Who you calling buttface?

Zach and the kids are watching "ParaNorman" right now while dinner cooks. Losing an hour today has definitely screwed with our schedule. Luckily, Norah went to a three-hour birthday party this afternoon and ran and screamed enough to tire her out properly. I've been grading my students' mini poetry portfolios, baking cookies, doing laundry, and finding every random task to be done around the house. It's basically impossible for me to sit down and just grade for any period of time. You'd think I'd use my plan period more efficiently and grade like a maniac in a quiet, empty classroom, but by fourth hour I'm dying for some caffeine, a brain break, or have cleaning/organizing/copying to do that takes precedence. I've said it before, and I'll say it again--someone needs to find grading fairies and send one my way. I'd like a spunky girl fairy if I get a choice. She could sit on my shoulder during class and say the snarky comments I so often think into my ear. And she could grade. Obviously.

This has been one of those weekends where we haven't done a lot, but it feels like we've been really busy. I think that's called normal family life. We took Levi to a kids' hair salon yesterday for his second official haircut. His hair is stick straight and grazes his ears and neck; I thought I could trim here and there and keep up with it, but he sees scissors and immediately turns into a flapping bird. We thought the salon would distract him--it's a kids' dreamland. Locks of Fun in Valparaiso (check out their cute site here) features vehicles for seats, individual televisions with choice of cartoons, a Dum-Dum distraction, and a post-cut snack of popcorn and juice box. Levi dug the joint, but he did not enjoy any sort of combing/cutting/wetting/general movement near his left ear. We even plied him with dual Dum-Dums to occupy both hands and that still wasn't enough. Dad had to hold his head still while I wielded his sticky sucker-holding hands. He never really cried though, just alternated between his newly acquired Gremlin growl and screech owl call. He may not be verbally communicative, but he's certainly vocal. Here's the boy:

Before any weapons were wielded, he did some cruising.

Punk

His best James Dean

The theme for this post came to me during dinner last night. Norah was telling me about a recent recess where two of her girl friends wouldn't play with her. According to her version, she walked up to them normally to ask if they wanted to play, and one of the two said, "You're being a real buttface today. We don't want to play with you." Norah was hurt (no one likes being called buttface) and confused, because she couldn't figure out what she'd done wrong. I tried to explain to her that A) girls are moody and sometimes choose to ostracize someone just because they have the power to and B) we often treat those we love the worst. I told her how horrible Uncle Ryan and I used to be to each other when we were kids, and Zach said he and Ug (his brother's weird uncle nickname) would get in wicked fights, too. It really made me think about the nature of friendships and frenemies. Why is it an accepted truth that kids are sometimes mean to each other? Why did both Zach and I kind of brush away the fact that siblings fight? If I had been truly present during the conversation I could have used it as an opportunity to teach her how things should  be instead of just how they are. I don't want my children to scream, "I hate you!" and slam their bedroom doors, no matter how aggravated they are at one another. I don't want Norah to make anyone feel left out at school. I don't want her to pick up the habits of calling her friends buttface, or any other negative term for that matter. It's sort of like how some older girls call each other bitch because they're "reappropriating the term." That doesn't work for me. I don't want to be called a bitch ever. There's a huge difference between a strong, confident woman who knows herself and what she deserves and a bitch. One of my coworkers and close friends falls on the former side of that distinction; she is tough but loving, organized and firm but creative and fun, and for anyone to call her a bitch is an insult. I aspire to be more like her, so if that makes me a bitch wannabe, so be it, but I think she's amazing. And strong and confident and put together AND nice. Those things are not mutually exclusive, and I am going to try to instill that in Norah as she continues to brave the playground.

The whole buttface debacle of 2013 also reminded me of my own recent name-calling experience. For the sake of preventing further gossip and unnecessary drama, I'm going to be intentionally vague. Let's just say someone from our past has an issue with our present and continues to run his or her mouth all over town about us. The problem is this town (like most) isn't that big, and people talk. A lot. Inevitably we have many people in common with this trash-talker who then in turn talk to us about the talk. Most of the time it's laughable, particularly because this person acts as though our existence is a non-issue. Clearly it's not if we play such a huge role in this person's mind. For my own comfort, I'd like to request that my name be removed from this person's mouth. As always, however, Zach advises that we continue to ride the high road and not give this person anything more. It's sad to me that buttface-ing does not go away with age. The specifics are unclear (and don't really matter) but I do know a "she sucks at life" was uttered. Really? That's the best you can do? My "bitchy" coworker and I have turned that into a mantra when we're having bad days. I tell her she sucks at life when something isn't going right and then we laugh it off and move on. Petty people just aren't worth the energy it takes to confront them. I still don't like name-calling, but I guess a life-sucker is better than some things I could have been called.

Here's a photo dump from the last few months. I hadn't realized it'd been so long since I'd used my camera, but there are some gems from Leslie and Alex's weddings, Levi's second Christmas, and Norah's first year as a cheerleader. Enjoy the wild life, and try sucking at life (but not name-calling).

The bridal party for the Martinsen wedding (bride is centered with blue zip-up)

Halloween. Duh.

Norah's 6th bithday!



Norah's first "friends party", with buddy Bella



Probably the best gift ever--this accompanied a framed and autographed photo of Johnny Depp and came wrapped with twine just like a pirate would do it.



Checking out one of Santa's deliveries, his very own work bench.

Now we're all out of chronology, but this was Norah's first day of kindergarten.

Most of her Tiny Mite squad--Go Slicers!

"NORAH!"

Our perky little thing

And lastly, my gorgeous best Leslie on her wedding day!

From X

Two weekends ago I accompanied a motivated, talented young student to a poetry slam. Our school does not have a slam team, nor do we have an exceptionally large hip hop culture, but he sought out the event and asked me if I would be his coach. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I was so proud of him for going after something he was interested in I knew we would figure it out together. We met once or twice a week to work on his writing and delivery. The experience seemed quite cathartic for him (as poetry often is) and I was finding some lost passion for teaching writing.

The bout (as poetry slam competitions are called) was at Columbia College. D was the only individual student to compete, and he performed toward the end of the day. I could tell he was incredibly nervous, but he got up on that stage and completely rocked his poem. He scored pretty high, but as they say, it's not about the points but about speaking your truth. Several students high fived him on his way back to our seats, and I could see his sense of accomplishment on his face. I was beyond proud.

Our new trimester began last week, and I decided to begin the course with a mini, adapted unit on poetry slams. I'm borrowing ideas from the team curriculum provided by Young Chicago Authors (check out their blog here for a glimpse into the amazing connection hip-hop and poetry can have for young people) and working in poems from our literature book. More than that, I'm attempting to get students to share their truth through the transformative, freeing power of writing. Inevitably, several students (often male) laugh at the poetry we read and write the shortest, most surface poems possible to suffice the requirements of the assignment. There's little I can do about that, but I continue to try to expose them to a variety of pieces that might affect them somehow. Another facet of this unit happened by sheer coincidence.

At Columbia College, Levi and I were roaming about the Student Commons area entertaining ourselves between performances. On a public bulletin board an anonymous letter caught my eye. I so wish I had had my phone with me so I could have taken a photo of this letter, but the gist of it was someone hurting, struggling for hope. He (I've assumed the author is male on nothing more than my gut reaction) described being diagnosed with ADD in his youth, his grandmother's passing, his parents' divorce, and his fear that there's nothing more than that pain in his future. The letter ended with a question: Have you felt this way? Please write back.

The bottom of the printed page had tear-off tabs with an email address. I knew reading this letter that I couldn't ignore it, so I grabbed a tab and stuffed it in my pocket. I wasn't sure what I would do with it, but I sensed an amazing opportunity to connect with my new students. My second hour, due to the good vibes I got from day one, became the guinea pig for this project. I described the letter to them and asked what they thought we should do. We decided to send a basic, unassuming email to the writer asking to know more. Last night, we got our first response.





"Dear Mrs. K's 10th grade 2nd hour English class,

A dream:

I am lying the basement of my house.  This is where I should have realized I was dreaming, since I live in a ramshackle apartment on the far north side, and the house I was “in” was a modern California two story.  It was the house from Paranormal Activity: 3, really. That movie was mediocre. 

I am lying in the basement of my house on an air mattress, but I cannot sleep.  I have a feeling that something is wrong, that bad things are happening and I can neither see them nor fix them.  I move the pillows from the head of the bed to the foot of the bed and try to tell myself that nothing is wrong.  That it is ok to go to sleep.  But the clawing sensation in the pit of my stomach—no, deeper than that—in the marrow of my bones, will not stop. 

When I was still engaged, young and stupid and overly excited while living with my high school sweetheart, we had a cat named Zombie that we got from a shelter. 

I am lying in the basement of my house on the opposite end of the bed now, and my cat Zombie is walking around, very aloof and catlike.  She is calm and composed. I tell myself that this means that everything is fine.  That is something was wrong, she would be upset.  I settle into the bed, content and ready to fall asleep.

Upstairs there is noise.  I stand up and head up the stairs, knowing but not knowing that everything is going to change.  Do you know that feeling?  Where you understand instinctually that bad things are right around the corner, yet you are oblivious to what they could possibly be.  I have this tattoo, on my leg, from a Bright Eyes song.  The quote it is from is “It’s like walking out of a door only to discover it is a window.”


When I get up stairs, there are two teenagers robbing me.  They are probably your age.  They are robbing me, but I cannot see what they are taking.  Possibly they are taking nothing and just using my phone.  This is a thought that crossed my mind.  There is a TV in the corner of this house, but they seem not to care.  I grab a pint glass, a tall, curving glass they reserve for low quality pilsners, smashing the rim so that I am left with a jagged weapon.  There is someone, possibly my father, who is in the bedroom upstairs.  Perhaps it is not my house.  I try to yell for help, but I make no sound.  I try to yell again, and there is the hint of a whisper caught in my throat.  In my head, I demand that my vocal cords do as I say, that they scream loud enough for someone, anyone, to hear me and help me. To save me.  The whisper turns into a mumble.  The mumble into a moan.  As the kids are running out of my house through a broken window, I throw my makeshift weapon, my mind aching with the demand for noise and the subtle cracking of a shift in reality, and as the glass misses and shatters against a wall, I emit a final yell.

I wake up in my bedroom in my apartment, screaming at the top of my lungs at my ceiling.  I am alone.  I am terribly alone.  My throat aches.  I have probably been screaming. 
This dream refuses to leave me today.  Maybe not the dream itself, but the waking up screaming.  I am not so sure this is normal, though that word has never really applied to my behavior before. 

I am spending the weekend, a long weekend, away.  Away from a romantic relationship that seems to be getting away from me, away from jobs that repress my creative talent, and away from the stagnancy that exists in a meticulously scheduled life.

Please write back,
X"




 A million thoughts run through my mind upon reading that. Part of me is amazed at that person's talent. Another part of me is skeptical that this isn't real, that perhaps it's an experiment in a psychology class to see who responds, or it's an assignment in a poetry seminar to try to establish a poetic dialogue. My students are excited about the mystery, and several of them are moved by the author's pain, so I've decided regardless of its intent, we're going to use it for good in our classroom. Tomorrow's assignment will be to respond, in narrative poetry form, to X. I'm hopeful about where this might take my second hour. Updates to come.

I need some help with my fifth hour, though. I already feel completely underwater with them. They are rowdy, loud, disruptive, and off-topic. It's so difficult to rein them in and get them all to listen to instructions. I feel like I've already lost control and it's only day 5. I don't know if I have the power to crack down and do what needs to be done to fix this. I feel like it's my fault that I'm in this position. I've felt sick several times the last few days thinking about this class, and I know that isn't right. I should be calm, cool, and collected, and refuse to let their behavior dictate how I feel. It's my classroom. But why do I feel like it's not?