The Relationship With My Country

On this blog, I have explored facets of my identity as a woman, as a Filipino, and as an American. In my moments of exploration, I have had ups and downs about my value and worth as a citizen and my responsibility as an educator. I have measured myself and my citizenship with standards of "White" America. Recent events in the past two weeks have made me rethink my identity as a person of color, not as an Asian-American. I have reflected recently about my relationship with Black America. This might sound racist, but it isn't. I see it as breaking up with one boyfriend and moving on with a new one. A new relationship is going to make me see myself differently. I have reread some of my old posts, and they need to updated or qualified, given that I have grown and developed again. I've had some pretty major life changes since my last post in 2014, and my experiences have made me rethink and review my identity, my values, and my loyalty to a country. These past two weeks have been painful, but also eye-opening. Renewal is not easy, but it feels good to start on the road to healing.

Sexiest and Most Flirtatious Exchange Ever.

NEFF
I wish you'd tell me what's engraved on that anklet.

PHYLLIS
Just my name.

NEFF
As for instance?

PHYLLIS
Phyllis.

NEFF
Phyllis. I think I like that.

PHYLLIS
But you're not sure?

NEFF
I'd have to drive it around the block a couple of times.

PHYLLIS
(Standing up again)
Mr. Neff, why don't you drop by tomorrow evening about eight-thirty. He'll be in then.

NEFF
Who?

PHYLLIS
My husband. You were anxious to talk to him weren't you?

NEFF
Sure, only I'm getting over it a little. If you know what I mean.

PHYLLIS
There's a speed limit in this state, Mr. Neff. Forty-five miles an hour.

NEFF
How fast was I going, officer?

PHYLLIS
I'd say about ninety.

NEFF
Suppose you get down off your motorcycle and give me a ticket.

PHYLLIS
Suppose I let you off with a warning this time.

NEFF
Suppose it doesn't take.

PHYLLIS
Suppose I have to whack you over the knuckles.

NEFF
Suppose I bust out crying and put my head on your shoulder.

PHYLLIS
Suppose you try putting it on my husband's shoulder.

NEFF
That tears it.

Double Indemnity (1944)
Screenplay by Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler
Novel by James M. Cain

What I Meant to Say…

In the past few days, philosophical thoughts have been stewing in my head. The ingredients for such a deadly concoction have come from my master’s program as well as from one inquisitive student who always knew the right thing to ask or say.

One day, in the midst of a writing lesson, he asked, “How do you study for English?”

That is a question that has always been on my mind as I argue with students about the importance of English, the importance of reading, and the importance of understanding one's own identity. This question is always in the back of my mind because I mulled over on how to answer it appropriately. I had all the answers in my head, stockpiled like ammo, but when he put me on the spot that day, I didn’t know which one to tell him. But as a teacher, it wasn’t my job to give him the answers; it’s a student’s job to seek the answer that will best satisfy him. I gave him a response that probably only confused him more, but it totally made perfect sense to me: “You can’t study for English.” And since I said this aloud, I’m sure I confused my other students who twitched at my reply. They were probably thinking, “Then why am I taking English?”

I went home that day feeling unsatisfied. I was unsatisfied because I felt I failed at any attempt to enlighten my student, I failed to grasp a teaching moment and run with it and have a deep discussion, and most of all, I failed at getting my own meaning across. That last part was the epic fail: failure to communicate my ideas. It became the epiphany in my career because I’m finally putting down the words of what I believe. I am an English teacher, but “English” doesn’t even begin to encompass what I really teach.

How do you study for English? What I meant to say was English is beyond grammar and vocabulary. English is more than a composition of parts of speech, syntax, and sentence diagramming. Those are just rules that can be applied. They are the mechanics to help you edit your writing. You can’t memorize every single grammar rule or every vocabulary word, just as you can’t ride a bike by memorizing bike parts. You ride a bike by getting in the seat and falling a few times until you find your balance. Grammar and vocabulary are the same way. They are building blocks to help you with your writing, but if you never write and see the training wheels of my red pen, then you are not building your skills.

How do you study for English? What I meant to say was that we are studying communication skills. We are studying how to read, write, speak, and listen effectively. Just because you talk in English or read in English doesn’t mean you are fluent in English; just as healing yourself when you’re sick doesn’t make you a doctor. To help you practice all the grammar and vocabulary, we are going to practice with the English language because that is what we speak. I’m evaluating you on your effectiveness in your communication skills. It’s not about whether you got the right or wrong answer; it’s about whether or not you clearly organized your thoughts and then conveyed them clearly to me so that I understand you.

How do you study for English? What I meant to say was English is not about loving literature and books. Literature is a just a vehicle for ideas, so English class really focuses on exploring ideas, whether you agree with them or not. Literature—whether it’s nonfiction, novels, poetry, short stories, or plays—gives us something to talk about, and learn about the world, too. With books and poetry, we can sympathize with lovers of the past, we can travel to a tropical island and watch the downfall of humanity; we can read about political strategies of evil masterminds and ponder their morality. Literature is so varied, so we can talk about anything and everything. It makes you think outside of your immediate space. You can hate a book and its characters, but if you want to debate and criticize, then you’re exploring ideas that are not your own. That’s all I ask. If you love a book, it’s not because you love the characters, it’s because you agreed with an idea and you felt justified in your own thoughts. That’s what literature really is: it is a gift of perspective. You will learn of a life outside of your own. It is a gift of empathy, for you will learn how to understand people that you may meet in your real life. Literature is a dress rehearsal for reality. It can strengthen you or break you, just like life.

Dear Student, when you asked me “How do you study for English,” what I meant to say was that there is no way to study LIFE. English falls under the humanities, and humanities means exactly what it means: to study what makes us human. It is the study of music, poetry, arts, politics, philosophies, ethics, language, and cultures. In the nine months that you sit in my “English” class, I cannot give you any advice or instruction on how to understand the depth of humanity, nor do I have the time to teach all of that. To understand humanity, one must embrace and understand how we live. Simply put: we must practice at having and living a life.

I wrote this essay, dear Student, to show you that one moment in the classroom became a learning epiphany for my career. One simple question you raised inspired me to think about my life and my role as a teacher. My reflective thoughts became an essay. My essay became the literary vehicle to express myself. Now I share it with you, dear Student, and I ask you, “Was I effective in conveying my thoughts? Did I answer your question? Do you understand my values and ethics as a teacher? Do you understand where I’m coming from now?”

How do you study for English? What I meant to say was “Let’s explore ideas. Let’s express and communicate our ideas through writing and speaking. We are practicing English, not studying it.”

So don’t study this essay. I’m not going to quiz you, I’m not going to ask if you know what certain vocabulary words mean, I’m not going to ask if you recognize the rhetorical strategies I used (and I did use some), I’m not asking you to memorize this because this piece of literature will be useless to you in college; but I hope the idea will be useful for you in life.

The Reality is... (or the Second Boston Massacre)

As I'm starting this entry, there are so many thoughts going through my head that I second-guess myself and think I shouldn't be writing this now. The country is still reeling and investigations are just beginning. Everything I am reading on the internet are somewhat incomplete stories and tidbits of the explosion at the Boston Marathon.

I am taken back to 9/11. When that tragedy happened, I was still in the teaching credential program. It was a normal school day, but it wasn't so normal after watching the replayed events on TV that morning. I started a journal for myself on that very same day: I was angry that so many innocent people died, I was angry that a group of paranoid and cowardly hijackers had to attack America by taking hostages, but I was also angry at myself. I had never felt so ignorant of the world than at that moment. I promised myself that I would pay more attention to the news and politics and global relationships. Although I feel myself more knowledgeable than a decade ago, I still feel that I'm not doing enough or that I still don't know enough.

Earlier today, in the middle of a patriotic celebration to commemorate the start of the American Revolution, the Boston Marathon was ruined by two explosions. The White House called it an "act of terror." And again, I am left with those same feelings I once felt on 9/11. I am angry that so many innocent people are injured and dead; I am angry at the individuals who did this, for they struck at blameless civilians; and I am angry at myself again, because I feel helpless and paranoid and ignorant all over again. As a logical person, I need to control my anger--which I admit, is a strong word. Maybe I am more frustrated, and in my frustration, I entertain ignorant and racist and stereotypical thoughts. This is dangerous, and so I realize that I must let my frustration end as it is and not let it fester unleashed.

In an effort to feel less ignorant, I began to search on Google News and Yahoo! News for any information on the explosions in Boston. There were quite a few personal stories of families finding each other in the chaos, of runners' firsthand accounts of the explosion, of the technical difficulties of cell phones, and of the efforts of policemen and women and emergency services to control the scene. I was interested in reading about the details--who was at fault? When did it happen? How many people were hurt? Where did it exactly happen? What happened afterwards? On the internet, I found a good amount of websites that offered both stories and photos.

I was very hesitant to look at photos. The experience of looking at photos from a current event is entirely different than looking at photos from historical events. This Boston Marathon-Massacre will be a historical event that will be logged in future textbooks and archived on the internet for all time, but right now, it hits too close to home, and the images are too shocking and painful to look at. I have seen captions with warning signs of raw video footage and graphic photos. I saw two photos of a blood-stained streets and sidewalks and that was enough for me. As I skimmed through websites that offered visual representation of details, I began to worry about the amount of pictures and video that made its way to the web for everyone to see.

News is ubiquitous, and so is the internet. We are becoming a very visual community due to slick advertising, Instagram, and companies with visible and popular trademark logos. In our media, which is saturated with either too much reality TV or fantasy films or consumer-made media (aka YouTube), there isn't much context for visuals. Seeing two photos of blood on the ground was depressing and sad enough for me. It hit me deeply that this event just happened at noon, earlier today, and as of this moment, three people died, including a small child. It hit me that, although Boston is on the other side of the coast, this is still America and it happened on my homeland. It hit me that this is the third terrorist event that I have seen in my lifetime. It hit me that we are living in an increasingly volatile world. This is my reality.

I skipped over links that had warning signs "due to their graphic nature." And then I began to think of my students. I honestly have doubts that people younger than me would not hesitate to click and see those photos. In their reality, this tragedy is so far from their own lives. They would view those photos to test their own courage and squeamishness over graphic content. They would empathize for a brief 10 seconds, but be glad that it didn't happen in Southern California. Maybe I am generalizing too quickly, but for a high school student--who has social media to connect with friends, who watches reality TV, who watches fantasy films or romanticized movies with happy endings or America will always win--reality does not set it too deeply with young people unless it is of a very personal nature. Unless some of my students have family in Boston, this historical event is as meaningful as 9/11--too distant to feel its impact.

This second Boston Massacre was reported on Twitter and Facebook alongside credible news agencies. Photos were uploaded independently in all types of media. We are picky about our news sources because we seek objectivity in information, and at the same time, a wealth of photos and news of this event all over the internet can cause such overwhelming confusion because some of the information has no context. We want our information to be free of bias, but raw footage and graphic photos are so unsettling that we can barely construct our own moral parameters to reflect on our own thoughts, our politics, or our feelings. Photos are so instantaneous that we don't have time to think except to just be shocked and disgusted, and then hate the people who did this. Sometimes we are too shocked and disgusted that we can't even sympathize and shrug it off with shallow words: "Oh well."

I am curious to know what my students think. When 9/11 happened, I saw teachers who decided to ignore the event and I saw teachers who watched the news with their kids, but most of those teachers were too afraid to talk about it or did not know how to make live history be a learning moment for kids. I will probably come to that tomorrow morning. I might bring it up or they might bring it up. What will their comments reveal about their feelings? What will their reactions say about their understanding and their ability to empathize? I know that I have to prepare myself not to get angry or frustrated in order to answer their questions and address their confusion.

Right now, my thoughts are with Boston. It was a city I have always wanted to visit, for its wealth in American history. I know that when I visit it in the future, it will be a city changed by this event. But I know Boston will pull through this, just as New York City had, just as Oklahoma City had, just as Honolulu had.

My Car

Recently, I got into a minor car accident. Nothing much: a typical rear-end collision while waiting at the stoplight. As my car jumped forward, I sat in my seat in disbelief and surprise. Thoughts of “Why me?” and “What did I do?” and “Are you serious?” and “Are you kidding me?” and “What the hell?” filled my head and I didn’t know how exactly to process the incident. As the car behind me pulled forward, I immediately thought that he might try to escape. That was what happened at my last rear-end collision: the teenage driver of that car sped away after he carelessly apologized. When he ran off, I began to hate humanity, especially irresponsible teens who drive without licenses.

But not this driver. He pulled up beside me, rolled down his window, and asked if I was all right. I said I was a bit shaken and shocked, and he suggested we pull over to the side of the street. The young man immediately came out of his car and humbly and respectfully apologized. He checked the damage of my car and his car. He apologized so many times and then offered his insurance information. We talked for a brief moment, and he admitted that he wasn’t paying attention. In my gut, I knew he was sincere. After we had exchanged information, I arrived at work and tried to forget about how my day started, but in the back of my head, I kept thinking how much this accident was going to inconvenience me in the next few weeks.

The last time I got into a major accident, I had to make appointments for my car to get it fixed, rent a car and pay out of my own pocket, and make phone calls to adjusters to make sure paperwork was filed. These were hassles. These were extra errands that were added to my day that I did not need to do. But the whole day of this new collision, I wasn’t worried about that. I was worried about the young man who hit me. I knew he was probably feeling guilty. I knew he was a good person, and for some reason, I felt bad if I decided to call up my insurance company and tell them that this good young man was irresponsible. Like a teacher that I am, I did not want to see a good person get into trouble. Initially, I hated all young irresponsible drivers who caused accidents, because they reminded me of that one teenager three years ago who hit my car and then ran off. I promised myself that if an irresponsible driver ever crossed my path, I would THROW HIM TO THE INSURANCE COMPANIES AND FILE POLICE REPORTS!!!

But this driver was nice, he was polite, and he was responsible. I didn’t want to get him in trouble. He would not be the scapegoat for the previous driver who hit me three years ago.

Later in the afternoon, I got a personal call from a woman—the driver’s grandmother. Even she apologized and offered more information as well as reassured me that her grandson was really a good boy. I believed her. We actually had a short conversation and even laughed together. She informed me that she would report the incident with her insurance and she encouraged me to do the same with my company. Then she reassured me that there would be no hard feelings or grudges. She said that this was a lesson her grandson needed, for he shouldn’t have been driving too fast anyway. After I hung up with her, this great weight suddenly lifted from me. Her grandson was in trouble, but not because of me; he had his grandmother and mother to face. He suddenly had more financial responsibilities to be accountable for, and according to his grandmother, he was still feeling guilty about the accident that morning (eight hours earlier). That guilty feeling of getting someone in trouble vanished. Even though my day started with an accident, it ended with comfort and smiles. It is quite unfortunate that I had to meet very nice people in what could have been a potentially litigious scenario.

The next day, I called my insurance company. When the other insurance company called me, they offered a few places to get my car fixed. I took the addresses down, but only recently did I decide to get my car even looked at. Why did it take me so long to even get an estimate?

My car is old. The clear coat is faded, the paint has begun to oxidize, there are dings and scratches everywhere, and recently I found gang tagging written on the dust of my trunk. The hubcaps are all gone. There are hard-water stains everywhere. When my students see my car, they either make fun of me or ask me why I didn’t just go buy a new one.

I don’t like to admit that I’m a materialistic person, but when it comes to my car—I’m very materialistic, maybe even to the point of Seven Deadly Sin status. In fact, I used to be quite vain about my car when it was first new. I washed and cleaned it every weekend. I was careful when driving in parking lots. I bought cute accessories to personalize it. When I got into my first accident, I did not hesitate to call up my insurance and get my car fixed immediately. My perfect car was going to stay perfect. No dents or scratches or mess ever. It was the perfect car for my perfect life.

Over the years, my car has grown with me. For every car payment, I learned financial responsibility. For every ding and scratch, I have learned to accept that my life will also have bumps and troubles. For every engine breakdown and flat tire, I have learned to appreciate my own physical health. For every accident, I have learned to roll with the punches. I have learned many lessons from my car. It may be hunk of junk to some, but to me, this car is a huge part of my life. This is not a car that I can easily throw away just because it’s old. It may even be considered ugly, but it’s mine and it’s still going strong. I am loyal to it because it has been loyal to me. I have had many accidents with this car—and that is not to say that I’m the bad driver--but at each accident that I have been in, I have never been to a hospital. My car took a beating so I didn’t have to. I love my car.

I kept the name of the body shops in my purse for about a week. It took me a while to set up an appointment just to get an estimate. I thought that my car was so old that it would look odd to get a new shiny bumper while the rest of my car was oxidized and faded. That would be like getting four out of five nails done at the salon. That new bumper is going to look odd.

But my car is loyal to me. It deserves a new bumper, even if the color is mismatched from the rest of the body. I drove my car to the body shop and the estimate was over $600. I informed the specialist that the last time I had a bumper replaced, it was only $500. Why was it so expensive, especially for an old model like mine? (Not that I was paying for any of it anyway, but I was still curious.) The specialist said that my car (this particular year and model), although old, is unique—especially its durable bumper frame. There are no “certified replicas” or parts of equal value. They have to order straight from the manufacturer. If the frame is damaged, it has to be replaced and they will have to order the part. If the bumper is still intact, they just have to repair the bumper cover.

I smiled at this bit of information. I got a tough car. I made a good investment. I should be proud of my car.

I have taken my car for granted in the past few years; maybe this accident is to remind me that I should not take my life for granted. People tell me that “it’s only a car” and it was made to stay safe; that that is its function. I don’t want to think of my car simply as an object. It has obviously saved my life plenty of times. The only way to thank my car and show gratitude is to make sure it’s always in tip-top shape, so nothing is too good for my vehicle.

I hope that I won’t have any other accidents—whether the driver is irresponsible or not. I value my life, which only makes me appreciate the durability of my car even more. I hope to keep this car for as long as I can.

Is the Grass Greener on the Other Side?

The school year ended more than a week ago. I have survived another year of budget cuts, professional setbacks and conflicts, hundreds of papers, countless immature attitudes and apathy, and final assessments. It was a successful year. Every August, I groan at the obstacles that I know I will face, but for now, I have two months to finally focus on something that is annually sacrificed while I focus on the development of young minds: me.

After overcoming my first year of teaching, most things come easy now. I have learned that, with time and patience, a task is not that difficult. I have plenty of time on my hands to do whatever I wish to do—decorate my apartment, write my novel, read some books, brush up on my photography, practice playing the cello, or take a dance lesson. I’ve always felt creative sparks inside me, so I’ve always known I was an “artist.” When I started photography, reading instructions from a manual and experimenting with f/stops and shutter speeds on a film camera was easy. It took me a month to understand the basic concept and I became comfortable with the process. When learned the cello in ninth grade, I learned to read music and apply my fingers to a fingerboard. That was easy. When I took a swing dance lesson, the steps came easy, and someone said I had natural rhythm. I think it was because I was good at following instructions and because I had a musical background. Although I have not mastered any of these talents, having the basic concept and knowledge has encouraged me to do better. I'm competent enough, and if I wish to pursue those skills, I know I can do it. I hesitate to call myself an artist in those fields because I'm not passionate about them, nor am I constantly trying to better myself in those fields.


Recently, I’ve been feeling incompetent, and it’s because of my writing. Why did my artistry take shape in writing? This is the question that has always left me feeling mixed about writing's relevancy as an artform. People say I’m good at writing, but I don’t really consider mastering the English language a gift. Maybe the manipulation of words is a craft, if I decided to write poetry, a song, or a story, but those activities fall by the wayside when I teach. Writing is so ingrained into my professional life that it has become part work for me. There are days when I enjoy spilling words onto paper, and there are times when it seems like such a chore that I dread doing it. I wish my creative spark ignited a different talent—specifically drawing.

I have so many images in my head, but they never truly come to life for me when I use words. Words are insufficient and incapable of depicting the scenes and landscapes, of giving a face to a character, of breathing action into a swordfight, or of creating awe into magic spells. Words slow me down. My hand can never keep up when I’m trying to describe gods torturing mortals, but my hand is incompetent when I’m trying to draw what torture looks like. It’s because my palette is an English lexicon that trying to use a set of shapes, lines, and colors is like using a different toolbox. I know the remedy for this incompetency is just to keep practicing, but this is daunting. I usually grasp concepts and skills within two months, less than that sometimes. With drawing, I'm starting from the ground. And I'm not talking about "hit the ground running;" I'm just on the ground.

I read comics, and I secretly wish that I could have drawn super heroes. I look at architecture, and I secretly wish I could have drafted the layout. I see a room, and I secretly wish I could have been the interior designer. I buy art books, but they frustrate me—I’m a perfectionist, and people look like aliens under my fingers. I go to museums to be inspired, but great painting make me feel that insignificant and that incompetent. I gaze upon messy paintings that look awesome, and I am awestruck at the perfect chaos rendered on canvas. A rainbow of emotions shock, surprise, or disgust me as colors and images flood my visual perceptions. Recently, I saw an exhibition on woodworking and wood-design, and I was just blown away at the geometric structures that a table can take, or the way a chest of drawers can curvaceously wave like crests of the ocean waters. Maple, pine, and oak are just trees. I never thought a swan-like coat hanger made with oak could be so graceful, or a vanity table with maple inlays could be so elegant.

I don’t really consider myself an artist because I don’t produce anything beautiful. If I were a true artist, I would be painting or sculpting or woodworking. If I were a musician, I would be composing and making music—classical or electronic. But as a writer… where’s the unique product? Words get trapped in books, and books have had the same physical structure for centuries. Words look the same, regardless of font and font size. Ideas aren’t beautiful; they’re just words. I wish I could create and produce something tangible that can be immediately appreciated or instantly reactive without having to think about it. I wish my ideas could be beautiful.

If writing is thinking, then I think I’m tired of thinking. I need to think in a different way, maybe in pictures.

Closure

When I was in high school, I didn't believe in staying friends after a relationship ended. How do you go back to platonic after vulnerability has been revealed? I wanted to be away from ex-boyfriends when the relationships were over--even better if we never spoke. For years, this philosophy has served me well. Then five years ago, one ex-boyfriend made me face the fact that we roamed the same circles and we could not avoid each other. From him, I learned exes can be civil and platonic again. Three years ago, one ex proved to be a good friend. Now that we were not in a relationship, we can think objectively and logically about what went wrong. We even joke about our past relationship. Slowly, my ideas of post-relationship began to change, and I'm even grateful that my relationships with ex-boyfriends have changed into something new for both of us.

But there's always one that just ended and you don't know why. And because there is no friendship, the relationship is entirely over. There's always that one relationship where a person thinks any one or all of these things:
That's the one that got away.
In a different lifetime, we would have worked out.
The timing wasn't right.
What went wrong?
What's wrong with me?
He/she is perfect; why am I not into him/her?
Can we still be friends?
This is not how it's supposed to end.
I need closure.

There is one relationship that impacted my perspective for all other men I have dated in my life. He did not set the standard for all future relationships, for he was far from perfect. From his flaws and imperfections, it pushed me to discover myself--my emotional limitations, my tolerance and patience, and most importantly, my values and self-worth--in a relationship and separately as an individual. Being with him was the most trying time of my life, emotionally and logically. And I learned so much about partnerships and about myself when our relationship ended.

Of all the thoughts listed above, I kept thinking that we would have worked out but the timing was just all wrong for us. I walked out on that relationship without a goodbye or an official "we're over." I walked out one night and never turned back. For months afterwards, I thought I wasn't being fair to him and didn't give him closure, when in my mind, I had all the closure I needed: I walked out. I had reached my limits, and I needed to get out before I lost myself.

Since that night, I never thought badly of him and hoped he was happy with whatever he was doing in life. Yes, I did imagine awkward moments of "What if we bumped into each other at the same restaurant?" and I wouldn't know what to say. Would he hate me because I never gave him closure? Would he assume that I never wanted anything to do with him anymore because I walked out? Or would we just say hi and turn the other away? Whatever the scenario, I would be content if he was happy in life, for I am happy and fulfilled in mine. Yes, I always wondered if he was doing well. Unlike my other ex-boyfriends, I do not have the luxury of friendship with him to ask him outright. It was just assumed that we have no right to each other's business anymore.

Whatever the impetus, he emailed me recently. I was surprised to see his name in my INBOX, and seeing his email nearly made my heart stop. After all these years, he decided to make contact with me. In short, he admitted his flaws and his shortcomings in our relationship, and he asked for my forgiveness for putting me through his emotional burdens. He sought closure. I had no grudges, so I forgave him.

Whether this recent contact means we may be friends again or not, I know we both have closure on one aspect of our lives... and I'm okay with that.

Dream-Killer

Last year, my students started calling me a "dream-killer," due to the strict way I grade essays. I'm so particular with language and grammar that, regardless of the color pen I use, I manage to make essays bleed with the regret of existence. But even with the low grades and the disheartening sighs, my students laugh at me and at each other before they dig their heels to do better for the revision. In addition, I have to say that I have created mini-dream-killers; whenever they edit other students' work, they are as harsh as I am.

Although they call me a "dream-killer," it's more for humor; I like to think of it as a "call to reality." The quality of student writing has declined in the past years since I have been teaching. What really gets me is that some students believe they can really write; some even want to be professional writers. Yet they cannot even string a coherent sentence together. When they see the corrections I make or the comments I write, it's a reality check that they were not analyzing their own mistakes or paying attention to details.

There is one particular student in mind. Inspired by Twilight and teenage romantic notions of eternal love, she really wants to be a writer and write stories, à la Stephanie Meyer (that's the student's first mistake: idolizing low-quality literature). Far be it from me to say what she wants to write--but gosh darn it!--I will not let her believe she can be professional writer. She cannot write. She is inarticulate with sentences and incomprehensible with anything related to the WRITTEN word. When I bloody up papers, hers becomes completely anemic by the time I finish (pun intended).

Dream-killer. I'm going to kill that dream right now. She can write all she wants and aspire to be a writer all she wants, but I will make bloody sure she will know that she will not be a good one.

Reality is a bitch.

Cutting the Dead Weight

After nearly a month of silence, I was invited to lunch to visit a friend, only to have him tell me that he was mad at me. We had it out, and neither one of us apologized. This was a colleague, and we have (or had) been friends for about five years. He accused me of valuing my job more than our friendship. I never thought of it that way before, but now that he brought it up: I think it's true, and so I admit it: I am a selfish person, even when it comes to friendship.

There is nothing wrong with spending time with coworkers outside of the workplace, but when I discover things about a person that could intrude with his professional life, I can't lie for him when he gets into trouble. And yes, I may even lose respect for that person. So if I value MY job more than his job and our friendship, then it's a loss I'm willing to live with.

Symbol of Your Life

I see it everywhere: marks of individuality, signs of uniqueness, symbols of the "me."

There is a long history of the tattoo; one can even argue that God made the first one for Cain--a symbol that singled him out as a murderer. In ancient Egypt, mummies have been discovered with symbols and signs on their bodies, characters and designs to represent love, honor, respect, even punishment. Tribes from all over the world practice the art of tattooing to mark the men and women of status. Tattoos obviously have had a cultural impact in the world today, which is why I don't find them to be repulsive; tattoos seem part of the norm.

When I was a senior in high school, I secretly wanted a tattoo. But I did not dare reveal this wish because tattoos had such a dubious reputation as "marks of deviance." But the way I saw it, tattoos were a form of storytelling. Whenever I saw one, I would ask what it represented, and certain individuals would proceed to tell me the story of what their insignia meant. Gangsters sported them to show their allegiance, bikers showed off their artistic value, and servicemen collected them as they traveled.

I always thought to myself, "If I ever got a tattoo, what would it be?" I pondered this fantasy all the way through college, but I did not dare enter a tattoo parlor to even browse. Two things stopped me at that time: my future in a professional career and my indecisiveness. At age 20, I knew that some people (future employers, whoever they may be) would not look too kindly at a "mark of deviance." I knew I wanted to be a teacher, but I could not imagine myself wearing long sleeves for most of my life just to cover up a tattoo in the classroom. Besides, tattoos were meant to be shown; what was the point if I covered them most of the time? At age 20, I also knew I had a future that would change and shape who I was. The last thing I wanted was a tattoo that no longer meant anything to me at age thirty or forty; a symbol of regret and idiocy.

Now that I am older, I still ponder that question: "If I ever get a tattoo, what would it be?" I have thought and thought about this, and now I know what I want. I realized that I am comfortable now in my own skin, who I am and what I am and what I will be in the future. I think these symbols (yes, two of them) are apt in my personality and philosophy of life. And I have been thinking about this for the past four months. So what's stopping me?

Commitment.

I am comfortable in my own skin that I like my skin just the way it is: unmarked. As I have jokingly said to friends, a wedding ring can be taken off, but a tattoo is for life. One would even ask, "So why do you even want one now?" I know that there are so many ways a person can express their individuality, and for me, it always through this blog expressing my ideas. But a tattoo is also a way of expressing that I am a person of ideas, and most of all, a person who is multi-faceted. Even a teacher gets tired of being pigeon-holed as a "role model" for the future generation. It may be repulsive and it may be frowned upon, but a "mark of deviance"--may it be a tattoo, the unusual car, the strange knickknacks, the odd haircut or hair color, the piercings, the clothes, the jewelry--allows us to be who we need to be and allows us to be who we are.

A picture is worth a thousand words, and a tattoo symbolizes so much and encompasses so many ideas. In two pictures, my whole life and being is subtly told. I remember my past and where I come from; I remember my purpose in life as I live each day in the present; and I will keep in mind of what the future holds for me whenever I stray from who I really am. It's what we all strive for: remembering who we really are and staying true to ourselves.

Materialism

As my older sister prepares to move back in with my parents, due to an impending divorce, my sisters and I have begun prepping our old rooms to make room for her and her children's belongings. It has been an arduous task because my parents are packrats; they refuse to throw anything away. As my sisters sifted through the garage, we grew frustrated at the old furniture, excessive clothes, and excessive junk that has accumulated from nearly 30 years of living in that house.

In all honesty, even I was guilty. Even though I have moved out of my house years ago, my old room still contains much of my things--mostly books. They are and always will be the bane of moving. I'm good about my clothes--if they don't fit or if I haven't used them, I will donate them. I'm the same with books--if I never liked the book or if it's something I will not miss, I'll donate them to the public library. Yet as a teacher, I acquire more books than I can get rid of.

I now live in an apartment, and I take up about seventy-five percent of the space--mostly through shelving and books and a home office. I do worry that one day I will die and no one will know what to do with my stuff. I don't want that to happen. I wonder about that now as I look at my parents' garage. When I die, I hope the only thing my descendants have to worry about is donating books and clothes and selling my CD collection on Craigslist or eBay.

Last weekend, I carted my books from my old room back up to the apartment. My sister said I should buy more shelves. That's the last thing I want to do: buy more furniture. I was quite envious when the boyfriend said he was able to pack everything he needed in a military-regulated bag. I wish I could do that. If push comes to shove, I wish I could pack up all my clothes into two large suitcases. But that's not easy when I've moved out since 2001. I've acquired furniture that made my life functional and collected knick-knacks that have defined my life. I keep thinking of the day when I will one day move again, and how much of a hassle it is to move and pack up this much stuff. I keep thinking of the day when I will die, and my descendants will probably throw most of my stuff away anyway: to them, it's junk. To me, it's sentimentality and a defined life. I realize my own hypocrisy when it comes to materialistic things. The only difference between me and my parents: I know when to throw stuff out.

Yesterday, I went through my closet. I am going to donate one-third of my clothes. That's a lot of clothes. Just seeing how much more room I have in my closet made me realize how much I don't always need more stuff. I have even rediscovered old clothes that I have forgotten because they were packed away in the depths of storage bins. I feel a great load has been lifted off my back because I got rid of so much stuff. If only going through my home office was just as easy. I spent half a day working through my closet and bedroom, but it takes me days to reorganize my desk and shelves.

If I ever have kids, I hope they have the foresight and enough gumption and deceit to get rid of clothes from when I was thirty. When I retire from my job, I hope new teachers will ransack my classroom for stuff they will need to start their careers. And when I reach my sixties, the goal will be that the garage of my house will still fit two cars (shiny muscle cars of the Dodge or Chevy variety).

Simplify, simplify, simplify.

Anti-Technology

I use technology as a tool. I use technology as a social network. I also use technology to publish this blog. Technology is part of my life--it comes as a computer, a cell phone, and an iPod. It has been part of my life since my father put together a "home brew" PC in 1994. I know what my life was like before computers and internet pervaded my habits and became part of my daily activities.

As Governor Schwarzenegger proposes the "Digital Textbook Initiative" in California, I fear Ray Bradbury's futuristic society of Fahrenheit 451 coming to life. In his book, Bradbury predicts that television will take over society by brainwashing and censorship. Television will be the only form of communication for information--completely regulated by government. Although Bradbury's fear focused on television, television itself is metonymical for technology in our current times. Replace television with Internet, computers, or media; it's all the same. And they're all a deadly combination.

In a sociological sense, the internet has benefited us as well as handicapped us. The benefits are obvious: communication and access to information. It has made the world more globally connected. I have made international penpals through the internet, stayed in touch with relatives and friends across the country, and exchanged ideas with colleagues and professionals in my field. Internet and computers have made my life easier in that sense. But as a teacher, I see a greater handicap: the dehumanization of a new generation.

Seven years ago when I first started teaching, iPods were not yet invented and cell phones were not that prevalent in the classroom. I had students who would listen to me when I lectured and listened to each other when we had discussions. I had students who grew to know each other in the classroom as the year passed. The only problem I had to deal with when it came to writing was "text message" spelling, which was easily corrected because students still knew the differences between all the homophones.

Seven years later, I have seen a great change in the sophomores I teach from the sophomores of 2002. I have to compete for students' attention because they would rather listen to their iPod or send text messages to students in another classroom. When I assign a book to read, they immediately ask if there's a movie version. Their reading skills have declined because they don't recognize how real words are correctly spelled. Homework competes with Myspace and Facebook. And what about the exchange of ideas during class discussion? Forget that. Discussion is an argument because they don't want to learn the rules of engagement. The classroom is one large chatroom and whoever types the fastest is the one who gets the floor. In this case, the one who shouts the loudest dominates. And forget ideas. They would rather gossip about someone's blog or Myspace and then bring that drama to the classroom where it distracts from lessons.

Wikipedia is omniscient.
Google is god.
Youtube is all-seeing.
Myspace is all-knowing.

Yet students are not learning anything useful. Sure, they're learning social skills, but not the kind that will help them in the working world. They know how to start drama through Myspace, but they don't know how to fix it when it invades their waking life. They may know how to blog, but they write incorrectly. And although they have a wealth of information at their fingertips, they don't learn anything. Their writing has deteriorated, they don't absorb ideas, they don't build on what they know, they don't correct their mistakes. The computer will do it all for them. Microsoft Word corrects mistakes (except homophones), Google will find information, cut and paste and plagiarize, and turn it in for a grade. But did they learn anything?

Now our California governor wants to digitalize textbooks. He says it is to save money. As Bradbury wrote, "there's more than one way to burn a book." I'm a concerned teacher. Schools can't afford computers for each student or each classroom. I can teach without a book, but the dynamics of a classroom will change. Students will not pay attention to me if they're browsing the web. Students won't care to socialize or get to know each other if they're glued to the screen. What guarantee will I have that students will read digitalized textbooks anyway? They will still have iTunes playing in the background while chatting with friends while they are supposedly doing homework or research.

Information--from music to academics--is a downloadable megabyte temporarily stored from hard drive to thumb drive or music player. Students don't appreciate the art of CD covers or read liner notes from their favorite artists. They don't turn pages to understand words and ideas, but quickly scroll down for subheadings. They don't take the time to read, to understand, to digest, and most of all, to absorb and appreciate what they have. The Internet is like a shopping center, a place where they can get everything. Download means free, so students view knowledge like they view the latest trends: disposable.

As an English teacher, a teacher of the humanities, it is my job to teach students to understand life, people, and the community. Through literature, I hope to teach sympathy for others outside of their own reality, I hope to expose them to ideas that will build their own and beyond. Through writing, I hope to drive them to action that will change the world. But the way students encapsulate themselves in their own selfish and sheltered lives, they care less about others. Why be humane when Myspace drama is so much more entertaining? Although they are globally connected, why should they care about saving Darfur? They are so connected to technology that they are disconnected from humanity.

Technology is a tool. Just because the Internet stores a bunch of information, it does not mean it is not smart. It does not know right from wrong. It is an objective calculator. Unfortunately, our future generation reflects that: they are not smarter than previous generations even when they have a wealth of knowledge at their fingertips. Although they know right from wrong, they don't care if they are not affected. Their brains are like the computers: storing information when they need it, but deleted afterwards. They don't build on past knowledge; they start over.

Technology is beneficial for our knowledge, but has dehumanized many of us in many ways.

The Mother Card

The Mother Card. Women pull this like some black people pull the "race card" when they don't get their way or don't like what they hear.

I am single. I have no children. I have dedicated myself to my career. This is the choice I have made. This is not to say that I am against marriage or against having children; it is just those options were not part of the path that I have chosen to walk. If they cross my path in the future, I certainly am open to it; but at this point in my life, I am deaf to the biological clock.

In a woman's life, there is a prominent fork in the road: career or motherhood. Men never had that choice because most men don't think the responsibility of care-taking as a career. They were taught to just succeed in their life, mostly through their profession. But women do have to make that choice. If they focus on their career, they postpone motherhood. If they choose motherhood, it's difficult to go back to the working world. If they strive for both, which is possible, neither job is perfect. In the workplace, they will get criticized for not dedicating enough time to their job; and at home, Mommy may not always have time for the family or just seem "too busy" for anything else.

I have chosen to dedicate myself to my profession. I realize the consequence of my choice: delayed marriage, delayed motherhood, or even the possibility of staying single and childless for the rest of my life. I understand the choice I made and I can certainly live with it. I have been criticized that I am a workaholic and that I need "a personal life." I'm not insulted when people say such things, but I do get insulted when another woman says to me, "What will happen when you have kids?" or when they insinuate that having a husband or having children will "cure" me of my workaholism. The women who make these kinds of comments to me are usually the women who try to have both: career and motherhood.

I give praise to the women who actually perfected their half-and-half lifestyle, but from personal observation, I have not seen one woman who has chosen both career and motherhood perfect both aspects of their lives. The women who have children leave school early so they can be with their own kids, so their work suffers. The general complaint from coworkers and students is that those women are unavailable or delay paperwork (i.e. grades and progress reports). When these same women ask for help on how to teach certain things, or ask for tips or suggestions, they also reply that my suggestions or tips are too time-consuming for their lifestyle.

I leave it at that. Like all lesson plans that I give out, teachers need to make it their own and make it fit their personality and style. When I criticize women for their lack of time or dedication to their job, I keep it to myself. I don't openly criticize their life or their children. I will never say to another woman that children got in the way of her career. I realize that if I said anything about it, I am holding them to a standard that I live by, which is not right. Career was my choice. Half-and-half was theirs (and if you ask me, half-assed). I just wish those women would have the same courtesy towards me. They should not assume that I am a workaholic just because I lack a husband or lack children of my own. I do not want their pity because they (mistakenly) think my life is empty without the joy of motherhood.

My life is defined by my choices, not societal expectations that all women should be mothers.

Vehicular Envy

After attending a car show in town, I was sure to find a 1965 Dodge Dart, my absolute dream car. But out of 1001 cars (literally, there were that many), I only came upon a 1969 Dart. Wrong year and model. *sigh* I also came upon several 1969 Dodge Chargers, another hot car which I can totally appreciate as much as the Dart.

But while strolling down the streets in the midst of roaring engines and fresh diesel air, I came upon several models of the Chevrolet line that I just couldn't take my eyes away from--Novas, El Caminos, Camaros, and Chevelles. For the first half my life, Dodge has dominated my childhood, so I never appreciated any other automobile (until I started driving a Toyota). After that car show, I have to say that my automotive aesthetics have jumped a level now that I have seen what Chevys have to offer: I'm loving the 1969 Nova.

One day... one day I will have a muscle car of my dreams sitting in a garage of a house of my dreams... in San Diego.

Idiots of Society

After seven years of teaching (God has it been that long?), I have come across all kinds of students with myriad personalities. You think I've seen it all; but in comparison to teachers who have taught for over twenty years, I think I've only seen the tip of the iceberg. In my short teaching stint, I have come across three distinct types of students that I cannot tolerate:

A) The Apathetic-Lazy Student: this student just doesn't give a shit about anything. They don't have passion for anything, so they don't care about anything. Since they don't care about anything, they won't do work. Teachers ask themselves: why do you even come to school? I can generally tolerate this type of student because they have a tendency to sleep through class. They waste their time by coming to school but do nothing, so I'm not going to waste my time by encouraging them to work. They're usually not a behavioral problem. Why fix something that isn't broke, right?

B) The Genius-Lazy Student: this student is smart and intelligent and talented, but they choose when to do work. They think their intelligence is natural that it does not need to be nurtured rigorously. Deadlines and assignments are optional to them because they think they're above such tedious things that were meant for "regular" kids. They will do work only if they feel their grade is slipping. I hope their intelligence fades like an atrophied muscle, or that their intelligence remains stagnant as they proceed through college, because then they'll compete with students who DID learn and then they'll realize they're not really geniuses.

C) The Irrational Hypocrite Student: this student is immature when it comes to arguing or defending an idea. First of all, they come up with opinions based mostly on their own observations, so they have a narrow perspective on everything. And when I try to get them to open up their mind or make them see a flaw in their argument, they don't like to be proven wrong, so they'll make up some rule that only applies to them (because it proves them right), but the teacher is always wrong (because the rule doesn't apply to grown ups).

Although I cannot tolerate any of these types of students, I have acquired enough patience to put up with them. Two things can happen to the Apathetic-Lazy Student: 1) the student will eventually leave high school and slip through the cracks of society. They'll leech off their parents and become useless couch potatoes; or 2) some of these students are late bloomers, and eventually, they'll find something to be passionate about to get them moving on with their lives.

The Genius-Lazy Student will eventually discover that they're not as smart as they thought and they'll start taking college more seriously. They'll regret that they should have done more to be as competitive as a college freshman, and they'll realize they were idiots after all. On the other hand, a rare few actually become psychopaths.

Then there is the Irrational Hypocrite Student. I despise this student the most. I hate narrow-mindedness, I hate hypocrisy, I hate immaturity, and I hate irrationality. Immaturity can be fixed with age, but narrow-mindedness and hypocrisy can't. Those two things can only be fixed with experience and education. But to the Irrational Hypocrite Student, education is only learning how to read, not learning to understand the world. Experience is limited to what the student only wants to know, not what the world can offer. The Irrational Hypocrite Student will not take the time to see what teachers or other students can offer; they only know their ideas and their opinions and everyone else is wrong. And when they can't win an argument, they'll resort to cop-out statements, like "That's just you" or "That's how I am."

The Irrational Hypocrite Students are the ones that go out into the world thinking they're smart; in reality, they are the true idiots. The rest of American society can only hope that they won't mess with the gene pool. Ignorance breeds ignorance.

Bad as Twilight

While cleaning up some notebooks in my home office, I came upon a black binder with lots of organized paper. I thought it was an old college reader with articles of educational importance. But upon opening this notebook, I found an old "novel" I had written when I was in high school.

I have to confess: I was into that whole vampire thing during my junior year, but my nocturnal fix was satiated by the great Anne Rice and the original Bram Stoker. I loved the mythology that they created to give their vampires a believable human quality: morality and love. There is a beautiful irony about an evil creature who can be moral. People are like that, too: evil by nature because we are selfish, but trying so hard to be good and resist the temptation to engage in selfish acts. That was the fascination I had with vampires: their reflection on humanity, when they themselves are not considered human.

As I read my old high school novella, I cringe at the vampire I created, a dark creature wallowing in grief and guilt over sins she commits. It's so emo that I'm ashamed to say that I wrote this crap. I was no Anne Rice or Bram Stoker. At age seventeen, my writing was comparable to Stephanie Meyer. Yes... my writing was that bad.

The philosophical irony that I tried to embody only eluded me. I really should rewrite this novel. After a decade, I think my writing has obviously matured. And I know I can do better: I'm older and wiser, and I've seen much more of this irony that humans have.

The End

The school year is not officially over, but I can officially say that this has been the worst year ever. I'm ready for it to end already, and June cannot come soon enough.

As I run through the events that defined this school year from the rest, I dread that I have to be here again for the next school year. I become more desperate to leave Riverside and go back home to San Diego. Another year of ghetto fabulous students and lifestyle.

The countdown begins. I need the summer to rejuvenate... badly.

It's All In the Timing

My taxes were completed yesterday. It's one of those years when I have to pay up to the government. *sigh*

As the accountant did my taxes, she informed me of this "great opportunity" if I am in the market to buy a house. Instantly, I began to daydream of owning a small piece of property, back in my hometown of San Diego... maybe in a suburban area similar to where I grew up; or maybe some place far from my parents, like Mira Mesa or further north. Oh, the possibilities...

But, alas... my occupation is inextricably linked to the state budget. And with teachers being laid off, now is just not a good time for me to think about looking for a new position in my hometown of the now unattainable San Diego county. Houses abound, but teaching jobs aren't.

Damn the economy. My dreams are that much further away from me.

Enlisted

In the past week, my world has been rocked and chaos has entered my life. But it's nothing tragic, nothing depressing. Quite the contrary, I've been on an emotional roller coaster that has been nothing but positive; I’m riding the clouds of teddy bears and hearts. I feel like I'm in high school again. Butterflies flip inside my stomach, smiles appear randomly, and affectionate words have made their way beyond the journal and into tangible forms for him to cherish.

I got cherries and peanut sprinkles this time.

My Inner Mrs. Smith

I have a fascination with weaponry--knives especially. But tonight, a friend invited me to go to a shooting range.

He had two guns: a 9mm and a 45mm. I liked the 9mm, and this was my best shot: