I Am A Teacher

I came into this profession - kicking and screaming, as it was - later in life than most. I was almost ten years out of college already. I was a stay-at-home-mom, and I wanted to stay that way. Teaching found me and not the other way around.

Thank God it did.

I have said it many times: I can't imagine doing anything else. Now the job that I never wanted is one of my life's passions.

The thing about education is that it's full of politics. There are numbers involved; data, policies, procedures, documentation. Sometimes scores don't come out right and God forbid the student be held responsible for not learning. Sometimes you forget to document something, not follow a procedure, and you get a write-up in your file. Sometimes you have to call your lawyer, because you find yourself in some kind of crazy situation. It's nerve-wracking; it's maddening. But it's only part of the job.

Because besides the data, policies, procedures, and documentation, there are these people - these people who are just coming into their own, and you get to watch them become something amazing. They are just at the beginning of this journey, and they make mistakes. They make good choices, too. They have triumphant days, and they can't hide their joy. They have bad days, and they come in with their stormcloud faces. They are too vulnerable to hide anything, even though they try. There is a story seated at every desk, and you get to watch a small part of that story as it is created, in real time.

You get to laugh with them, hurt with them, listen to them. You get to watch them interact and pray that they treat each other well. You get to laugh when they remind you how Mexican they are and how Mexican you are not. You get to go to quincineras. You get to learn Spanish and hear them laugh when you make a mistake and hear them cheer when you get it right. You get to hug them when they are having a bad day and you get to hug them when they are having a good day. You get hand-drawn pictures of volkswagens. Sometimes, some days, you cry and so do they.

And you get to watch them learn. I am so lucky that I teach English; it's subjective. Everyone feels differently about every story and every poem. I get to show them how to pick it apart, then set them to it. Every word means something, every comma, semicolon, dash. At a time when emotions naturally run high, it is fascinating to wach reactions when Doodle dies in "The Scarlet Ibis" or when the sniper finds out he has killed his own brother. When Angel Vargas dies in The House on Mango Street, poof, like a little powdered donut, and life goes on, what will my ninth-graders say? Will they grow from it? Will they remember it? I hope so. Even if it happens in one moment and only for a moment.

I have had bad days. Really, really bad days. Many bad things have happened in my short three years of teaching. But I will tell you what: every August, I am happy to see them come through the door and every June, I am sad to watch them go. I don't try to love them. It just happens. I know now that I was designed to be a teacher. Despite all the bad data and misplaced papers and unfollowed procedures and write-ups, there is a bigger thing happenening. There are people: one-hundred fifty of them, and I am not a babysitter. They are counting on me for something. I feel the weight of that.

And so, every morning at 4:30am, I roll (or crawl, or inch) out of bed to get myself and the kids ready, so that I can go to the job that I never wanted, the job that I now don't know what I would do without.

Cage Dreams

Million Dollar Baby: saddest movie in America. Also one of the best. (Hilary Swank: Oscar-winning performance). But I think I was crying even before the part where you are suppose to cry. This is why: I was struck by Maggie's drive, even when no one would train her; even when she was shunned and ignored; even though she was starting in her thirties. She never backed down. Her attitude was this: whatever it takes.

I say it a lot: I wast to be a cagefighter. I love going over to the Westheimer gym and just looking at the cage or standing in it. I want to be in there, and I want to fight. I say it, and I think that some people believe me. I joke about it, and people laugh with me. But here's the thing: I really do want to be in the cage one day. I really do.

I am not thinking that I will make it to the cage in a few months or a year. I don't even know if two years will be enough time to get ready. I know it will take a lot of time, a lot of work, a lot of sacrifice. Not just for me, but for my coaches and classmates as well. I watch my teammate, Yanez, train for his upcoming fight, and I see what it takes.

And as I watch Yanes, I think about fights I have watched. I think about other classmates and coaches of mine that I have watched train - Vincent, Jordan, Trent, Chris, and others. As I've watched, I have learned something: it's not just the fighter that is stepping into the cage. Hours and hours of training go with him; tiresome hours and dedication from trainers and classmates who believe in him. His entire gym - the name, the mission, the integrity of that gym - goes into the cage. That idea weighs on me. It makes sense to me that I should not sept into the cage unless I am ready. I am taking too many others in there with me.

So I have a question: Will you train me? Will you spend the hours, the weeks and months, to get me there? Possibly the years? Are you willing to attach your name and your integrity to me? Will you make me ready to fight?

One thing that I will need to get me there is to be able to take my kids to the gym. I took them on Friday, when I trained karate. It went pretty well. Charlie had a moment or two toward the end of the hour. He came onto the mat and helped me recite the Learner's Creed with me. :) But I will have to recruit help from my classmatets. I don't know how they are going to feel about that, though I have a feeling I will have a positive reception. I will have to bring them with me from time to time in order to get in the training time that I need, especially to be able to work on my standup. I hope that they will see that their mom is a strong lady, that she is willing to work hard, and that the gym is a positive place for them to be.

When Mr. Robert was helping me with my goals, he asked me why I wanted to be in the cage. Did I get into a lot of fights as a kid? Did I have some pent-up aggression? I actually think that many people, especially those who have known me for any length of time, are wondering the same thing. I didn't get into fights, and I don't have pent-up aggression. The truth is, I love the sport. I have a lot of respect for the mat. After watching my classmates train, I respect the drive, determination, and dedication put forth to reach a goal. I like the idea of finishing what you start. For me, it's not about proving anything or beating someone up. It's a sport; an amazing sport. It's about passion and integrity. It's about setting a goal and reaching it. It's about being strong and believing that I can do anything in life that I want to do. I want this. I want to fight in the cage. I believe that I can do it.

Is it a little bit laughable? Do I look like a cagefighter? No. I look like a mom. Who teaches. And eats donuts. Is that why I am sometimes met with skepticism? Is it because I have never been atheletic that maybe some don't believe I can reach this goal? I don't know. But I am willing to do whatever it takes to get to where I need to be - to get to the cage.

Whatever it takes.

And what will it take? Nutrition. Working outside the gym. Running, lifting weights. I don't know. I need a plan. I am very obedient, if you give me a plan. So . . . will you train me? Will you give me a plan? Will you give me short-term goals on my way to the long-term goal, which could be two or three or four years away? I will be a good athelete for you. I will carry your name and Elite's name well.

This is my dream, and I believe it will come true.

Stalked

It is with fear that I post again. I have had someone using this blog to stalk me. I don't like it. But I opened myself up to it, I suppose. You splash your life onto the Internet, and tell people where to go to find it splashed, well . . . 'nuff said. But it makes me ANGRY. I LIKE to blog. I NEED to blog. I need you to READ it. You can read it; YOU can't. And if YOU do, I will call the police. I am putting this blog back into circulation. I need to talk about my experiences and I need to live without fear. So that's that.