Status: Doing All Right

It's the end of a quarter, so naturally I feel that I should be grading instead of writing this, but I'm taking a moment to evaluate my emotional state since mid-winter. I find that I took no time to slide down off of one sad farewell before leaping to another potential relationship. The pain was compounded. Maybe that's the problem with rebound relationships: you're not ready to approach the risk with a clear head; you aren't thinking about the risk, just thinking of feeling better. If and when the fall comes, it takes you by surprise because this was supposed to be your feel-good relationship, so how can it make you feel so bad?

After a month of attempts to install the Windows 10 update, I asked for help. It seemed the update had not installed after numerous attempts, but lo, and behold! thank the Lord above!, I have the beautiful privilege of using my computer. It is working for the moment, but another update could crash it. Anything could crash it. I have a new least-favorite brand, and they don't have a support center in Northern Africa, and they don't do refunds.

The job search has been a distant but real part of my daily stress. It has been the chord in a tug-of-war between trusting God and trying to be diligent, feeling like I'm not doing enough.

It seems like a lot to do, I mean... I've gotta move countries again. Gotta find a place to live when I find a job. A place that has a kitchen where everyone can hang out, living room be damned, if I have to choose.

I hesitated to write about this, because what if it sounds like whining, especially when I know that I did this to myself. It looks awfully masochistic, doesn't it? I knew this would be challenge upon challenge. Just because something is difficult doesn't mean it's not worth doing. Very often it's the opposite, as you well know.

November Dedications

Wednesday, 1 
Today is dedicated to having enough.

Thursday, 2
Today is dedicated to Thor and the refugee Asgardians.

Friday, 3
Today is dedicated to that group of women who prays for me and laughs at my jokes. I thank my God every time I remember you.

Saturday, 4
Today is dedicated to the Enneagram.

Sunday, 5
Today is dedicated to Hay Hassani's thrift clothes. You are so reasonably priced. Thank you.

Monday, 6
Today is dedicated to Monica, who sees the Kingdom of God.

Tuesday, 7
Today is dedicated to the Apostle Paul, who preserved the Gospel from extra conditions.

Wednesday, 8
Today is dedicated to every bank everywhere that actually does their job. So, that would exclude my bank in Morocco, just to be clear.

Thursday, 9
Today is dedicated to Tyler, who sympathized with me at odd hours while I was grading instead of sleeping.

Friday, 10
Today is dedicated to "The Crucible" movie, which saved me from actually teaching.

Saturday, 11
Today is dedicated to the book Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson

Sunday, 12
Today is dedicated to the taxi driver who spoke beautiful French, and encouraged me to keep learning.

Monday, 13
Today is dedicated to this carpet next to me. It witnessed my attempts to create two unit plans in one hour, and it remained beautiful.

Tuesday, 14
Today is dedicated to the parents of my students. Thank you for trusting me so much.

Wednesday, 15
Today is dedicated to the English department. During high-grading weeks, I sometimes feel like we go through war together... separately.

Thursday, 16
Today is dedicated to the "Time Until" app. Five days.

Friday, 17
Today is dedicated to naps. Naps on the way to work. Naps on buses. Naps on couches. Naps that save first my life, and others by extension.

Saturday, 18
Today is dedicated to Amicitia American School, Fes, who knows how to host graciously.

Sunday, 19 
Today is dedicated to Luke D., who made me laugh until I cried.

Monday, 20
Today is dedicated to the substitute who will have the joy or sorrow of my classes tomorrow.

Tuesday, 21
Today is dedicated to Tyler, who flew across an ocean to hang out for a few days.

Wednesday, 22 
Today is dedicated to couches, windows, and sunshine, and anywhere the three meet.

Thursday, 23 
Today is dedicated to you, Lord, who graciously gives us good things.

Friday, 24
Today is dedicated to a pair of cat earrings; to my brother and sister-in-law; to Tyler; and to the little girl selling tissues next to the train station.

Saturday, 25
Today is dedicated to "Stranger Things" and leftovers.

Sunday, 26
Today is dedicated to comings and goings; may God watch over them all.

Monday, 27
Today is dedicated to the working printers.

Tuesday, 28
Today is dedicated to sentence diagramming; I wish I had known how fun you were when I was in seventh grade, myself!

Wednesday, 29
Today is dedicated to G period. I look older because of you. But I love you, and will keep forgiving you right before class, at 1:40 PM every weekday, and right after class, at 2:30 PM every weekday.

Thursday, 30
Today is dedicated to Shanti and Nissa, who listened without judgment, and kept my phone through the night.

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

Brain Imploding in 5, 4, 3, ...

For the last two and a half weeks, I've been learning about all the systems that make up both life in Morocco and work at the Academy. We, the new recruits, have sat in on sessions explaining vision for the school, and the personal vision of the administration. We've eaten a lot of food together, and formed those unique, tentative bonds that result from shared fear. I think it's time for a list of things I've had to learn in the past three weeks:

how to get a taxi
how to navigate this city at all
my address
how to tell a taxi to get to my address
how to order food at a restaurant
and pay for it
and pay for anything, without overpaying or insulting anyone
how to lock doors, wash clothes, dry clothes, close windows, repel roaches and mosquitoes, sleep through the morning call to prayer,
how to say a few words in Darija and in French,
how to buy and use a VPN,
how to video call (don't use your phone, do use a VPN),
how to clean a floor... oh, everything.

And then there are the school systems for which we've had sessions, but you just have to figure them out at some point:

the school's grading scale and grading software,
attendance policies and online tracking,
purchase orders,
TimeOffManager,
helpdesk,
disciplinary referrals,
curriculum mapping,
Google Classroom,
and the school's email system.
It's gmail, so no change for me... except... have I mentioned that four or five of these systems need their own PASSWORDS?

... and now, to do all of this on a Mac. Nothing makes me feel less competent than having to Google every time I need to know a shortcut on a Mac. How do I open a new tab? Save a bookmark? Command key!

My students know so much more about the world they live in than I do right now. I'll offer them what I have, ask for what I need, and go to sleep now.

"You're Still Young"

"You're still young. You have plenty of time."

It's a disconcerting thing to hear at the end of a conversation where you've been talking about being single versus being married.

Plenty of time for what? To bear children? To find love and marry? To grow up? Please don't tell me I'm a kid. Even if you think it's true, I'm not having it. Biologically, I'm well into my adulthood, and anthropologically, I'm already elderly.

It doesn't feel like there's plenty of time. Minutes slip by, and some things are no longer an option. There's not plenty of time to become a ballet dancer. That ship had sailed, and I'm literally too old for it.

I'm living my life, and glad I've made the choices I have. My life has been about a lot of things: fear and understanding, estrangement and belonging. There's a list that could go on.

It's clear that my life has not been about getting married and having children. Maybe it will be someday, and maybe not. But I don't see it as my endgame, that's all. I still need love and family, and I'm so serious about this when I say I have found my eternal love, and I have an eternal family. It's Jesus Christ, and his church. 

8 minutes 30 seconds

I'm listening to a song worth writing to.

I've listened to this song so many times. I just today saw a video of the band playing it. They are such as I, mere mortals. Though the only decipherable thing we have in common besides our humanity is the fact that we occasionally can be found wearing t-shirts.

If you listen to "The Only Moment We Were Alone," you'll see that everything that happens before 8 minutes 30 seconds is good. You get lost thinking about everyone you've ever met, even imagining that high school and your worst fights had meaning. Yeah, it's a good song until 8 minutes 30 seconds.

Then, at 8 minutes 30 seconds, you realize you've been waiting for this. This is the purpose of the song. When the rifts swell into a wall, a roar, wave after wave of built tension finally breaking on land from on high. The absence of vocals makes me believe the tidal wave crashed on an uninhabited shore. Yet I am there.

I wonder if I'll be 80 when I hit my 8 minutes 30 seconds.

More Scenes From Single Life

Scene 1, March:
I was washing dishes and singing, "How Deep the Father's Love For Us."

When I got to the line about "the Father turns his face away," Carmen, who had been mopping in the other room, shouted, "That's pretty terrible atonement theology!"

Scene 2, April:
I had plans to stay at home and create a budget, then practice piano, for a job well done. Or, maybe skip the budget bit altogether, actually. Or, maybe go buy some shoes, which was more urgent than it sounds. Then Leah came home and started bringing tissue paper downstairs, and filling up the dining room table with edible things. "Hey, Carolyn! Are you staying for wedding craft night?"

"Sure, but only for a half hour."

Two hours later, I went on a 20-minute shoe mission, loathe to leave a dining room full of wine, good stories, scissors, glue, and bits of paper and wire. (Who am I kidding? I hate crafts. But I love people.) When I returned, Leah was modelling dresses she had purchased for the occasion, and asking for us to pick our top two, so she could return the rest. We convinced her to keep four.

A Texting Conversation, September:
Bethany: Do you know what's on the grocery list?
Carolyn: I think it was just curry powder, which is obviously not a good representation of our actual life situation regarding food.
Bethany: Don't worry! I bought a watermelon!

A Breakfast Conversation, October:
Bethany: Whoa. That's a lot of chocolate chips for 7 am.
Carolyn: grunt
Bethany: Not judging. Just commenting.

I Think This is Why I Haven't Been Writing

Leaving the Dorm: Thoughts and a Prayer

"You Can Never Go Home Again"
I explain this concept a lot when I talk with residence hall students about returning home. After several months abroad, with unfamiliar food, less-than-clean bathrooms, loud roommates, and boring Sundays, they have in their heads an idealized version of what being at home will be. They imagine the simultaneity of all their favorite things. They imagine being able to control their lives, only sunny days.

I have learned that home is growing even while we're growing in another place. We (who "we" are, precisely, I'm not qualified to say) have this tendency to complain about wherever we are, then to idealize it when it's gone.

It seems right to attempt to disabuse them by explaining the phrase, "you can never go home again." (And I promise I don't whisper it in a raspy voice, like a threat...)

The Menial and the Repetitious
Last night, as everyone was headed to their halls around 10 pm, Wendy (a tenth-grader) and I sat on the floor in the hall, and talked about our impending loss of each other's company. We agreed that even though I would visit next year, "It just won't be the same." What is it about how things are right now that's so good? How is the menial and repetitious so sacred? And why don't we notice it in the moment?

What do I mean by the menial and repetitious? Just the normal stuff.
The people who live here just do normal stuff together:

- We say goodnight five or six nights a week. 

- We eat breakfast together once or twice a week. And when we are sitting there in the cafeteria at 7:20 am, we barely say anything. There is nothing to say. (We clearly stayed up too late last night, and every night.)

- We take the trash out together late at night.

- We laugh at Youtube videos. 

- We complain about the weather. 

- We talk about food, teachers, classes, and homework.

- And on a not-so-rare occasion, we talk about the heart and its workings. 

Next year I'll be on the outside of it all. I'll be back for visits. But it won't be the same, because life is built with the menial and the repetitious. I know that I have already lived some of my greatest moments, and am unaware of what they were: it was something I said, did, or did not say that a student will remember forever, that may change the way he or she treats his or her own kids... and who knows where that ends!?

A Prayer
God,
I'm humbled when I think of the impact of all those interactions, for better or for worse.
If there is glory to be had, may it be yours alone! 

Forming a Philosophy of Life

I have recorded my college experiences here, and my first few years of teaching and advising. And now I wonder what comes next. Because, unless I die accidentally, there will be a next thing. And more people. I realized recently that I have been forming a life philosophy, and I am as disturbed as you are that these are not verses from the Bible.

1. People are the same everywhere. 
That's not to say that individuals are not special to me. Individuals are irreplaceable in my life. But so far as I can tell, people present the same problems and the same solutions, the world over. People are going to be petty, ridiculous, overly-serious, and suddenly-political no matter where I live or what job I have. And people are the answer to that particular lonely feeling I get, and that disheartened loss of faith I know so well, and that cluelessness I feel in new places.

2. We can do no great things, only small things with great love.
Ken gave me a bracelet with this inscribed on it, and Mother Teresa, apparently, said it. I have longed to make a difference in the world. I have longed to use whatever is special about me, my sensitivity, my ability to say words backwards, my peculiar family background, whatever I am, to bring some good to the world, to really get the ball rolling toward this goal of bringing people to Jesus, all in their own languages, at the same time, yes, thank you. It's not gonna happen like that. I'm not gonna do this alone. I'm not even at the center of Jesus' plan of salvation. He's assembled a vast team that spans time and space, in which I'm a pinprick of His light; to think that I could do anything greater than small, daily deaths to self as I look for His face in this world of loss, is ludicrous and possibly idolatrous. Thank you, Jesus, for this freedom! May your Kingdom come!

Danticat's "We are Ugly, But We are Here"

Edwidge Danticat is a Haitian author whose essay called "We are Ugly, But We are Here" slaps me upside the head with perspective. Who has ever grieved at pimples from a lack of sleep, or a roll of fat from a lack of activity, or a new wrinkle from worrying? Remind yourself of what matters: you have participated in life.

"There is a Haitian saying which might upset the aesthetic images of most women. Nou led, Nou la, it says. We are ugly, but we are here. [... T]his saying makes a deeper claim for poor Haitian women than maintaining beauty. [... W]hat is worth celebrating is the fact that we are here, that we against all the odds exist."

She gives some examples in the essay of the trials women have endured in her mother country; one woman has scars on her flesh and in her nostrils from where soldiers shoved lit cigarette butts up her nose. Who tells that woman, who tells THAT WOMAN that she is ugly? Go ahead. But you don't understand anything. And for that matter, who tells anyone that he or she is ugly? What do you know? What do I know about what another has seen? We don't know. We must listen.

"To the women who might greet each other with this saying, [...] [i]t is always worth reminding our sisters that we have lived yet another day to answer the roll call of an often painful and very difficult life."

If people call you ugly, turn to them the other marred cheek. "Sure," say to them, "I am ugly." Why not? Smile to yourself, smile to the injured one who stands before you: "But I am here."

The whole of the essay is here, and takes only a few minutes to read.
http://www2.webster.edu/~corbetre/haiti/literature/danticat-ugly.htm

Free Write Notebook

In my writing class, I require 10 minutes of most days be devoted to free writing. I try to participate in this time, as well. After 2.2 years of teaching this class, I have finally completed my first free write notebook, filled with prompts and my own responses. I'll be mining it and posting my favorite entries with the label "notebook." Especially if you're a writing teacher, find the prompts I use highlighted at the top of notebook posts.

Here is one:

Prompt: Respond to "Fog" by Carl Sandburg. How have you experienced nature recently?

The rain fell like it does: indifferently.
The streams rose and rose.
Falling asleep under down I heard
each passing car play its lullaby of tires,
water, road.

In our small tent, I woke up to the crashes of thunder. At first, they had not mattered. They were just background rhythms in my dreams. But then, we were all awake. Angela looked about; I could see her fright in the lightning flashes. And, for no good reason, this was hilariously funny to me. I began to laugh hard. We had to decide whether we would remain in the tent, dry, but perhaps electrocuted, or retreat to the car, getting soaked, but staying whole, and with less danger of trees crashing on our canvas-covered heads.

I stopped laughing when I was shivering in the car, unable to sleep.

Why Summer Makes Me a Better Teacher

Someone told me recently that good teaching takes good content and good delivery. By content, she explained, she meant the life well lived, not just the lesson plan, but the honing of my approach to life. By delivery, she meant being able to explain my approach; because if you're a teacher, that's what you're teaching from beginning to end: how you view life.

That is what the summer is good for:

Perspective
Being quiet
Looking at a sunset, and letting it wash over me for as long as it will.
Not being the first to leave,
Not having something to say,
Not having a plan,
Not eating at 5 pm if I'm not hungry,
Reading for hours,
Talking around the fire,
Setting up a tent and sleeping in it,
Taking a nap midday because I didn't sleep well in the tent.

Summer is good for driving for hours to see my people,
Going to church,
Turning off my phone,
Going the long route on the jogging trail,
Having brunch with small groups of people,
Talking at the kitchen table about the world's problems,
Praying at the kitchen table about our own problems,
Writing letters that help me to sort through the crashing waves of thought,

And later, in August, summer is good for remembering why I love a schedule and a routine and students.

Uncouth Thoughts for a Young Lady

I was so nervous right before the semester started. I'm teaching a subject in which I've never had formal, university training: the Bible. I mean, I've been a student of the Bible all my life. But to conceptualize how to teach it, well, I was in an uproar. The day before classes were to begin, I could barely breathe, I was so frazzled. I was sitting in a teachers' meeting, and a word came to me, which I believe was from God. Ever so gently, he said, "settle the f&*$ down."

++++

When I fall in love,
I don't want my heart to stop beating at the sight of him.
I want for him to see my heart, and to long for it to go on beating at all costs.
I want to do the same for him. I want us to help each other to live.

++++

I'm so glad that I am not thinking about moving this year. I dread it, really. Although, tonight, I was helping a friend gather his apartment together a wee bit, as he's preparing to move tomorrow, and it wasn't so bad. He's made sure not to collect much stuff. And he has help from people who love him. He said that it costs over $200 to hire movers. $500 if you have a piano that needs moving. I've never had to pay that. I hope you never do, either.

++++

I lied tonight. I ate out at a restaurant, and ordered a chicken dish from their "specials." It was still pricey, though. And when I got it, I couldn't really taste it. Not really at all. And it wasn't that I lack the ability to taste, which I questioned. It was just that it was an unimpressive, low-quality entree. The server came around to ask how it was, and I smiled and said, "very good, thank you." Lies.

But, really, what was she going to do about the food? I was embarrassed for her. But I didn't have to get the whole rest of it in a to-go box to spare her feelings, did I?

I Rock Your Baby Son to Sleep

When you announced that you would be married instead of going to college, I felt giddy with joy. Not, mostly, for noble reasons: it was putting together a wedding at such a young age; I must have seen a hundred movies with weddings and flowers, and rings, and kisses. Part of me was sad, too: we had planned to be college roommates; we would have made friends and histories that entwined forever.

So what would our lives look like at this distance? Occasional visits, always something shared deep down: separating histories, but a wire that kept our hearts moving in the same direction. Praise God! I have not lost you, friend. And I have gained a whole family of friends because you chose so bravely:

--------

I rock your baby son to sleep
Slanted light from the hallway
A CD plays a lullaby
Mellow-sweet, a gentle moment.

Suddenly, a pang tells me
how blessed you are among women;
that even to endure a thousand
crying, up-and-down nights,
bottle-or-no-bottle nights,
is worth his trusting, sleepy heart,
his fingers twirling his cropped, blond hair.
He snuggles into my arm and my side.

If I remain single and childless,
tonight I felt I’d miss
half the stars in the sky.

Never one for greed, I hope,
I delight in seeing your faces as
the skies unfold new grandeur before you:
the word “dog,” learning to run,
then the rock-step, snapping fingers,
sharing toys with his new brother.

General Education: Bird Watching

From my vantage point in the dorm office, I can see only a sliver of the front porch. Entirely filling that sliver is a square, brick column supporting the porch roof. This column also supports a large bird's nest. So far this spring, two bird families have made their homes there, first building up the tenement, then laying eggs, and incubating them.

I find myself often observing these creatures who seem to subsist so much simpler than I. Most recently was the robin family. What a cure to watch mama bird fly off, leaving the kids in silence, to snuggle and shove each other until she returned, bringing back worms and berries in her expert beak. Her squeaky, squirmy babies arched their necks and got excited. She had to make many trips to scrounge food for her hungry troop. And never did I hear her complain. Every time she returned to the nest, I wanted to applaud, so cheerfully did she extend her prizes for her young to devour. They might have applauded, too, if they were older and wiser and had hands.

Good job, mother robin! Yesterday the birdies flew off: graduation! 

_____________________________________________________________________

I wish I could take a class whose only objectives were the following:

1. careful and reverent observation

2. honest prayer

3. quiet introspection
4. further observation

I believe bird watching (executed slowly and alone) should be a required part of a liberal arts education. Because in order for it to be effective for people like me (whoever we are), it must be forced. My view must be limited to only a sliver of the porch where the bird families are perfectly framed and perfectly close enough for observation.

For other ideas for a liberal arts education, John Updike's "Hoeing" comes to mind. Perhaps all these ideas could be rolled into one required class that I am supremely unqualified to teach. For a few days, we watch birds. Another few days, we hoe a field. Another day, we make mud puddles and play in them. Another day, we learn to beat water as if it were a drum. Another day, we bake pies. It would be called "Explorations in Bio-Purpose."

A Graph, for your Edification

Being Thankful and Being Sick

Three weeks ago marked an unusual event in my life: illness. I came down with something Sunday evening. Monday, I went to school and taught, bleary-eyed, the only thought on my mind was my bed. A fever started taking me over. By four o'clock, I had called off for the next day, and by six o'clock, I was calling friends to take me to the hospital. I had a fever of 102, and I couldn't think straight. I was fixating on a message I had sent to a friend the night before.

The rest of the week passed in and out of fever. I taught Wednesday through Friday, each day doing just a bit more. I haven't been sick like this since I was a child. It was strange. I forgot what it was like to take my temperature intermittently; to drink hot tea in tiny sips, then feel too tired to finish; to stay in bed, to have a box of tissues on hand; to take medication on the hour because without it, it feels as though Sousa is marching a band on my optic nerve.

A week of being sick. What have I learned? The summary came in a sermon at church that Sunday: thankfulness is a habit. As I lay in the throes of fever, wishing for water, and actually unable to orient my head and feet in order to get it, I was giving thanks to God for indoor plumbing, for daylight, for a job that could do without me in times of distress, for people all around me, for friends and family I could call, for a phone, for my hair (I recall this prayer: "God, thank you that I'm not going through chemo right now. That would be way worse."), for youth, for a million things. In the sermon, Brock was talking about Paul and Silas singing to God in their chains: their joints were probably stretched beyond the limit and swelling painfully; they were probably covered in their own dirt; they were probably bloody, thirsty, hungry, and feverish. But they prayed and sang hymns to God. You don't just live that kind of gratitude overnight. You have to practice, one trial at a time. Thank you, God, for who you are, in my sickness and in my health.

For a while after being sick, I was way more compassionate to the students who asked to be excused from school for feeling ill. In China, attendance is not a big deal. If you are present for your tests (which occur frequently and have huge bearings on your future), if you make good grades, your parents will certainly allow you a day to rest. Shoot, a day every other week to rest. No problem. But in the United States? Well, we call that truancy, kids. The real problem is that I don't know when a person is "actually" sick. Some tell-tale signs that they're not sick, however, include the following:

• no fever
• no diarrhea
• no throwing up
• no headache
• no blood
• no protruding bones
• no tears
• no cough
• student tells you he has a headache, then coughs... to make the headache more convincing
• student limps up the stairs after telling you he has a headache... to make the headache more convincing
• student refuses medicine
• student refuses to go to the doctor
• after telling the student that he will miss free time after school, he gets better
• student walks to breakfast, jokes with friends, walks back to the dorm, then limps to the office to complain of severe back pain
• student has a big test or paper due that day
• student was up all night playing video games

A Survey.

Sure, adults still do these. It's like a test of wit.


1. Who would you want to be tied to for 24 hours?
     Will Smith.

2. Who do you blame for your mood today?
     Who's blaming? I credit several people for my excellent mood: my co-workers take the prize today.

3. Have you ever seen a dead body?
     Yes. And not just at funerals, either... (?)

4. What should we do with stupid people??
     Love 'em.

5. How long do you think you will live?
     88.

6. What was the first thing you did this morning?
     Snooze button.

7. The color of carpet in your bedroom?
     Cream.

9. Last person you went out to dinner with?
     BJ, maybe?

10. Are you spoiled?
     Not compared to most people in a developed country.

11.Do you drink lots of water?
     You know I do. You think looks like this happen by accident?

12. What toothpaste do you use?
     Aquafresh.

13. How do you vent your anger?
     What ANGER!?

14. The last compliment you received?
     "Your class is interesting," a few days ago.

15. What are you doing this weekend?
     Working.

16 When was the last time you threw up?
     LAST WEEK!

17. :)

18. What theme does your room have?
     Sleeping.

19. When was the last time you were at a party?
     Shoot. All the time. So many parties. Like every second.

20. Are you a mama's child or a daddy's child?
     I'm not a child. You'd think I got this off of Myspace or something.

21. Would you ever join the military?
     No.

22. The last website you visited?
     Weather.com.

23. Who was the last person you took a picture with?
     Mermaids at Melissa's bridal shower.

25. Last person you went to the movies with?
     People from the dorm: The Hunger Games.

26. What did you do/will you do for your birthday this year?
     Kayaking? Fishing? Except, you can be the one to touch the fish.

27. Number of layers on your bed?
     Of blankets? Just the one. It is so cozy, I don't need anything else.

28. Is anything alive in your room?
     I am. I'm alive. And stinkbugs. So very alive.

29. Today, would you rather go back a week or go forward a week?
     Forward. Last week I was sick with the flu. But forward is even scarier. It's the unknown. What a great question. Still, forward, always forward.

30. What are you looking forward to right now?
      A second cup of tea. Finishing a batch of grading. Reading before bed. Sleeping. Coffee in the morning. The sunrise. The weekend. Dancing. Visiting Waynesboro. Hiking. Summer vacation. Cleveland. Baltimore. Chatting with my dad. Seeing all my family... Best list ever. 

Possibilities for the Future

My niece, Aida, and I were playing this weekend. She's six. She decided we would play "Mommy's work." My sister-in-law helps people to find suitable jobs. So Aida brought down her kids' program computer, and sat at the coffee table in a folding pink princess chair. She began with some preliminary questions:

[We shake hands]

Aida: How can I help you?

Me: Uh, I need a job right away.

Aida: No problem. I can help you. What do you like?

Me: [in character] I like... to... put things together. And take things apart. And I like the color yellow.

Aida: [typing furiously on the computer] That's fine. Good. I have something for you: a construction worker!

Me: Perfect! But what about how I like the color yellow?

Aida: No problem. All the machines are yellow. I have some forms for you to fill out. [Draws four lines on a sheet of paper] Write your name, date you were born, place, and things you like.

Me: [struggling with "place"] Done.

Aida: Great! You start on Friday. Here's your schedule. [Hands over another piece of paper.] Do you need anything else?

Me: [hesitatingly] A house would be nice.

Aida: Sure. I can help you. [Writes out a "check" for $50 million.] Is that enough?

Me: Yes. I'm sure I can find something for that much. How do you get the money to give people for houses?

Aida: Work gives it to me, and I give some of it away to people.

By the end of our session, I had a huge house filled with a few other families, I had changed careers to become a novelist/baby sitter (her idea), and I had a husband named Tyler. And we were both parrots.

The End.