Millennium

I sit here, at my teacher desk, scanning my bedecked classroom. Today, one of my Drama students took notice of my classroom during a discussion about the impact of color vs. monochromatic schemes.

"Ms. M," he said, with a slight cool drawl and a cock of his head, "your room has flair. I like all the color. Color shows that people are alive, not just breathing." I nodded my head as other students agreed and continued to challenge each other's opinions about how to create visual impact in dramatic scenes.

Later, I thought about what was said. It was my intent from day one to exude the eclectic, to be comfortable in my environment and to help my students become less conventional so that they could expand and grow into unbigoted, enlightened entities.

I want my students to learn. I want them to feel safe. I want to be mama bear and protect them. It's only intermittently I want to give up... or shake sense into them.

I came here to make a difference--- to tell them that there are people in this world who want to open their eyes and souls so that they can see the fresh new day and be prepared for hard cases and conundrums. They have so much fire, my students. Their eyes burn, sometimes with hatred for me - though not really for me - but for the institution of life. They need the wisdom to harness their fervor and possess it so they don't explode. They need to find their inner mercy to manage the calamaties to come.

They are all brilliant, and I tell them so. They all have choices, as I so remind them. I tell them that their youth is slippery, like a thumb against satin. I want them to cherish any childhood they have left. They never will - they are all obstinate, just like I was at their age, and determined to not need anyone or anything.

But they need. And they express that need at times. And sometimes, I was there to help fill that need and give them the push toward a better tomorrow. Many times I wished I could impart more knowledge and opinion, challenge them to defend their beliefs - their teenage cores. Many times I listened and said the minimum, knowing they had to discover their own truths and pick their own paths.

I have two weeks left of teaching high school.

I wonder if they'll miss me as much as I'll miss them.

Just notes...

Only three days left of blissful Spring Break. Monday will be filled with tanned, talkative teenagers all revealing their alcohol-filled adventures. Of course, the teachers will be talking about the same thing, just not in front of everyone.

Life on break is euphoric. I'm going to miss these mini-respites when I am no longer a teacher...

Happy weekend and Merry Easter!

Thank you Greg

For having a link to this site on your blogspot.

This entertained me for a good hour or so. Start with the January 9th post and read forward.

Heather, Sally and Aki - do you think this person is rooming with Miriam?

http://ihatemyflatmate.blogspot.com/

What do people do in Suburbia?

As of late, I find myself wandering around my house in my pajamas muttering about the slow, spiritless world of suburban Surprise. I peer out my library windows and surreptiously spy on my neighbors, wondering what they are doing in their little stucco sanctuaries. Are they bored like me?

How long can I hide in my garage going through truckloads of "boxed things" that connect me to my vibrant past? Is it wrong to stand in my shower, gaze up through the skylight and wonder what would happen if a tornado struck the barren desert? Would my Solatube go before the rest of the ceiling? Would I be sucked up through the hole?

Elvis even looks bored here. His big puppy eyes roll heavenward hourly as if to say, "I can't believe we are here. Perhaps we can take another road trip and I can pee on the world's largest ball of twine once again."

Years ago, my friends predicted that I'd rack up college degrees, move to Manhattan, storm Corporate America and have some boys-as-toys to keep me occupied on weekends. How did I end up in the place where people go to reproduce and mow lawns? How come those colorful tri-fold brochures for new housing developments never feature a truthful slogan such as "Suburbia. A vortex of nothingness."

I've come to the conclusion that if I don't figure out how to liven this place up, I may have to schedule a prison break.

Anyone in?

Swamp Ass Cooler

Have you ever been in Phoenix, dead August, no AC, your only hope a metal box on the side of your house? If so, you know that the only so-called substitute for AC is a pathetic "swamp" cooler that doesn't do much to cool your festering house and rid you of that not-so-fresh-feeling.

But alas! There is hope! Someday, my friend Ericka and I will own and operate a chic-chic, uber-cool coffee grotto near Arizona State University. Our mission, aside from caffeinating college co-ed's, will include keeping a cozy, comfy,clothes-minimal establishment called Java-n-Jammies. You show up in somewhat tasteful jammies, and we'll provide a venue for you to hang out (figuratively, at least).

We bet our business will have year-round appeal. In the winter, visit in your flannels and hoist a cup of steamy Joe. In the summer, buy an iced-coffee and avoid the sweaty, smelly clubs that crowd the Mill Avenue strip.

This brings me back to my original point. Summertime in Arizona is damn, frigging hot. Not just warm. Not toasty. Ridiculously over the top crockpot hot. Even with the AC blowing, you will accumulate beads of perspiration which eventually will travel downward and settle in your buttocks region. People know this syndrome as "swamp-ass."

Ericka and I have decided (with a little help from Bettina) that we need to tackle this sticky situation. Therefore, in all bathrooms at Java-n-Jammies, you will not find a typical hot air hand dryer. Oh no. We at JnJ want to go above the call of duty to dry out your drawers. Every bathroom will have an AC-like blower known as a "Swamp Ass Cooler." Aim the nozzle at your nether-regions and blow.

We figure if it blows your skirt up, it's gotta be good.