Yesterday The Big Cheese gave me a quasi-ultimatum, but it was all friendly and well-dressed, as in your options are to remain here and be tossed, or to go graciously. And all so sorry about the circumstances, etc etc, it is a bum deal, that murdered brother thing. Ach! I'm too sensitive. In all fairness, she had not been prepared for the nuts and bolts of screwing people, if you'll pardon the mixed-tools metaphor. I was absolutely exhilarated. I neither burst into song, however, nor did I 'tell her off.' I held my mental state in, and shined with the veneer of contained professionalism. The extra Klonopin may have helped. Sitting in my cozy chair, gazing out onto the plaza where the children would soon mount the steps of the bus, I articulately spoke of my plans to focus on my teaching. I imagined my brother when he was all 'I'm a union man,' working for a pizza joint. My whole class identity is utterly fucked up since I am granddaughter and grand-neice to immigrant mechanics and butchers turned car-salesmen, and daughter of a doctor. I went to a crappy provincial public school and an elite prep school. I'm thinking that bitch better not fuck with me, and simultaneously, why must women drag each other down? I have relatives who have millions and others who rent apartments in little towns. Are we all like that?
Oh I'm drifting. The point is, I gathered up all of my poise - actually it's not mine, it was a loaner from my mother, I shook The Boss Lady's hand, and I walked out thinking hallelujah. I can finally spend time with Rugelah (Teen Boy wants very little to do with me and Ball & Chain can wait a bit), with no thought a'tall about money. I can't miss a paycheck, but in my heart I know that somehow, somewhere, there's a big fat wad of dough waiting for me. I was raised with the knowledge that, despite my father's protestations that we were using too much Worcestershire sauce, costing the family a bundle, we actually had infinite amounts of cash - no worries!
When I hear about my financial limits, and I know Ball & Chain works with truly poor people, and I see the numbers, it is sobering until I have a symbolic shot of budget amnesia. Between visiting my parents at The Big House (and it is big), and being partially delusional, I am quite sure that I am loaded. Not in the "we are rich compared to most of the world" sense (and of course we are); but rich in the "I think I'll go to Asia next year" sense. I'd rather prefer to sail, and perhaps ride an elephant. When I arrive back home, I'll consider finding another job, but only because teaching is a calling, and I think Ball & Chain may start calling, rather loudly.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Monday, April 03, 2006
A Stinker
What do you do in the days preceding the meeting at which you might be told that you are going to be put out, like Felix Unger, on the doorstep, with a saucepan in hand? Rugelah, my lovely daughter, told me that everyone makes mistakes, that if she misses her uncle this much, I must miss my brother a lot, and I did my best. That helped for five minutes, and now I'm nervous. The Big Cheese is gonna lay one on me, it's gonna stink, and I have no idea how I'll react. You know those moments when you wonder if you'll bust out in song, or cry, or tell the jerk to go to hell? I'm worried I'll violate some norm of decency, and one doesn't do that in the public school realm. Perhaps I should wear a corset? A muzzle? Or maybe more drastic measures are required: a full-facial botox, so that my expression is frozen into a single emotion: indifference. It would remove the risk of the facial tic.
Maybe I need to fantasize about what I would say to her if I could? Nah, that's too simple. She is not any smarter than me, she's been a boss lady for 6 months, and she has a chronic panty line disorder. It's no fun with such an easy target. If only I were Marsha Brady, I could imagine her in her underwear, and pass the driver's test. Yeesh, maybe not.
Chrystal came over tonight and told me yet another story of how she showed up to interview some academic bigwig in sweats, unwashed, because she'd forgotten the appointment. Shouldn't there be a law that if one's closest friend gets to act like a cheesy slob, the privilege is shared? Some girls across the hall today, both of whom are in my math class, were giggling and teasing me about what a terrible teacher I am. They had big smiles on their faces. Now's the time for some cute little ending, but there is none. I'm off to dream of a place where I am the boss and all of the people who work for me are required to pay me for the honor, clean stuff up, and write their own goddamn evaluations. Plus, no panty lines.
Maybe I need to fantasize about what I would say to her if I could? Nah, that's too simple. She is not any smarter than me, she's been a boss lady for 6 months, and she has a chronic panty line disorder. It's no fun with such an easy target. If only I were Marsha Brady, I could imagine her in her underwear, and pass the driver's test. Yeesh, maybe not.
Chrystal came over tonight and told me yet another story of how she showed up to interview some academic bigwig in sweats, unwashed, because she'd forgotten the appointment. Shouldn't there be a law that if one's closest friend gets to act like a cheesy slob, the privilege is shared? Some girls across the hall today, both of whom are in my math class, were giggling and teasing me about what a terrible teacher I am. They had big smiles on their faces. Now's the time for some cute little ending, but there is none. I'm off to dream of a place where I am the boss and all of the people who work for me are required to pay me for the honor, clean stuff up, and write their own goddamn evaluations. Plus, no panty lines.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
This One Riles Me.
A woman's place: it's a vast topic, but one I am experiencing in a particularly personal realm, as I sit on my sticky spot in my little life. I am a puzzle piece in the wrong box, destined not to fit. Here's the scenario for me, and I am guessing, based on extensive research of women whom I know and like, that American culture is squeezing us out unless we adhere. Adhere to the looking pretty and plucking. Adhere to the mothering well and making bucks. Checking on one's parents when they're needy? Children when they're ill? Caring for one's self - or one's partner - when we are ill or needy? Is any of this new? Of course not. So this is a tale of an ogre - that would be me - who is uncomfortably roped into a world where she is expected to do tasks with delicate little fingers that she doesn't have; and to master assignments with strength that's already sapped.
My brother died last July. He was murdered. It was random but purposeful. I somehow went back to work a few weeks later. He was one of my best friends, my quirky pal as a kid, and the only person who never, ever, judged me. We won't get into the muppet voices, the Thai food, and his excellent guitar playing.
I went back to my teaching job. I tried to comfort my parents, my brother's wife, my dear sister, and my kids, all of whom were devastated. We comforted one another. I wanted to comfort them - what else would I do? At work, I did strangely well. The word "excellent" was used. I heard it as if from a long distance, and kept on moving. I managed; people helped me. By the holidays, I started coming unglued. Even typinging this into my electronic box I feel the pulses in my fingers as I trank the keys to think of the presumptuousness of people who advocate the status quo even when it has been utterly violated. It is like an ogre-tale: remember the college guy in American Werewolf in London? And all of the inferior subsequent rip-offs? He became angry as he lost the ability to do the every-day stuff. So this winter I made some mistakes at work. Not awful mistakes. No children were injured or tormented. A couple of classes were lousy and boring. I consulted with colleagues; considered a leave. Couldn't afford it.
And then I recovered my abilities at work, pretty much. But in our profession, in the female teaching profession, and I am guessing that nurses, and others, put up with analogous crap, that just wasn't good enough. I was told that I was "good," but that in my snotty school system everyone needs to be excellent. Women are dispensable. My husband does more around the house - he is the neatnik - but who is caring for my grieving children? Who in our society cares for ailing parents, grieving parents? Isn't it usually the daughters? I was encouraged to take the leave when suddenly the idea that I wouldn't be invited back next year arose, but who would pay for it? The Grief Fairy? The Goddess of Devastated Siblings? Is she related to The Maternity Banker?
I don't know my place. It seems, ironically, that a private school would be a better fit: they are less rigid and have fewer legislators making arbitrary rules about how children learn. Psychologists say that when one loses a sibling, it fucks with the whole perspective, because one's fundamental reality has shifted. Some days I am better, and other days I take the pills they gave me, and I try to imagine how I could possibly fit, without my brother to argue with me over which t.v. shows suck and other such important matters.
Did I shed a new light on an old topic? I'll tell you what: for me, I'm not waiting for someone else to figure out the best way to mother my children. I'm not laughing when the joke isn't funny and I'm not speaking to my students as if they're idiots. So if my unpleasant area smells a bit, and makes some folks want to stay away, they can go right ahead. Like I tell my students, 'we're all yoo-mun beens.' I know my right and I know my wrong. If that doesn't fit in anybody's All-American bad-suits in bad-colors hierarchy, may they be subjected to the purgatory of micro-management, standardized testing, and a perpetual sense of alienation. And if they are already subjecting others to the aforementioned blights of society, well, I'm considering ogre as a full-time profession. Until then, anybody gotta job?
My brother died last July. He was murdered. It was random but purposeful. I somehow went back to work a few weeks later. He was one of my best friends, my quirky pal as a kid, and the only person who never, ever, judged me. We won't get into the muppet voices, the Thai food, and his excellent guitar playing.
I went back to my teaching job. I tried to comfort my parents, my brother's wife, my dear sister, and my kids, all of whom were devastated. We comforted one another. I wanted to comfort them - what else would I do? At work, I did strangely well. The word "excellent" was used. I heard it as if from a long distance, and kept on moving. I managed; people helped me. By the holidays, I started coming unglued. Even typinging this into my electronic box I feel the pulses in my fingers as I trank the keys to think of the presumptuousness of people who advocate the status quo even when it has been utterly violated. It is like an ogre-tale: remember the college guy in American Werewolf in London? And all of the inferior subsequent rip-offs? He became angry as he lost the ability to do the every-day stuff. So this winter I made some mistakes at work. Not awful mistakes. No children were injured or tormented. A couple of classes were lousy and boring. I consulted with colleagues; considered a leave. Couldn't afford it.
And then I recovered my abilities at work, pretty much. But in our profession, in the female teaching profession, and I am guessing that nurses, and others, put up with analogous crap, that just wasn't good enough. I was told that I was "good," but that in my snotty school system everyone needs to be excellent. Women are dispensable. My husband does more around the house - he is the neatnik - but who is caring for my grieving children? Who in our society cares for ailing parents, grieving parents? Isn't it usually the daughters? I was encouraged to take the leave when suddenly the idea that I wouldn't be invited back next year arose, but who would pay for it? The Grief Fairy? The Goddess of Devastated Siblings? Is she related to The Maternity Banker?
I don't know my place. It seems, ironically, that a private school would be a better fit: they are less rigid and have fewer legislators making arbitrary rules about how children learn. Psychologists say that when one loses a sibling, it fucks with the whole perspective, because one's fundamental reality has shifted. Some days I am better, and other days I take the pills they gave me, and I try to imagine how I could possibly fit, without my brother to argue with me over which t.v. shows suck and other such important matters.
Did I shed a new light on an old topic? I'll tell you what: for me, I'm not waiting for someone else to figure out the best way to mother my children. I'm not laughing when the joke isn't funny and I'm not speaking to my students as if they're idiots. So if my unpleasant area smells a bit, and makes some folks want to stay away, they can go right ahead. Like I tell my students, 'we're all yoo-mun beens.' I know my right and I know my wrong. If that doesn't fit in anybody's All-American bad-suits in bad-colors hierarchy, may they be subjected to the purgatory of micro-management, standardized testing, and a perpetual sense of alienation. And if they are already subjecting others to the aforementioned blights of society, well, I'm considering ogre as a full-time profession. Until then, anybody gotta job?
Meditations and Facts From My Cyber-Disabled Phase
Blogger was giving me a headache and so I couldn't post for a few days. Imagine all of the important ideas missed: Why do I seem to undermine myself at work? Why don't I cook when I'm actually kinda good at it? Why have I stopped reading the newspaper? Here are some more important thoughts:
~Warm is better than cold.
~Weetabix heated up in the microwave tastes like baby food, and it is so creamy-licious.
~Friends moving to California is a bad pattern.
~Friends supporting me even as my job seems to eke through my fingers is a good thing.
~It is challenging to explain to one's young daughter what a prostitute or a whore is, and should be avoided if at all possible.
~It is challenging to avoid explaining what a prostitute or a whore is to one's young daughter when one has an irreverent teen son.
~Mini-pads are excellent because I cannot deal with excess mucous sticking to me and then drying.
~Being married is good sometimes, and not others: it's like blue cheese - it works for some people and not for others.
~Celebrities don't really exist.
~Matt Damon looks very weird with his big neck and shiny face - I saw him in person.
~Some of these meditations and facts may seem contradictory.
~People over 40 shouldn't have bosses because we don't wanna listen to anybody.
~It's no fun to have little bumps on your ass that turn into zits when you sweat too much.
~Reading Haruki Murakami can give you all sorts of new perspectives on thinking, consciousness and the stops and starts during the cognitive process.
~Using those little squiggles, like this ~, before each statement is a bit too pretty, but do I really have another choice?
~Making lists is a bit lazy, really.
~There isn't enough room in our society for people to make mistakes.
~Warm is better than cold.
~Weetabix heated up in the microwave tastes like baby food, and it is so creamy-licious.
~Friends moving to California is a bad pattern.
~Friends supporting me even as my job seems to eke through my fingers is a good thing.
~It is challenging to explain to one's young daughter what a prostitute or a whore is, and should be avoided if at all possible.
~It is challenging to avoid explaining what a prostitute or a whore is to one's young daughter when one has an irreverent teen son.
~Mini-pads are excellent because I cannot deal with excess mucous sticking to me and then drying.
~Being married is good sometimes, and not others: it's like blue cheese - it works for some people and not for others.
~Celebrities don't really exist.
~Matt Damon looks very weird with his big neck and shiny face - I saw him in person.
~Some of these meditations and facts may seem contradictory.
~People over 40 shouldn't have bosses because we don't wanna listen to anybody.
~It's no fun to have little bumps on your ass that turn into zits when you sweat too much.
~Reading Haruki Murakami can give you all sorts of new perspectives on thinking, consciousness and the stops and starts during the cognitive process.
~Using those little squiggles, like this ~, before each statement is a bit too pretty, but do I really have another choice?
~Making lists is a bit lazy, really.
~There isn't enough room in our society for people to make mistakes.
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