After the senior class graduated on Saturday, June 3, I finally turned my attention to my languishing ninth grade class. They were languishing in part because it was the curriculum I developed the least, and in part because they are fasting from water and food during daylight for Ramadan.
For the last two months, I have felt as though I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to creativity. Though my stores of energy were bolstered by my love for my students and an obscene amount of caffeine, the year gets harder; that's all there is to it.
Today in the teacher's lounge, after the morning's finals, I found myself with two of my closest high school teachers, all of us grading. We commiserated a bit, but we all sensed that it wasn't helping anyone, and we were too tired to be angry or frustrated. Slowly, the conversation shifted, and that's why I'm telling you this. The complaints and the small talk were all the slow introduction to this miraculous moment where we started to talk about what we were going to change for next year.
We hadn't even finished grading our finals, and we were already on to the next batch of classes. We shared ways we would change our systems. We had new phrases, new activities, and new focuses. "That is just the very best part about teaching, guys," said Marie. "We get to change what doesn't work for the next year." (She teaches science, so I guess she knows all about variables and affecting outcomes.)
I know I would not have felt so hopeful if a few months' rest were not ahead of me. But when June 21 comes, and I close my classroom, full of boxes and empty walls, I'll know it's just temporary. Summer is not a full stop to my job, but a caesura. (I teach literature, so I know that caesuras are breaths in poetry; pregnant pauses between two phrases; time for the musician to arrange his lyre and form the next phrase; ... time to see his family and friends, and eat pork products, and sleep for days on end.)
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Sunday, May 28, 2017
Seven Years in September
Dear Ken,
It's been a while. Seven years in September. I thought you'd like the update on a few of the pieces of the world you and I had in common. Like, I can't update you on comics, or at least not well... I'll save those things for B. and Zack and John, and probably some other dudes. And S., who knows more than she ever lets on about comics. I can't update you on your favorite living theologians or even the weather in Pennsylvania.
B. is still the kindest and most generous person in our group, maybe in the world. He just moved this year, living in Virginia and working at a job that's important, but that I don't understand.
K. is making art that makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time, and not because it's bad, because it's good. Her cat features in it a lot lately, and I think that's what makes me laugh. As kids she drew dogs, dogs, dogs. She laughed at my fondness for cats, always declaring herself "more of a dog person." Well, time changes people, sir. And shut up. Cats and dogs are both great, so stop being all "Evie is the best dog," because it's not a contest.
S. and P. are still sweet and adorable with each other, as best I can tell. They will travel this summer with little E., and come back tanner, wiser, and sleepier. But they're making a family work. It's so ****ing amazing, I know you'd be totally proud of them. Their parents have been heroes all along the way, too.
Man, your parents. I miss them, too. They've been in Alabama for the last few years, looking for a change. Missing you. Starting over. But we never start over.
Everything I can tell you sounds so hollow when you're so far away.
You'd be glad to know I'm doing what I said I would do. I'm teaching high school English in Morocco. I don't know, Ken. Some days I don't think much about how it is part of my life's vision fulfilled. Some days it's just living, but with more dirt and fewer trees; more Arabic and less English; more strangers, more traffic; more bougainvillea on everyone's fences, and a mourning dove right outside my window, with a mosque just beyond my gate. We can do no great things, though. And, believe me, I am not. But I am trying to do small things with great love. So in all things it is God who will receive the glory.
I decided to draw a tree for every day I teach. I thought you might like that. I will begin the school year with a blank piece of paper, and at the end of each day I'll draw a tree, slowly making a forest. And each year I'll add a new piece of paper, and maybe laminate it at the end of the year? Or let it age? I don't know. But time keeps moving, building something and dying. I miss you.
Love,
Carolyn
It's been a while. Seven years in September. I thought you'd like the update on a few of the pieces of the world you and I had in common. Like, I can't update you on comics, or at least not well... I'll save those things for B. and Zack and John, and probably some other dudes. And S., who knows more than she ever lets on about comics. I can't update you on your favorite living theologians or even the weather in Pennsylvania.
B. is still the kindest and most generous person in our group, maybe in the world. He just moved this year, living in Virginia and working at a job that's important, but that I don't understand.
K. is making art that makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time, and not because it's bad, because it's good. Her cat features in it a lot lately, and I think that's what makes me laugh. As kids she drew dogs, dogs, dogs. She laughed at my fondness for cats, always declaring herself "more of a dog person." Well, time changes people, sir. And shut up. Cats and dogs are both great, so stop being all "Evie is the best dog," because it's not a contest.
S. and P. are still sweet and adorable with each other, as best I can tell. They will travel this summer with little E., and come back tanner, wiser, and sleepier. But they're making a family work. It's so ****ing amazing, I know you'd be totally proud of them. Their parents have been heroes all along the way, too.
Man, your parents. I miss them, too. They've been in Alabama for the last few years, looking for a change. Missing you. Starting over. But we never start over.
Everything I can tell you sounds so hollow when you're so far away.
You'd be glad to know I'm doing what I said I would do. I'm teaching high school English in Morocco. I don't know, Ken. Some days I don't think much about how it is part of my life's vision fulfilled. Some days it's just living, but with more dirt and fewer trees; more Arabic and less English; more strangers, more traffic; more bougainvillea on everyone's fences, and a mourning dove right outside my window, with a mosque just beyond my gate. We can do no great things, though. And, believe me, I am not. But I am trying to do small things with great love. So in all things it is God who will receive the glory.
I decided to draw a tree for every day I teach. I thought you might like that. I will begin the school year with a blank piece of paper, and at the end of each day I'll draw a tree, slowly making a forest. And each year I'll add a new piece of paper, and maybe laminate it at the end of the year? Or let it age? I don't know. But time keeps moving, building something and dying. I miss you.
Love,
Carolyn
Friday, May 26, 2017
So Angry
If I were you, there's no reason I would read this. We get enough complaining without searching for it.
This week, here's what makes me angry.
1. People defining themselves by traveling. Collecting friends like souvenirs. I see my hypocrisy. It will take years to remedy.
2. Dudes hollering at me on the street. Yesterday, as I was walking past Beausejour on a main road, I had just passed two young men when I heard that kissy noise every woman knows. I turned around, walked the few steps back to them, and shouted in English, "DON'T DO THAT. DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!" I was livid. Jaw set hard, lips pinched, eyes wide and fixed; I curled my upper lip in disgust. They don't speak English, but the words didn't matter. They nodded, ashamed and uncomfortable.
I have been told to not make any eye contact, to keep my eyes down so as not to draw attention to myself in any way. It doesn't seem to matter. Men here (and in Pennsylvania, and lots of places) think a woman walking on the street is an easy target for their libidinous guffaws. Usually, I walk on for my own safety. But yesterday I had it in my head that I really could, and would, fight.
3. Students who put forth an extraordinary effort in making excuses and arguing while their work remains incomplete or not begun. In the same category, a senior who shows up at their final and doesn't have a pen.
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
I've Been Almost This Lonely Before
I remember the last time I was this lonely. It was my first year of teaching and being a dorm adviser at LMH.
- I never had enough sleep.
- I didn't hang out with people regularly.
- I always had grading hanging over my head.
- I was responsible in part for the well-being of so many kids, and the job just never seemed to end.
- I had no idea where to make boundaries. Of course I had to move all those boundaries over the next two years.
This is a harder life in so many ways, but the fact that I have that experience as part of me makes this one easier. It's a lot of the same, but at least I've done some of it before:
It's partly because I need to make new friends to hang out with, and that is a slow process. Deep friendships take time, and shallow ones take energy.
I'm afraid of hanging out with only Americans, because, as I've already seen, they come and go so quickly. I've only been here for nine months, and already I've seen people leave who came here with me. That leaves local friends: Moroccan and other African friends who are likely to stick around. But there's the problem of the language barrier. And there's the problem of my disillusionment with Morocco stemming from the students I teach. It's not been a conscious decision, but if all Moroccans are like my students, how can I ever trust anyone? They lie to me like it's their job.
So, I'm lonely. But I'm not ashamed of it. It's like Jessica and the Reverend Mother, talking together in Dune...
- I never have enough sleep.
- I don't hang out with people regularly.
- I always have grading hanging over my head.
- I'm responsible for my own well-being, and I don't know what that looks like.
- I have no idea where to make boundaries.
It's partly because I need to make new friends to hang out with, and that is a slow process. Deep friendships take time, and shallow ones take energy.
I'm afraid of hanging out with only Americans, because, as I've already seen, they come and go so quickly. I've only been here for nine months, and already I've seen people leave who came here with me. That leaves local friends: Moroccan and other African friends who are likely to stick around. But there's the problem of the language barrier. And there's the problem of my disillusionment with Morocco stemming from the students I teach. It's not been a conscious decision, but if all Moroccans are like my students, how can I ever trust anyone? They lie to me like it's their job.
So, I'm lonely. But I'm not ashamed of it. It's like Jessica and the Reverend Mother, talking together in Dune...
"I've been so lonely."
"It should be one of the tests," said the old woman. "Humans are almost always lonely."
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
Troubled Sleep
Remind me what you say about peace
and all will be well.
Remind me what you say about fear
and all will be well.
Remind me what you say about never leaving
and all will be well.
Give rest to those you love.
There's this sweet sea breeze over the hill that pastures simpler beasts.
Today I found myself wishing I could join them there.
Give rest to those you love.
It would be trudging on if not for love.
It would be entirely will that trained my course,
but it's yours.
Give rest to those you love.
Ah, it's these sweet smiles of discovery.
Ah, it's those broken hearts that have begun to know too much.
Give rest to those you love.
Sunday, April 16, 2017
An Unusual Easter Morning
This morning, thoughts of work came like a flood. We arrived back in Casa at 10 PM, and it took me some time to fall asleep. The exact length of two episodes of The Great British Baking Show, as a matter of fact.
I have so much to think about from the desert, so much joy from the dunes of the Sahara to the lakes of the Atlas. But this morning, we couldn't go to church for stomach troubles. I made a bad decision, and traded my sense of well-being for the anxiety a second cup of coffee offered me. The day isn't over yet, but I am mired in preparations for this week. Ah, to be back in the desert.
I have so much to think about from the desert, so much joy from the dunes of the Sahara to the lakes of the Atlas. But this morning, we couldn't go to church for stomach troubles. I made a bad decision, and traded my sense of well-being for the anxiety a second cup of coffee offered me. The day isn't over yet, but I am mired in preparations for this week. Ah, to be back in the desert.
Friday, March 31, 2017
Everyday Lesson Planning With Miss McKalips
7:15 AM
I walk into the classroom. Chairs are on desks; the cleaning lady has been through, and the room is ready. She has faith that what we do in here is important, and she works to make our space worth learning in every day.
I know we have to learn something today, but we need to start a new unit. What was our last unit about? Short stories. The test was yesterday. I stayed up late grading them, and I went to bed telling myself I would figure something out in the morning. Here I am. It is morning. What do I teach?
I go to the curriculum map. I'm not ready for any of these units. Okay, I'm good at teaching writing: I'll teach a paper. Whooaaaaa... Am I ready to grade 53 seventh-grade papers when it's so close to the end of the quarter? When is it ever convenient to teach writing?
I open up a book by one of my favorite (one of my only) writing pedagogy authors. I look at where he begins, and how much work he pours into every paper, every lesson. What? Every time he teaches Polonius' speech in Hamlet, he does this incredible amount of studying. At night. After he's left school, he reads the act again, reads his research again, listens to the play on his way to work. I want to kill him. I will never be able to do that. I can't do this.
7:40 AM.
What am I going to teach today?
7:45 AM.
Hall duty. Good thing I have first period planning to think through this.
8:05 AM.
What am I going to teach today? It's a really good thing I haven't been called to cover anyone's class.
8:10 AM.
Forget teaching writing today. Take that book home and read it, and do it all perfectly the first time; but the first time won't be today. Actually, no, just throw that book into one of these drawers with other people's perfect ideas.
8:20 AM.
Open the textbook and figure out what is next. Poetry. Oh my gosh. I love poetry.
8:30 AM.
We can't just read poems on day one! How are we going to read them!? What will this unit even be about?
8:40 AM.
The students come in ten minutes! FIGURE THIS OUT RIGHT NOW.
8:45 AM.
Okay. I'm going to make a decision. Decision made. We'll make a chart on the board of different kinds of art. And then we'll choose one kind of art, and talk about what the different tools are that that artist uses. I'm only barely qualified to talk about the art of painting... good enough: we'll talk about the tools a painter uses. Then we'll talk about how a poet is an artist, and list off the tools a poet can use. We'll create a vocabulary list that way, and we'll be sure to include rhythm, rhyme, allusion, form, stanza, assonance, alliteration...
8:50 AM. [Bell]
Guess that'll work. [Open the door. Kids come in.]
I walk into the classroom. Chairs are on desks; the cleaning lady has been through, and the room is ready. She has faith that what we do in here is important, and she works to make our space worth learning in every day.
I know we have to learn something today, but we need to start a new unit. What was our last unit about? Short stories. The test was yesterday. I stayed up late grading them, and I went to bed telling myself I would figure something out in the morning. Here I am. It is morning. What do I teach?
I go to the curriculum map. I'm not ready for any of these units. Okay, I'm good at teaching writing: I'll teach a paper. Whooaaaaa... Am I ready to grade 53 seventh-grade papers when it's so close to the end of the quarter? When is it ever convenient to teach writing?
I open up a book by one of my favorite (one of my only) writing pedagogy authors. I look at where he begins, and how much work he pours into every paper, every lesson. What? Every time he teaches Polonius' speech in Hamlet, he does this incredible amount of studying. At night. After he's left school, he reads the act again, reads his research again, listens to the play on his way to work. I want to kill him. I will never be able to do that. I can't do this.
7:40 AM.
What am I going to teach today?
7:45 AM.
Hall duty. Good thing I have first period planning to think through this.
8:05 AM.
What am I going to teach today? It's a really good thing I haven't been called to cover anyone's class.
8:10 AM.
Forget teaching writing today. Take that book home and read it, and do it all perfectly the first time; but the first time won't be today. Actually, no, just throw that book into one of these drawers with other people's perfect ideas.
8:20 AM.
Open the textbook and figure out what is next. Poetry. Oh my gosh. I love poetry.
8:30 AM.
We can't just read poems on day one! How are we going to read them!? What will this unit even be about?
8:40 AM.
The students come in ten minutes! FIGURE THIS OUT RIGHT NOW.
8:45 AM.
Okay. I'm going to make a decision. Decision made. We'll make a chart on the board of different kinds of art. And then we'll choose one kind of art, and talk about what the different tools are that that artist uses. I'm only barely qualified to talk about the art of painting... good enough: we'll talk about the tools a painter uses. Then we'll talk about how a poet is an artist, and list off the tools a poet can use. We'll create a vocabulary list that way, and we'll be sure to include rhythm, rhyme, allusion, form, stanza, assonance, alliteration...
8:50 AM. [Bell]
Guess that'll work. [Open the door. Kids come in.]
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