The Graduate(s)

This was my fourth SME graduation ceremony. As I watched the seniors pack the auditorium before walking out in those awful powder-blue robes, I ruminated on my graduation.

Sion dressed us in long formal white gowns, gave us three long stem red roses, and we were crowned with a garland of flowers by the headmistress. All very normal. The page holding the garland of flowers on a silk pillow might have been a little much. Of course, the voting for the white gown was a little contentious. Nolte's (specializes in wedding gowns) provided us with a runway show. I never really wondered how much money my parents sunk into that graduation until I started typing this. Oh and our class rings were originally designed by Cartier. I still wear that ring. And I don't know what happened to my gown. But I do know that my high school skinny body is gone, so perhaps it's best not to think too much on that!

But I digress, watching my "kids" walk across the stage is always somewhat poignant. They really are on to bigger and better things. I can only pray that something I said at some point in my classes sunk in. Mostly, I'm a little envious. They really are on to what changes their lives and even the cynical little stoner in the row behind me giggled a couple of times. I've been reading articles on the graduation rate in America and it seems that we are getting dumber and less educated. Moreover, more and more graduates are choosing the "year off" option. But these SME kids are definitely a class apart. 14 million in scholarship money and despite the crazy afro on one of the Top 10 candidates, there are some kids that make me pause for a minute with their intelligence. Though that's definitely a different post!

When it rains...

It seems as though I am adopting the nervous quarks of my dog during a furious storm. Except that thunder and lightening doesn't send me pacing, panting, and pressing myself against people. Instead it's the thought of finals, a freshmen mentoring program that I have a love/hate relationship with, and a really dirty building. I have nothing but sympathy for the janitorial staff and the horrendous amounts of paper towels, toilet paper, and Sharpie genitalia that is plastered all over the bathroom. However, I am fairly certain that the amount of dust, grime, and whatever the hell is blowing out of the A/C unit has coated my skin and is the reason my eyes can't seem to focus on the 12 pt. Times New Roman font in front of me.
I finished the first part of my finals and I'm nearing completion. It's strange that at this frenetic time of year I feel like I can survive in this state for another month or so. Like Dottie I feel like I can't really see past the current blinding flash and terrifying boom, the day exists for itself. I haven't the foggiest idea if my co-workers can tell...but I sincerely hope not!
I also have a sneaky suspicion that this is beginning to effect my social life/skills. Here's hoping the summer recoups them for me!

One Tentative Step...

Being a teacher not only taxes one physically, but also mentally. The obvious now having been stated, I want to start getting down these stories and thoughts that I have in my job. Not so much because I think they are worthy of being preserved for posterity, but because a lot of truly meaningful things happen in the course of a day and after four years, they're beginning to run together.

So here we go...

I assigned a personal narrative to be due next week for both of my freshmen and sophomore classes. I wanted to make sure I wouldn't get the general run-of-the-mill crap like: "My fifth birthday my parents bought me a pony cake and it was great." or "My friends and I got drunk and I stole a go-cart." (It's amazing what they think will impress me) So I requested that they dig deep and I read them a part of Ann Lamott's book Bird by Bird to remind them that true voice comes from deep within, it's opening the doors inside of you that you've been forbidden to open by your parents and it's reaching into those dark crevices and giving your "monster an onstage interview." My sophomores quietly absorbed this information and then wrote some ideas down on a sheet. I exalted that I had finally reached them. I knew I was going to get some rough stuff and I thought I was prepared.
A student came to me today with her idea for the narrative and I nearly broke down and cried. She is a wonderful girl and she has kept the class well-supplied with cookies and cakes all year (she bakes when she's stressed). When she first opened her mouth, my eyes rolled because of her high-pitched-sweet-as-molasses voice, but as time has gone on I have learned to love this girl. She told me her aunt wanted to clear the idea with me that she put all of her experiences into one narrative, like a reflection of what she's been through. I glanced at the sheet: Her mother died, her father is a hoarder, and she's attempted suicide. I managed to choke out, "yes" and then forced my arms down so I didn't envelope her in a surprise bear-hug.
This girl, this brave sweet girl who bakes and never complains and certainly has never denied anyone another cookie even when she's running low has been through hell. I am never ever surprised, but I am always amazed by my "children".
I don't think I'm prepared for this onslaught and now I wish I had never mentioned that stupid monster giving an interview. But damage is definitely done and I can only hope that this culminating paper will help a couple of kids come to some good truths. I really really hope.