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.