Substitute Teaching: the pows and wows

All you have to do is swear you'll never do something, and before long you'll find yourself doing it. Six months ago I swore I would never commute more than 5 miles for a job, and just accepted full-time employment for a school on the far North side of Portland...


Just like that.


So when I swore during graduate school that I would never be a substitute teacher, I suppose I should have known that I would eventually find myself doing exactly that. And in the spirit of life's hilarity, I imagine I should have also expected that I wouldn't totally hate it.


There were days when every substitute-teacher nightmare I had ever imagined came true. Days, for example, like the one when I was asked to teach a kindergarten music class. Picture me trying to corral 15 kindergartners into a learning circle: My hands are clasped in front of me, eyes wide, big smile plastered on my face. I am expecting the undivided attention of 15 precious little angels, all criss-cross applesauced, eager, looking up expectantly...


Instead I have Edgar, who won't stop stomping on Esmerelda's new shoes. Zachary and Cade, who keep trying to blow into the recorders they've picked up off of the back table. Danny and Chloe, who are banging profusely on the bongos in the back of the room. And Destiny, who is crying because Madeline just untied the bow in her hair. "Okay kids," I am shouting, feigning my best sugary-sweet tone, "sit on your butts!" But the kids are running rampant, and as the chaos in the room unfolds so does my desperation. There is that unmistakable twinge of anguish in the back of my voice as I shout,"Sit on your butts, kids! Sit on your butts!"


Apparently you aren't supposed to say "butts" to five-year-olds.


And actually, as much as that day lives in my mind as the world's worst disaster, teaching outside of my comfort zone instructs me to be an educator in a hundred ways that graduate school never could. I learn that classroom management is always contingent upon context, and that patience goes an awfully long way.


Then, of course, there are days when I wonder why I was ever so afraid of this substitute teaching in the first place. Like when Kira, a junior in high school, asks if she can stay in my classroom for lunch.


In 26 minutes Kira and I discuss AP homework, David Bekham, high-school relationships, Homecoming Court, her homecoming date, try-outs for the basketball team, Heroes (the TV show) and college applications. Nothing life-changing. Just life. Just regular, every-day, run-of-the-mill high school life. But as Kira walks out the door, backpack slung over her shoulder, marching off to fifth period, she smiles. And, sure enough, I find myself smiling too.


Here's to the life of a substitute: to the goods pilfered (curriculum, articles, quotes), the organizational techniques heisted (replicated), the management strategies gleaned. Here's to the buildings loved (and hated) the classrooms inhabited, the lunchtimes (and students) truly enjoyed.

Chapter: Next One

I love books. I love them. I love browsing them, buying them, reading them, smelling them, feeling them and pretending like maybe (someday) I might have the talent to write one. Perhaps that is why the image of God as author is so arresting for me.

I've been thinking about it so much lately--God as author--but it was yesterday that it really struck me. I was interviewing for a teaching position at a Portland area school and amid a line-up of fairly difficult interview questions I was asked one that I found rather easy to answer: Tell us your story.

I took a deep breath, and began. I started with Whitworth and with Literature, with Leonard Oakland and Laurie Lamon. I told them about the way these professors made Walt Whitman and Virginia Woolf and Billy Collins leap off the page. I told them about my job at Herman Miller, how it left me craving something bigger. I talked about Oregon Council for Hispanic Advancement, and about the relationships I built with students like Edgar. Then George Fox and Michelle, Eileen, Ben. Then Conestoga, Lincoln, Aloha, Rich Patterson, Christine Jenkins, Becky Wangenheim. Then strangely, back to the beginning: Century High School, Heather Zehr, Julie Kasper, The Leadership Room...

I detailed my characters, my setting, my twists and turns.

The whole time I was thinking it, while the members of the panel were knowingly nodding their heads, smiling. But especially when the principal turned to me and said, "that might be the best answer to that question I have ever heard," I felt it... that heavy feeling of Grace, like the Lion of Contentment setting its over-sized paw on my chest.

He has written every word. And, the best news? His faithfulness is not exhausted.

I am ready. Don't get me wrong, there are litany of reasons to be afraid of what's to come. I have climbed my share of mountains before. I know what it feels like to want for oxygen, for respite, for rest. But I am ready for all the brokenness and hilarity that come along with challenges, for the edification and understanding that come along with brokenness, and for the restoration and regeneration that discipline can bring.

Chapter: Next One, here I come.

Keep your head up, kid

Yesterday I did it. 13.2 miles from SW 6th and Taylor, down into the Pearl District, around by Portland's Waterfront, up and over the Terwilliger Curves, down the giant OHSU hill, and back to Pioneer Square.

It took me two hours to run the course, which in short, looked a little something like this:

Mile 1: Brr. Its cold and dark. Did I really pay money for this?

Mile 2: Wahoo! This is fun.

Mile 3: Smile for the camera, give dad my jacket.

Mile 4: Talking to myself quietly, rehearsing the advise given to me by friends: Breathe, pace yourself, breathe, pace yourself, breathe...

Mile 5: Running up the Terwilliger curves, trying to figure out how they are so much steeper than I remember. I hate this, I hate this I hate (take every thought captive)... I can do this, I can do this, I can do this...

Mile 6: Two giant swigs of water. Almost halfway.

Mile 7: Keane's "Can't stop now" plays on my iPod and I feel simultaneously invigorated and resentful. Don't try to tell me what I can or cant do, Keane.

Mile 8: Oh Lord, you search me and know me, you know when I sit down and when I rise up, you understand my thoughts from afar. You scrutinize my path and my laying down, you are intimately acquainted with all of my ways.

Mile 9: A perfect stranger on the street looks me in the eye and, smiling, screams 'you can do it!' Strangely it is his enthusiasm that gives me the boost I need to make it up the last steep incline by Lewis and Clark.

Mile 10: I think seriously about walking. I am staring intently at the ground when a man my father's age passes me on the left. "Keep your head up, kid" he says. I hate him for passing me, and for saying something so cliche. But for the next two miles I can't stop thinking about that his advice. Perhaps by 'keep your head up,' he doesn't mean, smile, even when you don't feel like it. Perhaps he means, more literally, that if I am staring at the ground I might miss something amazing.

Mile 11: The sun is rising over Portland, and I have a front row seat... er... view.

Mile 12: My fan club arrives to run with me for the last mile. Sharaya tells me between deep, deliberate breaths that the only reason she is running with me is because my sister told her I included her on my "Top Ten" list of favorite people. My ensuing laughter is enough to carry me across the finish line.

Finish Line: There are pictures and medals and people and wings and beer (um... who wants wings and beer after running 13 miles?) and I can't feel my limbs. Awesome.

I accept my participation medal with gratitude, and (in my head) am issuing the following speech...

A big thanks to...

• Mom and Dad. You are the most amazingly supportive parents on the face of the planet.
• Sisterpants. I love that you always have crazy ideas, and that you consistently challenge me to come along. My life would not be nearly as exciting without you. Thanks for (this time) playing along with a crazy notion of mine.
• Ryan, Rachael and Sharaya. You guys are the most most hilarious and exuberant fan club a girl could ever ask for. My day would not have been nearly as fun without you.
  
• My dear friend Nate. Although our taste in music couldn't be more different, I would have been hard pressed to run 13 miles with Jason Mraz as my companion. Thanks for sharing the kind of tunes that could carry a girl over the finish line.
  
• Kelly Clarkson. I know people really don't talk about you anymore, and I really am sorry for that. I just have to say: Miss Independent provided me a much-needed adrenaline boost around mile 8.
  
• Random guy on the street. I don't know if you were cheering for me, or for someone else, or for everyone, but I don't care. Your green coat made your eyes look really green. And I just wanted you to know that when you said, "you can do it!" you were right. I did.
  
• Terra Leonetti. You were so nice to give me your last friends and family pass to the Nike employee store. In the pictures I look like a giant Nike billboard. But, hey, at least I was warm.
• Kristen and Tony. You both humored me every time I called you with questions about food or shoes or gear or shin splints or pacing or training... Thanks for never acting like it was less important than it was to me.
  
• Gravy (the Restaurant on SE Mississippi) You make the world's best coffee, scrambles, and Biscuits and Gravy. Thanks for a perfect end to a long, long journey.
  

Walls

I spent a whole day scraping paper
from old walls,
four floral layers
stripped away to green paint.

I spent today standing
where I used to stand
everyday and heard for the first time
that thing they always say

about walls
talking walls
resilient walls.

Its like a re-peat
a re-play
a conversation
with myself, or

with you, who
arrived unexpected
out of

the blue layer curls
around my two-edged tool.
I am covered in ash,
in glue.

Your message arrives at 2:15
and I am smiling. I am listening,
laughing,
priming for paint.

I am thinking about what is old
and what is new.

Running the Race

Okay. I am officially registered for Portland's Run Like Hell half marathon. Race Day: October 25, 2009.

That said, I can almost hear your collective gasps. I am the last person in the world you would have expected to run a half-marathon, right? Especially considering six months ago I couldn’t have even run a full mile without stopping. To be perfectly honest, I don’t really love running (at least not the way a true runner loves running. I do, however, love what running is teaching me about life.

Some lessons that rise to the top…

Plan your route.
I can’t expect to execute a plan unless I actually have a plan. I am most likely to meet my goals if I plot my course before I set out, if I set reasonable but challenging goals for myself. On the contrary, if I begin running without a vision, without a destination, without a mission, I am certain to return home without an accomplishment.


Invite the world to watch.
I talk about my marathon all the time, not because I am trying to promote myself, but because I realize that I am desperate need of accountability. The more people I tell about the race, the less likely I am to bail out at the last minute. Martin Luther once said that, when left to our own devices, all humans are capable of great evil. And while entering into community requires painful honesty, it also provides powerful accountability and asks us to summon the strength we need to meet our potential.

Alone I am nothing.
I am running this race alone, but I am not running this race alone. Each day as I set out I thank God for an able body, for motivation and determination that only He provides, for amazing friends and family members who are on my figurative 'team,' and for the strength He gives me for each new step.

Life is full of surprises.
One day recently I was running through a park near my house and caught my toe on a tree stump, falling face-first into the dirt, smacking my forehead on the ground below. I laid there for a few seconds before I stood up slowly, like a stunned animal, shaking and blinking and covered in leaves and mud. Then I wiped my face of sweat and tears and finished my run. Later, as I told the story I laughed and laughed at how ridiculous I must have looked and thought about what a great skill it is (in life) to be able to take hard falls, stand up, brush off dirt, wipe away tears, and make it to the finish.

We are capable of so much more.
I think sometimes we are ignorant of our potential. I am picturing the look of shock on my student’s face when I hand his essay back to him and say, ‘I won’t even grade this until you’ve given it your best shot.’ Three days later he is standing at my desk again, smiling ear-to-ear, because he didn’t even know he was capable of such success. We feel a great sense of accomplishment when we attack difficult tasks. But in order to do so we must not underestimate ourselves. We must be willing to take risks. We must be willing to fail. We must be willing to stand up again, to wipe away the mud, to finish the race.

It gets easier, but never easy.
I am slowly meeting goals. And certainly, running distance now feels easier than it ever has in the past. But although my joints and muscles and lungs are all in better shape than they have ever been before, there are still days that running feels very difficult. There are days when I don’t want to start, let alone finish, my scheduled run. On those days I am 'digging deep' (as my mom would say), I am coaching myself to the starting line, talking myself through to the finish. Like running, life is hard. Some days we are going through the motions, just talking ourselves through to the finish. Some days its an accomplishment to just show up.


I am never finished.
Yesterday I ran 8 miles in 60 min. My fastest time for 10 miles is 91. Tomorrow I will attempt 12 miles for the first time. Today I am simultaneously pondering the great accomplishments I have realized in the past three months and also the fear I feel about the daunting task ahead. I think about how difficult four miles felt six weeks ago, and about the great sense of pride I felt after running eight. I think about the first time I ran ten miles, and about how great it felt to improve my pace over the past three weeks. I am nervous to try 12 miles, because I am nervous to fail. But I am also exhilarated at the possibility of success. And somehow the delicate balance of fear and excitement keeps me going, keeps me living, keeps me running.

Culture shock and coming home

People always warn you about 'culture shock' when you travel to other countries, but no one ever warns you about the shock of coming home.

It only took me three days to start making lists again. I was in the shower when it happened, minding my own business, and all of a sudden my brain just starting doing this: Groceries (soymilk, almonds, avacados, crackers...). Laundry (whites, colors, darks...). Bank (deposit, checks, atm, cash). E-mail (gmail, mobile-me, facebook). Shortly after my shower I ate breakfast standing up. Again.

My North-American blood runs deep.

After breakfast I climbed into my car to run errands and as I drove along the road to Trader Joe's I passed GAP and Macy's, and I couldn't help it. I started thinking about the job that I was beginning in two weeks and about how I would need some professional clothing to work there, especially since I look (and sometimes act) basically like a high school student, and so clothing might be the one thing that separates me from the delinquent teenagers... and before I knew it I was adding those two stops to the checklist I had already created on my iPhone, which was inevitably growing to look something like this:

Trader Joes

GAP

Macy's

Nordstrom Rack

REI

Yuck. And as if that wasn't enough, later that same day I found myself in a fancy dressing room at a fancy department store, my new best friend Jessica (the commissioned woman who works there) throwing items over the top of my door, raving about how good I looked in the color pink. At one point I looked down at the price tag on the pair of jeans I was wearing and suddenly started to feel very sick, like I was on the precipice of something horrible. I felt like the recovering alcoholic, standing guilty in the middle of a night club; like the dude with a porn addiction sitting in his hotel room, tenderly holding the remote control...

There is a phrase in English that doesn't exist in Spanish. I taught it to Daniella while I was living in San Jose because she was trying to describe the way a person can feel two distinctly opposite feelings both at the same time. I told her that in English we say, I'm torn. She loved those words, and brooded over their imagery. She talked about the ripping of a piece of fabric, about the noise it makes as it tears in half.

Arrancar. Ripping. Chocar. Crash. Collision. That's what it feels like to come home. Like two parts of yourself colliding together, or like one part ripping in half.

I am struck with the notion that as a foreigner people expect you to be foreign. Its beautiful. Yes, people might whisper behind your back or wonder why on earth you would wear a tank top to church, or ask themselves silently if you washed your hair that morning before you stepped on that sticky bus... but for the most part no one really cares. Including you.

And as I ponder that beautifully whimsical feeling of foreignness I think about how Paul calls us all (as Believers) to be foreigners in this world, and about how I had never really understood what that meant before now.

All the things I thought I had learned about holding loosely to 'things,' about minimalism, about generosity and simplicity collided with me that day in the dressing room as I stood surrounded by fancy fabrics and big mirrors and price tags that represent whole months worth of food in Ecuador and Peru.

And now I can't help but recognize that being a foreigner in a foreign country is somehow easier than being a foreigner in your own. At home, expectations are strong. The cost of ignorance is high (ask me later and I'll tell you about the traffic ticket I received my first day driving again in this country). People get nervous when you act differently than they expect (if you don't believe me, try kissing the cheek of the next person you meet, rather than shaking their hand, and see how they react...). And, besides, simply acting contrary to your home culture doesn't really solve the problem. In fact, it sort of misses the point.

As I sit here typing I am trying to think of how to conclude this whole thing to make it make sense. I am trying to think about what the point is, rather than just what it isn't. But I have nothing. And for a girl who likes nicely trimmed edges and happy endings, ending without an ending feels just a little bit difficult. It feels like a stretch (deep breath)...

Apparently people die from this...?