Onward

Hate

2012-02-08T13:59:00.011-07:00

Last week, I was wandering through McKay's used bookstore looking for a way to spend the $15 credit a friend had given us. I found a wedding book, a journal, and I randomly picked up an older (and quite drab) looking book (for 75 cents) called, When Women Stop Hating Their Bodies: Freeing Yourself from Food and Weight Obsession (Jane R. Hirschmann and Carol H. Munter). The cover is boring, the content is thrilling.

Speaking of women's self-hatred, they write that if this self-loathing were experienced by only a small number of women, we'd wonder at the source of the problem. But the fact is that fat feelings--or bad body feelings--occupy the minds and hearts of the vast majority of women. "Bad Body Fever is neither viral nor bacterial, but it is epidemic."

Last week, looking over a crowd of college-aged gals at dorm worship, I said quite literally those exact words. I told them that we have a beauty distortion epidemic on our hands, it affects nearly every woman I've ever met, and it must stop.

But women haven't always harbored this kind of livid self-hatred towards their appearance and their bodies. If you go to an art museum, you will not find any paintings of women that resemble (even slightly) the bodies of Molly Sims, Giselle Bundchen, or Britney Spears.

According to historians, women's bodies were not regarded as "packaging" until the eighteenth century. Naomi Wolf argues that the hatred of "fat" did not emerge until women began to join forces and reject their inferior status. She writes in The Beauty Myth that "soft rounded hips and thighs and bellies were perceived as desirable and sensual without question, until women got the vote." The more powerful women become, the more pressure there is for us to get rid of the "packaging" that makes us inferior. That makes our bodies different from men.

I'm not at all saying that I long to have the body of a man. But I know the privileges and rights and freedoms that come with being male and I'd be crazy to say I haven't sometimes wanted it. They write, "A woman's body hatred is her internalized version of cultural misogyny. She tells herself each and every day that her body is wrong and that she takes up too much space in the world."

I get this. Almost two years ago I got a nasty, anonymous comment on my blog accusing me of smelling up trash chutes with my vomit and warning me to shut up because no one was listening. I remember distinctly thinking He's right. I'm taking up too much space. I should just keep my mouth shut. Why did I ever think I had a story worth telling? These thoughts of self-doubt, of being too big with my presence and my voice triggered intense insecurities in my body and my safety. I questioned very seriously whether I was taking up too much space. Saying too much. Being too much. Eating was a struggle, as was seeing myself as worthy of taking up anymore space than absolutely necessary.

The authors talk about how when a woman says, "I feel fat" she really means, "I don't feel good enough" or "There must be something wrong with me." Like the eleven year-old girls awaiting the start of the play performance they'd been rehearsing for weeks: "I feel so fat" one anxiously said to the other. "No," her friend responded. "You look great. But look at my stomach." We turn our bodies into metaphors for our feelings. We talk about our bodies instead of the anxiety. They write, "We live in a culture that accepts body hatred and dieting as normal components of femininity." In fact, if a woman declares an end to tirelessly manipulating, probing, and depriving her body, she is breaking the rules.

There's a groaning that I feel.
In my story.
In the stories of women.
In publications.
In movies.
In dressing rooms.
In kitchens.
In bathrooms.
It's this groaning to reconcile the truth we know of ourselves with the "truth" we're being fed about who we "should" be.

An epidemic we overlook because it's not small pox.
But it's an epidemic we can't overlook because it's changing our world.

And it's not for the better.

Roadtrippin'

2012-02-07T16:39:00.022-07:00

Last week, Jeremy and I took a road trip to Tennessee. We did so because Southern asked me to come speak about eating disorders as part of their mental health speaking series. I was honored to come share (especially on their dime).

So we made the trip: seventeen hours across the country. In a car. Together. For seventeen hours (did I say that already?).

Actually, it went pretty fast. Road trips are fun. Especially with Adventures in Odyssey. And Jeremy.

We got to spend time with lots of good people:
like Amy and Jon Ronning who fed us non-road trip food (which was much needed)

and Jessica Hunt

and the Lewellen familia

and that was just the first two days....whew!

On Tuesday, we got to have breakfast at the Cracker Barrel with Frank and Euwayne (BMA buddies of Jeremy's). Then, I forgot to take a picture which made me sad.

We also got to see the lovely Beth Hartman and we made the journey to "the sock store" to score some cheap Smart Wools (but keep that on the down low).

Then, that night, I spoke for two girls' dorm worships at Southern Adventist University about eating disorders and disordered-eating.

On Wednesday, we got to have lunch with Lance and Sophie and Euwayne (and Quincy, though not pictured).

We had a bit of downtime for me to work on that night's talk at Panera (where I am sure that any day now they'll catch on to the gluten-free trend).

Then, for dinner we met up with the wonderfully quirky Sutton family for Mexican food.
From dinner, we scurried back to Southern where I was speaking for joint worship (guys and gals) about authenticity. After that, we met up with Michael, Jessica, and James for a late night run to Wendy's for Frostys and French fries.

Thursday, I spoke at Collegedale Academy for their chapel. It went well and later that afternoon we went to McKays used book store (which is really a warehouse of wonderfulness). Later for dinner, we met up with James, Ryan, Mariela, Andy, Michael, and Jessica at The Yellow Deli.

If you're ever in Chattanooga, this is a must-see and a must-eat. When you walk in it feel like you just stepped into a hobbit pub. They make awesome sandwiches, soups, and drinks.

I can't believe this kid used to be shorter than me (and eight years-old).

Afterward, we played poker at Ryan's.

And what better way to play sneakily than with tanning goggles hiding your eyes.

And what better post-game reward than a pile of pocket change and a "Celebratory Poker Log" (banana, peanut butter, and M&Ms).

On Friday morning, we left early for our next (and last) speaking appointment at Sunnydale Academy in Missouri. It was a long ten hours in the car. We stopped in St.Louis to be tourists momentarily and rolled in to Sunnydale relieved to be out of the car for the day. We had haystacks with Matt Evens and I spoke for vespers. Then we found out there was a huge-mungous snowstorm headed through the mid-west, so we got back in the car and rumbled into L-town at 3am.

The next morning, we were glad that we came home when we did.

It's good to be home.

Fishing

2012-01-27T08:39:00.004-07:00

I want to say something brilliant.
Something different and unique and important.
Something thrilling and exciting and fresh.
Something worthwhile and deep and insightful.
I want to say something wonderful, but I don't have much to say at all.

It's strange, really. Ninety-five percent of the time I have at least six ideas rattling around in my head, begging attention and thought and words with which to bring them to life. Most of the time it's like fishing in a bathtub. You can't not catch something. That would just be stupid. There's six fish in a bathtub. How could you lose?

Well, the problem lately is that the most fish I've seen in the bathtub lately is...one. Or none, depending on the day. I'm not sure which feels worse having no ideas and thoughts worth writing about or having thirty-seven. Because both are kind of depressing. You either have nothing or you have way too much.

I imagine that the reason I am wordless is because suddenly, for the first time in my life, I'm not packed to the gills (sorry, I couldn't help myself) with homework, lesson plans, meetings, appointments, classes, and responsibilities. Nope. Now I'm done with college. I'm not working regularly and the day is pretty wide open. I spend most of the day alone. And before you feel sorry for me, recognize that I'm pretty much okay with that. I lean introverted, so it's actually be really nice because I feel like when I do spend time with friends in the evening I have so much more energy to give them.

So, I'm not lonely.
I'm not bored.
I'm not sad.
I'm not depressed.
I'm not anxious.
I just...am.
Not particularly inspired.
Not particularly interesting.
Not particularly anything.

I figure I can either fight this and worry and complain and stress out about the lack of inspiration and energy compared to the life I've led thus far, or I can just roll with it. I can just show up. I can just take this time for the season that it is and be.

I'm choosing to be.

Usual

2012-01-21T16:02:00.004-07:00

Awhile back, two gals from the high school where I was student teaching asked if they could interview me for the school newspaper. I wrote a blog about how good it felt to have students take an interest in me as a human being.

Here's the final article. Here's the video.

I thought it was nicely done and I was happy to be included in it.

Yesterday, I was asked to sub at the high school where I did my student teaching. It was kinda strange being back. I woke up at the usual 6am (for the first time in...5 weeks), fell out of bed (groggily), packed my bag, and drove to school. I sat in the usual morning traffic, parked in my usual parking spot, made the usual trudge across the parking lot, and walked inside. From then on, nothing was usual.

I walked in the door and the same security who greeted me every day last semester seemed a little more warm, a little more endearing. He said he missed seeing me around and gave me a hug. Instead of walking to Ken's room, I headed in the opposite direction toward the gym because I was subbing for one of the P.E. teachers. Making my way, I passed by several students who pretended not to see me and others who smothered me in hugs: "MS. BO!" This made me glad.

It was such a relief to know that it would not be a regular day. I wouldn't be encountering the same students. I wouldn't be grading papers. I wouldn't be frantically pulling together a lesson plan before the students walked in the door. Oh no. Instead, I popped in a video for Health class, organized and monitored three hours worth of floor hockey, oh, and then I taught Zumba. That's right, I got paid to do that stuff.

And when I walked out the door, I brought no heavy textbooks, no papers to grade, no novels to read over the weekend, no 47 journals. Nope. I just walked out the door and drove home. And then I took a bath. Take that.

It was nice to go to school lighter. More myself and less my stressed counterpart. It was great to see my students and feel more like a special holiday and less like a dreaded Monday. To have work feel more like a temporary job and less like a lifelong commitment. More freedom and less weight.

Good to be back.
And okay to not be expected on Monday.

Bridezilla

2012-01-19T12:54:00.005-07:00

As of late, there are simultaneously about 43 items bouncing around in my head. I tend to lean toward a Type A, high-stress, orderly, planned-out, organized existence (which I'm sure to you phlegmatics out there, sounds like hell. And it is sometimes.). This can't be healthy. This will be my mantra:

I had breakfast with a friend this week.
Her suggestion? Be a bridezilla.
Her rationale? You only get to do it once.

Now, I probably won't be taking the bridezilla route as I value my relationships too much, but I will be remembering her other piece of advice: I only get to do this once. I will only ever plan one wedding. One time. This moment is my life.

This moment with 43 items bouncing around.
This moment with a list of to-dos that can no longer fit on one piece of paper.
This moment with self-doubt.
This moment with a headache.
This moment on a chilly afternoon in January that I will only live once.
This moment graduated from college and jobless.
This moment engaged and planning a wedding.
This moment figuring out life one day at a time (no faster).
This moment.

Word Association

2012-01-17T16:01:00.002-07:00

Much.
Many.
Thoughts.
Eighty words per minute.
Eighty miles per hour.
Adrenaline.
Joy.
Excitement.
Time.
Pressure.
Anxiety.
Questions.
Answers.
Plans.
Expectations.
Time line.
Count down.
Moving on.
Growing up.
Marriage.
Jobs.
Details.
Phone calls.
Voice mails.
E-mails.
Facebook.
Google.
Pinterest.
Registry.
Reservations.
Lists.
Money.
Budget.
Decisions.
Fast-track.
Speed.
Distracted.
Focus.
Flighty.
Busy.
Guest accommodations.
Colors.
Availability.
Speaking.
Listening.
Music.
Zumba.
Bridesmaid dresses.
Skin.
Hair.
Make-up.
Invitations.
Food.
Flowers.
Photography.
Ceremony.
Reception.
Traditional.
Non-traditional.
Wedding.

As you can see, I've pretty much been living, breathing, speaking, thinking, and digesting "wedding."

Folds and Bumps

2012-01-14T09:03:00.005-07:00

Jeremy and I got engaged on a Saturday afternoon as the sun was setting behind the Rocky Mountains. We got in the car, drove to my house, celebrated with my family, and spent the evening together. Mom had made her special Christmas mint cookies. It was the first morsel of food I reached for that evening and as soon as I did, I knew Helga was back.

Not that she ever left, but in that moment she was just louder than she's been in awhile. More pronounced. More evil. Helga is what I call something that everyone has, but may not have a name for. Helga is that voice in my head that has nothing but nasty things to say about me. She criticizes my choices, what I say, how I act, who I am, but she also seems to hone in most strongly on my appearance: what's wrong with my body, my skin, my weight, my hair, the food I eat, how much I exercise, and the clothes I wear.

Quite honestly, Helga's the Devil. Helga doesn't care about things like wholeness or authenticity or peace or acceptance. Helga's all about perfection and she's impossible to please. Helga came out to play most obviously when I was battling anorexia and bulimia a few years ago, as she pretty much dominated my thinking at that time, but I can't remember a time in my life when she hasn't had an opinion about just about everything I do. And to her, everything I do sucks.

I reached for that mint cookie and it might as well have been an electric zap that ran through my body: "Don't do it. You're getting married in a few months. You can't eat things like that anymore." Ahh yes, I anticipated immediately that the wedding-preparation version of Helga would be quite a handful.

I don't think I'm like every girl, but I'm like many. When we're little and we attend weddings, many of us start thinking, "Ooo, someday when I'm married, I want..." Maybe some little boys do this. I wasn't crazy over it. I didn't have everything planned down to calligraphy on formal invitations and napkin colors, but I've always known one thing about my future wedding: I wanted to look beautiful.

And "beautiful" is a word that only 2% of the world's population of women uses to describe their appearance and I am no different. "Beautiful" has been kidnapped, co-opted, taken over to mean something very different than it did a hundred years ago or even thirty years ago (thank you, Photoshop).
Beautiful means thinner than I am.
Beautiful means lighter, longer hair than I have.
Beautiful means less blemishes than I have.
Beautiful means a flatter stomach, thinner thighs, and toned shoulders. None of which I have.
Beautiful means a lot of things I am not. And Helga has been preaching it non-stop.

I'm not looking forward to engagement pictures.

I wish we didn't need a photographer for the day of the wedding.
I can't afford a make-up artist and hair dresser.
I can't afford a personal trainer.
I think one of my biggest fears associated with the day of the wedding is, yes, how I actually look, but more about how nasty Helga will be when she looks in the mirror or sees the pictures.

I'm sane enough to recognize that the body I've been given doesn't change much. It's my perception of it that does the most fluctuating and the most damage. I do sometimes feel attractive, but not for very long before Helga busts in with, "Yeah, but...but...what about your wrinkles?" And Helga has been louder than ever since we got engaged. What I had dreamed/wished/wanted to look on my wedding day as a little girl is not going to happen. Accepting that will be important. Crucial. Valuable.

The other day, I swam laps at the pool during a senior water aerobics class. Afterwards, the locker room was packed with naked women: mothers, wives, grandmothers, most of them over sixty. They were many different sizes and shapes of body: voluptuous, short, tall, bigger, smaller. Their breasts were different sizes, their skin had folds and bumps. This is not a runway show. This is not Hollywood. This is real-life. This is what happens to our bodies whether we like it or not.

I took off my swim suit, showered, and walked toward a locker. As I did, I caught sight of my naked body's reflection in a mirror shared with one of the women. Compared to her shorter, rounder, fleshy body in the mirror, mine looked like Jennifer Aniston: thin, lithe, toned. Ironically, the only person in that locker room of naked women who seemed discontent and insecure with her body...was me.

I've still got some healing to do.
And it might take the rest of my life.
But it's worth it.

Worthiness is here within me.
And like every other person on planet earth, I'm just working on seeing and believing it.

Amen.

Fotoshop

2012-01-13T23:08:00.000-07:00

Good

2012-01-12T13:35:00.005-07:00

Whew!

Finished student teaching.
Got engaged.
Drove to Colorado.
Flew to Delaware to be with Jeremy's family.
Flew to Colorado to be with my family.
Drove back to Nebraska.
Began wedding planning.
Celebrated with friends.
Checked out wedding venues.
Catching my breath.
Seeking calm.

Life post-college has been quite a ride thus far. I feel like only now is it settling in and becoming real. I'm sitting at The Mill catching up with college friends who are just starting second semester and looking forward to their own graduations some day. It's been nice/weird/relaxing/energizing/liberating/scary to wake up each day and not have an appointment, a class, or a job to scurry off to. The freedom is nice. And new. Making my own schedule, which feels like the first time ever, is enjoyable and nourishing. The lack of structure makes me a little anxious. So I'm working on it. One day at a time. And it's good. Just different.

I just realized this very moment that I no longer receive Union College e-mails. Every day my inbox is actually manageable (well, beside all the Pinterest e-mails: my latest addiction). For the last five years I've gotten Good Morning Union e-mails from Pastor Rich and reminders about school fees, cafeteria hours, and upcoming band concerts, most of it irrelevant to me, yet, now I kinda miss them. Not because I want the stuff in my inbox, but because it's strange to suddenly feel cut-off from college. Many of my friends have graduated. I didn't really spend much time there last semester. I don't know or recognize very many people on campus. So very quickly, I'm just gone. An adult (I suppose). And it's good. Just different.

And now I'm planning a wedding, which I thought would be so much a fun. A dream. A time to just plan a big party. Well, that's half-true. It's neat and exciting, but the amount of work and planning and phone calls and organizing is...wow. Ya know, it's good. Just different.

"Good. Just different," could probably be my mantra for the next year. Adjustments. Changes. In the past, change has been hard for me. Even paralyzing. But that was then and this is now. I don't have to be what I've been. And today, on Friday afternoon, I'm feeling confident that that's true. And that's enough for me.

Speaking Schedule

2012-01-04T10:06:00.002-07:00

Now that I am done with school, I'm trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.
Teaching?
Writing?
Speaking?
Making music?
Starting a bookstore/coffee shop/community center?
Barista-ing?

I'm not sure that I want to be a professional public speaker, but for this semester at least, I'll be doing a little here and there.

I'm not driving to all of these locations, so my schedule isn't as flexible as I wish it was because my airfare is booked. But if you live near one of these locations and would like me to come speak, let me know as soon as possible and maybe we can work something out.

Here is my speaking schedule (it is also located on the sidebar to the right):

Southern Adventist University
Chattanooga, TN
- January 31-Girl's dorm worship (7pm/10pm)
- February 1-Joint worship (9:15pm)

Collegedale Academy
Chattanooga, TN
-February 1- Chapel (12pm)

Sunnydale Academy
Centralia, Missouri
-February 3- Vespers (8pm)

Brighton Adventist Church
Brighton, Colorado
-February 25- Church
-February 27- Women in Touch

Southwestern Adventist University
Keene, TX
-March 2- Vespers (8pm)
-March 3- Sabbath School (10am)

Washington Adventist University
Washington D.C.
-March 21- Chapel

Canadian Adventist Union College
Canada
-April 13- Vespers

Twitter 2011 Review

2012-01-04T08:38:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Rich.

Bra Size

2012-01-04T08:31:00.000-07:00

“You are not your bra size, nor are you the width of your waist, nor are you the slenderness of your calves. You are not your hair color, your skin color, nor are you a shade of lipstick. Your shoe size is of no consequence. You are not defined by the amount of attention you get from males, females, or any combination thereof. You are not the number of sit-ups you can do, nor are you the number of calories in a day. You are not your mustache. You are not the hair on your legs. You are not a little red dress. You are no amalgam of these things. You are the content of your character. You are the ambitions that drive you. You are the goals that you set. You are the things that you laugh at and the words that you say. You are the thoughts you think and the things you wonder. You are beautiful and desirable not for the clique you attend, but for the spark of life within you that compels you to make your life a full and meaningful one. You are beautiful not for the shape of the vessel, but for the volume of the soul it carries.”

- Unknown

Thanks, Em.

Rings

2011-12-19T16:22:00.011-07:00

On Saturday, after my last day of student teaching, Jeremy and I loaded up my little '94 Beamer and headed home for Colorado. We've made the drive several times and spent most of the day just chatting about our last three years together.

Three years ago, I landed back in the U.S. in July 2008, met Jeremy back at college (for real this time) and we completed that semester falling a little more for each other every day. In December 2008, we made this exact same drive to Colorado.

Things were different then. I was three years shy of my college degree, Jeremy was just finishing his degree and starting his masters in another state. I was still daily battling an eating disorder, doubts about God, and what had just happened in Cambodia. Jeremy knew it all. He was supportive. He was patient. He was everything I didn't know I needed.
We decided to start dating during a walk through the snowy mountains of Colorado. Then we did the long-distance thing for 1.5 years which taught us a lot about communication, delayed gratification, and learning to ask for needs and wants instead of assuming the other person knows. After that Jeremy moved to Lincoln. We worked a few summers at camp. We made trips to Colorado and trips to Delaware. We kept learning and living and figuring out the difference between how we thought love would look and how it actually is. Learning how to be together. How to compromise. How to support. How to love better.

We spent last Saturday recounting these things: how we've grown, how we've changed, what we're learning, where we're headed. After eight hours in the car, the mountains came into view, and as we approached the turn for my house, Jeremy passed it and kept driving toward the foothills. He drove past my house, outside of town, and parked at a reservoir overlooking the mountains just as the sun was going down. He said we should take some pictures. So we did.

Jeremy put the camera on top of the car and ran back and forth using the ten second timer to get pictures.
Then for the last picture, he came running back, bent down on one knee and asked if I would be his wife.

And I said, "Yes."
And cried.

Jeremy spent the last few months making me five different engagement rings out of wood. Ya know, so I'll have options. Freaking cool, right? He's awesome.

I'm happy.
We're happy.

Pomp and Circumstance

2011-12-19T14:59:00.022-07:00

I spent 19 weeks completing my student teaching requirements in order to graduate from college.
That's 133 days.
That's 95 days at school.
That's 95 hours with each of those students.
That's early mornings and countless extra hours of nights and weekends spent lesson planning and grading papers.

The respect and admiration I have for full-time teachers is impossible to describe and important to recognize publicly. Probably some of the most unrecognized and under-valued people I've ever worked with.

I have wonderfully supportive friends who helped me count down the end of student teaching. I started getting underwear with numbers written on them counting down the number of days I had left. Quite sweet. I was stylin'.

Starting with day 5, they read: "We think / you are / so very / very, very, very, very / talented, creative, sweet, fun, great, lovely."

I spent the last day of student teaching wrapping up final projects and playing a whole 'lotta Catch Phrase. I said my goodbyes, gave some hugs, got some sweet gifts, and felt damn good walking out the door.

After I did, my friends threw me a you're-done-with-student-teaching-let's-celebrate semi-formal haystack party. Yay!

After eating yummy food, my other student teacher friend, A.J. and I decided it was time to dispose and properly eliminate of the college syllabi that have haunted us these many years. So we decided to burn them. Crumpling each page would lead to better burning so...

...this led to a paper fight that left remnants of worksheets and calendars strewn around the room in book shelves and under couches.
And there was just so much to be burned it made us happy.

We even made some paper angels.

Then we took that party outside and set the syllabi ablaze. Then danced around the fire chanting.

Then certain people felt the need to take their shirts off. I will purposefully not post incriminating pictures for certain people who kept taking their clothes off and might want to run for president some day.
After the dancing and hurrah-ing, these same lovely friends planned a graduation ceremony for A.J. and I. We wore blankets as robes, were announced as official graduates and strolled through the living room to "Pomp and Circumstance" via kazoo.
There were even diplomas written on napkins.
And speeches.
And as the night ended, I felt tired from a long semester but relieved that it was over.
The reality of the end of college was still settling in, but I gathered that it was indeed true.
And I felt accomplished and celebrated and so very loved.

Filter

2011-12-09T17:23:00.004-07:00

I really like TED talks.

Like this one about how the internet has begun catering to what it thinks we need.

Lean "liberal"? Facebook will happily hide your "conservative" friends so that you don't have to see their posts, hear what they have to say, consider their ideas (see where this is going?).

It makes me nervous. I don't want my own bubble. I need to feel uncomfortable.

Vending Machine

2011-12-09T16:45:00.002-07:00

"We're interested in showing the students that teachers are human beings," she told me. And I nearly clobbered her in hugs.

This is what my two female reporters (one of them my student) said upon interviewing me this morning for the school newspaper. They are writing a piece showing four different teachers, at four different stages of their professional/personal lives. I am the rookie: the student-teacher. They also interviewed a relatively new teacher, five-yearer, ten-yearer and such.

They asked me questions about the adjustment between being a college student and being a "teacher." They asked about juggling my college load and my high school load. They asked about why I wanted to become a teacher and how the experience has been on a scale of 1-to-10. They asked about what I do outside of school and my classroom pet peeves.

One of my biggest pet peeves this semester has been the students who treat me like a vending machine. One that--with a begrudging nickel of their effort--dishes out homework assignments, grades, and discipline. They see me as a teacher and nothing else. I am only worth what I can produce, what grades I give them, and how much I let them get away with in class. These are the students that are hardest for me to interact with because it feels like they've put me on another level that they might've assumed I wanted to be on. I am teacher. They are student. It turns into a battle instead of a relationship.

The curiosity of my interviewers about what makes me human, reminded me of the same respect that I've received from several students this semester.

The ones who are conscious of my identity as a person (not only a teacher). I treasure them.

Students who recognize that I am just a college student, a few years older than they are, doing my best to finish school and do so with some sanity.

Those who risk breaking the code of student/teacher conduct in the hallway by actually making eye contact, smiling, or waving.

Those who ask, "How are you doing?"

Those who don't whine and complain about the expectations in class because they recognize that I am not actually trying to pick on them, we're merely fulfilling the expectations of the curriculum. It's not personal, it's class.

Those who smile.

Those who take part in discussion as if they're interested. As if they care. As if what I have to say matters. At all.

I don't expect every student to love every minute of our time together in class. Truthfully, in high school, I wasn't always great at seeing my teachers as whole-people either, at granting them the respect they deserved as human beings. So I don't get horribly frustrated when they do the same to me. However, I greatly appreciate those who do not and I will most definitely remember them when I leave.

In five school-days.

Five-freaking-days.

Yay.

Every Girl, Every Boy

2011-12-04T17:26:00.006-07:00

I am a feminist for the above-mentioned reasons and many more.

My boyfriend, Jeremy, is a feminist.

My two male cooperating teachers are feminists.
Many of my guy friends are feminists.
My sister is a feminist.
My brother-in-law is a feminist.
Many of my professors are feminists.
Probably every one of my friends and family are feminists (whether they know it or not).

(Check out my friend, Mindy Liebelt's, complete book of pictures here. It's a wonderful project of hers that deserves a look. Or two.)

Extreme feminists make me nervous. So do extreme conservatives, extreme liberals, extreme Christians, and extreme Muslims. When we associate a group of people with only the most extreme version of the people in that group, we are doing them--and ourselves--a huge disservice. We are smooshing everyone together as if all New Yorkers are exactly the same, all Mormons are exactly the same, all Mexicans are exactly the same, and all men are exactly the same. It's not fair and it's not right.

Feminism became a dirty word because it was associated with only the most extreme versions of the word. These over-generalizations led to name-calling them "femiNatzis," and painting them only as bra-burning, angry women who were anti-male, refused to shave their armpits, and were a threat to people everywhere. Really? What a sad, uneducated way to view an entire group of people out to do a lot of good, simply because the extremists of the group got all the attention and publicity.

A feminist is a person who believes in the radical notion that women are people too.

Radical, right? I know.

If you believe that your mother/sister/daughter deserves to be safe, educated, valued, given a voice, and paid the same amount of money for the same amount of work, you are a feminist.

Just about every group has negative connotations/stereotypes these days. There will always be some crazies wherever you go:
Feminists are anti-male
Men rape
Women are too emotional (and horrible drivers)
Hippies are druggies
Activists are angry
Christians are hypocrites
Muslims blow up buildings
Catholics molest little boys
Republicans are close-minded
Democrats are anti-Christian
Americans are selfish
Mexicans are immigrants

So, should I just avoid all of these groups of people because there are unfortunately some negative stereotypes associated with them?

I can disassociate myself from every group of people that has any flaws (for fear that it will reflect badly on me), or I can be part of the group while working to change it and make it better from the inside out.

I am a feminist because I want equality and freedom for men and women. It's worth it to me to take on the title "feminist" in spite of some people's uneducated stereotypes. Because I know better.

And, as Maya Angelou says, "When you know better, you do better."

Space

2011-12-03T08:37:00.004-07:00

Men are often encouraged to take up more space.
Women are often encouraged to take up less space.

Men "should" be big and muscular.
Women "should" be petite and willowy.

Men "should" speak up.
Women "should" stay quiet.

Men "should" be bold.
Women "should" be soft-spoken.

Men "should" be aggressive.
Women "should" be kind. And smile.

I find myself regularly torn between wanting to be a culturally acceptable woman and wanting to be who I am.

Sometimes, I want to take up less space. I want to float into a room in a wispy gown. I want to be shorter than my boyfriend. I want to weigh less. I want to be less. I want to blend in. I want to be quiet. I want to let men dominate the conversation, the room, the hallway, the gym, the road, the political forum, the church, and the sports arena. And they do. I'd rather just take up less space because that requires a lot less work.

At the same time, I want to take up more space and I end up feeling bad for it.
I want to enter a room confidently. But somehow that's un-feminine.

I want to be taller and weigh more than men, especially when I feel threatened or afraid when I'm alone with them. But somehow, I'd be too big.

I want to be more. But somehow that's asking too much.

I want to stand out. I want to speak my mind. But then I'd be labeled a "controlling bitch." Because that's just what culture calls women in power.

I want a place in the conversation, the room, the hallway, the gym, the road, the political forum, the church, and the sports arena. But then I'm just being too needy.

I'd rather dare to take up more space because that demands more of who I was made to be. But unfortunately that is challenged every step of the way.

It seems difficult to "win" in this model and I'm not sure what winning would look like. Recently, I've been watching and reading a lot about gender. I'm better educated and more frustrated than ever. The most important resource I've encountered recently, is the film Miss Representation.

You really should watch this movie.
Because we can't be what we can't see.

I think the "moral of the story" is regularly assuring myself that it's okay to take up as much space as I need. It's not okay by everyone's standards (good thing I'm not a super-model, a politician, a movie star, or any female figure in public view). But it's okay by my standards. On a good day. Sometimes.

I can have a voice.
I can challenge authority.
I can dance and move and play.
I can lift weights.
I can stand up and speak out.
I can write a book. And be proud of it.
I can wear what I want.
I can be a size 10.
I can eat what I want.
I can be proud of myself.
I can take a compliment without disagreeing with the person giving it.
I can have confidence in my skills and abilities.

I can hold my ground as a woman--proud of the space I embody--even when it feels like I'm wrong for doing so.

Because as Maya Angelou says, "When you know better, you do better."

I. Know. Better.

Four Percent

2011-12-02T15:43:00.004-07:00

Ten days until I graduate college.
More importantly, ten days until I am done with my student teaching.

All semester, as I've talked with teachers about the difficulty of dealing with some students (their attitudes, their complaining, their work ethic and such), I've gotten similar answers:

"Meh, they're just kids. They'll grow out of it."

"They're adolescents."

"What did you expect? They're teenagers."

"The behaviors associated with minor mental illness, substance abuse, and adolescence all look the same. It's hard to tell them apart and easy to misdiagnose."

This doesn't say much good about the state of some of our youth. I don't think this is a recent phenomenon that I was unaffected by 5-8 years ago. Yet, only now, it totally perplexes me. Hearing what teachers have to say about the norms associated with this age group makes me sad. Aren't we giving up on them? Shouldn't we expect more? Shouldn't what one teacher calls "egocentric impulsivity" be harnessed? Tamed? Managed? Can we save them from this self-centered, irrational roller coaster? In short, shouldn't other teachers be as equally bothered by this as I am?

Experienced educators have, not only thick skin, but a better understanding of the development of human beings than I do. Most of them are parents. This might have something to do with it. Because they seem so unaffected and unconcerned with the attitudes of the teenagers they encounter day-to-day.

For example, today in class a student was doing her chemistry homework while I was teaching. I didn't actually notice, but Ken did. He took the piece of paper and put it on his desk to be given back at the end of class. A simple move to get the student on-track and focused on the task at hand. I thought. She rolled her eyes, pursed her lips tightly together, glared straight ahead, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and remained absolutely silent and apparently disgusted for the next 40 minutes.

This blows my mind. Of course, you can't be so obviously disrespectful and ignore what the teacher's trying to teach, but to her, this was an abomination. An infringement on her rights. An outrage. To her, this was nearly the end of the world. Or at least the end of the next 40 minutes (which might as well have been her world).

When the bell rang, there was no reasoning with her. No talking. No conversation about why Ken just might've been trying to keep her focused. No. She was pissed and wanted to be pissed. Congratulations.

Things like this drive me crazy. I want to sit them down and say, "Really? You're sixteen years-old and this is what you're throwing a tantrum over (a lost assignment, homework, a quiz, for the classroom to be quiet)? Do you see how this is helping no one? Not me? Not you?"

I don't understand it, yet, I know my own irrational behaviors.

Such as, one morning a few weeks ago, I decided to write down what was stressing me out about school. It came down to this: of the roughly one hundred students that I interact with every day, there are about four students in particular who frustrate me to no end. Four percent of the students I encounter each day cause about 95% of my stress. I've been letting the minority rule me.

I can't change difficult students. I can't make them see that what they're SO angry about in this moment is really not a big deal. But I can focus on the fact that ninety-six percent of my students are pretty descent. That other four percent may be ornery and make me want to hit myself in the face (with a cast iron skillet), but at the end of the day, they are only four percent.

They are only four percent.
They are only four percent.

Yes, alas, I'll need to repeat this numerous times in the next ten days when that four percent threatens my sanity and my sincerity toward the other ninety-six percent who make me smile, who work hard, who don't complain, and who have brightened my day. Every day.

Adele by Glee

2011-11-27T08:06:00.002-07:00

I've watched a total of two Glee episodes, yet, you gotta love some strong, female voices. Aye! This makes me want to...to...sing.

The Danger of a Single Story

2011-11-26T09:26:00.004-07:00

I've learned an important lesson from Chimamanda Adichie.

She is a novelist who spoke at one of the TED conventions about "The Danger of a Single Story." I was told that I should watch it because I was teaching a pop culture class and I'm glad I did. But the lessons I've learned stretch far beyond the information I needed for that class.

Watch it here. Now.

We are limited when we are only being sold one narrative. When we can only see one point of view (that reminds me of this other TED Talk about how when ten people enter the same word in a Google search, we'll get ten different pages. The internet is catering to what it "thinks" we need thus eliminating views that contradict our own).

Adichie mentions how when most people think of Africa they imagine beautiful landscapes and incomprehensible poverty, wars, and AIDS. This is the "single story" we are being sold about what it means to be from Africa. However, it's not true. It doesn't tell the whole story.

I used the ideas from this video in my pop culture class to talk about how advertising only tells us one story. Usually it's the story of the rich, thin, and famous. About sex and the high-life. About airbrushing and Photo Shop. We are not able to see behind the curtain into how these people got rich, thin, and famous. Are their lives really so glamorous? We rarely see the pre-Photo Shopped images for a reason: advertising thrives on selling us a single story. It's a fiction and we think it's reality.

I've been thinking about this "single story" idea in my own life. My single story would be: white, American, middle-class, female, well-educated, happy, put-together, confident, and talented. But the full story is deeper and more complex. We are not only the boxes we check on census forms. We have full stories that reach beyond our sex, our weight, and our country of origin.

Facebook is King of the single story. We only post pictures of happy times, cruises, graduations, birthday parties, and picnics at the park. I'm not recommending we show pictures of funerals, car crashes, burnt macaroni, and slobbery tears. However, the internet gives us a platform to only spread the information we want to be seen. The story we want to be told.

Jeremy and I often talk about what a "good" relationship looks like and what we want for ours. We sometimes look at other people's relationships to know if we're doing all right. So, often we see two people in love, holding hands, working, playing, celebrating holidays, going on adventures, and living the "good life." So naturally we feel like incapable bums when sometimes...our lives look nothing like that. We don't agree. We argue. We don't see eye-to-eye and frankly, we don't want to.

I've never seen my parents fight. Disagreements are natural, human. And when I look at my own relationship struggles, they seem out of context and somehow wrong because they don't resemble what I've seen in movies or in real life.

I got home last night and my sister Ashley shared with me some of the ins and outs of her marriage. They are so happy and fit so well together, yet, they're human and sometimes they disagree. What a relief!

What I find time and time again whether by sharing my own story or hearing others' is this: most of the time we are in the majority of people struggling, but there are only a minority of people talking about it.

I'd like to see those flip-flopped. I want to tell a bigger story. One that includes
love and disdain,
five-course meals and cereal on a Wednesday night,
picnics at the park and rainy days indoors,
afternoons of laughter and afternoons of boredom,
life-changing conversations and other times when the conversation sits stagnant and awkward because we're both unwilling to compromise.

I want to tell a complete story that's real and complex and messy and true.

Cupcakes

2011-11-26T08:44:00.018-07:00

A few weeks ago, some good people threw me a birthday party. I've waited until now to post about it because I just couldn't tell the story without the video of the birthday rap. Oh yes.

There were gluten-free goodies galore, compliments of wonderfully thoughtful friends.

And Jeremy was happy to deliver them.

My sister, Ashley.

My delightful friend, Kylie.

Kylie, Becca, and me.

Then came a birthday rap compliments of Kylie and A.J., two improv extraordinaires.

My buddy, Michael.

Birthday presents like a cozy blanket and slippers.

Lovely Keri.

My talented friend, Ben.

My silly roommates.

And my wonderful boyfriend, Jeremy.

A great birthday made possible by great friends.

I'm truly blessed.

Pumpkin Pie

2011-11-24T17:31:00.004-07:00

Thanksgiving used to be my favorite holiday. Until the food part became difficult (i.e. eating disorder) and there wasn't much left to the holiday at that point.

Thanksgiving (and Christmas) are the absolute hardest times of year for people with eating disorders (and probably people with any addiction). I remember sitting in a group session with 8-10 anxious, grave-looking women listening to them making commitments about what they would and would not do during Thanksgiving:
"I will not throw-up."
"I will not eat food I don't like, just so I don't have to talk to people."
"I will not eat to make other people happy."
"I will not eat just to make my worried mother feel better about herself and her own eating disorder that she'll never admit to."

I sent an e-mail to a friend this week to ask her how she was going to get through Thanksgiving this year. She said simply, "I'm working so I don't have to." I don't blame her.

When she asked what I was going to do, it felt really good to realize that I didn't have a plan, because I don't need one as much anymore. I went back and read a blog I posted Thanksgiving 2009 and recognized growth:

"I hunger for a normal relationship with food...I wonder what normal people think when they sit down to a meal. Because I'm thinking, "Ughh, don't make me do it." The nerves rage, the anxiety flares up and I'm left at the table like a stubborn 6 year-old who doesn't want to eat her dinner...I wonder what it would be like to not count other people's calories, Two egg salad sandwiches, Naked juice, pumpkin pie: at least 900 calories. That's not normal...I hunger for peace and contentment."

I still hunger for peace and contentment. I'm sure I always will, but this Thanksgiving was different than any in the last five years. Now, this day was full of other kinds of less-than stellar thoughts (school-related stress, relationships, the future) that somewhat overtook my mind, but at this point, that's probably "normal." Regardless, I can say that it was not filled with food/body-related dialogue in my head and for that, I'm grateful.

This is growth.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it's slow.

List

2011-11-20T08:57:00.003-07:00

I am not only a student-teacher.

Oh-freaking-no.

I am also a student,

a friend,

a daughter,

a sister,

a girlfriend,

a musician,

a writer,

an athlete,

an artist,

a gluten-free connoisseur,

a skeptic,

a dancer,

a Modern Family junkie,

a cook,

a reader,

a world-traveler,

and a Mario Kart ninja.

I am good.

I am fun.

I am kind.

I am hard-working.

I am compassionate.

I am a good listener.

I am worthy.

I can be imperfect.

I can make mistakes.

I can lift others up.

I can not have life figured out.

I can pray.

I can breathe.

I can be.

Just be, child.

Be.

Cotton Ball

2011-11-18T18:22:00.003-07:00

Today was a good day. Fun class activities. Great feedback. Planning ahead.

Then, seventh period happened. Ken was gone. I was subbing. They knew it. And as the last student walked out the door, I put my head on my desk. And cried.

The plan was simple: group presentations. Then, I got overwhelmed with the questions, the eye-rolling, the leaning back, glaring at me, I-don't-care-about-what-you-have-to-say-and-you-can't-make-me attitude.

With five minutes left in class, I sat in my chair, leaned back, put my feet on the desk, crossed my arms, rolled my eyes, and added some necessary huffing and puffing. I asked them what non-verbal messages I was sending. They guessed: "Annoyed." "Frustrated." "Pissed off!"

Ding, ding, ding.

I reminded them that the best way to get what you want is to...ask for it.
Rolling your eyes doesn't qualify as "asking."

Recently I got this advice: "You're a duck. Let it roll right off your back." Well, what if I'm not a duck. What if I'm a giant cotton ball? I seem to absorb rather than repel.

I left feeling defeated. Small. Fraudulent. No one forced me to feel this way. But I did. And it sucked. How do I maintain a strong sense of self without letting those ornery students get to me?

Well, I've had a few ideas. Some better than others. One is to be on the defensive. To be ready for the difficulties and strengthen myself against them. To come armed and ready for the war.

Another, that came to me this week, was that the "me vs. them" analogy might actually be harming my experience because I'm constantly on the look out for the "enemy." So I regularly reminded myself: "This is not battle. You can relax."

Maybe I need a different strategy per class because the non-war analogy works great with some classes who don't come at me and horribly with 7th hour. It seems that I need all the resilience I can get with them. But I'm not a fan of "war" in general, so using that model feels counter intuitive.

After school, I walked to my car, sat inside, and breathed in the sweet silence. The present moment can be so elusive and difficult to identify and weed out amongst the past pains and future worries.

For my sanity these last 18 days of student-teaching, I'm desperately seeking that present moment to get me through. Looking past what I wished this experience had been and looking beyond the fears looming out-of-reach, and dwelling here, on the couch, with a blanket, and a mostly calm mind.

Dwell here.

Sensitive

2011-11-11T20:13:00.004-07:00

A teacher at school found out that I teach Zumba and asked me to come teach her P.E. class. I did. It was a grand 'ol time. As usual. Afterwards, a girl whom I've never met before came up to me and said, "I wish you were my student teacher. Do your students, like, absolutely love you?"

I assured her that no, all of my students do not absolutely love me. Maybe if I just taught them Zumba they would, but indeed English and literature classes come with a certain amount of studiousness and alas, homework. This didn't seem to faze her as she pranced away.

This student teaching experience has made a certain quality loud and clear:
I may be too sensitive for this teaching thing.

I struggle with students who lean back in their chairs, fold their arms across their chest, roll their eyes and huff and puff.

I loathe preparing lesson plans, initiating discussions, and having students stare in silence, while I contemplate dancing the macarena and singing the Canadian national anthem simultaneously in a desperate attempt to make them give a damn.

It's hard to stand in front of teenagers only to have them completely ignore you because their calculator, their other homework, the person sitting next to them, or the wall is more interesting.

I don't know exactly know how to handle that student who constantly complains about the homework, the assignment, the class time, or...just about everything.

It's super hard for me to look past that difficult student, to pretend like it doesn't get to me, or doesn't make me feel like a bad teacher. Because I can't pursue teaching at this rate. I can't let these little things get to me and actually survive, nonetheless, thrive. The alternative seems to mean being distant or removed so that individual students cannot penetrate my exterior. And if that's my goal as a teacher, why bother?

There must be balance somewhere, but at this point I have not found it. The thought of waking up early, driving to school, and encountering 100 different students who have 100 different needs, makes me anxious for the day (coming quite soon, by the way) when I will be done with student teaching and can go be a barista. At least for a few months.

There are those students who seem to realize that I am a human being. I cherish them. I need them. I appreciate when after asking 30 different students about their lives, their homework, and their hobbies during one class period, one student dares to ask, "Ms. Bo, how are you today?"

There are those students who seem to understand that I have fears, and doubts, and talents, and a life outside of the 50 minutes we spend together each day. This is refreshing. Ya know, to be treated like a human being instead of a teacher-alien thing who is only out to punish and torture with insurmountable loads of homework and discipline. That is not at the bottom of my list, that's not even on my list! But convincing them of this is futile.

The answer that I get from most teachers about this problem is: "They're teenagers."

Is that really it? Is this just a phase? Was I like this in high school?

I am 100% positive that there are a couple teachers who would say, yes. However, I can say with confidence that I was a student who connected well with teachers and thrived because of it. I knew them. They knew me. I was not pouting at each homework assignment and arguing with every decision made in class.

So if teaching is an environment where some students will be absolutely wonderful and others will fight me every step of the way, do I want it? Is it worth it?

500

2011-11-08T09:08:00.003-07:00

This blog started at the suggestion of my sister, Ashley, and her husband, Ben. Maybe they saw some inner-angst that needed to be let out. Maybe they thought I'd enjoy writing. Maybe blogging was all the rage among their friends and it just seemed natural. For whatever reason, in August of 2007 I began writing here.

Mostly, I started writing to keep friends and family in the loop about my travels to Cambodia. But after my year was over, I kept writing because I couldn't imagine not doing so. I had connected with too many people, shared too many stories, and enjoyed the process too much to stop. Now, 499 blogs later, I write to practice/improve my writing. I write to connect with other people. I write to be held accountable to where I've been and where I'm going. I write to tell an honest story.

Recently, my honest story goes something like this:
-Twenty-four years old
-In a relationship with a wonderful man
-Lovingly supported by family and friends
-A teensy bit afraid of growing up
-Often doubting myself and my worth
-Completing my student-teaching
-Five weeks to graduation
-Can't. Hardly. Wait.

This honest story from blog #500 is different than the story from the girl who wrote blog #1.

My first blog was written from Phnom Penh, Cambodia. I had been there less than 24 hours and was writing about the journey around the world and my first impressions of my new "home." A line from the first paragraph in the first blog is this: "It's true. I am here. I can't go back now."

Sitting in the same body four years later, I know that's just not true. Now, I would argue with her:
Yes, you can go back.
Yes, you have decisions.
No, it wouldn't be failure.
No, most people wouldn't look down on you.
Yes, you can give yourself a break.
Please, give yourself permission to just be.

Girl from blog #1 didn't know that yet. She was stuck on pride and living for the imaginary audience in her head that would judge her if she stepped out of line. She probably wouldn't listen to me now anyway. This why I'm proud of the girl writing blog #500.

Because if it took 500 random, sloppy blog-postings to get me from there to here, than it was well worth it. Because who I was then is not who I am now. And I'm okay with that. I'm not only proud of the progress, I'm proud of the 19 year-old girl who stuck it out.

Her writing wasn't stellar and her rationale was lacking. But showing up deserves credit, because on some days, that's the best we can do. And that's always enough.

Dear Twenty-Four,

2011-11-04T17:14:00.003-06:00

Dear Twenty-Four,

It might've taken me twenty-four years to say this, but...I'm ready for ya.

Sixteen "earned" me a driver's license.
Eighteen "earned" me adulthood.
Twenty-one "earned" me drinking privileges (that I've never yet taken advantage of).
But twenty-four? What have I earned at twenty-four?

I have worked, cried, sought, chased, and damnit, I have earned wisdom. Not the kind where you have it or you don't. Not the kind of wisdom that is only granted to sages and people who have lived over a century. But the kind of wisdom that accumulates with time. Wisdom that, yes, you can acquire at twenty-four, if only a minimal amount. Wisdom that grows exponentially in the bank and can't be withdrawn. The kind that I'll look back on in another twenty-four years and think, "Oh geez, that girl had so much to learn."

But I'm okay with that. Because today, I welcomed twenty-four years of life. And that's enough.

Upon hearing that it was my birthday, my cooperating teacher, Scott, said, "Congratulations." For some reason it sounded odd to me, as if he were congratulating me for birthing a child or running a marathon. But no, he was congratulating me for having a birthday, simply for being alive. And I realized--perhaps for the first time--that simply waking up and showing up and surviving twenty-four years on planet earth might be worth more cheering and celebrating than I've been doing lately.

Because you see, I'm proud of the years I've accumulated. I've earned these years more than I ever "earned" a drivers-license or "earned" adulthood. Those were given. This wisdom was earned. And I'm grateful.

Thanks,
Heather

Cozy

2011-10-29T09:09:00.005-06:00

Dear Child,

Welcome to Saturday morning. You'll only live this particular day once. One time. Take a deep breath. Make a cup of tea. Look around.

Purposefully misplace what could have been. Lock it in a closet and lose the key. Let go of what you should be doing or how you should feel. Simply inhale. Now exhale. And take it all in.

The golden-toned leaves shake on the trees drenched in sunshine.
The morning walkers, waltzing hand-in-hand, bundled in scarves and sweaters.
A healthy body and a (mostly) healthy mind.
A warm home and cozy fleece blankets.
Family and friends who love and support you.
Take. It. In.

You're sick.
You're tired.
You're a bit anxious.
So, be sick.
Be tired.
Be anxious.

Don't fight it or resist it. That doesn't work. Just be here in this moment. Look around. Feel those things you don't want to feel. Chances are good they won't kill you. They might make you uncomfortable. They might make you cry. But they won't kill you, oh no.

Don't let the best you've ever done be the standard by which you try to measure up to for the rest of your life. Because you'll always fail. You'll always come up short. Ditch your list. At least for a day. And tomorrow when you pick it up again, be kind. Perfection is a myth. Set realistic standards. The kind you'd give to your best friend or five year-old cousin.

Just let go and be here now. Please. For all of us. Be here now.

Sincerely,
Truth

Probably

2011-10-27T21:31:00.007-06:00

This morning, I walked to my classroom by way of the Freshman hallway: "Hi Ms. Bo," came M on my right. "Good morning, Ms. Bo," sang D on my left. "G has a crush on you!" Giggle, giggle. Oh, kids.

In English 9, I split the students into groups by every thing from middle names, favorite colors, age, and favorite cereal. After doing so, P was not in the group he wanted to be in.

"Ms. Bo," he said, "Can I be in that group instead?"

Not really caring that much which group he was in, I said half-jokingly, "Will you be a distraction and keep them from getting their work done?"

He lowered his head dramatically: "Probably."

Eruption of laughter, and maybe even a snort.

Ken finds Adventist culture fascinating and often asks me questions about it. Being the resident "expert" on the topic, I am the guru which he seeks. I can't explain the shellfish thing well. This is frustrating to him. I explained that someone can eat pork, drink alcohol, and cuss up a storm and still be considered "Adventist." This perplexes him. The jewelry/dancing thing is also kind of ambiguous. Come to think of it, most behaviors associated with Adventism are ambiguous.

When he asks about why I don't drink, I assure him that whether because I was terrified of going to hell, terrified of being found out, or terrified that drinking one time would turn me into an alcoholic, I had never been tempted to try it. Or drugs for that matter. I think I've done okay without them. I'm not adamantly opposed to any of it, I'm just mostly un-intrigued by most of it.

Today, after school, Ken and I were planning our lessons for the next week. We decided it was a two-cups of tea sort of day (as opposed to our usual one in the morning). Two cups of tea means it's been long and the day isn't even over yet.

Ken looked at me and smiled, "Ya know, Ms. B? I think for you, it's either going to be taking up drinking or you find a different career. Because I don't see how you could possibly keep up with this not-drinking thing and still be a teacher."

He agreed that it would probably be better for any sane person to save their health and not become a teacher, but he apparently isn't sane. That' s why he teaches. And that might just be why I don't.

I Can. I Will. I Am.

2011-10-24T09:35:00.002-06:00

I can take deep breaths.
I can show this Monday who's boss.
I can be calm.
I can smile at difficult teenagers.
I can be patient with that student who forgot his homework. Again.
I can listen to what my students are saying.
I can maintain a sense of self even when it feels like these kids try so hard to tear it down.
I can nourish my body.
I can be wrong.
I can forget.
I can make mistakes.
I can ask for help.
I am good.
I am kind.
I am beautiful.
I am strong.
I am confident.
I am intelligent.
I am worthy. Damnit.

I need not make every student like me.
I need not be the student's number one favorite teacher.
I need not submit to their requests every time.
I need not feel bad when I can't meet all their needs.
I need not kill myself over this assignment or that deadline.

I am going to survive student-teaching.
I can give myself a break.
I can let go.
I can breathe.

Obituary

2011-10-23T08:56:00.005-06:00

She came out of the womb completely and utterly perfect.
As we all do.

Yet she emerged kicking and screaming. The world was already a cruel place and she was prepared to fight it to the death. No one gets out of this life alive, but she sure as hell would try.

Her body was perfect: young, innocent, fleshy, alive.
Her hair was perfect: new, blond ringlets.
Her eyes were perfect: shiny, bright, greenish-brown.
Her value in the Universe was monumental (just like every other human being to ever step down on planet earth). Yet still, so very important.
Her character, personality, and charm were evident from day one: fresh, unique, worthy.

But...
From the first time she looked at her reflection in the mirror,
From the first time she listened to beautiful women argue with compliments given them,
From the first time she measured her most average qualities to the absolute best in others,
From the first time she made a mistake and felt inadequate in every way,
From the first time she expected more from herself than any human being should,
she wanted more.
More assurance.
More confidence.
More peace.
Being simply "human" wasn't perfect enough.
Unattainable at best, but completely worth working for.

So she searched.
She fought with her body's natural cycles.
She saved up her allowance to buy anti-aging creams when she was ten.
She disagreed with her body's definition of "hungry" and "full."
She starved. She exercised. She vomited.
She argued with her body's size, shape, appearance.
She resented the vehicle designated to carry her through life.
If it had been up to her, she could have done better.

Family and friends adored this girl, for she was actually quite wise and intelligent and gifted and courageous. But there was always this one thing that held her back: herself.

Acquaintances and even strangers envied her confidence, her charm, her talents, her legs, her smile. When they told her, she said, "Thank you" with a smile, but thought to herself:
They must be crazy.

Sometimes she even wondered if she was crazy.
If maybe everyone else wasn't telling her lies.
If maybe she wasn't seeing clearly.
No. She knew who she was and if they knew, they wouldn't be proud of her either.

She spent her precious seventy years on planet earth tearing herself apart, seeking perfection, not believing people's compliments. Not believing in herself.

She graduated college.
Got married.
Pursued a career.
Bought a home.
Spent holidays with good people.
Took a few vacations.
Retired.
And died.
What a waste.

At her funeral, people did not mourn her absence as much as they mourned the life that could have been. The life that laid buried beneath her own self-hatred and doubt. The possibilities of all that she could have been, but refused to be until she was perfect and life fit within her expectations.

She never got it.
She spent her whole life missing the point.
She never understood that she was perfect from the very beginning.
The brutal fight she waged against herself for decades on end was completely unnecessary because she had won the battle for perfection seventy years earlier on the day she was born.

But now it didn't matter.
Because she was dead.

And life went on.

Miss Representation

2011-10-22T08:19:00.004-06:00

"As a culture, women are brought up to be fundamentally insecure," says Lisa Ling, one of many pivotal and vocal contributors to the film Miss Representation.

Teenagers average 10 hours and 45 minutes of media consumption (television, music, movies, magazines, on-line) every day.

"People learn more from media than from any other single source of information. If we want to understand what's going on in our society in the 21st century, we have to understand media."

We need to see this movie.
We need to spread this message.
I truly believe that our future depends on conversations about this.

Check out the website and the trailer here.

There are not currently any screenings scheduled to take place in Nebraska or anytime soon in Colorado. I'm considering looking into hosting a screening.

Need Not

2011-10-16T17:48:00.003-06:00

I need not be perfect.
I need not be flawless.
I need not criticize myself to inevitable death.
I need not be 5'10 and 130 pounds.
I need not be blond.
I need not be blemish-free.
I need not get everything done on time.
I need not please everyone.
I need not remember everyone's birthday, make the best dinners, be the funniest person in the room, or be--as much as anyone else--incredibly sane.
I need not always have a clean house.
I need not have a clean and vacuumed car (note: must check oil).
I need not always remember to check my oil.
I need not eat a perfectly balanced diet.
I need not be the best, most efficient teacher to walk the face of the earth.
I need not be the epitome of time-management and productivity.
I need not have the "perfect" body.
I need not have the most cooperative, smooth hair.
I need not have the future figured out.
I need not know what I want to be when I grow up.
I need not fully understand student loans, mortgages, bill payments, health insurance, and how to do my taxes, right now.
I need not be the best student teacher my colleagues have ever seen.
I need not be the hottest, most supportive, mind-reading, fun girlfriend.
I need not win the award for being the most compassionate, giving friend.
I need not feel bad for not responding to that text, that e-mail, that Facebook message.
I need not lay on guilt that isn't actually there.
I need not always be brave.
I need not beat myself up when I don't call my parents every few days.
I need not flip out when life doesn't into my boxes or go my way.
I need not look in the mirror and hate what I see.

I need not.
And I want not.
Yet, I do.
And I'm not sure what to do about that.

I don't know what to do with myself when the list of things I shouldn't want (but I do want) pushes down on me like this invisible veil of expectations and things I'm failing at. It's heavy. And oppressive. And when it pushes down on me I want to throw up. Or eat. Or scream. Or ugly cry. Or throw things. Or clean. Or run. Or ugly cry. Again.

But instead, I'm sitting here writing. Because it was the only other thing I could think of (besides cleaning) that might actually make me feel better.

Two years ago I would've had a different, more destructive response.
This is good.
But I wish this felt more gratifying.
Because instead it feels like drowning.

Toxic

2011-10-16T09:48:00.003-06:00

Here are a few quotes from a piece I just read called, "Design, Ecology, Ethics, and the Making of Things" by William McDonough.

He talks about how design and creation have an obvious ethical component because what and how we create things adds to our global narrative and the health of the earth.

"LeCorbusier' said in the early part of this century that a house is a machine for living in. He glorified the steamship, the airplane, the grain elevator. Think about it: a house is a machine for living in. An office is a machine for working in. A church is a machine for praying in. This has become a terrifying prospect, because what has happened is that designers are now designing for the machine and not for people."

"If I presented you with a television set and covered it up and said, 'I have this amazing item. What it will do as a service will astonish you. But before I tell you what it does, let me tell you what it is made of and you can tell me if you want it in your house. It contains 4,060 chemicals, many of which are toxic, two hundred of which give off gas into the room when it is turned on. It also contains eighteen grams of toxic methyl mercury, has an explosive glass tube, and I urge you to put it at eye-level with your children and encourage them to play with it.' Would you want this in your home?

Products of service, or durables, are things like cars and television sets: "To eliminate the concept of waste, products of service would not be sold, but licensed to the end-user. Customers may use them as long as they wish, even sell the license to someone else, but when the end-user is finished with, say, a television, it should go right back to Sony, Zenith, or Philips. It is 'food' for their system, but not for natural systems. Right now, you can walk down the street, dump a TV into the garbage can, and walk away. In the process, we deposit persistent toxins throughout the planet.

"For a New York men's clothing store, we arranged for the planting of one thousand oak trees to replace the two English oaks used to panel the store. We were inspired by the story of Gregory Bateson about New College in Oxford, England...They had a main hall built in the early 1600s with beams forty feet long and two feet thick." The beams were suffering rot. At seven dollars a square foot, the replacement costs were huge. Someone recommended they talk to the College Forester. "And when they brought in the forester, he said, 'We've been wondering for years when you would ask this question. When the present building was constructed 350 years ago, the architects specified that a grove of trees be planted and maintained to replace the beams in the ceiling when they would suffer from dry rot.' Bateson's remark was, 'That's the way to run a culture.' "

When McDonough designs buildings he requires that the buyer agree to plant the appropriate square miles of trees that would be used in the process so that the resources will be replenished.

"We must face the fact that what we are seeing across the world today is war, a war against life itself. Our present systems of design have created a world that grows far beyond the capacity of the environment to sustain life into the future. The industrial idiom of design, failing to honor the principles of nature, can only violate them, producing waste and harm, regardless of purported intention. If we destroy more forests, burn more garbage, drift-net more fish, burn more coal, bleach more paper, produce more toxic and radioactive wastes, we are creating a vast industrial machine, not for living in, but for dying in. It is a war, to be sure, a war that only a few more generations can surely survive."

Insidious

2011-10-15T08:16:00.006-06:00

My battle, like so many others, is accepting that--right here, right now--I am everything I need to be. I am enough.

This isn't complacency.
This isn't saying, "Meh, I'll never amount to anything more than I am right now."
This isn't giving up.
This isn't forfeit.
This is hope.

At this 24/7 rate of our media-saturated, technologically-driven, go-go society, it takes great--if not courageous--intentionality and grace to say, "Ya know what, maybe I'm okay."

A few years ago, I found myself at a department store at the mall with a girlfriend getting our make-up done. We had just found out they'd do it for free. So, why not? I extended the hand-held mirror in front of me as she began smearing flesh-colored foundation under each of my eyes. "There ya go," she said, looking at her work so far, "war paint."

I've never forgotten that. Since then I've recognized more clearly the charade (a.k.a. battle) I take part in every day. I'm really just a big liar.

We lie in innumerable ways:
-Bras: to make my breasts look, well, quite "unnatural" if you think about it compared to how we look without one
-Underwear: the right pair to avoid the "ghastly" panty-line (which by the way, five year-olds have picked up on for they can now purchase thongs at Gap). You wouldn't want people to know you're wearing underwear.
-Body Shaper (essentially ,way too much Spandex): form-fitting clothing? we may need some "smoothing" in certain areas to look, you guessed it "perfect"
-Heels: to imitate height, calf definition, and even butt perkiness
-Panty-hose: to cover ashy, varicose vein-infested legs
-Sunless tanner: to at least "look" tan
-Concealer/foundation make-up: to pinpoint the exact flaws and cover them up as to look..."perfect"
-Eyeliner: to make our eyes look more defined than they really are
-Mascara: to darken our eyelashes, because...they just need to be darker
-Lipstick: to make our lips more rosy and defined than they really are
-Hair products: to make our hair more of this or less of that
-Curling/straightening irons: to whip our hair into submission, whether our hair really wants to be curly/straight or not
-Razors: to look as though hairless comes standard on us women
-Waxing/Nairing: because there are just certain places that are not supposed to have hair, according to...
-Tweezers: to look as though our eyebrows are always so neat and defined

Don't even get me started on weight-loss gimmicks, tanning beds, corsets, hair extensions, eyelash growing medications, anti-aging creams, breast-enhancing pills, the $50 a month a woman could spend simply on maintaining her finger nails, nonetheless her weight, hair, skin, and teeth.

Companies and corporations don't want us to feel beautiful. They want our money. And they'll get it any way possible, usually by playing to the consumer's insecurities:"You're ugly. Buy our product and you'll be less ugly."

I wish I could say that even as I'm the one writing this, that I am somehow immune to this, but I'm not. I'm a sucker. I so badly want to feel good enough, whole enough, able to hold my own in this "race" for perfection, that I've bought many a product in search of the ambiguous: pretty.

I've had several friends have success with the ProActive skin care line. My own was not cooperating, so I tried it. It didn't work. I called to cancel. They convinced me they "just" released a new "extra strength" formula. I decided I needed this. It didn't work. I called to cancel. They offered to send me another variety. I said "no."

Two months after I said "no," they were still billing my credit card. I called to tell them about the mistake. They responded by saying they had no record of my ever cancelling to begin with. I asked to speak to the person in charge. She told me the same thing. I told her I felt that their company was being dishonest and I refused to pay for something I never received. She offered to send me a bonus/complimentary shipment of ProActive to amend the situation. It was at that point that I realized she was not listening to me. She was following a script.

Every month for the last six months I've received a letter in the mail from ProActive, resembling one that would come from a friend: bright colors, hand-written name and address. And inside it always says the same thing: "Won't you please give us another try?" They are desperate for my money.

I lie when I smear products on my skin to cover my "flaws."
I lie when I manipulate my body to look like this or fit into that.
I lie when I dump gels and goos on my hair then sizzle it into the shape I want.
I lie every day when I morph my body from what it looked like when I woke up, to what it looked like when I walked out the door.

Looking good and feeling confident is not a sin. I'm not advocating that we all stop wearing make-up and looking nice. What I'm asking is this: is there a way that looking good and feeling confident could be accomplished without all the cover ups, adjustments, and products?

This is why I so appreciate men and women who are starting conversations about this. People are beginning to shed light on the insidiousness of the "beauty" industry that is forever selling products that promise perfection.

Such as this one. An article written this month in O magazine about the plastic surgeries that would be required for a model today to resemble the all-American, all-perfect Barbie doll. The author writes: "Just because our distorted image of how a body should be is medically attainable, that doesn’t mean it should be attained."

Or how about this site: Healthy is the New Skinny?

Or how about Operation Beautiful? This site that has encouraged women to leave random/anonymous Post-It notes in places like women's restroom mirrors and dressing rooms that say things like, "Good God, you are absolutely stunning!"

I so appreciate these people who are opening the dialogue. I want to be part of that voice.

Half the Sky

2011-10-13T21:39:00.002-06:00

The following quotes are from the book Half the Sky by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn, the first married couple to ever win the Pulitzer Prize. This is one of the best books I've ever read because of their bravery and brevity in illuminating the struggle of women worldwide begging us to reconsider the notion that "If I'm okay, everyone else is probably okay too."

A Chinese proverb reads, “Women hold up half the sky.”

FACTS

“More girls have been killed in the last 50 years, precisely because they were girls, than men were killed in all the battles on the twentieth century. More girls are killed in this routine ‘gendercide’ in any one decade than people were slaughtered in all the genocides of the twentieth century.”

“In India, bride burning for inadequate dowry, or so the husband can remarry, takes place every two hours.”

“During the last nine years in Pakistan, 5,000 women and girls have been doused in kerosene and lit on fire or burned with acid for perceived disobedience.”

“In China, 100,000 girls are routinely kidnapped and trafficked in brothels and we don’t consider it worthy of making the news.”

“Women are the third world’s largest underutilized resource.” (238)

“Every year at least 2 million women disappear because of gender discrimination.”

PROSTITUTION

“ ‘Prostitution is inevitable.’ He chuckled. ‘There has always been prostitution in every country. And what’s a young man going to do from the time he turns eighteen until when he gets married at thirty?’

‘Well, is the best solution really to kidnap Nepali girls and imprison them in Indian brothels?’

The officer shrugged, unperturbed. ‘It’s unfortunate,’ he agreed. ‘These girls are sacrificed so that we can have harmony in society. So that good girls can be safe.’” (24)

“People get away with enslaving village girls for the same reason that people got away with enslaving blacks two hundred years ago: The victims are perceived as discounted humans…When India feels that the West cares as much about slavery as it does about pirated DVDs, it will dispatch people to the borders to stop traffickers.” (24)

The price for customers to a Cambodian brothel: $1.50 per session.

“One of the reasons that so many women and girls are kidnapped, trafficked, raped, and otherwise abused is that they grin and bear it. Stoic docility—in particular, acceptance of any decree by a man—is drilled into girls in much of the world from the time they are babies, and so they often do as they are instructed, even when the instruction is to smile while being raped twenty times a day.” (47)

RAPE

“Surveys suggest that about one third of all women worldwide face beatings in the home. Women aged fifteen through forty-four are more likely to be maimed or die from male violence than from cancer, malaria, traffic accidents, and war combined.” (61)

“They know that a woman humiliated in that way [rape] has no other recourse except suicide,” Mukhtar wrote later. “They don’t even need to use their weapons. Rape kills her.” (70)

“Rape has become an epidemic in South Africa, so a medical technician named Sonette Ehlers developed a product that immediately grabbed national attention there. Ehlers had never forgotten a rape victim telling her forlornly: “If only I had teeth down there.” Some time afterward, a man came into the hospital where Ehlers works in excruciating pain because his penis was stuck in his pants zipper. Ehlers merged those images and came up with a product she called Rapex. It resembles a tube, with barbs instide. The woman inserts it like a tampon, with an applicator, and any man who tries to rape the woman impales himself on the barbs and must go to an emergency room to have the Rapex removed. When critics complained that it was a medieval punishment, Ehlers responded tersely: “A medieval device for a medieval deed.” (61)

“In China, a neo-Confucian saying from the Song Dynasty declares: ‘For a woman to starve to death is a small matter, but for her to lose her chastity is a calamity.’” (81)

For rape to be legitimized in Sudan, “she must provide the mandatory four adult male Muslim eyewitnesses to prove that it was rape…Half of the women in Sierra Leone endured sexual violence or the threat of it during the upheavals in that country, and a United Nations report claims that 90 percent of girls and women over the age of three were sexually abused in parts of Liberia during the civil war there.” (83)

“The world capital of rape is the eastern Congo…All militias here rape women, to show their strength and to show your weakness…a viciousness, a mentality of hatred, and it’s women who pay the price…It has probably become more dangerous to be a woman than a soldier in an armed conflict.” (84)

“Extremist Hutus had targeted Claudine’s family, which was Tutsi, and she was the only survivor. Claudine had been kidnapped with her sister, and had been taken to a Hutu rape house…Large numbers of militia members came to the house, patiently lining up to rape the women. This went on for days, and of course there was no medical attention. ‘We had started rotting in our reproductive organs, and maggots were coming out of our bodies,’ Claudine said. “Walking was almost impossible. So we crawled on our knees.’ …Hutu militia members killed her sister but finally let Claudine go…Claudine was puzzled by her swelling belly, as she still had no idea about the facts of life. ‘I had thought I could not get pregnant, because I had been told that a girl becomes pregnant only if she is kissed. And I had never been kissed.” (213)

HEALTH

“Fistulas are common in the developing world but, outside of Congo, are overwhelmingly caused not by rape but by obstructed labor and lack of medical care during child birth. Most of the time, women don’t get any surgical help to repair their fistulas, because maternal health and childbirth injuries are rarely a priority.” (93)

“The fistula patient is the modern-day leper…The reason these women are pariahs is because they are women. If this happened to men, we would have foundations and supplies coming in from all over the world.” (97)

“The equivalent of five jumbo jets’ worth of women die in labor each day, but the issue is almost never covered…Right now the amount of we Americans spend on maternal health is equivalent to less than one twentieth of 1 percent of the amount we spend on our military.” (98)

“Would the world just stand by if it were men who were dying just for completing their reproductive functions?” –Asha-Rose Migiro, U.N. Deputy Secretary General, 2007

“Women are not dying because of untreatable diseases. They are dying because societies have yet to make the decision that their lives are worth saving.” (116)

In Somalia, “the innumerable local camels often have more freedom than the women.” (123)

“Thirty-nine thousand baby girls die annually in China because parents don’t give them the same medical attention as boys. As many infant girls die each week as the amount of protestors at Tiananmen (between 400-800).”

EDUCATION

“One study after another has shown that educating girls is one of the most effective ways to fight poverty. Schooling is often a precondition for girls and women to stand up against injustice, and for women to be integrated into the economy. Until women are numerate and literate, it is difficult for them to start businesses or contribute in meaningfully to their national economies.” (170)

“Countries that repress women also tend to be backward economically, adding to the frustrations that nurture terrorism.” (159)

“Some security experts noted that the countries that nurture terrorists are disproportionally those where women are marginalized. The reason there are so many Muslim terrorists, they argued, has little to do with the Koran but a great deal to do with the lack of robust female participation in Islamic countries. Empowering girls, disempowers terrorists.”

“It is impossible to realize our goals while discriminating against half the human race. As study after study has taught us, there is no tool for development more effective than the empowerment of women.” –Kofi Annan, then U.N. Secretary-General, 2006

“A society that has more men than women—particularly young men, is often associated with crime or violence…Young men in such countries grow up in an all-male environment, in a testosterone-saturated world that has the ethos of a high school boys’ locker room.” (158)

“It is not uncommon to stumble across a mother mourning a child who has just died of malaria for want of a $5 mosquito net and then find the child’s father at a bar, where he spends $5 a week. Several studies suggest that when women gain control over spending, less family money is devoted to instant gratification and more for education and starting small businesses. Because men now typically control the purse strings, it appears that the poorest families in the world typically spend approximately ten times as much (20 percent of their income on average) on a combination of alcohol, prostitutes, candy, sugary drinks, and lavish feasts as they do on educating their children.” (192-3)

“Women now own just 1 percent of the world’s titled land, according to the UN. That has to change.” (195)

“Maternal mortality in the United States declined significantly only once women gained the right to vote. When women had a political voice, their lives also became a higher priority.” (198)

CONCLUSION

“Americans knew for decades about the unfairness of segregation. But racial discrimination seemed a complex problem deeply rooted in the South’s history and culture, and most good-hearted people didn’t see what they could do about such injustices. Then along came Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr. and the Freedom Riders, along with eye-opening books like John Howard Griffin’s Black Like Me. Suddenly the injustices were impossible to look away from, at the same time that economic change was also undermining Jim Crow. One result was a broad civil rights movement that built coalitions, spotlighted the suffering, and tore away the blinders that allowed good people to acquiesce in racism.

“Likewise, skies were hazy, rivers oily, and animals endangered for much of the twentieth century, but environmental destruction unfolded without much comment or opposition. It seemed the sad but inevitable price of progress. And then Rachel Carson published Silent Spring in 1962, and the environmental movement was born.

“In the same way, the challenge today is to prod the world to face up to women locked in brothels and teenage girls with fistulas curled up on the floor of isolated huts. We hope to see a broad movement emerge to battle gender inequality around the world and to push for education and opportunities for girls around the world. The American civil rights movement in one model, and so is the environmental movement, but both of those were different, because they involved domestic challenges close to home. And we’re wary of taking the American women’s movement as a model, because if the international effort is dubbed a “women’s issue,” then it will already have failed. The unfortunate reality is that women’s issues are marginalized, and in any case sex trafficking and mass rape should no more be see as women’s issues than slavery was a black issue or the Holocaust was a Jewish issue. These are all humanitarian concerns, transcending any one race, gender, or creed.” (233-4)

RESOURCES

www.halftheskymovement.org

www.cambodiaschools.com

www.newlightindia.org

www.vitalvoices.org

Throwing Pencils

2011-10-13T21:12:00.003-06:00

This week I asked my 9th graders about their greatest strengths.
I believe authenticity to be one of my greatest strengths.

Since I can't be perfect.
Since I'll never look like her.
Be like him.
Have this all figured out.
I might as well just be open about it because fighting is fruitless and I've made more friends by being authentic than I ever did by keeping it all inside.

I put this belief into practice in a big way on Wednesday by sharing my story with my Pop Culture class. Now I realize that I wrote a book about a lot of my "dirt." People can read my story on the internet. This blog is public. I've spoken in front of a few thousand people and felt confident doing so. But there's something different about speaking to thirty public high school students. No context. No background. The "teacher" title. And they are only a few years younger than me. I see every day that there's a huge-mongous difference between 17 and 23. And I'm okay with that. You couldn't pay me to step back into high school.

As we've been studying gender and culture in relation to popular culture, I sensed myself losing half of the audience. I felt them losing interest in the fact that every hour of every day 49 women are raped in the Congo, at least 1 Indian woman is doused in kerosene and set on fire for an inadequate dowry, women are beaten for being women, and others sold into sex slavery. We've got problems and when some of the students stated their belief that it wasn't really worth talking about because they couldn't do anything anyway, I just had to say something.

The next day, I told them that I was human.
I told them that I was nervous to share my story because I didn't want to preach at anyone.
I told them that, as they may have noticed, I am intensely passionate about gender equality for several reason: being taught at a young age to fear men, being sexually harassed in middle school, battling anorexia and bulimia, and being sexually assaulted in Cambodia.

I told them I believe I do have an ethical and moral responsibility to take care of other people, even people on the other side of the world,
even people I've never met,
even people I don't like.

I told them of my worries that if I don't give a damn about a hurting world, I'm worried that no one will. Yes, I feel responsible. Yes, I want to help.

I shared. They listened.
They didn't throw pencils at me.
They didn't roll their eyes.
I told them that if ever I began foaming at the mouth and turning red at this difficult topic of gender, they could say, "Okay, Ms. Bo, tone it down. It's going to be okay." But I was able to share why that just might happen. And they seemed to understand.

After class, K came up to me, tears in her eyes. She quickly said "thank you" and walked away.

I've never regretted telling an honest story. Even when the risks of transparency seem to far outweigh the benefits, authenticity has always been worth it. Every time.

Saying Grace

2011-10-13T20:51:00.001-06:00

"You say grace before meals.
All right.
But I say grace before the play and the opera,
And grace before the concert and pantomime,
And grace before I open a book,
And grace before sketching, painting,
Swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing;
And grace before I dip the pen in the ink."

-G.K. Chesterton, from an early notebook (mid-1890s)

Sundays

2011-10-09T14:43:00.005-06:00

Nearly every Sunday, for the last four years of college, I have come to the Mill to study; literature, rhetoric, women and minority writers, Biblical literature, secondary methods, learning theories and measurement, and more. I have slumped here in a daze inhaling the coffee, the locals, the buzz of conversations, and NPR. Head aches and runny noses, meeting with friends or studying alone. Getting lost on YouTube or taking walks around the block just to get through the day.

I look forward to the day when I come here on a Sunday with a book that I actually want to read. Or maybe I'll sit and write. Maybe I'll people watch. Maybe I'll meet up with a friend. Maybe I'll just sit and mindlessly read blogs. Either way, when that day comes, I will not come toting a textbook, a research paper to be written, or a stack of English essays that need grading. I will just come and be.

Some day.

That day is closer now than ever. Roughly two months from now, I will be finishing up my student teaching and thus finishing my requirements for college. I need that day to come sooner rather than later, because I kinda feel like I'm losing it.

The lifestyle that teaching demands is not one I'm fond of. The job requires working 40-some hours during the day only to continue grading papers and lesson planning into the evenings and weekends. I dislike feeling like I'm regularly letting everyone down: my relationships, my teachers, my Zumba classes, my dreams, my body, my mind, my spirit. It's that one-step behind, constantly playing catch-up thing that absolutely drives me crazy. On Friday when the school doors release us for the weekend, I'm instantly running through everything I have to do before Monday. It never stops. I make lists. I follow them. I live by them. I keep track of all these temporary requirements for "living."

This isn't living.

I realize that there's a good chance I'll have other jobs where I don't absolutely love every minute of it. That's okay. Hopefully, I'll find jobs that keep their word to the 40-hour a week commitment. Hopefully, I'll be in a position where I can walk away from a job that isn't what I thought it would be instead of hanging on to it for the hopes of that damn-ambiguous "college degree."

I look forward to having time.
To read.
To write.
To play.
To sit.
To sleep.
To spend time with people I love.
To grow.
To play/write music.
To dance.
To create.
To be.

But today, I'm at the Mill. Again. Needing to write up student evaluations but blogging instead. Grrrr.

Some day.

The F and the W

2011-10-08T11:40:00.004-06:00

From the first day of class, I recognized F as a student who is different. And difficult.

F is intelligent. She knows our conversations. She has read and learned about these topics long before most of the students have. I think it's safe to assume that her parents probably lean liberal. She dresses her own part. She doesn't seem interested in blending into the student culture of materialism and shallow relationships.

On the flip side, F is regularly resisting homework, rolling her eyes in class, and all-around making me feel like a pretty horrible teacher.

On Thursday before class, F asked me, as several students have, "What is that 'W' you have drawn on your hand most days?"

I told her: "I'm probably crazy, but I have this problem where sometimes I think I am the scum of the earth. I imagine that there couldn't be a worse person on planet earth but me. 'W' stands for 'worthy.' I write it there to remind myself."

"Hmm," she said.

After class, she popped her head back into the classroom after all the other students had left and said, "Ms. Bo, I think you're awesome. From the first day of class, I just knew there was something special about you. I just wanted you to know that."

I nearly gasped. I was pretty sure she despised me and disliked the class. This encouraged me.

I told Ken about this and he surprised me yet again by saying, "Ms. B, what is this self-confidence 'thing' you struggle with? Why do you think you struggle to see yourself as valuable?"

Huh?

"Umm...I don't know," I said somewhat defensively. "I've not had many conversations with people who don't struggle to see themselves as valuable. What's your deal? Why don't you struggle with this?"

Parenting? Bullying? Education? Religion? Nurture? Nature? Neither of us could come up with good reasons as to why we did or did not have great self-confidence. Frankly, I just think he's the strange anomaly. Because, I'm so normal.

Watching F in and out of class, I've realized the reason I am both intrigued and perplexed by her is because she reminds me a bit of myself in high school: kinda sassy, smart, asking bigger questions. This is good. Yet, I was much more of a conformist than her in high school and that's probably why she tests me. Which is also good.

I wrote down her words and put them in my plan book to regularly remind me that even the students who seem so distant and so disinterested, may just like me. They may not hate me like I imagine they do. Just maybe.

Bingo

2011-10-08T11:39:00.003-06:00

This week, I asked a guest speaker into my Pop Culture classroom where we are launching our unit on gender. She is a teacher from Uzbekistan, we'll call her Krom. She is a sweet-natured, kind woman who is visiting our school for two weeks as she did last year. She is learning about American education and has created a program for students here to correspond with her students in Uzbek. When I told her I was teaching a unit on gender, she offered to come share her experiences.

I didn't know how the students would respond. They can be rowdy. They can be teenagers and I didn't know if this is super-sweet woman could hold her own. But they gave her their full attention and I think it's because what she said surprised us all:
In Uzbekistan, she cannot wear pants.

She cannot make her own decisions without clearance from her husband.

Most girls are married off (by way of arranged marriage) when they are sixteen. So alas, they have to drop out of school because they are immediately expected to be wives and bear a child within 9 months. If they do not have at least one male child within the first two years of their marriage, they can be divorced, no questions asked.

Most boys are married off when they are twenty. How nice that they get to finish their education and there's not much pressure or risk for the men from that time on.

Krom was shocked upon her first visit to the States to find a man in the kitchen. A man made her breakfast and she found that incredibly odd. She said that in her thirty years of life, she had never once seen a man cooking, or cleaning, or helping with the children, or consulting their wife in a decision.

She has never been asked by her husband for advice. About anything. Ever.

She mentioned that she feels so much safer in America. She doesn't worry about being assaulted here. According to Krom (I know you'll hardly be able to believe this), if a woman is sexually assaulted or raped in Uzbekistan they actually blame the woman! Shocking, right? I told her that unfortunately it's often like that here too, but we're making progress in enabling women with rights and laws that keep the perpetrator from being let off the hook.

The students had many questions for her and the next day we de-briefed and discussed what we heard. If felt so good to hear some of the students say, "I never knew men had so much power in other countries," or "It sounds like Uzbek is about 100 years behind the U.S. on gender," or "Why isn't it like that here?"

BINGO!

Why is the gender climate so different in other countries than it is here?
What happened in America that hasn't happened in other countries?

Well, my suggestion is feminism. The countries were women are most discriminated against are those that have never had a successful or lasting feminist or equality movement. The countries were women have more rights (i.e. Western and European countries) did.

But I'll let them draw their own connections to that later in the semester.

Not Only

2011-10-08T11:14:00.002-06:00

Part of my daily mantra goes something like this: "I am not only Ms. Bo. I am also a student, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a learner, a girlfriend, a skeptic, a writer, a musician, an athlete, and an artist. Student teaching is not my life it is part of my life."

Of all the reminders in my daily mantra, this seems to be the most important for me to remember.

It's important because these teachers and these students are not really my friends, and if I'm only Ms.Bo, than my relationships suck.

It's important because these teaching skills and lesson plans are not always perfect, and if I'm only Ms. Bo, than my talents are quite limited (and lacking).

It's important because these days are long and tiring and sometimes uninspiring, and if I'm only Ms. Bo, my life is quite bland.

But I'm not only Ms. Bo. I am more. And sometimes it's hard to remember that when I spend the bulk of my time in a temporary environment where I'm not always thriving. I need to remember I am not only Ms. Bo. There is life beyond student teaching.

Putting Down the Remote

2011-10-02T12:16:00.000-06:00

This I Believe

Rachel - Norman, Oklahoma

Entered on January 31, 2007

I Believe in Putting Down the Remote

I believe in the strange and alluring power of television. This ubiquitous monster has the disturbing ability to gobble up my entire day without remorse. There was a time when I spent my days parked on a couch spellbound by its magic. I avoided experiencing my own day by studying the lives of others.

I would spend the afternoon watching high school teenagers from beach cities in California complain about bad hair days and messy breakups. Car commercials whizzed by in a flash of bright colors and curvy roads. I daily looked on with disgust at the scandalous plots and morally deprived residents of Landview. Unappetizing sights of enormous hamburgers were shoved in my face. I listened in on thirty minute counseling sessions hoping to be helped in some way. I played judge and juror to meaningless civil suites while people enjoyed their fifteen minutes of fame. Finally, after one such wasted day, the guilt of letting life pass me by, frozen in the trance of an electrical picture box, became too much to take. My mind and body had sat dormant for too long. I set down the remote, stood up, and decided to start truly living.

I would no longer let my life pass by in a blur of sitcoms and commercials. I got rid of the day stealing beast and began embracing every day. Life became more meaningful. It was the beginning of my quest to fill my life with the things I love and live each day to the fullest.

The reactions of others were truly surprising.

Friends would ask, “Why would you get rid of your TV?”

Coworkers inquired with puzzled faces, “If you don’t have a TV, what do you do?”

I’ll tell you what I do. Instead of zoning out and letting the world pass me by, I live. Present in the moment as much as possible. I spend my days learning. I go for walks without destinations. I take naps in the afternoon. I enjoy the company of my friends. I write. Do yoga. Listen to NPR. I curl up with a crossword and a cup of coffee on Sunday. I bake. Listen to music. Talk on the phone for hours to my family. I am at peace alone with my own thoughts. Instead of being a spectator, I am performing in the center ring of my life. I believe in living. I believe in life after television.

Jews

2011-10-02T11:01:00.004-06:00

"First They Came for the Jews"
By Pastor Niemoller

First they came for the Jews and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for the Communists and I did not speak out because I was not a Communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me.

I have this crazy idea that I am morally and ethically responsible for other people. This doesn't mean I always get it right or I'm spending all of my extra time serving those less fortunate than myself. I do my balanced best to take care of other people, to see them, to hear them, to--at the very least--look them in the eyes and smile.

This means that I turn off the water when I'm brushing my teeth or washing my hands.
This means that I bring re-usable grocery bags to the farmer's market.
This means that I buy local and organic when possible.
This means that I eat as close to the ground as possible, because the resources (grain, water) used to raise one cow for a hamburger could feed an entire community.
This means that I take part in conversations about cultures and world views that are different from mine.
This means that I am intentional about not being so wasteful.
This means that I take time to be grateful for the bounty that I have.
This means that I invest in people and ideas.
This means that I read about what men have to say about feminism.
This means that I listen open-heartedly to my more conservative friends.

I believe that we all live downstream.
But we try really hard to act like we don't.

I was reminded of these beliefs because on Monday I am starting a unit in my Pop Culture class on gender. When I mentioned the upcoming unit to the class last week, half a dozen guys simultaneously crossed their arms, leaned back in their chairs, and rolled their eyes. What is our discomfort with this topic? Why have conversations about gender turned into a list of things that men are losing and women are stealing from them? How can I help them see their comfy position on this totem pole called "life"?

Why is that Mexican-Americans and women in the Congo can tell you how unfair and unethical their situation is, but the folks above them seem completely oblivious to it and even resentful to these people even wanting to have the conversation?

I think it's because they (I) don't have to.

I can't tell you which doors and exits at my school have ramps and handicapped access, because I don't have to.
I can't tell you where the elevators are located, because I don't have to. I can use the stairs.
I don't consider the difficulties of being in a wheelchair, because I. don't. have. to.

I think it's the same with race and gender and sexual-orientation. If we do not belong to a population of people who have less rights and privileges, we are likely to be ignorant to their situation and defensive when they voice their needs. I imagine we become defensive because it feels like we are being attacked or exposed. We aren't accustomed to being uncomfortable or unprivileged.

This is why I'm nervous about this unit on gender. I'm afraid that the boys won't hear what I'm trying to say: that we all need to be aware of those we can lend a hand to. They don't want to be told or reminded that they sit pretty comfortably at the top of the hierarchical totem pole of society, simply because they were born male.

I'm starting the unit with 2-3 days on the art of listening. We're going to practice paraphrasing. We're going to learn about our typical responses to critical information and how to respond non-defensively. I also want to start by just saying up front, "I'm nervous to be talking about gender..." and go from there. Honesty is scary, but worth it.

If I've learned anything about listening and openness in the last year it's this: I can't always convince those above me to give a damn, but I can choose to give a damn about those below me. I can lend a hand. And I will.

Fitting

2011-09-30T06:10:00.004-06:00

I'm not sure where I fit at school.

I'm not a student (gladly!).
And I'm not a teacher.
I'm just that elusive, nebulous "student-teacher."

This means that the students aren't really sure how to interact with me and neither are the teachers. Such as, the other day in class, Ken was out of the room making copies and a quite snide and difficult student said, "Where's our real teacher?" I didn't know the "correct" way to respond, "Mr. F is making copies. I am right here." He didn't seem satisfied. Neither was I.

Many of the teachers and staff know that I am just another student-teacher, passing through: here one semester, gone the next. I can't blame them for not becoming deeply involved with me, so I really appreciate those who do.

I think this may be one of the reasons I am finding it difficult to thoroughly enjoy student-teaching: I don't know where I fit.

My social life--once handed to me via classes with friends, ASB events, or just randomly bumping into people I knew at the gym or the cafe--is now gone. I don't randomly bump into anyone at school. It's hard to feel connected or fulfilled.

I don't necessarily find comfort or peace standing in front of thirty teenagers (pretty much a moving/talking target, like it feels some days). They can be fun, and they are the population that I am closest to in age, but they are not my friends, nor should they be. I don't necessarily find comfort or peace interacting with teachers either. A handful are in their twenties, but most are grown-ups with spouses, families, mortgages. Sometimes it's difficult to relate to them too.

So at the end of a 12 hour day (like Monday with parent-teacher conferences) when I shuffle in the door at home, the house is empty and I still have at least 2 hours of grading and lesson planning to attend to before heading to bed and doing it all over again, it's hard to feel good about myself or optimistic about the next day when I don't feel I've interacted with anyone who knows me or will beyond December.

This week, I overheard a conversation between two girls, "Hey, guess who I just ran into?"

The other replied, "Who?"

"Mr. F's student teacher from last year. Remember he taught us English 10?"

"Oh yeah, it's hard to remember student-teachers exist outside of school!"

I can't say that when I was in high school I was any less oblivious. Oh, I exist. In fact, I spend a lot of days reminding myself that I am more than just "Ms. Bo."

I am a friend.
I am a daughter.
I am a sister.
I am a girlfriend.
I am a student.
I am a learner.
I am a writer.
I am a musician.
I am an artist.
I am a dancer.
I am an athlete.

I am a person beyond and outside of this student-teaching experience.
I am a person.

Sparkler

2011-09-24T14:46:00.007-06:00

The other day, walking out of school, I thought, "What if I just quit this student teaching thing?"

The idea both surprised and comforted me at the same time. I don't want to be doing this, but I am and I need to and I will, but . . . quitting would just be easier. I don't want to stand in front of ornery teenagers and act like I have it all together, because I don't. So is it merely the title, the profession, the task, or the position that pours on this pressure to perform?

I am at a great school.
I work with excellent teachers.
I teach hard-working, intelligent students.
Yet, I dread going to school and look forward to the days when we watch a film in class.

So what's my problem?
Why am I not enjoying this?

Two possible solutions come to mind:
A. maybe I am just not meant to be a teacher
B. maybe I am missing some crucial, necessary part of teaching and once I figure out what that is, I'll like it. I need the missing piece.

The formal verdict is out, however, I'm leaning toward B. And unfortunately the missing piece is probably (brace yourself): me. One of my cooperating teachers, Ken, told me, "Ya know Ms. B, I've found that usually in a tricky situation where there are two choices, the right answer is usually the harder of the two." Eck. I knew he was going to say that.

You see it would be so much easier to say, "Nope, teaching is just not for me" (as it would be easier to say that about just about anything that makes me uncomfortable). I would rather just quit than face my fears, those fears that I will let everyone down, say something wrong, be wrong, be inadequate, not be enough, mess up, confirm how unintelligent I really am. I fear that my teachers and students will find out I am a fraud.

Lynn, my counselor, assures me (sadly) that this is normal. "It's called the 'imposter syndrome'," she tells me, "where early entry novices often feel like they are going to be 'discovered' for
not really being what they portend to be."

Fay called me Thursday night. We hadn't talked on the phone (via Skype, of course) in over a year. She and Tim still live and work in Cambodia. We talked. We caught up and she reminded me that I've felt this way before. When I taught English in Cambodia, I would often express similar doubts and fears. She always seemed surprised when I would tell her this. "But Heather," she'd say, "you're a human sparkler. Your worst opinions of yourself are invisible to the rest of us."

So if the feeling that I am a fraud is all in my head, how do I get it out of my head? Well, that's the million dollar question I suppose, because I've experienced these same fears and doubts in every single area of my life, feeling inadequate in one way or another. I call her Helga. She's pretty annoying.

For me, crowding Helga out means reminding myself who I really am. So this will be the mantra I write out each morning and read when I need to throughout the day:

"So, this is student teaching. After twenty-three years in school, I am completing the final two and a half months of my college education. This is it. I am doing it.

It is not my job to please every student, to make them happy, to make them like me. They do not reflect me. I need not take their facial expressions, moods, grades, or responses personally.

It is not my job to be perfect, to be flawless, to never make a mistake, to always have all the answers. It is not my job to pretend or "act" like I have it all together, because I don't.

It is my job to be a teacher-in-training, a student, a learner, a grower, to do my balanced best which is all I can ever do, which is always enough."

Yesterday, after another long week of school, I nearly fell out of my chair when Ken told me, the day after Fay reminded me on the phone, "Ms. B, you are a human sparkler, has anyone ever told you that? Because you are."

That's what I hear.
I'm slowly learning to believe.

Running

2011-09-19T10:25:00.002-06:00

The upcoming unit in my English 9D class is a unit on personal essays. To teach this, I am going to teach the students how to write an essay to contribute to the "This I Believe" radio program on NPR. If you've never heard it, check it out.

I'm going to use this one in class on Friday:

"When I was seven years old I quietly dressed my self one morning in my favorite pink gingham dress that my mother always said was too small, quietly tiptoed out the door, and ran away from home. My sister who was five and who I told everything to didn’t know, my father whom I loved didn’t suspect a thing and my mother whom I tolerated didn’t know. They were all still sleeping.

I walked that summer morning many miles, from one end of Fort Collins to the other. When the police car found me I was walking in front of Jax, my dad’s favorite hardware store not knowing what to do because only mountains lay before me. I was surprised when I turned around, I had gone far and I had never looked back.

Not long after my adventure across town, my mother divorced my father, packed up me and my sister and took the alcohol that had caused so much hurt with her. We ended up next door in Loveland, the sweetheart town. I had hoped for a fairy tail, a dream-come-true, with that kind of name, but I ended up in a nightmare.

My mother remarried a monster. He did all of the terrible things monsters do. I tried to run away again but he promised to kill my sister my mother and my father if I left. And so I ran. I ran at school and beat the fastest runner in the 6th grade who was a boy named Simon and I never looked back. Looking back while running slows you down.

In high school I ran for real. I ran far. I raced. I loved it. I graduated, went to college and even ran there. I left my mother, kept my father and drank with my sister. I met my husband, fell in love, and then one day, quite by accident, I looked back.

There behind me stood a little girl, about seven, frail and skinny and tired. I didn’t recognize her but she seemed somehow familiar. She told me that she was a runner too. We sat down together and she told me everything I already knew and many things that were new. Then she asked the question no one had answered for me, “Do you believe me?” And without hesitation or doubt or running away I answered, “I believe.” "

Darcy - Pagosa springs, Colorado

(Entered on January 18, 2007)

Kylie

2011-09-18T18:05:00.003-06:00

I wrote a blog recently called "Twenty Months" about progress.
About healing.
And growth.
And change.
And movement.
Forward.
In a good direction.
Toward wholeness.

Later that day, I walked to my friend, Kylie's, house.

"Heather," she said, "I just read your blog. I am SO proud of you! Can we jump up and down and cheer because I think this type of event is worthy of celebration."

And we did. And it felt good. We hooped and hollered and jumped on her kitchen floor in our socks until we felt we'd adequately celebrated.

And that "small" act mattered greatly to me. That "small" act said, "You matter. You're worth being proud of." She's just that kind of friend.

Ya know, the kind that celebrates with small (or large) accomplishments,
who texts just to say, "I'm thinking about you,"
who smiles abundantly and listens compassionately,
who seems to like you even though they know everything about you?

Yeah. That kind of friend.

Good.

Unicorns

2011-09-13T14:55:00.005-06:00

Four weeks ago school started.

My private-schooled, twenty-three year-old, student-teacher-self walked into this big, scary world of "public education" and has been learning and taking notes ever since.

Each morning at 7:30am, the marching band toots their horns and hammers their drums in the grassy area in front of school. The cars circle around at 15 mph dropping off eager, sleep-deprived high schoolers as the band members march to their own tunes. Sometimes the tunes are oldies. Sometimes the tunes are rap songs. Either way, it's not usually the music I'm paying attention to.

I'm looking for my students. J and C are drummers. A plays trombone. T plays, ya know, I don't know what he plays. He's usually just there socializing. And dancing. Like the other day, I parked and watched T start a sort of mosh pit among the cymbal and xylophone players and soon the entire percussion section was jumping, hopping, and bumping. It wasn't long before the trombones jumped in and at that point the chances of someone getting thwacked were about even with the chances of getting punctured in a mosh pit with unicorns.

As it turns out high school isn't much like the movies. This insight came straight from my freshman English journals. They are shocked. And happy. The cheerleaders are not the most popular. Neither are the football players. I don't have the full spectrum of the social norms here, but let's just say all the cliches are not true. Surprise.

Yesterday, H showed me her new tattoo--a large heart on her hip. A gift from her boyfriend for their 5- month anniversary. 'Nough said.

Scott is like a pop culture juke box. When a word or phrase triggers a song, he sings it. Even in class. It makes me laugh.

A conversation in American Lit class turned to globalization and consumption. Ken pointed out that the closer we eat to the source, the better it is for our planet. P and T, two junior girls, asked me, "Are you vegetarian? You look vegetarian?"

"Yeah, I am."

She continued, "Ya know, I've never met a guy who is vegetarian."

I told her, "I actually know more guys who are vegetarian than guys who aren't."

The girls stared at me as if I had a booger.

I went on to explain, "See, I belong to a particular, um, sub-group where this isn't that extraordinary."

"And what sub-group is that?"

Oy, always an interesting question.

On Monday, we talked about the 10-year anniversary of September 11th. These kids were in first grade. The conversations were short and shallow. Their memories were scarce. It wasn't a big deal to them. We spent the entire class period answering questions such as, "What nationality were the terrorists?" and "Why did they crash into the buildings?" Or even, "What is all this Al Qaeda stuff about?" They knew there was an "incident" they don't really understand why it happened or why it matters.

Last week, I was on-campus at my college for my bi-weekly evening class. I arrived early with my teacher bag, my lunch box, and my cardigan. A new freshman who was working custodial poked her head into the classroom to empty the trash can and asked me, "Oh, sorry to interrupt, are you a teacher?"

I half-whispered and half-blurted, "No. No, I am not. I'm a student."

Knowing that really, that's no longer true.

Mended

2011-09-12T16:20:00.002-06:00

This is my latest favorite song. Like, whoa, I may have exceeded the daily limit of times one person should listen to one song. It's by The Autumn Film, another one of those bands that Ben and Ashley introduced me to.

Mmm.

Mended

Safety pin me to your chest so I can stay close
Please don't leave me in this mess cause I am this close to unraveling, unraveling

Don't give up on me now, this can all be mended
We can iron this out, it can all be mended
When you're tearing at the seems, it can all be mended
It can all be mended now

Little walls are tumbling down, I feel them crumble
There's nothing left to tear down, there's only gravel
I'm breaking out, I'm breaking down

Don't give up on me now, this can all be mended
We can iron this out, it can all be mended
When you're tearing at the seems, it can all be mended
It can all be mended now

Don't give up, don't give up
Don't give up on me now, this can all be mended
We can iron this out, it can all be mended
When you're tearing at the seems
Tearing at the seems, it can all be mended now

Twenty Months

2011-09-10T08:23:00.004-06:00

It has been twenty months since the last time I purged.

Twenty months since the self-hatred and fear took over so powerfully that it seemed my only option was to seek temporary relief.

It was not my only option. It has never been my only option. But five years ago, I started to believe it was. I started to believe that controlling my body was a reasonable solution for controlling my life. If only I could get this area under control, than everything else would soon follow. Starving didn't work. Binging and purging didn't work. Yet, I kept trying, because I'm perseverant, you see. I'm a go-getter. I don't give up that easily. No, I was going to accomplish this goal even if it killed me.

I re-read journal entries of that time and she scares me. She isn't thinking clearly, logically, or rationally. She's not all there. She's so narrowly focused on this one thing (control) that she's missing just about everything else.

She spent hours exercising and seconds eating.
She meticulously calculated calories and pounds.
Hoping for the day when everything was under control.
Everything was calm.
Everything made sense.
Hoping that when at last, after all the self-hatred and abuse, she would finally feel good enough. Peaceful. Content.

I've learned that feeling good enough and being good enough are very different things.

Worth is not a feeling. It's a fact.

Worth is granted to each and every one of us from the instant we are conceived to the moment we take our final breath. We don't usually start labeling the worth of human beings in the maternity ward. Nah, we usually wait at least until pre-school. Then we start labeling the "good" and "bad" characteristics of human beings and from then on it never really stops.

We judge people based on their grades in school, the behavior on the playground, the cookies they did or did not eat, who they date, what they say, how they walk, how they dress, who they are. This labeling of "good" and "bad," "satisfactory" and "needs improvement" isn't helping anyone. Because at the end of the day, we are still what we were at birth and what we'll be when we die: worthy.

The dream is to realize this and believe this as soon as possible. Because some people never do.

Some days I believe in my worth. Other days I don't.
On the good days, Heather is talking.
On the not-so-good days, Helga is talking.
And let me tell you, Helga is a bitch.

Healing has meant giving Heather more stage time.
Telling Helga to take a back seat and "Please, if you don't mind: Shut up. Now."

Healing has meant giving myself a break.

Healing has meant learning that fear is not of God. So when I am afraid, Helga has had too much freedom.

Healing has meant taking deep breaths.

Healing has meant seeking help: from friends, family, and counselors (yes, plural).

Healing has meant sharing my story with others. Turns out I'm not the only one with problems, we're all just too-dang talented at hiding it. No more hiding.

Healing has meant committing to accountability. When I fully agreed to honesty, that meant that anytime I threw up I promised to:
tell Jeremy
tell my counselor
tell my parents
tell Ben and Ashley
and write a blog about it.
Strangely, throwing up seemed much less appealing. Quickly.

Five years ago, I was over my head in eating disordered behaviors.
Three years ago (in Cambodia), I was purging. Daily.
Twenty months ago, the eating disorder won.
Since then, I've won.

There's actually a really good chance that I will purge again. Let's be honest. It's not out of my memory. It will never be totally gone, beyond recollection. But healing doesn't mean finding perfection, nor does it mean giving myself permission to be self-abusive. No. Healing means accepting imperfection. Heather and Helga still get into arguments about the best way to manage my stress. There are still days when I look in the mirror and think, God, you really could have done better. But alas it's less about healed and more about healing.

I read a story the other day about a 94 year-old man who said, "The most important lesson I've ever learned is that I still have a lot left to learn."

Girl, you're only 23. Take a deep breath. Be proud.

Keep.
Moving.
Forward.

Fin De Semana Tres

2011-09-06T17:20:00.017-06:00

And so came the wedding day...Yes, as if it were a first bra, we were pretty-freaking excited about our new K-Mart slips.The lovely bride mounting her steed to take her to the wedding location. That's how we do it in Colorado.The wedding location was a bit of a hike......but well worth it for the view.
We like to sing and dance to the Beatles. Particularly, "Oh Darlin'"

Look at 'em. So cute (nice pic, J).
Meh, we're kinda cute too.
Post-wedding, we drove home. But got stuck in traffic. Jeremy decided he had never run along side of a car while driving. So he did. As we pushed oh...no more than 5 mph.
And I decided I'd never done yoga on top of my car before. So I did.

And it was good.

Fin De Semana Dos

2011-09-06T14:16:00.011-06:00

This weekend at my friend Tiffany's wedding, the married couple-to-be got into a minor cake fight at the bachelor/bachelorette party.

Diego is from Argentina and doesn't speak any English. A couple days before the wedding Tiffany asked me to sing a song for their wedding in Espanol. Oy. So we laughed through me practicing the song.
I might've added some drama (via what I've seen on Spanish soap operas). Then we played the only game I could think of that Diego might enjoy considering the language barrier. Charades.

It was a blast translating and fumbling for Spanish words. Acting in different languages. Laughing in different languages. By the end of the night we didn't feel so different.

Fin De Semana Uno

2011-09-06T13:51:00.006-06:00

This weekend, I went to my friend Tiffany's wedding. We've been friends since 5th grade. We've played basketball together before we could dribble. We crushed on boys before our hormones actually kicked in. And now she's met a boy from Argentina and they're getting married.

The wedding happened to be in Colorado which made me happy.

I made the road trip with my wonderful chauffeur of a boyfriend, Jeremy. He drove and I graded freshman English essays. But we got in late Friday night.

He's silly.

I also got to spend some "quality" time (48 hours) with my dear, dear friend, Rachael.

She's kinda silly, too.
Okay, so we both needed slips for our bridesmaid dresses. We decided we wanted to wear them right away. So we did.
Rachael makes my life...richer.

Bits

2011-09-02T11:48:00.005-06:00

Black socks and Birkenstocks. That is a trend I did not see coming.

Oh, and the newly-renovated fanny pack, these Northface Brand roo bags. They're everywhere.

Ken makes me laugh. He's kinda silly. We both listen to NPR (specifically, On Being). We read similar books and articles. Apparently, we both play Ultimate Frisbee. Yesterday he said, "Ms. B, the more I learn about you, the more I like you."

Scott relates well with students. And strangely, reminds me a lot of my brother.

Two days ago, I didn't want to be at school. Helga took over and told me everything I was doing wrong. I didn't want to spend my weekend driving. I didn't know how I was going to get packed and ready for the trip in time. Too many lesson plans. Too many requirements. Too many papers to grade. Too many feelings to feel. Too much to accomplish before Friday.

But then...I did.

You'd think I'd learn what parents have been telling their anxious children for years, "This too shall pass," but I don't. I struggle to remember. I forget. I fear. I worry. And then it all turns out okay and instead of recognizing the peace, I fret over the past stresses.

Jeremy and I are driving home for a wedding.

Four days ago I was asked to sing a song for this wedding. In Spanish.
I don't speak Spanish.
Sorry, Senora Haid.

The division chair of the English department said, "I believe in a well-placed curse word. Especially in the first week of school."

My pop culture class is fun. They smile. We talk. They share ideas. Sometimes we agree. Sometimes we disagree. On the first day of class J made a comment to a friend about one baseball team "raping" another. I wanted to scream and yell and strangle him. But it was the first day and I said nothing. I'm excited for our upcoming unit on gender issues when we will discuss the infinite imbalances, our language, history, the media. Oh, J. He doesn't know what's coming.

It's been three years since I taught in Cambodia.
I think I'm doing okay.

Scratch that.
I'm doing great.

Damnit.

Child

2011-08-28T22:40:00.001-06:00

I've felt this way for a long time. Post Secret said it best.

Choreography

2011-08-28T22:34:00.004-06:00

Question: What is your favorite thing about high school so far as an incoming freshman?

Answer: Football

Question: What is your least favorite thing about high school thus far?

Answer: I absolutely despise that high school is nothing like High School Musical. The reason is because I believe that a learning environment can be made much more enjoyable when students break out into random choreographed songs. It is my dream.

Deja Vu

2011-08-28T10:54:00.008-06:00

Ken, one of my cooperating teachers, code switches from Teacher Mode to Student Mode quite seamlessly. We'll be talking pedagogy, a student walks in and suddenly he's all "whatev"s and "later"s. In fact, the other day I was leaving school and he held his fist out for me to fist bump on my way out the door. I laughed.

There is a teacher at my school who looks oddly similar to Kevin from the TV show, The Office. I'm not going to say they could be brothers, but they could definitely be cousins. Just imagine a blond, reddish version of this guy:

When I am arriving to school at 7:30am, the marching band is practicing on the front lawn. On Thursday morning as I walked toward the door with the flood of 200 or so students starting the day, the marching band started playing the theme song from Star Wars. It was funny. I'm not sure any of the 200 with me thought so. But that day just felt somehow more important. More epic.

The juniors and seniors in my pop culture class were in 1st grade on September 11th.

I'm not sure that the girls walking these halls understand that the clothing trends they are wearing now have been done before. Fashion is cyclical. It's just funny to see the parade of leggings, high-waisted shorts/skirts, and rompers. Those are the styles my friends and I swore we would never wear (well, we said that about skinny jeans, too).

The other day my freshman English class read "The Most Dangerous Game" a mysterious short story about a creepy man who lives on an island and grows weary of hunting animals, so he begins hunting humans instead. It's fiction. It didn't really happen. And most kids really enjoy reading it. So I asked (thinking I knew the answer), "Did any of you absolutely hate this story?" To my surprise, J quickly and proudly raised her hand. "Really? Wow. That's surprising. Why?"
Without missing a beat, this 14 year-old girl proclaimed to the class, "I am a pacifist!"

My other cooperating teacher, Scott, sounds like Kermit the Frog when he tries yawning and talking at the same time. It's hilarious.

Each morning when I walk into school, I pass a freshman boy who is unloading his books into his locker. I may only see the back of his head. I may see his face. I don't think he's ever noticed me or looked me in the eyes, but every time I see him I think I recognize him.

He looks so similar to Aliyah (the boy in front), one of the many memorable 8th grade students I taught during my year in Cambodia. Seeing this unknown boy each morning reminds me how I ended up here--student teaching in Nebraska--four years after I met Aliyah.

This experience of teaching--of being back in the classroom again after my year overseas--has been oddly similar to Cambodia. Not the tangible, physical characteristics but the feelings. In fact, enough so, that several times the first few days I had to remind myself: I am not in Cambodia anymore. I am not in Cambodia anymore. I am safe. It's going to be all right. This time is different.

See, on the first days back in the classroom I felt like I was having deja vu moments. Moments of dreading the day ahead. The nervousness of interacting with students. The anxiety of standing in front of a classroom and needing to say something intelligent but feeling completely inadequate to do so. The too-quiet moments in the dark of the morning, alone eating a bowl of corn flakes with bananas (not even kidding) and the fan whirring and clicking overhead.

But this experience is different.
This time, I'm not alone in a foreign country
This time, I'm not battling an eating disorder that is alive and well.
This time, I'm actually trained to be a teacher.
This time, I have support.
This time, I understand the culture (well, as much as I can understand teenagers).
This time, it's going to be all right.

Wild and Precious Life

2011-08-27T11:07:00.004-06:00

My earliest memories are reflected in a pink diary with purple hearts on the cover. This book came in a matching box with a lock and a key. I treasured it. I'd write several days in a row, skip a few months, come back and say, "Oh diary. It's been so long. You're not mad at me, are you? Anyway, here's what's been going on in my life..."

This book contains night-time scrawlings written long after my Dad turned off the light and told me to go to bed. I'd write in the dark, fingering my way across the narrow lines and writing only a few words per page, but desperately wanting to finish my thoughts.

I was "in love" with a boy named, Levi.
I had a pet snail named, George.
I hated my mom for not letting me play soccer with the neighbors.
I wrote about our family purchasing a trampoline.
I wrote about God (simple, but still God).
I wrote about fear.
I wrote about dying.
I wrote about life as I saw it then.

Writing helps me battle a short-term memory. A memory that forgets where I've been, how I became who I am, and where I'm headed. Writing helps me remember and cope and handle life that seems to throw new curve balls, but really they're the same curve balls, they're just look a little different.

What I know for sure is that after filling over thirteen journals with thoughts, ideas, and ramblings since the age of six, the issues don't change, just the way they're packaged.

I got my heart broken in first grade and again in twelfth grade.
I feared the future in 4th grade and again in college.
I thought I was going to die in 2nd grade (and 7th grade, and 10th grade, and during my year in Cambodia). But I didn't. Nope, not once.

I worried. I doubted. I felt pain. I felt joy.

Journaling reminds me this journey is cyclical. Most of what I encounter today, I've encountered before. Each and every time I thought for sure I WOULD NOT survive this pain or this decision or this predicament.
I did.
Every.
Single.
Time.

From reading my journals, I can tell you that I've always harbored some strains of perfectionism, self-hatred, fear, and guilt about God. I've always questioned my worth. I've always sought ways to feel good enough for others and good enough for God. I've always tried to make neat, little boxes and categories out of life's canvas that is inherently messy, unboxable, and finicky. I've leaned toward a black-and-white approach to life and that has hurt me more times than it has helped me.

You'd think after 23 years I'd learn that life is going to follow its own course regardless of my attempts to micro-manage it. Yet, I still try.

I "try" when I fear the future (as though dreading it will actually make it better).
I "try" when I dwell on the past and everything I "should" have done differently.
I "try" every time I avoid the present moment like a disease and spend too much time in the past and the future.
Missing out on my one "wild and precious life."

Here is part of "A Summer Day" by Mary Oliver:

"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?"

Over my short nearly-quarter-century-of-a-life, I can tell you this:
I am better now than ever.

This gives me hope. Because I usually do not feel this way. No. Usually I think about everything that isn't going right. Everything I'm doing "wrong." Everything that shouldn't be the way it is. But reflection serves as an excellent teacher and I like to think I'm picking up on the cues from the Universe:
...that if these common themes and lessons continue popping up in my life, they're probably worth spending time with. And learning.
...that the next time I think I simply cannot pass this bump in the road. I can. Because I have before. And I will again.
...that shame and guilt and frustration and criticism and harshness do not lead to a well-balanced life. Nope. They lead to misery.
...that showing up for life with what I know right now is really the best I can ever do. And that's always enough.

Meg Ryan

2011-08-22T12:35:00.007-06:00

Today, I arrived to Ken's classroom and we got to talking about the week past and week to come. I told him that last week I felt I learned two things:

#1. It would be in my (and others) best interest to assume that these students like me, instead of assuming they don't. They just might like me. Plus, if they don't, I'm not the one in high school anymore. So if I'm doing my best and respecting every student, I don't need to lose sleep over it.

Ken kinda chuckled to himself (as 25-year teachers do) when I told him this. Then he said, "I really don't think you have to worry about the students not liking you. First of all, they're teenagers. They're finicky. They might explode at you because of the shirt you have on, when really, it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with how a girl looked at them in the hallway before class." He continued, "Second, you kinda have this Meg Ryan-thing going on, so you'll probably win them over simply because you're charming."

That was a new one. And frankly, I was surprised. Ken isn't the type to flatter unnecessarily or comment on outward things.
Charming? Sweet.
I'll take what I can get (as I have before).

The second thing I learned last week:
#2. If I "act" like I know what I'm doing, but I don't, I'm the only one who's going to suffer. I need to ask for help. I need not be perfect.

So I said, "Ken, you are an incredibly intelligent person who has a huge vocabulary and 20+ years of teaching experience. I do not." I assured him that I am an assertive and fairly confident person, yet, when he and I are talking, I feel myself cowering. He has so much experience and worldly knowledge. He quotes philosophers. He rattles on in conversations, "Well, as Kohlberg said...you've of course read him, right?" He uses big words, like "sycophant." I admitted this to him and we both laughed as he told me the meaning of the word "sycophant" is essentially someone who alters who they are (even appearing submissive) in order to gain other people's acceptance.

He assured me that I need not pretend that I know John Locke personally or know everything about the "globalization and capitalist enterprises at work in the modern Western world" (yes, this is how he speaks. Constantly).

This brought me relief. Ahh, sweet deep breaths.

What continues to absolutely shock me is how hugely liberating honesty can be.
It shocks me when people I've never met feel safe enough to strike up a conversation with me about the pain in their lives.
It shocks me when I risk being vulnerable and I'm regularly rewarded for it with equal transparency on the other end.

It shocks me how easily I forget that honesty heals.
And liberates.
And strengthens.
Illuminates.
Empowers.
Beautifies.

Bigmouthed Smiles

2011-08-21T10:11:00.003-06:00

I tend to assume that people who don't smile at me, don't like me.

As 1,400 high school students flooded into school on Wednesday, I might as well have been one of them:
What do they think of me?
What if I don't fit in?
What if they don't like me?
Do I look like an idiot?
Maybe I shouldn't have worn these shoes.

The fact that I attended a small, private, high school with a grand total of 200 students spared me from much of the trials that affect a freshman here. And I'm grateful for it. I don't know that I could've survived high school here (at least not with my private school education up until that point).

This is a great school. A high-performing, academically-focused institution with excellent ethics and overall good behavior. A warning of a call home to the parents usually fixes any management issues. So it's not like there are gangs wreaking havoc and teachers having sex with students or anything.

I suppose then, it's the size. The enormity. The numerous clubs. The overwhelming feeling I get when I walk down the brick hallway swarmed and traffic-jammed by hormonal adolescents who don't even notice that I'm there, yet, I imagine they're thinking the worst.

Yup, welcome back to high school.

As I met the students I'll be teaching this year, class by class, I quickly picked out those who seemed "friendly" simply because, they smiled at me. I like them already. They put me at ease. But those who didn't, I assumed they didn't like me. A bit juvenile, I realize. It reminded me how quick I am to judge a person within the first 10 seconds and put up my defenses as necessary.

After one day of this, I intentionally stopped, took a deep breath before each class, and decided to assume (out loud), "There's a good chance that these kids like me." Because, really, they just might.

I can be fun.
I can smile.
I can laugh.
I can listen.
I can explain.
I can inspire.

Oprah "told" me (in her magazine) that:
"In a study published last year, researchers pored over an old issue of the Baseball Register, analyzing photos of 230 players. They found that on average, the guys with bright, bigmouthed beams lived 4.9 years longer than the players with partial smiles, and 7 years longer than the players who showed no grin at all. We can't credit wide smiles for long life plans, of course, but smiles reveal positive feelings, and positive feelings are linked to well-being."

That's reason enough for me.