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.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
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.
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
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
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