On Teaching

It's senior year, the time where all the questions about the future arise. “Where do you want to go to college?” “What do you want to major in?” “What do you want your profession to be?” And I've finally found my answers. But I started this post to talk about the last one, what I want my profession to be. You guessed it from the title, a teacher. Does that make me crazy? Possibly. Growing up, when people asked me what I wanted to be, a teacher never crossed my mind. I went through stages of wanting to be a veterinarian, a ballerina, a nurse, a gymnast, and even an optometrist. Teaching was not a possibility. In fact, I remember thinking as a child that I would never become a teacher. I'm not sure why I had such an aversion to it. I played “school” or “teacher” with my dolls and stuffed animals as students quite frequently. But would I become a teacher? Definitely not.

Well, as I got older, I discovered I simply wasn't fit for the other options I had open. As for the veterinarian, nurse, and optometrist? Well... I can't handle cutting open things, or blood, or even looking at eyes closely. It disgusts me. I can't even handle an earthworm dissection in school. My teachers soon realized they couldn't make me do the more complex animal dissections. As for the ballerina and gymnast? Let's just say... I can't even manage to go up stairs without falling on my face. I was not blessed with coordination. I had no clue what I would do after I kept losing options. Then one day, a realization hit me. I had to be a teacher. The more I thought about it, the more appealing it sounded. And then it became a calling. I just knew I had to do it.

And I will. Sometimes when I tell people that is my future plan, they scoff. They call me crazy. They tell me teachers don't get payed enough for what they put up with. Maybe that's true, but nothing can change my mind. I have to do this. Don't get me wrong, many people love that I want to be a teacher, and many encourage it, saying things like, “We need more teachers who are passionate about their subject, and also like kids.” If you ask me what subject I'll teach, or even what grade, I still can't decide. But I know one thing for sure: I have to be a teacher.

A Dream or Reality?

     If there is one thing that I will do before I go, it is traveling this world. I have a list in my journal, three pages long, of the places I want to go. (“Oh, The Places You'll Go” really applies here.) They range from museums and monuments, to cities, to states, and even to countries in general. I know, I know. It's a big dream that the majority of people would like to do. But that's not what it is for me. It is a calling. I simply have to do it. I've worked out a plan to where I can accomplish it, and I know it will happen. I love languages. If I could, I would be fluent in all of them. I only know French and English as of now, but before I travel to each place, I plan on learning the languages spoken there, even if I only brush them on the surface. I want to experience the culture, try the food, meet new people. Learning languages, traveling everywhere, submersed in cultures. That pretty much summarizes my life goal. Call me a dreamer if you wish, but this will be my reality. Just you wait.

Pedestrians Always Have the Right of Way

     Everyone goes through those accidents that make them who they are today. A part of who I am is my cautious driving. Ask anyone, and they'll tell you, I'm really a safe driver. A part of learning to drive is knowing that pedestrians do, in fact, have the right of way. I know this, and I have always known this. Unfortunately, pedestrians still get hit. Unfortunately, safe drivers still hit pedestrians. I was at a stop light, turning left. Across the street, was a small boy, with bright red hair. He was laughing, and talking with his friend. I saw him there, and he was going to cross the street. I got a green arrow, and I hesitated. I knew he wanted to come the way I was going. We made eye contact. He didn't go. I inched forward, and made the decision that he wasn't going to go. Well into my turn, he decided it would be a good idea for it to be his turn, too. He stepped out in front of me. I slammed on my brakes as hard as I could. But the bright red hair, the horrified expression, the sound of his body hitting my car, will forever live in my mind.
     He was okay, of course. In fact, he wanted to just keep going and pretend nothing happened. I couldn't do that. That's a crime. A hit and run. I looked around me, through teary vision. A woman in a red car next to me was shaking her head at me. An old man yelled at me. Someone told the boy to take my information. We exchanged phone numbers, but the boy didn't want to. He just wanted to go home. I was crying uncontrollably, and I wasn't even the one who just got hit by a car. He was fine. Not a tear in sight. He kept going, and I sped away. Distraught, embarrassed, crying.
     It turned out, he was thirteen. His name was Tyler. He had no injuries, other than a scratch on his arm. My car had no damage. He was fine. I was not. Neither was his mother. She got to talk to me, from the police department. She screamed at me, "My child has been walking home since Kindergarten! He knows how to use a crosswalk!" I couldn't take it. I cried. The police took the phone back. He apologized, took my information. I cried for a month straight. My mother threatened to put me in counseling. I couldn't take the fact that I hit a kid. I could have killed him. I couldn't stand to look at myself, or my car. I wasn't even found at fault. I had to pay no price. Except a damaged conscience. And that hurts more than punishment.

The Truth in a Cliche

     "What goes around, comes around." A very true cliche. Everyone always gets what they deserve. Take, for instance, homecoming. People usually associate homecoming with being one of the best nights of the year. People usually think short dresses, dressed up boys, and all the "good" things that go along with that. But that is not always the case. You see, last homecoming, the homecoming of 2010, was one of the worst nights of my life. I suppose you wouldn't have been able to tell from the beginning, though. I went to the game, which our team won, and then went to my best friend's house to get ready. (We'll call her Sera, to keep it anonymous.) We were all dressed up and looking our best. We ate our favorite meal, took pictures, and left to go meet up with our boys. I had plans to spend the night with her, so I just rode in her car instead of taking my own. We got to the dance, met up with our boys, and danced the night away. It was all good and fun. We took our boys home, and I thought we were heading back to her house for some sleepover fun. I was mistaken.
     We pulled into an almost empty church parking lot. There was only one other car. We pulled right up next to it. It was a much older guy, around the age of twenty, and one of Sera's friends. (We'll call her Nan.) It turned out, his name was Jeff, and he was twenty-two. He was dating Nan. Sera rolled down her windows, and it reeked of marijuana. Apparently Jeff and Nan had been smoking all night, and invited Sera to join. Sera never thought to ask me if I'd like to join. They all got in Sera's car, and started to light up again. I told Sera that I wasn't comfortable being here. She told me to get out. So I did. And she left me. Alone. Stranded. It was only the start of the deterioration of our friendship.
     Well you know how I said karma came around? This homecoming, the homecoming of 2011, I took my boy to homecoming. We had a romantic evening, and we danced all night. Easily one of the best nights of my life. The next morning, I woke up with a few unread text messages. One of them was from a friend, saying that Sera's grandmother had found her bong, and grounded her. It was a very small dose of karma. But either way, the old saying stayed true. And it felt so good.

A Rant Concerning Peter Pan

     People always make fun of me when they ask me what my favorite book is, and I reply with, "Peter Pan." They scoff, because clearly a "children's book" isn't of literary credit. But what they don't know is that the original book, by J. M. Barrie, is far from a children's fairy tale. Cursing, orgies, horrible fighting, and deaths all occur in the book at least once. It wasn't intended for children. It was intended for people like me. Adults who long for childhood, who love submersing themselves in an imaginary world where you never have to grow up. But it's not just that. The lessons, the morals, the entire story line are all perfect. The book is the epitome of perfection. So the next time you ask me what my favorite book is, you should probably read it before you critique me. The original is far from the fairy tale it has become and is known as today.

A Random Musing

     "Everything happens for a reason." A universal philosophy. In fact, it's one I live my life by. But is it really true? Is it just something we say when life screws us over? Did an optimist, like myself, just decide to say it one day? (Because you know, everything WILL get better.) Sure we might learn our lesson from an awful event, but did anything else good come from it? Couldn't we have learned it a better way? What about cancer? Death of children? War? Terror? I would be blind to say the world is good. So how could these things really have a REASON? It's all arguable, I suppose. But with all the odds weighed against it, how can everything happen for a reason? I guess it's just a belief I have, so I won't go crazy because I think everything is evil. It's how I cope. That's what beliefs are for, right? Maybe. I have no answers, but I'll still live by this philosophy, if only to keep from going crazy. But you know what? Miracles can happen, too. Maybe it's just the luck of the draw.

Sick of This Racism -- Their Perspective

     They say that we are unendurable. They can’t handle us. So instead of letting us free, in the country that promises freedom, they lock us up. We are trapped in our tiny cell, imprisoned for “acts of terrorism.” They think that this is endurable? The fact that we are innocent is irrelevant. Our guilt is in our skin, our heritage. Day after day, the gatekeeper walks by our cell, dangling the key to freedom right before our eyes. Sometimes we hear the news broadcast. They talk about airport security. They talk about our homeland being a madhouse with the war, the terror. They say our country is collapsible. They think that they can win. Suddenly, they switch the story, turning their attention to the weather. “Overcast skies,” they say. If only they knew. We endure hateful glares daily. They take children on field trips to the prison. We are examples of what not to become. We watch as mothers clutch their children and hurry away from us. We see the fear in the people’s eyes. I know what they see. They see a terrorist. But if they could see from our angle, maybe they would understand.

The Dress

     One turning point of my life was when my sister moved out. The age difference between us is twelve years, and when I was graduating first grade, she was graduating high school. She didn't take much with her to college. In fact, her closet was full of old memories she didn't want to bring. My mother, of course, did nothing with them either. She never throws out anything. I never understood how every single thing could possibly have a sentimental value. I guess then, I really didn't understand what a sentiment was at all.

     I was never really into playing dress-up. But when I had the chance, I loved to go through my sister's old clothes. I would go through hanger after hanger of letterman jackets, homecoming dresses, cheerleading uniforms, everything. They were all still in her closet. But my favorite thing was the long, blue, beaded, and beautiful prom dress. I couldn't even lift it by myself because there were so many heavy beads. But still, it was dazzling. I couldn't wait until my prom, when I could get a dress like that of my own. I eventually forgot about it. Then my time did come. I had a dazzling dress of my own. I took hers out one day and compared the two. They were shockingly similar. Her dress had affected my decision without me realizing it. I guess my ideal prom dress really was hers, but a bit more modern. 

     Now both of our dresses live in that closet together. One old, one new. Each with a charm and elegance of their own. Both beautiful. I still go back and look in that closet sometimes, searching for a random something. And I always see our prom dresses hanging side by side. It always reminds me how much one item of clothing can bring back a flood of memories.