Captain America: The First Avenger

The summer of Super Heroes continues. Quick refresher: Thor, X-Men, Green Lantern. Some hits, some misses, some so mediocre I can’t remember what happened during them. And now we have the First Avenger – technically speaking I think Iron Man beat Cap to the punch but that’s neither here nor there.
Steve Rogers is a literal 90-pound weakling. He’s small and frail, but scrappy as hell. He may look like you can snap his neck but he has determination like no other! It’s that spark that draws Dr. Erskine to enlist Rogers in an experimental program turning him into a Supersoldier. Soon, a villain known as Red Skull appears and threatens our freedom – not if Captain America has anything to do about it.
The concept itself is nothing far off-base from your usual superhero pages. Captain America, however, has a different feel to it that sets it apart from other films in the genre. Everytime I see a superhero movie, I expect to be wowed from start to finish with explosions and effects. I practically crave having my breath taken away – yet Captain America has the plotting and staging of a smaller film. There are explosions and fights and computer generated effects out the wazzoo, that’s for sure, but there is also time talk, to plan, to reflect and to interact. There really is no big aw-gee setpiece that knocks your socks off, but instead the action happens in fits and starts. When you adjust your expectations accordingly, you’ll find a more rewarding experience.
Joe Johnston, who most recently directed the gory, effects-laden Wolfman, has imbued the film with an old-school 1940s feel. Had he not balanced the tone between campy and earnest, the whole film could have been and slipshodden, patriotic mess. Making sure the audience really feels like they are in the 40s, however, makes Rogers’s unwavering dedication to his country more digestible.
Chris Evans, in the title role, has a very wholesome, steely all-American look that makes him perfect for the role. He pants, he runs, he smacks bad guys with his shield with aplomb. Hayley Atwell as his British female partner is plucky and feisty and does her best to not be a damsel in distress. Hugo Weaving, however, steals the show whenever his red-skulled Johann Schmidt struts on screen. Weaving has a way of taking his dialogue and coating it in molasses – drawing out words and growling them with frightening menace.
Going into Captain America I had reservations: a grown muscled man draped in the America flag throwing a red, white and blue shield at Nazis? A bald, walking skull dipped in Firetruck red paint? Luckily, my fears were assuaged by the care and respect and touch of winking wit in the film.
The sequels have been all but guaranteed. In fact, production on The Avengers, the Marvel super team that includes Iron Man, Thor, Hulk and the aforementioned Captain, is well underway under the guidance of Buffy the Vampire Slayer creator Joss Whedon. It’s hard to say whether future films starring Cap will be successful – we all had high hopes for Iron Man 2…until it came out. I, for one, will be crossing my fingers and holding my breath until May 2012 rolls around and we see if Marvel’s efforts pay off.

New Year

Here we are -- the new year. After so much consternation involving lost/gained positions, I'm back.

Same school, same job, different students.

I recently stumbled upon my behavior notebook from my first year of teaching. It's a small, brown and green notebook that promises it is 100% post-consumer recycled materials. Inoffensive and unassuming, one would never guess the words it held inside. Upon flipping through, I notice names and actions scrawled in blue and red ink. Rxxx stole pencils. Rxxx punched a student. Dxxxx stabbed a student with a pencil. Txxx started a fight. Axxx ran away from the classroom. The ink trickles down the page like a tear-face, worn from sitting in my flooded basement over the summer.

I was about to throw out the soiled tome, but I stopped. Right about where I listed all the things Rxxx did in one day (two pages front and back of behaviors) and decided to keep the book. It's a reminder of a world that is out there, a few miles south of the school I'm in. It's a reminder of what I went through and how far it took me.

I wonder where those students are. If they continue to be passed through the system, and there's nothing to prevent this, they should be entering 3rd grade this year. I wonder how many of them made it. I'm sure many moved, transferred or disappeared, but my mind still thinks of them.

The Spectrum of Emotions pt. 1

Buckle up ladies and gentlemen -- this is going to be a long one.

Let's start with the basics. It's the end of the year -- officially. Rooms are cleaned out, movies are shown, treats are distributed. The warm stench of humidity and rancid milk can only mean rising temperatures and lowered investment. It's easy to trick younger students into continuing, smelly stickers and math games can get you by -- it's the older kids that require more finesse.

My kids made it, even better, with significant gains! Who would have thought that after the choas of last year I'd bring students to be on-level with their peers.

The end of the year was a flurry of activity compounded with the oppressive heat and humidity. All in all, my time at my school has been both a blessing and a curse.

First, the positives. I really felt as if I had been welcomed into the community. A community that nourished good educators and was very student-centric. I felt privileged, for the most part, to work with my peers and in turn felt appreciated. It was great to see a school that was highly functioning in the Chicago Public School district despite the massive debacle that was happening several levels up (more on this in part 2).

For the negatives. It seems as though my time at my school may have ended and not by my own hands. This is one of the most infuriating developments within my short tenure as an educator. I remember a year and a half ago thinking that I could never teach and that I did not want to teach. I was exhausted and drained and felt like teaching was not for me. Fast forward to a year at a supportive school where I was able to make a difference for a handful of students. I felt and saw the difference in their lives, and with that a difference in my own. I truly felt like I could make a difference and, interestingly enough, truly wanted to continue to do so.

Now, it seems, like the choice to positively affect student achievement has been forced from my hands. As for the reasons why and my anger with these decisions, I will save that for part 2. Suffice it to say that I will most likely be evicted from teaching in a classroom.

After so thoroughly convincing myself that I am able to make a difference in students' lives, unfortunately I'm not able to do that this coming year.

It's bittersweet, after all -- these two years in Teach for America. I had anticipated growing and evolving as a human being and certainly I did, but in ways I could never expect. I have been pushed to the very limits and been rewarded beyond my imagination. I think about my students like Faith and Randall and Daeshaun that are lost and behind and, most likely, will continue to be as such. I think about students like Deondre and Duaa and Zain that have been put on a different path in life and will continue to succeed.

It's the bitter and the sweet that truly make life a decadent meal. The bitter sting of defeat and remorse offset by the sweet sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. I think about all the things I never new about children and education and about myself that I now have such a firm knowledge of.

I've discovered passion and fire that I never dreamed I'd have in me.

There is cause to celebrate, as this era comes to a close -- yet the abyss that lies before me is a grand chasm of unknown. It's somewhat exhilarating not knowing where I will be or what will happen and I hope to experience the same feelings of growth and accomplishments soon.

Accepting the Present

It takes something like death to shake one out of the doldrums. All too often I found myself wearily progressing. Then, like a freight train, death comes barreling out of a darkened tunnel.

The death of my grandmother was something we were all prepared for. My mom had begun funeral arrangements long before the hospice nurses arrived. We began discussing plans for a smaller home for my mother. Despite the best laid plans, I was sorely unprepared for the morning of April 23rd -- I've become so familiar with the date that I don't even have to scour my brain for the exact number.

I realized that in my life I look forward to the future, albeit one that is uncertain. My fears and anxieties stem from the total lack of knowledge of what's to come. Suddenly I was forced to reflect on my past and the past I shared with a loved one. Sitting her, I realize that I dwell on the past far more than I thought. I think about people that have come in and out of my lives and the ones that are still here with me now. I think about past regrets and the shadows they cast over my present being. I think, "what if" and allow my mind to painfully live out a life that most likely will never come true.

It's easy to claim no regrets yet it's far more difficult to accept. It's these moments of quiet reflection when my mind tends to drift. Time flows forward, constant and unmovable and in its wake memories that were and might have been.

I really wish I could accept the present as a gift, but again easier to claim than to believe.

A new challenge

One of the hallmarks of Teach for America is reflection. I definitely have taken this pillar to heart. Of course reflection, in Teach for America speak, involves creating plans that address the shortcomings of the day.

I've been reflecting on my journey -- the twists and turns and sudden falls and steady climbs. I think about where I was and where I am and I'm amazed at the trip I've taken. All of this reflection seems to carry a moribund tone but alas, I have no current plans to kick the bucket.

It seems as though the ultimate challenge I've faced this year, when you distill all the fighting, tears, pain and strife, is the unknown. No, I don't want to sound like a motivational poster with a singular image of a frosty mountain peak, but the cliche words are never truer. For me not knowing has been the scariest thing.

Rewind to Spring of last year -- not knowing what projectile would be flung at my head or which student was going to be suspended caused me massive amounts of anxiety. This year, as my situation evened out, I became more uncertain as my skills as a teacher. As the year draws to a close, my future once again looms its ugly, minimum wage-paying head.

I've been all-but assured that I will not have a position at my school next year. After that conversation I felt upset but I wasn't quite sure why. I never intended to teach for more than two years but a part of me feels like I have missed the entire experience. I haven't had the opportunity to move my own group of students from point A to B throughout the course of an entire year. I'm talking about day 1 to day 180.

So here we are, again with the unknown, but I can't help feel a slight (ever so slight) thrill. The opportunity, the freedom, the exhilarating breath of air -- grounded by the reality of unemployment. I don't know what's on the horizon -- but who really ever does?

Oscar, Oh Oscar

I'm a movie snob.

I'm sure that doesn't come as a surprise to most of you. I say this as a caveat to the arrogance (or perceived arrogance) that might follow in this post. You see, when people talk about movies it drives me crazy. When people misquote movie information it drives me crazy.

The worst is when people are exiting a movie theater and have post-cinema banter. It -- drives -- me -- crazy.

I'm remembering to breathe.

But alas, here in late winter, most of the world is buzzing with Oscar talk. At this time of year, this old crone gives most movie gabbers a reprieve because movie talk is inevitable.

Yes, it's Oscar time.

I think what drives me insane about public opinions and Oscars is that people are clouded by favoritism. Of course you want your favorite movie to win because it's your favorite, but how unbiased can your opinion be if the only Oscar nominated movies you've seen are Avatar and Up? Avatar does not merit the highest cinematic awards simply, "Because it rocked in 3-D" or because, "The blue smurf-cats got it on!!!". Well, maybe the latter is sufficient justification.

When people talk about movies I roll my eyes. I sit erect and assume a look of casual superiority. I know, I'm a snob. I do appreciate, however, the way that movies can elicit such strong feelings from people and be objects of such contention. It's such a subjective medium that any film can be the best film of the year for a multitude of reasons and which people are more than willing to argue about.

Perhaps that's why people want to fight for their movie -- to prove that it's the best. But movies are locked in a boxing ring, slugging it out for top honors. Movies speak for themselves, they speak to our experiences and our emotions and reveal a lot about who we are. They don't need Joe A-hole exiting the Kerasotes on Western pontificating why Transformers 2 is the bitchin'-est movie of all time.

All I'm saying is movies need to have their own story -- let's let them speak for themselves -- I'm talking to you Joe A-hole.

More Nostalgia?

It's funny that when you're living life you don't immediately think that these are the moments you'll be nostalgic for.

I remember in college when life was a blur of booze, fast women, and baked goods (well, mostly the latter), I never stopped to think, "In five years I'm going to yearn for this feeling of reckless irresponsibility". Yet as I think back to all my friends and all the feelings and emotions, I do wish I could have an ounce of those feelings back. Back when we were all a little silly, a little frantic, but ultimately a little closer.

Now I look around and my friends are, no joke, doctors, lawyers, business people, journalists, public servants, and people working to survive. The current of life sweeps in and drifts people apart. Who knew we'd be where we are now?

All I know is when I stalk my friends on facebook I get this pang in the deepest recesses of my heart for the way things were. But I know those feelings could never be recreated. I cherish those times and recall them whenever I'm feeling lonely.