Miss Lor

"Miss Lor, what's your first name?"

"Miss."

Laughs, "That ain't your first name!"

I smiled in return; that was all I was giving them.  On day two of teaching summer school English, I thought my head was going to explode.  We had spent the past two days giving them assessments.  There were reading comprehension assessments, differentiated assessments, math assessments, bio assessments, every test known to man and child had been given out in those first two days.  The students were antsy, bored, and, most of all, hot.  We had jam-packed the classroom with desks in anticipation of 38 students.  By Tuesday the number had whittled down to a mere 20, but still... I don't know what I would have done if all 38 students would have shown up that first day.

There's something very apparent about my students.  By day two I had come to the conclusion that a brain smart enough to talk back is a brain smart enough to read.  So why didn't these kids know how to read?

Even as I type the word kids, I cringe.

When I was in the 8th grade I was blessed with the best English teacher in the world.

Mr. W was the first to demand 10 page book reports that required in-depth character analysis and vocabulary comprehension.  Not only were these book reports an integral part of our grade, but he required they be typed or written with a fountain pen.  A fountain pen?!  What was this, the 17th century?  Bolder students tested his resolve by using roller-balls and gel pens, but Mr. W always knew the difference and it was reflected in our scores.

When the boys came to school with their sagging jeans, Mr. W raised one beguiling eyebrow and succinctly suggested they pull their pants up, lest they desire him to bring out the duct tape.

Mr. W taught us the beauty in diagramming a sentence.  He introduced us to the eloquent and tragic world of Shakespeare.  He orchestrated the yearly school musical and patiently directed us through the frenzy of square dance and enunciation.  Most importantly, Mr. W taught us to always hold ourselves to high standards.  To this day I can recall that to use the word kids refers to baby goats, and the word that we really want to use is children.

If you asked him "Can I go to the bathroom?",  he would reply, "I don't know, can you?".  The proper question was always "May I go to the bathroom?".

As I went through the notions of being trained to be an English teacher, I couldn't help but think of Mr. W.

I think about all of the exceptional educators I've had the pleasure of learning from.  All of these teachers who weren't afraid to set the bar high.

Ultimately, my fear as a teacher is that my students will be paralyzed by their own fear of not reaching that bar.

My students, who are incredibly smart and beautiful.  They're so full of sass that sometimes I have to check myself so they don't see me laughing at the hilarious things they do or say.

My students will reach that bar.

Delta Blues

The Delta is, apparently, the most southern place on earth.

So far I've learned about Kool-Aid pickles, the all-encompassing usage of y'all, and always always addressing others with sir or ma'am.

I've gotten a crash course of the Delta Blues and I must admit I'm smitten.  There's something about twangy guitar chords and raw voice that just knows how to woo a girl.

Overall, the Delta is filled with    so. much. culture.     It's as thick as the humidity here, but you couldn't cut it with a knife.

There are customs and traditions and notions and ideas that I haven't even begun to explore or understand yet.

Delta Dooder Da

My mother always says to me, "You're like a knotted rope, and the harder we pull, the tighter you make yourself.  It's like I can't untangle you."

My mom says this in reference to my aloofness, but most times I know she means my stubbornness.  And it's true.  I'm as stubborn as a hangnail, refusing to be clipped.  I'm as stubborn as an un-roasted pistachio, unwilling to be opened.  I'm as stubborn as my father... and my mother.  I'm as stubborn as they come.  The harder someone tries to get an answer out of me or to get me to do something, the harder I refuse.  Eventually my mind implodes and I give into whatever secret was festering inside, but the road to that is usually difficult and filled with my dirty stares.

My stubbornness is what brings me here tonight, writing away my pre-adventure jitters.  It's 12:40 AM in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and by this time tomorrow I'll be on my way to training in the Mississippi Delta.  13 hours away from home.

The story of my life is that I never knew what I wanted to be growing up.  When teachers would ask me, I had a different answer every year.  The world seemed so big and there were so many things I could try.  Many would say this was the first sign of a flighty woman, but I say... bollocks to them! I'm just as stubborn as they come.  The first time I said I wanted to be an artist but by age 7 I had been told that I would be penniless and working part-time as a mime in Paris.  The second time was right after my uncle had passed and I told them I wanted to be a scientist who found a cure for cancer; but I knew I was lying because, even at age 9, I hated science. When I graduated from the 5th grade I had a bevy of teachers tell me I was going to become President of the United States, and I thought... why would I want to be that?

It was years before I had to ask myself that question again.  That dirty little question popped right back into my life during my junior year of high school.  It was time to be a big girl and figure out things like colleges, majors, minors, specifications, associations.... I still had no idea.  But I knew I didn't want to not know.

I told one of my best friends that I was thinking of going into journalism.  I loved to write and I really really really just wanted to travel.  He told me I was too smart to settle for "something like journalism" and that I was wasting my brain.  Say what?!?!?   I must say I was only 5% flattered and 95% offended at that comment, but later that year when he asked me out I still said yes because I was such a sucker.  Our adolescent love didn't last but he planted an idea inside of me that I always kept burning in the back of my mind: why settle?

I didn't really want to be a journalist, I just loved to write.  And when I entered college as an art major, I didn't really want to do that either, I just wanted to paint.  And when I switched into fashion design a year later, I still didn't want to do that, I just wanted a stable job and health insurance.

Here I am, 2 years out of college.  I have a bachelor's and an associates in Fashion Design.  Three weeks ago I quit my design job at a multi-billion dollar corporation so I could teach art to kids in the Mississippi Delta.  I didn't even know where that was; I had to google-map it. And use Wikipedia.

The point is.... maybe I didn't want to settle for great benefits, a stable salary, and 65 hour weeks.  I don't know much about the South, or Mississippi, or Arkansas, or the Delta in general.

The truth is I'm terrified.  All of my midnight doubts are hitting me. What if I suck at this.  What if I walk into that classroom and they laugh at me and they tell me to kick my stilettos up and go back to where I came from.... That won't be good.

I just want to help people.  I want to ask kids what they think they'll be when they grow up.  I want to believe in whatever answer they give me, and most of all, I want them to believe it too.

When I quit my job, I told my boss that I'm the type of person who walks into a job and always wants to give 200% of myself, and if I were to give 200% of myself it was damned well going to be for something more meaningful than striped polo shirts.

So here I am, not quite the President of the United States as my teachers once predicted, but ready to make changes nonetheless.