ho Ho HO

Happy Holidays everyone.

...and everything was fine

It was the start of a frigid, icy day. It seems as though all the air had frozen in the middle of the night and was deposited on my fair city.

Of course, I was running late. Not to mention I had fallen asleep at 9 the night prior meaning I had gotten absolutely no work done. I woke up, stumbled around a drafty house and ambled to work.

It started out as a typical chaotic run-around. I ran around making transparency agendas and bullshit worksheets. The ball started rolling and roll it did. I was run over by each and every class. Despite the fact that the most unruly kids weren't present, classes were still out of control. I spent several moments gazing out the window, eyes welling up in tears, yearning to break free.

The final class was a double period of the most disrespectful, rude, lazy kids. It seemed that their sole purpose in life was to drive me mad. Everything became some sort of negotiation. I clasped my hands on my head and prayed the clock would tick a little faster. I sent them out, forgoing a formal lining up procedure, my head spinning from the stench of 10-year olds and under-achievement.

I felt defeated.

And then a little boy from the second grade class came in.

"Hi Mr. Lim" and he wrapped his tiny arms around my torso.

And everything was fine.

I quit

Those two words run through my head every single minute of every single class. Would it be giving in? Of course. Would I be happier? Probably. Unfortunately there's also a little thing called fiscal responsibility which tugs at my lingering thoughts of freedom.

As little Javante was sashaying his little 4th grade 'tude all around the classroom, I thought to myself, this would be the perfect time to quit. But my resignation had to be dramatic. I couldn't just waste it on the little beasts in class. Who, then? My principal most likely wasn't going to be in her office and even then I really didn't want to rub it in her face -- she wasn't the reason for my unhappiness. What would be optimal is if I could scream, I quit to each and every class that has made my life a living hell for the past four months.

"Good morning class 311, I quit, have a great rest of your day"

"Good afternoon class 211, I quit, have a great evening"

No matter how it goes, though, I'd always want to do it better which, ultimately, might be why I'm not quitting. I would never be able to get it right and it will never live up to my expectations.

Besides, nothing would torture them more than having me show up to work every day.

The Real Reason I'm doing this

the difference is, prison smells better

F-U-G

One of the interesting things about working with little kids is that though they know a lot of things they probably shouldn't, there are many things of which they still are unfamiliar with.

It's hard not to giggle when a student puts together f-u-g as a nonsense word and is blissfully unaware that in two years time they will be using that same word to refer to his or her peers. Working with the first graders is truly bipolar. Sure, when you have them one on one or even one on two or three it's fine and one's education training is being put to use. Put them together for story time and all hell breaks loose.

I've often wondered, on countless hours of frustration, why children just cannot sit still and behave for an extended period of time. When they feed off the energy of their peers, the turn into mass hysteria packed into little 12-year old bodies. I don't know if it was my parents, my school or just the way I was, but I could not fathom ever acting out. I'm wondering if I was in the minority there. Are most kids rambunctious, semi-moral beings that desire to act out? Are they merely a product of the community from which they came?

It's such a shame that at first grade, they're already on the path to becoming nightmares. I can't help but feel powerless to curb this direction, but f-u-g, at least they can insult each other with the correct short 'u' sound.

Christmastime is most definitely NOT here

WLIT the light, aka the station that usually plays Delilah, has now been transformed into the all Christmas network. Sure you have your mix of Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas and N'SYNC's Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, but also Mel Torme schmaltzfests that elicits images of an LCD fire burning through the night.

It most definitely is not Christmas. My halloween jack 'o' lantern is still freshly decaying on my stoop. My pumpkin fragranced wall-plugin is firmly jacked into the kitchen socket. Leaves still cling to the frigid limbs of trees lining my street.

What happened to fall? It seems like it was just a small pitstop from sweltering heat to holly jolly. At risk of sounding like a whiny anti-commercialist, seasons are now dictated by the biggest financial returns -- which makes sense considering our economy shares much in common with that last trembling leaf, hanging precariously, ready to plummet.

That being said, it did begin to snow here in Chicago. It caught me very much off guard. I froze in my tracks unsure if I should dash out to my car or back into the house for a jacket. I discovered, however, that it didn't really matter when making the short trip to KFC down the street.

But to the weather, the world and life, I say bring it on, bitch. I'm going to keep going, keep moving forward and nothing, not snow or a bunch of snot-nosed little brats will make me cave.

it felt okay

Today was the first day back teaching in a week.

And I guess it felt okay.

It by all means was not perfect, but I think at this point perfection is out of the question. Of course I yelled and screamed and sent kids packing, but it didn't affect me like it normally would.

To add to that, the weather is a balmy 50 degrees.

Tonight, I attended another Teach for America session to continually increase my effectiveness. Unfortunately, I didn't think the information really fit my particular situation, but the time did fly by quite quickly.

It's interesting that I'm trying to be positive in this post and all my thoughts are choppy and less than three sentences. It's tough with the days growing shorter and the nights getting colder. I find, sometimes that I'm too busy or stressed or angry to really feel lonely, but here, maybe more than ever, it would be nice to have a solid post of support. Ah, but not I'm lapsing into sentimental which is probably no better than ranting about lowered academic expectations.

Tomorrow's another day! -- that's for damn sure.

The trough of a sine wave

I meant to update with all the positive or non-school related aspects but never brought myself to do so. I sit here now, in my room at school, having 15 or so sixth graders just exit my room -- and me here, on the brink of yet another emotional breakdown.

I've come to the point where I spent the past 80 minutes yelling and screaming and doing everything in my power to get these kids to be quiet, maybe not even quiet, but just respectful. The behavior in this class is atrocious. Nothing short of feral. I'm almost at my wit's end -- one can only scream themselves into comas so many times before I really do land in the hospital.

I find myself wishing a lot. I wish these kids could be quiet. I wish these kids would stop throwing things. I wish I could jump across the table and strangle someone. Above all, I wish these kids knew the emotional and physical turmoil they put their teachers through.

Wishing, unfortunately, is not very productive. But then again, neither are my classes and I keep showing up.

I find myself so physically exhausted that I can barely stay awake past 9. I end up falling asleep with nothing accomplished, having planned next to nothing, and the next day I pay for it because the kids have nothing to do. It's a vicious cycle.

I know it's bad, but I take solace in my anger, my frustration and my desire to scream and yell at the end of the day. It's a feeling that has become so routine to me, I wouldn't know what it was like to feel content.

It's bad that I look forward to days where I don't see these kids -- but sometimes the damage they do is worse.

Country boy (sort of) in the big city

Let's all take a little break from academic mumbo-jumbo and have a little discussion of cultural differences between where I was and where I am.

Living in Texas was great for me. I think back and I really didn't notice the long, hot, humid weather and eternal summers.

And now here I am, in Chicago, the great midwest. As many of you may or may not know, I have a fascination with middle America and all things Americana. Plop me down in Branson, Missouri and I'll have conversation fodder for the rest of my life. Chicago is Americana's cousin that went to college and tries to put his family behind him, but despite best efforts, craves a deep-fried apple pie from McDonalds every now and then.

I'd like to discuss a few things that I did not expect or just didn't even think of when moving to Chicago.

1) Shit closes really early. Just take a walk down Michigan Avenue where Tiffany, Neiman and American Girl have set up shop and you'll know where all the tourists and hoity-toity upper class likes to shop. Stroll down close to dusk and you'll quickly find that the only things still open for business are the Dunkin' Donuts/Baskin Robbins and the 7-11 both run by people who can barely speak English and have blood-shot eyes from their graveyard shifts.

2) Transportation is expensive. I'm not talking about filling up my gas-guzzling car every week, but the public transportation is surprisingly expensive. Living in Texas, where everyone drives, I had these romantic notions of public trains and buses that were a dime a trip and it takes you a few blocks to the malt shop where me and Peggy would rock out to the latest Chubby Checker hit. I come to find that it's two dollars each way on a train and, though you can get pretty much anywhere, it takes a good chunk of time to get from one place to another.

3) The eternal soda vs. pop vs. Coke debate. Nothing about me screams "NOT FROM CHICAGO" louder than my use of "Coke" as a carbonated, sweet beverage usually served in cans or bottles. Here, everything is pop. Pop like popcorn. Or to pop someone in the face. Or pop in and say hello. Not only is it just a spoken colloquialism, but it's found on menus, signs and generally accepted as the term for aforementioned beverage. Some people call it soda, but I will always say Coke.

4) Sales tax is 10%. So that WiiFit I just bought for 90 bucks? Ended up costing me 100 clams. 10%. Highest in the nation. Go figure.

5) It's all about the neighborhood you live in.
Lincoln Park = recent college grad with a 9 to 5 cubicle job where everyone chortles about how The Office is just like real life.
Lakeview = YuppieGay. Well adjusted gay man who also has a 9 to 5 job and laments how J.Crew doesn't make a cotton-cashmere full-zip sweater in that new deep purple.
Logan Square = A fan of gentrification, cheap rent and a desire to live somewhere where you may have just seen a drug deal on the corner. It's okay, though, because Wicker Park is just a few streets south.

6) It's cold, like 50 degrees, which is what I define as cold. I'm laughed at and told "Just wait". I don't care, I'm still cold.

I hear McCain likes us....

Things have been up and down lately. Tuesday was disgustingly positive. I wasn't sure if it actually happened. Kids -- learning. Wednesday, not so much. Chaos reigned.

I've come to learn that it is the nature of the job. Some days are good, most are bad, but that's just how it goes.

We're half way through with October and it's hard to believe to much time has flown by. Already the leaves are changing (!) and the weather is getting cooler (cold for me, but if I say that too loudly all the Chicagoans will scoff). Soon it'll be snowing -- and then thawing and the process will repeat.

I guess I don't have anything terribly interesting today. Nothing really note-worthy has been going on. Just another day minding the gap.

Has it really been a month? (but really a year)

It's hard to believe that the entire Teach for America ball began rolling about a year ago. I remember waking up at 6 am for my 18th century British law and literature class and wondering what I was going to do at year's end. I felt TFA would be a pretty good way of spending my future - at least at the time it was a convenient answer to those who were asking, including myself.

I never imagined what it would be actually like to be a teacher. It's gotten me to thinking about my own education, my childhood, the teachers I've had. My education has been nothing but sound. My parents were always supportive. I realize now that the experience I had is not the experience had by all.

In my position I've had the opportunity to work with every age from Kindergarten to 8th grade. That's 5 year olds to teenagers. I've seen what poor discipline and bad behavior looks like and more alarmingly I see those seeds being planted in the younger ones. I know that if something isn't done or changed, these little kids will be led down a path of defiance, ignorance and just an overall sense of uncaring.

Again, I bring the story back to the journey I've been on. Starting out as a college kid, sheltered and protected where the biggest obstacle I faced was where to go for happy hour. Now, I have human beings lives in my hands. Their futures are at stake. For once, the story has been about more than just myself.

pay -- check!

Dear sweet baby Jesus. Today was payday. I've worked my share of shit jobs that have paid measly amounts, but this is my first impossibly difficult job that pays a substantial amount.

Let's start out with the week. It was truly a week of ups and downs. A dear confidante and partner in this struggle was lost and I felt quite alone. I was determined, however, to chug along. Things alternated from suspiciously high to familiarly low. Some days it's hard to believe that I see the same group of kids. I realize that half-assing plans really doesn't pay off, but with no standards to align to, it's pretty much up to me to figure out what to do for the day. It's difficult to put myself in these kids' shoes and I find that I'm planning on what would keep me content rather than this group of rebellious ne'er-do-wells.

The days are long and the nights are short. The commute has become a routine inconvenience.

Here I am. Complaining Connie. Whining about how much things suck. It's interesting, because the lows are so incredibly low and seem to last forever and the highs are like blips on the radar. There are a few students who genuinely make me smile and show me that despite the fact that this school approaches education with a firm palm, education can exist. It's so painful because I know these kids can show me intelligence and self-control but they choose not to. Attempting to make someone change their choice is quite possibly the most difficult thing in the world. Now, take that challenge and multiply it by 200. Literally.

Everyday is a war. And in every class there are battles to be won and lost. For me, there is more defeat than victory.

Ultimately, this week fell in my favor if only because I got paid.

Two Weeks in the Trenches

Teaching is hard.

It's interesting that when people say "Teaching is going to be the hardest thing you ever do" - it's difficult to really understand. Certainly I've done difficult things -- bang out a bullshit paper about a topic I've read once. Study for finals, work 35 hours and deal with friends and family crisis.

Teaching, however, is the hardest thing I've ever done.

The best way to describe how I feel every day is defeated. This kids do not listen. They do not want to pay attention. They do not respect you. The slowly and effortlessly chip away at your soul and desire to live.

Okay -- that might sound a little overdramatic.

My days consist of waiting for a group of students. Then, they come in. I yell at them to sit down, be quiet, and stop giggling. Rarely do I even talk about anything academic related. I spend most of my time telling them that their behavior should be better or threatening them with a barrage of semi-hollow threats.

This week, I started crying. I cry because I know the want to learn, yet there are barriers obstructing the learning process. I cry because I feel thoroughly ineffective at a job I was selected to do. I cry because I don't know what to do. I've been thrown into this puddle and I have to tread water just to keep from drowning.

Teaching is hard. I cannot even convey to you the difficulty. The days get better and the days get worse. I think about giving up every single day. I will make it, though, because I know I can.

I will make it.

The Cusp

It's the day before the first day. Throughout Chicago I know thousands and thousands of kids are asleep right now, eagerly awaiting what will come of tomorrow.

Here I sit warmed by the glow of a Jon and Kate plus 8 marathon and my own thoughts of mingling incompetence. Well, maybe not incompetence, but whole unprepared-ness. I have absolutely no clue, 100% what I'm supposed to be doing tomorrow. My official job title is "Librarian" but I will, in fact, be instructing students. To what capacity, I'm not sure, but I do know that I will be providing supplemental reading instruction to all grades at the school. I'm going in tomorrow with little more than a smile and a can-do attitude.

I should offer a little more background about my school, or rather the location of my school. In order to get to my school I take the blue line downtown, transfer to the red line and then ride that train two stops from the end of the line. From there I walk 20 minutes through city and a construction zone to my school. The entire process takes between an hour and fifteen to an hour and a half.

I have a million questions buzzing in my head. I'm so unsure of myself it's bordering on psychosis. No matter what, though, time is plowing on. I remember today at noon thinking midnight will never come, but here we are, one hour before the clock strikes 12.

Tomorrow I'll official be an educator. Me. It's hard to believe. One year ago I was starting my last year in college unsure of what I would do with my life once I graduated. I flippantly toyed with the notion of Teach for America not fully aware of what it would entail or that I would actually make it this far.

I really do know that I have an opportunity to affect lives. The process of getting there -bureaucratic red tape of the Chicago Public School district as well as the hoops of alternate certification - somewhat tarnishes the idealism of many of us, but ultimately it really is about possibility.

I know that despite my fears and immaturity, the time will come when I'm on that train riding toward my school and whether I like it or not it gets one second closer.

Hermes would be happy

For the past two weeks I've been dealing with the bureaucratic bullshit of the Chicago Public School district compounded on the less-than-efficient goings on at Teach for America.

Unfortunately I'm still not placed. Though I still believe the staff is working very hard to find placement, the days tick by as school draws nearer and nearer.

I've been on one interview, which actually was just me dropping off my resume an hour and a half away, and went the two different CPS buildings three different times. All fruitless. It's a lot of running around, being told I'm missing form X or document why-the-hell-am-I-doing-this. Today I was at the breaking point. I was physically shaken and almost broke down in tears. Most of my frustration stems from the fact that I'm supposed to be putting all of my energy into my kids, but instead I'm trying to navigate a system that just doesn't work.

As the minutes count down closer to my birthday, I've never felt so out of control. Yes, I'm 23, but I still feel like I'm a 12-year old with no direction or power. I feel like you should be required to take a test at each subsequent birthday checking to see if you are emotionally and mentally prepared to be the next age.

Surely I wouldn't have passed the 15-year old test.

I feel like the Edward of today is a lot like the Edward of ten years ago. Except this one can drink. And swear. And buy porn.

But I still can't rent a car -- some things never change.

FAQ

It's been how long since I last updated? Well, you know the process of moving in, boxes, air mattress, lack of internet. It's all a process.

I still don't have placement yet. Yes, I technically don't have a job. I'm going to go ahead and explain everything right here because everyone, EVERYONE, wants to know why I've been accepted to Teach for America but still don't have a school yet. So without further ado, here goes:

Chicago has a decentralized public school system, one of the few totally decentralized districts in the country. What this means is, is that in typical Teach for America (TFA from here on out) regions, the districts are centralized so there is one person that oversees all the vacancies in the district. This person tells TFA that there are X number of openings in the district. TFA then puts X people in these vacancies. In Chicago, there is a person who oversees the district, but it is up to the individual schools to choose which teachers they want for their positions. As such, the schools usually do not know what positions they have open until, typically, right before school starts (September 2nd). So what TFA is now doing is trying to organize the 50 or 60 kids without jobs on individual interviews with principals which, I'm assuming, is an arduous, time consuming task. I'm placing a lot of faith in them that they will get me on an interview and hired before school starts.

Frequently asked questions:
Are you guaranteed placement?
-Yes.

Are you getting paid?
-Not at the moment, but I am guaranteed a check as soon as everyone else gets a check.

Man, does that suck?
-Yes, a lot.

Can you just go find schools on your own?
-Not really. Only certain schools qualify to have a TFA person at it and I don't really know what they are.

Are you nervous, anxious?
-Extremely.

Do you at least know what grade/subject you're teaching?
-No. It could be anything from K-8 and any subject. It depends on the vacancies.

What are you doing with all your time?
-Exploring the city. It's not as fun as it sounds since all I really have on my mind is my lack of a job.

I hope this answers some of the burning questions you might have. I've been put through an emotional wringer throughout this process and talking about placement has been difficult. I hope to have some more positive news soon.

And...done!

It's the end.

Well, sort of the end.

I'm sitting in a classroom decorated with construction paper cutouts and grammar tips on butcher paper.  The desks are three inches too low for a grown human being and the whiteboard shows remnants of math, spelling and reading.

Five weeks later, it's all over.  The kids, the lessons, the nights spent awake, cursing what was left of my life.  Things eventually got more -- routine, not easier, but more familiar.  The people here are a mix of tenacious go-getters and slackers looking to pad their resume.  On weekends some went to the beach, some got drunk, some planned for the week ahead, but everyone took a little breather.

In the end, the kids were a handful, their mood changes on a whim but in the end as a teacher, you held their attention.  You commanded the room when required.

It's all just practice, though.  

Last night was the closing ceremony.  Hundreds of kids, dressed in matching shirts singing chants and clapping and cheering and yelling.  The room was filled with hundreds of thuderous voices.  It was like summer camp, but with vodka.

It's hard not to get wrapped up in the heightened emotion - the collective swelling of emotion.  It's all just beginning though, the road still lies ahead.

Generic Update Title

I went to Disneyland.

It was friggin' magical, but for a total cost of nearly $200 bucks they'd better be shoving pixie dust so far up my ass I can taste it.  

It's a lot smaller than you might remember.  Things are really close together and it's substantially less impressive through the eyes of a 22 year old.  The rides were fine, the lines were short, the weather was nice.  All in all it was a fair enough time.

Back to reality.

Teaching, teaching, teaching.  Apparently it's all I talk about nowadays.  Lessons have been up and down.  The lesson part I seem to do well with, but the teaching tends to be a bit more shaky.  The kids are their usually selves, stubborn, tired and moody.  I find myself trying to be a better teacher, but glossing over the kids in the process.  

Today was my last day teaching new material.  I remember three weeks ago when everything was so new and scary.  Now everything is routine and scary.  I've gotten past the point of blaming the program for using the students as guinea pigs.  At this point I just want to be home or somewhere where I feel like I'm supposed to be.  

I'm really going to miss (most) of the people here.  When you spend five weeks with the same group of people, you inevitably get attached.  In most cases, the people here are people I genuinely consider friends and will find it difficult waking up at 5 am without them.  

It's been a long, strange journey here in the final days of institute.  LA has not been a kind mistress to me and I can honestly say I won't miss it.  I feel so disconnected from the world and what used to be my life that I'm ready to establish a new me.  There still are a few more days, but I think I can handle myself until then.

Oh!  and there was an mf-ing earthquake today at around 11:40.  I had never been in one before.  Everything just started to slide around and it seemed like all the molecules of the building had turned gelatinous.  Chalk that one up to experience.

Little victories, smaller students

So here I am -- with only two weeks of Institute left. It's hard to believe that just a few weeks ago I was in my cushy downtown Austin apartment ruing the construction and humidity.

I've been teaching for two weeks now. It is exhausting. The teaching itself isn't difficult, but it does cause quite a bit of anxiety. It's like getting up on stage in front of 15 little screamers, ready to scrutinize your every move. Like I said, it's not difficult. You lay down the rules, you discipline the kids that are messing around and reward those that do well. At times, the whole education part gets a little fuzzy amidst all the behaviors that need to be kept in check.

I have a few favorites, and those who know who they are know who they are. Yeah, they're suck ups. Asking for more work or telling me a story about something they saw on the Discovery channel. I never thought I would be the guy who was moved by little 8 year olds, but -gosh darn it- they're just so cute!

There are the ones that cause hell. The ones that don't want the be there. The ones who don't need to be there (all of them, technically). The ones that just want to be loud, obnoxious 3rd graders, and they should be allowed to be! But TFA is about data, results, changing the world. The only way you can change the world is to have data proving you did. Otherwise you're a failure.

It would be easy to detail the multitude of frustrations I've faced both in the classroom and with the program, but you know what? Little Mia, sitting in the back, exclaiming that she lost her homework so instead came up with three multiplication problems so she would have something to turn in, well, she makes it all worthwhile.

Week 2

I'm jumping the gun a little

It's only Thursday, but at ICEF elementary, the teaching week ends on Thursday which means I successfully completed my first week of teaching.  Of course successfully is a wholly subjective term, but I'm still alive and still in the program so I think that qualifies as successful.

My first day teaching was immensely stressful.  No matter how prepared I felt I was, sure enough, I wasn't prepared enough. I've discovered, though, that one is never really prepared to teach.  There are so many variables and random actions and one is never really sure they are making the right choice.  

My first day, which seems like it was ages ago, did not go exactly as planned.  Another thing I learned, planning and over planning are not good ideas.  The kids were rambunctious, energetic, angry, bored, tired, and every sort of minute detail in between.  I didn't think my lesson on "Activating prior knowledge of life in the country" was a great introduction to the teaching world, but I felt certain it wouldn't be a total disaster.

I discovered 3rd graders have a great interest in the word "manure".

The teaching become progressively more familiar from there on out.  I use the term familiar because it was not easier or less random or tiring, but simply an act that I became slightly more accustomed to doing.  The lessons were no more exciting, no thanks to my "preach, preach, worksheet" style of teaching.  

I discovered I'm not capable of being a fun teacher.

The classroom on day 1 was chaos.  Not the cutesy, ordered chaos that maintains a dull roar, but the kind of chaos that had me sweating buckets, looking up at the ceiling and praying that the period would end soon.  I decided the next day I was going to be a hard ass.  For those of you who know me know that that is quite a stretch.

I discovered most kids don't perceive me as threatening.

I slowly started to learn the kids names and which kids did and did not enjoy writing.  Most kids didn't, some kids did but most were indifferent.  These kids are here for summer school anyway where they typically don't receive grades so it's hard to motivate them to do anything.

I discovered that 3rd graders don't act how you want or think.

The days are really really long.  I wake up at 5 am every day and am at the school site until 4:30 every afternoon.  We have subway sandwiches every - single - day, chips, apples, raisins and a drink.  The same thing.  Every.  Single.  Day.   For the next 5 weeks.

I discovered there are only so many combinations of turkey, mayo and pepper.

I realize why people drop out of the program.  It's rigorous, both physically and emotionally.  I feel so drained from a lack of sleep that sometimes I don't think I can function properly.  We're all familiar with those days in college (ha!  I can say that now) where we cram the night before and get 2 hours of sleep.  Then you take that test and go back to bed.  Well-deserved respite.  Here, there is no release during the week.  You go and go and go and go until your mind and body are on the verge of collapse.  Days feel like weeks and the two weeks I've been here felt like years.  Some people do fun things on the weekend, but Monday is always just a few hours away.

I discovered that no matter how hard I perceive things to be - I will make it through.

End of Week 1

Two weeks ago I was in Austin, packing up five years of my life, scared of what was going to happen next. Time soldiered on, it marched forward and propelled me to Chicago for a week then to LA. I'm the type of person that's scared to do new things, especially on my own. I realized, though, that with the TFA corps, I'm really not all alone.

So here I am in LA. The weather is gorgeous, the sun is shining and, yes, I'm really really tired. The work, at least thusfar, isn't hard, but it does take a lot of time. On top of that they require you to wake up insanely early. Everyday we have Subway sandwiches -- every day for the next five weeks. There still lingers a small portion of my subconscious that questions if this really is what I want to do. I try to quell this doubt because I know that if the question gets too loud it'll overcome my thoughts and I will probably break. There's a statistic floating around that between 10 and 20 percent of corps members don't make it through institute and I do not want to be that statistic. I keep telling myself I'm here, I've made the commitment and I will make it through.

I've also come to realize that graduating from college doesn't become an automatic pass to maturity. The people here, though nice from day to day, are still just young kids that like to party, get wasted, and indulge in other vices. Suddenly I'm back at freshman orientation when everyone was tripping over themselves to get drunk and hookup with the next semi-attractive person they could, literally, get their hands on. Meanwhile, I'm huddled in my dorm room with no means of transportation and a slight air of elitism.

Character foibles aside, we will all be teaching, most of us for the first time, on Monday. I've met the 13 kids that I will be instructing and they are an energetic, intelligent, lively group of kids. They do and say things that are so perceptive and funny and they don't even realize. I hope I prove to be an efficacious teacher. I hope to overcome the self-doubt and fear and rise to become a really good teacher. As of right now -- I'm just unsure.

Induction Redux

So I accidentally posted this to the wrong blog -- it takes place about June 17th:

Welcome to Chicago --

As I lay in my bed at the hostel in Chicago I'm not quite sure if I'm more or less anxious than I was one week ago. The induction here was ended up being both expected and unexpected. On an administrative level, we were briefly informed of the importance of diversity, filled out gobs of paperwork for schools we'd never see, and some of use were hired while others were sent on rat races of interviews. Alas, I still do not have a teacher placement. The process of finding housing is no less complicated. 200 eager, mostly white recent graduates are shoved within close proximity of one another and over the course of a few days are expected to decide with whom to live with for the next year. The first time the entire corps was together was at Exposure Tapas (not to be confused with expose your tatas, ha, funny), where the same 200 people were crammed into a space designed for intimate dinners for two. The whole affair was loud, sweaty and ridiculously complicated.

Back at the hostel i was jostled into a suite with 10 other guys all of whom were nice, but few of whom I really connected with. Luckily, my actual room-mate Nate and I clicked pretty well and we immediately scampered off to see a movie while everyone was planning on their nights out in Chicago.

The arduous task of hammering out a living situation caused me much anxiety. It's difficult to find someone suitable to live with let alone navigate the treacherous waters of the Chicago neighborhood system. One block may house sushi-munching yuppies while two streets away is a meth house lit by the cigarette lighters of its inhabitants -- a charming lighting scheme, no doubt, but not quite what I'm looking for. After an initial neighborhood crawl with Garrett in which we viewed a few houses in Lincoln Park and Lakeview, I decided that as much as I would like to live in squalor for $800 a month something with more space would be preferable. Though the Logan Square area does not have a starbucks on every corner nor does every apartment appear to be decorated by Pottery Barn, it does have a certain charm (Latin flair?) that makes me feel like I'm in downtown San Antonio again.

I was informed that the rate of drop-out/kick-outs at Institute is 30%. 1 in 3 people will leave Teach for America because someone doesn't think they're good enough, or worse, the person doesn't think they're good enough. I'm scared. Shitless. Literally, I have this phobia of going to the bathroom while others are around.

Anyway -- I got to see a lot of Chicago. I saw three movies and now I'm about to fly to LA to get my ass handed to me. I pray to God that pinkberry will make it all worthwhile.

Day 1

So institute has finally begun. Apparently, it's supposed to be hell where 30% of the corps drops out. What's keeping me here is the overwhelming sense of failure that would follow if I were to drop out. We arrived at the lovely Loyola campus greeted by dozens of smiling faces in gray shirts. We were directed to one of several tables that gave us tons of vital information such as how to access the internet and where to put your luggage. The entire affair looked and felt as though we were all senior citizens signing up for our ultimate demise. Everyone was a little too nice, a little too understanding and a little too eager to get us to the next table.

I don't know if you know this, but LA is a big city. Apparently I missed (natch ignored) the memo on purchasing linens and was left with a squeaky plastic mattress with nothing to cover it with. An impromptu trip to Target was arranged that involved a cab and a stolen shopping cart (too many details to mention).

The actual first day of institute began at 4:50 am. For those of you wondering that's approximately 12 hours earlier than I normally wake up. The actual day on the site was a combination of ill-conceived speeches and loaded teacher-speak that barely registered in my brain. The information was a basic rundown of the TFA doctrine, that is, what we should think, believe and strive for as teachers. We all talked about our feelings and how we measure success while holding hands around an incense lamp. Returning to the university site at approximately 5 pm we entered the clusterfuck that was the dining hall. 661 kids were corralled into an area designed for, maybe, 100 and served sliced turkey breast wrapped around broccoli florets and covered in what appeared to be leftover alfredo sauce or warmed over semen. Either way, I had two portions and would have gladly accepted another. Finally, we were treated to a welcome 'celebration' which mostly consisted of 661 grumpy kids forced to listen to a bunch of higher-ups speak about how we were doing a lot of good.

The first day wasn't so bad, but it really shouldn't have been. It's these next few days, and subsequent weeks, that I'm really worried about.

More than basic skills

Well look at you -- reading my first post, I'm very proud and flattered. Anyway, enough with the bullshit, let's get to the good stuff.

My most recent trip to Chicago was necessitated by the Illinois Certification Testing System test of basic skills as well as elementary/middle school education. With titles like these one would be inclined to dismiss the tests as rote exercises in general knowledge. Well, you'd be correct, but unfortunately I seem to be deficient in general knowledge. The test boiled down to 8 combined hours of fifth grade trivia.

The big drama of the weekend, though, was the chaotic clusterfuck at O'Hare. My flight was originally scheduled for 5:20 and after waiting in line for an hour and a half I was informed that not only was my flight canceled but the next flight wouldn't leave until 7 am. I tried my best to be assertive, but it came off pretty whiny and desperate. Somehow, the agent, through the "back door", was able to book me on a flight to San Antonio that left at 8, a good four hours away. The agent warned me to hold on to my ticket because if I didn't make the flight I'd need it for the 7 am flight. I waved my hand and dismissed the thought. Four hours was more than enough time to make a flight a few feet away.

Unfortunately the line to check in at United, where I had been re-booked, had roughly 200 people in it. 200 very weary, tense, people. I got in line confident that I would make it in time for my flight. I took the opportunity to get to know my neighbors. I figured, I'm in this for the long haul, I might as well get a feel for my comrades. The guy in front of me, dressed in board shorts and an Ed Hardy T-shirt, was genial enough. He was headed to Ft. Lauderdale and eventually Key West. The family behind me was a very chatty group of Indians, the youngest of which had a "great" time at the wedding the had just attended. Periodically some of my kinfolk would try and gamble at the self service kiosk, or mention to the nearest person that they will be right back. Often times, the person would return, dejected, and resume waiting. Rarely, the person would not return, lost in the ether of terminal 1.

The hours, and I do mean hours, ticked by. Before I knew it it was 7:30. I was so close to the front of the line that I started trembling. I had earlier consigned that I would have no problem waiting until morning, but I was so close to the agent that I felt I would have an emotional breakdown if I missed my flight. Someone, an employee? a forward thinking customer? my subconscious? said I should move to line 3. 7:40. I made a run for it after bidding adieu to my Floridian companion. 7:52. I was informed that line 3 only had self-check in. Not going to work. I inquired with the agent and she said I have a special ticket and should proceed to first class check in. Tell them she sent me. I looked back to get her name but she was last in a swarm of fanny packs and oversized straw hats. 7:55. The goddam first class passengers were taking forever. One passenger had the most casual look on her face, as if she were somehow removed from the pandemonium going on. Panic began to set in. I knew I had missed my flight. I considered simply admitting defeat and cozying up in a little corner for the next 12 hours but I needed confirmation from the airline. I wasn't going to quit until someone told me to quit. I transcribe for you now my exact dialogue:
Me: Hi. How are you. I have four minutes to make my flight. I know I'm not going to make it so if that's the case please just tell me I'm going to miss it and I'll leave.
Agent: Four minutes? You're going to miss your flight.
Me: I figured.
Agent: Where are you going?
Me: San Antonio
Agent: Actually your flight was delayed until 9:20. Here's your boarding pass.

He didn't realize it but he brought me as close to tears of happiness as I've ever come. I was overcome with such emotion that I had to take a few minutes to steady myself.

The rest of the trip was a blur. I barely noticed being pulled from the security line for a random security check where I was treated like a prisoner, yelled at, standing in my socks with three other just as confused women. Nor did I notice the little boy sitting next to me who periodically fell asleep on my shoulder and went to the bathroom between six and thirty-five times.

It wasn't until 12:30 am when my dad came around the corner to pick me up that I realized the entire ordeal was over. I came to realize that there are some things you can't control. You can't make time go slower (or faster, whatever the case may be), you can't make someone work harder than they want to, sometimes, no matter how fast you run, you can't make it to where you need to go in time. It's times like these when you just have to accept that there are things out of your control. Getting mad, or frustrated or pissy will only spread to those around you. You just have to close your eyes, breathe, pray that your plane was delayed an hour and a half
and leave the rest up to fate.

Opening Remarks

My name is Edward Lim - but if you're reading this you probably know that already. I remember way back in the spring of 2004 when blogging was a big thing. It has since been relegated to internet know-it-alls and political whistle blowers. I have less lofty intentions.

At 22 years old I find myself slowly inching toward adulthood. It began after graduating college and will continue (hopefully) with my position with Teach for America. I'll be moving to the big scary city of Chicago (I'm told it's very different from Texas). I'm hoping that this blog will, first, not fade into obscurity, but more importantly be a way for me to keep all of my friends back home updated on my goings on.

I've come to realize that, as an English major, there are some people that are born to write. They speak passionately about the ideas swelling in their minds and if they don't get them out they might just burst. Fortunately I'm not one of them. I got an English degree to supplement my useless film degree thus giving me two useless degrees and a lot of wasted time. Also, I'm writing this because I think I'm pretty goddamn funny -- at least in my mind.

I hope you, dear reader, will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it, though it may be a little presumptuous to assume I'll enjoy writing, but we'll find out together. So please, leave comments, especially ones that shamelessly flatter, and enjoy.

-Edward