Category Archives: growing older.

TeacherDiaries: YOLO. You Only Latin Once. (The one where I leave my job)

Posted in children, Coaching, education, growing older., life, teaching, work by

one of my favorite memories

one of my favorite memories

I started my unexpected teaching career with nothing: I didn’t know Latin, I’d never taught, never even been in a private school, wasn’t affiliated with the church…In my interview, I literally told the principal “I don’t know why you’d hire me, but I love Jesus, kids, and languages, so I think this could all work out.”

And it did. I rebuilt the Latin and Spanish curriculums, created a drama program, got my credential, coached the volleyball team, and planted deep roots into the community at my school.

When I talked to my students about leaving, they asked a lot of questions. They wanted to know who would teach Spanish, Drama, coach volleyball. Who would throw pens at them. Who would demand they say “please?” at the end of every sentence. Who would teach them silly songs about frogs who love Jesus. Who would put together weird vocabulary slideshows. Who would youtube videos of puppies when we’d had a particularly rough day.

They said a lot of nice words…I got many hugs and nice cards that I will keep forever. Some even made me a video impersonating me! They demanded my boyfriend’s email address so they could write strongly worded letters. Some cried in my arms or made cookies.

<3

<3

It was overwhelming to feel so loved and to know I will be missed. Lots of times, as a teacher, I feel like I only heard concerns from parents, or heard students’ sighs about homework, or felt the time-suck of staff meetings, endless emails, correcting papers, cleaning, discipline, and all the mundane things no one tells you will really make up the bulk of your life.

Sometimes I just felt like a girl pretending to be an adult, trying to make kids care about a subject they just don’t care about. I know my students love me, but very few out of the 130 I teach actually love the Latin language. It was emotionally exhausting to drag the rest of them, kicking and screaming, through the worlds of vocabulary, declensions, verb tenses, and sentence drills.

And so I things like tell endless pirate jokes, or play pranks on them, or knock their pens off their desks, or steal their notebooks and write notes inside, or show youtubes of baby ducks. And so we made a fun, little family in my classroom-built-to-be-a-closet. And now I am struck by the idea that I have known these faces for three years, but perhaps will never see them ever again. (To be honest, with some students/parents, this is a rather comforting thought! :) ) But I will never know how they grow up, how they look without braces, if they will remember me, if they made good choices in high school. If they ever realized how special and beautiful and loved they were.

Spirit Week!

Spirit Week!

I have learned a lot these last four years. There are many things I wish I had done differently/would have known before I started, and many moments I wish I could do-over. But I don’t have a whole lot of regrets. Afterall, YOLO. (You Only Latin Once!)

What I do have are memories and tears. After I cleaned out my room, and handed in my keys, had my exit interview and got in the car, I just wept. I wept to think that someone else would be sitting in my desk come August, and teaching all the curriculum I worked so hard to develop. And I cried to think of all my kids and how I would miss them. I cried to think of leaving all my friends I have made…friends so close that I ran out of the building, afraid to say goodbye, because I knew it would hurt my heart.

But I think it is so hard because I have loved it. And that is a good, sweet thing. I question my decision to leave every hour or so, and the true test will come in August, when my co-workers head back and I…figure out what God has planned for me. No matter what, I will always be so grateful for the chance my school took on me, and for the many students who came into my classroom each year, changing my life forever.

Some Highlights of the Last Four Years!

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In my Life, I’m going to Carolina…Moving for a Boy. A Series. Part 3.

Posted in boys, growing older., life, love, travel by

first mission trip as a couple

first mission trip as a couple

If you asked us how BF and I met, we would each have different stories. Both stories are funny, but what matters is that almost a year ago today, we decided we wanted to be together. A year later, we’ve decided we don’t want to be apart.

That doesn’t mean a proposal or marriage or living together (things we agree we’re not ready for), it means that when my boyfriend moves to North Carolina at the end of this summer, I have decided I’m going with him.

!!!!!!!

I’m excited. I’m scared. I’m SO scared. But. I’m ready for a change. I feel like if I drive down the same road to work, pick the same food at the same Safeway, or park in the same spot and sit in the same seat at the same church service just ONE MORE TIME….I will go bananas.

Blue-dot-01

I want to go to there.

I want out. Out out out. I want to get rid of everything that I own except what fits in a car and drive across the country. I want to roll down the windows and stop only when I need to sleep or pee or buy some Cheetos. Or when I see a sign for something I can’t pass up, like “World’s Largest Bottle of Ketchup.”

I want to see small towns and smaller towns and then live in one. I want the smell of corn fields and wheat fields and the complete lack of mountains to fill my senses and numb my senses and propel me into the unknown.

I’ve quit the best grown up job I’ve ever had, a job I love, to pursue something else, or nothing at all. I have no plan for North Carolina except to be near someone I can’t imagine being without. I might teach, but what I really want is to pursue writing and getting a book published, come hell or high water. Because writing makes me happy and I want to run full force towards it.

riddle me an adventure...

riddle me an adventure…

And I want to know a culture outside of California. I want to know what it feels like when the seasons change. And to hear a different accent, and different perspectives, and to make an adventure out of everything that has become so mundane to me – the restaurants, drugstores, bars, live music, fastest way to get to Target, where an ATM is, the parks, the libraries, the movie theater…

Having been here all my life, I feel like I explore less and less as time goes by. We go hiking somewhere new every Saturday, and I love a good road trip, but my life is one big routine of things I’ve been doing since I was a little girl. Same people, same places, same feeling.

I want adventure in the great wide somewhere. I want it more than I can stand. :)

And so we will go. Well, he will go, and almost as crazy (for independent, strong-willed, stubborn, “I do what I want!” me) as moving across the country is, is the fact that I’m doing it to follow a boy. Which makes it only more perfect because it’s even more nuts for the likes of me. So. Here we go! Stay tuned. :)

Running For a Boy. A Series. (Part 2)

Posted in being single, boys, growing older., life, love by

His name was James. He was a teacher. He was happier and more polite than anyone should be. He was older, tan, brown hair, and always ordered a number 23 with jack cheese to go. And he would leave a great tip for a to go order. I got to know him, and we flirted a little over the cash register. Then he would start to order his meals to stay.

He chose his table right by the register, perfect for our light banter as I ran around to deliver food, drinks, bus tables, or just walk by because I knew he would look.

Run!

He wore running shirts. Shirts about triathalons, marathons, 5 and 10ks. With a body that is built more for comfort than for speed, I had never had an interest in running. But I would ask him questions about this race or that. He was always so friendly and kind. You could tell he was nervous around me, and the other girls at the cafe and even the cooks and busboys would tease me about him coming in every day.

Valentine’s Day came, and I wondered and got nervous butterflies. I made sure my shirt was clean, I had on green eyeshadow, bangle bracelets on my arms, and a pretty brown skirt. He came into the restaurant. !

He was sweating a little on his upper lip as he waited in line. We made that eye contact you always do with a crush, where you both pretend you can’t feel each other staring, and you’re very nonchalant about each other’s presence anyway, but ohmygoshhe’slookingIhopeIlookcutewhatifthereisa booger/sweat/pitstains/badbreath/anything in my teeth?!

He got to the front of my line, and we smiled shyly at each other and then I saw his arm – wrapped in a cast.

“What happened?!” Instant conversation fodder, chance to touch him. Yes.

But he was clutching a white envelope on his hands, and he shrugged off my comments and thrust the card into my hands.

“I’m sorry about the writing.” and he left without ordering.

T2i - Red Heart

Inside, a Pink Panther Valentine, addressed to me, with a heart scrawled and signed “James” like a five year old might write.

I bought a pair of running shoes, joined a gym, and started training for a 5k that was happening in Santa Barbara, where we lived. I recruited a friend, bought cute workout clothes and a headband.

The morning of the race, sure that was the day we would run into each other “accidentally” and he would proclaim his love and we would begin to live happily ever after, I never saw him.

My hip also popped out when I tripped off a curb and I never officially finished the race. Should have been a sign.

We ran into each other a few times downtown after that, and he would buy me a drink. We both seemed too embarrassed to really talk, and he stopped coming into the cafe.

But I still run. And I found the card in the back of my car the other day. And I smile to remember James, who made me feel beautiful for a while.

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Blogging for a Boy. A Series. Part One.

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Smartphones. Hrm.

Posted in facebook, family, friends, growing older., internet, life by

Does your phone affect your relationships? Choose:
  • Huh? What was the question? Someone @replied me on Twitter just now.
  • My phone makes my relationships stronger because it adds more streams of communication and helps me stay in closer touch with people.
  • Yes, my friends accuse me of paying more attention to my phone than to them.
  • No. When I’m with humans, my phone is in my pocket.

I’m not sure where I land on today’s DPChallenge. I remember getting my first cellphone…one of those sweet Nokia boxes with an antenna that always broke off. You could change the case and I still recall the color I first got – rust. I was going off to college and Gma

The Nokia C3-01 cell phone

The Nokia C3-01 cell phone (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

offered to pay for it if I promised to call her. If she’d been able to predict the many random requests I would call her with – “what’s chicken bouillon? Where do I find it in the store?” “How can I tell if something is infected?” “What am I doing with my life?” – she might not have volunteered.

Since then, I’ve had the Razr, which is now extinct, and the Blackberry, which I still miss. I miss click-clacking on the keys and scrolling with that sweet button. And then upgraded to an iPhone a few years back.
We’ve had smartphone technology – the internet in our pockets – for over six years. Do you even remember life before then? These phones have become our lifelines to the world around us.
We instantly solve huge questions – Where is Belgium? What’s the weather like in San Diego tomorrow? What’s the score of the Giants game?
We instantly entertain small children with birds that attack pigs, apps that make your face look fat, or “running” through imaginary temples.
We imagine when we will be the fit, well-slept, 10,000 steps a day people we think we will turn into once we download the latest fitness app. We research everything from flights to restaurants to pet sitters. I lie to myself, saying “just one more pin” and then mindlessly scroll for another hour past midnight, knowing I’ll never make those darn mason jar crafts, anyway.
Image representing Twitter as depicted in Crun...

Image via CrunchBase

We keep in touch with international friends and reach out to celebrities and rant about anything like everyone is or isn’t watching, simply by typing and refreshing a tiny, glowing screen.

Our necks ache from bending over them. Our eyes glaze. Our fingers itch to check for any notifications if there is even the briefest lull in conversation.
Don’t get me wrong – I have SO much fun with my phone. I love tracking my mileage on runkeeper, learning about new places on yelp, and instagramming the heck out of my life.
But I also love when I’m forced to live without my phone. When nothing dings and no one lunges for their purse or pocket. When we have to wonder and debate the answer to those “big” questions like “What’s the capital of New Hampshire” “what can i make with leftover quinoa” and “is Brian Wilson single.” When we allow ourselves to try a restaurant without reading any reviews. Or surprised by the weather. Or sleep in without an alarm. Or, God forbid, ask a HUMAN for directions to somewhere.
I love when I have no idea what’s happened in someone’s life, and then when I see them, I don’t have to catch myself saying stupid things like “oh yeah, I saw that on facebook.” I can let them actually tell me their stories. And I can tell them mine. I hear their tone and see their facial expressions.
I’d like to think that I use my phone mostly to stay in touch with those I care about….and I do text and message friends far and near on a pretty regular basis, which is good for me, since despite being very social in person, I am very blasé about keeping in touch if you’re farther than three feet away from me.
more of this...less of telling you about it.

more of this…less of telling you about it.

But…When was the last time I stood in line and just looked around at things? Or went on a walk without headphones in and just enjoyed nature breathing around me? Or did something adventurous, said something funny, looked cute, or had drinks with friends without feeling the compulsive need to report to twitter/facebook/instagram/a texting buddy about it?

Smartphone, maybe. But I’ve been a dumb Rachel.
I’m going to try to be more “eyes-up” this week. Ignore my blog stats, facebook notifications, and instagram feed. I’ll drive places without checking the ETA like it’s a challenge I need to beat. I’ll stand in line and make conversation.
I’ll let myself be bored and just see what thoughts come up.
This will be really hard, but it could be really amazing.

TeacherDiaries: Racism.

Posted in children, education, growing older., life, teaching by

Today in Spanish class, one of the activities asked where one could learn Spanish in our community, and what were some reasons why one would want to study Spanish. One student, who is definitely smart, funny, and mature, answered “well, all the gardeners and cleaners are Mexican, so I can talk to them.”

The classroom erupted with laughter. Which the look on my face quickly destroyed. Within 10 seconds, you could have heard a pin drop.

I am very sensitive to issues of race…I’m not sure why, other than I think it’s the right thing to be. I’m just your average white girl with enough hint of Hawaiian blood to have been pegged for just about every ethnic group on the planet. To my delight, I am most frequently mistaken for Hispanic. Growing up, I always wanted to be Mexican and speak Spanish. When I was traveling Central America, I was told by a Spanish couple I had a Mexican accent and that it was sexy. I could have flown to the moon.

So when I hear my students in my Spanish elective (as in, they chose to take an extra year-long academically rigorous course, on top of their regular Language Arts and Latin class, which I teach) say something to this effect about wanting to know enough Spanish to communicate with the hired help, it makes me nauseous.

In that moment, with all the things I wanted to say, I felt my body go completely still and cold, and God delivered me these powerful words;

“I don’t like that at all. That’s a wrong thing to say.”

In many situations, with different people, these words will have minimal effect. But in a room full of junior highers that (mostly) adore me, these were efficient and devastating.

I asked that anyone in the room who would work hard to support their family to raise their hands. “Would you clean toilets, mop floors, rake lawns, sell oranges on street corners, make me french fries, if it meant your family would live?” Yes, yes we would.

I asked that anyone in the room whose families had been living on the continent of North America continuously and without interracial marriage for the last 1,000 years to raise their hands. No hands. “So you mean that your families are immigrant families?” Yes, yes they are. “Oh but they came here and already spoke English and had jobs lined up and were welcomed with open arms?” Silence.

A few weeks ago, I had to pull my set of “Apples to Apples” from the classroom, because I found a blank card that someone had labeled “Obama.” They described him as “racist, gun-hating, communist, lying, crying, Pinnochio, terrorist, anti-American Muslim, etc. etc.”

From the mouths of babes.

I remember being in junior high, and discovering all the words and terms that I had never known. I felt their power, but we used them casually. I remember very clearly (and oddly) learning the word “fag” and using it ALL THE TIME, with no idea what it really meant. We called things “gay” and “retarded” without thinking of the power of those words. We swore and we gossiped. We told dirty jokes. But racist ones? Maybe it’s because my best friend was black and I dreamed of being Mexican, but I could never stomach them.

I know they are young, and don’t know boundaries, or what’s appropriate, and mostly repeating what they’ve heard their parents say (shame on you, parents) or what they’ve heard on TV, movies, the internet. But it breaks my heart, and I don’t know how to explain it to them. I teach at a private school, with some very, very sheltered kids, who would get their behinds handed to them in public school for saying some of these things!

After I talked about some of that with my class. I explained how I hear them say things like “I know a joke, but it’s a little racist,” but that’s like saying someone’s “a little dead” or “a little pregnant.” It is racist, and I don’t want that poison around.

The bell rang, and the student stayed behind with tears in their eyes to apologize. I expressed my disapproval, my disappointment and sadness in the words used. This student in particular is a first generation who is fiercely proud of their heritage. So I tried to explain, “you know how proud you are of where you are from? The culture, the language, the music, the people? That’s universal. And I know you have heard stereotypes about your people, and the words hurt you. Do you see that’s the same thing that you did here? If you don’t want those things to be said about you and your family that worked their butt off to get you to this country and bless you with this life, the change has to start with people like you.”

Sometimes as teachers, the most powerful lessons we teach aren’t the Latin grammar, or the Spanish reflexive verbs, or the pre-algebra formulas, but the ones that just spring up on you and you realize you’re holding so much opportunity for young people in the words you say and the actions you model. I can only hope I handled this situation well enough to have made the impact I want.

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