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.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Back to School!
Wow! Another school year snuck up on me fast and goosed me a good one! Totally unprepared to go back. It's sort of a sad commentary on my life that I've been going to school for just about 40 years straight. You'd think I would have learned enough by now that I could move on to something else, but my life revolves around the cycle of a school year.
I've been teaching now longer than the years I spent as a student, and I've learned a few things along the way. Not much, but a few things. There is a famous book that shows that all a person really needs to know in life are the lessons that she learned in kindergarten. Well, for the teachers out there, all the really important teaching takes place in the first few days of school, and the rest is just biding your time until summer vacation comes around again.
Don't believe me? Let's consider some things. First, you have to lay down your ground rules, and without those rules and the consequences you'll enforce if the rules are broken, then your room will simply become a haven for chaos, and we all know that learning will not take place amid chaos. Secondly, the first few days of school are the only days in which your students are even remotely interested in being in school, so you have to grab them while they're even slightly attentive and pump them with as much knowledge as possible and just hope it lasts through the remaining eight months of the year. Thirdly, and most importantly, the beginning week or two of school is the only time of the year not interrupted by sporting events, pep rallies, assemblies, standardized tests and any other thing that cuts into your teaching time; so it is the only solid block of time in which to get some quality education accomplished.
Since I've been teaching so long, I've been assembling a guidebook for first year teachers. Mostly, it's a compilation of some of my venting after long days beating my head against the marker board in defeat, but it's intended audience is that group of first year teachers who start out their careers all rainbows and roses and end their careers nine months later looking like the walking dead with glazed eyes and missing pieces of their hair where they've pulled it out in frustration. Teaching is not for the faint of heart. It is a profession that will try the most decorated combat hero, and it's one where over half of those entering the field leave it in a mad dash for freedom and sanity at the end of that first year. So, since I'm a hard-ass and a smart-ass, I decided that I'd be a good person to give those eager newbies a dose of reality with some old-fashioned words of wisdom thrown in to help guide them through that arduous first year. Lord knows we need more good teachers out there -- after all, who is going to replace me in a few years?
Here are some of my chapter ideas to give you a taste of my warped sense of humor in action:
The First Day (or: Run Now Before It's Too Late!)
Lesson Plans (or: Those Things You Never Follow)
Problem Students (or: Every Student)
Extra-Curricular Duties (or: Free Time? Kiss That Good-bye)
Parent/Teacher Conference (or: One Night in Hell)
Hopefully you get the idea. Maybe some day I will actually finish my ranting and raving and actually edit what I've written and then get it published, so it can do some future first year teacher a little good and give him the motivation to return for a second and even a third year. After that, it's smooth sailing . . . uh, who am I kidding?
Good luck to all the teachers out there! And remember when you're having a bad day, just take a deep breath and mentally (not aloud for all to hear) tell your students or your boss to Shtick This!
I've been teaching now longer than the years I spent as a student, and I've learned a few things along the way. Not much, but a few things. There is a famous book that shows that all a person really needs to know in life are the lessons that she learned in kindergarten. Well, for the teachers out there, all the really important teaching takes place in the first few days of school, and the rest is just biding your time until summer vacation comes around again.
Don't believe me? Let's consider some things. First, you have to lay down your ground rules, and without those rules and the consequences you'll enforce if the rules are broken, then your room will simply become a haven for chaos, and we all know that learning will not take place amid chaos. Secondly, the first few days of school are the only days in which your students are even remotely interested in being in school, so you have to grab them while they're even slightly attentive and pump them with as much knowledge as possible and just hope it lasts through the remaining eight months of the year. Thirdly, and most importantly, the beginning week or two of school is the only time of the year not interrupted by sporting events, pep rallies, assemblies, standardized tests and any other thing that cuts into your teaching time; so it is the only solid block of time in which to get some quality education accomplished.
Since I've been teaching so long, I've been assembling a guidebook for first year teachers. Mostly, it's a compilation of some of my venting after long days beating my head against the marker board in defeat, but it's intended audience is that group of first year teachers who start out their careers all rainbows and roses and end their careers nine months later looking like the walking dead with glazed eyes and missing pieces of their hair where they've pulled it out in frustration. Teaching is not for the faint of heart. It is a profession that will try the most decorated combat hero, and it's one where over half of those entering the field leave it in a mad dash for freedom and sanity at the end of that first year. So, since I'm a hard-ass and a smart-ass, I decided that I'd be a good person to give those eager newbies a dose of reality with some old-fashioned words of wisdom thrown in to help guide them through that arduous first year. Lord knows we need more good teachers out there -- after all, who is going to replace me in a few years?
Here are some of my chapter ideas to give you a taste of my warped sense of humor in action:
The First Day (or: Run Now Before It's Too Late!)
Lesson Plans (or: Those Things You Never Follow)
Problem Students (or: Every Student)
Extra-Curricular Duties (or: Free Time? Kiss That Good-bye)
Parent/Teacher Conference (or: One Night in Hell)
Hopefully you get the idea. Maybe some day I will actually finish my ranting and raving and actually edit what I've written and then get it published, so it can do some future first year teacher a little good and give him the motivation to return for a second and even a third year. After that, it's smooth sailing . . . uh, who am I kidding?
Good luck to all the teachers out there! And remember when you're having a bad day, just take a deep breath and mentally (not aloud for all to hear) tell your students or your boss to Shtick This!
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Reading Suggestions
I write a bi-monthly column about books and literature-related topics for a newspaper. My focus is on older books that merit the attention of today's readers for reasons of enjoyment and not just for classroom study. I have a personal obsession with Pulitzer-prize winning novels, and I also hit on books considered to be classics as well as more current books that I find to be especially praiseworthy. I keep my own annotated list of books I've read, and I'd like to share a few from 2011. Some of them have been the subject of one of my columns while others I have just read for my own sake.
1. "The Shadow of the Wind" by Carlos Ruiz Zafon: I bought a Spanish copy of this at a book fair in Madrid a few years ago. Once I started the novel, though, I couldn't read it fast enough in Spanish to satisfy my fascination, so I checked out an English translation and finished it in a few days. Imagine if there were such a thing as a Cemetery of Forgotten Books! This novel spoke to my deep-seated love of literature and the need to preserve books for all eternity.
2. "The Shipping News" by Annie Proulx: This novel won the Pulitzer in 1994. I've read it twice now and each time I am captivated by the author's word choices and her poetic, choppy style that is simply beautiful to read. Who would have thought that a novel would make me want to visit Newfoundland someday?
3. "Watership Down" by Richard Adams: Why this book is always filed in young adult literature I'll never understand. It deserves to be read by people of all ages. Sure, it's about rabbits, but the things that happen to them and the tactics they use to solve their problems are very much adult themes. It has everything -- adventure, danger, love, death, birth, conflict, humor and so much more.
4. "Water for Elephants" by Sara Gruen: The one book I read all year that I literally could not put down. I read it in only a few hours, and I was so disappointed when it ended and I had to close it. The research that went into this book to bring it to life for the readers is astounding. I felt like I was living on that circus train and enduring all the hardships right along with the characters in the book. I also fell in love with Jacob and didn't even mind that he is 93 years old!
5. "Dracula" by Bram Stoker: If I'm going to read a novel containing vampires, it better be a good one like "Dracula" where the vampire is really a terrifying, evil creature and not somebody that the heroine falls in love with. Sad to say that I hadn't read this novel until last year despite knowing the literary figure my entire life. I was most surprised to learn that Van Helsing is an elderly professor and not some sword-swinging, muscular vampire slayer as the movies have long portrayed him. I like his true persona so much better.
6. "Now in November" by Josephine W. Johnson: The author was very young when she wrote this Depression-era short novel, and she won the Pulitzer for it in 1935 despite the fact that she was both young and female in a male-dominated society. I read online (I forget where, sorry) that this novel is one of the five least read and remembered of all the Pulitzer prize winning books for fiction. I find that sad after reading it because it is well-written and tells a tragic yet beautiful story of a family struggling to survive in a world hit hard by the Depression.
7. "The Hours" by Michael Cunningham: This novel rightfully won the Pulitzer in 1999. The confusion you first feel at trying to figure out why it's a story about three different women living at three different times in history is blown away by the understanding and amazement you feel by the end of the novel when you see how the writer masterfully pulled it all off. I am now reading "Mrs. Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf, and then I plan to reread "The Hours." It's simply a great book.
8. "The Name of the Rose" by Umberto Eco: This was a hard yet enjoyable read for me because I love books so much. I was in awe of the scope of the labyrinth-like library that the monks had created, and then I was saddened when it all burned up. Even though it was a fictional library, the thought of all those important manuscripts being lost forever was torture for a bibliophile like me.
9. "Spanish Word Histories and Mysteries" by the editors of the American Heritage Dictionaries: As both a high school Spanish and linguistics teacher, this book was extremely educational for me. It also contains many humorous insights into the common words we use that we took from the Spanish language. Well researched and well explained. I appreciate that as a teacher and a word-lover.
10. "How Fiction Works" by James Wood: As an aspiring novelist myself, I am always looking for insight into how to write better. Wood had a unique approach to offering writing advice, but what I most liked about this book was the wealth of examples. From it I have greatly expanded my list of books to read in the coming years. This also is one of those books that bears a thorough reread to glean more insight from the abundance of advice contained within its pages.
Thank you for reading my list. These are what I would consider to be the top ten books from the fifty I read in 2011. If you have any interest in knowing what other books I read, feel free to contact me.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Hot, hot, hot!
Damn, it's been hot lately! I'd like to tell Mother Nature to "Shtick This!" but in a not so nice way. However, I'm not exactly sure where to tell Mother Nature to put it. Does she have an ass? Doubtful.
We all know that Mother Nature is a fickle bitch, but enough with the heat already! She has other tricks up her sleeve, so why not throw us a thunderstorm or a cold spell for a change. This constant heat is not even creative on her part. Yawn. Come on, woman, it's time for a change.
We all know this drought is going to drive up the cost of our food for the foreseeable future along with other complications it's bringing us. However, I'm more annoyed with how it's affecting my ability to get outside and actually enjoy my summer.
As a teacher, I value my summers because the rest of my years are so jammed full of activities and responsibilities that I never have a spare moment to do something fun for me. Here I am with a couple months free, and I have to spend most of one stuck in my house to keep cool.
I can't stand being cooped up long, though, so I inevitably end up outside at some point each day, but lately it's mostly just been to move my sprinklers in a pitiful attempt to save my lawn -- there are parts, now, that are beyond salvation I fear. I can't walk my dog at all some days because it doesn't get cool enough for him to walk very far until it's already dark, and the swimming pool during the afternoon when it's over 100 degrees isn't even refreshing because the water is actually too warm, and the cement surrounding the pool is too hot.
Everything is suffering in this heat -- the plants, the animals and the people -- so I say we all join in a revolt against Mother Nature and demand that she bring us a reprieve of some rain and a cool snap. Who among us has any pull with the woman? I don't -- not after I mocked her pathetic attempt at a winter this past year and then ridiculed her for not bringing any snow for a snow day out of school. Sorry, M. N. If this here is about my snarkiness, then please forgive me and bring us some rain. (But if it really is, then get over yourself, woman. Geez. Can you say "petty?" . . . Oops, sorry, I'm doing it again.)
I guess, for now, all we can do is grab a fan, a cold beer, and strap on our shortest shorts and our tank tops because I hear that there's no chance of rain for a long time yet. So, until the rain comes and the days cool off, I invite Mother Nature to literally stick this up whatever orifice she has!
We all know that Mother Nature is a fickle bitch, but enough with the heat already! She has other tricks up her sleeve, so why not throw us a thunderstorm or a cold spell for a change. This constant heat is not even creative on her part. Yawn. Come on, woman, it's time for a change.
We all know this drought is going to drive up the cost of our food for the foreseeable future along with other complications it's bringing us. However, I'm more annoyed with how it's affecting my ability to get outside and actually enjoy my summer.
As a teacher, I value my summers because the rest of my years are so jammed full of activities and responsibilities that I never have a spare moment to do something fun for me. Here I am with a couple months free, and I have to spend most of one stuck in my house to keep cool.
I can't stand being cooped up long, though, so I inevitably end up outside at some point each day, but lately it's mostly just been to move my sprinklers in a pitiful attempt to save my lawn -- there are parts, now, that are beyond salvation I fear. I can't walk my dog at all some days because it doesn't get cool enough for him to walk very far until it's already dark, and the swimming pool during the afternoon when it's over 100 degrees isn't even refreshing because the water is actually too warm, and the cement surrounding the pool is too hot.
Everything is suffering in this heat -- the plants, the animals and the people -- so I say we all join in a revolt against Mother Nature and demand that she bring us a reprieve of some rain and a cool snap. Who among us has any pull with the woman? I don't -- not after I mocked her pathetic attempt at a winter this past year and then ridiculed her for not bringing any snow for a snow day out of school. Sorry, M. N. If this here is about my snarkiness, then please forgive me and bring us some rain. (But if it really is, then get over yourself, woman. Geez. Can you say "petty?" . . . Oops, sorry, I'm doing it again.)
I guess, for now, all we can do is grab a fan, a cold beer, and strap on our shortest shorts and our tank tops because I hear that there's no chance of rain for a long time yet. So, until the rain comes and the days cool off, I invite Mother Nature to literally stick this up whatever orifice she has!
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Swimming
I love to swim laps, and I have an almost perfect freestyle stroke which I taught myself after flunking the one and only swimming lesson class I ever took as a child. Why did I flunk? Because I wouldn't swim across the deep end. Why wouldn't I? It wasn't because I couldn't; it was because I was afraid. At that depth, I was absolutely positive there was something lurking at the bottom of the pool that would rise and eat me as I splashed my way across to the other side. Silly? Yes, now to the middle-aged me, but not to the five-year-old me. That me was 100 percent certain that I would be devoured. So, instead of flunking me and making me feel humiliated, why didn't the lifeguard instructor simply have me swim across the shallow end of the pool?
Anger at the injustice and stupidity of the one and only class I've ever flunked (even at the young age I was when it happened) flooded me, and I refused to ever take another swimming class. I can be extremely stubborn when I latch onto a cause, so my mother didn't press the issue with me, especially since I loved swimming and went often and eventually mastered many aspects of it on my own.
However, later as a teenager, I realized that in order to become a lifeguard and pool manager, I'd actually have to take another swimming class designed to teach me survival skills. The instructor I had was an intense man who was very demanding that we be able to swim all the strokes correctly, so once again I suffered humiliation at never having even tried a butterfly and looking like a total ass doing it, but eventually I got the hang of it enough to meet his exerting demands. The one stroke that I thought I was doing correctly prior to the class, though, was the breast stroke. Turns out I was totally wrong! He made me do that stroke hundreds of times outside of the water and then in the pool while he walked alongside yelling at me until my technique was near perfect.
Prior to that class I had always enjoyed swimming laps while doing the crawl stroke, or freestyle, but after that class I absolutely LOVED swimming laps and being able to integrate the various strokes I'd mastered from that domineering teacher. A lot of people think I'm strange because I simply love to swim laps. They see laps as boring and even as too difficult, but it's those two aspects that I love the most.
First of all, laps are not boring -- they are therapeutic and meditative. I go into a deep inner place that calms me as all I hear are my breathing and the muffled sounds that reach me through the water. I also concentrate completely on what my arms and legs are doing and timing my breaths to the movements, so for about an hour all my exterior worries and problems melt away.
As to lap swimming being difficult, it isn't once you master the strokes, but even then, it is the perfect exercise. It's also one I should do way more often, and then maybe I'd actually be in shape. If anything is difficult about lap swimming for me, it is appearing in public in a bathing suit! Ouch! Now that is what I call painful and difficult. Of course, if I did more laps more often, I wouldn't have that problem either. Hmmmm, something for me to think about, wouldn't you say?
Lap swimming is also a great metaphor for life because you almost literally swim in a circle (it's really a straight line, but you come back to where you start, so you get my drift, I hope). We all know the feeling of swimming and swimming and never really getting anywhere in our lives, and that is exactly how lap swimming works. I swim an hour and end up exactly where I started. Also, sometimes I like to go to the deep end and tread water for half an hour (no, I'm no longer scared of something rising from below to eat me -- should I be?), and we all know that sensation of paddling like crazy to keep our head above water either in our jobs or financially-speaking.
For me, the love I have for swimming and that I've always had despite that one embarrassing moment in the deep end of a pool in Papillion, Nebraska when I was five shows that we can all rise above our failures because often our failures are not really failures at all.
Anger at the injustice and stupidity of the one and only class I've ever flunked (even at the young age I was when it happened) flooded me, and I refused to ever take another swimming class. I can be extremely stubborn when I latch onto a cause, so my mother didn't press the issue with me, especially since I loved swimming and went often and eventually mastered many aspects of it on my own.
However, later as a teenager, I realized that in order to become a lifeguard and pool manager, I'd actually have to take another swimming class designed to teach me survival skills. The instructor I had was an intense man who was very demanding that we be able to swim all the strokes correctly, so once again I suffered humiliation at never having even tried a butterfly and looking like a total ass doing it, but eventually I got the hang of it enough to meet his exerting demands. The one stroke that I thought I was doing correctly prior to the class, though, was the breast stroke. Turns out I was totally wrong! He made me do that stroke hundreds of times outside of the water and then in the pool while he walked alongside yelling at me until my technique was near perfect.
Prior to that class I had always enjoyed swimming laps while doing the crawl stroke, or freestyle, but after that class I absolutely LOVED swimming laps and being able to integrate the various strokes I'd mastered from that domineering teacher. A lot of people think I'm strange because I simply love to swim laps. They see laps as boring and even as too difficult, but it's those two aspects that I love the most.
First of all, laps are not boring -- they are therapeutic and meditative. I go into a deep inner place that calms me as all I hear are my breathing and the muffled sounds that reach me through the water. I also concentrate completely on what my arms and legs are doing and timing my breaths to the movements, so for about an hour all my exterior worries and problems melt away.
As to lap swimming being difficult, it isn't once you master the strokes, but even then, it is the perfect exercise. It's also one I should do way more often, and then maybe I'd actually be in shape. If anything is difficult about lap swimming for me, it is appearing in public in a bathing suit! Ouch! Now that is what I call painful and difficult. Of course, if I did more laps more often, I wouldn't have that problem either. Hmmmm, something for me to think about, wouldn't you say?
Lap swimming is also a great metaphor for life because you almost literally swim in a circle (it's really a straight line, but you come back to where you start, so you get my drift, I hope). We all know the feeling of swimming and swimming and never really getting anywhere in our lives, and that is exactly how lap swimming works. I swim an hour and end up exactly where I started. Also, sometimes I like to go to the deep end and tread water for half an hour (no, I'm no longer scared of something rising from below to eat me -- should I be?), and we all know that sensation of paddling like crazy to keep our head above water either in our jobs or financially-speaking.
For me, the love I have for swimming and that I've always had despite that one embarrassing moment in the deep end of a pool in Papillion, Nebraska when I was five shows that we can all rise above our failures because often our failures are not really failures at all.
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