Now I am going to a meeting!
I was greeted this morning by the following information from one of my five-year-old students:
"Ida, Ida! I have something important to tell you. I have a guinea pig andand and...I named her Ida."
I rule!
Today I am Faux Freesia.
Sort of.
See, because she is still here being herself. It's more like I'm being the me who had this job nine-years-ago.
When I left this job I was going back to school. I was scared because there was a possibility that I could go finish my degree and then still end up with the same job, swamped in ink fumes, administrivia, and paper cuts.
That didn't happen. I found excellent work within my field and I'm still paying off those student loans. Maybe for my 10-year Noniversary I'll celebrate my lack of health insurance and go to the Special Toy Store.
(Even with insurance this job still totally sucks, but it's nice to have frozen entrees for lunch and to cackle down the hall with another Fat Boy.)
...see, because pop songs worked on Noriega and in Say Anything, right?
(Sung to the tune of "Don't Sleep in the Subway")
All I learned on the news last night was that stealth moves are too obvious in daylight and that they who would move with such stealth prefer "the darkest night." Oh, and something about bleeding eyes. Today on the news I've learned that apparently the US has experience with living under a regime of tyranny and that France continues to be obtuse. Y'know. Like an angle.
A friend of mine was planning on going with other Protesters to yell at the Federal Building last night. We were talking about how it was a good thing it was raining, because drenched protesters make for better photographs than sunny day protesters.
The only time I've ever seen an artistic comment on political activity that was subtle (and therefore in my mind wonderful because I loathe "hey, stupid audience" beyond all other loathings) was during a performance studies production of Gustav Flaubert stories when I was in college. I realize that you may be wondering how "performance studies" and "college" made for subtle, but that's what I'm trying to tell you. These pieces had been in rehearsal prior to Desert Storm and went into performance right about the same time as George Bush’s January 16th announcement. (Side note: if I start saying "George Bush II: Dubya Goes Bananas," don't sock me in the puss, okay?) One story was about a woman and her parrot and the other was a parable of a man who forgot his roots and became greedy and powerful. There were no overt political comments in the parrot piece; the second piece would have been political by merits of text and situation, but the costumer added one specific detail: at the moment where the man is at his most greedy and belligerent, he also is the commander of a mighty army. The costumer put the actor in a Desert Storm uniform.
Sure, that little element didn't change anyone's mind. And not everyone who saw the piece even noticed the specificity of the uniform. But for those who did notice, the uniform added a powerful element to the piece, an element which inspired conversation and action to participate in other events connected to vigilance.
That is the form of protest in which I feel most effective. I find yelling in the rain far too depressing. I know I'm still not changing anything specific by focusing on artistic statements, but maybe I'm helping to participate in a way that is inspiring to some although, admittedly, useless to others.
I'm thinking these things because I'm about to go into rehearsal with student directors and actors at a private school. They had a community meeting this morning regarding current events and all teachers were instructed that structured political discussions were to take place only in Humanities classes (while acknowledging that unstructured conversations would pop up everywhere). So it's my job to evoke and maintain meaning within seemingly frivolous sketches—they're all David Ives pieces. Some of my students might not be there because they've gone to the federal building. I have to be prepared for the students who are there, to support them in their decision to come to rehearsal. To allow those who need rehearsal as avoidance to do so and those who need rehearsal as reassurance to do so.
Huh. Y'know what? I love my job. (I forget that sometimes.)
PS- Is anyone else hearing "Chaka Khan" anytime a British reporter says "Shock and Awe?" Seems appropriate, somehow.
Dammit. I have to turn in final curriculum in sixty-six minutes and I took terrible notes for one of the days. I remember moments of conversation, I remember being shockingly patient, I remember what I had for lunch, and, of course, what I was freakin' wearing.
But what the hell did we do? Was it really just tableaux? Can I just make something up and hope for the best?
(Got any Romeo & Juliet exercises that I can claim we did on Day Seven?)
Samplings from the past:
This morning's selection?
I'm considering giving up cofee and instead walking up the hill to 7-11 every morning, purchasing a lottery ticket, and singing it the pig lullaby.
I'm hoping it will result in the fabled renewed vigor and enthusiasm.
When I was driving home today I was thinking about how I really truly think that I can do all those things they do in The Matrix and Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon and Spirited Away. Yeah, I can totally hover and bamboo fight and turn into a river spirit.
I really can.
Then I remembered that in 1997 I had a student who had similiar dramatrue beliefs, except what she said was "Hey, Ida, watch me Riverdance!"
Her Riverdancing consisted of sticking her neck way out in a freakish stare of intensity and then yanking her legs fiendishly from side to side in an extreme display of bipeded awkwardness. This was no sneakin' past the priest's house; she was my one-legged grandpa running in place.
Even better is that this same kid revealed her deepest crush to a co-teacher: Little Ms. Strickland was in love with Darth Vader.
"I wanna kiss him right on the mask!"
Whenever I teach a class, I tell my students I have just one rule: No Blood.
Secretly, my rule is No Cats.
The outloud version is all about students taking care of themselves even though our activities are sometimes danger-making. The secret version is all about challenging the students to make choices beyond the typical. For little kids, this tends to mean that they can't act like a cat because when they act like cats they just crawl around on their hands and knees and lick my pants. For slightly older kids this means that they can't just choose to insert Harry Potter into the story we're creating. For even older kids, it means that they can't solve every scene with random sex, violence, or scatological humor. It's about dramaturgy and it's about new choices.
But sometimes I break my own rules. So far, I haven't caused anyone to bleed, but today at 7:53am when I asked what "fiery-footed" meant and a student mentioned Rapidash, well, I used it. I actually said that the people in Shakespeare's time were as familiar with the characters in Greek mythology as we might be with the characters in Pokemon. From then on it kinda turned into a geometric proof involving the weightiness of different allusions and their ability to transform what could have been a page full of "I really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really wish it were dark so Romeo would come fuck me."
Considering that we first had to figure out what "steed" meant, I think today was a success. (And, no, I didn't actually say "fuck". At least not out loud.)
The 1970s
Moody Blue, a cat
This cat was blind in one eye. Children thought the eye was the reason for the name, but, natch, it's because my father loved the song Nights in White Satin. This cat was hit by a car and taken to the vet. She didn't die, but ended up running away with her mouth wired shut. Or so my mother said. Before she done run off, she had a bunch of kittens.
Kittens of Moody Blue, several cats
The first batch of these, we got to keep two. Erin and I named them "Grey-White-White" and "Black-White-White." I thought those were the best names ever. I don't know how they died.
The second batch, we also kept two. I named mine "Susan" after the cat in Little House in the Big Woods and Erin named hers "Flower." They both died in an a tragic engine block accident.
Alexis I, a dog
A fabulous mutt that liked to chase cars, including the tractor my father drove. I think my father felt worse about telling us he'd hit our dog than he did about telling us he and our mother were getting a divorce.
The 1980s
Peaches II, a cat
This cat was a gift from Erin's 2nd grade teacher. I can't remember how she died, but it was probably horrible. (Uh, the cat's death, I mean.)
Boaz, a kitten
A missionary stepped on this kitten during a game of volleyball on the 4th of July. It's a really awful story, but also kinda funny if told in person.
Kama, a dog
Kama didn't die, even though she got hit by a car and had a blue cast on one of her legs: our Aunt Jane dognapped her. Kama had killed some of Jane's turkeys, so one day when we were all gone Jane snatched Kama away and drove away and let her go.
Sancho, puppy of Kama
Sancho had the sweetest dog feet ever. I think we had to give him away before Jane dognapped him. I guess that doesn't count as dying, but it still involved a pet that was there one day and gone the next.
The 1990s
Troi (known as Kiki), a cat
This cat was given to me and my boyfriend by a homeless guy. She could only meow if you weren't looking at her. We had to give her away when we moved to Chicago; I don't know what happened to her after that.
The 2000s
Clementine I, Bartholomew, and Spiro T. Agnew; mountain cloud fish
These fish lived happily in a regular fish bowl until they were cruelly boiled to death in a house fire.
Phillip, penguin tetra
This fish suffered from frostbite. His tail fell off. It creeped me out so much that I couldn't talk about it for an entire year.
The Present
My current pets are all alive. Mr. Tumnus does not count.