A Question of Need and Want, Redux

     You can't always get what you want
     But if you try sometimes, you just might find
     You get what you need.

I wrote earlier that just before school started, I took an interview with a local university, my top choice of the fifty-plus schools where I applied. The interview was at the end of our last teacher prep day, a day when freshmen and transfer students would be on campus for orientation with their peer mentors. I awoke that morning with my stomach and my bed sheets in knots.

I hadn't realized how many of these students would seek me out in my classroom. I met about a dozen smiling students telling me how excited they were to be there and that they were looking forward to English this year. The knot in my stomach tightened.

That evening, in the university interview, I fell in love with the program all over again. I loved the philosophy and the culture of the program, and I knew I could make a home there. I wanted that position. But I had to tell the hiring committee that I was under contract for the year, and the call came just a few days too late.

They expressed regret and said something about the possibility of an adjunct position next semester. I was sincere in telling them how much I'd like that.

I walked to my car and suppressed tears.

That night, my brother texted me to inform me that it was one month before my 30th birthday. I replied, "Thanks. My day wasn't disappointing enough." I may have also made a vulgar remark.

He wrote back, "Really? You found out today that you were offered two jobs when most people in the country are not able to maintain/find one job. I think you're doing pretty good."

Damn his gift of perspective. He was right, of course. I told him I'd allow myself one day of mourning, then move on.

And, astonishingly, I did. Once my students walked through my door, I quickly fell into the rhythm of the classroom.

We've completed the first three weeks of the year, and I'm confident I made the right choice. It has nothing to do with contracts and leaving anyone in a lurch. This is just where I need to be.

An Outing

I'm 29, female, a New York native, and an educator. And I'm a registered Republican.

***

Today at our faculty meeting, we had a presentation from the advisers of a group that promotes tolerance in an academic setting. Although the group was originally founded as a support group for LGBTQ students, it has since expanded to all types of tolerance: race, religion, physical appearance, and political party affiliation. 

"Especially in an election year," one of the advisers said, "some of the students may feel alienated because of their political beliefs. It's important we recognize the legitimacy of all our students' beliefs and promote tolerance."

This may sound absurd. (Did I imagine that some of my colleagues snickered?) But my entire professional life flashed before my eyes. What do we do if we ourselves feel alienated from our own colleagues?

As a teacher, I've only outed myself as a conservative to select colleagues and students whom I deemed safe. Usually they are obviously conservative. I usually make a joke about a secret handshake.

Photo Credit: My Dad

Seriously, though, I've generally found the academic setting to be inhospitable to right-wing ideas: to be labeled a conservative was to be labeled fanatical, heartless, barbaric. I feared that politicizing my views would alienate me from the colleagues who had otherwise respected me.

This is a great irony. Academia, a bastion of nonconformity, has discouraged me from breaking its ranks. Many teachers feign tolerance in the classroom but behind the doors of the faculty rooms laugh at students naive enough to consider voting for a Republican. "Don't these kids think for themselves?" one professor asked me in Fall 2008.

But if everyone is telling him to vote Democrat, wouldn't considering the opposing side make him open-minded?

I realize that there is some barbaric rhetoric spouting from the mouths of conservatives these days (and all days). This is perpetuated by the soundbites that run on 24-hour news channels and memes that flood the Internet. But there's some preposterous stuff coming from the other side, too. Understanding conservative ideals is more than the pro-gun/anti-woman oversimplification that it's made out to be.

We try to teach our students independent thought and a close examination of argument. We try to teach them to accept others who are different from themselves, to engage in discourse, and to work toward tolerance and acceptance. Why, then, have we not learned these lessons ourselves?

A Question of Need and Want

The universe is testing me.

As I wrote in an earlier post, earlier this year I applied to dozens of teaching positions at various levels and types of institutions. After accepting a position with a local private high school, I devoted my summer to reading and planning for my new courses. I've been back to work for about two weeks now, attending yearbook conferences, new teacher orientation, and teacher prep week. My classroom is about ready, and I know what I'm teaching the first week. Students start Tuesday. I'm getting pretty excited.

Yesterday, I was at lunch with some colleagues when my phone rang. It was the director of a writing program at a local university—the program that had been my first choice. She said she thought I was a good fit for their program and wanted to know if I'd come in for an interview.

Yes, I would.

My interview is late Monday afternoon; I'll leave directly from my current school after teacher prep day has concluded. University classes begin on Wednesday. If I do end up teaching at the university, it means I'll show up at high school on the first day of classes and tell them it's my last.

I'll admit: I feel pretty bad about it, even though my husband and parents tell me I shouldn't. I need to do what's best for me.

That raises the question of what is best for me, and what will be my life's work.

My life's work: a phrase my former director used when talking to me about my job prospects. We were still living in New York, and I hadn't found a new teaching gig in Florida yet. "It may not happen this year," he said, "but you can make teaching and reviving grammar your life's work."

I really don't know what's best for me, or what will happen after Monday evening. I'm not even sure what I want. I'll just have to continue planning for Tuesday as if Monday wouldn't even happen.

The Strength of the Canon

Recently I stumbled upon the Top 100 Best Sellers for Kindle. Among the inevitable pop fiction, romance novels, and self-help texts were nestled classics: Jane Eyre, Les Misérables, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Wuthering Heights. I have no doubt that the cost of classics (free!) has contributed to their high sales—and I recognize that downloading a book is not equated to reading a book. But I still find this a cause for optimism.

There's also this, an article discussing some publishers' attempts to re-brand classics for the young adult audience. Why not? The stories are engaging if the reader is receptive to them. (Any veteran teacher knows this.) And despite the adage warning us not to judge books by their covers, we can't help ourselves. It only make sense to be sure the cover best reflects the novel and appeals to its target audience.

Take, for example, the redesigned cover of Jane Eyre for young adults. It portrays the heroine as whimsical, strong, edgy:

And compare that cover with the Barnes and Noble edition: 

The sober countenance hardly reflects Jane's character, and the cover doesn't intimate the delight a reader will find in the pages that follow. The cover art outdated, but the novel is not.

The canon endures because the texts are universal. The accessibility of classics—as free editions and as appealing texts to young adults—will, I hope, warm another generation to the great works of literature.

There Will Be Grit

An oyster needs a speck of grit to make a pearl.

It's no secret that this blog has been largely neglected for the past four years. During that time, I've taught college writing—and, despite the nationwide handwriting over the state of students' literacy, I didn't feel the compulsion to write under the veil of my pseudonym. There was no grit.

But suddenly I find myself preparing to teach high school English once again—and I find myself compelled to blog. Let me explain.

About two months ago, we relocated to southern Florida for my husband's career. Five months of job applications to college, universities, public schools, private schools, and charter schools yielded two interviews: one with a public high school in an up-and-coming (read: crummy) district, and another with a college preparatory school. I only attended the latter, and I accepted a teaching position there. I won't be teaching college, but surely this is the next best thing.

I've spent the past few weeks reading and planning for the coming school year, and I'm genuinely excited for the new challenges I'll face.

Except.

Except that some of the emails I've received from the department chair have me reaching for the Alka Seltzer. She uses cautionary phrases such as "I don't want any repercussions," "Work with the other teachers so the kids don't teacher shop," "A differentiation is fine, but a large discrepancy asks for trouble," and passing references to parents' happiness (and thus silence).

Plop plop, fizz fizz.

I had almost forgotten that my reputation doesn't precede me here, that students aren't forewarned when registering for my classes, that these parents are likely to earn the moniker of "helicopter parents."

I had almost forgotten that I'll be doing much more than teaching. I'll also be blogging.

I'll Never Forget

I'll never forget the color of the sky that day. That azure would become the backdrop for the blackened plumes on the video clips played in a loop on every television station.

I'll never forget the togetherness, the unitedness. We were of single-mindedness in our sorrow, numbness, and rage. No one seemed capable of understanding what had happened; indeed, I couldn't fathom the abstractness behind the devastatingly concrete act.

I'll never forget the profound loneliness, even among the thousands who attended the memorial service on the campus mall. It was warm, but not hot, a signal that autumn was drawing near. The mall on September 12 should have been home to students playing frisbee, chatting with friends, and enjoying college. Celebrating the joys of youth. Instead, we sat morosely, together yet alone, instantly sobered, suddenly aged, realizing that the world was no longer the same.

I'll never forget.

Prometheus' Fire

Like so many Americans, I claim To Kill a Mockingbird as one of the books that have most influenced my life. It helped me realize the importance and beauty of literature. I often cite the text as one of the reasons why I became a teacher.

I recently read Mockingbird: A Portrait of Harper Lee, recommended by a close friend and fellow lover of literature.

One passage from the book struck me:

When [Harper Lee] couldn't be found during social hour before dinner, she could often be spotted with John Steinbeck, standing in a corner discussing favorite books.

The thought of two of my favorite authors discussing literature gave me pause. What had they discussed, I wonder? What books, what authors would the titans of American literature admire?

As a teacher of writing, I often remind my students that the acts of writing and reading cannot be divorced from one another. But somehow I managed to forget this myself. I had always assumed my favorite writers were also avid readers, but I had never ventured to dream what filled their bookshelves, crowded their nightstands, spurred their own craft.