It's Official...

I've decided to apply to graduate school for Fall '10. *sigh*

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Sometimes, I think I must be a terrible teacher. Like right now; I just finished grading a quiz that one of my classes took yesterday and the results weren't so great. I know I can be a better teacher, explain concepts better, etc, and I do try and improve or adapt my techniques every day, but on days like today, when it seems like no one in my class is doing well, it's just hard to believe that I'm doing something right. I know I'm doing all I can, but is it really enough? And I know I shouldn't get too emotionally invested in the kids' success or failure because, let's be honest, at some point it's no longer my fault, but I can't help but be sad when any of my kids don't do well. I want them to succeed so badly, but I guess I'm having trouble differentiating between things I can do for them and things they should do for themselves. It's definitely a difficult line to discern...

Hmmm...

Today I:

1. helped plan the spring break to Italy, which I am now 100% going on
2. had a meltdown about graduate school and re-taking the GRE
3. went running for the first time in months
4. overheard, while running, a guy say, "Well I didn't knock her up!"
5. was told that I might be re-hired for the next school year, which would make re-taking the GRE and thinking about graduate school less immediately necessary.
   

All in all, I guess it wasn't a bad day.

Parents Weekend

So. I have endured my first Parents Weekend. It was actually rather exciting, hectic, and exhausting all at once. The morning of Friday was devoted to classes- all the classes met; the regular Friday class met for 35 minutes each and the others met for 15. They were mainly to show the parents teaching methods and to give them a quick description of what the year would bring. Both of my classes usually meet on Fridays, so I had two 35 minute-periods in which I sang and danced for the parents. I went over the basic goals of the class and then taught a few points of grammar. Fairly basic, and successful enough that no parent asked a question I couldn't answer; in fact, hardly any parents asked any questions at all. I did have on dad ask me about the subtleties of Latin translation, which was exciting since it meant that he was paying attention and that I got to gush about Virgil for a bit. But that was the highlight of the teaching portion of the day.

The afternoon was devoted to parent-teacher conferences, in which I sat down one-on-one with each set of parents of each of my kids and went over how that kid was doing. They were only ten minute meetings, but from 1:00-3:30, all I did was talk to parents. This was the exhausting part of the day. For the most part, however, the parents were gracious, enthusiastic, and eager to assist me in any way they could. "What can we do at home? Is there anything specific we should be looking for? S/He really tends to do this thing; what can we do to help he/him focus more?" These were the types of questions I got, questions that I was more than happy to answer. I want all my students to be successful, and it is especially helpful if I know the parents are backing me up too.

There was one parent, however, who was determined to see me fail. One parent who sat across from me, never smiling, telling me that it was due to the "teaching methods" that his/her child was not doing well in my class. One parent who, when asked what his/her child's learning method was, said, "Well, we've just never had this problem before." S/he refused to help me, refused to give me any suggestions that might help the child improve. Just the constant, subtle accusation that I was at fault for this particular child's failure. I thought the ten minutes would never end, and when they finally did, I had to fight back tears as I sat, bewildered, waiting for the next meeting. Jamie, my mentor, came in, since it turned out to be a short break, and asked how things were going, at which I promptly burst into tears. Luckily, Jamie is amazing and told me what questions to ask and what to say in that situation, and totally had my back, supporting me and reassuring me. I went into my next meeting hoping it would be another Parent from Hell, but comforted by the fact that I knew how to handle it.

It's amazing how some parents are so eager to place the blame anywhere other than where it really belongs.

After this particular meeting, the rest of my conferences were wonderful, with parents characteristic of those described above. I left that evening feeling more confident in what I do. The next day, at brunch, a few other co-workers came up to me, saying they had heard about what had happened, and expressed sympathy and shared similar horror stories. It made me love CA more, knowing that my co-workers cared enough about me to seek me out to give me council and comfort when they knew I had had a rough time.

So, that was my first Parents Weekend. I hope it is the first of many, and that I get a few more Parents from Hell so I can put them in their place. ;-)

This is where I live now...

Here are a few snapshots from my new home, Concord, MA. Enjoy!



Walden Pond:

Phelps House, in whose basement my apartment is located:
The main sign for CA:
A wonderful view of Boston from the top of a Revolutionary War fort:

It Feels Like Home To Me

The water in Concord tastes funny. Not all the water, just the water in the pool at the Beede Center, Concord's new fitness center. It's a bit too salty, like the ocean, which makes me feel like the water should be warmer. It isn't though; the temperature is fine. It's the taste that bothers me, though that was my only complaint today.

I had been told during my interview that "the public high school just built a new pool that is open to the community, so if you come here, you can keep swimming there." When I moved here, I resolved to do just that. I checked out the Beede Center (which is a gorgeous facility) a few weeks ago and saw that though they didn't have a Masters team, they did offer coached workouts twice a week. Since I had already decided, after listening to my friend Scott talk about how he swam 6,000 yards at his Masters practice, that I very much did not want to join a Masters team, I thought that coached workouts might be the appropriate way to go. Why not just join the Center and swim on my own? you might ask. Well, I tried that this past summer, and frankly, swimming alone sucks. I really hate it, and part of the reason I loved swimming so much, especially at Oberlin, was the sense of community that as formed on a team. It's difficult not to become super close when you're all hurting in every inch of your body. I wanted that feeling of together-ness, but without too much hurting. Thus, the twice a week coached workouts.

Today was the first day, and the first day I have seriously swam since February. Since my last competitive season. Since college. Since my shoulder decided that it didn't care it was my last competitive season. Needless to say, I was a bit nervous, especially since most of the other people in the group were middle to old aged and seemed like the had never swam a yard in their life. Don't get me wrong, I love the fact that these people are getting out to swim. I just didn't want to be that girl, the ex-college swimmer that every body hates because she's faster than me and why does she have to be here, in this group, anyway? But I think my fears were in vain, because every one seemed very friendly and welcoming. Even though I hadn't swam very seriously at all since that last Conference meet, I still knew what I was doing, still could breathe every three, still had (basically) the feel for the water. And it felt wonderful. It was like coming home. I know that sounds super cheesy, but it's true. Swimming has always, always been a refuge for me, and, once again, I felt like I was back where I belonged, back where I didn't have to worry about anything except stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. It was such a relief to be doing something I really knew how to do, rather than felt like I was just faking, like I do sometimes with teaching. It made me think about all the coaches I've ever had, all three of them, in those 11 years of hard, competitive swimming. How they must have started out just faking coaching too, just like I fake teaching sometimes*. How they must have finally gotten the hang of it, like I am, and will. How they became great at it, and how they inspired us to work harder, go faster, dream bigger. That's how I want to be, in teaching, and hopefully in coaching, if I ever get the chance. I want to make kids feel like I felt today, swimming for the first time in months. That the pool is where they belong.

I have a new coach now. His name is Mike. Funny how I keep getting coaches with one syllable names- Wolf (ok, that's just his nickname, but that's who he'll always be to me), Dan, Mark, and now Mike. He seems nice, and I'm interested to see how he'll deal with me alongside everyone else. We talked briefly about a possible coaching position for me at the club team there. It sounds so perfect I don't even want to consider it too much, lest it disappear as one of those things that was "too good to be true." I do have to put CA first, in any case, so we'll see what happens.

So, I'm back in the water now, back where I belong, at least twice a week. Things are really starting to settle down here and I realized today how much I really do love being here. I know it's only been a month, but everything has been so great so far, and even the stuff that hasn't been so great has been bearable, since I feel like I'm enough a part of the community now that I can have a hand in trying to make it better. And that's what I really love: community.

Wow, this post was so cheesy it's a bit sad. But it's the truth; what more can I say?




*Obviously I'm not actually faking, since I am teaching these kids every day. I guess it just feels like I'm faking since I had absolutely no experience 6 weeks ago on my first day.

Another First -or- My Initiation into the Red Sox Cult -or- How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Sox

Yet another First. This past Tuesday, my co-worker and (I hope!) friend Ben happened to have an extra ticket to the Sox game that night and graciously invited me along. Since I had yet to experience this Boston phenomenon, I eagerly agreed, and around 5:30pm we started the long, arduous trek from Concord to Fenway (drive from Concord to Alewife, park at Alewife then take the red line to Park, transfer to the green line and ride all the way to Fenway. phew!). Our seats were fairly good, by my standards, thanks to the Alumni foundation at CA; it seemed that we were crashing an alumni event, though not really, since Ben is, in fact, an alum. Anyway, we were sitting on the lower level, a bit far back, but still the closest I had ever been to the field. Unfortunately, we were right behind a supporting column. Oh well, can't win 'em all.

Now, I have been to baseball games. I wouldn't call myself an enormous fan of the Reds, but over the summers growing up I would certainly attend a game or two, or watch them play on tv with my dad. And Cincinnatians are big baseball fans. Big sports fans in general (I mean, come on, why does everyone still root for the Bengals?!), but it was nothing, nothing, compared to the way Bostonians poured into Fenway, the way they all cheered for every aspect of the game, the way everyone rose to their feet in unison during a critical moment of play. I was awed, and slightly overwhelmed. I couldn't believe how many people were there, on a Tuesday night! This wasn't even a weekend game! And the way everyone sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" or "Sweet Caroline" - it was astonishing. There was such a sense of unity and community there; everyone was there to root their team to victory, to support them during every moment of the game, to make sure they won. It was as if every single fan knew he had a crucial role to play, that without the fans, the Sox couldn't make it. And I have to believe it.

After the game, which we (since I'm a Sox fan now) won, we went to Boston Beer Works to "wait for the T to settle," and Ben told me about the mania that had ensued when the Sox beat the Yankees during the World Series, before they had won the whole thing. He had just been threatened, then pulled down off a banister. As the two stood in the street observing the chaos around them, Ben queried, "Wouldn't it be great if they won it?" and the cop, who, moments before had been threatening violence, said, "Yeah, yeah it would."

Thus was my entrance into the world of Boston baseball. I can only hope that I become such a dedicated fan.