Yesterday, I said goodbye to my on-campus classes. Since it was the last day, the desperate-to-pass students pulled no stops with the sucking up. I received emails telling me that I’m “the best professor they’ve ever had,” and that I “changed [their] life.” They came up to me after class to thank me for being so awesome and understanding. I just smiled and thanked them.
What they don’t quite understand is that success or failure in anything is each to each individual person. Yes, I’m there to guide them through the course, and to grade them, but ultimately, each student chooses whether they pass or fail. Now, my grading system determines the extent of passing or failing, so that’s my part in the whole thing.
It’s taken me a long, long time, but I’m also learning that every day, every second is an opportunity to make a choice. We can choose to do things that make us happy and helps us reach or goals. We can make choices to avoid things that hurt us or derail us from our goals.
It’s not always easy to remember that we have a choice. We can be deterred by other people, emotions, and more. Most often, we are influenced, I think, by not believing in ourselves. Not believing that we are capable. How many of us have given up on something (ourselves) because we don’t believe in ourselves? I’m pretty sure that we’re all guilty of it at one time or another.
I’ve said this before, but it’s hard to watch someone make decisions that are leading them to failure. We can offer help, advice, but ultimately, we’re all driving our own buses, and we can’t force someone to make the “right” choice. We can’t force someone to see what they are capable of. And letting someone drive their own bus is a difficult choice, but a necessary one.
Well…so I didn’t do so hot on my goals for last week. It’s the end of the semester, and I’m lucky if I can make the time to shower. Here were my goals, and the results. I was shooting for meeting 80% of my goals.
1. Track my food. I did great with this! Tracked on MyFitnessPal 7 out of 7 days. 100%
2. Drink at least 80 oz of water. Ummm…I didn’t hit this goal at all. 0%
3.Eat vegetarian/vegan at least 4 days. I ate vegetarian/vegan 3 out of 7 days. 75%
4.Read from a pleasure book at least 1/2 hour per day. Not a good goal to set at the end of the semester! I read a ton, but it was mostly student essays. I only read from a pleasure book 1 day. 14%
So, I didn’t hit my 80%. BUT, this was better than the week before, and I’ll keep improving from there!
Goals for the week of 5/7: (again, aiming for 80%)
1. Track my food.
2. Drink at least 80 oz of water.
3.Eat vegetarian/vegan at least 4 days.
4.Read from a pleasure book at least 1/2 hour per day.
Since I struggled, I’m sticking with the same goals for the week.
For some reason today, a modified version of a line from a Paul Laurence Dunbar poem is running through my mind today. In his poem “We Wear the Mask,” he writes, “We wear that mask that grins and lies.” Instead, in my head, it’s “We carry the guilt that grins and lies.”
Ok, so maybe I lied. I know exactly why this line is running through my head.
I feel guilty. Every day.
On work days, I feel guilty that I’m away from The Kid for 4-6 hours. I feel guilty that there are moments that I don’t think about him, when I’m engrossed in my work.
On non-work days, I feel guilty that I’m in mom-mode, and that I’m not grading papers or prepping for the next class.
I feel guilty that there are moments when I want/need time to myself. I feel guilty for not wanting to play with The Kid sometimes.
I feel guilty that I left my career in health insurance, and took a 75% pay cut in order to teach. I feel guilty that Hubs has work hard to support us, and that I can’t contribute more.
I feel guilty every day that I’m not a better wife. I’m less affectionate than I was pre-Kid. I think I’m just tired of being touched by the end of the day. Before The Kid, all of my love and hugs went to my husband. Not so much anymore.
Every day, I feel guilty that I’m not eating or doing 100% healthy things like I should. I feel guilty that I’m not counting PointsPlus for my food right now (seriously, I’m Weight Watchers brainwashed). I feel guilty for having a little more treat-type food than I normally would. I feel guilty that I haven’t been walking and exercising like I did last year because I’m already physically uncomfortable. And I have 3 months to go.
Which brings me to the biggest reason I feel guilty every day. I feel guilty that I’m pregnant. That there are so many women out there who would love to be pregnant and can’t. That there are women who have lost their children, and I am blessed with one with another on the way. I feel guilty that, aside from my gut issues, there are no complications with my pregnancy (touch wood). I don’t know what to say to women who are struggling with pregnancy because of this guilt. All I want to say to them is “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what to say to the 19 year old girl who just had her second ovary removed, and is dealing with the fact that she will never have children naturally.
I hate feeling guilty, that I need to apologize for everything I say and do. But I do.
Every semester in my Comp classes, my students write Compare/Contrast essays. One of the topic choices is “High School v. College.” In 99% of these essays, the students write, “In College, the professors don’t care about their students” or something to that effect. I try very hard not to take this personally.
I try to give them the benefit of the doubt and think that they were trying to say that professors will not necessarily chase after them for work, or call their parents when they are failing/slacking/acting up. I mean, they can’t possibly think that we don’t care about our students, right?
They can’t possibly think that it’s easy to watch someone not do any work and fail. Or to watch someone work very hard, struggle, and still fail. To watch students struggle to stay awake in class, not because they were out partying all night, but because they were working the 3rd shift so that they could take classes during the day. To watch students struggle to succeed in college while dealing with a divorce/financial problems/homelessness/abuse/drug addition/alcoholism/disabilities.
There are students whom I will never forget. Students like J, whom I had for a developmental class 4 summers ago. He was a recovering alcoholic, in his 40s, who just got his GED. He struggled with writing, worked very hard every day, and still failed. And dropped out of college. I was devastated, and wondered if I should have passed him just to boost his confidence a bit. I often wonder where he is now, and hope that I’ll see him in the college hallways again. Or M, whom I had in class 2 years ago. Similar story, same ending. She failed and dropped out. There are so many other students I wonder about, and pray that they’re ok and doing well.
There are students every semester whom I want to just sit down and tell them that they need to grow up, or start caring about their education. I want to tell them that they are blessed to have this opportunity, and that they’re wasting it. I can be just as defeated as the student when they do not do well on an assignment. Or I can be so proud that I can’t help but want to hug them when they succeed at an assignment, or anything else.
Yet, my students say that professors don’t care. Sure, I know that some don’t. But so many of us do care. But we also recognize that our students are adults, and are responsible for making their own decisions, and their own mistakes. And that means that we have to stand by and watch them fail or succeed. They’re all driving their own buses.
But I do care. When I stop caring, I’ll stop teaching.
Hate is not a word that I use often. I try to see the best in people, and to accept and love them for who they are. No one is perfect, not even me. And I certainly don’t expect perfection from everyone. We’re all just floating through life, trying to figure it all out. And we all make mistakes.
But. There are two people on this Earth whom I hate. Hate. These people have hurt my family (emotionally, not physically), and I cannot forgive them. A few years ago, I spoke to one of them and got their side of the story. I’m aware that I will never know the 100% truth, if it even exists. But this person is so…wrong. Wrong. It’s not my story to share, so I won’t say more.
Anyway. Through an odd turn of events, one of these people (the one I hate the most) may have passed away. We’re waiting for confirmation. When I told Hubs about it, I said that if he were dead, I wouldn’t care at all. Good riddance, and all that. Hubs said that I was “heartless” for being so cold.
Now, I am known for being fiercely protective of those I love. I am known for giving people chance after chance, and for looking for the best in everyone. But heartless? Me? Not at all.
I, of course, turned to the Twitter for confirmation that I’m right. That I’m not heartless for not caring at all if this person is dead, for hating them for hurting my family. Robby tweeted a link to this Jack Kornfield article on forgiveness. I’m still processing the information, and plan on reading more about it, but I’m wondering now if I’m wrong. If maybe I should forgive them. I don’t want to carry around hurt and hate. But a part of me feels like if I forgive them, that means that I’ve accepted/condoned their actions. And I can’t do that.
This is how I feel today. Not like Mel Gibson (I think he’s a bit of a nutball), but like Braveheart. My (usually drunk) grandmother always claimed that we’re descendants of Wallace’s. I don’t know how valid that is, but on days like today, I wonder if it’s true. I can’t go into details, but there’s something VERY WRONG going on at one of the schools I teach at, and I want to go all Braveheart on them. I want to lead a revolution that will change everything. Or, at least, expose the WRONGNESS of what is going on. But I can’t. Because I need my job. But I’m trying to find a way to do something. Anything.
Staying silent is so difficult for me. One of my resolutions is to be true of heart. I shouldn’t be afraid to speak my mind, right? We’ll see.
In other news, it’s Hell Week for me, the week where I grade a ton of research papers and revisions before the end of the semester. I hit a snag over the weekend — I ended up sick. I’m not sure if it was food poisoning or what, but I spent most of Saturday night puking. Which is so much fun. Ugh. So, I’ve been frantically trying to get caught up so that I can return papers on Wednesday. We’ll see how I do.
Finally, I need to get back into setting goals each week. I’ve been slacking on many fronts, and that needs to change. So, with that in mind, here are my goals for the week. I’m shooting for meeting my goals for 80% of the week. If I do, I’ll reward myself with a book or some new music. Here are my goals:
1. Track my food. I haven’t tracked in a few weeks. I got lazy. I need to track my fiber intake because I know I haven’t been meeting my daily goals.
2. Drink at least 80 oz of water. I’ve also been slacking on water.
3.Eat vegetarian/vegan at least 4 days. I have been eating more vegetarian/vegan meals, and I feel so much better physically/mentally when I do.
4.Read from a pleasure book at least 1/2 hour per day. This has been tough since I’ve been buried in student essays. But it’s so important for me to read, and I need to make it a priority.
I’ll wrap up how I did with these goals on Sunday. In the meantime, please check up on me!
Earlier this month, I had the privilege of attending a reading by poet-teacher Taylor Mali. His poem “What Teachers Make” inspires me every time I hear it. Please take a moment to check it out. I’ll wait.
Pretty awesome, right?
As I sat there, listening to him, I was struck by the thought that I am not that kind of teacher. Not anymore.
I’ve been teaching for 5 years. I quit my well-paying job in health insurance as soon as I was able to teach part-time in grad school. I went from making $45K/year (with no degree in that area, just experience, and a knack for customer service) to making $10K/year…a good year at that, with no benefits. But I was happy to do it because I was meant to teach. I spent over 10 years getting my AA degree, BA, then MA, all with the intention to teach at the college level. When I finally achieved that goal, I felt like I was making a difference every time I stepped into the classroom.
When I was hired as an adjunct at my community college alma mater, I felt like I’d won the lottery. I loved my colleagues in the English Department, who treated me as their equal, and not just a lowly adjunct. Let’s face it — adjuncts are treated like second-class citizens at most colleges. But that’s a whole other post.
I signed up to teach developmental classes because it paid more, but found that I loved it. I loved helping students who had challenges with skill, or just a simple lack of confidence. I loved being the teacher who finally believed in these students, and who helped them finally understand what a thesis statement is. When I found myself getting frustrated or disappointed, I reminded myself of why I wanted to teach in the first place.
I became a teacher because of my father. My father feels more at home in a garage than in a classroom. Growing up, he struggled in school, and everyone wrote him off. After his brother, the only person who believed in him, was killed in Vietnam, Dad gave up. He met with his high school guidance counselor when he was a sophomore, and his counselor told him that he was stupid and that he should just quit school. So, he did. He didn’t get his GED until I was a sophomore, and he did that to encourage me to stay in school (not that I needed that). I wanted to teach so that folks like my father would have a great teacher to help them.
Honestly, after my first year, I fell into my groove, and became a great teacher. Not perfect by any means, but I was always looking for ways I could improve. Students came into my classroom afraid and defeated, and left confident and ready (for the most part) for college level writing. Now, I know that I can’t claim all of the credit for their success, but I’ll take a part. I found that what many students needed was someone to tell them that they could do it (whatever IT was) and to believe in them. I could do those things. I could give them the tools that they needed to be successful writers (or, at least, competent writers) in college.
For the past year, though, I’ve struggled. I find that more and more students don’t care, don’t do their work, and have no desire to succeed at anything. They don’t care about deadlines, are fine with handing in shitty work, and just try to cruise through their classes with little effort. And no amount of support or cheerleading will help that. The teacher that I used to be, the kind of teacher Taylor Mali writes about, isn’t effective anymore. And I don’t know what to do.
I used to have an infinite amount of patience for students, but lately I find myself wanting to shake them and tell them to grow up and taking responsibility. I spend way more time commenting on their work than they put into writing them, and it pisses me off. I try to challenge them, hold them accountable, and I try to make them respect themselves enough to care about their work. Nothing is working.
Maybe I don’t have the patience anymore because any ounce of patience I have is taken up by my son. Maybe the stress of having to bring work home and somehow find time to grade papers and prep is getting to me. Maybe the students aren’t getting worse; maybe it’s that I’ve changed now that I’m an overtired mom.
I don’t know what the answer is. But I do know that hating my work isn’t good. I’m just not sure what to do about it.
Sorry I haven’t been around, folks. It’s not that I haven’t thought about blogging, or that I had nothing to say. I’ve just been swamped with student essays, work, and life in general.
Life is good. Not perfect, but good. And changes are a comin’.
Over the past two weekends, Hubs and I have watched a couple of documentaries that have led us to rethink how we eat. He’s tired all the time and unfocused. I have massive digestive issues. We’re hoping that a change of diet helps with these things. So, we started
First, we watched Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead. In this documentary, Joe Cross was dealing with an autoimmune disease, weight issues, and looked for an answer. Supervised by Dr. Joel Fuhrman, he followed a plan to only consume juice for 60 days. The film follows him during this time, and shows how he lost weight, went off medication, and became healthier than he’d ever been. Along the way, he met a truck driver who was obese, depressed, and also dealing with health issues. He eventually begins the juice fast, and finds a way to a healthier life. Now, while I find the results of this juice fast intriguing, I just don’t think it’s for Hubs and I. However, we are considering purchasing a juicer and incorporating more juice into our diets. I’m wondering if juice will help me when I have diverticulitis flare ups and can’t consume whole, fresh fruits and vegetables.
Then, we watched Forks Over Knives. It discusses the research of two doctors who studied (separately, then together) the effects of animal protein on the human body. I’m not a scientist or a doctor, so please check out the movie for an understanding of what they discovered. Here’s what I got out of it: consuming animal protein/products leads to heart disease, cancer, and everything else that will kill you or make you very unhealthy. It scared the crap out of us. We’ve often considering transitioning to a vegetarian diet, and eventually veganism, but just never did. We’ve both had 30+ years of eating animals, and lots of crap. That’s a hard habit to break for people like us. But we need to. So, we’re slowly moving into vegetarianism, and then eventually veganism. For reals. I’m educating myself on it the best I can, and I’m going to make sure that we all get the nutrients that we need.
Other than that, there’s not much new to report. I’m halfway through my pregnancy, and feeling fine, mostly. We’ll find out the gender of the baby on April 10th, and then I’m sure I’ll be begging everyone for name suggestions!
After my last post, I was starting to try to re-frame my thinking (thanks, Laura!) to focus on being a mom and keeping my body healthy for my baby. All of the things I want to accomplish will still be there after I give birth. I also decided to start making more of an effort with my appearance — I’ve been stuck in a jeans & sweater rut for months! I ordered some sweet new maternity clothes from Old Navy, and made a pact with myself to shave my legs at least twice a week (thanks to Cyndi!). So, things were looking up.
And then at 1:30am on Wednesday, I woke up in pain. With THE pain. The one that signals that my guts have exploded. I got up, took a warm bath, and hoped that it would go away. It didn’t. So, I woke up The Hubs, called my mom, and when she arrived to watch The Kid, we headed to the hospital.
This experience was much different than my past two hospital stays. This time, the immediate concern was for the baby, so they whisked me up to the maternity ward. While I signed in, I was parked in a wheelchair next to the nursery. That’s when it hit me — that I could lose the baby. Of course, I started sobbing. So embarrassing. They did some tests, an ultrasound, and checked the baby’s heartbeat. All good, thankfully. We only saw the head on the ultrasound (they were more concerned with looking at my cervix than Kid2), and it looked like a girl head. Or a boy. I’m not sure.
Once they concluded that the pain wasn’t related to the baby, they assumed it’s diverticulitis, and sent me home with meds. They couldn’t do a CT Scan because I’m pregnant, so it was a “hope for the best” situation. Kind of weird, but I went with it. I went home, rested the best I could, and took my meds. There’s still some pain today, but it’s better. I have an appointment with my colon Dr. on Tuesday afternoon. I’m pretty sure he’s going to insist on surgery after I give birth. Fun.
Now, I’m terrified to eat. I’m VERY lucky that there wasn’t an infection. If that happens, bad things could happen. But I won’t think about that. I just have to make it through the next 5 months, give birth, and then my guts can do whatever they want. I pulled out my food tracker today, and I’m going to track fiber, water, and my bowel movements (fun, right?). My focus has to be on staying as healthy as possible so that there are no complications.
The other thing I really need to work on is staying positive. I’ve been in such a funk lately, and that’s led to some pretty miserable days. I need to remember the good things in life, and focus on believing in myself.
I’ll leave you with this song. It reminds me that no matter what, I’m a pretty lucky gal, and it’s really all up to me in the end.
The other day, I was playing Words With Friends, and noticed an interesting message on the board.
Message in the game
And just like that, I had a sign. To write poetry again. To focus on publishing again. All things I’ve been thinking about a lot, but have put on the back-burner because of teaching and family life.
But how can I make time to write when I have work, a kid, and everything else? I’m struggling to find “me time” as it is. I’m working on an application for a full-time teaching position, something I’ve wanted for a long time, but the position starts in the fall, right after I’ll give birth. I’m not sure a FT position is right for me right now. But if I don’t go for it, who knows when another position will open up?
Anyway, back to poetry. I’m lucky enough to be surrounded by writers, and to be able to meet some famous poets from time to time. I have the support system I need, almost. I would LOVE to find an online or in-person writers’ group, too.
Somehow, someway, I need to start devoting more time to my writing. And I have to take a leap of faith and start submitting my work for publication again. I mean, when Words with Friends sends a message, you have to listen, right?
