My Charmed Childhood

I am feeling really sappy after a frustrating day at work, so let me apologize in advance for what's about to happen. Or wait, no, I'm not sorry. I am lucky.

When I was a kid I was forced to play outside. Literally forced. Well, sometimes I wasn't, but there were times where Mom literally had to kick me and my sisters outside and locked the door behind us in order to keep us from wasting our lives away watching TV all summer long.. She would have the kiddie pool filled up with early-morning cold hose water before we were even fully awake, it seemed, some summer mornings, shoo us outside after breakfast, and we were out there to stay. The morning would start off slow. Then we would dip our feet in to the pool and the whine about how freezing it was. But we would eventually gravitate to our repertoire of making grass and berry "salads" in the frisbees, collecting ladybugs from the honeysuckle bushes, taking sips of nectar from the lilac flowers, riding our bikes around the block or many MANY blocks away (Mom didn't know that part), playing on the neighbor girl's swing set, taking our Barbies outside to swim once the pool warmed, hiding under the canopy of the heavy branches of the bush in the backyard...oh so many things. And all of this in the middle of Milwaukee. And it was fun. Really fun. Sounds like I have a pretty expensive pair of rose colored glasses about my wonderful childhood, doesn't it. Perhaps. Or maybe it really was just that awesome.


In the winter, we would sometimes (only sometimes...it gets COLD in Wisconsin in January and February!) spend hours outside. I remember coming in from the cold, my feet sopping wet and the knees of my jeans too where the snow had creep in through the snowsuit and melted. Mom would even have us put our feet in plastic bags to hold off the inevitable just a little bit longer. Smart woman. Our gloves would be wet but frosted over to the point where there wasn't a spot not crusted with ice crystals to wipe our runny noses. But the snow was so deep we could tunnel through it, or at least we tried. Snow men were constructed when possible, and when it wasn't it was usually because the snow was so heavy we couldn't lift the head onto the torso. Our front yard sloped just enough that we could slide down it on sleds. If we were really really lucky, Mom and Dad would take us to Danine Park a few blocks up the street to skate on one of the ponds there. We all had our second hand ice skates, laced as tightly as possible to stabilize our shaky ankles, and fell more than we probably were upright, but I loved it. If we were indoors, my sisters and I would literally play Barbies all. day. long. And then pick up and start over where we left off the next day. This could last for a week.

Sometimes Mom or Dad would announce that we needed to load into the car quickly because we were going on a "surprise." I'm sure we did, but I don't recall us whining to know where we were headed. We just knew it would be good. Often it was the Milwaukee Museum, my personal favorite, but it could be the zoo, a movie, the art museum when we were older, and a few times I even remember Mom taking us to see live theater - once it was a Beauty and the Beast play that I can still catch glimpses of at the edge of my mind. Dad would often load us into the car just to go on a drive. I remember those mostly during the fall, him pulling in to the parking lot of some state or county park where we would wander trails in the late morning sunlight. My favorite would lead us to the lake shore where there would sometimes be monarch butterflies perched on the rocks on the shore, trying to catch the last of the summer sunlight before they died. We would look for fossils and Dad would try to explain geology to us though we had no idea what he was talking about. A few times we would drive over to the lake front with our bikes and ride the trail for what seemed like a wonderful forever. Oh, and horse fields. My parents were so cool because they would pull over so we could pet horses. I bet we pet dozens of horses across the state of Wisconsin. Mom frequently took us to the library. She would disappear into the adult half, and we girls would become immersed in the kids section. I remember when she finally said we should get our own library cards. I felt so grown up, though I was probably eight or so.

Our vacations would either involve camping or making the long trek to Massachusetts. Camping trips could last over a week, during which we would hike and hike and swim and hike some more. Dad would try hard to get us up at the wee hours to go on bird watching hikes, and often failed, but bless him for trying. I remember being grumbly a lot of the time, and why he didn't just give up I will never know but always appreciate it because on the excursions he did get us on, I usually came back having had a great time. Canoe excursions on the Mississippi River at Wyalusing State Park are particularly memorable. So was an epic, though really poorly executed, tennis match after my sisters and I took lessons one summer. We were soooo bad! But I remember laughing with my parents and sisters in that mosquito infested, overgrown, cracking tennis court. And if we headed to Massachusetts instead, I remember soundtracks of James Taylor and Chicago during my brief periods of staying awake. Then it was family and beach and seafood. Historical and literary sights. The Pilgrims were real because I saw their boat. Angels were real because we went to the Sacred Grove. So were witches because I saw their museum. Seriously, history was rad.

So now is the "so what" point. During my visit this summer for my brother's wedding, I had the first time opportunity to watch my nieces and nephews play together. This was the first time in years we had all been together and that the kids were old enough to play together outside. And I was brought back to those summers of being outside all day, not afraid that I would be kidnapped, only coming in long enough to get a drink and use the bathroom, not watching TV all summer unless the temperature and humidity made outside exposure dangerous. And I saw those kids living a moment of the childhood I had, a childhood I didn't necessarily love at the time but do now. I had a childhood that fostered creativity, learning, reading, and an appreciation of the outdoors. Sure, I kicked and screamed a lot of it I'm sure, but now I get it. Maybe my mom didn't have this genius plan besides surviving the day without going crazy with us. Perhaps my dad didn't really like going to the museum AGAIN, but couldn't stand the begging and didn't want to go to jail for harming his annoying kids. But they both did it again and again.

I am rich with experiences that often didn't cost a ton of money but have left me so appreciative of the world around me. And the experiences they had and the risks they took as young adults, on display in their photo albums, are part of me too, as a lot of the plans I had and still have for myself are because I have always known that I would and could do things because my parents did. If I wish nothing else for the sweet children in my family, it is that my siblings and I teach and show them the same possibilities for their own futures, that they feel inspired and excited for the details of the world and the scope of the world and the hope of the world. Because it is still out there for all kids. A lot of them just don't know to look for it. Lucky for me, I did because my parents showed me. And rose colored glasses look good on me, so I'll keep them on if you don't mind.

Posted with Blogsy

Walking the Back Streets of Venice

Day three and I am tired and sore - physically tired from all the walking (and refusing to wear supportive shoes, instead going with flat, CUTE sandals) and because I was up so late blogging. My calves are so tight that it is painful, and my ankles are stiff. This tells you more about the actuality of my life in the USA than Venice.  I was going to write some deep, philosophical post about something, but the words aren't there. Just things I don't want to forget and things I wish I'd known. This city is fabulous, but it needs time, patience, and understanding. It is older than much of reason in its layout, suffering from dementia, if you will, but is no less worthy of the love and respect one who has survived this long deserves.  There is wisdom to be found in the chaos of this old city. It is magical.

Never Underestimate The Power Of Church Bells In The Morning.

The quiet streets of the Jewish ghetto on a Sunday
morning before the masses of people emerge 

So here I am in Italy. It is the end of the second day and I'm feeling pretty comfortable with the city, meaning I haven't really gotten lost. Does that mean I haven't tried hard enough to go off of the tourist grid?
The first day in this city was a little underwhelming. That's hard to say since Venice has been my #1 travel destination since the first time I knew what Venice was. Why wasn't it very impressive? Well, maybe the 24 hours of travel to get here, a lot of stairs (hotels and bridges) climbed with my suitcase (I'm guessing 150-200), an 80 euro hotel room that was budget at best (clean but... outdated, and I'm not usually picky), a blown - and I mean sparks flying, smoking while in the wall - electricity converter within the first 10 minutes of being in the hotel, a sudden rain and temperature drop that I am not prepared for, mediocre tourist -trap-restaurant dinner, asleep by 8 pm kinda day. I liked it, but I wasn't enthralled like I hoped and wanted to be.

Then this morning happened. Ann (my friend and travel buddy) and I got up and ready, and left the hotel at 9. We got breakfast at some local corner shops and ate as we walked to the Jewish ghetto area under a cool, sunny, cloudless blue sky. As it is Sunday, church bells were ringing throughout the neighborhood. Never underestimate the power of church bells to make you fall madly in love with a place, because that is what happened to me. I don't know exactly what it is about church bells, but there is something calming and real about them - people going to church, checking their clocks, starting their day that puts me in the middle of the lives of people who live this way ever day.  It makes me feel connected because suddenly, if for only a moment, I am one of them.  Anyway.  It continued being a wonderfully beautiful day, with great food thanks to a middle school friend's restaurant recommendation, a much better hotel that we moved to this afternoon (part of the Rick Steves' My Way Tour we were joining), renewed energy, my seemingly divinely inspired ability to navigate this city (what else could it be?), some gelato, mass in Latin, frequent vaporetto rides, and scenery to die for when you can get away from the tourists (easier said than done). Gosh, I love this place!

It really IS possible to find streets where there aren't mobs of people.

St. Mark's Square and the Campanile (bell tower)

Me waiting for the next #1 vaparetto along  the Grand Canal 

View of St. Mark's, the Campanile, and the Doge's Palace from the bell tower on San Giorgio Maggiore, a small island right across from Venice proper

 

A gondola workshop!  

This was actually my first view of Venice, coming across the first bridge from the bus station.  Since my hands were full of luggage and a map on the day Ann and I arrived, I had to go back to see this just one more time.

Posted with Blogsy

I've Got a Dream

 Five and a half years ago in November of 2007, I bought a vintage Italian travel poster calendar.  I made the purchase with the express purpose of having a daily reminder of what I needed to save for - my dream trip.  I don't remember exactly when I decided that my life would have to include a trip to Italy, but it's been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember.  I always KNEW I would travel internationally because my parents had.  Of course that meant that I would too.  It took years of teaching before an opportunity presented itself:  a few months after the calendar purchase, I was asked if I would like to help lead a student trip to France and Spain in June 2009.  My initial response was no, because a) I had no burning desire to see either place, b) I din't think I could come up with the money, and c) it wasn't Italy, and that was the trip I had always dreamed of taking.  Wouldn't it be bad luck to go on another European trip first?  Wouldn't it mean that I would NEVER be able to save enough money if I went there first?  Why spend the money to go on a trip I wasn't interested in?

Well, I changed my mind about that trip after doing a tiny amount of research, was able to save the money and go on an amazing adventure that I cherish even four years later.  Italy seemed like a distant unreality though, but I had made it to Europe at least once in my life, and it couldn't be that much different than Spain, right?

In October 2010, I felt that I should go to Germany to pursue a career ambition of mine.  The trip would be during the Thanksgiving break, and because of the time of year would cost a third to a half less than what it would during the summer.  But it was still a lot of money on short notice.  If I was able to get a job (or at least network myself into a position where I would be considered), Italy would be a short train ride over.  Having gone on the previous trip gave me the confidence to travel to Europe again and alone this time, and helped me to learn how to budget for such a trip.  Even on my salary, it was possible (well, the credit card made up the difference, but still...).  No job came out of the attempt, not even an interview or a glance at my application, nor an invitation to tour the school after I had traveled all that way.  I got a 45 minute meeting with a principal where I asked questions about the school system and a "good luck," but  I don't regret the attempt at all.  Italy was pushed back yet again, but I had taken the chance for another dream (living abroad).  I still hope it may happen in the future.

The calendar is still hanging on my wall, all these years after buying it.  After Germany, I decided that my next trip would be Italy - enough was enough.  Whether by myself (now I knew I could do it) or with others, it would happen.  I tutored, started coaching the debate team, put a little aside each month, and saved my tax returns to get the money.  But after two years I got the money...have the money!  I'm finally going.  I leave tomorrow, and can't wait.  I will have 15 days to savor a longtime dream.  The questions is, which calendar should I get next?

I have the best (former) students!

I've had a tough teaching year.  I could blame it on lots of things, some of which are my fault and some that are not.  I have a few class periods that I like and a few students that I absolutely adore, but let me just say that I am not sad to see a major chunk of these kids move on.  Who it is hard to see move on often times is students that I taught years ago, the ones that are graduating.  Because I teach 9th graders, I often have these students at their neediest and most brainless.  I somehow manage to keep my sanity while helping them gain theirs.  As they get older, I watch as they come into their own, finding success in their social, athletic, academic  and extracurricular lives.  Some of them continue to talk to me, but the majority move on and even stop saying hello in the hallways.  Part of me aches for the days when we had inside jokes as class periods, would laugh and tell stories, but I also understand the need for them to move on.  I think some of them don't realize how much I still care for them and their success, so they stop acknowledging me because they think that I don't care anymore.  I'm sure a lot in all actuality do not care.  But there are always the ones who don't forget, or after a year of the silent treatment work their way back into hello's and teasing.  Of this year's seniors, there were a lot of girls that I really got to know, girls that are smart and beautiful and talented and good and motivated.  Girls that will accomplish things in their lives, whether that be in their homes or in academics or careers.  About a year ago, one of those former students started to greet me each morning with "Team Hensel!"  I'm not sure why, but she stuck with it.  As students often do, they swear they will do something for me to remember them by - a gift or some such thing.  Most don't and I don't expect them to, so when Brittany said she was going to make a Team Hensel t-shirt for me, I smiled and said my obligatory but unconvinced "Cool!"  To my surprise, she actually did.  I wear it and smile.  I will keep it, along with the doodles and notes and series-finale "Lost" party supplies and thank-you cards and senior pictures that I've collected over the years, close to my heart, a heart full of the marks of hundreds of the best former students ever.

Going Home

The two main things people seem to know about Wisconsin are cheese and football.  Unless a person has lived in the Midwest, Wisconsin is one of those states that people struggle to find on a map, and even fewer have visited.  But to me it's home, and I'm really proud of it.  Like, Texas proud of it.  But just like most teenagers go through a phase where they are embarrassed to be seen with their parents, I went through a phase where I was embarrassed of my home state.  Honestly, I don't know who would blame me - we put cheese on our heads, so... Once I was gone though, I realized how awesome of a place Wisconsin is to live - we put CHEESE.  On our HEADS!  When I think of my hometown of Green Bay and the emotions I associate with it, the colors green and gold display prominently in my mind.  I haven't always been proud of where I am from, but the colors (or at least what they represent) that I thought I detested and which prompted me to move away are the same that brought me back to what I am now proud to call my home.

My family moved to Green Bay from Milwaukee when I was 11 years old.  While I was at first excited about the move, I quickly came to realize that Green Bay was not a big city like Milwaukee was.  There was one mall.  No big-city downtown to speak of.  Very little diversity.  No major museums.  The accent was stronger and sounded more hick-ish than normal.  And there were corn fields less than a mile from my house.  Lots of corn fields.  My parents had essentially chosen to downgrade my life.  It was different, and without any friends besides my sisters, I was bored.

Of course, with school came a place to belong; friends and extra-curricular activities filled in some of the time that had previously been devoted to longing for what I used to have.  But Green Bay has a culture devoted to one pastime, and one pastime only: Packer football.  Streets are named after the greats: Packerland Drive, Holmgren Way, Brett Favre Pass, and Lombardi Avenue.  Buildings and businesses also wear the green and gold, literally in the colors they are painted, but also with names like Titletown Brewery, Lombardi Middle School, Packerland Packaging Company, and The Tundra Lodge.  Green Bay lives, breathes, eats, and sleeps football.  Even into my high school years, it still seemed over the top to me, even pathetic at times.  I just couldn't understand why there wasn't more to life for the residents of Green Bay than football, because even in the off-season, living in Green Bay was like homecoming week all eyar long.  When people talked about the Packers or Lambeau Field, there was a reverence that I thought was ill-placed.  "The Packers are America's team," people would say, or that Lambeau Field was "hallowed ground."  The lengths people would go to, waiting five hours in their cars to buy a piece of the field when the stadium was ripped up for re-sodding, camping out all morning at the practice fields in the summer to watch scrimmages, showing up in the freezing cold the day before a game to volunteer their time to shovel the stadium, and people painting and siding their homes and sometimes even cars in the green and gold were just a few examples of the devotion that was expressed for this team.  When the Packers went to the Super Bowl my senior year of high school, I was excited while I watched the game with friends, but was surprised when school was cancelled early upon the team's arrival home so the town could greet the players as they returned.  While I liked the day off, I was confused that the football team was more important to the city's officials and parents than the education of its students.

When it was time to plan for life after high school, getting out of Green Bay and even Wisconsin was a top priority.  If Packer football wasn't enough for me, being done with the dramas of my teenage years was.  While I had a great group of friends, I never felt like I truly fit in.  I was one of the few Mormon kids at Preble High School.  My religious culture didn't always mesh with the rites of passage many high schoolers go through in Wisconsin.  I felt like I had to explain why I couldn't do certain things all the time, that I was missing out somehow, and that if I moved away (to Utah to be specific), my life would be so much easier.  People would understand me and I would finally belong.  I would get away from the bowling, beer culture, bratwurst, fishing, hunting, humidity, frigid winters, mosquitoes the size of your hand, polka, and mullets that I felt were so corny but were so part of my home state's culture.  When I put on the green graduation cap and gown with the gold tassels representing Preble High, I felt an excitement and hope that my life would somehow be better, that I would finally start living.  When I pulled out of the driveway in the gold-colored car my parents had bought me and my sister, all of our belongings packed in the trunk and back seat, we headed to Utah.  I couldn't contain my excitement for this new adventure.

What I didn't anticipate was how much I would miss home.  While there was still the adventure of living away in a new city in Utah, there was also no home to go back to very easily.  While there were people who believed and lived like I did, there were new challenges that I hadn't anticipated with living in a new place.  In the place where I though "everyone" was like me, I soon realized that everyone wasn't like me.  There were new pastimes and customs I didn't participate in.  There was a new set of vocabulary and a new accent.  New holidays that  I didn't buy in to.  And I missed my mom and dad.  I missed my friends and the simplicity of high school.  I missed the thunderstorms that made the grass and trees and corn fields so green.  And I even missed the quirks of Wisconsin culture that I had before resented - the accent I got teased for, the taste of grilled bratwurst in the summer time, reasons to go to the lake shore to escape the heat, the camping, the diversity of people and belief systems, the summer festivals, and even the camaraderie that Wisconsinites have over the shared love of football and the shared endurance of harsh winters and relentless mosquitoes.  The things that I thought I had disliked so much actually had given me a rich background of experiences with people and the outdoors.  Utah wasn't bad, but it was different.  When I finally graduated from college and could afford to go home for the summer after a seven year absence, I stepped off of the airplane and noticed one thing in particular: how green everything was.  I was finally home, and I was glad.

Scared

At the beginning of September, I handed my classroom over to a student teacher.  By his third official day of being in charge, I felt that he had a pretty good handle on things, considering that he didn't know the students  and, well, that it was only his third day and he seemed to have no problem jumping right in.  I had spent the first few days hovering; I had had two student teachers before and they needed a little bit (hrm) of help transitioning over.  This guy seemed like he had been around the schoolyard a few times before.  So I didn't feel too out of line for taking a bathroom break in the middle of class. I mean, I wasn't the one teaching and they were left with a competent adult who was, so why not.  Right?

I had literally sat down on the porcelain throne when the dreaded words were announced over the intercom:  "Teachers, may we please have your attention.  At this time, we are going in to lock-down   Please follow all procedures."  My heart sank for many reasons:
1) I had walked away from my classroom and had never talked with my student teacher about lock-down procedures - it's not on the list of priorities in Cedar City, Utah, especially within the first few days.  Would he know to close the door?  I usually keep my door handle locked for just this sort of occasion, but was there a chance that I hadn't done it this morning?
2)  My office door was open.  There is direct access from my office to my classroom.  I'm SURE that my student teacher didn't know that that door was open, and it can't be seen even if he did step into the hallway because the door is recessed and he probably wouldn't see it.  Even if he did everything right, my students were still vulnerable, as were the other three classrooms that share the quad area that my office links to.
3)  If he did close the door and it was indeed locked, I would be stuck in the hallway.  We are instructed to not open the door under ANY circumstances - even for a student - once we have gone into lock-down mode to ensure the safety of all those in the classroom in case there is someone else trying to get in that we on the inside are not aware of.  Whether or not my student teacher knew this, I knew that I could be stuck on the outside if someone else closed my office door.  There is also an outside-access door not 50 feet from my classroom.  I am an open target in more than one way.

These were my thoughts as I ran - literally - from the faculty bathroom to my class, trying to zip my pants and buckle my belt as I went.  My office door was open as I had left it, so I was able to get into my classroom - which was luckily closed and locked - and check on the kids and visiting teacher.  All students were accounted for and no one had entered my office for any subversive activity.  Eventually, we were informed that there was a suspicious package in the parking lot, the bomb squad had been called out and it turned out to be nothing.  Cedar High faculty and administration learned a lot that day, and has since made adjustments to the current policy, which I am grateful for.  While many in the community, and I guess even within our own walls, poked fun at the bomb squad having to detonate a...wait for it!...homemade duct-taped maraca, and all of the hullabaloo that surrounded the day, in hindsight it is so much better to learn from an embarrassingly false alarm than from a real crisis.

The event had all but faded into a funny memory - c'mon, I was running down the hall and trying to do my pants at my place of employment on my student teachers third day of his assignment - until last week.  I found out at lunch from another teacher about the school shooting in Connecticut.   I read the first of many news articles about it while my third period (just after lunch) class was taking a quiz.  I balled as I informed them about what happened and then told them what to do in case there was ever a shooter at our school;  I felt that I had to because we had never talked about it before and you just never know...it's my job to protect...

The thing is, until I knew that that lock-down incident months before had been over nothing, I was really really scared.  That was real.  Those thoughts as I made my way to my kids were real.  Those worried faces looking to me for answers that I didn't have were real.  My heart about ready to burst as I had to open the door and stick my hand in the hallway to check if the door was really locked, not knowing who might be out there and if I was risking the lives of myself and my students to do so was real.  The collective holding of breath in momentary fear when a custodian unlocked the door and walked in before we had been given the all-clear was real (he was checking on us, but still...).
The fear is still always in the back there though, nagging.  The school has started locking all but two doors into the building as a result of the Connecticut tragedy, THANK GOODNESS, but until that started a day or two ago, it has been...interesting.  Whenever someone knocks on my classroom door, I wonder who is on the other side for more than one reason.  And today when I had a confrontation with a student about a plagiarized essay, a student who was escorted out of class by the vice principal and our school police officer three weeks ago for a visit to DT no less, I started to wonder if his criminal activity included violence or revenge. And what about the kid who won't make eye contact?  Or the one I saw tormenting a dog across the street from school during lunchtime one day?  Or one that I've passed every day in the hallway and didn't know and didn't know to be worried about?  When I tearfully talked with my classes about where to hide in the event of an armed intruder, was there a chance that I told the armed intruder where to find us?  When I read back over this, my paranoia seems, well, paranoid.  But this is the reality of the society I live in, at least for now, and for some reason, this time it isn't someone else who experiences these things.  It's me too - the locations of recent shootings are all to personal for me: I work in a school, my sister lives outside of Portland, I know someone with emotional struggles who owns a gun, I was sitting in a movie theater watching The Dark Knight Rises this summer, I grew up in Wisconsin...



It is hard to escape the worry and the dread.  Luckily, tomorrow is the last day of school for a few more weeks as we prepare for the sacred and special celebration of the birth of the Savior.  I will have a few blessed weeks to rest.  I will hug the little children I am lucky to have in my life a lot tighter, kiss them even more than normal, and pray that the goodness of and in mankind can find a way to make us feel safe, wherever it is that we work, learn, play, and pray.    

Thoughts on Teaching Poetry, Asperger's, and Horses

A month from today, I will be enjoying my first day of freedom after completing my 8th year of teaching.  Currently, we are studying poetry.  Interestingly enough, this is the one thing that has stayed the same in my curriculum since year one.  Novels come and go, writing assignments have been added or dropped, grammar falls victim to other time and content constraints, but I have always made time to teach poetry and always at the end of the year.  This is mostly selfish, in large part because I think it is fun but also is easy and enjoyable to grade, so I like to end the school year on a positive note for me.  This year we have had some great discussions about individual pieces of poetry, and it reminds me how much fun teaching can be.

Not only do I read and study poetry with my students, but we also write poetry during this time.  What's interesting about this is the students who end up writing the most amazing stuff are often the students who write little else (or nothing else) for me all year long; sometimes they are knuckleheaded boys (aren't all 15 year old boys knuckleheads?) who write amazing images, show their sense of humor, capture moments most clearly without the melodrama of emotion that permeates so much of the writing of 15 year old girls; the students who struggle with just about everything, but wear their pride on their faces when they finish a poetry assignment.  It's hard as a teacher not to get high off of that.

But a new wrench was thrown into the cogwheels this year with the dissolvement  of my school's special ed classes.  I have had a number of students join my classes who normally wouldn't, including a few with Asperger's syndrome.  One of the things that many of these students struggle with is things that aren't literal: metaphors and similes; interpretation of emotional expression in reading and writing; expression of emotion in their own writing.  In short, my entire 4th quarter's curriculum.  

What am I to do?  I don't want to just excuse all of these writing opportunities just because it is difficult, do I?  But am I asking the impossible if I don't?  Am I encouraging a "can't do" attitude or punishing a student because they learn differently?  What is the proper balance among including, accommodating, and stretching these highly functioning yet special needs students?  This is the question I still haven't answered two weeks into this unit.

On Thursday, after having a successful discussion about the poem "My Papa's Waltz", I assigned my students to write a poem about a childhood memory.  Some started writing immediately after the directions, others jumped into socializing, and there sat Allison* staring at me with furrowed eyebrows.  After a few students proudly presented to me some of their works-in-progress, I made my way over to her to do some damage control.  How was I going to work through this with her?  Earlier in the year, her mother had told me Allison couldn't do an assignment involving figurative language because of her Asperger's, followed by telling me she didn't want me to just excuse her from it.  After my initial bewilderment at the contradicting statements, I made some adjustments to the assignment and Allison completed it successfully, so I knew that it was possible for her to work with poetic language to some extent, but I have no idea how to adjust the actual writing of poetry that we are doing now (I am so clueless about this side of teaching!).  Allison said she didn't have any memories about her childhood, but I had one trick up my sleeve (here's my plug for getting to know students individually) - I know that she rides horses as part of her therapy.  So I suggested she write about the first time she rode a horse.  Right away she smiled and started listing names and words that weren't coherent thoughts to me, so I had to do some prodding. Simply listing word does not a poem make; adding sensory details does help though.  What about smells?  What sounds do you remember?  Feelings?  Colors?  Though she argued with me that she can't smell and her mother wouldn't like her to smell leather and hay because her brother is allergic and her mother is sensitive to strong smells (hey, her mind works in an interesting way) I started to put together the phrases she had listed to show her that what she did remember could be turned into a poem -  black horse with a faded star, wanting the horse to go "faster, faster,"  English style saddle - and she never lost her smile, even while arguing with me.  And I started to remember the feelings I had from my earliest memories of being on and around horses so that I could get her to tell me what she remembered.  I was grateful for all the times I had posted equestrian calendar pictures up on my bedroom wall, begged my parents to pull over to the side of an obliging field for an impromptu petting session, nuzzled my nose into a dusty neck, felt the wiry whiskers on a velvety nose, breathed in the hay and leather.  She may not be a poet, and she may not even write about that or anything and I'll have to excuse her from the assignments after all, but I'm grateful for my childhood love because 25 years later I would be sitting next to a girl who loves horses just as much as I do, and maybe more, but doesn't necessarily have the words.  But I will somehow help her find them, because I do.

*student's name has been changed

The Grown Up

When I was in middle schould, I thought being a grown up would be so cool because I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted to.  I wouldn't be bossed around anymore.  I could eat as many Oreo's as I wanted.  I would have all this money I could spend on all the things I wanted to do (my parents were just being selfish and stingy; I knew they just HAD to be ROLLING in money and they wouldn't buy me the stuff I wanted because they just didn't want to share).  Life would be glamorous starting at about high school (Beverly Hills 90210) and would just get better from there (Melrose Place, which, interestingly enough, I never watched.  But they sure looked like they had important stuff going on!)  I didn't know what that would look like, but it would be so much better than what I had at the moment.

When I was in middle and high school, I thought being a grown up would be so boring because I'd have to go to work and I wouldn't have any friends anymore.  College was the pinnacle of life, so I just had to get there.  Getting out of Green Bay would make me happy because, let's face it, anything HAD to be more exciting than Green Bay, Wisconsin.  There, I would really start living life to the fullest (Friends).  Friends, boys, parties, and classes that I actually was interested in would be so awesome...I couldn't wait!  I didn't know what it would look like, but I would be so happy because it would be so much better than what I had at the moment.

When I was in college, I thought being a grown up would be cool because I would finally have money to do what I wanted to do while I was in college; I would have a husband and home of my own, which would be great.  It would be clean and picked up because it's always easier to keep things clean when you don't have roommates and you know which messes are yours.  It would be well decorated, this house of mine.  I didn't necessarily want to have to go to work, but when I or my husband had time off, we would explore the world - my own new little family, of which I would be the coolest involved most easy going wife and mother ever.  And we would always have enough money that we would never have to say no to anything really amazing.  I didn't know what that would look like, but things would fall into place in a way that was very different than the way they were at the moment.

Now I'm here, I guess.  Adulthood.  The problem is that I still don't know what it means to be an adult.  I still feel like college was just a few years ago, and my lifestyle hasn't changed too much since that time.  There is no husband or children or home of my own.  I keep late hours (sleeping and rising).  I answer to parents (of my students).  I have homework (to grade) and tests to prepare for (the standardized variety).  I have summers full of lazy boredom off.  I eat a lot of the same easy to make meals like mac 'n cheese, sandwiches, and breakfast for dinner, just like I did in - wait for it - college.  I am neither motivated to regularly plan meals ahead of time, nor do I usually eat at the table.  I am not great with money.  I'm actually becoming more selfish than I used to be, if that is at all possible. I still have a roommate, there is no rush to keep things super clean, and I am not even close to owning my own home. And when activities are planned for LDS singles of my age to meet other singles, they usually end up being dances - the same activity that was planned for 14 year olds.  I think the only thing that has really "grown up" over the years is the way I dress.  To be succinct, I am not an adult, or at least what I pictured one to be.

This has led to a lot of dissatisfaction with my life. In a side by side comparison of success,  I am a stunted cougar/college student hybrid (not in the dating younger men way, just in the too old to be a coed but still being one anyway) minus the cool parties and tropical spring break.  My former students are more likely to comment on my Facebook page than people my own age, in part  because of my hypothesis that there is an unspoken club that women are invited to join when they get married that separates the women from the girls, and yet another when they have children, and I am now two VIP passes behind.  In all actuality, I am in a different world than my peers, which makes us not really peers anymore, does it.  

So what is this eternally single, emotionally and motivationally immature woman-child to do?  How do I become a real boy...er, adult?  According to Wikipedia, "one may legally be an adult but possess none of the maturity and responsibility that define adult character."  I worry where I fit within that framework, or more accurately where other people would say the details of my life fit.  It actually frightens me a little bit.  That being said, I am determined to feel comfortable in my own skin.  The last few years I have been trying to love me, or at least the outside of me.  While that is still a work in progress, I am determined to not just like the physical shell, but also the life I have created for myself.  Sure, it isn't what I would have chosen for my pseudo-adulthood, but I've got to make it work somehow until it changes or doesn't change.  Being productive, having a daily purpose, contributing to the greater good of the world around oneself - I think these are all things that transition a person into an adult.  I have had moments of each of these, but I don't know if it's been simultaneous.  I need to meld these things together,  in addition to changing behaviors that I thought I would be forced to change when my relationship status would when I still thought my relationship status would change ever so many years ago.  I shouldn't be waiting for that to happen first - what a ridiculous thought after all the times I've stopped waiting for other things!  I will figure out how to be proud of the life that I have  now.    I will grow up.

Getting Over It

 I have been stagnating.  I hate to say that my own anger has created a cesspool where creativity,  positive thinking, and my ability to analyze the facets of my life have been swallowed, but it is the truth.  On many occasions over the last five months I would sit down to blog, and the anger would take over - anything positive I had to say was increasingly and progressively being swallowed by the overwhelming desire to rant and shout at the world about how crappy a hand I'd been dealt.

But while I still feel that way to some extent as I type this now, the anger has greatly subsided and I want and need to move on from it.  To get
over it!  First of all, anger is entirely unproductive - while I hold on to it, I hold on to nothing else;  I quite literally had the summer-o-fun, but I couldn't bring myself to even post pictures for my family because of the black hole of joy I had created for myself.  And I'm sure my friends tired of hearing my sob stories.  Second of all, things really could be worse;  actually, the 80% of the world that survives on $10 or less a day would laugh at how bad I think I have it when compared with how good I actually do have it.  And the people in Joplin, MO, Japan, the East Coast, Libya, or any number of other places around the world going through turmoil would probably switch places with me, if only for a day, to have some relief from the struggles they are facing in rebuilding their lives, countries, infrastructures to deal with my "problems".  Thirdly, I have learned nothing if I haven't learned that the bad is followed by something better.  There's no way to know how long of a transition period that is, but there is always a light at the end of the tunnel;  I guess it just depends where I am in the tunnel.  I'm a little too young to be having a mid-life crisis though, so maybe instead of thinking of the recent series of events as a crisis, this is just my most recent opportunity to reinvent myself.

That poses a new question though.  Any suggestions on what the final product should be?

Erin the Spy: Part Deux

From thefrisky.com

A few months shy of a year ago, I wrote a post about my observations about human nature.  My unwitting test subjects were my Facebook friends, as well as myself.  The evidence of my study was in the form of the Facebook Status Update, a term today's social network users throw around without a second thought that there might still be some people in America who don't know what that means.  For those who don't know, it most often takes the form of a one to three sentence summary of what the Facebook account user is doing or thinking at that moment.  To summarize my original research results, I studied the content of said status updates, scouring for patterns in the human psyche.  My original findings, which can be reviewed here, were met with critical acclaim.  The research was far from over, though.  For the subsequent months since the initial publication of my research, I have been diligently at it, continuing to uncover the best, and sometimes worst, of human tendencies, compulsions, and obsessions as shared by Facebook users themselves.  Remember that to be included as a summation of the human social psyche, the behavior had to be observed at least a dozen times.  Also, the exhibits with an asterisk next to them means that I have written a status update that has put me in that category. So on to Part 2 of Erin the Spy:


Exhibit M:  The Friend Whore -  These Facebook users have more friends than one person could ever possibly know in person, and their status feed's tell us daily the dozens of new people they have added to their online party.  It is also common for these people to let you know via status update that you have just made the cut of people to still be their friend, as they have just completed some unwanted-friend housekeeping by deleting those unfortunate enough to be, well, no longer friends with Exhibit M.  If you're like me, your first response is one of relief that you weren't dumped.  If you're like me, your second response is usually the question of when did WE last communicate, and therefore what did I do to deserve making the cut?

Exhibit N:  The Letter Writer (a)*- This person writes letters to inanimate forces or situations such as the weather, jobs or illnesses, and followed the lead of The Cure's "Friday I'm in Love":  "Dear Cold, please bother someone else" or "Sunshine, oh how I've missed you."  This is personification at its best.

Exhibit O:  The Letter Writer (b)* - This is the twin sister to The Letter Writer (a).  This person updates her status by writing letters to people we all know will never see or read the status update - her fetus, her baby, his congressman, his crazy neighbor. Often passive aggressiveness at its best.

Exhibit P:  The Romantic - She just cannot keep from telling us how much she loves her husband, how she can't wait for her husband to get home, how her husband is the best there ever was...I'm not talking about the special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries where you would naturally want to give a special shout-out, rather multiple times a week.  While these updates may come from a sincere and sweet place, those of us that are bitter and lonely can't help but wonder just what will happen when the honeymoon is over, what it is she is trying to hide from all of us - or better yet, what she is hiding from herself.

Exhibit Q:  The Ain't It The Truth'er* (*=I hope) - I know I can't help but liking this persons status updates because, honestly, he writes the funniest, most truthful moments-that-we-all-experience-but-nobody's-ever-vocalized-it-in-quite-that-way comments.  As long as he steers clear of discussing politics, religion, or bowel movements, this person will frequently be rewarded with many thumbs turned way up.

Exhibit R:  The Word Extenders - These people, in order to visually express an oral experience, extend words by adding extra consonants, or more frequently vowels, to add emphasis to a word; Puuuuuuulease; Longggggg day; heyyyyyyyyyy, and the ones I love to hate - Timeeeee and Loveeeeeeeeeee.  Unfortunately, they usually put the wrong emphASS-is on the wrong syl-Aaaahhble, and by adding extra E's to the end of words, they unwittingly change the pronunciation of the word entirely by changing them from silent vowels to ones very much with an attached sound...please tell me that you readers out there mentally pronounce loveeeeeeeee differently than loooooooove like I do.

Exhibit S:  The Tuck Ya In'ners- These people are on Facebook enough that they have taken it upon themselves to tell us all it is waaaaaaay (or should it be wayyyyyy?) past our bedtimes with a friendly, "Good night Facebook!"

Exhibit T:  The Baby Obsessed - Exhibit T is mad up mostly of my former students who are quite young and quite pregnant.  Simply being a mother does not make you part of this exhibit, and neither does being a specimen of Exhibit G (see previous study).  These girls (I hated it when I was called 'girl' at 18 and 19, but I'm old enough now that I've earned the right...besides the fact that I now know they actually still are girls) take pictures of themselves in bikini's  and booty shorts showing off their pregnant bellies, but usually are so little to begin with that it looks like they had a big meal and have done their best to fill their stomachs with air, pushing out with all their might.  They've also added fetus time counters and named their baby with designer first and middle name combo's and write her messages though she is only the size of a hair follicle.

Exhibit U:  The Got-Yer-Back'ers* - Submitted by Tasha.  These people got 'yer  back mostly because they are literally on it - they comment or 'like' your status updates within minutes or seconds of hitting "Share" which begs the question, why are they always on Facebook?

Exhibit V:  The Activist* - Politics is life.  This status updater will sometimes encroach on the territory of The Letter Writer (b) and even dabble in the Ain't It the Truther, but The Activist takes his comments to a whole new level.  His updates are often accompanied by links to online news articles and John Stewart's The Daily Show video clips.  WARNING:  Be careful to give The Activist a wide girth when commenting to the opposite persuasion. Unless, that is, you are ready and willing for a verbal lashing of the third degree!

Exhibit W:  The Epic Journaler - Submitted by Claudia.  These people give a running tally of everything they've done all day.  They aren't the same people that tell you about their bowel movements, but everything else is fair game.

Exhibit X:  The Busy Bee'ers - Between the second it takes us to read their update about how busy their day has been or how busy it's going to be, and the second we then question why the hell they are on Facebook if life is that chaotic, we have judged them.  Conclusions as to whether Exhibit W and Exhibit X are in fact part of the same genus, species, and kingdom are still underway.

Exhibit Y:  The Event Planners - They invite you - and by 'you' I mean all of us reading their update -  to stuff, tell you to meet them somewhere, or are bored and give a shoutout to whoever might want to get something going.  They always ask us to call them though, don't they?

Exhibit Z:  The It's So Cute You Think We Give a Damn'ers - Who to blame...cell phones or their owners?  These updaters tell us which restaurants or clinics or bars or airports they are at at that very second.  There is a convenient little link (so is it the GPS in some cell phones that does this? Is it automatically done?  Or does the updater have to manually like and link the location for it to then link it for all of us readers out there?) to the location so we can look it up for ourselves if we want. Also, there is more and more often a list of friends that they are there with.  I hope I don't sound too angry here - believe me, it is unintentional.  After all, if I'm going to spend gads of time reading the status updates of people I both see and haven't seen in years, people I talk to frequently and haven't had any contact with since I was 11 years old, I deserve any and all annoyances I get - it's Facebook!  It is the great time-sucker of the opening years of the 21st Century.  But as part of the greatest social experiment of all time, and as a newly self-licensed  sociologist cutting her teeth on the oblivious status posters out there, I am bound by moral obligation to stick with the facts.  And the fact is, frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

And there you have it.  As I stated after the first half of my studies, this list is in no way comprehensive.  It is a living, breathing, evolving study, the completion of which I may never see in my lifetime.  That being said, I will ever be dedicated and vigilant in spying on and commenting about other people as I peruse the information they put on their Facebook accounts.

**No animals were harmed in the making of this post.  Hopefully no feelings were either.**

Change

       For the last few years in a row, there has been a day where I literally notice it - the change that has taken place. While there are many moments scattered through the weeks of spring of sunny days and warmer weather, the smell of thawing ground and the appearance of tulips, there is still one day that surprises me:  the day I notice that the trees have leaves.  And not just one or two trees here and there, but all of them.  I'll drive over a hill or around a bend and it will just hit me that it's no longer just the start of spring, rather a full swing of a scenario.

        Why it is such a surprise I'm not sure.  Am I too close to the situation that I'm not able to step back far enough to see trees the forest?  Am I too busy to notice the fledgling leaves that are bursting their buds, the process so slow it would take time elapsed photography to really notice the snails-pace evolution of the season?  Or is the change of the leaves instantaneous in their impatience for the sun?  Whatever the truth is, it is still a miraculous discovery each time.  I never noticed it as a child, but I'm so glad in all of my busyness that I notice it now.  These things need to be noticed by someone, and it is a burden I will gladly bear.

           The thing is, my life changes the same way spring does.  There are changes I hope for and wait for and pray for, and sometimes they just never seem to come.  Or they seem to be coming and then there is cold setback, chilly enough to make me question whether things will ever turn around.  But more often, it seems, the biggest changes - the ones I wait for most eagerly - are just one day....here.  I've waited so long that I can't believe that what I wanted is now the reality - it just is!  And I am in the middle of it, though I never really noticed how or when it happened.  Too close to the situation that the process of change was imperceptible until the course was complete, leaving me reeling to understand what has happened.  

     I'm not speaking in code or breaking any news here.  But I am waiting.  I hope I am in the middle of changes, but right now I can't see past the bridge of my nose.  I am impatient for the changes to occur but must reconcile that, while not today or tomorrow, this year or next, that something will be different eventually.  That I will wake up one day, and I will find myself in the reality of surprises I didn't see coming but were slowly taking place all along.

Fernweh

I like to look up what words mean.  Conversely,  I hated it as a child and teenager.  My least favorite response of those formative years, usually spoken by my dad, when I asked what a word meant was "Look it up in the dictionary."  If I needed to know badly enough, I would trudge over to the 1940's bookcase, pull open the sticking door, and pull out the red-covered Webster.  Flipping through the onionskin-thin pages, I would eventually find what I was looking for, and would probably find the definitions to a few more words I had stored up on a mental list as well.

What I'm not sure of is where the shift between hating the words and loving the words came.  Was it from the competition in my literature classes in college to sound equally as smart as all of those know-it-alls we all hated...OK, were jealous of...in high school that were now in ALL of my classes?  Was it the desire to find different words so as not to sound redundant in the million and one essays I had to write?  Was it to prove to the professors that I did know enough to be at an institution of higher learning even though my last three essays were disappointing at best?  Writing poetry for a creative writing class and diving in to a thesaurus to find the perfect word to replace the mundane, but needing to make sure the word I chose was the one I really wanted?  I can't say.  Maybe it was developed a little bit by all of them.  But whatever the reason, I'm not ashamed to say that my parents taught me so.  I wish I now had in my own possession that faded canvas covered dictionary that is slightly beat-up from use.  

This brings me to the term Wanderlust.  It's a German word that gets used in America to describe the desire to travel and explore.  It's literal translation means to enjoy hiking.  What Wikipedia (hey, hold your snorts and snickers!) told me about it though was that the word is no longer used in Germany.  A new word has taken its place.  Fernweh: an ache for distance.  What wonderful words, both of them!  I wish the English language had its own equivalents, as I suffer from Wanderlust quite frequently now, and if it goes too long it turns into Fernweh.  Don't get me wrong - I love my home.  But the more I travel, the more I want to see.  Like my mental list of words I was saving to look up, I'm adding places to my travel list that I never really wanted to see before because my confidence and sense of adventure is expanding the more places I go.  Morocco, Thailand, Egypt, Kenya, the Netherlands and Denmark are all creeping up on Italy, Greece, D.C., and India.  I think I'm gonna need another job...

Season of Family

I used to write in a journal.  It was sporadic at best.  I haven't even tried for at least a decade (how strange to say that) in large part because I would get busy or tired or forget and would go for weeks, months, close to a year without writing.  Then I would feel the need to catch up, and it would take the honesty, detail, and interest out of it.  More like a chore.  And I felt strange doing it too, like I was talking to myself.  Why was I trying to be funny, sincere, heartbroken for me?  I already knew how that felt, or felt that I was trying too hard.  It didn't feel real.

Blogging, on the other hand, has made me fall in love with writing.  It starts kind of like a journal, but I know at some point, even if it is just my mom, someone will be reading it.  I choose my words and ideas more carefully.  I think and plan about my topic.  Sometimes even research and survey the thoughts of other's.  All the things my English teachers told me I should do before writing, I do.  Yes, even the rough draft, because most of the time I write and publish, walk away for a day or two, and then re-read, edit, and revise.  I feel bad for the people who read the first copy and never know that I go back and see the horrible mistakes, unclear thoughts, and overly emotional sentiments that will at some point be fixed, clarified, and toned down (or up, depending on the need).  

But I have done a horrible thing.  I have gone for about three months without really blogging.  And I feel an itch.  I need to catch up.  I know other people do it too because I see their blog posts.  But I don't want to because of the lessons learned from the failed attempts at journaling.  So I must reach a compromise:  I need to satisfy the internal beast that ruins things for me, and get the weight off my back so I can be creative again.  The weight that says I am ignoring important events and people, if not to the world but absolutely for me.  So here is my one word summary of the last two and a half months:  FAMILY.  

What a honor to have them come visit!  How fun to go to where they are!  What a privilege to spend time with them!  Oh, how they make my burdens light.  I am blessed!

At the end of August, my brother Mark finished his 5 year stint and two deployments to Afghanistan with the Navy.  The original plan was to move to Cedar City, so he came to stay with Beth for about a month in September.  We spent a fun day hiking Angel's Landing in Zion National Park.

The baby blessing of Beth and Mike's newest daughter Sarah, who was born in April.

Claudia and Claire came to visit in October.  It was so much fun to have them stay with ME!  

Claire is full of personality.  She loves accessories!

Claudia, Claire and I went hiking at Zion NP as well.  We went on three short hikes.  It was fun to have some alone time with these two.  Claire loved all of the water!

Zion is beautiful on a rainy fall day.

Just as a side note, I have lived in Cedar City for almost 11 year now (yikes!).  People have talked about tarantulas and horned toads during those 11 years as though they fell from the heavens like manna.  Last year, I finally saw my first horned toads.  This fall, I saw a tarantula for the first time.  Then I saw another one two weeks later.   Tarantulas are not part of my family.  They are only creepily interesting. 

Mark decided, after a visit home in Wisconsin, that he didn't want to live in Utah after all.  He and Dad came out to pick up his stuff, but they didn't tell us they were coming.  What a wonderful surprise!  Though they only spent one full day, it was fun to have a half-family dinner.   

Ahhh, home for the holidays!  

Bucks vs. Jazz at Milwaukee.  Such a fun game!

Claudia is a family history whiz!  I am so impressed with her interest and ability to find out information about our ancestors.  Dad, Claudia, Adam and I went on a hunt to find the headstones of my father's grandparents, who had actually only lived about an hour from where my parents do now (though my father grew up in Milwaukee).  Claudia's work helped us get there.

I took the liberty of intruding on a private cuddle session of my sister's family.

Claire is in bed, the presents are wrapped, and everyone was waiting for the morning to come.  I wish Beth's family could have been here with us!

Claire is helping Mom with reading the Nativity story, a tradition of ours before we open presents.

My buddy liked to come make sure I was awake most mornings.  She never said much, nor did she stay long, but the fact that she checked was sweet.

The annual Hensel side of the family Christmas shindig.  There are many of us who must drive for hours to spend the evening with each other.   It's usually the only time all of us have a chance to get together, but the point is that all of us take the time to get together.

Home is where the heart is.  My heart is wherever my family is.