My Day as a Containment SPED Teacher; My Day as a PE / Health Teacher

First and foremost:

HAPPY FRIDAY!

After I explained to one of the janitors that the classroom where I had subbed (today) was unlocked, he thanked me and said "que tenga un buen fin de semana." He then laughed when I realized that it was indeed Friday and grinned mightily, wishing him the same. Yes, yes, it's offish: it takes TWO days of teaching to be grateful for a weekend.

Thursday was my first day of SFPS subbing. As I alluded in my title, I was one of four SPED teachers / aides in a classroom of four autistic students. Oh! Great, you say. That's 1:1. Piece of cake, no?

No. 

This was the text I sent to Lyly at the end of my day: 'Phew. I've been drooled on, sneezed on, had my hair yanked, dripped on by a rogue boy in the shower, and had my toes rolled over by a boy on a tricycle. Haha!'

This was all true. By the end of the day, however, I readily gave my contact info to the main teacher when she tentatively asked if I would ever sub in her classroom again. I suppose part of it is SIS*, because there were definite low points. I remember thinking - "Did we miss lunch?" and then realizing it was barely 11am. My cute outfit (not pictured) underwent some modifications: I removed my earrings so they wouldn't be torn out, I put up my hair several ways, and I had slavered jeans and Cheeze Ball crumbles all over my purple shirt. It is also disconcerting to have to facilitate learning with a student who doesn't always recognize his name.

But it did have a meditative quiet to it, too. We were slow-moving and patient. We sang songs. I redirected and redirected and redirected, and then lavished praise when my student matched the velcro that we were / weren't going outside at that moment and didn't respond with screaming and hair yanking. Since it was 80% orienting to social cues and routines, all we had to do is repeat and repeat. Match numbers, letters. Pick up the backpack. Close the door. Jump on the trampoline. Pick up the backpack. Match numbers. Place placemat. Pick up backpack. 

And so on.

A huge takeaway, of course, is that the theme of this post is an enormous paean to containment SPED teachers. I'm not going to say anything stupid like, "Those poor children!" or "Those poor teachers!" Pity is a tiring emotion in the special needs world. But admiration I will give. I am unfazed by physical disability; my older brother had severe cerebral palsy, and I well know that brilliant intellects can find themselves housed in less than obliging bodies. I stand in awe of those, however, who dedicate their days to working with the severely intellectually disabled. And I mean DAYS. Whole days. My five-minute lunch was spent scarfing a sandwich and a few strawberries; there wasn't pressure placed on me from my colleagues, but I knew that with my meal they were short-staffed. No breaks for specials, for meals, for recess. 

I mean DAYS: when the main teacher was pulled into a meeting, I was swinging the student (on the therapy swing) I was working with. There were two other aides, and still somehow a student managed to run into the bathroom, strip completely naked, and jump into the shower. He had messed his undies and was taking great strides to try to clean them. They were forgotten, however, when I was toweling him - and he spotted an earwig. "BAHH! BAHHGI!" And then we had to snuggle the earwig for a while. 

All of this transpired in the last ten minutes of the day, of course.

And that was day one.

While the cat did this, I breathed deeply and then signed on for another day of subbing.

Day Two? 

Today, I went to Capital High School and was a PE / fitness / health teacher. Though I got ready all in good time, I was still late. It's the traffic! As surely as I'm not used to city driving, traffic is such a novel concept. For instance, it's 3.7 miles from our trailer to ZHS. It's not quite 5 miles from my house to Capital High School. The trip to ZHS took about 7 or 8 minutes. The trip to Capital took close to half an hour (once I got parked). 

All the same, the day generally went well. I walked around the track with the PE and fitness students, though the 6th hour abjectly refused. What does one do? Especially when the other PE teacher is also a sub and the permanent sub who came to 'help out' shrugged and said, "They're bigger than we are." Well. I hadn't ever really thought of it that way. 

The highlight (and low point) of the day was simultaneously 7th hour health class. Oh, Lordy. Let me set the scene a little: all of my classes were near or far above 30 students (26 - 38). Health is largely a 9th grade class. So, 30-some freshmen. 90% or so Hispanic, but some stray melikas and one kid named Abdallah. Small classroom. Not enough books. 85 degrees or so. No windows. 

At the most chaotic: Abdallah had a brown bag dino puppet, two students were calling out to me ("Mrs. Jacona," wtf?), Habram was whispering "maestra!", half of the students were dutifully finishing the assignment, another hunk sat chattering (having finished), and Priscila belted a bolero. No joke.

It's definitely not what I would want for classroom management for my own students, but it was a start. For instance, they all got at least most of the assignment done. AND, each table presented one aspect of how surroundings can influence your health (there was a media table, an environment table, etc). It meant keeping them after three minutes, but hey! It got done. And I got to speak Spanish!

OH! Other highlight. The permanent sub asked if I was "Spanish." I suppose if my surname was Jacona, that would make more sense. Hudson, not so much.

Last, I had TWO preps today: though I definitely projected my voice more and sweated like a mad wildebeest, I also had two and a half hours to work on my anatomy & physiology, read NPR, eat, and relax. Pretty chill.

Well, I must be away: it IS a Friday, after all. Time to seize the night!**

Take care, and stay posted.

Over and out ~

* Subbing Invincibility Syndrome: like seriously. All you have to do is give your darndest to a bunch of kids for ONE day. Staff expectations of subs are generally preposterously low, so it's easy to feel like a superstar for doing the most rudimentary things. 

** By 'seize the night' I mean have supper, maybe dessert, and go to bed early.

60 Books

Hello, hello!

This promises to be a short post. For one, I think I've gotten out all my current anatomy & physiology textbook woes for now. I've forded through the multitudinous chapters on body systems, and am now finally sailing through reproductive organs. So the irritation has mostly folded to teenagey innuendo. So far, so good. :)

I just wanted to have a quick post announcing the end of my literary year (August 10-August 11). It corresponds nicely with the end of many fiscal years, but really marks a complete calendar year since I began my second year teaching. For the past year, then, I've kept close track of what I've read - first to model for my students, but increasingly for my own curiosity. 

(This was also a rudimentary self-review for my statistics course in the fall)

The verdict: 60 books.

The breakdown?
YALs = 18%
Nonfic = 10% (but overrepresented in my top books)
Books by women = 62%
Books by People Of Color = 27% 
Books with 450+ pages = roughly 25% 
Re-reads = 12%

Annnnnnd, the superlatives:
Funniest? Lucky You by Carl Hiaasen
Cried the Most? . . . all of them? Perhaps A Prayer For Owen Meany (Irving) or The Carhullan Army (Hall)?
Couldn't Put Down? Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

And then my favorites! (categorized by having at least a 9 of 10 and by NOT being a re-read, and ordered chronologically in my year):
A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving
Woman: An Intimate Geography by Natalie Angiers
Bee Season by Maya Goldberg
Birds of a Lesser Paradise by Meghan Mayhew Bergman
Cry, The Beloved Country by Alan Paton
Empress of the World by Sara Ryan
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers
The Round House by Louise Erdrich
A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry
Best American Short Stories 2012 ed. by Tom Perrotta
A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams
Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward
Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn
Pushed by Jennifer Block
We Band of Angels by Elizabeth Norman
Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank
The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan 

I'm currently and happily devouring Karen Russell's Swamplandia! Tomorrow will be a day of lesser reading, though, I predict: IT'S MY FIRST DAY OF SUBBING.
Though I've been perennially bad at updating regularly, I will do my best to share reflections after I try a host of different classrooms. For tomorrow? SPED paraprofessional at a magnet school. Well, well.
Wish me luck?

Over and out ~

Not an Object

Hello from Santa Fe! 

It's a lovely August morning; I've been largely much enjoying my metropolitan life, rife with local food and lots of biking. My parents visited for five days this past week, and that was a delight of food (restauranted and home-cooked), Goodwill & Craigslist hunting, and generally exploring the fringes. Due to my as of yet frustration and ineptitude with downtown driving, we mostly skirted the metro center. I know it sounds a little ridiculous, but you have to remember, I am accustomed to relaxing rez driving: everyone pulls out from their dirt lots, goes 20mph, swerves around the various animals in the road, and then parks in another dirt lot. It's the life. 

I also have had the privilege to become a volunteer for the up-and-coming Birth Of My Heart Birthplace, which will open soon in Española. The name comes from a phrase in Tewa ( Navi pin haa un mu), emblematizing its culturally-responsive concept. 

I am so excited to continue working on the organizational narrative; as well as helping out, it is infinitely helpful to my discernment and path. The research on different birth risks (C-section, lack of breastfeeding, PIH, SGA, etc), has also made it painfully clear how present - and linked with race & SES - disparities are in wellness in our country. Along with the Achievement Gap, we have the Health Gap. Figure in the Legal Gap of civil rights (in the wake of the shameful voting-down of the VRA), and it's a veritable chasm. Troubling but important work, indeed.

A small excerpt from the "Causes" section I've written, this one concerning Nutritional-Related Disorders in Pregnancy:

Though there are accessory catalysts to each of these conditions (some of which unknown), PIH, 

gestational diabetes, and anemia all result in some part from sociodemographic factors. As above, race is linked with SES is linked with health; women of color are disproportionately affected by the effects of poor health. For instance, anemia is linked to smoking, PIH to type II diabetes, and gestational diabetes to being overweight prior to the pregnancy. (Adebisi, 2005)

(Reem & et al, 2012) (Li & et al, 2013) (Berkowitz & et al, 1992)

I have e-mailed the Teen Parenting Center at Santa Fe High, so hopefully I will be able to work / volunteer with student-parents there. I would ideally work as a volunteer doula; as I've written before, the politics and justice and healthcare of teen parenting is something I am very passionate about.

I've additionally written The Birthing Community of Santa Fe, hoping to be able to assist / volunteer at their organization in exchange for sitting in on their prenatal classes; it'll fulfill my DONA requirement, but also be great to get more experience with the Birthing From Within approach.

As you see, at this point I have largely thrown my various hats into rings - doula, substitute teacher (with ID badge!), writer - and so am waiting for responses. I spend my days biking, reading, studying Hole's Human Anatomy & Physiology 13th ed. (I am taking A&P I & II in the fall), and rationing the fabulous Orange is the New Black.  

***

Though it is a little dry for summer reading, I have generally very much enjoyed my daily portion of anatomy and physiology. I have just finished chapter 15, and so this afternoon it's onto the Lymphatic System. Other than the baffling endocrine system (ENDLESS hormones!), it has generally been a sensical and interesting read. I have also, numerous times, been thankful to my AP Bio course. Though I took it six years ago (oh geez), it's refreshing and delighting to see how quickly so much of it comes back. 

Now, you can expect some angry posting on here once I arrive at Chapter 23 (Pregnancy & Birth); I look at it whenever I'm feeling especially ensconced and confused to reassure myself that I really do know quite a lot at least of certain parts. Mostly, it's a pleasant romp of fetal states and maternal health. But then I see a line talking about episiotomies being done to 'aid healing' more than a tear and the enjoyment ebbs. News report: tears heal faster (jagged edges adhere to one another much more easily, and do not rip further as easily as cuts do). The only thing that is easier is suturing them.

Anyway, that example is representative of the thing I do find sometimes problematic; the book is written so entirely from a physicians' point of view. What's the problem with that? you say. Indeed, it's a text designed for those up-and-coming in the health field. My issue is that the extreme polarization can lead to a lack of empathy and even to the objectification of the patient.

Objectification, true, we generally think of in sexual and patriarchal terms, but in this case, the text is objectifying the patient in the form of case studies. (For a working definition of objectification, go here.) The book has little half-page sections inserted into the body of the text; they're case studies that closely correlate to the content of the chapter. The object of them is to familiarize students with a certain condition. It just reads as coldly clinical when these people are given names and symptoms in a paragraph, and then often die in the next one. 

From a utilitarian perspective, this makes perfect sense; the point of the book is to be information-rich, not a novella of people's lives, wishes, personalities. There aren't enough pages to give justice to a single life, let alone the dozens in the book's case studies. But doesn't it seem superficial, then, to include their name and then nothing else? Why not leave the case studies in hypothetical terms? I have no idea if Carl, who collapsed from an embolism and died several days after his flight, was a real man. But it seems an injustice to him, to have this clinical remembrance, much less formal than a four-line obituary. It's like the authors sought to impress upon the reader the importance of the material by implicating a life, but then shied away from addressing the patient as anything but his assemblage of relevant parts. It's an assumption, instead of the 'immortal' desires and dreams of an individual, of clinical dissection and eventual mortality. A blogger posting on Medicine and Objectification puts it well when she says: "Seeing someone as merely as a 'case' makes it very difficult to view a patient as a whole person with complex needs and desires. The result is condescension, fragmentation, and silence."

 Is there a viable alternative? I would argue absolutely. Here it is:

Okay, okay. I realize this isn't a textbook textbook; forgive me, but I'm not well-accustomed to medical texts yet. But, if you've read old Ina May's book, you'll probably understand what I'm getting at. Before the explicit chapters on anatomy and prenatal nutrition is 125 pages of birth stories told by the women themselves. They write about their pain and pleasure, joy and frustration, and almost always there's an accompanying picture. There are stillbirths; there are hospital transports; but most of all, there is an autonomy I have not seen in my anatomy and physiology textbook. How hard would it be to have the case studies written by the person depicted, or one of their loved ones? Now that would be an experience in the intensely human, as well procedural, world of medicine. 

Ina May goes further, though. She writes in her introduction: 

          It almost goes without saying that the birth stories told in Part I differ from those of most American women. Overall, the stories are too positive; there is too much talk of joy, ecstasy, and fulfillment. These stories do not describe the usual proportions of forceps, vacuum extractor, or cesarean deliveries that are representative of these interventions... Given these differences, you may wonder whether these stories, and the overall experience of the women whose births were attended by my partners and me, can have any significance for you. If the women who shared their birth stories were special beings, the answer would be no. But if it is true that the women who gave birth at The Farm are much like other U.S. women in their intrinsic physical capabilities - and I am certain this is the case - then our experinces do have something to teach. Enfolded within the stories are lessons that can empower you, too...

In other words, Ina May not only humanizes her 'patients' (and she would never use that rhetoric), but she also finds commonality with them. We too, she assures, can empower ourselves to make health (in this case, birth) choices by ourselves. She counters the 'condescension, fragmentation, and silence' with respect, community, and dialogue. What more can we ask for?

This sort of industrial objectification is everywhere: in our food, in our commodities, in our politics. Just a few days ago I saw this meme on Facebook (the x and text is my own, obvi):

Clearly, this is going for the shocking, silencing factor. Other than the gross oversimplification of Planned Parenthood and the Choice movement (that, as a Pro-Choice doula and midwife-to-be, I seriously resent), the true disgust comes from the objectification of the woman. I added "Where is this woman's face" because it drives the point home: Who is not the person here? The creators of the meme, supposedly PersonhoodUSA, are invoking the viewer's sympathy for this fetus. But in doing so, they objectify (condescend, fracture, silence - even behead!) the mother. Her autonomy, dreams, wishes? Gone. Foregone.

But before I get too glum, I think of the alternatives to polarizing discourse. For one, Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma and every local grower everywhere are staunch arbiters of the dialogue of how our country gets its food. 

And when I see a meme like that, I think to myself.

May every child be:

* Wanted & Needed.

* Prepared for.

* Birthed with dignity.

What more can we ask for?

Summer, Summer!

 Hello, bloggers. . .

Once again, I have no excuse for leaving you on the precipice of my ambiguity; though, from another perspective, it's been quite merciful. The last few months have been a riot of elation and regret, depending how I felt at the moment. I have stuck to my decision to move to Santa Fe, however. It's been one of the biggest changes I have made in my life - and so, as you know, it was messy. It still is. Add that to school - a riproaring semester of one acts and AP exams and NMSBA and Angela's Ashes and the zillion other things we pour our hearts into on a daily basis - and it's been one crazy semester.

Though it may continue to be lackluster, I do intend to persist with this blog. Its new title, at least in a couple of years, may well be: "Res to Rez to Res on Rez." I am compelled and excited to do my residency work at IHS and other on-and-off the reservation communities.
On with the news:

Friday was the last day of school. I wouldn't say it was anti-climactic, but it was placid. In order to not weep like a toddler - which I did at one point, when I sat staring at my blank walls on my prep - I just continually moved. I filed, I joked, I ran errands. Highlights were organizing the big beige cabinet with my 3rd blockers and then playing dress-up with our props closet; sticking one of the drama students into the cardboard, self-made dumbwaiter (and then traipsing around the halls popping out and spooking folks); and just chillaxing with a couple of students as we sat in the grass and on the curb for 50 minutes while the fire department discerned that in fact a student had merely burned the popcorn.


This is what the dumbwaiter looked like (we ceremonially destroyed it afterwards). You can imagine onlookers' interest when that toddled down the hall and then a student's face popped out of the door.

In the tradition of my mom, and also cognizant of the fact that I 'sound better on paper' (students got a kick out of that phrase), I shared a letter for them on the last day of school. I sniffled (along with my students) when reading it, late last week, with my senior AP-ers; that gave me the fortitude to share honestly, but not lachrymosely, with my other students. 

Here 'tis:
***

Here I am waiting, I’ll have to leave soon, why am I holdin’ on?
We knew this day would come, we knew it all along.
How did it come so fast?

I know, I know; I’m stealing from Maroon 5. But really. Just as last year, when I sat in my car in disbelief, we knew this day would come – but somehow it seemed far off… until today, really.

A couple weeks ago I watched the Baccalaureate Mass at Colorado College, where I went to school. (explain what that is) It was a nice trip to nostalgiaville, but really I watched because Carol Neel was giving the speech. (explain what a BAMF Carol is)

She began by speaking about Augustine and Petrarch – two philosophers from antiquity. Both of them believed that the outdoors make us lose ourselves in a way. There we are in the big world fabric, just little stitches. Today, though, we often go out into nature to find ourselves. We leave the tumult of our schools and homes and find some quiet. I urge you to do some of this over the summer. Go up into the mesas; watch the kingbirds swoop and pick up the insects in their beaks; hunker over nutria and watch the water striders announce the center of the universe.

Carol Neel also pointed out that Shove Chapel is cruciform, or in the shape of a cross. She talked about its religious significance, linking it to the windows. Knights and saints and the humanities are all depicted in the stained glass windows. But cruciform is also the shape of the human body, lying on the ground. Shove Chapel is like a human form made of Pikes Peak granite, lying on the ground.

Now here, our school is more in the shape of a bow or a crescent moon. A kind of lumpy crescent moon. The school may not be made of DY sandstone – and thank goodness for that! The last thing we need here is a quarry scar on that beautiful mountain – but there is a connection to the land. The windows, for one. Not stained glass, they don’t even open, but on one side: the twin buttes. On the other, the Zee hills and Dowa Yalanne. We have a welcome Keshshi sign, and pottery and the shumak’olo:we in the glass cabinets by Toshewana’s. This is a start, but so much more needs to be done. Behind glass is not where we want Zuni culture. We want it living, very much as bold and elegant as DY. We’ve come a long way from boarding schools; as we all strive to preserve dignity through culture and rights, don’t forget your role in all of this. With every mastered test and every dance, you are helping preserve this utterly unique and beautiful place.

And I have seen a lot to be proud of! One day, as a parent or a teacher, you’ll understand that...well, very physical warmth and elation that comes the day a student GETS IT. I’ve seen those light bulbs go off. I’ve seen non-readers blossom into passionate ones. You have done elegant, pithy, spot-on work. Every time we have a discussion, I learn far more from you than I would’ve tinkering around on my own. You have shown true collaboration, whether on stage or exploring a poem, and it has been an honor.

Let what you have learned here shape in some way the work you do. Let it, mixed with the pinyon smoke from the ovens, create a picture of what we can do to follow our individual paths. Don’t let this year fall by the wayside. As Frankie McCourt’s teacher said, “You cannot make up an empty mind. Stock your mind, stock your mind... it is your palace.”

Carol Neel noted that just as Shove Chapel is made of granite and light, so are the mountains and thus our interior selves. If we find ourselves in nature, we must be part of it.

We might wilt under these incandescents, but soon we’ll be out under these cerulean skies, the sharp juniper tang, and hot June sun. Enjoy, and savor it, because it is you as much as you are it. You are sandstone and sunshine. Don’t you forget it.

Thank you so much for your hard work, your growth, and most importantly your fellowship. It means so much that you have shared this space with me. I will miss you so much.

In leaving, I’d like to give you the last few lines of Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese”:

                       Whoever you are, no matter how lonely

                The world offers itself to your imagination

       Calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting

              Over and over again announcing your place

                     In the family of things.

So go. Embrace your summer with your knowledge and your imagination, and please keep in touch. Walk forward into the light.

***

The other speechifying I did this semester, other than the daily this and that of READ and THINK CRITICALLY and the like, was for NHS Induction. It was a great honor to be asked to speak; though there was some conflict on the buffet as I spoke, and so the attention wasn't as rapt as I hoped, a student still said, "That was a really cool speech, Ms. Hudson" the following day. And you know? That means as much as anything. 

Here it is:

***

First, thank you for having me. It's such an honor to be here with so many talented young minds and the people who have been formative in igniting them. To the inductees, congratulations!

To be honest, I don't remember my National Honor Society induction very well. I remember putting on pinchy sandals and a skirt - I remember getting "the look" from my mom when I bemoaned the fact I couldn't just wear jeans and a T-shirt. (And now look, here I am in a skirt and sandals of my own volition.) I knew it was an honor to be invited, and I was proud. But above all that pride, I was 17 - I was far more worried about wiping out on stage or how ugly my signature would look in the register. So to all of you, breathe. You'll be fine. You'll be great.

What I do remember, though, was my big brother's induction in NHS. Now that was pride. I was eleven, and even though I thought I was pretty hot stuff for the 5th grade - my Hose Elementary basketball team had just won the inter-school tournament, and I had probably played two WHOLE minutes. Even though I was a big old 5th grader, I remember how impressive, how honorable, how cool my brother was. He wore a navy blazer with gold-colored buttons and nice slacks. He had a rose with a blue-and-gold ribbon and a long, elegant candle. His certificate was embossed. I remember how it was so crystal clear that this was what growing up should look like.

So, think on that: I know you're fretting about your hair, or about your reading for English class (sorry about that), but take a moment and think about just how proud you are making those who love you. Okay. Don't get too sappy.

Look forward to your hours of service. Don't just think of them as yet another requirement, but as an opportunity to reaffirm to your school and your community that they made the right choice when they put their pride in you.

With the right attitude, when you donate your time, your willing hands or your spare change, you’re creating that expectation both for yourself and for those looking up to you. It’s easy to complain, and lollygag your way to a volunteer opportunity.  But is that really what being a National Honor Scholar is about? Good grades and a lackluster attitude? I don’t think so! Expecting excellence for yourself is no more than setting positive habits.  Though some of us are born more enthusiastic than others, that’s also a trait that can be practiced, and bettered. Find something you care about, and pursue it whole-heartedly.

Make your little siblings, who may think they’re the top dogs at DY, take a step back like I did, way back in 5^th grade. Make them admire your classy grades, your classy outfit… but most importantly, your classy attitude. Make them say: “In six years, that’s gonna be me.”

I’ll leave you with a quote, one that I thought belonged to Voltaire or the Dalai Lama, but is actually from. . . Spider Man. Oh, well. Remember: with great power comes great responsibility. It might not feel like you're Peter Parker swinging to combat evil when you're picking up litter for your service hours, but believe me - they amount to the same thing. You are setting a powerful foundation for the rest of your life, and you are sending a powerful message that you are proud. Proud of yourself, your family, and your community.

Congratulations again, inductees!

***

It's a lovely June morning. Em and I (and some other teachers) are headed to Ancient Way in a couple of minutes, so I have to keep this blessedly short. 

(Ancient Way as of this winter. . . huevos rancheros, here we come!!!)

When I was sorting through which resources to keep and which to donate to my department (I culled 40-50 books and donated several hundred), I came across a series of quotes that my mother bundled up with Peace calendar pages. My far and away favorite, though all struck a chord, was Rainer Maria Rilke's: 

I like to beg you, dear Sir,  as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves…Don’t search for the answers , which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now.

So, as I pack my books, prepare my fabulous Santa Fean adobe house, watch the flycatchers snatch their skeeters and eye me casually, I have tried to love the questions themselves.

May you do the same.

Over and out ~

Specialization is for insects

Where to begin?
It is surely hard to know when you've been a most negligent blogger, so I posted this picture of Dowa Yalanne. My friend Anna came and visited at the end of the semester, and so we drove out toward the Corn Mountain. It was a cold day; I had no voice from aggressive laryngitis, but whatever I would have was taken by the fuzzy horizons - DY ahead, the Twin Buttes leaning against one another, the murmuring expanse of sage brush.
Soon we would hike up Inscription Rock at El Morro, devour huevos rancheros at Ancient Way, drive up and over the Continental Divide. Chewing osha root, we traveled mesas to pine forests to mountains to roasted chili Pojoaque to the Santa Fe cathedral.
Then, we flew home for Christmas break.

It was quite the blessing to have that quiet, uneventful trip - both over the mountains and across the west - because the week before break was anything but.

That weekend was our play. Three nights, three snowy nights of moderate success. My kids did a fabulous job, though, in their own words, "we understand now." Only after the stress and pressure and ultimate not full memorization did they realize the full psyche commitment required of full-length plays. Some actors were hard to understand; two actors, for differing reasons, couldn't come to the show (yes, I played 14-year-old Mary all three nights. A 17-year-old was my grandmother); our biggest audience was about 30 people. BUT my actors were emotive and persuasive; the costumes were great; there were two moms in particular who came every night and critiqued and curled hair and generally saved my sanity. And Lyly came, totally by surprise, toting candy and endless right-thing-to-say-at-the-moments.

I taught Monday of the last week of the semester exhausted but confident.
That night I was awakened by the telephone at 12.46am. After shaking off some of the confuzzlement of sleep, I recognized a friend of mine from the hospital - a doctor whose prenatal group I helped with for a session last summer. She apologized for the late hour and then explained there was a woman in labor whose family was stuck coming back from Albuquerque. She would really like a doula, if I was at all available. I paused very briefly. "I'll be there in 20 minutes," I said.
When I arrived (a little more than 20 minutes later because I hadn't realized the ER was the only door open), the woman had progressed from 5cm to just a cervical lip.
We got straight down to business. After very brief introductions, I asked her what she wanted from me. "Just a hand to hold and a focal point." I smiled. "That I can do."
We breathed and bellowed through contractions, the held hand swiftly becoming my two hands in a visor grip and then something resembling a headlock around my shoulders. It was a fast a furious labor, but handled beautifully by mom. She delivered a beautiful boy at 2.06am: 6lbs 15oz and 18in. There were some non birth-center protocol, for sure, but I was pleasantly surprised by how hands-off IHS was. Once he was born, he was kangaroo-cared onto his mama's chest where he latched on and looked around curiously. We had mandatory baby adoration time, during which I was asked to inform her mother: "What? Already?!" And then also took a message from the hospital phone. I: inspected the placenta, fetched juice and water, helped mom get up, chatted quietly with her, sat quietly with her, ferried messages, and talked with the nurses. The nurses and I got along very well too.
The mother asked me to leave her my contact info, which I did. She told me thank you thank you, and that she couldn't have done it without me. Of course she could've! She did a beautiful job! It was just so lovely to hear.
At 4.40ish, she lay down to nap before her family arrived, and I bowed out.
I re-scraped the ice off the windshield, and drove back. When I walked in the front door at about ten of five, my half-asleep housemate making coffee was the picture of confusion. "What. . . Where. . . Where have you been??" I explained, grinning, and then conked out for two more hours.

After that, the rest of the week was an insane blur - I lost my voice, I graded portfolios like a madwoman, Anna arrived on Wednesday, I ended the semester with a fun cheer rehearsal that Friday.
And then we were back to that peaceful mountains drive.

***

This is what break was like:

I read, I slept, I drank copious amounts of tea. We decorated a tree and hiked to the movies and Goodwill in a blizzard (a good tribute to "The Hobbit" indeed). I saw friends and drank champagne and some days just hibernated with my parents. It was sheer delight. My only regret was not getting to meet up with Rixa, birth advocate and blogger extraordinaire. 

Then the compass swiveled. 

I came back to Zuni sick with the ambiguity of a decision.

That decision is this:

I have decided not to teach next year.

Next year, I will move to Santa Fe and begin classes at SFCC for nursing. Suddenly, another year and a half was just too long - too long to live so far from Lyl, too long to wait to begin what I sincerely believe is my calling as a midwife. 

Do I feel guilty and sad? Am I going to miss my students and my trailer and my doctor community? You betcha. But over the top is a bouncing euphoria, a thrilled laugh. 

In Santa Fe I can do the doula mentorship, I can volunteer with the theatre or Planned Parenthood or the library; as Lyl said, "We can go to poetry readings!" I'll be in school for what I love and subbing during the day. Two years of recreating the wheel in terms of doula & theater work have worn me down. I am excited to learn and participate in existing structures! I am excited to generalize all over again:

'A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, writing a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.'
                                                                  Robert Heinlein (credit to my mum sending the quote my way)

As for Zuni, if I want to keep in touch with some of those juniors, what's to stop me? What's to stop me from having a monthly book club with them? What's to keep me from visiting or writing recommendations or generally corresponding? 

***

And now? 

Now I will be the most baller teacher I can muster for this last semester. 

Their Eyes Were Watching God starting Tuesday with my juniors, Shakespeare conceptualization projects with my drama kids, and Cry, the Beloved Country with my AP students. The latter is a fabulously beautiful book, though a bit didactic. "That's okay," said my best friend over break, "high school kids love didactic."

Truer words were never spoken. 

So when I can explain my next year plans to my students, hopefully they will get some sort of lesson about following your heart's path.

Over and out ~