Ring Out Ahoya!
Favorite friends and lovers of the Golden Eagles,
As you may know, I recently joined a high-performing nationally renowned public charter school network focused on eliminating educational inequity for children in high-risk neighborhoods.
You can learn more about us here: http://vimeo.com/13891398 (tear jerker every time…)
At my school, we focus on giving our students the motivation to make it to and through college. As part of this focus, teachers name their homeroom after their alma mater. I CLEARLY have the best homeroom in our entire school, and my students are already adamant about applying to Marquette in 2019! We say “Goooooo! Goooooo! Go! Marquette! Go Go Go Go!” every morning and my student Rickia, age 10, called my cell phone on a Sunday afternoon to tell me she Google’d Marquette and found out how to apply.
This brings me to why I am writing: I need your help.
I was wondering if you/your family/the back of your closet might be able to donate any materials to help my students further their Marquette pride and invest them in climbing the mountain to college. Posters, flags, banners, pennants, buttons, old t-shirts, left over bobble heads, printed pictures of you being awesome at MU (b-ball games, graduation, Gyros…) … anything you are able to give would be treasured and appreciated. I believe starting the conversation about college this early in my students’ educational careers truly will change their life trajectory. Think…all you have to do to contribute to this is dig through your drawers and take a quick jaunt to the post office! (OR, if you life in DC, I totally make house calls!) Amazingly easy way to end educational inequity!
You are phenomenal. Fa real. If you are able to help, both my students and I would be forever grateful.
Let me know if you have any questions or are interested in becoming more involved in our classroom :)
With a MU RAH RAH,
Theresa
Oh and PS, I’m not actually engaged.
Seeing as this blog is essentially a running record of the unfortunate antics that are my redheaded existence, I feel the need to counter the previous post of euphoric love (see below) with the following tale:
Indiana might as well be colonial India where everyone gets married when they are nine years old and single people are slopped into the bottom caste and ostracized from mainstream society. (Now that I think about it, maybe I shouldn’t have corrected the former student who g-chatted me last week to ask if I still lived in India…). Given this, the members of my Indiana girl gang were shocked and appalled to learn that I had never attended a real bachelorette party. This realization lead to the only place it naturally and logically could: throwing me my own bachelorette party as a farewell to the Hoosier State.
I feel as though providing a play-by-play could potentially spoil the magical splendor that was my special night, but I am willing to offer the following nuggets:
- On a Tuesday in Indiana, a round of cocktails for you and your entire bridal party (including tip) costs a mere $6. Extrapolate this information as you wish.
- Wearing a fake engagement ring is like wearing a bullet proof cape: no fear on this girl’s face or in her dance moves.
- While roaming the streets, I popped my head into the back of a Hummer limo and invited the inhabitants to join my soiree. Turns out, Indy car driver Jay Howard is my new BFF. You may know him as the fellow who crashed in turn three during the Indy 500 after speeding out of the pit with only 3 tires. Gosh…if only I weren’t engaged! Missed opportunity if I ever saw one.
- I have the best friends in the world.
The Royal Wedding
Last weekend, I sat as one of nearly four-hundred in Milwaukee’s Gesu church, glassy eyed and holding an unbreakable smile, as I watched for the first time one of my close friends walk down the aisle. Saying a bride is stunning seems to be the go-to compliment, but there is really no other way to say it. Emily was…Stunning.
During mass, the priest made a thoughtful point. As a society, he said, we recently became overly infatuated with the Royal Wedding. American life seemed to suddenly halt, revolving itself around the nuptials of two individuals with whom the vast majority of us have had no genuine interaction. He then said that we, the nearly four-hundred, had been invited to a royal wedding as well. Every wedding, he explained, is a royal wedding when Christ is present and love is consuming.
He was right. You could actually feel the love in the air, you could see it on Emily and Jake’s faces, in their eyes, and in the way they held hands. I wish all my friends to find the happiness that has found Emily. It truly was a Royal Wedding, one that I am certain will include a happily ever after.
One time I moved to Indiana,
And things got pretty sad.
If only I’d realized my passion for NASCAR,
Life wouldn’t have been so bad.
The glitz! The glamour!
The jorts and mullets too!
An overload of ecstasy:
What’s a little redhead to do?!
What to do? I’ll tell you this:
I finally learned to be alive.
I am of course referring,
To the splendor of the Indy-Five.
Every Memorial Day weekend,
Doth come this grand affair.
Filled with whimsy and wonder,
And fond tales with grandchildren I’ll share.
As the rest of our dear nation
Honors the red white and blue,
Hoosiers bust out their checkered flags
And show what a Purdue education can do.
I arose at dawn to celebrate
Indiana’s claim to fame:
Parking in your lawn while growing a moustache
Seemed to be the name of the game.
Emerging from Speedway hamlets,
The hillbillies swarm en masse.
Donning aviators to sweat in the bleachers
And watch Danica step on the gas.
I, however, took the classier approach,
Involving what we’ll refer to as charm:
Lawn chairs, corn hole, and Solo cups,
Who says a slip n’ slide on gravel causes harm?
Nestled amidst the racecar rush,
It is an oasis in the clear.
Makeshift shanties and pick-up trucks:
It is the infield I hold dear.
Just me and four hundred thousand
Of my closest inbred friends.
Missing a shirt or a few of your teeth
Is no means for our relationship to end.
Where to set your Natty Ice,
After raising it to Jeff Gordon’s health?
Never fret, vagrant vagabond;
Sun-scorched beer belly serves as shelf.
The adventures tallied are bountiful
Before the day is through;
There’s nothing that gasoline fumes and binge drinking
Cannot make you do.
As the tacky delights fade with the sun
I tip my hat and raise my can to say,
“Cheers to the people of Indiana!
Wait—there was a RACE today?”
MISSING: My teeth and my wisdom
I think of bits of wisdom as the pieces in the puzzle of knowledge that fit together with experience. They are the fortune cookie tales that we will relay wistfully to our grandchildren, but also the here-and-now practicality that prevents us from fucking up at the same thing more than once.
Last Monday, 12 years after my orthodontist told me to, I finally kept a date with an oral surgeon and had all four of my wisdom teeth removed. Five days, one giant jar of applesauce, many chocolate milkshakes, and several prescription Demerol later, I emerged from my hazy grotto into the fresh Indiana air ready to take on Indy 500 race weekend (post forthcoming…) like the romper-wearing toothless champ that I know myself to be. What I unfortunately neglected to realize is that my wisdom teeth were indeed as smart as their name indicates, as all hopes for logical thinking had been surgically extracted from my head.
I consistently throw myself into social situations that the rational part of my brain is well aware will end in only the most gut wrenching catastrophe. I am, of course, referring solely to my impeccable taste in men, the selection of which I have proven yet again to hold to only the highest and most unparalleled caliber.
In reflection, there are some moments that truly shine: Running down State Street barefoot in an XL Colorado Buffs t-shirt, already 10 minutes late to the all-University service event you’re spearheading? Ok, fine; it was college and it’s kind of hilarious…now. What about dropping off and picking up the fellow you’re dating from the airport only to discover his alleged guys weekend in Chicago was in reality a Valentine’s day romp with his girlfriend? His girlfriend that was not you? Yeah…that pretty much sucked. In grand tradition, I can now add walking into a public bathroom to find guy-you-just-can’t-shake, sans several critical articles of clothing, way (way.) more than canoodling in a public shower—curtain open—with cougar he met 39 minutes earlier to my extensive repertoire. No need to thank me, ladies and gents. I aim to please.
It seems as though the instant my bitterness (also known as my memory and common sense) wears off—SNAP! I suck in another one like an electromagnet in a junk yard. While this knack contributes greatly to my comedic existence (not to mention the livelihood of this blog) (thank you Waiter, Turkey Leg, and Calib), I seek to develop the foresight that will prevent me from going waterworks on busy city street corners while digging through my Longchamp for a bandage to stick on my heart.
Wisdom…one day, some day, I’ll remember where I put it.
THIS is what I’m thinking.
Have you ever discovered an artifact of days gone by? What appears to be just a crumpled post-it or receipt in a winter coat pocket, this fragment of the ordinary is in reality a relic in the anthropological dig of your life. Most of the time, you don’t even have to dig that deep; things just have a way of resurfacing at exactly the right moment.
I spent this evening filing no less than 18 redwoods worth of new hire paperwork, one section of which alerted me to the stress and anxiety counseling that is included in my benefits package.
Then I started to freak.
What am I thinking?! I’m going from working on my sun-filled patio in running shorts while sipping on lemonade and massaging my gums with maximum strength orajel (completely different but true story) to not sleeping, not eating, and likely wanting to die rather than grade another essay. What AM I thinking?!
Then I found this.
I built this site as a component of a reflection project for my UPenn coursework and haven’t looked back since I tapped a keg with Dina Portnoy last May. I looked through it tonight: every last word, picture, and video. And then I remembered. THIS is what I am thinking.
. . .
This is why I teach for America
No, really.
Over the past two years, I have found what I was least expecting to: a deep love and passion for the students with which I have shared so much of my life. I expected tears. I expected frustration. I expected hard times, no sleep, and endless struggle. What I found were children who pushed me to question the way in which I view the world and myself.
During my time in Teach For America, I kept a journal of my thoughts and experiences. I have chosen to highlight unedited excerpts as a testament to transformation. As for what has transformed, I am not entirely sure. But there is something that will keep me coming back to Room 304. Today, tomorrow, and forever. I seek to lead others to do the same.
Here’s a new one
(Talking about something completely unrelated to what he’s about to say)
Calib: That’s similar to the differences between the Neolithic and Paleolithic periods.
Me: (shock) (eyes popping out of head) (no words)
Calib: The symbolism in Neolithic artwork is quite interesting.
Me: WHAT?!
Calib: Yeah, if you see a bunch of birds that means someone was having an orgy.
I’d love to call it a quick wit; really it was more of a filter-free sass. My zingy one-liners were the perfect form of self-medication, the optimal antidote to counteract any particular poison that the world happened to be dealing that week. There used to be no room in my inn for that unsettled feelings bullshit (UFB), that think-before-you-speak that mortals often refer to as common sense, to be floating around in my head blocking synapses and stopping me from what I really want to say.
Then I moved to the Hoosier State and the perpetual pleasantness surrounding me took its toll. I became nice.
Take this recent encounter:
Through the marvelous randomness that is the universe/pure dumb luck that is Indiana, I found myself sardine packed into a booth of a crowded bar with a few friends, a guy I’ve been seeing, (Let’s call him Will) (Why I Loathe Love) (Not to be confused in any way, shape, or back-handed, passive aggressive reference with Cute And Likable Indiana Boy), and the girl he’s been seeing. (Let’s call her Flannel. No acronym, just a fond pet name).
As one could imagine, this is not a social occasion I care to commemorate on my next holiday card. A year ago, I would have had something to say about feeling like I was sucker punched in the gut. But because I’ve lived in Indiana for 10 months, I said nothing. I pretended to listen to the random Republican sitting across from me rattling on about how he is the proud owner of a shirt that says “Hey Hillary stop trying to run for president and go make me a sandwich” on the front. (Yes, really). Still I said nothing. I stared blankly into the loud air of the bar, biting my lower lip as to prevent myself from a.) vomiting, b.) crying, or c.) both
Now I sit behind the protection and anonymity of my computer screen, tip-tap-typing away, and can physically feel the UFB churning in my throat and in my heart. This mushy-gushy version of my former self has finally taken the phrase “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all” to heart and frankly it’s wasting my time.
…
I’m currently reading The Social Animal, a fascinating (library) book that seeks to unwind the tale of the human subconscious by explaining why we do the things we do and think the things we think. I’m hoping that once I get past page 59 author David Brooks will finally vindicate why in the hell I have the consistent urge to throw myself into situations that make me feel miserable. The rational part of my brain is screaming, “T! STOP! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND YOUR TEXT MESSAGING BILL! DON’T DO IT!” But then there is this other part of my brain, the part that is curious, or maybe the part that that hates not getting its way, can’t let things go.
Caring is the WORST. At least it is when you have lived in Indiana for 10 months. This is why I can’t wait to get back to the East Coast where I can once again be emotionally detached and make smart-ass comments to whomever I please and not have to spend my Sunday blogging about what I didn’t say.
When this undoubtedly happens to me again in seven to twelve weeks, please heed: if you’re ever in a bar in the Washington DC metro area and an otherwise-sweet-seeming girl is unnecessarily bitchy to you, it’s probably because you’re either a.) wearing a flannel shirt, b.) making a pathetic attempt to googily eye the guy she wishes she was dating, or c.) both.
And this is how you know Indiana has softened you.
(I’m fairly certain it has, and absolutely certain I don’t care for it.)
Monday.
Starring: The Indiana adventures of Theresa and Calib
. . .
Rose: Why are you so sad?
Me: A boy.
Rose: (Gasping in a heart-piecing breath of horror) NO! NO NOT CALIB!
Me: No, mom. Not Calib.
. . .
(Picking me up 25 minutes late)
Me: You move slower than molasses.
Calib: People kept coming up and talking to me!
Me: I didn’t realize you were so popular.
Calib: I am. Finally I just took off my shirt to get out of the conversation.
(I laughed because I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t.)
. . .
Calib: I have to pick up my golf shoes from my buddy’s.
Me: You golf? I didn’t think you had that long of an attention span.
Calib: That’s one of my greatest skills. I might not be able to keep you entertained for more than 10 seconds, but my one-liners are the best!
. . .
Calib: I was one time handcuffed while walking my dog.
. . .
(In his jeep, which comes complete with a fake wood steering wheel cover and remote control for the stereo)
Calib: We need some jams!
(Puts in a CD)
Calib: Yeah, turn this shit UP!
(The shit he turns up is My Girl by the Temptations. Calib hearts Motown.)
. . .
Me: You have a sparkle on your face.
Calib: It fell from the twinkle in my eye.
. . .
(Talking about new jobs)
Calib: I should just become a bathroom guy at a strip club.
Me: You seem like you’ve thought about this before…
Calib: I gave him 10 dollars! And that’s just me!
Me: Why did you tip a bathroom attendant at a strip club 10 dollars?
Calib: Well I peed 10 times.
Me: How long were you there?!
Calib: Two hours. I started only peeing half way so I could just give him 50 cents.
(Fifteen minutes later, he tipped me after using the bathroom in my apartment. Gent’s got class.)
. . .
(Talking about earrings)
Me: The balls are too big.
Calib: (Wiggles eyebrows suggestively) Maybe he did that on purpose…
Me: You’re an idiot.
Calib: You kiss me.
Me: Touché.
(Shoot.)
Don’t ask why.
So this afternoon I typed “when weird neck hairs attack” into Google search. Naturally, one of the top search results was for Indiana.
Did you know there have been 52 Bigfoot sightings in Indiana since the 1980s? Had I known this beast was running rampant, I likely would have used my time here in a more productive fashion.
t does indy. 