Hello again.
I haven’t felt like writing much during this first week I’ve been back in New York. I now believe that I was suffering a malady far worse than bad salad, though given recently documented cases of e. coli in spinach and lettuce, bad salad is nothing to take lightly. I’ve been exhausted every morning when I wake up, and my stomach still can’t handle eating certain foods. I learned this the hard way when I went out with some co-workers Friday night, and ended up spangling the curb with some margarita-tinged chunks.
Cade spent the weekend in Philadelphia, so I had to recover alone with plenty of fluids and not-so-fresh fresh air. Most of all, I got some active alone time. Despite my post about being a wallflower, I really enjoy my solitude. The weekend forecast condemned New Yorkers to rain and wind, but the rain ended early Saturday morning. Then the clouds came. By mid-afternoon, I looked up and epiphany: the sun was out, it was 70 degrees out, and I live at the center of the universe. What a great day.
I loved walking around the city, thinking and running my errands with ease over the weekend. But. But. I mean big BUTS, and I cannot lie, I want winter. NYC hasn’t seen any snow yet, which makes it the longest winter since 18something. I moved to the East Coast to take up things I didn’t have the chance to in Texas, like ambitious Yankees and skiing. Weather gods, don’t deny me these dreams!
One thing I’ve been thinking about a lot this weekend - the crack in my sidewalk of doing - is how much situations can change overnight. I was so excited about not taking classes this semester and seemingly having huge chunks of time given back to me. I wanted to move away from the focus on my job, as it was interfering with me trying yoga and writing. I’ve since realized that it’s always the same amount of time. It really is. And everyone has the same alottment over the course of the week. It’s a matter of making the most of it, and knowing when to drop certain practices or plans that aren’t as important as others. I can type this and even say it with a straight face, but I’m still filling out a useless database of what I wear each week. I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess.
When I was offered another job at my school on Wednesday - teaching photography as an enrichment teacher - I was flattered, but immediately thought about the time I would lose. Then I started thinking about Born Into Brothels, a great documentary about a photographer who gives poor children in Calcutta cameras and consequently, beauty and hope. I told the people in my support network, who were ecstatic that I would make more money doing something I love. I’m taking the job, which starts at the end of January. There are a few turns my life has taken in the last year that surprise me. This has to be the one I least saw coming. I’m going to be a visual arts teacher? Cool.
Yet another change, though this has been a slow development and realization: I have fallen hard for some of the kids I teach. I read somewhere that the teacher-student bond is finally sealed after Christmas break. I started my new job working with Karen, a teacher who had already developed a rapport with all the students. I was the newbie, the outsider, the adult they hadn’t figured out yet. Man, am I glad that’s over. I don’t work closely with all the students, as my specialty is working with Special Ed and at-risk students, but I know all of them and they know me. For the most part, they respond to my authority and correct their actions when they see my raised eyebrows or hand gestures or feel me tap on their backs.
And sometimes they even initiate very affectionate interactions, like the regular ed students who ask to work at my table. The fact that kids don’t seem to realize what kind of teacher I am - that I am meant to focus on struggling students - and don’t associate me with a stigma is incredible. I’ve had a lot of progress relating with some of the toughest male students with discipline problems, who now want to work with me everyday, but tend to settle for some chit-chat. This isn’t just a guy thing, either - a lot of my fifth and sixth grade girls want to work in small groups with me, too. It’s cheesy, but I feel really good when I think about it. What I’m doing means something to these kids. They like me, they really like me!
Ahh. That felt better. I’m trying to maintain the writing on this blog, but this chirping, rumbling city beckons me again. As long as we’re both around, there’s always more later.
