Tiny ants wriggling about

Space the final frontier

            My ideal classroom space is in the form of a house.  Learning occurs in communities and houses and people are the basic units of these communities. I learned as much at home, on vacation, and at camps as I did in school.  So it seems obvious that my ideal class is not a class at all but a family.  A small group of learners with common goals.

            It goes without saying that my class (which I have none of my own) is nothing like a house.  More of a pay by the hour hotel.  Anyone who enters has their won agenda and rarely works toward helping others to learn.  It has been my job to see  to it that each student gains something from being present daily.  Most times this is relatively easy, but can be a chore if I do not take an active role.

            It would be nice to form small groups to complete every activity.  This helps balance out learning styles when students are engaged in conversation, research, and application of new information.  MY role in this would be as advisor and facilitator.  I am ultimately in charge, but each student will, for the most part, be responsible for his/her own learning.

            As for spaces, it would be nice for each group to have private and quiet space in which to work.  I need solitude and quite to complete tasks and it is unreasonable to think that students do not require this for at least a portion of the day.

Where are your sacred places?
 
 
            As strange as it may sound, I feel at home around new people, strangers.  There is a certain amount of comfort in the ignorance of strangers.  Strangers make great company because they don’t know anything about you.  It gives you the opportunity to start out fresh and new each time you meet someone.

            When I was younger I often felt intimidated by people I didn’t know.  I would wonder what they thought of me as a stranger to them.  As I grew older I began to enjoy other people being uncomfortable with me as a stranger in their life.  This may be due to the amount of movies I have seen that begin with a stranger entering a new situation.

            Upon entering a new situation no one has predetermined roles so you can find your niche quickly and adapt it on the fly.  There is much freedom to be exploited in the first few moments of an interaction.  Knowing that others are often nervous or uncomfortable with this allows me to establish whatever role I choose.

            I suppose there are many physical places I could have written about to satisfy this morning’s prompt but there is no place that the Feng Shui or balance feels better than watching other people squirm.  There is a bit of sadist in us all, but most people are just not comfortable with that.  No one has a problem watching the three stooges suffer physically for our amusement so why be uncomfortable with enjoying people stumble over words and blush when you laugh.

Words phrases that are yours

 
            This seems to be only way I am able to write and not personally view my work as fabricated.  I often hear songs on the radio or in movies that are simply no written this way.  The lyrics seem forced. I picture a dull person in a dull room typing for each word that is their own I hear a right-click, synonyms, hmm… that would sound better.  But no, it sounds fake and cheap.

            All of this brings me back to a phrase I scrawled down some time back: “What is art? Can you influence your ability to create art?”  In my opinion you cannot force anything beautiful.  It must simply be.  If you force making love it is a crime called rape.  Why is it people feel they can force art and still consider this acceptable, even beautiful to some.  When this happens I detect an odor of cheapness, criminals, and a violation of arts beauty.  Some people make careers of raping words, butchering imagery, and stealing others feelings.

            I have decided that the only way I can sleep at night is to seek out these artistic criminals and tell them how they have offended my senses.  While I was reading I came upon a brief section of “space” where she talks of forcing herself to write. This causes a dilemma. Is she stalking her art or is she wooing her art with persistence. Maybe I should reconsider my definition for forced art.

Chicken

Cock-a-doodle do

Farmers looking for you

Soft feathers, funny feet

Greasy chicken for me to eat

Chicken coop with chicken poop

Chicken legs with chicken eggs

Biscuits gravy and two leg bones

Silly gizzard filled with stones

You all know what’s finger lickin’

A moment of silence for granny’s chicken

Rocks in my current

 
            I didn’t want to talk about my obstacles, but I have already written it upon the page.  Through all of these activities I have hoped not to look inward any more than I already do.  The rocks in my life are well known to me.  I know this current and its pitfalls far too well and the rocks are not simply bumps along the way.

            The rocks are imposing bohemeths that overwhelm my boat and send me swimming through rapids of uncertainty.  To say I will bounce off and fall back inline seems an impossible leap of faith.  These rocks scare me as I have not been scared since I was a young child. Helpless.

The place that I feel most at home is at my father’s house.  This was not where I primarily lived growing up.  I tell people I grew up in Huntington.  My Dad’s house is near West Hamlin on Bear Creek.  It is difficult to put my finger on exactly why this house feels more like home then my Mother’s house where I lived while attending school. 

            Memories of things happening at this house seem more attached to “me” than other memories.  It may be that I am more like my father than my mother.  Spending time in the house helps me relax and forget about problems.  Sometimes I think the drive out to the house is part of the calming effect.

            This is the house where I spent weekends and summers growing up.  My parents were divorced and my father was only awarded visitation during these times.  To my brother and I, it was always like a vacation to stay at his house.  This feeling has never faded.  If all goes well this is where I will one day retire.

            Anyone who comes from a divorced family knows that when you turn twelve you get the once in a lifetime privilege to tell one of your parents that you don’t want to live with them.  When I turned twelve I told my mother that I was leaving to live with my father in his house on Bear Creek.  This was very difficult to do, but I never questioned my decision.  This house has always been my home.

Teaching Highlight

            Each year you get at least one kid that is not quite crazy, but nowhere near “normal.” This was Thomas, always staying for after-school tutoring whether he needed to or not because he only felt comfortable around a couple of teachers and this way he could interact with us in a relaxed atmosphere. The other kids make fun of kids that are not just like them and middle school must be the worst place in the world to be different. Thomas would have frequent meltdowns and throw tantrums when people would criticize him. This was how it was most of last year and this year as well. As the end of the year approached Thomas made it known that he had a crush on an older girl at school. This was worrisome for me because I too remember how cruel middle school girls can be. However, despite his fears and the advice of any fellow student who he dared ask what to do, he asked the girl to go to lunch with him and she agreed. This seems like a very tiny and insignificant detail for many, but both of them were learning how to be grown ups. He had decided to go out on a limb and do something completely out of character to get what he wanted; this being the attention of the previously mentioned girl. Even though everyone saw disaster on the horizon Thomas persevered and succeeded.

Huntington, WV

Highlawn is a neighborhood on the East side of Huntington. We are a bunch of latchkey kids that rarely eat dinner at a table with people in our own family. The parents who had regular nine-to-five’s fed many of their children’s friend as often as not. Highlawn is a neighborhood where history is more powerful than desire. You stick with what you know and dare not venture outside this sanctuary without friends. This is a place that seemed more safe as a youth running the streets than a teacher coming back to keep a promise. I owe this neighborhood my life for teaching me what is to be valued and what is to be cast aside.

             Looking back, there were many dangers in this cozy corner of town that just did not seem to apply to locals.

Where I’m From

I am from Huntington, West Virginia

No, It’s not near Richmond or Roanoke.

West Virginia is its very own state now.

This place is my home.

We are the birthplace of rivers and where old mountains feel new each spring.

I am from Appalachia. I am moonshine and mandolins.

I am from family and friends.

My roots run deep here. My ancestors moved here from Ireland and Germany two hundred and fifty years ago as farmers and Hessian mercenaries.

I am from soldiers and peacemakers.
I am from the fierce dedication of my mother and the serenity of my father.

They are from their parents and I will be of my children.

I am from the cool early morning fog rolling out of the hollows only to return at dusk.

I am from the flow of West Virginians South seeking prosperity only to return to their homes.

I am from homesickness.
I am from a neighborhood where friends are closer than family.

I am from a place where truth is held over pleasantries.

I am from  music and  noise, depending on where you stand.

As a teacher/ writer what am I falling in and out of again and again? As a teacher I am falling in and climbing out of adequate preparation. Being a second year teacher, I still encounter this problem regularly. I travel on long weekends too much, spread my efforts too thin, and end up Sunday night, Monday morning scrambling to bet my bearings. Preparation is my pit of despair. I go through cycles of being a really good teacher; having Special Ed. Paperwork ready in advance, making phone calls to parents, documenting classroom performance, and then comes the bad teacher; not sleeping enough, not ironing shirts, and wearing white socks with dress shoes. The stress of teaching out of a bad kills me. It seems absurd to complain about this, but I feel you are my choir to sing to. As far as my voice, much of what my voice is saying to me is inappropriate for public discussion. I beat myself up when the bad week ends. Yet, in the end, I know this has been a cycle I have not been able to break yet. I hope this will one day change. There is a huge difference between the school year me and the summer time me. The summer is my ladder out of my pit. Yet, I somehow manage to fill my plate too full during this time of much needed rest and relaxation. Hopefully, one day I’ll finish swimming up-stream and just go with the current. All rivers lead to an ocean somewhere and the beach sound really good about now.