Nonsense, Drivel, and Balderdash

There are potted plants on the roof of the house we are staying in. Some of the pots are actual containers made of baked clay, while others are not much more than canvas bags filled with dirt from which flowers have bloomed: big yellow ones hanging lazily from a vine, small white ones sticking out tongues of red, pink roses, succulents and cacti… there are dozens of little plants growing, hidden above the muddy Nepali streets below. They are subtle, not junglelike enough to overwhelm or surprise a curious rooftop visitor, but as I sat among them earlier today in the morning breeze, I was struck by their presence up there. Someone must have taken the time to haul these potted plants up five flights of stairs and onto the roof, to sacrifice some of their restricted water and time to keep them alive, though no one can see them from the street below. A secret touch of color five flights above the dust and soot. There are countries where squalor creates monochrome, a washed out despair...

14 hours from now I'll be boarding a plane, leaving the possibility of a cold New England summer for the certainty of Nepal's hot monsoon season. That is the only thing that seems certain right now. All I know of my time in Nepal is that it will be hot and humid. In less than a day I will be trading a summer of guaranteed mundanity and uncertain weather for a season of guaranteed humid heat and uncertain activities. If I were to stay in Boston for the summer, my biggest worry would be whether or not it would be warm enough to wear shorts, but warm weather seems to be the only thing that  is  guaranteed in Nepal. Everything else seems uncertain. I have been told that Nepal demands "flexibility," of the difficulty in making plans in a place that is in constant flux. Being a person who loves musical improvisation, I am surprised that this lack of planning has made me so apprehensive as the trip nears. Don't get me wrong; I  am  looking forward to Nepal. Jess and I ha...

Today I passed one of the most important milestones of a teaching career: finished my first year. When I started in September, all the other teachers patted me sympathetically on the shoulder. Throughout the year, as if offering condolences, they would say, "the first year is the hardest." At certain points of the year, as I wandered the halls in a daze, other teachers would look at me with pity. But even with all of this, I was still surprised at how many people genuinely asked me if I was going to continue teaching this year. The first year really is a trial by fire at the end of which many people decide that education is "not for them." The third year is the next big milestone that also sees a lot of teachers quit the profession. So I am still expecting a couple of hard years ahead. Nevertheless, I am confident that next year will be easier. Clearer expectations and experience will make things much smoother. The final real milestone, from what I hear, is the fi...

George's test was using more red ink than I expected, but as I went over his answers, two things became abundantly clear: 1) George was going to fail the test; 2) I was perversely happy about it.   Maybe more experienced, mature, or just better teachers don't experience feelings like this, but I do. I never realized how many complicated emotional processes being a teacher carries with it.  You get emotionally invested after working all year long to teach your kids, to get them to care, and to turn their efforts into results. I mean, just minutes before grading George's test, I was barely able to stop myself from cheering in the middle of the coffee shop where I had set up shop when I saw that Tony had gotten an A on his final exam. Tony and George have been my most... challenging... students this year. My mentor teacher has told me that it will rarely get any worse than these two. They both demand an unreasonable amount of my energy and attention: talking, ...

There are always international students waiting at my bus stop. I find this to be odd, because Winthrop (my town) seems like an out-of-the-way place for a young Japanese person to come live in for a semester. It isn't near a university (which is already odd for Boston) and it is not on the subway line. Instead, one must get off the subway in East Boston and take a shuttle from there into our town. Nevertheless, every day when I get out of work and arrive at the bus stop, there are invariably several foreign students already waiting. Japanese kids are probably the most numerous, their concentration divided between their books and electronic translators. Arabic students also make up a decent contingent, though they usually congregate in small groups where they talk and laugh loudly in their native tongues. But on any given day, you might run into Italian, Frenchman, or Argentinian students waiting for the ride to town. Often, I can't help but watch these students are they sit,...

It's not even May and I can't help but count down the days until summertime. I am not really  counting them down yet, not literally. I have kept myself from doing that at least. But my big teacher's calendar is by my big steel teacher's desk and I can't help but notice that there isn't much more than a month and a bit left of school. We actually get out earlier this year because the extra week of "snow days" were never claimed. Winter was mild and the snow never came. The mildest winter in decades has only seemed to pull summer closer than ever. Part of me feels terrible for looking forward to vacation so openly. Like it somehow makes me a bad teacher to yearn for June. I know this is nonsense, but most of my chronic guilt is nonsense. But teaching is the most exhausting job I have ever had, and according to mental health polls, one of the most mentally taxing vocations out there. As a teacher, I have already heard snarky comments from other professi...

Everyone can think of a teacher that they had in middle school that still looms huge in your memory. Who is yours? I can think of several. Many of them are still vivid in my mind because they were so bad: Maribí, "la Champiñon," or "el Locuras" (Spaniards have a penchant for nicknames). Others are remembered fondly, like Miss Ohler or Miss Stenoien. But in some ways, the idiosyncratic teachers are the ones that stand in the forefront of my brain.  Those are the ones that I look back on and laugh about, sometimes with a smile and other times with a shake of the head. You guys know what kind of teachers I mean: the kind with catchphrases, quirks, outdated views and mannerisms, oblivious of reality, and often a love for their subject matter.As I think about my own teachers and my memories of school, I can't help but look across my teacher's desk and wonder what kinds of memories my students are making right now. Sometimes it's pretty obvious which teacher...

Diligence is the name of the game if you are to work on a ship. Shipping, like all transportation, relies on punctuality and hard work so I arrive at the dockyard early. I just got here, but I'm already wet with the constant drizzle that hangs in the air. There is no way to keep dry against the tiny droplets, which I seemed to simply walk into rather than be rained on by. My umbrella, useless, dangles limply from my wrist. The the sky has begun to lighten, but you would hardly know it through the mist. I nod to the harbormaster and he nods back who seems surprised to see me here, though evidently not surprised enough to come out of the dry booth that oversees the waterfront and serves as his office. He flips through his charts and schedules and then looks up at me, surprise changed to amusement and grins grotesquely. My attempt at a smile back looks more like an awkward grimace than grin. The dock is empty. I look at my watch. I'm early, but the ship must be cutting it close. ...

Overheard in the school hallway: ( In awe at his sudden realization) 5th Grade Boy :   "Don't you realize? We are the kings of elementary school!"

I have been floating in the same place for months now and my writing reflects it. Looking back at my past few blog posts, I can't help but cringe a bit. Some whiny meta-writing  and a cliche-ridden entry about snorkeling. Not my best work.        In some ways, I think I enjoyed blogging the most when I was at the height of confessional blogging towards the end of college. Reading through my old blog posts, the ones that stand out the most are the ones with some heart, the ones that took emotional risks. Sure, those risks were often cheesy and angsty, but my introspection frequently yielded decent writing and growth. Like I said, it wasn't always brilliant "writing" but there was an element of personal substance that has been missing of late. Perhaps I should simply embrace that cheesy, heart-on-sleeve personal writing that I started with. It is cathartic and easy, which would be good, since writing hasn't come easily of late. My will to blog has dried up ...

This past Christmas, I was lucky enough to revisit the Caribbean. Third time in its waters, third time getting there on a cruise ship. The first time I traveled there courtesy of my mom's side of the family. The second time was on my honeymoon. This third time was courtesy of my wife's folks. That side of the world offers many delights, but most of them are to be found in and around its crystal blue waters. I think my favorite day this time around was (yet another sign of my aging tastes) my day in St. Martin, which was spent lounging on a beachside cabana, sipping cold beverages, taking dips in the water, and generally forgetting all the stress that teaching middle schoolers affords me. But usually most of my favorite Caribbean moments are invariably spent under the water, not sitting across from it or sailing over it. There is something magical about putting on a pair of flippers and a mask and wading into the waves until you are submerged. The moment your head goes under, ...

I often feel guilty about neglecting my writing, and I have neglected it more than ever during this past month and a half. You may have noticed my absence from the interweb, though that is only a small sliver of my writing life. Sometimes my stretches of greatest blog silence are actually times of packed notebooks and furious scribbling. I have realized I prefer to write by hand than typing. I enjoy typing, but my brain works differently when I type. Of course, as you have probably figured out, my brain hasn't been working creatively for a while. It has been too tired. I am still tired. In fact, right now I am forcing myself to write this post. I have to and I need to, but it doesn't mean that it is hard. Most non-writer types probably don't get this, but for you literate jocks out there, think about it like doing exercise. The daily grind makes you tired, exhausts your strength, and at the end of the day all you want to do is to sit on the couch and prop up your feet. But...