly revealed to very few colleagues about my reasons, and they supported my decision that I step away from the responsibilities I once had. In the past two years, I really felt I had given up my blood and sweat for the good of our school. At one point, I called unwanted attention to the department and almost put my head on the chopping block--all because I believed in something. I have sacrificed nearly every free moment to my work--for my students, for the department, for our school, and even for the district. My own life was on hold--relationships failed, friendships on hiatus, hobbies ignored, stories untold. I kept telling myself that I would balance things out eventually, but it never happened.
Unfortunately, it took personal problems to arise to give me that wake up call. It made me rethink about my priorities. I love my work, but devoting 110% of my time to a school that is facing budget cuts and is not paying me enough to fix their problems, made me realize that time is a precious commodity that cannot ever be regained, nor can it be paid back. After pondering this for a week or so, I am now content that I gave up being a leader; my pride will heal and the disappointment will fade. I have gained so much more in the long run: priceless minutes and hours that I finally can call my own.
Since my resignation from department chairman, I have invested more time in actual teaching and getting to know my students. I have brought less work home because I finish most of it at school. Friendships have reformed and I actually have quality time to spend with people. I have read more books in the past month than in the past two years. Now my mind is flooded with linguistic inspiration, and I do not know which story to start writing again. Maybe I will actually start an exercise routine like I had planned over two years ago. There are so many things I can do now. I feel that my life is back in my hands again, even if only a little.
I was never one to measure my job's worth in dollar signs, so I don't really care much about the money, but I do care about my time. That is worth more than money any day.
About a month ago, I resigned from my position as a department head. It was a decision I made based on very personal reasons, and I had to tell myself that this was for my own good. It was difficult, at first, to let go of something that I have gotten used to over two years; there was still this inexplicable longing to continue to fight battles and not give up. I think that was the thing that bothered me most: I felt I gave up. Disappointing myself was the worst feeling.
I openly revealed to very few colleagues about my reasons, and they supported my decision that I step away from the responsibilities I once had. In the past two years, I really felt I had given up my blood and sweat for the good of our school. At one point, I called unwanted attention to the department and almost put my head on the chopping block--all because I believed in something. I have sacrificed nearly every free moment to my work--for my students, for the department, for our school, and even for the district. My own life was on hold--relationships failed, friendships on hiatus, hobbies ignored, stories untold. I kept telling myself that I would balance things out eventually, but it never happened.
Unfortunately, it took personal problems to arise to give me that wake up call. It made me rethink about my priorities. I love my work, but devoting 110% of my time to a school that is facing budget cuts and is not paying me enough to fix their problems, made me realize that time is a precious commodity that cannot ever be regained, nor can it be paid back. After pondering this for a week or so, I am now content that I gave up being a leader; my pride will heal and the disappointment will fade. I have gained so much more in the long run: priceless minutes and hours that I finally can call my own.
Since my resignation from department chairman, I have invested more time in actual teaching and getting to know my students. I have brought less work home because I finish most of it at school. Friendships have reformed and I actually have quality time to spend with people. I have read more books in the past month than in the past two years. Now my mind is flooded with linguistic inspiration, and I do not know which story to start writing again. Maybe I will actually start an exercise routine like I had planned over two years ago. There are so many things I can do now. I feel that my life is back in my hands again, even if only a little.
I was never one to measure my job's worth in dollar signs, so I don't really care much about the money, but I do care about my time. That is worth more than money any day.
E Pluribus Unum
... oh sing your life
all the things that you love
all the things that you loathe
Don't leave it all unsaid
somewhere in the wasteland of your head
and make no mistake, my friend
your pointless life will end
but before you go
can you look at the truth?
You have a lovely singing voice
a lovely singing voice
and all of those
who sing on key
they stole the notion
from you and me
excerpt from "Sing Your Life" by Morrissey
The words are simple, but when I first heard this song , it got to me. It's a song that reminds me how important it is to have an individual stamp on life, and that no one else has the right to tell my story or tell me how to be. It's a song of empowerment.
all the things that you love
all the things that you loathe
Don't leave it all unsaid
somewhere in the wasteland of your head
and make no mistake, my friend
your pointless life will end
but before you go
can you look at the truth?
You have a lovely singing voice
a lovely singing voice
and all of those
who sing on key
they stole the notion
from you and me
excerpt from "Sing Your Life" by Morrissey
The words are simple, but when I first heard this song , it got to me. It's a song that reminds me how important it is to have an individual stamp on life, and that no one else has the right to tell my story or tell me how to be. It's a song of empowerment.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Wishful Thinking
In September of 2002, when I first started teaching, I was so stressed out that I would wish to get into a car accident while driving home, so I wouldn't have to go into work the next day. Then I did get into a car accident, and I suddenly regretted my wish because I wasn't stressed anymore.
That feeling--the one of wishing, not regretting--came back again last night while I was driving home.
As an experienced teacher, this is not a good sign.
Recently, I have found myself wishing that I could be a first year teacher again--but I quickly changed my mind. I didn't like the stress, I didn't like the ignorance, and I didn't like my newbie lesson plans. Instead, now I wish I was a second year teacher again. I'm more knowledgeable from the things I learned during my first year, and I wasn't as stressed. What I liked most about being a fledging teacher was being left alone to teach. That's what I miss: being with students.
All these leadership responsibilities get in the way of teaching. They get in the way of me and the students. They get in the way of a lot of things I would like to do. Not only that, colleagues who criticize and complain are worse than students. I feel my position as a department chair is obsolete. Basically, I'm getting paid to be the messenger who gets shot at repetitively. I'm not a leader, I'm a human shield for the department... and they're not even paying me enough for that.
That feeling--the one of wishing, not regretting--came back again last night while I was driving home.
As an experienced teacher, this is not a good sign.
Recently, I have found myself wishing that I could be a first year teacher again--but I quickly changed my mind. I didn't like the stress, I didn't like the ignorance, and I didn't like my newbie lesson plans. Instead, now I wish I was a second year teacher again. I'm more knowledgeable from the things I learned during my first year, and I wasn't as stressed. What I liked most about being a fledging teacher was being left alone to teach. That's what I miss: being with students.
All these leadership responsibilities get in the way of teaching. They get in the way of me and the students. They get in the way of a lot of things I would like to do. Not only that, colleagues who criticize and complain are worse than students. I feel my position as a department chair is obsolete. Basically, I'm getting paid to be the messenger who gets shot at repetitively. I'm not a leader, I'm a human shield for the department... and they're not even paying me enough for that.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Chicken or the Egg?
I'm a season behind, but it's nice to see David Duchovny back in witty form. I'm wondering if this show is good for him, given that he's going into rehab for sex addiction.Sunday, August 17, 2008
It's Not Flattery To Me
In the past two weeks, I've been strangely hit on by men. I say "strangely" because I don't really consider myself a magnet for the male eye. Actually, I don't even pay attention if the opposite sex is paying attention to me. A few times in the past, male friends had to tell me that some guys were trying to pick me up because I was too naive to notice anything beyond the "Hey, how you doing?" greeting.
In truth, being picked up on is not something I consider flattery or complimentary. I don't know whether I am being complimented or just being ogled. Other times, harmless questions are an invasion of privacy. Take the two men who tried to hit on me the past two weeks: both have asked, in some indirect and elliptical manner, if I was involved with someone. The cable guy who came to repair the internet asked if I lived alone or with a boyfriend; while a new colleague at work (under the guise of trying to get to know me), asked if spend my freetime with anyone. Then he complimented my body type--whatever!
In both cases, I find it to be an invasion of privacy. Cable guy: you came to fix my internet. I don't care about small talk. New colleague: I don't date coworkers, and neither should you try to use the workplace to pick up anyone else. I believe being hit on or being picked up must be at a place that is appropriate for social gathering--either a bar or a coffee shop or a restaurant. Maybe even in random place that instigates conversation, like a bookstore (not a library) or concert hall. But never while someone is at work or is working. Cable guy should not have asked about my living situation while trying to work on wires around my apartment, and new colleague should not have complimented my body while I was doing inventory. In both situations, I was not in the mood to be hit on. That's the key: I have to be in the mood. Here are other examples of places where I was hit on, and I was actually turned off:
I have pretty much knocked out all the places where one could be picked up, but there have been ideal places where men have spoken to me in a friendly way and I was engaged in conversation. Although numbers were never exchanged, that's the beauty of it: I never felt like he was ogling me or trying to pick me up. It's nice to just have a conversation and expect nothing out of it:
In truth, being picked up on is not something I consider flattery or complimentary. I don't know whether I am being complimented or just being ogled. Other times, harmless questions are an invasion of privacy. Take the two men who tried to hit on me the past two weeks: both have asked, in some indirect and elliptical manner, if I was involved with someone. The cable guy who came to repair the internet asked if I lived alone or with a boyfriend; while a new colleague at work (under the guise of trying to get to know me), asked if spend my freetime with anyone. Then he complimented my body type--whatever!
In both cases, I find it to be an invasion of privacy. Cable guy: you came to fix my internet. I don't care about small talk. New colleague: I don't date coworkers, and neither should you try to use the workplace to pick up anyone else. I believe being hit on or being picked up must be at a place that is appropriate for social gathering--either a bar or a coffee shop or a restaurant. Maybe even in random place that instigates conversation, like a bookstore (not a library) or concert hall. But never while someone is at work or is working. Cable guy should not have asked about my living situation while trying to work on wires around my apartment, and new colleague should not have complimented my body while I was doing inventory. In both situations, I was not in the mood to be hit on. That's the key: I have to be in the mood. Here are other examples of places where I was hit on, and I was actually turned off:
- Library: I was studying for a final, and I was stressed out trying to write a paper. Some dude tried talking to me in Tagalog--which I don't even speak. Then he tried asking for my phone number. I was stressed. I was studying. I wanted a quiet place. No, I was not in the mood.
- Lecture hall at a university: I was waiting for friends. I was drawing, then I was reading. Some guy asked to see my drawing and tried to talk to me. Conversation was going nowhere. It made me uncomfortable. I fled as soon as I spotted my friends.
- Wedding: Weddings are a great place to meet people, but not after the guy reveals he impregnated his history teacher at sixteen years old. As a teacher, I was appalled and disgusted. It not only killed the mood, he gave me the heebeejeebees the rest of the evening.
- In my own home: repairmen should just come and fix whatever they need to fix. Don't try to check me or my place out. In addition, you're not hot when you're all sweaty and dirty.
- At work: I'm too preoccupied with kids and work. Ninety percent of the time, I will not be in the mood to talk about my personal life. The other ten percent, I'm too preoccupied with my students' personal lives.
I have pretty much knocked out all the places where one could be picked up, but there have been ideal places where men have spoken to me in a friendly way and I was engaged in conversation. Although numbers were never exchanged, that's the beauty of it: I never felt like he was ogling me or trying to pick me up. It's nice to just have a conversation and expect nothing out of it:
- CD shop: some guy translated a French title for me and we started talking about traveling.
- bookstore: some guy recommended a vampire novel, so I recommended one for him, too. We had a great conversation about books.
- geek convention: some guy didn't have a camera and asked if I could take a picture of him and the celebrity we were in line to see; we exchanged email addresses, and we're still friends to this day.
- on an airplane (50/50 luck with who you sit next to): the guy who sat next to me was an engineer, and he initiated conversation by saying hello. I asked how planes fly, and in laymen's terms, he talked about lift, air molecules, drag, wing curvature, etc. Physics was my favorite science. Academic nerd talk can be quite stimulating.
- museum: I was in Japan when this happened. An elderly gentlemen offered to take me into the Tokyo National Museum when he saw me heading in, because he could go in free with a guest. With the little English he knew, and the little Japanese I knew, we strolled through the medieval wooden print exhibition and talked about each other's cultures.
In these places, I never felt ogled or threatened. Intellectual conversation certainly helps to move things along. If any of these men asked had asked for my phone number, I would have been inclined to give it. Only one asked for my email, but even then, we turned out be good friends. None of these men asked about my personal life or if I was attached to anyone. Good conversation hooked me in, and I would have talked about anything once I got comfortable. I find it flattering the most when a guy notices I'm smart first, sexy second.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Are You Kidding Me?
A prospective student who enrolled in my AP class emailed me, asking for clarification on a section of the assignment. Her email was littered with, what I call, "text message spelling"--the atrocious abbreviated spelling for very simple words. She did not bother to check her other spelling and her punctuation either. Did she text me from her phone?
I simply replied to her email with the answer, and then added that academic emails should reflect the work I am expecting her to do.
I am nipping that dirty little habit in the bud on the first day of school. Somewhere in my eleven page syllabus, I know I covered that rule about "text message spelling."
I simply replied to her email with the answer, and then added that academic emails should reflect the work I am expecting her to do.
I am nipping that dirty little habit in the bud on the first day of school. Somewhere in my eleven page syllabus, I know I covered that rule about "text message spelling."
Friday, July 25, 2008
Photographs
An old friend and I recently reconnected after a long dry spell of silence in our friendship. There has been a flood of emails as we reminisce about the time we spent together and laugh over one-liners. In the midst of conversation, we try to seek evidence of shameful moments to share more laughs, and then we remind ourselves that we will look for the photographs and the letters in our parents' homes.
I had the advantage this evening, as I was already at my parents' home for a weekend visit, and immediately retrieved the letters and the photo albums. Even though I am a writer, it is much to my own shame that we did not write more than ten letters between us. I thought having a penpal would be fun, but we didn't really write as much as we emailed each other. Internet was gaining popularity in the mid-90s, and computers suddenly replaced the traditional way of communicating with a penpal. And who thought of keeping emails back then? They are disposal like little memos on a post-it note. The emails are lost now, but the letters I still had were a fun read.
Then there were the photographs. There is something special about them. In fact, there is something special about photos and pictures that were taken and developed the old-fashioned away: by film. Digital photos allow people to perfect and edit pictures as soon as they are taken. People change the composition of a picture before having them printed. Red-eye can be retouched, crooked pictures can be cropped, teeth can be whitened a little more, certain people in the background can be removed--all these tiny things really take away the personality of a picture. It takes away the element of surprise when you open up that envelope and laugh at a candid shot that you did not know existed. Of course, I like the perfect photo, too, but I appreciate a random photo of myself that turned out pretty decent. A perfect photo enhanced through manipulation is just as fake as getting plastic surgery.
So I found this photo of my old friend. It is a decent photo that leaves me with just as much wonder as if I were looking at an archival black and white photo of an historic person from the 1800s. He was still in high school, possibly a freshman or sophomore, and he was standing at the foot of the stairs of his home, next to the banister. He wore his high school uniform, and he had quite an arrogant look on his face. As I look at this picture, I wonder about all the little details that compose this photo. He looked arrogant, but that is only my interpretation. Was he turning his head when someone randomly took that photo? Was that expression accidental? Then there is the strange setting: he stood at the foot of the stairs with both hands on one end of the banister, like he was unsure about whether he was going up or down. The photographer took the photo from the far end of a corridor. It's like my friend almost knew his photo was going to be taken; was he trying to escape the lens or did he reluctantly pose? The corridor itself is interesting... the crown molding on the ceiling, a wrapped painting or mirror (some decorative wall ornament) leaned up against the wall, like they didn't have time to hang it. I still can't tell if my friend stood on a gray or green carpet, but I did notice he took off his shoes and his white socks peeked at the bottom of his dark school uniform. His sleeves were rolled up, too. I can only guess he was trying to relax right after school, but the window behind him was dark, leaving me to wonder if the picture was taken in the evening.
He also sent me another picture of himself: a non-digital photo taken at arm's length with a small 35mm camera. The photo came out slightly blurry, and he even admitted that it was not his most flattering photo. We lacked the technology in the past, but he couldn't edit it or change anything about it. Yet there is an "honest" quality of the picture. He still sent it because it was a decent photo.Nowadays, we delete ugly photos of ourselves, afraid that people will find it and use it against us. We change our features to make ourselves more presentable to the world. We remove the details that will distract others' attention away from us. We want that photo of ourselves to be picture perfect, so no one could ever critique it or wonder about it.
But the mystery of photographs is the allure of looking at them. Taking away the details removes the wonder and curiosity. Taking away the curiosity removes the intrigue. A photo's details provides clues to a story. A photo's flaws, like a blur or a crooked frame, reveals something of raw honesty. And if we keep these flawed photos as opposed to trashing them, it shows our tolerance of mistakes--whatever they may be--and our acceptance of the imperfect that may come in our lives.
A random shot taken in a span of a second suddenly captures a whole life.
I had the advantage this evening, as I was already at my parents' home for a weekend visit, and immediately retrieved the letters and the photo albums. Even though I am a writer, it is much to my own shame that we did not write more than ten letters between us. I thought having a penpal would be fun, but we didn't really write as much as we emailed each other. Internet was gaining popularity in the mid-90s, and computers suddenly replaced the traditional way of communicating with a penpal. And who thought of keeping emails back then? They are disposal like little memos on a post-it note. The emails are lost now, but the letters I still had were a fun read.
Then there were the photographs. There is something special about them. In fact, there is something special about photos and pictures that were taken and developed the old-fashioned away: by film. Digital photos allow people to perfect and edit pictures as soon as they are taken. People change the composition of a picture before having them printed. Red-eye can be retouched, crooked pictures can be cropped, teeth can be whitened a little more, certain people in the background can be removed--all these tiny things really take away the personality of a picture. It takes away the element of surprise when you open up that envelope and laugh at a candid shot that you did not know existed. Of course, I like the perfect photo, too, but I appreciate a random photo of myself that turned out pretty decent. A perfect photo enhanced through manipulation is just as fake as getting plastic surgery.
So I found this photo of my old friend. It is a decent photo that leaves me with just as much wonder as if I were looking at an archival black and white photo of an historic person from the 1800s. He was still in high school, possibly a freshman or sophomore, and he was standing at the foot of the stairs of his home, next to the banister. He wore his high school uniform, and he had quite an arrogant look on his face. As I look at this picture, I wonder about all the little details that compose this photo. He looked arrogant, but that is only my interpretation. Was he turning his head when someone randomly took that photo? Was that expression accidental? Then there is the strange setting: he stood at the foot of the stairs with both hands on one end of the banister, like he was unsure about whether he was going up or down. The photographer took the photo from the far end of a corridor. It's like my friend almost knew his photo was going to be taken; was he trying to escape the lens or did he reluctantly pose? The corridor itself is interesting... the crown molding on the ceiling, a wrapped painting or mirror (some decorative wall ornament) leaned up against the wall, like they didn't have time to hang it. I still can't tell if my friend stood on a gray or green carpet, but I did notice he took off his shoes and his white socks peeked at the bottom of his dark school uniform. His sleeves were rolled up, too. I can only guess he was trying to relax right after school, but the window behind him was dark, leaving me to wonder if the picture was taken in the evening.
He also sent me another picture of himself: a non-digital photo taken at arm's length with a small 35mm camera. The photo came out slightly blurry, and he even admitted that it was not his most flattering photo. We lacked the technology in the past, but he couldn't edit it or change anything about it. Yet there is an "honest" quality of the picture. He still sent it because it was a decent photo.Nowadays, we delete ugly photos of ourselves, afraid that people will find it and use it against us. We change our features to make ourselves more presentable to the world. We remove the details that will distract others' attention away from us. We want that photo of ourselves to be picture perfect, so no one could ever critique it or wonder about it.
But the mystery of photographs is the allure of looking at them. Taking away the details removes the wonder and curiosity. Taking away the curiosity removes the intrigue. A photo's details provides clues to a story. A photo's flaws, like a blur or a crooked frame, reveals something of raw honesty. And if we keep these flawed photos as opposed to trashing them, it shows our tolerance of mistakes--whatever they may be--and our acceptance of the imperfect that may come in our lives.
A random shot taken in a span of a second suddenly captures a whole life.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Tooting My Own Horn
Of the AP class I taught this past year--which, by the way, was the first time I ever taught that class--thirteen out of thirty-one students passed their exam. The previous teacher only had two students who passed.
I rock as a writing teacher!
Now I have set the bar for myself: about fifty kids signed up for my class this coming year. I hope to get at least a 50% pass rate next May.
I rock as a writing teacher!
Now I have set the bar for myself: about fifty kids signed up for my class this coming year. I hope to get at least a 50% pass rate next May.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Educational Experts
You've heard the phrase: "everyone's a critic." Well, when it comes to education, everyone is an expert.
In my six years teaching, I have attended quite a few professional development conferences--most of them trying to promote some new method of teaching or a new product to be tried in the classroom. Everyone wants to market to the schools and these "experts" have the panacea that will correct all the wrongs of educational mishaps.
In this recent training, professional teachers are looking over the California Frameworks, a document on what to teach at each grade level. As I look at certain reading standards and benchmarks at each grade level, it surprises me--as well as other teachers--that some skills are just not taught enough, and some just slowly fade as the grade levels go by. Teachers were appalled at what we discovered. We've been using this book for nearly a decade, but none of us actually traced a skill from the second grade. Admittedly, I only look at skills I have to teach at tenth and eleventh grade; but now I see what is missing or inconsistent in the previous nine years of education before a student comes to me.
This is a document put together by "educational experts" who want sixth graders to apply abstract interpretation in poetry and discern an author's intent in writing emotionally charged verses. If you don't know what that is, don't worry: I can't even get my sophomores to think abstractly. And these experts think that sixth graders can?
This is a document put together by "educational experts" who want sophomores to write a timed-essay within an hour, yet the skill of handwriting is lost by fourth grade. Hardly anyone teaches the physical act of writing, nor do they encourage the practice of it beyond fourth grade. And these experts wonder why so many students score so poorly on the essay portion of the High School Exit Exam and college placement exams for composition classes, two tests which require students to write an essay on-demand without a computer.
There are flaws in this document, and now I question the California Frameworks.
Yet at this training, we were forced to give positive testimonials to this federal document about why they work for us. That was difficult for me now that I saw the shortcomings of this educational manifesto. Reluctantly, I blurted out some optimistic statement about teaching forward and focusing my lessons for the future (and not looking at the ugly mess in a student's blotchy educational history).
Affirmation statements are so cheesy. It's like they want us to praise conglomerate work that is so poorly put together. I'm done with "experts." I, myself, may not be an expert when it comes to education, but I think I know what works for me and my students. If I don't know it, I will ask a teacher who does, not an expert who's trying to sell a book.
In my six years teaching, I have attended quite a few professional development conferences--most of them trying to promote some new method of teaching or a new product to be tried in the classroom. Everyone wants to market to the schools and these "experts" have the panacea that will correct all the wrongs of educational mishaps.
In this recent training, professional teachers are looking over the California Frameworks, a document on what to teach at each grade level. As I look at certain reading standards and benchmarks at each grade level, it surprises me--as well as other teachers--that some skills are just not taught enough, and some just slowly fade as the grade levels go by. Teachers were appalled at what we discovered. We've been using this book for nearly a decade, but none of us actually traced a skill from the second grade. Admittedly, I only look at skills I have to teach at tenth and eleventh grade; but now I see what is missing or inconsistent in the previous nine years of education before a student comes to me.
This is a document put together by "educational experts" who want sixth graders to apply abstract interpretation in poetry and discern an author's intent in writing emotionally charged verses. If you don't know what that is, don't worry: I can't even get my sophomores to think abstractly. And these experts think that sixth graders can?
This is a document put together by "educational experts" who want sophomores to write a timed-essay within an hour, yet the skill of handwriting is lost by fourth grade. Hardly anyone teaches the physical act of writing, nor do they encourage the practice of it beyond fourth grade. And these experts wonder why so many students score so poorly on the essay portion of the High School Exit Exam and college placement exams for composition classes, two tests which require students to write an essay on-demand without a computer.
There are flaws in this document, and now I question the California Frameworks.
Yet at this training, we were forced to give positive testimonials to this federal document about why they work for us. That was difficult for me now that I saw the shortcomings of this educational manifesto. Reluctantly, I blurted out some optimistic statement about teaching forward and focusing my lessons for the future (and not looking at the ugly mess in a student's blotchy educational history).
Affirmation statements are so cheesy. It's like they want us to praise conglomerate work that is so poorly put together. I'm done with "experts." I, myself, may not be an expert when it comes to education, but I think I know what works for me and my students. If I don't know it, I will ask a teacher who does, not an expert who's trying to sell a book.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Confessions of a Coward Under a False Sense of Bravery
In the Roman Catholic Church, absolution is gained through the act of confessing sins or problems to a priest. The idea is that if Catholics ever expect to get to heaven, they first must let go of their conflicts and burdens, ask for reconciliation from God, and then promise that they will never ever commit those sins again.
Growing up in Catholic household, I participated in this rite several times. There were two ways in which we could go about wiping our souls clean: facing the priest and honestly revealing ourselves and our transgressions as we sit before him, or remaining anonymous by hiding behind a thin partition of intricate woodwork. In the few times I had confessed my sins or let go of my troubled mind, I chose to remain nameless and concealed myself behind that screen.
Forgive me, World, for it has been seventeen years since my last confession. Since that time, I have strayed from my spiritual roots and chose to confess my sins and express my mind through the Internet.
Hmm… I guess not much has changed.
Oscar Wilde wrote, in The Picture of Dorian Gray, "It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution." When we confess, we really just need to let go of our inner conflicts, whatever they may be. Wilde even assumes that confession does not have the religious connotation as it did in the past, for the priest does not absolve us. In today’s technological world, the Internet is the modern day confessional, and the confession ranges from secret sins to blatant rudeness.
When it comes to confession, there are some people who find strength behind an alias. We have this false sense of courage because we tell truths that we would not openly say to a person's face. We say that we are “being honest,” but does it count when we hide behind the screen? There is no honesty when we still hide something. When we discharge our hateful thoughts, proselytize our radical ideas, and eject offensive words, we do not always filter what escapes from our lips. Why filter the words when we have filtered our identity? We sit behind a computer screen and then justify our behavior by lying to ourselves that we have not broken any rules of social decorum.
Many of us--Catholic or not--have chosen this great technology as the vehicle for testimonials, yet continue to hide behind the computer screen or some false identity. We unleash a horde of confessions--sinful or not--because we look for absolution or affirmation from a network of cyberspace strangers. Just like in the Church, we seek for conformity and acceptance with other Catholics; we certainly don't want to burn in hell while everyone else has cleansed their souls to get to heaven; whereas in society, we seek that comfort when we know that there are others "like us." We divulge our opinions and feelings because we hope someone will listen and accept us for who we are. For some, to be accepted by the world or by anyone is simply heaven. The Internet has become the new Church, where everyone worships only themselves and confesses their indiscretions and animosity towards each other.
I begin to wonder how much I have confessed or shared my life on this blog. I do not seek acceptance or absolution, so what am I confessing? What am I sharing to you? Although I've opened up on some personal matters, I feel anonymously safe because I'm behind the screen. For so many of us who have impersonalized blogs, like mine, ones that have very personal thoughts and stories, we are comforted by the fact that we have not stripped to our bare identity and then asked to step out from behind that technological partition. We would be completely naked without our alter-ego and our computer monitor; in essence: we would be facing the priest. That is a frightening prospect: when the world knows of your sins and can put a face to them, the revelation is the apex of vulnerability.
Whether you are a coward or a hero, confessing openly is sharing everything about yourself—all your goodness and your iniquities—and then trusting someone to care and accept you while you're still vulnerable and exposed.
For many of us out there, that's still hard to do.
Growing up in Catholic household, I participated in this rite several times. There were two ways in which we could go about wiping our souls clean: facing the priest and honestly revealing ourselves and our transgressions as we sit before him, or remaining anonymous by hiding behind a thin partition of intricate woodwork. In the few times I had confessed my sins or let go of my troubled mind, I chose to remain nameless and concealed myself behind that screen.
Forgive me, World, for it has been seventeen years since my last confession. Since that time, I have strayed from my spiritual roots and chose to confess my sins and express my mind through the Internet.
Hmm… I guess not much has changed.
Oscar Wilde wrote, in The Picture of Dorian Gray, "It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution." When we confess, we really just need to let go of our inner conflicts, whatever they may be. Wilde even assumes that confession does not have the religious connotation as it did in the past, for the priest does not absolve us. In today’s technological world, the Internet is the modern day confessional, and the confession ranges from secret sins to blatant rudeness.
When it comes to confession, there are some people who find strength behind an alias. We have this false sense of courage because we tell truths that we would not openly say to a person's face. We say that we are “being honest,” but does it count when we hide behind the screen? There is no honesty when we still hide something. When we discharge our hateful thoughts, proselytize our radical ideas, and eject offensive words, we do not always filter what escapes from our lips. Why filter the words when we have filtered our identity? We sit behind a computer screen and then justify our behavior by lying to ourselves that we have not broken any rules of social decorum.
Many of us--Catholic or not--have chosen this great technology as the vehicle for testimonials, yet continue to hide behind the computer screen or some false identity. We unleash a horde of confessions--sinful or not--because we look for absolution or affirmation from a network of cyberspace strangers. Just like in the Church, we seek for conformity and acceptance with other Catholics; we certainly don't want to burn in hell while everyone else has cleansed their souls to get to heaven; whereas in society, we seek that comfort when we know that there are others "like us." We divulge our opinions and feelings because we hope someone will listen and accept us for who we are. For some, to be accepted by the world or by anyone is simply heaven. The Internet has become the new Church, where everyone worships only themselves and confesses their indiscretions and animosity towards each other.
I begin to wonder how much I have confessed or shared my life on this blog. I do not seek acceptance or absolution, so what am I confessing? What am I sharing to you? Although I've opened up on some personal matters, I feel anonymously safe because I'm behind the screen. For so many of us who have impersonalized blogs, like mine, ones that have very personal thoughts and stories, we are comforted by the fact that we have not stripped to our bare identity and then asked to step out from behind that technological partition. We would be completely naked without our alter-ego and our computer monitor; in essence: we would be facing the priest. That is a frightening prospect: when the world knows of your sins and can put a face to them, the revelation is the apex of vulnerability.
Whether you are a coward or a hero, confessing openly is sharing everything about yourself—all your goodness and your iniquities—and then trusting someone to care and accept you while you're still vulnerable and exposed.
For many of us out there, that's still hard to do.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Widening My Horizons
I got an email from the Department of Defense last month, asking that I update my application if I still wanted to be on their database. As I clicked on the link, logged into my account, and reviewed the application I wrote in 2001, I thought of the possibilities that could have happened in my life.
I love teaching and traveling. Working for the Department of Defense would have merged these two things--teaching overseas in military bases. I wanted to live in Japan for a couple years and then in Germany, too. I would have lived on base, gained civilian-military status, paid off all my debt while enjoying the luxuries of diverse cultures and societes.
Although my parents and friends say that I'm at that age where I need to settle down and start establishing roots--the genealogical kind--I feel that I need to accomplish as much as I can while my roots have not yet taken root, so to speak.
With that, I updated my application. As I wrote more paragraphs to describe my skills, clicked on all the qualifications that applied, and revised my references from college professors to colleagues and supervisor bigwigs, it made me realize just how much I have grown and developed professionally in my career. I may not have established genealogical roots, but my professional roots seem to be firmly planted. Do I really want to leave all that to start over in another country and in another educational environment?
It was a question I pondered for five minutes, and my final act was clicking on the "SUBMIT" button... for the 2009-2010 school year, the school year after next. I can't leave this place just yet. There is still some major ass-kicking to do at the district.
I'm going to play this by ear. I don't count on being hired; after all, my first application was back in 2001 and they interviewed me three years later. Although I would love to have a job with the Department of Defense, I wouldn't be disappointed if they overlook my application again. But if I am hired this time around, I'm ready for a change.
I love teaching and traveling. Working for the Department of Defense would have merged these two things--teaching overseas in military bases. I wanted to live in Japan for a couple years and then in Germany, too. I would have lived on base, gained civilian-military status, paid off all my debt while enjoying the luxuries of diverse cultures and societes.
Although my parents and friends say that I'm at that age where I need to settle down and start establishing roots--the genealogical kind--I feel that I need to accomplish as much as I can while my roots have not yet taken root, so to speak.
With that, I updated my application. As I wrote more paragraphs to describe my skills, clicked on all the qualifications that applied, and revised my references from college professors to colleagues and supervisor bigwigs, it made me realize just how much I have grown and developed professionally in my career. I may not have established genealogical roots, but my professional roots seem to be firmly planted. Do I really want to leave all that to start over in another country and in another educational environment?
It was a question I pondered for five minutes, and my final act was clicking on the "SUBMIT" button... for the 2009-2010 school year, the school year after next. I can't leave this place just yet. There is still some major ass-kicking to do at the district.
I'm going to play this by ear. I don't count on being hired; after all, my first application was back in 2001 and they interviewed me three years later. Although I would love to have a job with the Department of Defense, I wouldn't be disappointed if they overlook my application again. But if I am hired this time around, I'm ready for a change.
Monday, April 07, 2008
State of My Affairs
While doing my taxes, I always complain how much money the government takes from my paycheck, and sometimes I still end up paying more on April 15. I don't understand how a teacher--who still spends $1000+ on yearly school supplies (books mostly)--still has to pay. I mean, I practically donate my money back into the classroom, and all I get a $250 deductible. It's true that I don't have any kids of my own to spoil, so my money goes back into my work where I use it for the students anyway. Tax time makes me realize the futility of my job and that it really is a thankless career to the government and to the politicians.
Then I realized this ugly thing about taxes--which has nothing to do with my job. As my brother-in-law breathes a sigh of relief at how easy his taxes are, especially since he's married, I begin to realize that married people have it easy with their finances... and how Christian values have influenced the machinery of economics and government. Married couples--people who have dual income--get less money taken from them, but a single person like myself is squeezed dry like a broken piggy bank. I think that's our government's way of promoting nuclear family values: "Get married, procreate, and we take less money from you because you are ensuring the security of American morality." But if you're single, the government will punish you: "We'll take more money because you are living the hedonistic life and promoting immorality and breaking down family values."
I'm not poor, but when my money is taken from me, I really feel cheated and unappreciated. Not to mention that I feel like that half the year already from the shit I have to deal with from school district bureaucracy. I'm a teacher and unappreciated. I'm single and I'm scolded financially. I live in California, the most progressively backward state in the Union.
Then I realized this ugly thing about taxes--which has nothing to do with my job. As my brother-in-law breathes a sigh of relief at how easy his taxes are, especially since he's married, I begin to realize that married people have it easy with their finances... and how Christian values have influenced the machinery of economics and government. Married couples--people who have dual income--get less money taken from them, but a single person like myself is squeezed dry like a broken piggy bank. I think that's our government's way of promoting nuclear family values: "Get married, procreate, and we take less money from you because you are ensuring the security of American morality." But if you're single, the government will punish you: "We'll take more money because you are living the hedonistic life and promoting immorality and breaking down family values."
I'm not poor, but when my money is taken from me, I really feel cheated and unappreciated. Not to mention that I feel like that half the year already from the shit I have to deal with from school district bureaucracy. I'm a teacher and unappreciated. I'm single and I'm scolded financially. I live in California, the most progressively backward state in the Union.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Life Is Like an Essay
Life is like the five paragraph essay that I teach in class. I tell my students that their audience will always remember the introduction and the conclusion, so they need to start off strongly and end their essay just as powerfully. And like life, you will be remembered most by how you came into this world and how you leave it.
The introduction is birth: people will remember how you hooked them with your cuteness, your baby feet, and your little fingers. Everyone will start to make plans and dream big things for you. Their goal and their hope is that your life will be free of troubles and imperfections. You didn't define how or what your life would be like. Instead, other people have defined it for you.
The three body paragraphs are benchmarks of life: childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. They are the parts of your life that you struggle with--the construction of your foundation and beliefs, the development of your identity, the improvement and expansion of your independence. Nothing will be perfect as you try to organize these parts of your life. As you rewrite your paragraphs, you keep asking yourself about your goals. Are you struggling to support your own thesis or someone else's? Whatever you decide, this section is where most of the revision takes place. You're never sure if you got it down or not.
Then there is the conclusion. Everyone fumbles over the conclusion. Do we summarize everything we already mentioned in the essay? Do we repeat our main points? How do we close and end gracefully and thoughtfully? What do we want our audience to remember most? What do we want our loved ones to remember of us? The conclusion is accidental, like most of life itself. Sometimes we can end that essay with grace and wit, and everyone will remember the perfection of it that they will forget the errors of your life and forgive you for your faults. But death is unexpected, so that concluding paragraph does not always come out as you had planned. The conclusion's short and abrupt ending does not give the audience the closure that they seek, so it leaves them confused and puzzled.
As they search for answers, they will reread the conclusion and maybe the entire essay all over again, combing over the stages of your life and criticizing your imperfections. They will ask themselves, "What was the thesis in the first place?" and then reread the introduction. They will realize that you never really had one... not your own, anyway.
A conclusion that doesn't give closure, body paragraphs that are not organized, and an introduction that never defines who you are make a weak essay. And that's all you will be remembered for. The conclusion can be that exclamation point that gets everyone to applaud and leave the auditorium with echoes of your accolades, or it can be the ellipsis that confuses everyone to silently boo you off the stage with their disappointment.
No matter how hard you tried or worked on your essay, that conclusion will be the defining paragraph that sings your praises or negates your life.
The introduction is birth: people will remember how you hooked them with your cuteness, your baby feet, and your little fingers. Everyone will start to make plans and dream big things for you. Their goal and their hope is that your life will be free of troubles and imperfections. You didn't define how or what your life would be like. Instead, other people have defined it for you.
The three body paragraphs are benchmarks of life: childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. They are the parts of your life that you struggle with--the construction of your foundation and beliefs, the development of your identity, the improvement and expansion of your independence. Nothing will be perfect as you try to organize these parts of your life. As you rewrite your paragraphs, you keep asking yourself about your goals. Are you struggling to support your own thesis or someone else's? Whatever you decide, this section is where most of the revision takes place. You're never sure if you got it down or not.
Then there is the conclusion. Everyone fumbles over the conclusion. Do we summarize everything we already mentioned in the essay? Do we repeat our main points? How do we close and end gracefully and thoughtfully? What do we want our audience to remember most? What do we want our loved ones to remember of us? The conclusion is accidental, like most of life itself. Sometimes we can end that essay with grace and wit, and everyone will remember the perfection of it that they will forget the errors of your life and forgive you for your faults. But death is unexpected, so that concluding paragraph does not always come out as you had planned. The conclusion's short and abrupt ending does not give the audience the closure that they seek, so it leaves them confused and puzzled.
As they search for answers, they will reread the conclusion and maybe the entire essay all over again, combing over the stages of your life and criticizing your imperfections. They will ask themselves, "What was the thesis in the first place?" and then reread the introduction. They will realize that you never really had one... not your own, anyway.
A conclusion that doesn't give closure, body paragraphs that are not organized, and an introduction that never defines who you are make a weak essay. And that's all you will be remembered for. The conclusion can be that exclamation point that gets everyone to applaud and leave the auditorium with echoes of your accolades, or it can be the ellipsis that confuses everyone to silently boo you off the stage with their disappointment.
No matter how hard you tried or worked on your essay, that conclusion will be the defining paragraph that sings your praises or negates your life.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Guilt and Death
A student of mine passed away this weekend. I hate emotional moments like this, when I'm taken by surprise. Of course, that's what happens when Death pays a visit. He is an uninvited guest that people hope would leave.
I took a moment away from the students in the morning, but I couldn't stay away from the class that knew her. The grief counselors came in, but none of the kids wanted to talk to them. Although the counselors suggested that I take the afternoon off, part of me just felt it wasn't right to leave the students alone with strangers either. After the counselors left, the students opened up a little; apparently, they didn't want to talk to them. The students wanted to talk amongst themselves. They wanted to remember their friend with laughter and funny stories, not with cries and tears, like the counselors expected them to. They even got me to talk about it. It helped a little to talk about it in a happy way rather than with sadness.
I did leave school early, but I didn't want to go home right away either. When it comes to grief, I'd rather just bury myself in work so I won't think about it. I felt guilty for some reason, like I didn't have the right to go about my normal day. I went to the bank and did some laundry when I got home, but the whole time, I kept thinking of my student.
Some people will say that burying yourself in work or denying that death happened is not how to handle grief, but who cares? Doesn't everyone handle their grief in their own way? I dislike it most when people try to analyze it and try to rationalize what I feel. When I want to remember my student in my own way, and someone tells me that there are five stages of grief, do I really care what stage I'm in? I do know that I'll get through this, and so will my kids... I guess I just really hate grieving in public.
I feel selfish now. I can't stay home tomorrow because I need my work to give me a sense of normalcy and routine; yet at the same time, I don't want to be around people. I feel guilty if stay home, and I feel guilty if I'm not there for my kids either.
I took a moment away from the students in the morning, but I couldn't stay away from the class that knew her. The grief counselors came in, but none of the kids wanted to talk to them. Although the counselors suggested that I take the afternoon off, part of me just felt it wasn't right to leave the students alone with strangers either. After the counselors left, the students opened up a little; apparently, they didn't want to talk to them. The students wanted to talk amongst themselves. They wanted to remember their friend with laughter and funny stories, not with cries and tears, like the counselors expected them to. They even got me to talk about it. It helped a little to talk about it in a happy way rather than with sadness.
I did leave school early, but I didn't want to go home right away either. When it comes to grief, I'd rather just bury myself in work so I won't think about it. I felt guilty for some reason, like I didn't have the right to go about my normal day. I went to the bank and did some laundry when I got home, but the whole time, I kept thinking of my student.
Some people will say that burying yourself in work or denying that death happened is not how to handle grief, but who cares? Doesn't everyone handle their grief in their own way? I dislike it most when people try to analyze it and try to rationalize what I feel. When I want to remember my student in my own way, and someone tells me that there are five stages of grief, do I really care what stage I'm in? I do know that I'll get through this, and so will my kids... I guess I just really hate grieving in public.
I feel selfish now. I can't stay home tomorrow because I need my work to give me a sense of normalcy and routine; yet at the same time, I don't want to be around people. I feel guilty if stay home, and I feel guilty if I'm not there for my kids either.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The Ice Cream Girl
When I was ten, my father came home from military deployment from South Korea and returned with a strange book called “The Melting of the Ice Cream Girl,” which is a how-to novel for novice teenagers dating in high school. This funny how-to manual had a story woven between its technical pages about a boy who had a crush on a girl at his school, but she barely noticed him. She wasn’t a snob at all, but she just had a crush on another boy who didn’t give her the time of day either. She and Boy #1 were in a class together, so they actually became friends, much to Boy #1’s happiness. Throughout the novel, Boy #1 laments as the girl of his dreams longs for popular Boy #2. The girl suddenly realizes that Boy #2 wasn’t worth her time, and then Boy #1 slowly makes his move. He sends her a secret message “IHATCOY” which puzzled her; and he then revealed at the end of the novel that IHATCOY meant “I have a tremendous crush on you.”
That novel seemed to set the standard for my romantic ideal notions of relationships. Girls want the “happily ever after,” but the real work of relationship is after the so-called happy ending. The question is: do we want that post-storybook happy ending?
“The Melting of the Ice Cream Girl” ended when Boy #1 got the girl of his dreams, but there was never a sequel about their lives after. Romance novels are the same way. We all have this notion that love will always be a happy journey of two people who are meant to be together, but as I got older, that notion is blown out of the water.
I hung out with friends about two weeks ago, and we openly discussed our lives—career, latest events… and dating. Sometimes I hate the topic of dating. Talking about dating opens up other topics connected to that, like relationships, ex-significant others, and sex. I don’t have much experience when it comes to any of those, so I still cringe or gasp when friends describe the latest practices of the dating scene: hooking up, breaking up, jerks who play around, ditzy girls who sleep around, dishonesty, hidden truths, and other things that just turn me off.
When friends asked me if I had dated anyone since my last boyfriend, I said no and that I was “done with dating.” Immediately, my three friends cried out, “NO!” Their tone was strange: it wasn’t a “NO!” of incredulity and disbelief, but a “NO!” that meant “some guy will be so deprived if you pull out of the dating pool now!” It was really complimentary how they adamantly tried to give me hope that there is someone out there, but as I've said before: I don’t care anymore.
When I think about the previous relationships I’ve been in and what the dating scene looks like now, I realize that I’m too old-fashioned to try dating the modern way. I’m not ready to settle down, but at my age, I’m not a spontaneous mid-20’s spring chicken either, which means I can be quite boring. There are times when I have that “been there-done that” attitude, but I think that kind of mentality comes with age. I’m not into clubbing, drinking at bars, or wild parties—never have been—yet people suggest that I should find a man in those places. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll find a man who has anything in common with me when he’d rather party and I’d rather stay home to watch a foreign film or cozy up to Earl Grey tea and a good book.
Yet the pressure of finding a mate always looms before me. People constantly ask me why a BITCH (Beautiful Intelligent Talented Caring Helpful) woman like me is still single. I’m pitied because I have a career I love but no Mr. Right, as if my life is incomplete; but I’d still be pitied even if I had a Mr. Right without a meaningful raison d’etre; after all: a modern woman needs something other than her man. Why is life’s success measured by relationships? I could have everything I want, except the trouble of a relationship, but I’m considered a failure just because I’m still single. I know I can’t compare myself to anyone of the cleric, but no one criticizes them for choosing the single life. It’s not a waste when a man or woman of the cloth decides to dedicate his or her life to helping others, but when the common layman decides to do the same, it’s a horse of a different color.
Do I think about spending my life with someone forever and forever? No, not anymore—not when everything I learn about men ruins any idealistic or realistic notion I had. Do I even think that I’ll ever meet the man of my dreams? I don’t wonder anymore; like I’ve said before: I’m resigned. If the man of my dreams enters my life when I’m 50, so be it. Until then, I’m not actively going to search in a club or bar, nor am I going to put myself out there in the booby-trapped jungle of modern dating. If you think I’m just a bitter single feminist, I’m not. I’m a single and very happy semi-feminist. I’m very content with my independence and everything else that I currently have that fulfills me. I always tell my students that my life is ice cream: I’ve already got peanut sprinkles and chocolate syrup. Men are just the cherry on top. Some cherries are just too tart, too soft, rotten, or not ripened enough. At this point in my life, cherries are optional. The ice cream is still good without them.
That novel seemed to set the standard for my romantic ideal notions of relationships. Girls want the “happily ever after,” but the real work of relationship is after the so-called happy ending. The question is: do we want that post-storybook happy ending?
“The Melting of the Ice Cream Girl” ended when Boy #1 got the girl of his dreams, but there was never a sequel about their lives after. Romance novels are the same way. We all have this notion that love will always be a happy journey of two people who are meant to be together, but as I got older, that notion is blown out of the water.
I hung out with friends about two weeks ago, and we openly discussed our lives—career, latest events… and dating. Sometimes I hate the topic of dating. Talking about dating opens up other topics connected to that, like relationships, ex-significant others, and sex. I don’t have much experience when it comes to any of those, so I still cringe or gasp when friends describe the latest practices of the dating scene: hooking up, breaking up, jerks who play around, ditzy girls who sleep around, dishonesty, hidden truths, and other things that just turn me off.
When friends asked me if I had dated anyone since my last boyfriend, I said no and that I was “done with dating.” Immediately, my three friends cried out, “NO!” Their tone was strange: it wasn’t a “NO!” of incredulity and disbelief, but a “NO!” that meant “some guy will be so deprived if you pull out of the dating pool now!” It was really complimentary how they adamantly tried to give me hope that there is someone out there, but as I've said before: I don’t care anymore.
When I think about the previous relationships I’ve been in and what the dating scene looks like now, I realize that I’m too old-fashioned to try dating the modern way. I’m not ready to settle down, but at my age, I’m not a spontaneous mid-20’s spring chicken either, which means I can be quite boring. There are times when I have that “been there-done that” attitude, but I think that kind of mentality comes with age. I’m not into clubbing, drinking at bars, or wild parties—never have been—yet people suggest that I should find a man in those places. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll find a man who has anything in common with me when he’d rather party and I’d rather stay home to watch a foreign film or cozy up to Earl Grey tea and a good book.
Yet the pressure of finding a mate always looms before me. People constantly ask me why a BITCH (Beautiful Intelligent Talented Caring Helpful) woman like me is still single. I’m pitied because I have a career I love but no Mr. Right, as if my life is incomplete; but I’d still be pitied even if I had a Mr. Right without a meaningful raison d’etre; after all: a modern woman needs something other than her man. Why is life’s success measured by relationships? I could have everything I want, except the trouble of a relationship, but I’m considered a failure just because I’m still single. I know I can’t compare myself to anyone of the cleric, but no one criticizes them for choosing the single life. It’s not a waste when a man or woman of the cloth decides to dedicate his or her life to helping others, but when the common layman decides to do the same, it’s a horse of a different color.
Do I think about spending my life with someone forever and forever? No, not anymore—not when everything I learn about men ruins any idealistic or realistic notion I had. Do I even think that I’ll ever meet the man of my dreams? I don’t wonder anymore; like I’ve said before: I’m resigned. If the man of my dreams enters my life when I’m 50, so be it. Until then, I’m not actively going to search in a club or bar, nor am I going to put myself out there in the booby-trapped jungle of modern dating. If you think I’m just a bitter single feminist, I’m not. I’m a single and very happy semi-feminist. I’m very content with my independence and everything else that I currently have that fulfills me. I always tell my students that my life is ice cream: I’ve already got peanut sprinkles and chocolate syrup. Men are just the cherry on top. Some cherries are just too tart, too soft, rotten, or not ripened enough. At this point in my life, cherries are optional. The ice cream is still good without them.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
To Protest or Not to Protest?
A co-worker once said, "shit floats to the top," to describe how some people are just not fit for management duties. When my students often lament that presidents or leaders are inept, in their target's defense, I often say that leaders do their best within the parameters of their job. People can promise many things, but when certain rules or limitations are difficult to overcome in order to achieve a goal, leaders will look inept because nothing has been tangibly accomplished for all to see.
I'm beginning to feel that way. As a department chair, my priority now has been to revise curriculum and defend my colleagues in the professional decisions we all make. We have many ideas and goals, and I had hoped we would accomplish them while I was department chair. But it's difficult to achieve anything when management conflicts with the ideas we want to try. In real life, I begin to see that there are situations that really demonstrate how some things are easier said than done. I feel like I hit a dead end no matter what I do.
When I took on this position, I just wanted to implement ideas and procedures that I felt would benefit my colleagues and benefit the students. While everyone in my department has been supportive of the decisions I make, there is also a division amongst us: those who want to make change, and those who just want to stay in their classrooms while change happens around them. I guess I'm a radical when it comes to my beliefs, and in the past two weeks, I've opened up my big mouth too much that my department is getting a spotlight of unwanted attention from district management. And as I step up to the plate to defend myself and my colleagues, I'm also getting a full frontal of an ugly beast called "political micromanaging." I hate being told what to do, but when I'm being told to do something just because some inept leader said, "I said so," it is even more aggravating and frustrating; they want me on a leash. I don't like being the mediator for their dirty work.
In the midst of all this, I'm teaching students of American literature--a body of work which is full of patriotism and protest and ideals of nonconformity that shaped America. I'm inspired by this and in my own small way, I want to protest against the district of how teaching to a test isn't really teaching, nor are students really learning. As I read all this protest literature, I also have to think about how much am I willing to suffer for the sake of what I beleive in. Am I ready to be hated? Am I ready to get sent to the office for constant reprimand? Am I ready for embarassment and vilification as my name gets touted as the rebel English teacher from that school? Most importantly, as a leader at my school, am I ready to bear that burden if my department falls down with me, whether they supported me or not?
Upper management is an obstacle that I have to overcome, and at this point, I'm feeling the limitations slowly surround and restrict me. That being said, I find it difficult to do my job--whether it's teaching students or defending colleagues or revising curriculum--when shit floats to the top.
I'm beginning to feel that way. As a department chair, my priority now has been to revise curriculum and defend my colleagues in the professional decisions we all make. We have many ideas and goals, and I had hoped we would accomplish them while I was department chair. But it's difficult to achieve anything when management conflicts with the ideas we want to try. In real life, I begin to see that there are situations that really demonstrate how some things are easier said than done. I feel like I hit a dead end no matter what I do.
When I took on this position, I just wanted to implement ideas and procedures that I felt would benefit my colleagues and benefit the students. While everyone in my department has been supportive of the decisions I make, there is also a division amongst us: those who want to make change, and those who just want to stay in their classrooms while change happens around them. I guess I'm a radical when it comes to my beliefs, and in the past two weeks, I've opened up my big mouth too much that my department is getting a spotlight of unwanted attention from district management. And as I step up to the plate to defend myself and my colleagues, I'm also getting a full frontal of an ugly beast called "political micromanaging." I hate being told what to do, but when I'm being told to do something just because some inept leader said, "I said so," it is even more aggravating and frustrating; they want me on a leash. I don't like being the mediator for their dirty work.
In the midst of all this, I'm teaching students of American literature--a body of work which is full of patriotism and protest and ideals of nonconformity that shaped America. I'm inspired by this and in my own small way, I want to protest against the district of how teaching to a test isn't really teaching, nor are students really learning. As I read all this protest literature, I also have to think about how much am I willing to suffer for the sake of what I beleive in. Am I ready to be hated? Am I ready to get sent to the office for constant reprimand? Am I ready for embarassment and vilification as my name gets touted as the rebel English teacher from that school? Most importantly, as a leader at my school, am I ready to bear that burden if my department falls down with me, whether they supported me or not?
Upper management is an obstacle that I have to overcome, and at this point, I'm feeling the limitations slowly surround and restrict me. That being said, I find it difficult to do my job--whether it's teaching students or defending colleagues or revising curriculum--when shit floats to the top.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Sad Revitalization
I find it disappointing and almost pitiful that most musicians and actors I admired or liked in the '80s are now fodder for the reality shows that plague television. What is the point: our nostalgia for our past, or our eagerness to see our idols fall?
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
This Is a Test
Six years ago I wrote about how my car guages the perfection of my life, and each time I think too highly of how my life is perfect, I get into a car accident.
As of 7:45pm this evening, I became a victim of a hit-and-run accident. My emotions are running a bit high, from anger to relief. I'm angry because the other [teenaged] driver said he would help me out, and then he got into his car and drove off. I hope karma bites him in the ass. My car withstood the impact; I hope he and his passengers get whiplash, or his car will break down, or he'll get into another accident (because he drove away pretty fast).
But now I am left to ask myself: is my life perfect that God or fate had to send me another accident to remind me of how life is not always perfect? I'm not upset that my car is damaged; maybe that says that I'm not upset too much about the impact of this accident on my life. I'm relieved I'm not hurt. My car is still taking beatings for me. I'm content. Life is okay.
I still hope that teenager gets some karma back at him though.
As of 7:45pm this evening, I became a victim of a hit-and-run accident. My emotions are running a bit high, from anger to relief. I'm angry because the other [teenaged] driver said he would help me out, and then he got into his car and drove off. I hope karma bites him in the ass. My car withstood the impact; I hope he and his passengers get whiplash, or his car will break down, or he'll get into another accident (because he drove away pretty fast).
But now I am left to ask myself: is my life perfect that God or fate had to send me another accident to remind me of how life is not always perfect? I'm not upset that my car is damaged; maybe that says that I'm not upset too much about the impact of this accident on my life. I'm relieved I'm not hurt. My car is still taking beatings for me. I'm content. Life is okay.
I still hope that teenager gets some karma back at him though.
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