This blog is as random as I am.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
BIG thoughts
Done.
Maybe that’s why I took so long to finish the 8th grade poetry book. Because on some level I knew that the completion of that would really mean the end. I mean, what do I really have left to do? Buy envelopes. Pack. Organize. Find those damn letters. Dayanara is afraid to go to high school so she’s subconsciously sabotaging herself with negative behavior. Is it all that different? Probably not.
the sheer volume of information I have in my head is overwhelming on a level I never thought possible. If I thought I could write it all down I’d try, but I don’t know how far I’d get before losing it completely. However, one skill I have perfected this year is learning to take my own advice, and practicing what I preach, so more often than not I find myself saying, “What would I tell a student who had this problem?” It works, surprisingly. I think using student strategies helps talk me down from my metacognitive cliff because a) they are good strategies, b) we are not that different and c) it keeps me humble. So, how would I advise myself?
First, a flood of ideas would deluge my mind. Then, I would consider where the student was coming from on every level I could think of, and suggest something I thought they could handle. So, what can I handle now? Right now, I need structure. I need some way to express these ideas, some medium, because or else I’ll burst (or deflate). But I think I need to structure it so I don’t freak myself out.
Marion’s idea of color coding everything is probably going to help in the later stages of this mental inventory and organization, but for now, I think I’ll just broadly compartmentalize. If I had to put all the info, duties, plans, necessities, every part of my life into three buckets, what would they be labeled?
Personal/me, curriculum, remembering as much as I can.
There. There are my buckets. So, here’s the plan which I just came up with forty five seconds ago. I’m going to carry a notebook. Or maybe a little, four-subject notebook. and I’m going to keep a running list. Listing is another thing I tell students to do, because it’s not as scary as paragraphs and sentences, and more often than not, when you take the pressure out of the equation, most of your bullet points end up being sentences or something like them anyway. But regardless, I’m going to list. Two lists for each, one on computer, one on paper. And that way, I’ll remember everything I can.
How did someone with such poor executive functioning skills by nature get a master’s degree in education? I sit, in this room, in this disastrous hellhole covered with clothes, middle school vampire literature, New Yorker magazines and school supplies, and marvel at my ability to teach nine different classes when I can barely locate my right foot. But I’m working on it. Baby steps.
Just start listing. You might miss something, a thought might fly out of your head while you’re using your brainpower to write another thought on paper, but if you never start writing, odds are you’ll lose both of those thoughts.
I wonder what a thought looks like. That would make a cool personification exercise. If you had to give a visual representation of “thought” how would you do it? Food for thought. HAH thought.
So, I’m glad I wrote all that. I’m sure it’s a mess, but the point is, I wrote it, and in doing so, I talked myself down off of my metaphorical, metacognitive cliff. I wrote to move time. Before I started, it was standing still, and I was not happy about that. I hate when time stops. It’s unnatural, illogical, impractical and wasteful, because inevitably when time starts up again, you miss the time you would have had if time hadn’t stopped. Say time stopped at 12:40 a.m. for roughly two minutes. When time starts again, it’s 12:42, and you’ve missed 120 seconds, skipped, gone, adieu.
But anyway, I hate it when time stops, and when I closed the document, it did just that. When time stops, you feel everything. Where your bangs lay on your forehead. Tongue against inside of your front teeth. Ring sliding down finger. Sometimes I swear sound slows down too, but I’m not entirely sure about that.
I don’t do well with big transitions. In fact, let’s call them negative transitions. I don’t mean bad, I mean diffused. When I suddenly have a lot less to do, and a lot more time, I flip out. The sudden loss of that is horrifying. It’s why I got depressed after running the marathon. I looked
up marathons overseas compulsively. I planned training runs. I even bought new sneakers. You need something to fill a void that size.
The real issue is that my 8th graders will be gone. My eyes are crossing with the revelation. I always tell them sometimes you have to write 5 pages of junk to get to that one great line. Well, I had to ramble about all this GodKnowsWhat to get to this place. The place where I’m going to lose a piece of myself when they go. It’s not weird or inappropriate, it’s just reality. They made me the teacher that I am today. Wow.
Need to sleep on that.
Sometimes I think I'll never have the time and energy to revise my own writing. Well, what I'm doing now is more important anyway.
Maybe that’s why I took so long to finish the 8th grade poetry book. Because on some level I knew that the completion of that would really mean the end. I mean, what do I really have left to do? Buy envelopes. Pack. Organize. Find those damn letters. Dayanara is afraid to go to high school so she’s subconsciously sabotaging herself with negative behavior. Is it all that different? Probably not.
the sheer volume of information I have in my head is overwhelming on a level I never thought possible. If I thought I could write it all down I’d try, but I don’t know how far I’d get before losing it completely. However, one skill I have perfected this year is learning to take my own advice, and practicing what I preach, so more often than not I find myself saying, “What would I tell a student who had this problem?” It works, surprisingly. I think using student strategies helps talk me down from my metacognitive cliff because a) they are good strategies, b) we are not that different and c) it keeps me humble. So, how would I advise myself?
First, a flood of ideas would deluge my mind. Then, I would consider where the student was coming from on every level I could think of, and suggest something I thought they could handle. So, what can I handle now? Right now, I need structure. I need some way to express these ideas, some medium, because or else I’ll burst (or deflate). But I think I need to structure it so I don’t freak myself out.
Marion’s idea of color coding everything is probably going to help in the later stages of this mental inventory and organization, but for now, I think I’ll just broadly compartmentalize. If I had to put all the info, duties, plans, necessities, every part of my life into three buckets, what would they be labeled?
Personal/me, curriculum, remembering as much as I can.
There. There are my buckets. So, here’s the plan which I just came up with forty five seconds ago. I’m going to carry a notebook. Or maybe a little, four-subject notebook. and I’m going to keep a running list. Listing is another thing I tell students to do, because it’s not as scary as paragraphs and sentences, and more often than not, when you take the pressure out of the equation, most of your bullet points end up being sentences or something like them anyway. But regardless, I’m going to list. Two lists for each, one on computer, one on paper. And that way, I’ll remember everything I can.
How did someone with such poor executive functioning skills by nature get a master’s degree in education? I sit, in this room, in this disastrous hellhole covered with clothes, middle school vampire literature, New Yorker magazines and school supplies, and marvel at my ability to teach nine different classes when I can barely locate my right foot. But I’m working on it. Baby steps.
Just start listing. You might miss something, a thought might fly out of your head while you’re using your brainpower to write another thought on paper, but if you never start writing, odds are you’ll lose both of those thoughts.
I wonder what a thought looks like. That would make a cool personification exercise. If you had to give a visual representation of “thought” how would you do it? Food for thought. HAH thought.
So, I’m glad I wrote all that. I’m sure it’s a mess, but the point is, I wrote it, and in doing so, I talked myself down off of my metaphorical, metacognitive cliff. I wrote to move time. Before I started, it was standing still, and I was not happy about that. I hate when time stops. It’s unnatural, illogical, impractical and wasteful, because inevitably when time starts up again, you miss the time you would have had if time hadn’t stopped. Say time stopped at 12:40 a.m. for roughly two minutes. When time starts again, it’s 12:42, and you’ve missed 120 seconds, skipped, gone, adieu.
But anyway, I hate it when time stops, and when I closed the document, it did just that. When time stops, you feel everything. Where your bangs lay on your forehead. Tongue against inside of your front teeth. Ring sliding down finger. Sometimes I swear sound slows down too, but I’m not entirely sure about that.
I don’t do well with big transitions. In fact, let’s call them negative transitions. I don’t mean bad, I mean diffused. When I suddenly have a lot less to do, and a lot more time, I flip out. The sudden loss of that is horrifying. It’s why I got depressed after running the marathon. I looked
up marathons overseas compulsively. I planned training runs. I even bought new sneakers. You need something to fill a void that size.
The real issue is that my 8th graders will be gone. My eyes are crossing with the revelation. I always tell them sometimes you have to write 5 pages of junk to get to that one great line. Well, I had to ramble about all this GodKnowsWhat to get to this place. The place where I’m going to lose a piece of myself when they go. It’s not weird or inappropriate, it’s just reality. They made me the teacher that I am today. Wow.
Need to sleep on that.
Sometimes I think I'll never have the time and energy to revise my own writing. Well, what I'm doing now is more important anyway.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Day One
Somehow, every year at around this time I find myself in the same place: a fat place.
Every year, regardless of how good or bad I look, I'm unhappy. The thing is, as far as I know (and to be truthful, I may not know as much as I think I know, given that I'm hardly an objective observer), every year it's a little bit worse. I think about past Junes, picture my figure, and say, "Wow, to think I thought THAT was fat." I reminisce about the various diets I've tried, some successful, some ridiculous. And I always wonder if it will ever end.
Last summer, I was complaining and a fellow lifeguard said, "Leah, you say you've been overweight for 5 years, and that you want to get back to your 'normal' weight? Five years is a long time. Maybe this is your new normal." It stung, cut like a knife, burned, whatever, insert all cliches denoting pain. But it really got me thinking... Is she right? What if I'm fighting a battle I can't win?
I've tried them all.
Atkins worked minimally, but was seriously unhealthy. Plus, being a vegetarian basically meant that I ate eggs and Greek salad for an entire summer, because the snack bar at the Boston Sports Club didn't sell anything else. Not a long-term plan.
South Beach worked, but I couldn't keep it up long-term.
Jenny Craig worked, but it didn't promote independence. They say you learn lessons that you can apply to your whole life diet-wise, but it's not true. Once you stop eating just Jenny meals, you're lost.
I also tried intense personal training and tons of protein. Worked, but hard to maintain.
I learned from all of them though. South Beach and Atkins taught me about how our bodies process fat, sugar, carbs, etc. Blood sugar, etc. Jenny taught me portion control, and personal training (James, I should say), taught me about the effect muscle has on the whole mix.
Now, though, I think I'm ready.
I think about what my friend said about my new normal, and I scream inside, because you know what? It's not my new normal. I am supposed to be slim. My body is built that way. I will never be skinny, because I have huge shoulders, and I'll always have lots of muscle, but I am not supposed to look like this.
I start tomorrow.
This did not turn out to be good writing. It was more like word vomit, that I had to get out of my brain.
That's okay.
XOXO_Mc
Every year, regardless of how good or bad I look, I'm unhappy. The thing is, as far as I know (and to be truthful, I may not know as much as I think I know, given that I'm hardly an objective observer), every year it's a little bit worse. I think about past Junes, picture my figure, and say, "Wow, to think I thought THAT was fat." I reminisce about the various diets I've tried, some successful, some ridiculous. And I always wonder if it will ever end.
Last summer, I was complaining and a fellow lifeguard said, "Leah, you say you've been overweight for 5 years, and that you want to get back to your 'normal' weight? Five years is a long time. Maybe this is your new normal." It stung, cut like a knife, burned, whatever, insert all cliches denoting pain. But it really got me thinking... Is she right? What if I'm fighting a battle I can't win?
I've tried them all.
Atkins worked minimally, but was seriously unhealthy. Plus, being a vegetarian basically meant that I ate eggs and Greek salad for an entire summer, because the snack bar at the Boston Sports Club didn't sell anything else. Not a long-term plan.
South Beach worked, but I couldn't keep it up long-term.
Jenny Craig worked, but it didn't promote independence. They say you learn lessons that you can apply to your whole life diet-wise, but it's not true. Once you stop eating just Jenny meals, you're lost.
I also tried intense personal training and tons of protein. Worked, but hard to maintain.
I learned from all of them though. South Beach and Atkins taught me about how our bodies process fat, sugar, carbs, etc. Blood sugar, etc. Jenny taught me portion control, and personal training (James, I should say), taught me about the effect muscle has on the whole mix.
Now, though, I think I'm ready.
I think about what my friend said about my new normal, and I scream inside, because you know what? It's not my new normal. I am supposed to be slim. My body is built that way. I will never be skinny, because I have huge shoulders, and I'll always have lots of muscle, but I am not supposed to look like this.
I start tomorrow.
This did not turn out to be good writing. It was more like word vomit, that I had to get out of my brain.
That's okay.
XOXO_Mc
Monday, June 01, 2009
Ruminations
My feelings for them can be compared to the feelings you experience when you see a hardened, whored-out woman walking towards you on the street. I don’t mean faux-trashy BU undergrads with their black stockings torn by French-manicured nails, I mean the woman whose hair could be dyed or dirty, anybody’s guess. She’s tattooed, pierced in nineteen places, her eye makeup smeared, stumbling down the street. Half of you recoils in disgust and wants to sterilize the ground she's walking on, and the other half wants to reach out to her, give her a damp towel, and hug her, asking, "How did absolutely everything go wrong for you?"
But at the end of the experience, you realize that this is a fleeting moment of horrified pity, five seconds in your life, the life of a person that can afford five second breaks to think about things like that. On second six, your mind returns to whether Kenmore Square will be mobbed, if the gas gauge is accurate, what you’re going to teach tomorrow, what leftovers wait in the fridge. You can't stop for more than five seconds. You can’t let either half win, because you have to live your life and not get sucked in.
But at the end of the experience, you realize that this is a fleeting moment of horrified pity, five seconds in your life, the life of a person that can afford five second breaks to think about things like that. On second six, your mind returns to whether Kenmore Square will be mobbed, if the gas gauge is accurate, what you’re going to teach tomorrow, what leftovers wait in the fridge. You can't stop for more than five seconds. You can’t let either half win, because you have to live your life and not get sucked in.
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