Why I Love Teaching

So today was a typical exam day at my high school. After giving exams from 8 – 11:50 to my "Literacy 9" and "Literacy 10" classes, I sat in a meeting from 12:00 – 1:30 trying to craft a plan to help a failing senior graduate. As I was finally gulping down my lunch at 2 PM over a daunting stack of ungraded exams, I remembered Tyler. He entered my F block exam today by announcing, “Miz Baasch, you are going to make us do too much writing today.” I assured Tyler that indeed, that was my goal.

“Yeah, well, I can do it,” he asserted.

“You could also ‘do it’ in your English class,” I countered, knowing that he was failing English.

“Nah, I’m failing English…but Literacy's is okay.”

“Last year you scored 120% on the one hundred Literacy vocabulary words. You had to study to do that Tyler, and if you studied you could pass English,” I tried to reason.

“Yeah, I studied because I knew I could do it. And you and me have a connection. You like me. My English teacher hates me …”

“Well, if you studied, she’d like you much better! You have to let her see this side of you,” I offered.

“No. She hates me and I hate her and I am failing—but I can do Literacy. But with all this writing today, I won’t be writing next week!”

“Thanks for the warning, Tyler!” I responded…and then replayed his comment, “I can do it....You and me have a connection…You like me.”

And that is why I love to teach.

Sarabi

Even her name has always been an added complication. Sarabi, the mother of Simba in the Disney film “The Lion King,” isn’t easily recognized or pronounced. (Sir Robbie seems to be the typical way her name is understood.)

Fifteen years ago “The Lion King” ruled in our household of 7 year-old twins, and a 4-year old. We planned to get a little Rottweiler based entirely upon our love of the dog Carl in Alexandra Day’s classic books. When we heard of a female Rotti who had recently given birth to some unfortunate half-breeds, we decided to pay a visit and ended up with new puppy, soon to be named Sarabi by our Lion-King-crazed children.

From that very first night, we had an idea that Sarabi was going to add complications to our domicile, as she barked the entire night without ceasing. By the second night she lost her voice from all her barking, but the vet assured us that she would adjust and not to worry. We took her out for a walk that first weekend and discovered another life-long trait: she disliked certain people. At 9 weeks of age, she would not allow the neighbor to pet her, but growled and barked at him. Until the years took her hearing and much of her sight, she continued to target random people for inclusion on her list of “Dangerous-Criminals-Who-Shall-Never-Be-Trusted.”

Although the kids lavished her with affection and attention, she seldom sought out physical affection, content to lie nearby. She did enjoy romping with our older dog, and eagerly shared her affections for her canine-friends. Except for her increasing anti-social behavior to guests, she was easy to train and demanded little attention. She would “sit,” “come” and “speak” on command, but mastered no tricks worthy of remembrance. Until she was fourteen and her eyes clouded with age, she didn’t even slow down or show any graying on her black muzzle.

Her quirks included panic attacks at the first sign of a thunderstorm, a phobia about having her paws touched, a manic hatred of the mail carrier, an ability to shred mail which dared to be thrust through the door slot, and a bark which would literally rattle the windows. When we moved to a small city for a few years, she was assuredly the sole reason that a rash of neighborhood break-ins skipped over our household.

Two years ago we got another puppy, thinking that Sarabi wasn’t long for this world. Her hind legs weren’t working well and the vet didn’t think she would make it through another winter. But never one to go with trends, Sarabi rallied and continued to maintain the use of her back legs, although she lacked feeling in them. Her incontinence and bad breath were legendary in our household, but she was like the energizer bunny and just kept going and going. That is, until this past week, when she seemed to lose even more eyesight and started running into things. First, she missed catching dog treats thrown her way, and then began running into cabinets, end tables and chairs. The panic attacks (which had subsided with her loss of hearing) seemed to return. This weekend she began having seizures and refused to eat for the first time in her fifteen-plus years of life.

So, tonight is the night, at 6 PM. She lies on the floor in our mudroom, incontinent, drooling and confused. Her gaze is vacant and she is clearly ready to be at peace. We have had many dogs over the years, and truthfully, while Sarabi hasn’t been one of my favorites, she does hold a special place that no other dog can ever take, because with her passing an era ends. There will never be another puppy picked out with our excited young children, as the “children” are now all in college themselves. So with Sarabi goes another piece of our family history and another link to the past. I mourn not only the passing of an old, quirky, yet faithful friend, but also the passing of a season of life, the aging and changing of a family and the closing of another chapter.

Zoey

(Here is a second draft of my piece about Zoey, newly expanded, for Writer's Workshop feedback.)

You hugged me on the last day of school,
your ponytail swinging and bracelets jingling
as you swept into my room, interrupting another visiting student.

Just two weeks ago you said that mine was your favorite class.
You asked if we could connect on MySpace,
or if you could email me over the summer.
You sent three emails in your IM lingo these past two weeks,
asking what I was up to and if I was reading anything exciting.

Last night your email made my heart skip and my mind whirl in protest.
Impossible words from one so young and feisty.
Yes, feisty, sassy, spirited.
Never quiet, often combative and always opinionated.

Even with your poor spelling skills the words were unmistakable:
Leukemia. Chemotherapy.
A knot tightens in my stomach and disbelief screams.

I imagined you riding your horse this summer,
the wind in your hair as you enjoyed your freedom.
I imagined you working on your mother’s ranch with abused animals,
being annoyed by the goats and chickens,
loving the dogs, and taking special interest in the horses.
Trying to save the world.

Now you are thrown into another battle.
Acute Promyelocytic Mylogenous Leukemia.
Intimidating, weighty, terrifying, life-changing words.

Fight, Zoey.
Use all that energy and fight to save yourself.
You just turned fifteen last month.
So many plans, experiences, dreams, and opportunities await you.

Fight hard, Zoey.
May you win this battle,
to fight the injustices of the world another day.

Morning Coffee

As a more recent convert to the joys of morning coffee, I do relish the ritual. On weekends and vacations I love to sit on our patio or back porch with my favorite mug and the morning newspaper. There is something almost sacred about the time to look at the mountains, listen to the birds, and sip the dark comfort in my mug. My husband makes the coffee every morning, which is an added personal bonus. He takes satisfaction in the ritual of grinding the coffee beans, adding the filtered water and brewing a very strong pot of Italian Roast coffee. During the school year, my handsome hubby gets up in time to make the coffee before I fly out the door with my thermos of joy. During the summer months, I can lazily wait in bed, listening to the coffee-making ritual in the kitchen, until the aroma urges me to come-hither. Such a guilty pleasure to just go slowly in the morning, enjoy, and savor my perfect cup of coffee.

Being Humbled

On my way out the door this morning, a quick glance in the mirror caused my heart to sink. There, on the front of my new shirt, was a symbol of my total ineptitude. My “scarlet letter” was in the form of clear sticker-tag which boldly announced “MMMMMM.”

This, of course, was the very shirt which I had worn the previous afternoon to a picnic. The very shirt in which I had visited with at least fifty people, strangers and old acquaintances that I hadn’t seen years. How could I have missed this tag? Although the shirt does have polka dots, the emblazoned “MMMMMMs” were still plainly in view.

So, how many people noticed the tag and decided against commenting? (I know at least two people didn’t notice: my husband and I.) Perhaps the people with whom I was visiting when I dropped my entire plate of hors d'oeuvres thought that I’d suffered enough embarrassment for one evening, so couldn’t bear to mention it. Perhaps a few truly didn’t notice, but alas, it was noticeable. Well, I only hope that most of them enjoyed a good laugh in the car on their way home. And perhaps, the next time they embarrass themselves publicly, they will think of me and know that they are not alone.

Family Travels

Spelling Matters

Last night we were driving along a nearby highway. We came to a blinking, neon construction sign informing motorists to “OBAY SPEED LIMITS.” My husband and I simultaneously yelled, “OBEY!” in disbelief and then read the next construction sign: “PROCEDE WITH CAUTION.” More screaming ensued. While this might seem to be a perfectly logical spelling, no one claims that English is logical.

I can just imagine this spelling-challenged construction worker back in high school, sitting in my classroom insistently informing me that he doesn’t need to know how to spell because HE is going into the construction business. And, besides, even if he did have to write something, he would just use spell check.

Obviously, construction signs do not come with a spell check option. So, where are the spelling police when you need them? What an embarrassment! I want to require this errant speller to correct his work and perhaps even write OBEY and PROCEED ten times correctly! I certainly will be able to use this anecdote with the next student who tries to convince me that he or she doesn’t need spelling!

In the meantime, perhaps we should look into creating a spell check option for construction signs.