i've started about 5 different posts and deleted them all, so here's an attempt at turning off the internal editor while still keeping my captive audience in mind:
almost 6 months ago, you may recall a post about my impatience with my own growing complacency. well, i've officially staggered across to the spectrum's opposite end and sit passively in the wake of my newfound spite. let me back up a little.
my life isn't how i thought it would turn out to be. (kim warned me about this: "andrea, don't go all fucking emo on me. if you start writing poems on your shoes, we can't be friends.") i know, i know. your reactions are probably something like:
what do you mean?
you're only 22, andrea. life isn't over yet. *hug*
you. are. so. ridiculous.
over a year ago, i decided to continue my education at boise state by pursuing a degree in english. i love reading. i love talking about reading. i love learning through, about, and around reading. it made perfect sense to join this passion with another degree stating that i do it proficiently.
but it isn't how i thought it would be.
i thought i'd sign up for classes that blended some aspect of my interests and practices with theory and larger connections that only a learned professor could establish for me. i thought i'd cradle a book spine in my hand, actively reading with a pen waiting to touch the page and ask probing literary questions, and explore deep issues of what it means to be human.
let's just say it hasn't exactly worked out that way.
i thought i'd develop an interesting and educational lesson plan with activities and assignments aimed at conveying my enthusiasm for writing to my students. i thought i'd earn some respect for my attempts. i thought i'd look forward to watching my students learn and grow not only as writers but as individuals figuring out their identities and futures during their college years.
major disappointment.
on monday, i started my second summer class about inquiry-based project learning. when i signed up in april, i thought that this class would offer me a strategy for teaching that may increase my love for preparing for class each day and executing my painfully detailed plans. instead, i draw pictures of dead rabbits in my notebook and phrases like, "shut up now" on blank pages.
as i was driving home monday after walking kobe in 6 o' clock traffic, i noticed the semi truck in front of me stopping rather suddenly. i thought about not braking. i thought about the accordian-like crunch of my car, the delicate sprinkling of glass on pavement, the blending of my chipped nail polish and gravel, a slight fluttering of my dress hem next to goose feathers and bumpers. and, hey, i wouldn't have to teach again. i'm not belittling or befriending suicide. i'm just being honest about a thought that cut through my mind like a rampid lawnmower blade.
so, dear readers, i've decided to take action: i'm not teaching next year.
i could potentially go on about other aspect of my life that have fallen through: relationships, living situations, recreational habits... all of which i questioned nearly 6 months ago as well. am i that predictable?
3 comments:
Oh dear. As beautifully as that was written, you need some fun in your life. Feel better, baby...and stop teaching.
And goose feathers...? Oh how I love you.
Ah, yes, I knew something far more than what you exposed in your daily interactions was up. Your a tough nut to crack sometimes, and I now realize it is because, for whatever reason, you're a bit miserable with life at the present moment. By tough nut to crack, I mean that you kinda shut down when you're in a bad mood. I used to do the same thing. In fact, I still do it sometimes.
But, what I've discovered is that constructing a shell only keeps people out that want to help, have fun, and party a little bit. Some people don't read the signs as well as you'd like them to. Sometimes I want someone to ask me how my day was and really mean it. Sometimes "How's it going" means "I don't really wanna talk, but I'll be nice." For me, when I say "how's it going," I really wanna know. And if the answer I get is "fine," I sorta take it as "well, I'm ok, or really shitty but I don't want to talk about it until you ask me more questions."
So, how much prying into my life do I want? How much prying into your life do you want? A while back (I'm speaking as an old man who's seen some cool shit and done some cool things) I thought that it was other people's jobs to "access" me, show the effort in being interested in me. What I've found out is that people will be more interested in "accessing" me if I'm more interested in doing the same for them.
So, the only solution is to go get some drinks and talk about the hazards of teaching and finding direction in life.
I guess these days, a suicide note only deserves two comments. Although, I suppose by making my point, I invalidate it. How puzzling.
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