Oh yes.... Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving was great! We hosted a great herd of foriegn teacher's at our house. I cooked the turkey. It was my first - but came out delicious despite. We all had a great time and ate way too much food, as is exactly correct for Thanksgiving. I would love to write about it more, but I'm tired. So, I'm just going to link to Dan's blog. He was there. He wrote about it. He didn't critisize the turkey...
Dan's entry about our Thanksgiving: Click Here
School Motto
The stone reads "Noble Stubbornness." It's the motto for the school I teach at. Interesting. I don't about our boys, but it's perfect for me.
Kiomye and I saw this cutie at the Oiji zoo last week.
Art, urinals and junior high
I visited the new modern art museum
(National Museum of Art) in Osaka this weekend. I went with 20 boys form my school. I had assumed that the teacher that leads the “field trip class” and who had invited me to come would come with us. I did not expect him to hand us a couple maps at the entrance to the school and yell “Have a good time” as he headed back in to the school. It was like going on an unexpected blind date and finding out you’ve been set-up with 20 13-year-old boys. I had a good time despite. Many of the boys were third years and therefore completely enraptured by me. My usual students are the second years. They know me well enough to know that I give out homework and don’t giggle or blush when they try out their newly acquired swear words. They are no longer impressed. The third years tried to talk my ears off the whole long way with questions about American music and what “type” of man I prefer. Somewhat amusing.
The museum itself was wonderful. I had so desperately wanted to come along as they inaugural exhibition was a collection by Marcel Duchamp. I had seen very few of his pieces outside art books in college. They even had his most famous - blurred
“Nude descending a staircase.” They had a large portion of his “ready-made” works as well. This is fun stuff. For instance – he signed a urinal in rather ostentatious grand artist flair and call it “
fountain.” Or, he’d write “In advance of a broken arm” on a
shovel, then have it prominently displayed in a gallery. Many people hate his work because they think it was too easy, or it was just a joke. Yes, it is often a joke. That’s part of the reason it delights me so much. There is a higher meaning to many of his pieces – such as how he shifts the context of an ordinary item to give it a new meaning and relevancy – but to focus on the theory academics would be to loss the point completely. I like how he makes art accessible, into something even I can partake in. I have an overwhelming desire to write kooky little notes on every thing I see now. I won’t declare it art, but I do declare that it makes life more interesting and fun.
I lost my junior-high escorts and took my time wandering through the museum. They have a very good collection. The flyers informed me that a big Van Gogh exhibit is coming in May. I know I’ll be back for that. I managed to weave my way back through topside Osaka to the train station without the aid of my guides – this city is madness, finding my way back was no small task. I was starving and still had a couple train transfers ahead of me, so I stopped at a ramen stand to get some lunch. I was also dying of thirst, but was served tea so hot that there was no chance it would cool enough to drink before the 15min I was allotted to stand at the counter and slurp my noodles ran out. Satisfying nonetheless.
Today I have spent with Matt and Kiomye. We took the train to Kobe to get some Christmas shopping done at Tokyo Hands. Christmas shopping is a breeze this year as everyone just wants something “from Japan.” No problemo.
I got a response to my Kendo observations from my teaching partner. He was interested in seeing how I, someone from another culture, perceives his own culturally bound behaviors. He said that it is very difficult to recognize these things in yourself, and even then to verbalize your insights. I thought about that for a long minute.
It is also difficult for me to recognize my own culturally bound behaviors. There are so many aspects of my personality that I imagined to be uniquely mine, until I came here and I realized by comparison that much of my personality is shaped by being an American. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that yet. When I wrote that first quick draft about watching the transformation in the boys during Kendo, I made many comments about what I consider to be “common Japanese behavior.” Yet, another major learning I have had in coming here is how wrong many of my pre-conceived notions are. This is one of the best things about moving abroad.
Kiomye is jumping from the bed to my chair. It’s hard to type. I should sign off for the night.
Witnessing Kendo
Once my offending shoes were slipped off my feet and placed in the proper cubby, I was led down the green hallway to the polished wood room where the high school Kendo club was finishing up their practice. I sat with my young students, one of whom offered me a folding chair.
My students knelt down and touched their foreheads to the floor. I watched as they tied handkerchiefs over the tops of their heads then slipped on their metal grilled masks. This is not a sports practice for gym shorts and sneakers. Even for practice, they wear the whole get-up; loose pants that flare when they pound their bare feet across the floor, big padded gloves that reach to their elbows, chest guards of leather wrapped over jackets of heavy cloth, more thick cloth hanging off their hips. They take the floor fully equipped.
The room was full of yelling and pounding feet. Imitated death cries. I can think of no better way for my students to release tension after a long day at junior high. The kids held staffs of bamboo sticks, loosely bound so that they clapped loudly when struck against an opponent. They raised their arms up, yelled and charged, striking the top of the metal grill masks of their peers. The vibrations shook the room, shook the folding chair when I sat with embarrassed poise. I felt out of place in my business attire and crossed legs.
My teachering partner (and the kids’ coach) was even better dressed than I was. He was easy to spot in his dress shirt and suit pants when he walked into the crowd to adjust the grip of a student’s hands on his pole, or else to demonstrate a raging charge, his sweater vest stretched across his chest.
The room was cold. I imagine I would have judged it steaming if I were in the layers of padded clothes, running, pounding, striking, retreating. These kids made me feel like an old maid, so I folded up my chair and leaned it against the wall. If you kids can run non-stop like this all evening, then I can stand and watch for 20 minutes.
I noticed the walls didn’t quite reach the ceiling, so I walked next door to see what sports teams had to endure the deafening racket of the kendo practice. A league of ping pongers hopped and swung a mere 15 feet away. I admired their short shorts for a moment, and then moved to the next room. Two pairs of boys were practicing Judo, throwing each other down in turn on the padded floor. I watched them struggle and punch for a minute, then moved back to my boys. The noise had subsided. I found them kneeling and removing some of their gear.
I knelt down behind them and waited for the watches to begin. The kids put on a good show, but I was distracted by the pain in my legs. Only the Japanese can turn a pleasant activity like sitting into a test of endurance and fortitude. The proper way to sit in on your knees with your feet tucked under your bottom and your back straight. Sitting on my ankles for so long, I actually look forward to my feet and legs falling asleep so that the pain would dull.
My teaching partner took the floor and stood like a mountain while the small students charged at him and bounced off his body. He urged them on with a growling roar. The students would reply with a high-pitched yell, then dash forward again. They batted at him unsuccessfully for a while, and then he dropped his arms and shoulders so that they could whack the top of his mask a couple of times with their full strength just for the fun of it.
How strange and beautiful it was to watch the transformation. That man, these kids, who spend their days in passive submission, quiet and blended with the swarm, become twirling, raging demons in the sanctuary of the kendo room. There is no place for hesitation here. You must offer your voice as loud as possible, to the fray, or else be judged the loser. The kids have such confidence in their actions, their movements. But only here. In the classrooms they sit so still as if their very presence may offend.
After a while, I had to stand to relieve the pain in my ankles. That was a mistake. The blood rushed back into my aching limbs and the pricked pain intensified ten times. One must learn how to rise after kneeling for so long. To stand as usual would mean staggering on your blood starved legs and possibly tumbling over front ways. Not pretty. You must first lean over and place your fingertips on the floor, then push off using your hands for counter balance.
After the matches came the closing ceremonies. The students took off their masks and head scarves, then knelt in a line across the room. My teaching partner, their honorable sensei, knelt facing then and said something that I couldn’t hear. The students bowed low once, then twice. Then they stood and rubbed their eyes and waited for me to turn away to allow them a moment of modesty to change out of their costumes.
I walked home in the dark, breathing in the cool autumn air. Images of dancing feet play over and over in my mind and I could still hear the urgent cries of the boys becoming men.
Just me and five hundred little boys
I spoke at Chapel today. Just me, a stage and five hundred blank faces staring at me, daring me not to put them to sleep. I decided to focus my chapel talk on faith and God. This may seem obvious, but I have yet to hear a chapel talk about God.
I made the agreement to speak at Chapel some time ago. I drafted out my speech, made sure t was appropriate, then quickly forgot about it. It was until I was walking to work this moment when I suddenly remembered my speech was today. My heart skipped two beats. Luckily, I had left a copy of my speech on my desk at work. I had a class first period, then chapel right after. I never got a chance to read it through or practice saying it out loud.
The story I told is one from my heart, so I was able to pull it off fairly well. I had my draft to guide me and offer story details. I sat up on the stage with my boss Okamoto beside me. I sat calmly through the hymn and the verse reading, then approached the podium with a twinge of poise. I may not have been as emotive as I wanted to be, but spoke smoothly and articulated well. Not that my articulation maters much as the kids don’t understand English. Okamoto was there to translate my sentences into Japanese and wave his hands around a lot.
Many of the teachers (that speak English) came up to me afterwards and told me I did a very good job. Dan told me that Okamoto only changed one part to soften it even more than I did, but otherwise was fairly honest in his translation. I’m actually looking forward to the next time I get to speak at Chapel.
The Speech
--Here's the speech I gave in chapel. Yes, there's a lot of simple sentences, but it as a speech and my audience was junior high boys.--
My understanding of God comes from my understanding of love and joy. Sometimes I am startled by joy, in the same way that I am startled by God’s love. This is the story of one of those times.
When I turned 20, I went on a journey to discover the world and to discover myself. I joined a group called AmeriCorps, which is similar to Peace Corps. I traveled the US doing volunteer work. I worked very hard and was very poor. I taught at a jail for teenage girls and I came home each night with an exhausted heart. I worked on an environmental conservation crew and spent my days chainsawing trees and clearing brush. I came home each night with an exhausted body. I was very proud of myself for living so selflessly. I thought God must be happy with me too.
Then something bad happened. I was attacked. My body was trespassed and harmed. I was terrified. I had to deal with police and lawyers. I was terrified and distraught. I hid in my room for an entire week.
I was also confused. I didn’t understand how God could let something bad happen to me.
After seven days of isolation, I knew I had to come out of my room and face the world again. I was still very angry with people – so I decided to go to the mountains.
I was living in Denver, Colorado. There are huge mountains in Colorado called the Rockies. It was winter and I knew the mountains would be freezing, but I had my trusty truck and I was determined to get out. I opened up my map of the Rockies to look for a place to go. I saw a campground named Kelsey Creek. My first name is Kelsye! I knew that’s where I should go. I threw my tent and sleeping bag into my truck and drove into the mountains.
It started to snow on the climb up. Big white snowflakes the size of my fist covered my windshield. I had to keep my wipers moving very fast so that I could see the road. I finally made it to Kelsye Creek Campground, but there was a big gate across the road. It was closed! I couldn’t get in.
I didn’t know where else to go, so I drove down a narrow service road near the campground. The snow was getting very deep. It was hard for my truck to keep going. It was getting dark and I couldn’t find a good place to camp. I tried driving up a snow covered hill and my truck got stuck. I rocked backwards and forwards to try to free myself from the deep snow. The truck wouldn’t budge. I got outside to check out my dilemma. It was almost dark and I didn’t really know where I was. I was alone and stuck in the freezing mountains. I finally managed to shovel some of the snow from behind my tires, get my truck moving, and head back the way I had come.
I spotted a place to camp that I had missed before. I stopped the truck and got out. Near where I was parked was a large outcropping of boulders. I climbed on the top of the highest boulder to see if I could see the main road and figure out where I was.
The view from the top of the boulders took my breath away. I could see all the surrounding mountains and the valleys and a big winding river. The sun was setting and layers of red and yellow stacked up on each other, making the snow glow like gold. I sat down on the boulder and wrapped my arms around my knees. My cheeks burned with cold, but I didn’t move. I watched the sun disappear behind the mountains and the sky turn from gold to purple to black. I watched the stars come out one-by-one until the whole sky filled with celestial light. I felt peaceful and calm. I didn’t feel alone, even though no one sat with me on that lonely boulder. I felt as if God was giving me a special show of incredible beauty so that I would know that he hadn’t forgotten me.
After a long time, I returned to my truck. It was too cold to set up the tent, so I curled up in my sleeping bag and tried to sleep in the cab of my truck. I had never spent a night without heat in such a cold place. I was very unprepared. The cold was so painful that even though I snuggled in my sleeping bag with layers and layers of clothes on my body, I still shivered and my fingers were too stiff to bend. I didn’t get very much sleep. Every 45 minutes, I would have to turn the truck engine back on to use the heater to thaw myself out. It was a long night.
At about 4 in the morning, I decided there was no way I would get any more sleep and that I should just get up. It was going to be light soon. I stumbled out of the cab of my truck and stretched my stiff body. Then I saw a flash of color on the snow. An animal! A cat! A BIG cat!
My first instinct was very wrong. I was so excited from seeing the wild animal that I sprinted towards it. The animal turned and dashed away from me. It was a big cat with spots on its fur and black furry tips on its ears. Its paw prints in the snow were bigger than my boots. A bobcat! I quickly realized how stupid it was for me to be chasing after an animal that could probably eat me if it so desired. I stopped running and I watched it bound away from me, my heart pounding.
Bobcats do live in the Rockies, but their numbers are dwindling and they are very rare to see. Some men spend their entire lives living in the Rockies and still never see one of the cats in the wild. I was so happy that I laughed out loud. What a gift God had given me!
I hurried into my truck and zoomed down the mountain to my friends. I couldn’t wait to tell them what I had seen. I even contemplated pulling over at a gas station just so I could run inside and tell the clerk that I’d seen a bobcat. I was desperate to share my experience with anybody! That night, after I had gotten home and had told every one I knew about seeing a bobcat in the mountains, I laid myself down in my bed and quickly fell into a peaceful sleep, the first peaceful night of sleep I’d had in a week. The joy of God’s gift to me had startled me out of my sadness. I could no longer disparage when I knew that we live in a world created by a God of love.
End prayer: Dear God, may we all find strength to endure challenging times and may we continuously experience moments when we are startled by joy and reaffirmed in your love. AMEN.
My daughter is not a puppy
Written on Sunday...
Kiomye is dancing on the sculpture platform outside the Tarazuka train station. Carefree child’s play. Her arms raised over her head, dress twirling she sings a make-the-words-up-as-you-go song about a princess. She draw a crowd. The fates have made my daughter beautiful and her parents have moved her to a country where her blue eyes and blondish hair are anomalies. Some of the people who stop to watch her are simply smiling women, mothers themselves, who delight in the joy of children. Other are older men that stop suddenly with their mouths dropped open, a look of confusion and bewilderment on their faces. Kiomye is unaware. I don’t mind if people watch her, as long as they don’t bother her.
On Mondays, Matt teaches at class at my school. He brings Kiomye with him and I watch her during my free period. The teachers have been very friendly and tolerant. Yet, Kiomye gets very shy at my school because so many oft these people insist on touching her. After the third teacher (a stranger to Kiomye) had squeezed her cheeks, Kiomye turned to me, her hands on her face, and said with a very confused look, “He touch me mommy.” I smiled at her and said that the teachers just like her. Then I took her out of the teacher’s office and we spend the rest of the period reading books in an empty classroom.
I know it’s tempting to touch her, pat her head or try to hold her little hand. But, unless she has invited it, it’s really inappropriate. She’s allowed personal space too. Not to say that she doesn’t love affection. Just try to come visit our house and sit on our couch with out her crawling all over you. But, that’s in our comfortable house where she knows the people the visit. I want to tell her that the people who touch her don’t mean anything by it, but there is no reason why she should have to endure their touch if she’s uncomfortable with it. I don’t want to teach her that she has to let strangers and men do what they want so that she doesn’t embarrass them. I want her to be able to say no. It’s difficult when the people who lavish attention on her honestly mean well.
Crazy English and a Toddler's True Love
Teaching English has allowed me to recognize how messed up and crazy this language is. I just realized that it’s completely ridiculous for the word “answer” to contain a “w”. Come on now. Let’s be reasonable people!
Kiomye has been watching a lot of Disney movies lately and now the term “true love” has crept into her vocabulary. She doesn’t quite understand the phrase. She keeps fake-crying and saying she’s lost her true love. I ask her where it is and she says, “Umm, maybe my true love is at the store? Maybe daddy took it.” We keep trying to explain to her that true love is not a “thing” but she thinks that if you’ve lost it, you must be able it. The princesses in the movie are always looking for their true love.
Another funny moment, I was watching the modern version of Romeo and Juliet to prepare for my Saturday class and Kiomye caught sight of Leonardo DiCaprio. “Is that my true love?” she asked. Yeah, yours and mine both honey. Very funny.
Fidelity and stuff
Today longing overcame fear. I now sit at the keyboard and type, despite my insecurities and the dread that nothing I ever write will matter, or that I am a selfish fool to spend my time with words when I could be spending quality time with my daughter, or learning Japanese or even simply cleaning our messy apartment.
When I was finally able to declare out loud that I wanted to be a writer, my first step was clear. I needed to go back to college and learn more about my chosen craft and the world around me. Now I am finished with school. I should be producing. I have no good reason not to be churning out great pieces of mature writing.
I am not a mature writer. No matter how much I desperately want to believe I am. Despite my shining years at college, I have a long long way to go before I even approach the level I want to write at. Level. That’s not the right word. I am more looking for a convergence. A convergence of what I want to say meeting well crafted prose. A clarity of ideas and a memorable style of writing. The pressure is on. It’s my own dreams and desires that cause me anxiety. That, and the fact that I’ve declared that I want to be a great writer out loud and often. Not just a writer – a great writer. Ambition paralyzes me. Flattens my enthusiasm.
But today, longing over came fear and now I sit at my keyboard and feel the familiar rush of my words flowing from my fingertips. Sweet oblivion.
Meanwhile – I am searching for an answer to maintaining love and fidelity (a charming pastime I assure you) I came across a wonderful chapter in Madeleine L’Engle’s book “The Irrational Season.” She is a writer (a WORKING writer) married to an actor/playwright/director. Their marriage is long. At the books printing – their marriage was going on 30 years. That was 25 years ago. She is still alive and (I think) still married. Very impressive. I always look with wonder at the couples who manage to stay together that long.
Anyway, L’Engle has many wonderful insights and things to say about love and marriage in this chapter. Yet what struck me most was a poem.
LOVERS APART
In what, love, does fidelity consist?
I will be true to you, of course.
My body’s needs I can resist,
Come back to you without remorse.
And you, behind the floodlight’s lure,
Kissing an actress on the stage,
Will leave her presence there, I’m sure,
As I my people of the page.
And yet – I love you, darling, yet
I sat with someone at a table
And gloried in our minds that met
As sometimes strangers’ minds are able
To leap the bounds of time and space
And find, in sharing wine and bread
And light in one another’s face
And in the words that each has said,
An intercourse so intimate
It shook me deeply to the core.
I said good night, for it was late;
We parted at my hotel door
And I went in, turned down the bed
And took my bath and thought of you
Leaving the theatre with light tread
And going off, as you should do. . . .
To rest, relax, and eat and talk –
And I lie there and wonder who
Will wander with you as you walk
And what you both will say and do. . . .
We may not love in emptiness;
We married in a peopled place;
The vows we made enrich and bless
The smile on every stranger’s face,
And all the years that we have spent
Give me the joy that makes me able
To love and laugh with sacrament
Across a strange and distant table.
No matter where I am, you are,
We two are one and bread is broken
And laughter shared both near and far
Deepens the promises spoken
And strengthens our fidelity
Although I cannot tell you how,
But I rejoice in mystery
And rest upon our marriage vow.
This poem is lovely as poems go, but it spoke to me very directly, giving a partial answer to my immense question. I have sat across from dear new faces and found a connection that has shaken me to the core. I ask how can Matt and I survive if I find myself drawn so strongly to men who are nothing like him? I know in those instances that here in our earthly lives Matt will never understand or know me in the way some rare people do. Some things I value most about my heart and mind, Matt can’t seem to reach. Still, I love him, and he loves me. How is this possible?
I was walking home from work with my friend Dan (OUR friend actually, one who has known us both since we were simply Matt and Kelsye and not MattandKelsye), and he was talking about a nice couple we both know and how it delights him how they are so well suited for each other. He said that it gives him peace just to know that people can match like that. I grimaced and furrowed my brows and asked, though I knew the answer, “Do you think Matt and I fit together like that?”
Dan scoffed and laughed and said hell no, but we seem happy so what does it matter.
My feelings were hurt. I consider myself insanely rich and lucky in love and expect everyone else to think that way too. When I write these words I realize it’s more than that. I guess I am shocked that we are not envied. Don’t you envy me, my friends? No, they do not.
How strange. What a confused picture we must make from the outside. I have no perspective. I only know what it is like to live within our love. Our love – though bizarre and probably mis-matched, is enduring and strong nonetheless.
To fall in love is a risk. To make vows of eternal faithfulness is an even bigger risk. I knowingly and happily tie myself to this man who is so completely different than me. I know that the odds are stacked against us, but still I say to him, “I love you. I am striving to always be with you.” It’s a bit like the much smaller risk I take when I say out loud that I want to be a writer. I know that my chances are slim, yet still I have publicly dedicated my heart to this pursuit. A broken vow is so much more painful than a hope never voiced. The promises we made to each other in front of our friends and loved ones exposed us to the possibility of a great failure.
When the doubt gets to me – and it does, like when I meet a dear soul over a table and our minds race along in surprising comprehension – I simply image my life without Matt, and I am reduced to whimpers and remorse. The daydream of a new romance is light and delightful, but the nightmare of life without Matt is horrific. The easy response would be to say that our attachment is just neediness and familiarity; ugly, unromantic co-dependency. But if it were merely that I were afraid to live my life alone, then I could have easily attached myself to many of the willing men that came after Matt and promised me an easier, more joyful life. (As if it were theirs to give.) I grimace when I consider what it would have been like for me to abandon my relationship with Matt. For all the temporary distractions that come my way, the future I imagine for myself always includes Matt. Matt may not be my match, but he is most assuredly my partner.
While this amazing man may not ever completely understand me or find pleasure in all the pursuits that fulfill me, he is the soul on this earth that knows me best. Matt knows the very worst things about me on a very intimate level. It’s in the areas of my mind that I consider to be the best of that he doesn’t quite comprehend. Here is where my danger lies - when I meet the people that do communicate in those more flattering areas of self. Yet, for knowing so well the ugliest parts of me and only some of the good – this man loves me fully and truly.
That blows my mind.
I’m rather psychotic and demanding, you know. You still want to live with me forever and ever?
“Yep.” I’m not very fair and sometimes think I’m much more special than I really am. You still want to spend your days with me forever and ever?
“Yep.” I can be stunningly selfish and critical of others. You still want to share my bed forever and ever?
“Yep.”
Huh. That’s interesting….
Matt turned 27 today. We became a couple when he was 17. I fell in love with him in that all-consuming, idealized way that only teenagers are capable of. I can’t believe how much he’s changed since then. I can’t believe how much more I love him today.
brilliant mastery over the ordinary
Today I took a Taxi by myself. Using my meager Japanese, I was able to express myself effectively enough to get my tired body home. Feeling buoyed by my success, I decided to try to order a pizza over the phone. I even managed to add a side salad and chicken nuggets to our order. I have very little understanding of the actual exchange between myself and the pizza guy, but 45 suspenseful minutes later, our order arrived at our door. Glorious day! I am a genius! I took a taxi AND ordered a pizza.
(For some of us, standards are low.)
Score one for the reluctant teacher
You may remember a couple posts back how I was lamenting because I thought I my teacher partner was criticizing my teaching when he dumped a stack of grammar books on my desk. I was able to corner him a couple days later for a nice “sit-down let’s talk about expectations” meeting. I learned (once again) that I am incredibly sensitive and paranoid about criticism. I don’t just want to do a good job – I want to do the best that has ever been done.
My teaching partner was shocked when I told him I thought he thought I wasn’t doing good enough. He heaping a great many steaming piles of praise on me until that cranky, suspicious look on my face went away. He told me that I’m the best ATE he’s ever worked with (he’s never worked with Dan, obviously ) and that I’m doing a great job. He’d just given me the books because he thought I might want them on my desk. Nothing more. Oooooooh. In fact, he said he thought I was capable of much more and wanted me to have more control of the class.
The result of that meeting was that our classes were split in half and I (basically) no longer have a teaching partner. I am in charge of my curriculum and syllabus. I can do whatever the hell I want.
Yea!!! Super cool!
Wait…. That means I have to do a crap load more work.
So, anyway, today was m first day of independent classes. The kids were so happy to hear that I’d be their teacher that they actually cheered and clapped. That made me feel good – almost made up for all the previous days when they just sat there staring at me with their mouths open like a bunch of apes. My classes went vary well. I admit that I offered a candy bribe, but, whatever. The kids stayed happy and on task and I never had to shout at them to quiet down.
I’m exhausted from trying to instantly invent a term’s worth of classes from two partial days of planning, but otherwise I’m feeling rather self satisfied. Tomorrow is Matt’s birthday and I plan on simply enjoying the day (and him) and not thinking a all about school. How funny. I sounded like a student there for a minute.
Word of the Day
uxorial: (adj.)
of, relating to, or characteristic of a wife
Ha! I'm going to try to work this into conversation today. :-)
Kiomye giggling.
Kiomye taking a break with her bear and bucket.
An English sign spotted in Nara.
Deer taking a fountain bath in Nara.
Home of the GIANT Budha in Nara.
Shrine entrance in Nara.
The reluctant school marm
In the books I read throughout my youth, many of the intelligent heroines I admired became school teachers. I always felt sorry for them. I figured that they took on the position of teacher because it afforded them a small bit of independence and intellectual stimulus when few other options were available. In this modern world, I believe that many more options are open for women. I never wanted to be a teacher. I thought that women who ended up teaching simply weren’t savvy in business or technical worlds or that they had a stronger maternal instinct and joy in being around children than I did. Children are great and all, in small doses, but students can be evil little monsters. I knew that when I finished my schooling, I would never go near a school again.
Now, I’m a teacher. How amusing. I actually enjoy the job, but it’s much MUCH harder than I ever expected it to be. When I think about it, there still aren’t many more career options for educated women. Yes, there are business and technical fields that I could have entered, and I did strike out in those directions. I’ve worked as an administrative assistant and a graphic designer. I am very technically savvy and I have a natural knack for business.
I hate business and I get bored and depressed sitting in an office, even if I m playing with Photoshop. I love learning and reading and being active in my day. I have discovered that I even like people – including kids – which was something I doubted before.
Now I support my family with my teaching job. I am the only “earner” in our little family, but we are able to make it on my entry level teacher’s salary. We’re lucky that way. Many women aren’t able to obtain positions that would allow them to be the sole supporters of their families, not that many women aren’t the sole providers for their families despite the fact that their salaries don’t cover expenses.
Somehow though, I’m still a little sore at being a teacher. When I tell people what I do, I always follow quickly with saying that I want to write novels and possibly become a University professor. I make it clear that this is just a temporary stage in my life. I am still somewhat embarrassed at being a clichéd school teacher. This is strange to recognize in myself.
