Don't look down the line

Inspired by niece Alexa, I've decided to try blogging as a way to get some writing done on occasion. Amazing, I feel relief flowing through me already. I've written little in ages. I say, Oh well, I'm not really a writer, or I'd be writing...Or, when I retire... Or, next year, when my work load will surely be more under control.... Last year I planned out how to finish my MFA in creative writing. Three weeks into first semester, I realized I was risking someone dying, as in homicide, and I didn't think that would be fair to my students, who, some of them, above all, have a keen sense of justice, as in, I come to class everyday and I'm still getting an F.... I do work best under pressure. Absent sufficient pressure, I'm apparently very good at creating it for myself. Who was the writer whose editor locked him into a hotel room until he'd finished the manuscript when the deadline was looming? This morning, when I'm ostensibly editing the 400-page book that I have to finish by the end of this month, knowing full well that we're meeting friends for dinner and we'll be gone for three days next weekend, there are quite a few things I've absolutely needed to do. I'm working hard this year at taking care of myself. I refuse to do school work some nights. I don't always work all the way through lunch. I mosey up to the library during my prep to pick up a newspaper. I go to the gym. Before starting to write, I put banana and muffin on a pretty plate my daughter-in-law's mother gave me in order to treat myself while I work. I've now spent three hours not editing. I have few students for whom to write college letters of recommendation compared to some teachers--thank goodness! I wait for the moment of inspiration to come, hoping the deadline will never come. If they don't get in to their dream school, I know it will be my fault. I came close to panic on the third letter for early acceptance that I had to write this week--inspiration was apparently procrastinating, also, and the postmark deadline was twenty-four hours away. And then there is the other end of the spectrum. Yesterday was rough. I decided to teach two CAHSEE classes this year--juniors and seniors who have not yet passed the California exit exam required for graduation. I still don't understand why this is such a big thing: before the CAHSEE it was the BSA--it just wasn't called an exit exam before. The skill level was raised from eight to tenth grade for English and sixth to eighth grade for math, and the equivalent of a D is passing. The test is next week again. Some of my students could easily pass if they'd focus. Some are still working on learning English. Some will never pass. Some don't give a rip. First quarter is spent trying to earn their trust, trying to teach some of them table manners, and incidentally trying to work on curriculum. Students come and go for weeks, some overlooked during initial scheduling, some transfers from other schools, some sent to continuation schools. We have a CAHSEE counselor who is my angel. He's a retired French teacher/ principal, who quickly grasped the administrative lack of communication and support. He's a cheerleader for the kids and for me, and runs interference for me. He tells me to take care of myself. Like me, he loves them and wants them to pass more than many of them do. Like me, he wants them to get jobs, to contribute to society, to pay taxes. Across the board, however, intelligent and not so, rich, middle class, or caught in generational poverty, the numbers of students who want learning to be easy, if they have any interest in it at all, seems to grow each year. I wore myself out yesterday putting together last minute lessons to help my kids, and only a handful showed interest. I was frustrated to the point of tears. I do have truly outstanding students who are smart and incredibly motivated and still kids, too. I try to remember my high school days. I'm sure I totally frustrated my chemistry teacher by not paying attention and breaking equipment. But I did the work. My sister tutored me so I could pass. Failing was not an option. We teachers ask kids, If you don't like the class what's the point in failing and having to take it again? I offended one child yesterday by moving him because he would not stop talking and another by responding, when she said I had not given her a paper yet, that I had not forgotten, I was still putting packets together. The first refused to work; the second no longer wanted the packet. Both looked dark and pouting. Everything is someone else's fault. After school I went to the Dollar Store to get items for the test prep bags I will give the CAHSEE kids Monday before their test on Tuesday--pencil, eraser, kleenex, candy, something silly like bubbles, reminders on strategies. When the loudspeaker encouraged customers to sign up for Dollar Store email, I thought I must have been beamed up--how many of these mostly slovenly, drugged out, full body tattooed people were going to rush home to their computer? The one line was long, but the attractive young woman cashier smiling and polite. When it was my turn I remarked how calm she was under fire. "It doesn't bother me," she said. "I just don't look down the line." What a smile she brought to my face. "That's a great life philosophy," I said. Over drinks, in her artistically cozy living room, Judith told Peggy and me about her mother's passing, the warmth of family, being aware mom was crossing over as she began talking to friends who had died. Judith and I went to the Fresno symphony and experienced the playing of Joshua Bell. He dedicated his encore to the airline that had lost his luggage. Apparently his black pants and tunic top were not, as I had commented earlier to Judith, because, happily, one of the perks of being the soloist is that you get to wear whatever you want. Whatever he had planned to wear, Bell had not looked down the line. The encore, from The Red Violin, whose film score Bell had recorded, like the Mendelssohn violin concerto and the Sarasate "Gypsy Airs," was exquisite food for the soul.