Hola. Me llamo Tammy y soy maestra y escritora.
Confused yet? You wouldn't be if you spoke Spanish, or if you'd paid attention even a little bit in your high school Spanish class. That's what I do all day -- talk in other people's sleep; a.k.a. teach Spanish to teenagers
Actually, I'm pretty blessed with good students overall, and most of them genuinely want to learn at least a rudimentary amount of Spanish; however, there is always at least one kid every year who could care less about learning a language he thinks he'll never need to know outside of my classroom. Ahhhh, the ignorance of youth.
Sadly, though, this ignorance is not just a product of our youth. Way too often the truly ignorant ones are the adults I meet who, upon learning I am a Spanish teacher, immediately lash into the worn out and completely idiotic litany of complaints -- "Why can't they (meaning Hispanics, I assume) learn English? They're in our country, so why don't they speak our language? Why would anyone ever need to know another language when they live in the U.S., the greatest country in the world?" Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Ad infinitum nausea.
First of all, there are many reasons that you should learn a different language, and one of them is simply that it will make you a better person. Stop whining and bitching about what other people should know how to do when they come to "our" country, and focus on making yourself a more well-rounded and educated human being. How about when you want to travel to "their" country to enjoy one of "their" beautiful beaches or "their" nightlife? Don't you think you should know "their" language for that? Of course not. You'll be just like the multitude of privileged people from the U.S. who travel south of the border and expect the Mexicans to speak English to you even though you're in "their" country. Don't be a hypocrite.
Also, there are soooooo many people right here in the U.S. who speak another language besides English that while you remain stubbornly locked into your insular attitude that the U.S. is only an English-speaking country, you are denying yourself the opportunities to get to know some incredible people and to visit some incredible places simply because you refuse to learn something that could benefit you.
Another language opens up doors for you that otherwise will remain permanently shut or, at the very least, will be very hard to budge. More jobs come your way if you can speak at least one other language because, face it, this is a global society nowadays and not just an American one. The more languages you know the less things you'll fear because you'll understand what signs say and what a food is in an ethnic restaurant and what that strange-looking man is saying to you when he's simply trying to warn you that there is an open manhole in front of you and you should watch where you are going, etc.
I'm also completely baffled by the Midwestern attitude that English is our only language and that it always has been. There were hundreds of languages and cultures in place here before any white guy ever set foot on this land, and we, in our arrogance, wiped most of them away. Also, most of us descend from nationalities besides English, so why the heck are we speaking English in the first place? I should be speaking German if I were going to stick to my guns and go with my roots, but that is a language I have yet to master, so I'll stay with English, Spanish and the little bit of Italian I know so far.
Why are these Midwestern white Americans so threatened by an influx of Hispanics? Back when my great-great-grandparents came from Germany, the Germans were despised, and they were mistreated for only speaking German; yet, here I am all these years later a full-blooded English-speaking American citizen. Nobody is the worse for it that my ancestors did not speak English when they came to this country. If anybody is worse off, it is me because my family did not continue to speak the language of their heritage and I would really like to know German. It's a hard language to pronounce, and the few times I've tried to do it in front of my former German exchange student, he busted a gut laughing at me, so clearly I have a hard road ahead of me to learn a language that should have been mine by my German ancestry connection.
Basically, I am tired of the complaints from adults who whine about the Hispanics and attack the Spanish language in the process. Spanish is a beautiful language, and it is actually much easier to learn than our crazy English language as far as the pronunciation and spelling are concerned. I'm sure a part of their complaints is based in the fear that Spanish may replace English someday as the main language of our country as the number of Hispanics living here increases, but English is a powerful language in the global-scheme of things, so that fear is largely groundless. I just wish more people in the U.S. would understand the importance and the benefits of being, at the very least, bilingual.
So, if you meet me and learn that I am a Spanish teacher, save your whining and complaining for somebody who agrees with you because that person isn't me, and stop asking me if I can understand what the Mexicans in Wal-Mart are saying. I don't give a damn what they are talking about while they are doing their shopping, but one thing I know for sure is that they are not talking about you, so put your conceit and your fears away. Rather than moving away from them in fear, learn a little Spanish yourself and follow them around the store listening in on their conversation. I can guarantee that while they were not talking about you originally, if you follow them around, they will definitely be talking about you then.
If you don't want to learn another language, that is your own concern, but if you only want to complain about others who do speak a language that you don't understand, then I invite you to Shtick This!
Hasta luego. Si puedes leer esto, agradece a una maestra.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Superstitious? Don't be stupid!
I was born on Friday, the 13th. Now, usually when I tell my students this, they pause and look at me, and then they say, "That explains sooooo much." Hmmm, I'm not exactly sure what they mean by that, but I'll take it as a compliment.
Actually, they are most likely referring to my dark and evil side when they say that, but while they are wallowing in their silly superstitious fears, I am simply going on with my life unimpeded by such stupidity. You see, being born on Friday the 13th has left me impervious to superstitions -- they have absolutely no sway over my life.
In fact, I revel in debunking others' silly fears or in taunting them by using their fears against them. If there is a ladder leaning against a building, I walk under it simply to hear the gasps of the other passing pedestrians. One time, though, a slightly hysterical woman pursued me and demanded I walk back under the ladder to "undo" the harm I'd caused myself. I humored her, and then I walked back under it once more and then again and again until she hurried off in complete horror and disbelief at the risks I was taking with my life.
I spill salt all the time, and I've never tossed it over my shoulder. I deliberately kept a small broken mirror I'd dropped taped inside my high school locker to annoy my superstitious friends. I constantly open umbrellas inside and even opened one on stage while doing a stand-up comedy bit about the stupidity of superstitions -- one drunk guy about fell off his stool as he sloshed his beer out of his mug while yelling at me "You're not supposed to do that! Don't you know it's unlucky?!" (apparently, he missed the whole point of my five-minute bit).
When I was sixteen, I was the front seat passenger in a car that my best friend (at the time) was driving. Suddenly, she slammed on the brakes and flipped a U-ie (not sure how to spell that, and maybe you can tell I was an 80s girl). My head smashed into the side window, and as I rubbed it, I yelled, "What the hell was that about?" She looked at me in utter disbelief and said, "Didn't you see the black cat in the middle of the road? I had to turn around before it crossed our path." Well, duh, of course. We must avoid the dangerous black cat at all costs -- even the cost of our lives as we swerve from one lane to another into oncoming traffic without even checking to see if someone is behind us or if somebody is coming toward us. We simply must avoid the cat! Good grief. Needless to say, for that reason and others not concerning her superstitious ways, that girl was soon my ex-best friend.
I now have a black cat. He is wonderful, and he crosses my path multiple times every day. I'm the first to admit, though, that sometimes I think he's evil, but I love him anyway.
I feel sorry for superstitious people. Actually, no, I think they are stupid. And clearly, since they are superstitious, then they are stupid since a superstition is a belief based upon a completely irrational presumption. They are not using their brains; thus, they are stupid -- no offense intended if you are one of those people (well, maybe a little bit).
In addition to having no superstitions at all, I think that being plagued by people offering me pity every year when my birthday falls on a Friday has had another odd effect on me -- I love cemeteries. I think they are the coolest places in the world after used book stores and tropical beaches. However, despite my love for cemeteries, I do not want to end up in one -- I want to be cremated with my ashes scattered over a beautiful tropical beach. But I digress. Cemeteries fascinate me while they tend to frighten others. Could be because those others are irrationally frightened by things that don't exist -- like superstitions . . . and ghosts.
Most likely I am not superstitious because I was born on Friday the 13th and have had to put up with people's shit about it all my life, so my lack of superstitions is more of a rebellion against those who do have them, but I'd also like to think that I'm smarter than the average superstitious person and that I use my rationality to understand that walking under a ladder will not bring me bad luck -- unless I trip and knock it over and injure the guy using it or something like that.
Sadly, people's superstitions go beyond the combination of Friday with the 13th and seem to concentrate heavily upon the number 13. I love that number. It is my birthday number after all, so I am annoyed that so many places do not have a number 13. Most hotels, tall buildings, airplanes, etc. Check them out and you'll see that the number 13 is usually absent. I would live on that floor and in that apartment number. I would sit in that seat number and in that aisle. It is just a number.
I, for one, embrace all Friday the 13ths as the best of days. I love black cats. I fear no salt (except the ocean salt that gets in my eyes while I swim -- ouch), and I do not believe in luck whether it is good or bad. We make our own luck. No umbrella or ladder decides it for us.
My birthday is on a Thursday this year, so my students can't give me too much crap about it, but I'll probably dress in black and laugh maniacally just to remind them that they should fear me anyway. I might not be a slave to superstitions, but they are. Mwau-ha-ha-ha-ha . . . . . .
Actually, they are most likely referring to my dark and evil side when they say that, but while they are wallowing in their silly superstitious fears, I am simply going on with my life unimpeded by such stupidity. You see, being born on Friday the 13th has left me impervious to superstitions -- they have absolutely no sway over my life.
In fact, I revel in debunking others' silly fears or in taunting them by using their fears against them. If there is a ladder leaning against a building, I walk under it simply to hear the gasps of the other passing pedestrians. One time, though, a slightly hysterical woman pursued me and demanded I walk back under the ladder to "undo" the harm I'd caused myself. I humored her, and then I walked back under it once more and then again and again until she hurried off in complete horror and disbelief at the risks I was taking with my life.
I spill salt all the time, and I've never tossed it over my shoulder. I deliberately kept a small broken mirror I'd dropped taped inside my high school locker to annoy my superstitious friends. I constantly open umbrellas inside and even opened one on stage while doing a stand-up comedy bit about the stupidity of superstitions -- one drunk guy about fell off his stool as he sloshed his beer out of his mug while yelling at me "You're not supposed to do that! Don't you know it's unlucky?!" (apparently, he missed the whole point of my five-minute bit).
When I was sixteen, I was the front seat passenger in a car that my best friend (at the time) was driving. Suddenly, she slammed on the brakes and flipped a U-ie (not sure how to spell that, and maybe you can tell I was an 80s girl). My head smashed into the side window, and as I rubbed it, I yelled, "What the hell was that about?" She looked at me in utter disbelief and said, "Didn't you see the black cat in the middle of the road? I had to turn around before it crossed our path." Well, duh, of course. We must avoid the dangerous black cat at all costs -- even the cost of our lives as we swerve from one lane to another into oncoming traffic without even checking to see if someone is behind us or if somebody is coming toward us. We simply must avoid the cat! Good grief. Needless to say, for that reason and others not concerning her superstitious ways, that girl was soon my ex-best friend.
I now have a black cat. He is wonderful, and he crosses my path multiple times every day. I'm the first to admit, though, that sometimes I think he's evil, but I love him anyway.
I feel sorry for superstitious people. Actually, no, I think they are stupid. And clearly, since they are superstitious, then they are stupid since a superstition is a belief based upon a completely irrational presumption. They are not using their brains; thus, they are stupid -- no offense intended if you are one of those people (well, maybe a little bit).
In addition to having no superstitions at all, I think that being plagued by people offering me pity every year when my birthday falls on a Friday has had another odd effect on me -- I love cemeteries. I think they are the coolest places in the world after used book stores and tropical beaches. However, despite my love for cemeteries, I do not want to end up in one -- I want to be cremated with my ashes scattered over a beautiful tropical beach. But I digress. Cemeteries fascinate me while they tend to frighten others. Could be because those others are irrationally frightened by things that don't exist -- like superstitions . . . and ghosts.
Most likely I am not superstitious because I was born on Friday the 13th and have had to put up with people's shit about it all my life, so my lack of superstitions is more of a rebellion against those who do have them, but I'd also like to think that I'm smarter than the average superstitious person and that I use my rationality to understand that walking under a ladder will not bring me bad luck -- unless I trip and knock it over and injure the guy using it or something like that.
Sadly, people's superstitions go beyond the combination of Friday with the 13th and seem to concentrate heavily upon the number 13. I love that number. It is my birthday number after all, so I am annoyed that so many places do not have a number 13. Most hotels, tall buildings, airplanes, etc. Check them out and you'll see that the number 13 is usually absent. I would live on that floor and in that apartment number. I would sit in that seat number and in that aisle. It is just a number.
I, for one, embrace all Friday the 13ths as the best of days. I love black cats. I fear no salt (except the ocean salt that gets in my eyes while I swim -- ouch), and I do not believe in luck whether it is good or bad. We make our own luck. No umbrella or ladder decides it for us.
My birthday is on a Thursday this year, so my students can't give me too much crap about it, but I'll probably dress in black and laugh maniacally just to remind them that they should fear me anyway. I might not be a slave to superstitions, but they are. Mwau-ha-ha-ha-ha . . . . . .
Saturday, September 1, 2012
I'm a Walking Disaster!
As I write this post, I am sitting with my left ankle propped on a chair and wrapped in an ice pack for the sixth day in a row. Why? Because I am an idiot, that's why.
I'm not really much of an exerciser. In fact, I pretty much avoid anything that makes me sweat for more than a few minutes at a time (if you get my drift -- wink, wink). However, I do love to swim, and I do love to take long walks with my dog.
I also like to keep records and set goals, so during the summertime, I attempt to walk 60 miles every month with the dog. This isn't an impossible goal considering that he and I walk 3 miles each time we go out, so if I were able to take him walking every single day, then I'd easily walk 90 miles in a month's time. Life and shitty weather conditions often interfere, though, so I aim for 20 days of walks in any given month to make my 60 mile goal.
In July, the insane heat prevented me from making my goal because I simply couldn't do that to my dog. He is a large Labrador mix, and he lives outside, but he simply panted off all his excess winter weight and left small puddles of drool everywhere he went that month. I couldn't bring myself to make him walk with me in the evenings when the temperature was still in the high 90s, and without him making me feel guilty for not walking, I generally don't walk. So, I barely scratched the 40 mile mark that month.
I was all set to not only make the 60 mile goal in August but to actually surpass it when a week from the goal, I did something incredibly stupid. I stepped in a hole in my own back yard -- a hole that I knew was there because I'd stepped in it before. Not just once, not even twice, but many times. I'd even filled in the hole a few times to avoid stepping in it, but the dirt magically disappears after a few days, so I'd given up on that.
This time, though, I twisted my ankle in a way that I've never twisted it before. I heard a nasty "pop" and then my left foot instantly went numb and a sharp pain shot up the outside of my leg to my hip. I immediately collapsed to the ground (on top of a pile of dried doggie do-do I later learned) and lay there on my back crying out in agony while my daughter and my dog, who was on his leash and ready to go on a walk, looked down at me for about 10 minutes or so.
Once the feeling returned to my foot, I rotated my ankle a few times to be sure it wasn't broken. It wasn't. However, a sane and rational person would have abandoned the plan to go walking and would have gone inside to ice her ankle. That person is not me. Nope. Remember, I was determined to make my 60 miles in August, so the dog, my daughter and I set out on our 3 mile walk anyway.
By the time we got back home, I thought that my ankle was fine actually. It only hurt a little bit. This was a Sunday evening. The next morning was a Monday, and I had to go to work as a teacher where I stand all day teaching kids -- on a concrete floor. By the end of the day, the outside of my ankle was swollen excessively and I was walking with a very noticeable limp.
I've been icing it daily since then. This is day 6. The swelling goes down, the pain lessens, and then I do something stupid like stand and teach all day or take my dog for a 3 mile walk again, and the swelling and pain return.
I have finally taken measures to insure that I don't step in that hole in my back yard again. I placed a pot of flowers (well, dead flowers thanks to the stupid July heat) in it. That is my fix for now -- a pot of dead flowers protruding from a hole in my back yard. I said "Shtick This!" to the hole in my yard, and I stuck the pot in it. It will have to do until somebody can help me figure out where the dirt magically disappears to. At least I won't be stepping in that hole anytime soon. Unfortunately, I'm a well-known klutz, so I'm sure I'll find another hole to step in or another way to injure myself.
I ended up 3 miles short of my 60 mile goal for August; however, I figure that I can factor in all the walking around my classroom, to and from the school building and my car, and up and down the grocery store aisles to easily meet that 60 mile quota I set for myself.
I'm setting my goal a bit lower for September since the ankle is still pretty sore and since many of my evenings will be busy with school activities. Let's try for 50 miles in September, and let's hope that I don't trip over that pot that's in the hole in my back yard and break something next.
I'm not really much of an exerciser. In fact, I pretty much avoid anything that makes me sweat for more than a few minutes at a time (if you get my drift -- wink, wink). However, I do love to swim, and I do love to take long walks with my dog.
I also like to keep records and set goals, so during the summertime, I attempt to walk 60 miles every month with the dog. This isn't an impossible goal considering that he and I walk 3 miles each time we go out, so if I were able to take him walking every single day, then I'd easily walk 90 miles in a month's time. Life and shitty weather conditions often interfere, though, so I aim for 20 days of walks in any given month to make my 60 mile goal.
In July, the insane heat prevented me from making my goal because I simply couldn't do that to my dog. He is a large Labrador mix, and he lives outside, but he simply panted off all his excess winter weight and left small puddles of drool everywhere he went that month. I couldn't bring myself to make him walk with me in the evenings when the temperature was still in the high 90s, and without him making me feel guilty for not walking, I generally don't walk. So, I barely scratched the 40 mile mark that month.
I was all set to not only make the 60 mile goal in August but to actually surpass it when a week from the goal, I did something incredibly stupid. I stepped in a hole in my own back yard -- a hole that I knew was there because I'd stepped in it before. Not just once, not even twice, but many times. I'd even filled in the hole a few times to avoid stepping in it, but the dirt magically disappears after a few days, so I'd given up on that.
This time, though, I twisted my ankle in a way that I've never twisted it before. I heard a nasty "pop" and then my left foot instantly went numb and a sharp pain shot up the outside of my leg to my hip. I immediately collapsed to the ground (on top of a pile of dried doggie do-do I later learned) and lay there on my back crying out in agony while my daughter and my dog, who was on his leash and ready to go on a walk, looked down at me for about 10 minutes or so.
Once the feeling returned to my foot, I rotated my ankle a few times to be sure it wasn't broken. It wasn't. However, a sane and rational person would have abandoned the plan to go walking and would have gone inside to ice her ankle. That person is not me. Nope. Remember, I was determined to make my 60 miles in August, so the dog, my daughter and I set out on our 3 mile walk anyway.
By the time we got back home, I thought that my ankle was fine actually. It only hurt a little bit. This was a Sunday evening. The next morning was a Monday, and I had to go to work as a teacher where I stand all day teaching kids -- on a concrete floor. By the end of the day, the outside of my ankle was swollen excessively and I was walking with a very noticeable limp.
I've been icing it daily since then. This is day 6. The swelling goes down, the pain lessens, and then I do something stupid like stand and teach all day or take my dog for a 3 mile walk again, and the swelling and pain return.
I have finally taken measures to insure that I don't step in that hole in my back yard again. I placed a pot of flowers (well, dead flowers thanks to the stupid July heat) in it. That is my fix for now -- a pot of dead flowers protruding from a hole in my back yard. I said "Shtick This!" to the hole in my yard, and I stuck the pot in it. It will have to do until somebody can help me figure out where the dirt magically disappears to. At least I won't be stepping in that hole anytime soon. Unfortunately, I'm a well-known klutz, so I'm sure I'll find another hole to step in or another way to injure myself.
I ended up 3 miles short of my 60 mile goal for August; however, I figure that I can factor in all the walking around my classroom, to and from the school building and my car, and up and down the grocery store aisles to easily meet that 60 mile quota I set for myself.
I'm setting my goal a bit lower for September since the ankle is still pretty sore and since many of my evenings will be busy with school activities. Let's try for 50 miles in September, and let's hope that I don't trip over that pot that's in the hole in my back yard and break something next.
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