I was given the responsibility of conducting a 30 minute Phys Ed class for 6th graders at the conclusion of each Tuesday and Thursday, a task I felt more than ready for. And what sport was I assigned? Soccer! Ahhhhh soccer, the sport I know so much about and love so much for its simplicity. 1 Ball. 2 Goals. Even teams. Use your feet. Put the ball in the goal however you can. I was easin' to a sneezin' with this one.
I planned out how I would methodically teach these miscreants to master the graceful art of soccer. Start with dribbling. Get them some feeling of how far forward they are able to push the ball without losing control. Give them some confidence that they can play the game at its simplest level. Move on to passing. Show how using teammates is beneficial to the overall team goal. Use the instep. Maybe some shooting. Head balls. Short-sided scrimmages. Yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. These ideas and others converged to teh forefront of my brain. I couldn't wait to start.
Stupid Dan. Nothing's as simple as it ever seems. 3 soccer balls? 3??? And 2 volleyballs to be used as soccer balls? No pinnies? I overlooked 3 simple concepts in my grandiose scheme to instill soccer as a staple at Larchmont Elementary School:
1. I wasn't at a suburban school outfitted with supplies galore. This suburban school was poor.
2. Teaching 50 kids at once is like trying to tame a beehive.
3. I underestimated the discipline it takes to slowly and meticulously learn the skills I had acquired over years of play. My goal was to introduce the kids slowly, to not play any games in the first two weeks in the hopes they wouldn't understand the greater joys of running after and aimlessly kicking a ball. They didn't appreciate this tactic one bit. They knew. Ohhhh did they know how much fun a real soccer game is. The complaining began within the first 10 minutes of cone dribbling. Damn it.
4. The lack of sports structure inherent in Larchmont students that wealthier students obtain from playing at a young age. What I mean by this is that in sports there is a coach. There are teammates. There are opponents. They are all parts to a whole, each with it's own objective. They have meaning. This environment, however, more closely resemebles an exchange floor on Wall Street. There is no real leader (as I should be, as teh "coach"). It isn't a lack of respect, it's more that they are not used to following instructions while outdoors. Outside is just their playpen with no rules. It's more important to them to tell me about how they got pushed than to stop the other team from scoring a goal right in front of them. It's little things such as this that add up to a kind of controlled pandemonium in that they know the boundaries and rules, but not how to best employ them to their (and their teams) advantage.
I can't compare these kids to others, since I have not taught another PE class. I did, however, do a one day stint at a well-organized soccer camp near my home, and it was nothing like this. My dreams of creating future superstars was ruined.
We now stick to playing only 6 on 6. Just let them run around. It's demoralizing, but it's too late in their lives already to change some things. At this stage, it's more important to let them run around and get energy out than try to teach them the skills and structure of excelling at sports.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Giving Blood
I gave blood earlier this year in Sacramento. Signed up on a bulletin board and everything. 5:00 pm. A traveling van showed up at the old McClellan airforce base (where I live) with white-clad doctor-looking people inside. I'd never given blood before, but I knew it was for a good cause and although needles aren't exactly my type, I decided that I'd still give'em a shot (no pun intended). I admit it, I was nervous. Naturally, they sat me down and assisted me through ample amounts of paperwork did nothing but increase my trepidation. Phrases like "in case of emergency" and "faintness and dizziness may occur" didn't help. After about 30 minutes the paperwork was done, and they sat me on a dentist chair type of thing and chatted me up. Although their friendliness did ease my nerves slightly, I couldn't help but notice the needle they were fashioning. Then came the old smiling face that says "this will pinch a little bit". Wham bam thank ya ma'am, and just like that there's a tube in my arm, my own blood coursing through it. Whatever, it's over with. I'm home free. Finish this up and get me out of here.
The point of this post is to let you in on a little secret of the red cross blood giving system. As I jumped out of the seat with the intent of whirling out of there as fast as possible, the nurse told me that I had to stick around for 15 minutes and relax. What the fuck? I thought. No wonder nobody gives blood, this sucks ass. She led me to a back room, told me to sit down. And eat. Placed in front of me were the munchies of a stoner's dream. Oreos, Grandma's soft moist delicious chocolate chocolate chip cookies and chips ahoy to mention only a few. The nurse told me to just dig in. For the first time in my life, it was asked of me to stuff my face with all the foods that arouse the guilt in conscience. And I was famished. Low blood sugar, meet cracker jacks. It was awesome.
Why doesn't the Red Cross advertise this? Wouldn't a whole bunch of stoners sign up to give blood if only for the feast afterwards? I think they are missing a huge chunk of society that would not normally give blood, but would consider it with this new added incentive.
The point of this post is to let you in on a little secret of the red cross blood giving system. As I jumped out of the seat with the intent of whirling out of there as fast as possible, the nurse told me that I had to stick around for 15 minutes and relax. What the fuck? I thought. No wonder nobody gives blood, this sucks ass. She led me to a back room, told me to sit down. And eat. Placed in front of me were the munchies of a stoner's dream. Oreos, Grandma's soft moist delicious chocolate chocolate chip cookies and chips ahoy to mention only a few. The nurse told me to just dig in. For the first time in my life, it was asked of me to stuff my face with all the foods that arouse the guilt in conscience. And I was famished. Low blood sugar, meet cracker jacks. It was awesome.
Why doesn't the Red Cross advertise this? Wouldn't a whole bunch of stoners sign up to give blood if only for the feast afterwards? I think they are missing a huge chunk of society that would not normally give blood, but would consider it with this new added incentive.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
here we goooooo
ooooh boy if you are reading this right now you have just entered a world of random thoughts and anecdotes. I've been off the blog-path for a while now (apologies and a shout out to my 3 loyal followers: Mom, sister, and summer roommate/good high school friend), owing mostly to the fact that I don't feel like I have anything outstandingly witty, intelligent or even interesting to say. I could talk about my trip to Lake Tahoe (thanksgiving with Jules and Jon (home friends), snowboarding, gambling, natural beauty, AWESOME) or my excursion to the Napa wine country (wine is one of my new favorite items, day wine drunk, a tractor parade, team bonding, REDICULOUSLY FUN), but it's not what I want from this journal/blog. Those would be great to write down if I plan on looking back in 20 years and remembering all I did at the tail end of the year 2009, but that won't happen for various reasons, some possibilities include, but are not limited to: The end of the world (roughly 2012), the end of the website www.blogger.com (ha I was wondering if they would make it a blue hyperlink as a form of self-promotion), or the fact that anything on the internet is not really tangible (we could wake up tomorrow and the whole internet may be gone and we'd have lost a lot worse than my journal (I wouldn't be worried about the journal)). Also, when will I remember in 20 years that, oh yea, I wrote a blog about Americorps on the website blogger.com, I should go check that out! I need a new paragraph, so I'll wrap this one up with this: I will no longer ignorantly try to impress my readers (who are all just my closest companions anyways) but instead try to go through my actual thought processes on the topic at hand. This will entertain (maybe help?) me when I am holding down a sick office job starting next fall (hopefully.)
There are a number of reasons why I'm writing this at 12:24 AM two nights before Christmas:
1. I took a hydrocorsomethingsomething (painkiller) after getting my mouth raped and pillaged this morning by misseur dentist, which may have screwed up any vague resemblance of a sleeping schedule I had.
2. The west coast time is catching up to me now (making it 9:30 PM in my head)
3. While lying in bed (I just realized this should be #1), I thought about how my psyche has been doing since "the incident" (I got slammed in the mouth with a table). And I started really thinking. I thougth about how I really felt and how I was reacting to the pain and (for lack of a less dramatic word) misery. I'll get to this later, but I decided that, if my past has proven anything, there is almost 0% chance I wake up tomorrow and write something in here that would remotely resemble what I am thinking right now. This will now get difficult because further writing will require mixing of tenses, something I've never been good at. So I'll end it at that.
Those are the 3 reasons I'm writing right now. #3 led to a tangent while i was lying down. I think all humans have inspiration now and then, but there are those who act on it and those who don't. I'm one who doesn't. I think the ones who do act on it are labeled the more artsy, creative people, while those who don't are more cut and dry, not because they don't have ideas, just that they don't find them worthwhile to document, or it's too late at night, or something or other. This thought inspired me, while fully ready for bed and trying to sleep, to go downstairs, get my computer, and bring it to my room to write. I'll lose sleep. I'll break out in zits from going to bed too late (not really sure if this is true but I needed a second argument for just going to bed.) Now it's a race against my computer's battery life.
So I had "the incident". I got too drunk and got whacked by a table. Not really a heroes reason for going to the hospital. It's accidents like these that everyone gets praised for being tough and brave throughout all the adversity. And that's what I want to do. I want people to view me as having been solemn but thoughtful, to have been very brave to come through the other side of this without much complaint. To learn something from it, and become a better, stronger person. And there are all these newspaper headlines about bravery and courage and heroics (I watch too much sports). And I want my own headline: "Boy amazingly survives tragic table to mouth injury and teaches others to do so also." This would show my toughness and resolve to the world. But when that headline doesn't exist, there's this side of you that just screams "WHYYYY DIDDD THISSSS HAPPPPENNNN TOO MEEEEEEEE???? I DON'T CARE HOW MUCH OF A WUSS I AM JUST END THE PAAAINNNNNNNN!!!! CAN'T WE FIX THIS IN A DAY WITH ALL THE NEW TECHNOLOGY? STOP CREATING SMART PHONES AND MAKE A NEW WAY TO FIX TEETH QUICKER. AAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!! (You get the idea.)
And I keep going back and forth. I'll be tough as long as you notice that I'm being tough and commend me, at which point I'll be a pansy for a little while and feel bad about it inside and go back to "tough dan". Perhaps normal, perhaps animalistic (think dog.) It's frustrating that I can't always be tough, like they are in the news.
It's also not fair that when I'm in pain or want pity, I can't just be myself and have a flowing conversation. I really want to, I try so hard. But again, I'm not "tough enough". I end up breaking down and staring ahead waiting for some kind of pity or nursing the pain. My head just can't focus on anybody else when I need to concentrate on my own ailments. I'm not tough enough. Or I'm selfish. But not really. I'M THE ONE HURT! Is that selfish? I think that's why some people (such as myself) cope really badly with getting hurt to the point of needing assistance because they dont' know how to respond to people's sympathies (empathies?) very well. Some go about it in different ways than I do, but the concept is the same: There's the "want" to act normally that isn't possible, which they blame on themselves for not being "tough enough."
Another thought I had while trying to sleep earlier was how nice it feels phsyically recovering from an injury. The first relative time, whether its an hour for a cut, a day for a hangover, or a couple days for the old case of table-to-mouth) you feel no aching or throbbing is the one of the best feelings in the world. All those ailments that hampered you and brought you down are out the window. You can finally begin to live the way you used to, the normal way. This is an homage to that moment in time, when everything again feels right with the world.
I hope to keep writing like this, to grab the computer and go. Not think about it. But who knows? In the future I may decide to let the creative side in me be overtaken by the practical one. But these moments of inspiration sure are nice.
One last short thing. We all need to stop trying to "one up" each other in imple conversations. I am the worst offender. let the other guy go. Listen. Have compassion. I feel too much of human communication is conducted like a boxing match. Duck, jab, avoid. Not a good way to communicate.
There are a number of reasons why I'm writing this at 12:24 AM two nights before Christmas:
1. I took a hydrocorsomethingsomething (painkiller) after getting my mouth raped and pillaged this morning by misseur dentist, which may have screwed up any vague resemblance of a sleeping schedule I had.
2. The west coast time is catching up to me now (making it 9:30 PM in my head)
3. While lying in bed (I just realized this should be #1), I thought about how my psyche has been doing since "the incident" (I got slammed in the mouth with a table). And I started really thinking. I thougth about how I really felt and how I was reacting to the pain and (for lack of a less dramatic word) misery. I'll get to this later, but I decided that, if my past has proven anything, there is almost 0% chance I wake up tomorrow and write something in here that would remotely resemble what I am thinking right now. This will now get difficult because further writing will require mixing of tenses, something I've never been good at. So I'll end it at that.
Those are the 3 reasons I'm writing right now. #3 led to a tangent while i was lying down. I think all humans have inspiration now and then, but there are those who act on it and those who don't. I'm one who doesn't. I think the ones who do act on it are labeled the more artsy, creative people, while those who don't are more cut and dry, not because they don't have ideas, just that they don't find them worthwhile to document, or it's too late at night, or something or other. This thought inspired me, while fully ready for bed and trying to sleep, to go downstairs, get my computer, and bring it to my room to write. I'll lose sleep. I'll break out in zits from going to bed too late (not really sure if this is true but I needed a second argument for just going to bed.) Now it's a race against my computer's battery life.
So I had "the incident". I got too drunk and got whacked by a table. Not really a heroes reason for going to the hospital. It's accidents like these that everyone gets praised for being tough and brave throughout all the adversity. And that's what I want to do. I want people to view me as having been solemn but thoughtful, to have been very brave to come through the other side of this without much complaint. To learn something from it, and become a better, stronger person. And there are all these newspaper headlines about bravery and courage and heroics (I watch too much sports). And I want my own headline: "Boy amazingly survives tragic table to mouth injury and teaches others to do so also." This would show my toughness and resolve to the world. But when that headline doesn't exist, there's this side of you that just screams "WHYYYY DIDDD THISSSS HAPPPPENNNN TOO MEEEEEEEE???? I DON'T CARE HOW MUCH OF A WUSS I AM JUST END THE PAAAINNNNNNNN!!!! CAN'T WE FIX THIS IN A DAY WITH ALL THE NEW TECHNOLOGY? STOP CREATING SMART PHONES AND MAKE A NEW WAY TO FIX TEETH QUICKER. AAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!! (You get the idea.)
And I keep going back and forth. I'll be tough as long as you notice that I'm being tough and commend me, at which point I'll be a pansy for a little while and feel bad about it inside and go back to "tough dan". Perhaps normal, perhaps animalistic (think dog.) It's frustrating that I can't always be tough, like they are in the news.
It's also not fair that when I'm in pain or want pity, I can't just be myself and have a flowing conversation. I really want to, I try so hard. But again, I'm not "tough enough". I end up breaking down and staring ahead waiting for some kind of pity or nursing the pain. My head just can't focus on anybody else when I need to concentrate on my own ailments. I'm not tough enough. Or I'm selfish. But not really. I'M THE ONE HURT! Is that selfish? I think that's why some people (such as myself) cope really badly with getting hurt to the point of needing assistance because they dont' know how to respond to people's sympathies (empathies?) very well. Some go about it in different ways than I do, but the concept is the same: There's the "want" to act normally that isn't possible, which they blame on themselves for not being "tough enough."
Another thought I had while trying to sleep earlier was how nice it feels phsyically recovering from an injury. The first relative time, whether its an hour for a cut, a day for a hangover, or a couple days for the old case of table-to-mouth) you feel no aching or throbbing is the one of the best feelings in the world. All those ailments that hampered you and brought you down are out the window. You can finally begin to live the way you used to, the normal way. This is an homage to that moment in time, when everything again feels right with the world.
I hope to keep writing like this, to grab the computer and go. Not think about it. But who knows? In the future I may decide to let the creative side in me be overtaken by the practical one. But these moments of inspiration sure are nice.
One last short thing. We all need to stop trying to "one up" each other in imple conversations. I am the worst offender. let the other guy go. Listen. Have compassion. I feel too much of human communication is conducted like a boxing match. Duck, jab, avoid. Not a good way to communicate.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Doin' It
Decided that I'm having 3 key difficulties in my job working with underprivileged elementary students:
1. Keeping up constant energy / patience - There comes a point when you want to blow up and just yell and accept nothing less than perfect manners from every kid you ever encounter in your future. But you can't. You just want to yell at them to stop being kids. Just be like me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
UNDERSTAND WHAT I SAY YOU STUPID LITTLE SHIT! Makes me think of when I was in elementary school. Not even elementary school, but high school. I wreaked havoc in my 11th grade Spanish class, for no particular reason. Just some girls to impress and some bros to clown around with. Your mindset is totally different when you have to be there. I doubt I was much better in elementary school. Karma really is a dirty ho.
2. Trying to think like them - Trying not to toot my own horn, but most subjects in school were not hard for me. I had a good family and a great nursery school and kindergarten. When I switched from Private elementary to Public I felt pretty ahead of the game. None of the kids I work with has ever been ahead of the game. It's always a fight to catch up. There are smart kids at the school, but I don't work with them. I deal with the neglected, oppressed kids who were never taught teh value of education. The term "oppressed" was included because of a 2nd grade boy I work with. 2nd grade. Can't get through the alphabet. But this boy can color. Today was the first time we had to color-in outlined objects. He was creative, and always kept his creativity inside the boundaries of the guidelines. Not many second graders can draw without going crazy with the colors and shapes in the end. But there we were still trying to teach him the difference bewteen 'm' and 'n'. "EM!!!" "EN!!!" You stupid little bastard how do you not get this... He just has a different mind. What do we do about kids like this?
3. Balancing helping and being a distraction - Example: I've learned you can't sit cross-legged on teh floor with kids under 2nd grade if there is an group activity that requires there attention. They can't focus on the teacher, because they're climbing all over you. It seems at first thought that getting right in there with the kids would be beneficial, but it backfires. Example 2: In 6th grade, I miss the math lectures but come in for tutoring and homework help. Since I don't know how the material was taught to them, I sometimes teach a method they've never seen before. They don't always realize it's accomplishing the same thing just in a different manner. They think they've learned 2 topics. But now I need to keep asking the teacher if this is the right way to go, and that gets annoying for them.
Funny moment today:
Scene: 1st grade. Early morning. We are learning teh different between minutes and hours by asking the kids to count upwards from zero when we set a 1 minute timer. Ideally, they would count to 60. (60 minutes in an hour.) When it was done, the teacher asked the students what they got. Abotu 6 hands went up:
1st student: 89 seconds (reasonable, kids count fast, whatever, no big deal)
2nd: 134 seconds (errr... kinda totally off but acceptable)
3rd: 9 seconds (Yeaaaaa, she didn't understand the game...)
4th: A pause, a look around teh room, then... 10 seconds (Obviously copying the 3rd students answer)
5th: the last student went with... 8:30. A short silence ensued while everyone pondered that answer internally. I cracked a cheshire cat grin.
1. Keeping up constant energy / patience - There comes a point when you want to blow up and just yell and accept nothing less than perfect manners from every kid you ever encounter in your future. But you can't. You just want to yell at them to stop being kids. Just be like me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
UNDERSTAND WHAT I SAY YOU STUPID LITTLE SHIT! Makes me think of when I was in elementary school. Not even elementary school, but high school. I wreaked havoc in my 11th grade Spanish class, for no particular reason. Just some girls to impress and some bros to clown around with. Your mindset is totally different when you have to be there. I doubt I was much better in elementary school. Karma really is a dirty ho.
2. Trying to think like them - Trying not to toot my own horn, but most subjects in school were not hard for me. I had a good family and a great nursery school and kindergarten. When I switched from Private elementary to Public I felt pretty ahead of the game. None of the kids I work with has ever been ahead of the game. It's always a fight to catch up. There are smart kids at the school, but I don't work with them. I deal with the neglected, oppressed kids who were never taught teh value of education. The term "oppressed" was included because of a 2nd grade boy I work with. 2nd grade. Can't get through the alphabet. But this boy can color. Today was the first time we had to color-in outlined objects. He was creative, and always kept his creativity inside the boundaries of the guidelines. Not many second graders can draw without going crazy with the colors and shapes in the end. But there we were still trying to teach him the difference bewteen 'm' and 'n'. "EM!!!" "EN!!!" You stupid little bastard how do you not get this... He just has a different mind. What do we do about kids like this?
3. Balancing helping and being a distraction - Example: I've learned you can't sit cross-legged on teh floor with kids under 2nd grade if there is an group activity that requires there attention. They can't focus on the teacher, because they're climbing all over you. It seems at first thought that getting right in there with the kids would be beneficial, but it backfires. Example 2: In 6th grade, I miss the math lectures but come in for tutoring and homework help. Since I don't know how the material was taught to them, I sometimes teach a method they've never seen before. They don't always realize it's accomplishing the same thing just in a different manner. They think they've learned 2 topics. But now I need to keep asking the teacher if this is the right way to go, and that gets annoying for them.
Funny moment today:
Scene: 1st grade. Early morning. We are learning teh different between minutes and hours by asking the kids to count upwards from zero when we set a 1 minute timer. Ideally, they would count to 60. (60 minutes in an hour.) When it was done, the teacher asked the students what they got. Abotu 6 hands went up:
1st student: 89 seconds (reasonable, kids count fast, whatever, no big deal)
2nd: 134 seconds (errr... kinda totally off but acceptable)
3rd: 9 seconds (Yeaaaaa, she didn't understand the game...)
4th: A pause, a look around teh room, then... 10 seconds (Obviously copying the 3rd students answer)
5th: the last student went with... 8:30. A short silence ensued while everyone pondered that answer internally. I cracked a cheshire cat grin.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
I was thinking about this at some point today:
What's the goal of a teacher? To educate kids as best as he or she can. To teach. And why is he or she teaching? Because it's a way to make a living, to earn money to feed and shelter themselves and their families. But beyond that, teachers exist because they get satisfaction from some thing that they do. I could be wrong. Maybe some teachers hate their job, but continue it because they don't know what else to do or have no other options. In an ideal world, this wouldn't be the case, so I'm ignoring that option. So teachers gain satisfaction from seeing their students learn and watching them progress. The question I posed to myself was: Do they give up their own potential wealth to educate the next generation? Or, better said, do teachers think of their jobs as a service to the community and country?
Lots of jobs make more money than teachers do. Assuming that money correlates with happiness (it's been proven that it does until a certain high income level is reached than it levels off), it would seem that our life goal would be to reach that point of income where the highest level of happiness is achieved. Basically, most people would prefer more income than the average grade school teacher makes. That made me wonder: How big a sacrifice does a schoolteacher make? At this point, it would seem to be a large one, but I'm positive that none of them view it as a sacrifice. I guess the final question I can pose is: How many grade school teachers would prefer to work at an attainable, but stereotypical, office job that makes significantly more income yearly?
I want to know the answer to this question. Of course their are a million more variables, like age, location, marital status, etc. that determine why teachers choose to teach, but I'm curious right now as to what kind of people America's core of teachers are.
What's the goal of a teacher? To educate kids as best as he or she can. To teach. And why is he or she teaching? Because it's a way to make a living, to earn money to feed and shelter themselves and their families. But beyond that, teachers exist because they get satisfaction from some thing that they do. I could be wrong. Maybe some teachers hate their job, but continue it because they don't know what else to do or have no other options. In an ideal world, this wouldn't be the case, so I'm ignoring that option. So teachers gain satisfaction from seeing their students learn and watching them progress. The question I posed to myself was: Do they give up their own potential wealth to educate the next generation? Or, better said, do teachers think of their jobs as a service to the community and country?
Lots of jobs make more money than teachers do. Assuming that money correlates with happiness (it's been proven that it does until a certain high income level is reached than it levels off), it would seem that our life goal would be to reach that point of income where the highest level of happiness is achieved. Basically, most people would prefer more income than the average grade school teacher makes. That made me wonder: How big a sacrifice does a schoolteacher make? At this point, it would seem to be a large one, but I'm positive that none of them view it as a sacrifice. I guess the final question I can pose is: How many grade school teachers would prefer to work at an attainable, but stereotypical, office job that makes significantly more income yearly?
I want to know the answer to this question. Of course their are a million more variables, like age, location, marital status, etc. that determine why teachers choose to teach, but I'm curious right now as to what kind of people America's core of teachers are.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Hoochie Mama
Fast times at Larchmont School... Things are flying by. I've gotten into a pretty good routine. We need to arrive at the school by 7:30 AM, when breakfast starts. For whatever reason, we leave campus at 7:10 and get settled in to the teachers lounge by 7:20 (Larchmont is very close.) Next, everyone stares blankly straight ahead for 10 minutes. Every once in a while someone (me) mutters a stupid conversation starter that holds for about 30 seconds. Then we stare blankly again for 2 minutes. Dread makes people mute I guess.
My least favorite part of the day is from 7:30 to 8:15, when the kids show up in the cafeteria for breakfast, much wider awake then any of us. Why do all elementary school cafeterias have that funny smell to them? At least the two I've experienced had it. I think it's because little kids waste so much food. "Yes I'll have some peaches." "No, I won't eat any of them, but I will throw them in the garbage." Whatever the reason, the whole place smells like a mix of compost and floor cleaner.
Talking to the kids isn't really hard, it's just the resulting strain on the larynx (isn't that in your throat somewhere?) that's the problem. I act so damn fake that it hurts my throat. My voice is too high. My compassion is obviously spurious. Of course they don't know. They're kids. It's just exhausting. It's the part of the day where I do the most talking to a group of kids at once. You may be calling me a pansy, but it's rougher than you think.
My favorite part of the day is working with a 6th grade girl named Eliza. She's hispanic, not sure where her parent(s) are from. She gets special tutoring because she's so freakin far behind (she recently transferred from anotehr school.) I began by trying to explain what the rest of the class was doing (multiplying fractions), but I quickly backtracked to counting backwards from 30. But her progress has been astounding. She didn't have any confidence. She had learned a lot of the stuff I covered over the past 3 days beforehand, but didn't want to use it or be wrong. We shot through adding, subtracting, multiplying, and we're now on long division. She just did 112/8 flawlessly today. Bet most of you fuckers can't do that without your handy cell phone calculator. I felt like a proud parent. She's opened up a lot to me and told of her 4 siblings and parents. I met her little brother and he's the cutest little dude. But her parents speak little to no English. Tough.
Other than these parts, the day is pretty standard. I don't know if I mentioned in previous posts, but I work with 1st graders and 6th graders. The first graders my job is just to be there and help the ones lagging behind. 6th graders I usually tutor math to 2 at a time. It's rewarding. The days go fast. Can't ask for much more.
What else do you want to hear about? I'm struggling to think of things that will interest...
Late for dinner...
My least favorite part of the day is from 7:30 to 8:15, when the kids show up in the cafeteria for breakfast, much wider awake then any of us. Why do all elementary school cafeterias have that funny smell to them? At least the two I've experienced had it. I think it's because little kids waste so much food. "Yes I'll have some peaches." "No, I won't eat any of them, but I will throw them in the garbage." Whatever the reason, the whole place smells like a mix of compost and floor cleaner.
Talking to the kids isn't really hard, it's just the resulting strain on the larynx (isn't that in your throat somewhere?) that's the problem. I act so damn fake that it hurts my throat. My voice is too high. My compassion is obviously spurious. Of course they don't know. They're kids. It's just exhausting. It's the part of the day where I do the most talking to a group of kids at once. You may be calling me a pansy, but it's rougher than you think.
My favorite part of the day is working with a 6th grade girl named Eliza. She's hispanic, not sure where her parent(s) are from. She gets special tutoring because she's so freakin far behind (she recently transferred from anotehr school.) I began by trying to explain what the rest of the class was doing (multiplying fractions), but I quickly backtracked to counting backwards from 30. But her progress has been astounding. She didn't have any confidence. She had learned a lot of the stuff I covered over the past 3 days beforehand, but didn't want to use it or be wrong. We shot through adding, subtracting, multiplying, and we're now on long division. She just did 112/8 flawlessly today. Bet most of you fuckers can't do that without your handy cell phone calculator. I felt like a proud parent. She's opened up a lot to me and told of her 4 siblings and parents. I met her little brother and he's the cutest little dude. But her parents speak little to no English. Tough.
Other than these parts, the day is pretty standard. I don't know if I mentioned in previous posts, but I work with 1st graders and 6th graders. The first graders my job is just to be there and help the ones lagging behind. 6th graders I usually tutor math to 2 at a time. It's rewarding. The days go fast. Can't ask for much more.
What else do you want to hear about? I'm struggling to think of things that will interest...
Late for dinner...
Monday, November 23, 2009
Moving Mayhem
Remember when my pod got separated and divided into new "teams" that would be ours for the next 9 ish months? Well, with that separation came a change in rooms so that we could be closer to the team. We all moved to the hall where our Team Leader resides to make communication easier. Or we were supposed to...
First off, don't ever tell 300 people to move their rooms at the same time, it's fuckin pandemonium. There were traffic jams up and down the stairs. Trying to switch buildings was like playing Mario Kart in Reverse Mode at Toad's Turnpike. There was clothes strewn about that had fallen out of hampers and unzipped duffel bags. People were getting clotheslined by bed posts (not really but it sounds cool.) It became very clear why traffic exists on the roads.
I got to my room, saw that my roommate had already moved his stuff in, and plopped my last bags down by the open bed. I vaguely started unpacking (even made my bed) before I decided to try and visualize my new roommate by looking at his shit. Well, first thing I saw was Mickey Mouse bed sheets. Ok, so he's a little childish, maybe a momma's boy (I have odd-colored light purple sheets so I can't judge on sheets alone). Next, I saw a white tank top sticking out of the duffel bag. An immature, white trashy meat stick? Unlikely, but not implausible. I got a little nervous at this point. The next thing I hear from across the bathroom door that connects to the other suite is "Christina... are you in there?" A girl I vaguely know named Finley bounds into the room and we stare at each other for a split second, than grin. Hi, suite mate.
So it turns out they roomed me with a girl in a suite with all girls. Why can nobody understand the name Ari? Even after Entourage? I thought that show would be my coming out party in the world of jewish names. I met Christina, a rather shy asian girl. I asked her how she'd feel living with a dude, and she said that she didn't mind. The other suite mates agreed. I even worked in some of the dano charm in the hope to stay there. Alas, the Americorps higher ups did not approve, and moved me within the hour, to a room one floor higher and on the opposite end of the hall. In hindsight, I don't think I would've lasted long in that room. Not many appreciate the socialist style of living where everyone in the room owns everything, and "everything" is usually located somewhere on the floor. Just pick through it damn it. It's gotta be there somewhere.
As I said earlier, now I live just far enough away to make meeting with my team a bit of a drag. It's mostly mental. Realistically it's about 50 steps away, but when you leave your water bottle in your room consistently, it gets old walking the route again. Not only do I miss out on a lot of the gossip going down amongst the team, I also miss such important things as "departure time" and "dinner time" if they forget to text me. To make matters worse, only 5 teams are left on campus right now. Guess how many live on my floor. 0. I have an entire floor and suite to myself. I'm still convinced they intentionally quarantined me after the results of my shots came in. I wonder what disease I've got...
It sounds great at first, a whole suite to oneself. But it's lonely. I try to spread out the clothes lying around the floor as much as possible, but that empty bed across the room still glares at me. It's also always dark in the hallways, because I can't find the light switch. My team may or may not think I'm a totally dependent mooch from the amount of time I spend in their rooms. I hope I'm kidding.
Not much new has happened. Been a little slow at Larchmont because of Thanksgiving this week. They have the whole week off. We went to the school today and weeded the gardens and helped the injured janitor (we think he strained his hip flexor) get the rooms cleaned. Of course he doesn't go to a doctor due to a fear of paperwork. He is orginally Guatamalen and speaks minimal english. It sucks. I recommended ice and rest, but he says he can't sleep it hurts so much. Send a prayer to Isea for a quick recovery.
I'm missing everyone quite a bit, just had to throw that out there. I presume you knew, but it means something more in writing. Be good.
First off, don't ever tell 300 people to move their rooms at the same time, it's fuckin pandemonium. There were traffic jams up and down the stairs. Trying to switch buildings was like playing Mario Kart in Reverse Mode at Toad's Turnpike. There was clothes strewn about that had fallen out of hampers and unzipped duffel bags. People were getting clotheslined by bed posts (not really but it sounds cool.) It became very clear why traffic exists on the roads.
I got to my room, saw that my roommate had already moved his stuff in, and plopped my last bags down by the open bed. I vaguely started unpacking (even made my bed) before I decided to try and visualize my new roommate by looking at his shit. Well, first thing I saw was Mickey Mouse bed sheets. Ok, so he's a little childish, maybe a momma's boy (I have odd-colored light purple sheets so I can't judge on sheets alone). Next, I saw a white tank top sticking out of the duffel bag. An immature, white trashy meat stick? Unlikely, but not implausible. I got a little nervous at this point. The next thing I hear from across the bathroom door that connects to the other suite is "Christina... are you in there?" A girl I vaguely know named Finley bounds into the room and we stare at each other for a split second, than grin. Hi, suite mate.
So it turns out they roomed me with a girl in a suite with all girls. Why can nobody understand the name Ari? Even after Entourage? I thought that show would be my coming out party in the world of jewish names. I met Christina, a rather shy asian girl. I asked her how she'd feel living with a dude, and she said that she didn't mind. The other suite mates agreed. I even worked in some of the dano charm in the hope to stay there. Alas, the Americorps higher ups did not approve, and moved me within the hour, to a room one floor higher and on the opposite end of the hall. In hindsight, I don't think I would've lasted long in that room. Not many appreciate the socialist style of living where everyone in the room owns everything, and "everything" is usually located somewhere on the floor. Just pick through it damn it. It's gotta be there somewhere.
As I said earlier, now I live just far enough away to make meeting with my team a bit of a drag. It's mostly mental. Realistically it's about 50 steps away, but when you leave your water bottle in your room consistently, it gets old walking the route again. Not only do I miss out on a lot of the gossip going down amongst the team, I also miss such important things as "departure time" and "dinner time" if they forget to text me. To make matters worse, only 5 teams are left on campus right now. Guess how many live on my floor. 0. I have an entire floor and suite to myself. I'm still convinced they intentionally quarantined me after the results of my shots came in. I wonder what disease I've got...
It sounds great at first, a whole suite to oneself. But it's lonely. I try to spread out the clothes lying around the floor as much as possible, but that empty bed across the room still glares at me. It's also always dark in the hallways, because I can't find the light switch. My team may or may not think I'm a totally dependent mooch from the amount of time I spend in their rooms. I hope I'm kidding.
Not much new has happened. Been a little slow at Larchmont because of Thanksgiving this week. They have the whole week off. We went to the school today and weeded the gardens and helped the injured janitor (we think he strained his hip flexor) get the rooms cleaned. Of course he doesn't go to a doctor due to a fear of paperwork. He is orginally Guatamalen and speaks minimal english. It sucks. I recommended ice and rest, but he says he can't sleep it hurts so much. Send a prayer to Isea for a quick recovery.
I'm missing everyone quite a bit, just had to throw that out there. I presume you knew, but it means something more in writing. Be good.
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