Student Journals in the Library

"I will be an unsuccessful writer," he says. I respond, "All writers are unsuccessful most days." I flip to the next student's work.

1. Is this true?
2. Is it inspiring or depressing?
3. Should I avoid grading post-emotionally revising my own work?

(Answer Key: Probs. Depressing. YES.)

Failing, Flailing

There is a bad day that happens once a semester in English 101. I have to give students the results of their Exit Exams. A third of them fail. Maybe one or two bombed, but the rest have been failing pretty consistently all term. They didn't show up, they didn't do the revisions, they didn't pay attention during grammar review. They're in high school brain. It is a shock to many that just because I like them and they like me, they can still get Fs. I tell them about the grades on Blackboard, but they don't look.

It doesn't feel good to tell anyone they can't progress to 102--even when I know it will be a total disaster for them to go to 102. I worry that they'll give up and stop school altogether. I worry they will stop speaking English. I worry they will feel like dumb dumbs.

Last week I was rushing to work. At the el, I stood in a big line of people waiting to pass through the turnstyle. When I was next in line a woman shoved herself in front of me and tapped her pass. She was very professional looking and did not make eye contact. She wore ear buds so any fussy comments I might sigh would not be heard. HMPH. I tapped in right after her. Then she had the nerve to walk slowly up the middle of the stairs. I grumbled behind her watching my train disappear right as I reached the landing. I would have made it if I had had 30 more seconds. I stewed watching the stuffed cars fly by. And then, one minute later, another train showed up. It was almost empty because everyone was crowding into the previous one. I got a seat, which is a rarity on morning commutes. I could read in peace, and got to school but one minute later than expected.

Patience

This week's teaching word has been "patience." I subbed a rando English class on Tuesday. The lesson plan called for a symposium on singular vs. plural verbs joy of joys. Besides clicking the Powerpoint I asked the students to write example sentences. I asked everyone to write a singular sentence that started with "She (verb)" in present tense. I gave several examples. I asked a girl in the back row what she wrote. She didn't. I said I'd come back. I did a couple minutes later. She said "I just suck at this, so I don't know." I said, "No, you don't. Any sentence at all. Try it." It was uncomfortable. It was quiet for a full minute before she creaked "She...jumps." Hallelujah. In that quiet moment I'm always like "Oh no, why did I do this?" But the answer is because they can all do it, and if they can't, with twenty seconds of coaching they can.

Yesterday in the Writing Center I had a guy who had to write a summary of an article about liver transplants. I asked "Okay, so what do you need help with?" He said, "I can't write." So I asked what the first sentence should be, and he said he didn't know, and then I asked again and he said something that was a pretty good start, so I was like "Awesome. Write that down." He had slow motor skills, penmanship like a 4th grader, but his ideas were solid. We went on that way for the full hour. He would write a sentence for two minutes. He would look up. He would say the next sentence outloud and then I'd nod, he'd spend another two minutes writing. I mostly sat and looked at my hands. I itched to pull out my phone while I waited and could literally hear the clock ticking behind me, but all he needed was someone to sit there with their full attention on him. Fine.

Today a young woman wild catted in. What does the author mean by X, I asked, I DON'T KNOW she cried HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW. She read the paragraph again and I asked her to explain it to me. She did. She knew. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO HAVE EXAMPLES ABOUT AMERICA WHEN IM FROM CAMEROON she yowled. Oh, well talk about that experience vs. the American experience I said, as if I'd just thought of it, she beamed a million filaments I CAN TALK ABOUT CAMEROON? Yes, you definitely can and should.

Last night I was almost off the clock when I spotted a familiar face. A student who was in my very first class I taught in Chicago. She just graduated with her Associates. She's gonna be a nurse. We hugged. I felt so ancient. I wait on students all day. My life blood draining out my seat. Patience feels like doing nothing, but, you know, it moves in its invisible way.

Look at Community College

Who are these people I hear about on CNN? These people who allegedly hate immigrants enough to believe they are evil? Who put them in giant trash bag of "Mexican" and want to staple them to the curb? Look at community college and you will find out. You will read, in these squirrel-eyed students first "choose your own" persuasive paper, the meanest, nastiest, most bigoted beliefs about how the country has gone to squat. And you will not be able to argue with the student, but you will get to write "can you give me examples of when immigrants have taken a job from you?" in the margin. You will be able to say, "Very powerful language, but the word 'always' is illogical."

And then in class this student will be part of the group that chooses to explain a good introductory paragraph via interpretive dance. He will be very sweet to his group mates. They will make him laugh, and he will treat them like daughters--or at least cousins when they do partnered grammar work. Those two girls he worked with on misplaced modifiers and he all have something in common-- they talk about God openly. (Something I forgot people did when I worked at a state school. Look at community college.) They all wear crossed on their necks, and this student high fives them. They are latino and definitely in this course because English is their second language.

And then this student's mother will die. And he will be crushed. And he will try to take the final exam early and crumple up his papers and say, "I can't turn this in." He is forty years old and he says, "I really want to cry right now." So you hug this person who recently explained in a footnote of his essay on taxes that we shouldn't be using time and energy to give homosexuals rights (they are sinners). Who are the people out there who still hate gays? Oh, you're looking at community college, and you are hugging one.

Those "idiots" who don't know how an election works. They are ruining the country. But they also have two bullet wounds from taking a walk at the wrong time in their neighborhood. Look at community college. This grocery store manager wrote a scary story about his grandfather visiting him from hell on Halloween. This girl complains she doesn't have a single friend from high school who went to college. Watching K-Pop videos gets her through the long commute. Look at community college. You will see all the worst--the prejudiced, the annoying, the can't works, the won't works, but you will see every single one of those humans try to analyze a Carly Rae Jepson song as poetry, have a distinct option on which Chicago ballpark has better parking, get nervous when it's time to debate school uniforms on the big scary podium. Look at community college.

Normal in the City

I'm the type of person who never feels like she is doing enough. I feel positive about my first year in Chicago, but I still have a voice nudging me, "You're behind. Giddy-up." And then Stripes visits and asks what I have been writing, and I say, "Pfft. Not enough." But she presses what I did from August 2014 to August 2015, and I wrote two screenplays, three ten-minutes, a musical, and two-full-length plays. Plus a sketch show at SC. Yeah, when I list it, it sounds like a lot, but since only two of those things have been produced so far, it feels like close to nothing.

Yesterday I had a "regular" day. I was taking the bus home thinking I wish I had accomplished more, that I should really carve out some time on this holiday weekend to work, and I cycled back through my day.

6:30 - rise, drink water, brush teeth, wash face, stretch
7:00 - read the news, some spirituality articles, answer a couple emails
8:00 - set off for aerobic step and muscle sculpt class
10:00 - make yogurt parfaits and watch an episode of Portlandia
10:30 - grade English 101 papers
1:00 - have pb&j lunch
1:20 - off to school, listen to an improv podcast on commute
2:00 - teach English 101 (grammar quiz, essay feedback, facilitating discussions)
3:30 - meet with two students struggling for different reasons during office hours
4:15 - scarf some egg salad while watching clips of Mindy Kaling on talk shows
4:30 - scoot out to meet up with TQ for a skillet cookie
6:00 - a Q & A with Aidy Bryant at SC
7:00 - grab a cab to attend my coworker's interactive theatre piece about mushroom caps
9:15 - take a bus home, thinking about my day
10:00 - recap the day with Bisque, send some night emails
10:45 pass out, have a stress dream about auditions

This is a GOOD day, no matter how normal it feels to me. I have to remember that while I am rolling my eyes at someone yelling about mushrooms stroganoff in a a small theatre space, or while I'm clutching my coat tight around me as I walk into work muttering, "why do I live here," or while I nearly gag on my dinner because more students needed time to debrief than expected, I am living a v. cool existence. It would be the highlight of some people's week to do even one of these things! This is why I live in a snowglobe and slush through muck and feel the stress of possibility.

"It Gets Better"

A year ago today, lesson plans at Daley Plaza.

A year ago today I might not have believed I'd still be teaching community college. That first semester was so difficult--learning what the students could (and mostly couldn't) do, feeling so alone, hours upon hours teaching myself what I take for granted in grammar.

I've been thinking about what to say to the struggling heart. "It gets better," is bubblegum lately. Has been. At first it was meaningful, and then it was viral, and now it's even beyond irony. It's old. So what is there to be said? So many suffering peoples. Many inside that large square I call work. The first essay prompt is "What is an experience that changed your life and why?" My student asks if I can look over his outline about his divorce. Lord help me if I had been a college freshman with one marriage come and gone under my belt!

I imagine that student from last spring who needed help coming to my office. What would I say if he did? It does get better? Then I think, I'm not sure it does. I surely can't promise that. It could get better. Maybe it doesn't. But, I thought, you do. IT might never get better. It might be the pits for your entire life, but YOU get better. You learn and you grow and what was once The End is now an ant hill.

The Importance of Cleaning the Whiteboards

When class ends I say, "Goodbye! See you all [next class day]," and I always get up to clean the whiteboards. Every teacher is supposed to clean the whiteboards before leaving classrooms because it's annoying to show up to class with some previous professor's scribbles everywhere. But even if I am staying in the room a bit longer to grade papers, or even if I know the janitor will be visiting the room shortly after class, I always slowly wipe down everything from the day immediately after releasing the students. In the year I have been teaching community college, a lot of really key conversations have happened while I cleaned whiteboards. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I've heard that many gay high school students come out to their parents in the car because they're side by side instead of facing one another. Also, the teenager knows he won't be beaten. Not at that particular moment anyway. In a similar, less dire vein, I like giving students time to talk to me while my back is turned. It's funny. I'm very aware this is happening. I'm not sure if they do. If they get why suddenly they feel ready to explain the absences or admit they really don't know what the heck they're doing when it comes to next week's exam. On the flip side, while I clean white boards is often when the little sweeties make themselves known. The quiet kids who want to be my friend, who are looking for a mentor-figure to share a piece of good news. I think these students typically see authority figures as very busy and perhaps uninterested. But, ah ha, "those five minutes she's not grading or teaching or really doing ANYTHING. I can swoop in and show her my drawing right then. When she's just wiping dry erase dust into the air." The days I haven't written anything (and thus don't erase), fewer people linger. The days I haven't written anything I don't usually hear any stories and no one unravels apologies. Again, I don't think they know this. I'm not sure if there is a larger metaphor at play or simply some useful teaching advice for those interested.

Insomnia: Teacher Weights

Can't sleep. I'm up worrying about my student in the hospital.

It was such a good day. A summer Sunday. I slept in, finished Anne Tyler's A Spool of Blue Thread. Bisque and I walked two miles to the beach. We were sticky upon arrival, so the mighty cold lake felt refreshing. The life guard plopped his row boat three feet from us, the only swimmers, who were perpetually humming "Jaws" and splashing around. I watched the Tig Notaro doc on Netflix, curled up into my grey hoody, and napped because the sun was coming through the windows just so. And this new couch (we got a new couch!) was ever so inviting. Suddenly, I needed to be productive. I cycloned around the apartment for two hours cleaning the closets, recycling old documents, organizing my lip glosses hurled under the bathroom sink. Bisque went for a run, and we agreed to meet up at sunset on the rooftop pool at our gym. Humidity retired for the day, I laid contently in a sun chair watching the orange sky melt. I walked to CVS to use my coupon, and chocolate dusted almonds were on sale for six measly dollars, would you believe it?

Finally, in the deep dark of night, we turn off all the lights, dunk ginger snaps in milk, and watch MTV's Scream. Bisque reads aloud to me from a young adult book. Before bed I notice I have a work email. It's from this kid's mother.

This kid, this sweet, cheery (one would assume) kid is struggling again. Severe depression. Things were unsafe. What does that mean? Are they certainly safe now? I'm worried this good student is going to fail. This is the last week of the term. I'm worried this good person is going to die. I can't stop thinking about it and wondering what else I could have done. Did this kid know I cherish all of my students? That the essays this kid writes are excellent, and that's not something I write on every paper? Please keep this kid alive, I keep repeating. Repeat One, like the button on a Discman. Keep this kid alive.

And now I'm worried for them all. Tomorrow is the final exam. I want them all to pass so badly it bunches my guts. They won't. That one missed, like, 6 classes and two essays. He doesn't have the practice hours in. This one can't implement verb agreement. And this person doesn't understand "logic" "proof" these things are nothing to him. "Meet me before the exam! Anytime. Email me. Send me practice paragraphs, grammar questions. I'm here from you." I checked my email devoutly all weekend. Nothing. And some of them really needed it. Nothing. Until now. Now I have one new email from the mother of the special kid. Please keep alive.

Two Piles People

Monday and Tuesday my school held department-wide exit exams. All my classes had v serious essays scheduled. I set up a pile of prompt papers on the podium and finished exams on the chair adjacent. I didn't make an announcement about the two piles as to not disturb the silence. I did write "PROMPTS" and "EXAMS" with coordinating arrows on the whiteboard. There are two types of students.

There is the type of student who sees the piles and quietly places the appropriate papers the appropriate places. But the majority of students (like by a lot) shuffled toward me eyes glazed holding out papers like they were babies and I was a doorstep. I would often (trying to keep quiet) point to the piles, and even then many people would look, turn back, "Should I...? Where should I...?" It's pretty obvious. Being empathetic, I could consider the fact that this is an important exam, and everyone wants to be double sure. But being realistic, you can figure it out. You can do it. Do it.

Moving Meeting

That's strange. My 3:40 conference student never showed up. He's a good egg. A quiet egg, but a good one who is in community college to get cheap gen-eds before med school. Smart egg. But he's still a little guy. Eighteen I think. I packed up and headed home. Right as I'm about to hop the train, he jumps off! "You missed your meeting!" I said sort of joyfully because he was! (Out of all the trains I could have taken.)

He explained he had forgotten his ID, so he had to go home to get it! I asked if he wanted to meet right there in the underground with the do-wop men chiming near. He asked, "Are you going somewhere?" I told him just home, and he pointed to the closing doors. "I can just get on the train," he said.

I stuck my hand out and we jumped in. We stood holding different rails, swaying, and I asked him to tell me what revisions he is thinking of. He did over the short woman with a blue kerchief. I hassled my notebook out of my tote. "You have a low B for participation since you never speak up in class," but you have an A in the course on the whole. A thin-haired man watched on. "Well that's it then." I said after two stops, "Are you staying on?" No. He got off to catch the train in the opposite direction.

Day in the Life, October 9

Turning the keys before 7 AM. The apartment is quiet, Bisque still sleeping. Wake up, wake up. Walk to the train in breaking light, One-D my soundtrack. Wake up, wake up. No seat on the el, so I stand with feet far apart and strong squatted thighs holding Ghosts by Chuck P. The train gets fuller and fuller, downtown emptier and emptier. It's just me and three other ladies by the time I'm at the end of the line.

First meeting at my new teaching residency. Google the neighborhood. Police officer shot and killed 17 hours before I arrive. I have a new hot pink Mace, and I tuck it into my seafoam scarf. Packed bus, everyone sighs when the wheelchaired person has to get off. Bless wheelchaired folk on buses. Bless them.

My new boss is a happy man who keeps his wrist limp. He brings six donuts to this kickoff meeting. Me and this happy sweetie and this fresh-faced creative writing ginger. The box is opened. "I got three of my favorite kind to make sure even if you both wanted that kind I would get one." I like this style. I have the favorite old fashioned. It is thick with hardened sour glaze. We walk to the train and men yell at me. We ignore them, but it isn't easy. "What is that smell?" my boss politely asks. "Oh, weed." I say. "Ah," he adds.

And then we're back to the rest of the world with skyscrapers. I stop in the Claire's and debate buying corn dog earrings. I don't because I don't have money for corn dog earrings. This shouldn't even be a consideration. People who don't have money for corn dog earrings should not even hold corn dog earrings to their faces. In my office adjuncts come and go. Sometimes the conversation is like grad school and real and potentially useful and sometimes its like, "Ohmygod how many times do people have to discuss music videos being terrible to women?" I guess they still are, so.

The students got into partners, and the students from the country south and the student from the country east were paired. They made up analogies. Some work too hard on these classroom exercises, and that is good. Grading papers, grading papers, grading papers. Scheduling classes, making plans, Next semester, money, lesson plans.

I collapse at home. "I'm sorry," I tell my man. "I need two minutes. What I ate today: a donut." I fall asleep sideways on the couch, and he wakes me up with a tiny pot of beans. I feel gooped. Brain whack. Like a confused baby being fed. Go to the theatre, have an audition for some little show. It's exercise like anything else. Audition, audition, write, write, write. I'm home grading papers again, always, forever and ever, in my grave, underground, so many student emails, "Can you tell me everything I missed today?"

Private Room Syndrome

One of my students hums when she writes. I don't think it is conscious, and it is just quiet enough that it would feel strange to make a fuss about it...but not so quiet that it's not annoying. I am contemplating how to approach the issue because this student is autistic and has confided in me that certain things can really fluster her. What if she can't stop?

I am reminded of a very bubbly student I often worked with at my old post in the disability center. She was talkative and happy, but when she was alone with a test suddenly she would let out the most aggressive strings of curses, tell herself she was stupid, scream, pound on tables. We put her in a one-person study room for exams. The one-person study rooms were highly coveted. No door opening like in the ADD room. No scratching of others' pens. Lots of space to stretch. Students who had mild anxiety would often try to weasel their way into those rooms. "They are reserved," we would explain. We didn't allow anyone in even if they weren't going to be used all day so no one would get used to the treatment.

But I would show this girl to her room and she would say, "Oh, no thank you. I would like to be in the bigger room." I would explain she was placed in the private room. "No, I don't want it." We would explain she was a distraction to others and she just couldn't believe it. She fought us basically every time.

Not Everyone Can Have

The Limited Edition Marshmallow Oreos were magnificent. And now they are gone. I shared the last few with friends on Friday night. I reiterated my desire for a big ol' pan of rice krispie treats. (If you'll remember I pined for some about two weeks ago on this blog.) Everyone in the living room nodded. Mm. MM.

When I got home Saturday night after a lovely Quesorido (THAT'S RIGHT. A BURRITO MADE WITH A QUESIDILLA. *Taste buds explode with joy*) there was a little boxy package waiting for me. Mysterious. I didn't remember buying anything. I opened it to find a pink box. When I removed the lid...A PILE OF RICE KRISPIE TREATS! From my Chicago Aunt! Who reads this blog from time to time! She read about my breakfast-made-dessert craving, baked some up, and mailed them off!

I shared the treats with roommates and Bisque, ate some myself, and yesterday I noticed they were kind of hard. So, naturally, I took the last five to school to offer to my students who will eat most anything. Indeed. Two screenwriting boys split them. "Where do you get this food?" someone asked. I am often bringing little damaged goods in for the human garbage disposals. "Well, my aunt sent me these." I explained. "I wish--!" a boy piped up before trailing off. "I was going to say, 'I wish I had an aunt.' But I have one. I guess I just wish she sent me stuff..."

Sorry, kid, not everyone can have awesome aunts like mine. <3 p="">

I Am Who Is Supposed To Be Here (Greenblatt Lecture)

Saw Stephen Greenblatt speak at school Tuesday. It was what you might call "a big deal."Greenie is arguably the most famous living person in English academia. He helped invent new-historicism and write intros for Shakespeare plays in anthologies. I knew it was biggish, but I suddenly felt lameish when I realized everyone entering the reception sported ties and blazers. I was coming straight from class and sporting my giant stuffed to the gills lilac backpack. I was modeling the latest spring fashion of an oversized grey sweatshirt. Boop.

I edged around the sides at first, thinking I might be able to get inside and nab a seat, be largely unnoticed, but I saw a small pool of my peers hanging out by the refreshments and laughing over mozzarella kabobs. I saw a basket filled with assorted crackers and eyed my favorite snack ever: those sweet little brown digestive wafers! Any shame I had flew out the fancy windows as I picked through the basket and elderly women in cocktail dresses sullenly snorted "excuse me" into my behemoth knapsnack.

I had a pretty rad realization. "Hey," I thought, "I am who is supposed to be here." I am a student, getting my degree at this educational institution. The lovely people surrounding me were all very respectful of the man we came to hear, of the event itself, but I was actually in the first on this one. I have a big heavy backpack because I'm at school all day working and learning. I wear cozy clothes because I make peanuts and I drive a scooter that gets everything I don a little bit dirty. It was okay to be me. I felt good. I wondered if I ever mentally hold people to standards they weren't meant to meet. "I'll try to be better," I resolved.

Greenblatt was Greenblah. The man, the myth gave a (what I consider) a half-hearted look at storytelling and aging, mostly via King Lear. It was eh and my middle-age I-Teach-Persuasive-Speaking peer texted me during it, "Where are his signposts?" Everyone's a critic.

I didn't stay for Q & A. He hadn't charmed me enough. As I skittered out I noticed a table of assorted cookies for a post-talk reception. The tray was barely big enough to feed a fourth of the people in the room. I considered leaving the treats for the real academics of the night who stayed until the bitter end. But then I saw the most delicious-looking black and white cookie I've ever laid eyes on, so I scooped it up and gnawed at it as my peers and I walked back to our respective vehicles, laughing into the Arizona dusk.

Playwright Presentation Week

It was presentation week in my Intro to Playwriting class. I love student presentations. It's an opportunity for young writers to delve into a style, a person, ideas they love. I always learn so much. I took a lot of notes, and here are a few of my favorite glimmers.

I asked one student if he felt all his research on his playwright had brought him closer or distanced him to the artist:
"I've spent the past couple days sleeping or not sleeping in my bed with fifteen books by or about Pinter. So we've gotten closer."

Two students presented on playwrights who contrastingly said write from character and structure follows, then, write from story and character follows.

The kid with half-squinted 9 AM eyes gets excited by Mamet's refusal to explain everything. "Like Game of Thrones!" he chirps, "There's all these friggin' lords, but ultimately, you're just like, 'oh, well, this is awesome.'"

Girlio with pigtail poofs sits in a swivel chair spinning yarns about Ianesco. It's dreamy like her bright green eyeshadow. And I swear, the sweet Mormon with the long brown hair is a little in love with Oscar Wilde.

Toleration

Wednesday a student I was proctoring in the testing center yelled at me. He was absolutely disgusted by the Dell computers from 2000 he was expected to use ah pah pah pah. He complained about the wrist strain but all I could do was explain that's all we got. He asked who he could complain to and I didn't really know. I said I'd ask and that I knew we'd been trying to get new computers for a while. He countered, "Just tell someone it's for the engineering school and you'll get them yesterday." It's true. When I go to engineering/sciencey buildings it's like I'm in AI with Haley Joel, meanwhile the bathrooms in the theatre office building make me feel like I'm hangin' out in a Goosebumps novel about a Depression Era toilet ghost.

Anyway, this guy had several problems, panics sessions, angry whisperfests in the silent "distraction free" room. I kept outlining his options, but the truth is, he was just scared, not totally prepared for his final, and needing something/one to blame. As he got snippier and snippier, it was getting to be a feat for me to stay cool and reasonable. The guy left, grumbling, and I overheard him talking to one of my bosses. "Oh!" She chirped, "No worries, I'm sure everything will be just fine." And she really meant it. I don't know. If I had been that student, I might have wanted more. I personally need the solid answers, but apparently not everyone does, as what finally calmed this dude was actually not all the explanations in the world (my approach) but a simple affirmation of peace (my boss's game).

Yesterday as I was clocking in, serendipitously the student crossed me in the hall. "I'm sorry about yesterday," he said (sincerely). "It all worked out. I passed." I congratulated him, and he went on his way. And it's weird, he was relieved. I could tell. Maybe it was rollover from the test results, but I'm almost certain it was a "Oh good. I can apologize" in his eyes. I like this. To me this makes me realize...people are good. We want to apologize. We feel better when we do. How else would we have that strand of emotion if we weren't good?

Be the Grace

"The thing is...the thing is, my test--it was today--but. Last night? I don't know what it was. I don't...some kind of food poisoning. I was--look, I was throwing up for, like...for like five hours. I threw up for five hours last night. And so. So. If I could talk to...potentially a doctor. I mean, to get out of the test."

This kid was rambling. Holding a peach skateboard. Built and tone, hip tank, but today scared. Poor guy. I'm just a dumb proctor. I can't ordain a retest. I talked to my supervisor. Okay, we decided. Okay, I will leave the office. I will walk across campus with this kid to his professor's class.

Today was gorgeous. Greens, a windy bluster. But this kid, this kid staring down was all, "What are the odds? I mean, I haven't been sick all semester. And...and now I'm late. I'm sure they hear this all the time, but I really really was sick." Poor, poor kid. We made a game plan. "Should I be next to you?" I asked. "Or should you ask alone?" We decided I would wait by the door. And I hear from down the hall, the kid saying the same word vomit about vomit. And the professor going "Yeah. Yup. Okay. Yeah. Okay?" Long long pause. Professor: "So, what? You wanna take it Monday?" Subtext: "This is Physics 102. I don't GD care when you take this dumb exam." I walked out, we chose a new time. The professor shrugged.

The kid WAS the sunshine. "I can't believe it!" He said over and over. "That was easy!" I agreed. "You know when you cram the night before? I didn't get to cram. I mean, I was going to fail."And he was a flurry with "So, what's your program? How do you like Arizona?" And we were a happy little two-let on the sidewalk. Because a tiny bit of grace goes such a long way.

We Were Five Feet Away

He was in the first class of Intro to Screenwriting I taught
two years ago.
The shy guy who sat at the back table--
his grammar was trash, but his characters were great.
He was always so nice to me,
and I don't know why.
His name starts with a G and he also looks like a giraffe.
But I saw him today on the library lawn, and when I did my usual
smile-no-stop he did. And wanted to hear about my summer.
This kid looks the same to me, but he's been through
50% of college since I met him. And for no real reason
we intersected in the same five foot radius
on this August afternoon.
This is my third year here.
Two years ago I had no idea what was in store.
I made big fat guesses and launched without a landing pad.
I was breaths away from going to Japan instead of grad school.
Every move was life and death. Join the improv team?
Live on the corner by the Mexican grocery.
Go to the MFA parties, don't.
Snub the kisses, don't.
Accept the invite. Decline the date. Forget to eat.
Two years ago I was at a bar playing on the MFA trivia team.
We were in second place.
In a fit of "I'm a stranger in a new city who even cares!"
when the first place team was announced
I yelled an abrasive, "WHAT?" at them
because they were two dudes. And we were a table
of, like, fifteen in-pursuit of higher ed peoples.
The guys shrugged. They won. I never saw them again.
EXCEPT I DID.
It took me a full year to figure it out.
Sort of a..."Now wait a minute, we go to that bar,"
and some, "Now, WAIT, a minute, you were there that night?"
But I ended up knowing those two strangers.
The one on the left, the one five feet from me,
is now my boyfriend.

Rewards

To live for rewards is to believe in a majority of times/experiences that are Less Than. Each moment is its own reward. Muffy and I discovered this concept on the train, tummies full of scone, hands full of small boutique bags, cheeks scrunched by sunlight. Easy to say then, right?

But I remembered it so strongly this morning as I ran on a structure that secured me over a large body of water (also known as a bridge). My feet felt so GOOD to be moving, my lungs so powerful, my stupid day full of grade meetings and test proctoring so full of opportunities to be grateful and helpful!

Summer vacation starts at 6 PM on Wednesday, but now is also perfect! Even these dummy screenplays by the freshman at this Arizona state school! These are perfect! My bed is full of them! And they are all little rewards for living. Stapled paper trophies! I won! I won!

Excuse the high schooly bathroom mirror shot, but our outfits were matching!

Date Night?

There was something equally creepy and sweet about the couple that sat next to each other in the Film Ethics: Sex and Violence class I TA'd last semester. Their hands were always locked. When we'd dim the lights, the girl would pull a bag of M&Ms out of her backpack, quietly tear the corner, and pour some into her beau's free palm.

I semi-dread Thursdays at 4:30 because I have to watch the new sex & violence hit o' da week. But that girl in the tight jeans and flip flops, the boy in the plaid shorts, it was their time, and...well, I don't know what else to say.