Circa Last Weekend

My first-ever pep rally happened last Friday, and this is what it was like: The band blasting rousing rally anthems—deafening. The dancing majorettes in their yellow gym shorts demonstrating impressive muscle isolation in the most sexually suggestive manners imaginable. My student “BMW” dancing with the hugest smile on her face. Astounding amounts of noise and barely-contained chaos, enough volatile enthusiasm and undirected youthful energy to rattle the gymnasium. Flailing arms and legs and horns and drums, the shreds of disintegrated banners the only remnants, at the end of the day, of these impromptu mock-battles between juniors and seniors. It was simply amazing. I could hardly figure out whether to smile in wonder and pleasure at it all or worry about someone getting hurt. In those few minutes of anticipation, while we waited for our hall to be called to the gym, my student “Mocha,” one of my loudest but smartest, most mature students, asked me why I talk so softly. I explained how (1) I want to be calm, and (2) it forces people to listen instead of making noise. She tilted her head and admitted, “I never thought of it like that.” Another student wanted to know if everyone from Walla Walla talks that way.

The weekend in Oxford was vaguely, mildly disappointing. Somehow I imagined there would be more socializing, more hanging out and swapping war stories over a cold one or two out on the Square on Friday night or something. But everyone seemed too tired, too wrapped in their own problems. And we (still?) seemed to be putting a brave, reserved face on things. There was too little in the way of humor and group camaraderie to go around. Was it just me? There was a little complaining, a horror story or two, but what I miss most—and perhaps it will come with time—is the perspective to laugh at our problems and feel inspired by each other because we are dealing with the same stuff. Instead, we were all still counting our blessings and/or no one wanted to lose face. Except Dignity Peel. Her greatest accomplishment: “Not quitting.” I love that kind of brutal honesty. I felt exactly that way for my entire first year in Peace Corps.

The past two weeks have been up and down. There are plenty of little headaches, to be sure, such as the endless paperwork, and students stealing petty things from me. Like my aqua blue “gel” pen, which I found, and the girl who denied denied denied it even though I saw my pen sitting on her desk five seconds earlier. And the back page from my hall pass, which has simplified my bathroom policy considerably. Student: “Can I go to the bathroom?” Teacher: “No.” Student: “Why?” Interestingly, the students have been reasonably trustworthy so far with the calculators. I only had one set of batteries stolen so far. I confiscated my first CD player today. My good friend, Jay-Z, the one who brought his mom that first week of school and then talked with me until 4:30 that afternoon, has been showing up late to class, ignoring the punishment I give him, and now his mom will have to come back to school to pick up his CD player. He is not a bad kid, when he can be bothered to show up and try. He thinks because I “talked” to him about his behavior, he should not receive a consequence. He is just one of many. Got hit in the back by a wad of paper on Monday. Wrote up who I thought it was. Then Mr. Bic came in and lectured the class about being “ignorant” and how it was a felony to assault a teacher, whether it hurts them or not. Classroom management is not my biggest concern, however.

Highlights have included a couple days when I have been able get my Algebra II classes up and working examples, graphing linear equations and inequalities on the board, helping and teaching each other, as I simply sit back and take pride. The students really enjoy it, and they seem to be learning a lot from each other’s mistakes. I am trying to make class more like that, as much as possible. I tell them my arm and voice are tired, so they need to help me teach.

My biggest concern is that literally no one is passing Transition to Algebra at the moment. And most are failing Algebra II. Even when the class sessions seem to go well, most of my students do extremely poorly on their quizzes and tests. Just got my student’s data sheets from the office this morning, so I hope and plan to make a number of phone calls within the next few days. Hopefully that will make a difference. I mean, 19%?!?! Are you even trying? How do you say WAKE UP?!?!

But about the weekend, I must say, Ms. Monroe, you rock! (1) Love the way you became “such a hard ass” and “put it in writing” about late work. Now people like me will be less likely to turn in stuff late. We hope. Seriously, I like the way you admitted a weakness and addressed it with a written policy. (2) When you had us talking about our problems and then you told us to think of one thing in our control that would “make a world of difference,” that was brilliant! Excellent conclusion, segueing into the next segment by having us make resolutions and release our imaginary balloons. Keep on, Ms. Monroe! You should be a teacher! My resolution? Make those damned phone calls.

The weekend was framed on Thursday before and Monday after by outings originated by War Gecko and her harmonica-playing sidekick, Moses Miller. Accompanied at times by an ex-TFA, tall and lanky, a singular dancing spectacle in his Blues Brothers get-up, getting down and grooving good and low, foot-tapping and shoulder shaking with his shades on and cigarette dangling—people getting their pictures taken with him. The guy who moved to the Mississippi Delta in order to manufacture protein from catfish skins. And the French tourist she talks to in her Peace Corps French, who came here for the blues. Gecko ordered fried green tomatoes for me.

Overall, this week is going much better than the previous few. My outlook has changed considerably for the better, thanks to a deliberate decision, on the advice of Gecko, not to bring work home with me. I never did it anyway. Now, because I am not packing anything home with me, I actually get more done, because I force myself to do a little grading or something in the afternoon before leaving school. And now my time is truly my own. Unburdened by the guilt of procrastination, my feelings toward school have improved quite a bit. I actually spend some time thinking about my classes after I go home, which is a step in the healthy direction.

A Blogger's Regrets

One writes a blog—and by “one” of course one refers to oneself (a.k.a. “me”)—with the notion that it goes out there on the big, wide, anonymous Internet, a tiny insignificant speck upon the pavement on which the blinding blur of the Information Superhighway takes place, where it may or may not be happened upon by some almost random, semi-anonymous assortment of broken-down individuals who choose to contemplate (or not) the trace my dried, shiny worm slitherings have made across the concrete, at their leisure. Take it or leave it. The mere fact of its existence, that orange rectangular button on my computer screen which says “Publish,” is in itself an act of constructing meaning out of my essentially meaningless existence. So I write for an abstract, outside audience. A song in the shower, or a cry in the darkness. Not for you. But for who you might be. For everyone and no one. And yes, for myself. When in fact this blog is part of a family, a very televised, public forum for a few interconnected individuals who know each other face to face yet here read each other’s diaries out loud and may occasionally recognize themselves mentioned therein, sans flattery and polite unsaids. What a strange phenomenon. Here’s to awkward conversations and apologies to housemates and classmates everywhere! My apologies.

The Students Respond

1. Where do you see yourself in 5 years? Please explain.
· I would see myself in college and out of my mom house.
· I see my self working in a store.
· Atlanta, Georgia.
· In the Navy.
· On T.V.
· Well I really can’t tell where I’m going to see my self in five years. But I really want to move out of Cleveland.
· I see myself in college getting my degree in early childhood education.
· I see myself in law school. I want to be a lawyer or judge.
· I see myself becoming a doctor or nurse because I want to have a good job.
· In the military and attending college.
· Graduate of ASU (Alcorn State University) hopefully gettin ready to attend medical school.
· A junior in a university, because I am going to ICC for two years first.
· I see myself as a registered nurse at Bolivar Medical Center. I also see myself engaged to the most cutest, richest, and funny guy.
· Just getting out of college and have a family.
· I see my self graduating from A Trade School & getting me a house with a family.
· I see myself graduating from college with a masters degree or in the NFL.
· I c myself on tha t.v., makin paper stack.
· Welding in a city way across the country.
· In the next 5 years I see myself getting ready for grad school to be lawyer. I will be in the lovely state of Louisiana.
· As a diesel technician. Next year Im going to UTI and learn my trade as a diesel technician.
· Working as a nurse either with my dad or my older brother once he becomes a doctor.
2. What is the hardest thing you’ve had to overcome?
· The hardest thing that I’ve had to overcome was the death of my grandfather.
· My school work is the hardest things for me.
· Telling my mother the truth through something bad I did.
· When my stepmother pass away.
· The death of my grandfather.
· The hardest thing I have overcome was riding a ring of fire at the fair. I would always turn away from it. I always wanted to ride it, but I was scared.
· Passing Spanish 1.
· When I had to go to the hospital in Jackson.
· My grandpas death.
· My fathers death.
· The hardest thing I’ve had to overcome is my aunt dying.
· My brother dying and a lot of hard breakups.
· My biological father.
· My parents divorce.
· The hardest thing I’ve had to overcome was worrying what people think and knowing I do not need 50,000 friends.
· The hardest thing I’ve overcome is when I found out that my aunt have cancer.
· My fear of heights.
· The time when I have to have surgery on my leg.
· My mom & dad breaking up!
· The death of family members.
· Being black.
· Lazyness.
· The hardest thing I’ve had to overcome was the death of my aunt Vivian. She was like a second mother to me.
· One of my older brothers died of cancer when I was one year old and last year my other brothers and my father told me what he was like.
3. What is the best thing that has ever happened to you?
· Getting to sing in a school play.
· The best thing that ever happened to me is when I can go anywhere I want to go.
· When I had a baby girl.
· I passed Spanish 1.
· When went spent some time with my godparents.
· When I made it to high school.
· My family gave me a birthday party when I told them not to.
· Having my baby.
· The best thing that ever happened to me is to live to see my 12th grade year.
· My family being there for me and getting the job I have meeting my friend Pee-Wee cause she is always there for me and very down to earth.
· When I won highest average.
· The best thing that has ever happened to me was when I get awarded or recognize & when I was born.
· I got saved.
· The best thing that has ever happened to me was when I met my minister Bro. James Hadley because he does so much for me.
· Having a great mother. She helps me out any way she possibly can.
4. What is your most prized possession? Why?
· My dog I love her.
· My cell phone why because I love to talk / text.
· My child.
· My most prized possession is my neise. I love her so much. She my first neise. We are closer than ever.
· Life is my most prize possession, I don’t know why.
· My cell phone. Because my life experiences are in there.
· There’s no reason why because I’ve never had a prize possession.
· My voice.
· My daughter. She’s my pride & joy.
· My heart, because with everything I do I put my heart into it. Always I’m not a materialistic type of person.
· My trophies because I worked hard for them.
· My trumpet. It is the only thing that is all mine and no one can take it away from me.
· My little brother is my most prized possession.
· That would be my SON!!
· My family because without them there wouldn’t be anyone to motivated me to do right.
· My most prized possession is my poem book given to me by my grandmother.
· My most prized possession is my suitcase at home, cause it contain some things that I need.
· My most prized possession is a quilt my grandmother made me.
· My knowledge is my most prized possession because it helps me colt with life.
· My most prized possession is my cell phone and my puppy Gizmo.
· My car. It was a gift from my aunt and uncle.

The Zombie Walk

Just finished reading all the new blogs from my classmates. I have to admit I found their frustrations and sufferings strangely comforting. The early optimism was making me feel downright inferior.

Things are okay. I mean, I am surviving. Putting one foot in front of the other, and getting through each day. My class periods are really not too bad. My classroom discipline problems are manageable, and my vice principal, Mr. Bic, truly backs me up. I still have the occasional student mouth off to me, but I always write them up, and a day or two later, they are out of my class, serving in-school suspension, which they tell me is a real punishment this year. I feel like I have actually lightened up quite a bit since the first week, and things seem to be going smoothly, albeit more relaxed-fit than I initially imagined, with my two Algebra II classes, which are small. (For them, I actually discarded the whole traffic sign thing, but I think it was still effective in getting my point across. These older students are able to follow my expectations, more or less, in a more adult, reasonable way, without so much prompting.) Other teachers at my school, both black and white, seem pretty supportive. I have met with a couple parents already, but so far the meetings have always gone well in the end, and the administration has always supported me. So I have no complaints, really. I feel lucky, to be honest. Oh, my Transition class remains a challenge, but half the time, the kids who are most disruptive are in ISS anyway, so the problem is more to motivate those who remain.

The problem is apathy, and sometimes I wonder how much of my students’ apathy is correlated to my own. Mr. Sharp Shooter called me out of the blue tonight to ask how things were going, if I was “having fun.” I hesitated just for a moment, and then I admitted no. I am not having fun. Of course, I always have something prepared to present to my students each period, some crappy lesson more likely than not thrown together at the last minute during my first-block planning period, a little warm-up, some lecture examples, and an assignment to get working on while I circulate around. An hour and a half of that times three, and we call it a day. I mean, I have been reasonably prompt in grading tests and quizzes (despite that stack of homework lying around here somewhere), but beyond that, I feel like I am actually doing a pretty crappy job as a teacher. “Uninspired,” is how I explained it to Shooter. In short, I am boring the hell out of everyone.

Each day, it never seems to matter what actual time I leave campus. I still get the same amount of work done after school, which is zero. I pack my bags full of high hopes of ending the cycle and having a kick-ass lesson prepared and all my various paperwork caught up on by tomorrow. But it never happens. By the time I get home, the last thing I want to do is think about school. Most days I never even manage to unpack my bag, and I end up watching hours on end of Law & Order instead. Thank God for my long first-block planning period, huh? Getting to work at 7:00 and not having to teach until after 9:30 is saving my life. Or perhaps I am abusing the luxury. I always was a procrastinator.

In the morning, it is difficult to get up, and I usually sleep in more than I hope—not from sleep deprivation but simple lack of enthusiasm. I actually dread the day. And it is different: Not dread of the kids or parents or discipline problems. Just dread of life. The responsibility of living, working, of breathing, of riding my bike there and back each day. Not looking forward to much. Just vaguely dissatisfied with life as it is, and not sure how exactly that is going to change anytime soon.

“Sounds like depression,” an outside friend told me over the phone this weekend. He’s probably right. But for the first time in a year or two, I have had passing thoughts questioning my decision to be a teacher. I feel like I am doing such a lackluster job and feel so uninspiring. And I am really not enjoying it too much. But this will probably pass. I know it will. I can bend without breaking, right? Sometimes I think it is okay not to be teacher of the year for a while, as long as you persevere and get better in the end. At least that is what I tell myself.

Introducing: The Prettiest Cowboy

Take a look at The Prettiest Cowboy in the Delta if you are at all curious. Mostly it contains some poetry I have written over the years. The hope is that self-publishing will inspire me to start writing more.

Two poems that accurately reflect my experiences in Africa:

1. Even Jesus
2. Discipline Committee

Enjoy! Or not. Whatever.

2nd and 17

Wow! One week done. (Just 17 left before Christmas!) Pretty overwhelming. Lots of new things to get used to, like the creepy, annoying intercom system, for instance, that could blast out at literally any moment of the school day. Like teaching a “block” schedule, 90 minutes at a time. And kids that talk back too much, basically tell you off and say your rules are wrong. In Namibia, my students were completely apathetic, nonverbally stubborn, or just doing their own thing, but they never really gave me lip the way American students can. Were they more respectful? Debatable. But they did not verbally challenge me the way my students have done already here.

My first few days were a challenge. I felt unprepared for the first week of school, having barely stepped into my classroom before the weekend of. As I wrote on one our many evaluations, I think MTC should have cut out the last week of summer training, which was pretty unfocused and repetitive, and sent us out early to do whatever moving and settling in and preparing we needed to do. As it was, I barely had time to go home, pack up all my stuff, and get back here before teacher orientation, which lasted all week with barely any time to do anything except sit in meetings all day long for five days straight! As it was, I never could have gotten my stuff moved here or my classroom cleaned up and halfway organized before school started without my Dad’s help. Well my unfamiliarity with the system and lack of preparation—not from laziness but from lack of time and not having been here before—has led to a lot things I learned over the summer about lesson planning and so on and so forth just sort of flying out the window. I went into survival mode almost immediately. My first day did not go especially well, and neither did the second, or third, or fourth. Just draining. The classroom was a battle of wills more often than not.

On the bright side, I continue to be reasonably impressed with the way my school is being run this year. (Then again, I have pretty low expectations, based on my previous teaching experience!) Most of the other teachers seem decent and interested in helping me get adjusted. My principal is the same as the school had two years ago. Sometime I should email Jaws and ask how the G-Man was for him, but he seems pretty okay so far. He is very kind and soft-spoken, but seems to get the point across as far as being serious. I just hope he is as serious about the big things as his talk, or as he is about little things, such as the students always walking on the right side of the hall! I especially like the vice principal, Mr. Bic, because he has been very no-nonsense, supportive, and respectful. He came to observe and talk to my classes a couple times already. He backs me up with detention and in-school suspension (ISS) and seems pretty reasonable to work with as a colleague. He is from Rosedale, near here, spent some time in the Army, and this is his first time at our school. I like him a lot. I even like the secretaries at the school so far, a LOT more than I liked my school secretary in Namibia. I think I am going to try the bribery (by way of chocolates, etc.) Ben recommended, which I failed to do but probably should have done in Namibia. I guess I selfishly thought I was the volunteer there, and they should be appreciating me!

My students have complained a lot about my traffic signal system this week, although it is not really clear whether they hate the signal itself or just the rules that it signifies. Well I started off pretty strict and stayed pretty strict most of the week, for all the good it did. Unfortunately I am still struggling to learn names, which hampers my discipline significantly. I have a seating chart but rely on it too much. I am planning to take pictures Monday, with the hope that it will also help me learn names. Students for the most part have not complied with my copying paragraphs punishment (as expected), and I have been assigning detentions for that. At this point, it is unclear which is the lesser punishment, the copying or the detention, so I think I am going to make a few slight adjustments to the system: (1) 3 paragraphs instead of 5 for each check mark. The paragraph they have to copy is pretty long, and for most people, 3 would be most of a page, front and back, handwritten. (2) Hold my own detentions instead of sending them to Mr. Bic. I have no problem doing this, as I will always have stuff to plan and organize after school, anyway. This will allow me to enforce: (3) They are not released from detention until they copy twice as many paragraphs as they had to do originally. These three steps combined should get the point across. The consequence behind the consequence has to be clearly worse the step before it, otherwise students will simply act worse in order to proceed to the lesser consequence beyond. From the talk I hear, that was the problem with detention and ISS at our school last year.

Thursday afternoon, an Algebra II student, a senior, came to talk with me. He is in my 4th block, which unlike my 3rd block Algebra II, has remained pretty stubborn about my rules. He and I had a long conversation for almost an hour and a half. He complained about me being “uptight” and I explained that I will remain firm on my expectations, although I will listen and take into consideration those who come to talk to me respectfully like he has. He spent a lot of the time telling me stuff about how other teachers did things but also about himself. I learned a lot about him, actually, how he grew up with no father around, how he might be an expecting father any day now, and how his aspiration is to attend culinary school up in Memphis after high school. He is a football player, a running back, but apparently ineligible this season because, according to the story, he was worried about something happening to his mother last semester, and so presumably his grades slipped. He seems like a reasonably intelligent and decent guy who, like most teenagers, does not always take things as seriously as he should.

This is the same student, by the way, who earlier that day had brought his mom to observe the class. That was a shock! Never before had I seen any parent in my classroom, let alone an unannounced visit on the very first week of school. So apparently my little friend had complained to his mom, and she had come to see for herself what this Mr. A was all about. Well when she came in, I introduced myself politely, and she frowned less. She introduced herself as my student’s mother, and I invited her to take a seat at the back, which she did. I went on with my lesson, a little nervous inside, having no idea what this lady was like or how she would judge me. But surprisingly, everything was fine. The class behaved better while she was there. (Surprise, surprise!) Mr. Bic happened to come in then, as well. He said a word or two with the class, and then the parent also asked to say a word. She told the class to give my rules a chance and gave me a vote of confidence before she left, which is somewhat reassuring. Not that it helped the class behave much better after she left, but at least the adults are still behind me.

So my schedule:

1. *planning period*
2. Transition to Algebra
3. Algebra II
4. Algebra II

It sounds like a short day, but remember, these are 90-minute “blocks.” We start at 10 before 8 and end at 10 after 3. Fortunately, my hall is on first lunch, which means that I get half an hour between 2nd and 3rd blocks, instead of my 3rd block interrupted in the middle. At first I thought first block planning period would also be nice, but most of the other teachers seem to prefer having planning period in the middle of their schedule.

I lost a lot of sleep Thursday night. Lesson plans for next week were due the next day, and all the good and the bad from 4th block that day still haunted me through the night.

Then it was Friday, the end of a week that was frankly even more difficult than I expected it to be. I had an opportunity to reward my 3rd block Algebra II with Friday fun time. They seemed to enjoy it, and so did I. Of the three blocks that I teach, 3rd block has been the real bright spot for me. They have really been no problem, ever since day two, so it was nice to reward them. I guess I lightened up a bit on Friday overall, which may have helped things go a little more smoothly. Still had to write up a bratty girl in Transition to Algebra, but I loosened the reigns a little on the 4th block big kids, and things went better. I was actually less strict than I would like to be, but I left school at the end of the week feeling much better than I did throughout the middle of the week. As most traditional teacher advice will tell you, it is okay to start off a little too strict so you can loosen up later. Now I just need to find the proper balance, and I will probably loosen my expectations just a little bit as far as what happens in the classroom before the bell rings. The adjustments I have in mind for the consequences should help. And I will learn their names! I have to.

Since my life is still so unsettled—by which I mean living in an apartment where I have no intention to stay any longer than necessary, with a kitchen that is barren and unclean and my bedroom stacked with boxes upon which I type this blog on my computer—I have limited my food intake to one meal per day. After school, I reward myself by stopping somewhere to eat out. I gorge myself with breakfast, lunch, and dinner, all rolled into one, and then I roll on home on my bicycle, in the middle of the sweltering heat and soggy humidity of Mississippi August. My favorite place is Backyard Burgers, which according to the website, has it roots right here in Cleveland, MS. Not very conveniently located up busy Hwy 61, but hands-down the best franchise burgers you will find anywhere—avail. with delicious hot cobbler with ice cream—yum! One of my favorite things about moving to Mississippi is the food. Oh, and La Cabaña, with its 32-once draft beers and fajitas with chips and salsa, as also not a bad way to kick back and enjoy the end of the school day!

The first week was harder than expected, but I still feel lucky to be in Cleveland. And I have hopes that things will get better in the classroom. I will find my feet eventually. I will do better, and my students will adjust some. Hopefully.

the iFan

So I arrive in Cleveland with everything I own loaded on a Penske truck which is probably somewhere in New Mexico right about now--on its way here but with nowhere to go. Slow José Limbaugh (not his real name): Still in Oklahoma. So I crash with The Merry Doorman (also not his real name) at the last minute, and a few short hours later Merry D. and I are up and at ‘em again, our first day of new teacher orientation for the district.

The local coffee house: A place to plug in my computer. A few small gestures around the room acknowledge an external, cosmopolitan coffee-shop culture: Clocks purport to display the current time in Seattle and Tokyo--as well as Cleveland. A U.S. map displays the names of random individuals with itty-bitty Post-Its appended to places like Los Angeles and Indiana. And yet the ever-present Delta dichotomy, this unadulterated whiteness, hangs over everything like a creepy, unacknowledged guilt: A framed print of a cotton bloom hangs over the white women with their reading glasses. And the white college-age baristas with their odd combinations of beaded necklace and too much make-up. The white men who stand around with their booming voices and their RC Cola polo shirts. The silver-haired gentlemen leaning back cross-legged in their gym shorts and white undershirts. Of course the now ever-familiar “In God We Trust” is neatly framed and hung beside the menu. And the hours: Closes every weekday at 7pm. Closed all day Sundays with a sign that reads, “See you at church!”

So I hear about this meeting to be held later the same day at my school. Rumor has it that new teachers will be introduced. Surprised how many cars fill the parking lot. Also impressed by the number of students milling around. And I feel conspicuously white. Internally I debate whether I am too underdressed for the occasion: Not judging by the students and a lot of the adults, frankly, but definitely, judging by the superintendent himself in his natty pinstripe suit and shiny silver tie. Inside, the cafeteria is smaller and older-looking than I would have imagined, but the collection of world flags hanging from the rafters instantly catches my attention. For a while, I look around hoping to find the Namibian flag, but I eventually give up, surmising the collection is probably too old for Namibia anyway. Then the opening prayer moves me more than expected, and an almost “amen” even escapes my lips. Oh, and by the way, it turns out this is really a booster club meeting. Football coaches are introduced to rousing ovations. Speeches are made. Some good speeches. The head coach emphasizes the importance of academics, promising, “The wins will come.” The turn-out is strong and supportive. A girl asks me if I am going to be teaching there and what subject. A woman calls me out by name and introduces herself. I enjoy the meeting. It seems spirited and very supportive of school success. Fund-raising is discussed a great deal, but it seems legitimate and purposeful. Academic departments got over $2000 in booster club grants last year for purchases! The school painted walls with booster club money, because as one speaker put it, “They aint doing it for us over there on the other side of the tracks, so we gotta help ourselves out over here!”

Drove down to Jackson yesterday to hand-deliver an application for something. It was my first trip south of here much. Enjoyed it immensely. I felt my appreciation for the Delta aesthetic begin to take hold: The wide-open roads. The parched bushy soybeans and tree-lined cotton fields. The dilapidated mobile homes next to impossibly optimistic town slogans. And the occasional cypress-lined bayou--polluted as it very well may be by an effluvium of fertilizer and pesticide run-off--strikes me as almost heart-breakingly beautiful. I need to explore a place on my own for this love, this adoption process, to begin.

In fact, ever since I left my family from Arizona to start the new school year here in Mississippi, I have noticed a lift in spirits. It seems to be a trend in my life that I often experience a period of depression in anticipation of a really big change in life--even change I may long for. It happened when I was about to leave for Peace Corps, in the few months before leaving Namibia, and to a certain extent, all this summer in Oxford. I guess I feel a combination of regret, anxiety, and loss at these times--fear that the future may never live up to the past but also that the mistakes of the past may never be corrected--a sense of passing through a one-way portal beyond which I will never be the same. But there is nothing I love more than a new beginning--when it finally arrives!

And one more thing: I finally seem to have broken free from the lingering phantom-grip death-chill associated with my not-so-recent break-up. Possible reasons include: (1) Change in circumstance. (2) Thinking my way out of it by asking myself, if she came to me today and said, “Oh honey, that was the worst mistake of my life, will you take me back?” . . . would I? and (3) Feeling my way out of it by wallowing in the self-pity so long that I actually got tired of it. Whatever the case, I feel ten tons lighter now. Congratulations to me!

I gassed up before leaving Jackson. A white-haired old white man (an older, less refined version of the Ole Miss mascot, come to think of it!) and his dour-looking teenage grandson just sort of stared at me from behind the counter as I paid too much for a bottle of water. It only took one or two wrong turns, yet as I wandered through unfamiliar ghetto streets, past rusted-out, overgrown processing plants and rotted-out houses with unmowed lawns, Jackson impressed me as having all the urban grit of a city ten times its size with all the sophistication and bustle of town one tenth its size. But I only saw a few streets of it for a total of maybe half an hour.

José arrived around midnight, and it took me half an hour and a sweaty shirt (even at that hour!) to load all the assorted belongings I had at stashed Merry D’s place into my rental car. When I arrived, I noticed José’s head peaking from behind a darkened window but thought little of it until he came out to meet me and told me the power was shut off somehow while he was gone. “How do you feel about a late-night run to Wal-Mart?” he asked. (This may have been after I virtually turned my suitcase upside down right there in the parking lot, looking for my flashlight.) So off we went to Wal-Mart, where the late-night environs led me to recall not-so-nostalgic times working at Fred Meyer, and Jose one-upped me with tales of a former telemarketer. We found: A lantern-style flashlight. The iFan personal cooling system (3 AA batteries not included). Picture a blue plastic toy fan vaguely shaped like an iPod. A lanyard cord holding it around your neck. Sleeping like that half-naked in a sweltering apartment with José’s chubby legs protruding at various angles from his whitey-tighties because the bedroom across the hall is simply too filthy to be slept in.

Quick, who can spot the Peace Corps Volunteer in this picture?

Play the Role

One thing my students would never guess about me but I wish they did: I cry at movies.

Even as my plane to Seattle punches through the prevailing cloud cover, revealing the spectacular, angular peaks of the Cascade Mountains, the final scenes of our on-board Disney entertainment play out: A sometimes Antarctic adventurer returns to the site where, months before, he was forced to abandon his sled dogs, and after a tense Hollywood moment when we are left to speculate the unthinkable, his dogs come bounding over the snowy hill to leap into his grateful, parka-enclosed arms. In these sentimental moments, torn between the scenery of our final approach into the Emerald City and the final resolution of this movie, I am struck with a palpable choking sensation how close I am to you know who, our nearest physical proximity since we broke almost six months ago. But there would be no tearful reunions awaiting me this time--just regular life. After the long walk from the gate to the baggage claim, I complained to my parents about my back pain and told them about the retired couple who sat beside me on the plane, returning from their cruise in the Mediterranean. How could I possibly explain this stupid, sentimental movie or what it felt like to be in Seattle now, knowing that SHE was out there somewhere? And how do you know two people your whole life--take your very DNA from them--and still have less to talk about with them than one person you only knew for two years and barely even speak to anymore? We talked about the weather.

The night before, my classmates and I had gathered at the Downtown Grill in Oxford, Mississippi, to celebrate the completion of our initial summer training. Awards were bestowed, mostly of the tongue-in-cheek nature. Mine was for “Most Laid Back With a Beard,” which, it might be added, is not saying so much, considering mine is by far the most profound beard in this year’s crop of Corps. Admittedly I was somewhat jealous not to win the “Most Likely to Walk Calmly Out of His Burning Classroom” award, but I choose to look at the bright side and take the award as evidence that I possess no glaring social flaws I was previously unaware of. Or perhaps my social flaws were actually SO glaring that no one had the heart to poke fun of me so publicly. Whatever the case, I feel vaguely flattered by the award, because I want to be easy-going and all that. Strangely I feel guilty, though, and wonder if my family or my students would nominate me for the same award.

Then there was an after-party. After a lengthy period of phlegmatic mellow-ness during which one or two beers may have been imbibed, my classmates were introduced to the illegitimate dancing skills of Mr. A. That is to say, some lucky few caught a rare, probably surprising glimpse at a more energetic, less inhibited aspect of my personality. Comments afterwards confirmed the remarkableness of this alcohol-aided transformation.

Been thinking a lot lately about the different roles we play and how different people see us differently, depending on the context of how they know us. Troubled how my reputation as laid-back or “nice” (from TEAM) does not seem to reconcile with the perceptions of my students or co-teachers during the summer school in Holly Springs, where I was called "militant" (somewhat unfairly I think) and worse. I do believe there is no one correct teacher personality, that the key is to find the teaching persona that works best for you and fits true to your personality. But this summer has been a wake-up call. I do not want my students to hate me. (Then again, I would rather have them hate me than an out-of-control classroom or students not learning.) What I really want is to carry my authority well--gentle but firm. I am naturally all-business and no-nonsense as a teacher, but I want my students also to see my humanity and know that I care about them. Why is that so hard for me?

A family get-together in Arizona: Six fair-skinned little munchkins who know me as uncle. Two married siblings who know me as their baby brother. One former classmate who knows me as brother-in-law. We “talk to Jesus” a lot and eat vegetarian food. Drive around and get short with each other. See the Grand Canyon in all its crowded, sweltering, visitor center glory. You know, the usual. I play the roles, and my sister teases me.

On the drive back to Flagstaff, I remark to her how similar the scenery is to Namibia, and suddenly I am overcome with nostalgia for that life I left behind. There was something very simple about the Peace Corps lifestyle, something comforting. There was nothing you could do, no decisions to make except where to go during the next school holiday. Everything was out of our hands, even transportation, so in a way, there were no worries. Just meet me in the capital next weekend, and together we look forward to our freedom at the end of these two years.

But here I am: Free. So this is what “readjustment” feels like! We play ping-pong in the morning and then they drive me to the airport. I finally roll into Cleveland, Mississippi, at 3 in the morning and crash on a classmate’s floor.