Ask me about the new Lady Gaga song or the latest hit on the Billboard Top 100, and I probably wouldn’t know it without taking a peek at iTunes. Although I agree it’s fun to break out and dance to the Katy Perry’s single of the month and as much as I enjoy the whole-hearted lyrics of Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole, my musical soul can best be defined by the most pure and passionate form of music, rock.
Specifically, rock stemming from the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s era. Of course, the melodic choruses and badass guitar solos are a deciding factor, but even more so it’s the entire culture behind the lyrics.
The first time I watched a VH1 greatest hits countdown, I fell in love. My eyes and ears glued to the T.V. as number 29, Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me played. Blondie and Duran Duran’s music videos were nothing like the rump shaking rap videos of my generation. The clothes were different, yet at the same time fresh and fun. I scrambled trying to type each song on the countdown into the search bar of Limewire. It was as if I had made some grand discovery; my head was spinning with adrenaline, I finally felt a part of something. This music which had once defined an era had now defined me.
That was eighth grade. And not long after that show, my peers started noticing my obscure music tastes. I started dressing like Madonna (virgin tour period that is) with ear buds always in blasting hair metal down the hallways. With the Abercrombie and Hollister drones which circled the middle school hallways, it was to needless to say I received some glares. Being a self-conscious pre-teen, I decided to trade in my leg warmers for skinny jeans and my bright blue eye shadow for a more neutral tone. On my iPod, I downloaded all the latest hits to keep up with my friends.
But in the privacy of my room, I secretly rocked out to Aerosmith and Nirvana. I discovered a newfound love for Tom Petty and Led Zeppelin with a little probing into my dad’s CD collection. Although it was all old music, it was new to me.
In the midst of my high school career, I finally began to Live And Let Die. I deleted all the obnoxious teeny pop songs and made room for my collection of Guns N’ Roses. I broke out my plaid shirts and combat boots (clearly I was progressing into a grunge phase). I was ready to come out of the rock and roll closet.
Along the way, I realized there were others like me who appreciated the mood-catching songs of Pearl Jam and melancholy melodies of The Cure. These were the bands I could empathize with, that I could relate to. Finally, I was proud to admit that It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Out of Touch
Phone rings 3…4…5 times before I hang up. Ravenously, I chewed my leftover pizza straight out of the fridge eyeing the liquor cabinet. “Up next, a young man’s inspiring journey through the slums of India,” interrupted the broadcaster. The dimly lit T.V. was the only source of life in the house besides the quiet buzz of flies flinging themselves against the window pane. I grasped the phone tightly staring down the top left cabinet again. It was the first time I craved alcohol since I quit.
About three months ago, I stopped drinking. No, I wasn’t an alcoholic-just your ordinary 23 year old angry drunk. In fact, I was even happier without it. My friends noticed a difference in my attitude, and my school work improved. She especially never liked it when I drank. I lugged my medical textbook out from my backpack reviewing some of the case studies for a test. However, my mind trailed places which I feared to follow.
To direct my attention elsewhere, I finally raided the cabinet pouring a moderate amount of whiskey and a bit of cola into a glass. A chill breeze stroked the vertebrae in my back as I threw back the drink. I shivered in response pouring another. I sat back in my chair letting myself sink into the folds staring aimlessly at the pixels of the T.V. until my eyelids became heavy.
Then, there it was! Her laugh awoke me. Warmth suddenly flooded my veins as memories of our summer together played in my mind. Swimming in the lake, picnics, long walks, and long days of accomplishing nothing. It was as if we were some sort of twangy rock song that I had hoped would never end, but like all good songs it did. Around September, I drove back to Raleigh and Mandy remained on the shores of the North Carolina coast. For a while, we kept correspondence- a phone call every week, an online instant message. We were good friends. I explained to her my innate mistrust in woman and she would laugh reminding me of how much of a man whore I was. Then, the regular calls became more and more infrequent and her online status remained normally “unavailable”. Although my heart continued to ache for contact with her, I was unsurprised. See, it was about a week after I left Mandy told me her boyfriend had returned from a mission trip.
“Boyfriend?” I asked disheartened.
“Yeah, I told you about him,” she said. “Peter.” It was true; she did tell me all about him. Peter was a future Nobel Prize winner. His interests ranged from can collecting to teaching kids in the 3rd world about hygiene. Maybe I simply refused to believe he existed. “You’d really like him,” Mandy said after a long pause.
“Naturally,” I responded passively. “You seem to really like him.”
I heard her smile into the phone. “More than like.”
A heavy, alcohol soiled breath passed through my mouth as I adjusted my position in the chair. The news story about the man in India was on again. “Peter Rafaela, age 27 from Beaufort county, recently spearheaded an aide group helping the impoverished areas of India,” said the newscaster. Irritably, I turned off the T.V. and the room quickly turned black. Now only the buzz of the bugs could be heard throughout the apartment.
A gentle lub dub beat deep within the cavity of my chest. Even though I knew the physical calibrations and interworking of the organ from my textbook, I couldn’t understand how this anguishing ache was possible. I was a healthy, charismatic and intelligent guy. What more could a psyche ask for? Mandy’s face was fading from my memory. I silenced my thoughts with another sip of the whiskey as darkness of the room turned hazy. “Good night,” I murmured. With one breath, I slipped into an unconscious state.
About three months ago, I stopped drinking. No, I wasn’t an alcoholic-just your ordinary 23 year old angry drunk. In fact, I was even happier without it. My friends noticed a difference in my attitude, and my school work improved. She especially never liked it when I drank. I lugged my medical textbook out from my backpack reviewing some of the case studies for a test. However, my mind trailed places which I feared to follow.
To direct my attention elsewhere, I finally raided the cabinet pouring a moderate amount of whiskey and a bit of cola into a glass. A chill breeze stroked the vertebrae in my back as I threw back the drink. I shivered in response pouring another. I sat back in my chair letting myself sink into the folds staring aimlessly at the pixels of the T.V. until my eyelids became heavy.
Then, there it was! Her laugh awoke me. Warmth suddenly flooded my veins as memories of our summer together played in my mind. Swimming in the lake, picnics, long walks, and long days of accomplishing nothing. It was as if we were some sort of twangy rock song that I had hoped would never end, but like all good songs it did. Around September, I drove back to Raleigh and Mandy remained on the shores of the North Carolina coast. For a while, we kept correspondence- a phone call every week, an online instant message. We were good friends. I explained to her my innate mistrust in woman and she would laugh reminding me of how much of a man whore I was. Then, the regular calls became more and more infrequent and her online status remained normally “unavailable”. Although my heart continued to ache for contact with her, I was unsurprised. See, it was about a week after I left Mandy told me her boyfriend had returned from a mission trip.
“Boyfriend?” I asked disheartened.
“Yeah, I told you about him,” she said. “Peter.” It was true; she did tell me all about him. Peter was a future Nobel Prize winner. His interests ranged from can collecting to teaching kids in the 3rd world about hygiene. Maybe I simply refused to believe he existed. “You’d really like him,” Mandy said after a long pause.
“Naturally,” I responded passively. “You seem to really like him.”
I heard her smile into the phone. “More than like.”
A heavy, alcohol soiled breath passed through my mouth as I adjusted my position in the chair. The news story about the man in India was on again. “Peter Rafaela, age 27 from Beaufort county, recently spearheaded an aide group helping the impoverished areas of India,” said the newscaster. Irritably, I turned off the T.V. and the room quickly turned black. Now only the buzz of the bugs could be heard throughout the apartment.
A gentle lub dub beat deep within the cavity of my chest. Even though I knew the physical calibrations and interworking of the organ from my textbook, I couldn’t understand how this anguishing ache was possible. I was a healthy, charismatic and intelligent guy. What more could a psyche ask for? Mandy’s face was fading from my memory. I silenced my thoughts with another sip of the whiskey as darkness of the room turned hazy. “Good night,” I murmured. With one breath, I slipped into an unconscious state.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Winning Back the Other Half
Dear tormented reflection,
I’m sorry I haven’t the exotic features you desire.
From my lifeless matted locks to my blemish covered complexion,
I can’t seem to fix my inadequate beauty.
Blame it on my family genetics.
Sound accusations of hasty hearsay.
Now, let’s collaborate around the mirror.
Our little tradition so it appears.
With a fast hand,
I circle my areas of concern.
Soon, you are covered in green marks.
Eight maybe nine little changes –
What could be the harm?
However, I still see you cringe in sharp anguish.
The drama you generate clinging onto the backs of my heels.
You see, even with my lips stained in Red Delicious no. 4,
I’m afraid our state will be no different.
If I learn to accept the fun, genuine, lovable
Self I should see in you,
Then perhaps picture day won’t be so difficult.
I’m sorry I haven’t the exotic features you desire.
From my lifeless matted locks to my blemish covered complexion,
I can’t seem to fix my inadequate beauty.
Blame it on my family genetics.
Sound accusations of hasty hearsay.
Now, let’s collaborate around the mirror.
Our little tradition so it appears.
With a fast hand,
I circle my areas of concern.
Soon, you are covered in green marks.
Eight maybe nine little changes –
What could be the harm?
However, I still see you cringe in sharp anguish.
The drama you generate clinging onto the backs of my heels.
You see, even with my lips stained in Red Delicious no. 4,
I’m afraid our state will be no different.
If I learn to accept the fun, genuine, lovable
Self I should see in you,
Then perhaps picture day won’t be so difficult.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
How I Found Myself While Factoring
My turn was fast approaching, two desks away. I rambled through my mind quickly. Running? Dancing? Swimming? Anything I said would be a lie. Mr. Hilson peered out from the seating chart held abnormally close to his face. I saw a pair of grayed eyes directed toward my desk. “I work at a coffee shop,” I said with a hint of an upward inflection. Mr. Hilson carried on to the next student. A wave of hot relief passed me as I looked around the classroom, a series of stolid faces. Why was this more difficult than polynomial long division?
See, the first day of my algebra three class we were asked to label ourselves. Either you were a band geek, or a track star, or a theatre techie. It was intended to be a harmless activity to remember the thirty-something kids in the class (even though he only could remember half two months into school). The problem was I hadn’t figured out my label. Growing up, my parents presented me every opportunity to become a “well-rounded person”. They gave me swim lessons, because I was terrified of water. They enrolled me in dance, because I was clumsy. Then there was the three year spanse of softball, soccer and basketball. After realizing I didn’t enjoy any type of sport (or was very good at any for that matter), I took piano and acting clinics. But still, I hadn’t found my niche.
Now, I was sitting in a room full of athletes and artists wondering why I was singled out. Grumpily, I sat through the rest of class off-task looking at all the sport jerseys: lady’s lax, escadrille, swimming. All were well represented advertisements for their sports, and without the lettering on the back of their shirts I wouldn’t be able to tell who was who.
I could feel my eyelids flash open allowing my eyes to see the light. The nicknames we gave ourselves were all shallow labels none of which truly represented each person. Just because she sang in choir, didn’t mean she was a good listener. And simply because he played baseball, didn’t mean he was confident. We were all different people containing sixteen to eighteen years of life waiting for many more. I have plenty left to discover and develop my skill. For now, however, I am satisfied knowing merely what Kelley stands for. Although the incident in algebra three has long since been forgotten, I’d like to retract my first answer. I urge you not to identify me as the local barista. Rather, remember me as a genuine, caring and loyal individual, who just is.
See, the first day of my algebra three class we were asked to label ourselves. Either you were a band geek, or a track star, or a theatre techie. It was intended to be a harmless activity to remember the thirty-something kids in the class (even though he only could remember half two months into school). The problem was I hadn’t figured out my label. Growing up, my parents presented me every opportunity to become a “well-rounded person”. They gave me swim lessons, because I was terrified of water. They enrolled me in dance, because I was clumsy. Then there was the three year spanse of softball, soccer and basketball. After realizing I didn’t enjoy any type of sport (or was very good at any for that matter), I took piano and acting clinics. But still, I hadn’t found my niche.
Now, I was sitting in a room full of athletes and artists wondering why I was singled out. Grumpily, I sat through the rest of class off-task looking at all the sport jerseys: lady’s lax, escadrille, swimming. All were well represented advertisements for their sports, and without the lettering on the back of their shirts I wouldn’t be able to tell who was who.
I could feel my eyelids flash open allowing my eyes to see the light. The nicknames we gave ourselves were all shallow labels none of which truly represented each person. Just because she sang in choir, didn’t mean she was a good listener. And simply because he played baseball, didn’t mean he was confident. We were all different people containing sixteen to eighteen years of life waiting for many more. I have plenty left to discover and develop my skill. For now, however, I am satisfied knowing merely what Kelley stands for. Although the incident in algebra three has long since been forgotten, I’d like to retract my first answer. I urge you not to identify me as the local barista. Rather, remember me as a genuine, caring and loyal individual, who just is.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Burgers, Brothers and Baseball
My breaths were shallow and stuttered. This is just like practice, I repeated to myself, relax. I felt my heartbeat spike as I walked onto the field with my fellow teammates. I grabbed onto the leg of my uniform forcing myself forward. We were walking onto a battlefield, and I was leading the way. Our gloves, our weapons, snuggly tucked around our hands. Stepping on the pitcher’s mound felt almost as shameful as stepping onto hollow ground. I didn’t deserve to be here.
It was Joe Childer’s mound. My brother was the greatest baseball player our high school team had ever seen. And in the small town of Ridge River, baseball mattered. In fact, it carried so much importance that old Lucky Rodgers would close the diner during all the Sharks’s games. If we won, he would give everyone at the game a free late night burger. Lucky never closed the diner for games anymore. After my brother left the team to play for the Cornhuskers, our baseball team was no longer a free meal ticket.
Now 5 years later, there was a spark of hope for the Ridge River Sharks. A Childer was start pitcher again. My head started to spin as the crowd roared with excitement. The amphitheater was full of goons wearing blue Shark shirts and banging thundersticks. Throughout the stands, I saw people pointing to me with eager eyes. “That’s the little baseball protégé!” they yelled past the chaos. My blood coursed swifter than before as tried to shut them out of my mind.
The ref handed me the ball as he walked onto the field in his armored glory. “Whew Childer, you’re going to need this or maybe a few more to match your brother,” he said wiping the sweat from his upper lip. He and the catcher both looked at me from the batting cage, and I could trace a smile from behind their face guards. I wished I had a face guard; I needed more protection than them. Or maybe I just needed to rip the letters off the back of my shirt. My hand began fumbling around the ball, the object of all this terror. I watched the stadium lights rattle on as the crowd fell silent.
Then, I saw my first opponent released from the den. He wasn’t anything intimidating however much it seemed at the time, a slim 5’ 9’’ with a favored left leg probably resulting from some minor injury during the week. Regardless, Gimp had a confident air. His chin was raised so I could see his stubble growing around his jaw. He held the bat loosely and cocked his helmet back getting into position. The silver aluminum of the bat gleamed in response to the overbearing lights. The strategy was set, fastball down the middle. I wound up focusing on nothing but the dirt path leading straight to the catcher’s mitt. This was my chance. I would either be a part of the Childer legacy or Joe’s little brother through the rest of my high school career.
“Ball 1,” called the ref. Wait, I thought, I didn’t remember letting go! Did I really throw it? I wound up again focusing on technique. “Ball 2”. My stomach started to quickly sink. I wiped my palm on my pant leg grasping the ball tightly, squeezing the toxins out. As Gimp walked to first, I felt the crowd sigh in disappointment. I dared not to even look at their faces. Gimp tossed his bat carelessly then looked back at me and smirked. Then, he sluggishly took his time down to the base emphasizing his leg injury.
The game continued. I managed 2 outs mostly out of eagerness from early swingers, but the Bangles were ahead with 3 runs. Just one more out until I can be officially taken out of this game, I said to myself. The crowd suddenly riled with cheer. I did it. A perfect throw, a curveball to the right, an out. As the game past, I gained more confidence. I hit beautifully and scored twice. My pitch was getting more consistent and the crowd applauded in unison beating their sticks against the seats. The scoreboard flashed numbers higher and higher on the home side. The whites of people’s teeth were the most vivid memory of the night.
From the corner of my eye as I took back to the field, I saw Lucky Rodgers standing by the bleachers (there wasn’t a single empty spot). He must have closed shop once he had heard the Sharks were winning for the first time in five years. During halftime, I went looking to buy a pack of gum. Luckily, there was no line at the concessions. “Double Bubble,” I said running my hand over my hat head.
“Dollar” said the lady tossing my gum over the counter. I slipped her a one, and thanked her with a wave as I turned back for the dugout readily peeling away at the gum wrapper.
“Now don’t go taking all my business away this season,” she chuckled. “Else Ol’ Lucky is sure to give me a run for my money.”
I glanced over at the concession stand admiring at the empty lines for a minute then preceded. Under my breath I smiled and chanted, “Go Sharks”.
It was Joe Childer’s mound. My brother was the greatest baseball player our high school team had ever seen. And in the small town of Ridge River, baseball mattered. In fact, it carried so much importance that old Lucky Rodgers would close the diner during all the Sharks’s games. If we won, he would give everyone at the game a free late night burger. Lucky never closed the diner for games anymore. After my brother left the team to play for the Cornhuskers, our baseball team was no longer a free meal ticket.
Now 5 years later, there was a spark of hope for the Ridge River Sharks. A Childer was start pitcher again. My head started to spin as the crowd roared with excitement. The amphitheater was full of goons wearing blue Shark shirts and banging thundersticks. Throughout the stands, I saw people pointing to me with eager eyes. “That’s the little baseball protégé!” they yelled past the chaos. My blood coursed swifter than before as tried to shut them out of my mind.
The ref handed me the ball as he walked onto the field in his armored glory. “Whew Childer, you’re going to need this or maybe a few more to match your brother,” he said wiping the sweat from his upper lip. He and the catcher both looked at me from the batting cage, and I could trace a smile from behind their face guards. I wished I had a face guard; I needed more protection than them. Or maybe I just needed to rip the letters off the back of my shirt. My hand began fumbling around the ball, the object of all this terror. I watched the stadium lights rattle on as the crowd fell silent.
Then, I saw my first opponent released from the den. He wasn’t anything intimidating however much it seemed at the time, a slim 5’ 9’’ with a favored left leg probably resulting from some minor injury during the week. Regardless, Gimp had a confident air. His chin was raised so I could see his stubble growing around his jaw. He held the bat loosely and cocked his helmet back getting into position. The silver aluminum of the bat gleamed in response to the overbearing lights. The strategy was set, fastball down the middle. I wound up focusing on nothing but the dirt path leading straight to the catcher’s mitt. This was my chance. I would either be a part of the Childer legacy or Joe’s little brother through the rest of my high school career.
“Ball 1,” called the ref. Wait, I thought, I didn’t remember letting go! Did I really throw it? I wound up again focusing on technique. “Ball 2”. My stomach started to quickly sink. I wiped my palm on my pant leg grasping the ball tightly, squeezing the toxins out. As Gimp walked to first, I felt the crowd sigh in disappointment. I dared not to even look at their faces. Gimp tossed his bat carelessly then looked back at me and smirked. Then, he sluggishly took his time down to the base emphasizing his leg injury.
The game continued. I managed 2 outs mostly out of eagerness from early swingers, but the Bangles were ahead with 3 runs. Just one more out until I can be officially taken out of this game, I said to myself. The crowd suddenly riled with cheer. I did it. A perfect throw, a curveball to the right, an out. As the game past, I gained more confidence. I hit beautifully and scored twice. My pitch was getting more consistent and the crowd applauded in unison beating their sticks against the seats. The scoreboard flashed numbers higher and higher on the home side. The whites of people’s teeth were the most vivid memory of the night.
From the corner of my eye as I took back to the field, I saw Lucky Rodgers standing by the bleachers (there wasn’t a single empty spot). He must have closed shop once he had heard the Sharks were winning for the first time in five years. During halftime, I went looking to buy a pack of gum. Luckily, there was no line at the concessions. “Double Bubble,” I said running my hand over my hat head.
“Dollar” said the lady tossing my gum over the counter. I slipped her a one, and thanked her with a wave as I turned back for the dugout readily peeling away at the gum wrapper.
“Now don’t go taking all my business away this season,” she chuckled. “Else Ol’ Lucky is sure to give me a run for my money.”
I glanced over at the concession stand admiring at the empty lines for a minute then preceded. Under my breath I smiled and chanted, “Go Sharks”.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
A Problem Child
I’m lucky to say you, Love, have always been in my life. Every day since we’ve become acquainted, I’ve felt obligated to nurture and protect you –not without some struggles of course. See, you’re the fickle child no mother can please. Without any promises of reciprocation, I offer you my most valued possession to satisfy your hunger. Hunkering down at my kitchen table, you begin to eat, and I begin to wonder when your ravenous appetite will cease. I’ve witnessed what happens to the others like me. You follow them –making sure to trace every step with care so they will praise you. Then one day, you leave. Sometimes they won’t notice for a while, until they eventually glance over their shoulder only to find an empty road. Nevertheless, people always want you.
More recently, I hear you clacking at my bedroom window. Since I figure myself smarter than the rest of the names on your list, I urge you, “Not tonight, not again”. Regardless, you find your way in anyways cleverly unscrewing the locks I put on the pane yesterday. But nothing annoys me more than when you watch me as I climb into bed. You sit there beaming, your bright eyes glowing in their sockets as if you’re plugged into the electrical outlet, your sweet and sinister smile engrained in my mind. My bedside prayers replaced with pleas to the heavens to give me peace from the brilliant torment, but rest would only allow my unforgiving subconscious wild pursuit. To any onlooker and even in my own introspection, I had become insane, all thanks to you.
Then you gaze at me with those innocent blue eyes, entrancing me within your words, “I need you; the night is lonesome and frightening”. I think of all the wonderful hours we spent together and start to shed tears. You hold my hand hesitantly, quite unaware and naïve of how to proceed. Despite how much I’d like to be rid of you and your chaotic nature, I will never be able to. So instead, I settle down in my bed and learn to appreciate you in the present. All I can do is hope you will not get hungry any time soon for I have nothing left to offer.
More recently, I hear you clacking at my bedroom window. Since I figure myself smarter than the rest of the names on your list, I urge you, “Not tonight, not again”. Regardless, you find your way in anyways cleverly unscrewing the locks I put on the pane yesterday. But nothing annoys me more than when you watch me as I climb into bed. You sit there beaming, your bright eyes glowing in their sockets as if you’re plugged into the electrical outlet, your sweet and sinister smile engrained in my mind. My bedside prayers replaced with pleas to the heavens to give me peace from the brilliant torment, but rest would only allow my unforgiving subconscious wild pursuit. To any onlooker and even in my own introspection, I had become insane, all thanks to you.
Then you gaze at me with those innocent blue eyes, entrancing me within your words, “I need you; the night is lonesome and frightening”. I think of all the wonderful hours we spent together and start to shed tears. You hold my hand hesitantly, quite unaware and naïve of how to proceed. Despite how much I’d like to be rid of you and your chaotic nature, I will never be able to. So instead, I settle down in my bed and learn to appreciate you in the present. All I can do is hope you will not get hungry any time soon for I have nothing left to offer.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Teaching Means Never Having to Say "I Got Old"
Recently, I started volunteering at an elementary afterschool care program. Usually, people only need to hear the words “elementary school” and “volunteer” to respond with a sigh of sympathy. In other cases, I’ve received a skewed brow and a why-on-Earth-would-you-do-that grin. Feeling the need to justify my little exploit, I explain, “It’s for the A plus scholarship”. Then, his cavalier smirk turns into a smile- this is something he can relate to. He nods his head, “Oh!” and college talk ensues.
Honestly, I wouldn’t expect the sympathizers and grinners to ever understand, mostly because they have forgotten what youth felt like. I’m not implying the types mentioned are condescending fun-suckers by any means, only that they have come to expect logic. The life they live is supplied by sequence and patterns; they are a product of our teachings.
In elementary school, kids mostly don’t communicate using logic. They ramble off from topic to topic, they frequently burst out in song and dance, they greet you with a hug after learning your name.
I find myself having to remember I am their tutor, because in a matter of two weeks they have taught me everything from witch’s broom to social conduct (ironic, I know, since most nine year olds can’t hold a conversation without interruption). Although I wish I could include every one, here are some kids that truly touched me:
Meghan O. –She is probably one of the smallest girls in the third grade. Her features are delicate and her sunken blue eyes epitomize her sweet demeanor. She studies hard; even on the half day when everyone was directed outside Meghan had me sit on the benches and help with math homework due at the end of the week. She also made me a card the first day I arrived. A simple and thoughtful gesture to the nervous girl in the corner uncertain where to go.
Jayden- He is an incredibly bright kindergartener and exceptionally outgoing. The moment I introduced myself he immediately tried to climb into my lap. Jayden craves attention and physical reassurance of belonging. However, he can focus on an activity for twice as long as kids his age. In other words, the kid is going to be extremely smart. He once played a word association game with me for an hour- until I had to quit.
Haleigh- Whenever I think of her, I can’t help to think of my cousin Jenna. Both fourth graders are energetic like tomboys but sassy like girly girls. What intrigues me most about down-to-Earth Haleigh is her variety of interests. “I’m going to be a cheerleader and a wrestler!” she always says. When everyone leaves the homework room, Haleigh teaches me cheer moves. We perfect high kicks, and I hold her arms while she does a herkey. Then she turns around and nails me with an air jab, my head does a matrix roll back and we laugh hysterically.
Megan C. - She’s one of the Quad of 5th grade girls I find particularly interesting. Megan appears to be the leader of the group. Smart, cute, demanding; seemingly all the qualities of a drama queen in the making. At first, her overbearing personality put me off. Then, I noticed she is quite unlike any of the other members of the Quad after talking with her. Often, I enjoy sitting with Megan at the homework table and having some of the most intellectual conversations. She’ll ask me questions about the book I’m reading (Slash, for those interested) and quiz me on why I picked it, where I got it, what is happening, how much I’ve read since yesterday. Also, what I share in common with Megan is a love for writing. Every time I see her, she has a new story for me to read sometimes about her sister or a complete fabrication. I love reading them; it reminds me so much of myself at that age scribbling down stories in a notebook during class.
Kendall- Unfortunately, Kendall is on all the teachers’ trouble list. Even her 5th grade peers don’t seem to accept her. Maybe she doesn’t fit in because she is so small and petite. I could connect my index and thumb around her wrist easily. In fact, the first time I met her I thought she was a 3rd grader. She never struck me as interesting; she wore her blond hair in a tight ponytail every day and struggled to sit with the Quad during homework. However, today I saw a different side of her. Ms. Abraham was about to close the homework room, and she was working with Kendall who was resisting to focus on her science work. The battle went on until Kendall moaned, “I can’t do this!”. Then, Ms. Abraham went off…again. The first day I worked at the program, Ms. Abraham was first to warn me of Kendall’s “outbreaks”. She said Kendall had a bad attitude. To be honest, she was right. I noticed Kendall’s defeatist nature as Ms. Abraham tried to direct her to find the hypothesis. Kendall got more insolent, she slid under the table, her face a puffy red. Ms. Abraham shook her head and yelled in front of the whole classroom, “Kendall, you are acting like a 2 year old. Grow up and focus on your work. This is why your parents bring you here instead of letting you go home. You act like an irresponsible child!”. I was appalled. Ms. Abraham stormed out of the classroom and I noticed Kendall trailing behind, face blotched with spots of embarrassment and eyes filled with tears. I pulled Kendall aside and helped her finish the homework. Kendall wasn’t dumb, but people like Ms. Abraham have deemed her a “problem child” so she hasn’t had a chance to achieve. I praised her every time she understood something, and in no time she completed it without any disruptions or outbursts.
From the moment I began third grade I knew I wanted to be a teacher. But after recieving so many sympathetic sighs and strange looks, I had second thoughts. It's not a good salary and sometimes repetitive, I warned myself. However, this experience has brought me back to my instincts. I am sad to report I only have 25 hours left of my A plus program, but I still hope to enjoy many more.
Honestly, I wouldn’t expect the sympathizers and grinners to ever understand, mostly because they have forgotten what youth felt like. I’m not implying the types mentioned are condescending fun-suckers by any means, only that they have come to expect logic. The life they live is supplied by sequence and patterns; they are a product of our teachings.
In elementary school, kids mostly don’t communicate using logic. They ramble off from topic to topic, they frequently burst out in song and dance, they greet you with a hug after learning your name.
I find myself having to remember I am their tutor, because in a matter of two weeks they have taught me everything from witch’s broom to social conduct (ironic, I know, since most nine year olds can’t hold a conversation without interruption). Although I wish I could include every one, here are some kids that truly touched me:
Meghan O. –She is probably one of the smallest girls in the third grade. Her features are delicate and her sunken blue eyes epitomize her sweet demeanor. She studies hard; even on the half day when everyone was directed outside Meghan had me sit on the benches and help with math homework due at the end of the week. She also made me a card the first day I arrived. A simple and thoughtful gesture to the nervous girl in the corner uncertain where to go.
Jayden- He is an incredibly bright kindergartener and exceptionally outgoing. The moment I introduced myself he immediately tried to climb into my lap. Jayden craves attention and physical reassurance of belonging. However, he can focus on an activity for twice as long as kids his age. In other words, the kid is going to be extremely smart. He once played a word association game with me for an hour- until I had to quit.
Haleigh- Whenever I think of her, I can’t help to think of my cousin Jenna. Both fourth graders are energetic like tomboys but sassy like girly girls. What intrigues me most about down-to-Earth Haleigh is her variety of interests. “I’m going to be a cheerleader and a wrestler!” she always says. When everyone leaves the homework room, Haleigh teaches me cheer moves. We perfect high kicks, and I hold her arms while she does a herkey. Then she turns around and nails me with an air jab, my head does a matrix roll back and we laugh hysterically.
Megan C. - She’s one of the Quad of 5th grade girls I find particularly interesting. Megan appears to be the leader of the group. Smart, cute, demanding; seemingly all the qualities of a drama queen in the making. At first, her overbearing personality put me off. Then, I noticed she is quite unlike any of the other members of the Quad after talking with her. Often, I enjoy sitting with Megan at the homework table and having some of the most intellectual conversations. She’ll ask me questions about the book I’m reading (Slash, for those interested) and quiz me on why I picked it, where I got it, what is happening, how much I’ve read since yesterday. Also, what I share in common with Megan is a love for writing. Every time I see her, she has a new story for me to read sometimes about her sister or a complete fabrication. I love reading them; it reminds me so much of myself at that age scribbling down stories in a notebook during class.
Kendall- Unfortunately, Kendall is on all the teachers’ trouble list. Even her 5th grade peers don’t seem to accept her. Maybe she doesn’t fit in because she is so small and petite. I could connect my index and thumb around her wrist easily. In fact, the first time I met her I thought she was a 3rd grader. She never struck me as interesting; she wore her blond hair in a tight ponytail every day and struggled to sit with the Quad during homework. However, today I saw a different side of her. Ms. Abraham was about to close the homework room, and she was working with Kendall who was resisting to focus on her science work. The battle went on until Kendall moaned, “I can’t do this!”. Then, Ms. Abraham went off…again. The first day I worked at the program, Ms. Abraham was first to warn me of Kendall’s “outbreaks”. She said Kendall had a bad attitude. To be honest, she was right. I noticed Kendall’s defeatist nature as Ms. Abraham tried to direct her to find the hypothesis. Kendall got more insolent, she slid under the table, her face a puffy red. Ms. Abraham shook her head and yelled in front of the whole classroom, “Kendall, you are acting like a 2 year old. Grow up and focus on your work. This is why your parents bring you here instead of letting you go home. You act like an irresponsible child!”. I was appalled. Ms. Abraham stormed out of the classroom and I noticed Kendall trailing behind, face blotched with spots of embarrassment and eyes filled with tears. I pulled Kendall aside and helped her finish the homework. Kendall wasn’t dumb, but people like Ms. Abraham have deemed her a “problem child” so she hasn’t had a chance to achieve. I praised her every time she understood something, and in no time she completed it without any disruptions or outbursts.
From the moment I began third grade I knew I wanted to be a teacher. But after recieving so many sympathetic sighs and strange looks, I had second thoughts. It's not a good salary and sometimes repetitive, I warned myself. However, this experience has brought me back to my instincts. I am sad to report I only have 25 hours left of my A plus program, but I still hope to enjoy many more.
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