Today I unpacked belongings and materials in my new room at the new school that I will be at this year, teaching first grade. After teaching third grade for eight years, these students will seem tiny; tiny I tell you! They are coming in at five years old. That's just five years of breathing on this earth, their bodies are not syncopated nor complete, and they spin. I will try very hard not to scare them, even though I have been told a couple are "runners."
The old school I worked at had moved to a temporary site with all the teacher materials packed up in June; all my stuff went there, so once I found where I was placed, after a week of my name going missing, I went over and sorted out my stuff from what belonged to the school, boxes and boxes of books accumulated over the years and other materials. Took all damn day. Told people what side of the room the boxes were in, movers were to come and haul stuff out after I marked the new place on the boxes.
Easy. Until I got to the school and found that the new teacher mistakenly emptied my boxes and filled her shelves with my materials. Found a note stating that she went through the cartons to gather District Materials and left me with my personal items. So, I had to repack all the stuff into about forty boxes, tape and label them again, these alleged 'District Materials' included purchases with my name written in them and a set of 25 Charlotte's Web books. Find me a district that will buy your class 25 Charlotte's Web books and I will eat my hat. And anyways, what was with this District business? I'm still a District teacher, it's not like I was leaving the country.
Thank goodness dear Mr. Mr. got the movers to get my stuff to the new school; that plus 29 other boxed kept at a downtown storage unit made up what I did today; unpack. The bright and shining spot was that my friend Pauline dropped in from a busy day to help me, God bless that woman. Smart as a whip and knew where things should go without me telling her. We got the boxes finished, a very large accomplishment, but I am still behind because of the snafu. I'll catch up. This is what told me a story, the unpacking; it is a cobbled story put together by many hands for whom I am forever grateful.
Many items were in small boxes, such as games or flashcards; others were books discarded because the District said the teachers shouldn't use them anymore and to throw them out. The public would be more than upset to learn just how many educational materials we are told to throw out because they don't meet the new standards of the year, according to whichever book vendor the city purchases from.
Workbooks, instructional books, reading books, fraction games, scientific posters were all handed down to me by generous compatriots through the years. Today I found that many had the names of the original owner.
I have a sheaf of human body posters and fossil models given to me by Barb Malcolm, her name written on the outside of the flat cardboard box containing them; workbooks and Mailbox magazines from MaryAnn, a fifth grade teacher and science mentor, her handwriting scribbled in pertinent notes throughout the text; books from Linda, paints and holiday materials from Deb; workbooks and art cards from Sue W., math games from Sue H., and storybooks from Sue C. Dutch shoes, a conch shell, and center materials from Rich; water trays and paintbrushes from Ginny; balances, snowflake patterns from Jane; a survival kit of organizers from Lynn, organized files and pencils from Joanne; a cactus and books from Barbara Allen; blankets and sheets from Karima so my kids could sit on the grass; a chalkboard from Ann; guppies from Darlene; word wall cards from Amy; a Jeopardy game, a little wooden desk with green legs, and a basket shaped like a duck from Paula and Phil that I use for homework.
I'm sure there is more that will pop up as I unpack further, but these are names that are part of my history and wealth. There are few people more generous than someone in the education business, especially the folks who have contact with the classroom; believe me, you do not go into this job for the money, there is very little considering the investment in time and finances that is put in, and often must be paid back. Job security? Summers off? Are you kidding? You have to work to stay afloat at a second job, and are expected to take courses over the summer in preparation for new fall mandates or technological advances. I have been in a school everyday for the past two weeks, working without pay to get ready for the new year. And, if you think teaching children is easy, come on in. You are in for a shock as to what comes out of their mouths or gets thrown at you. It is not a surprise these days, to hear of a colleague being sent to the emergency room for treatment, or for the police to be called to an elementary school. Last year was the first year that I felt unsafe in my job. Enrollment at teaching colleges is down, the last I heard, for few want the profession that receives an unfair amount of media and public derision.
We want these jobs for other reasons; to teach the joy of knowledge and the power of critical thinking to children so that when they are adults, they are able to make choices that they have a voice in, and further the good for our community, our earth. These names I read today as I unpacked reminded me of my friends that I have worked with, and learned from, over the years. Thank you all for teaching me how to educate a kid, to engage them and meet them halfway. You are ever in my heart.
I can see the Niagara River from my classroom, and Canada. The whitecaps on the river today showed the wind coming in from the west, pushing waters high, crashing over the breakwall. I am water, I flow, break on the surface, and find my own level again. Good night, sleep well, crash through the wall of dreams; wait and find me, I am still here. Sleep.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Bat Wings of Desire
I caught a bat today. Came home after negotiating the immense crowd focused on the harbor concert and was carrying a box of wine in from the car, when I noticed that some of my neighbors sat outside in lawn chairs. Now, people love to be announcers of the macabre, and the three of them chorused at once "There's a bat!"
I thought they said. "There's a bat!" Turns out they had. Bat, bat, mammal flying bat? Workmen had been repairing the overhang all day and had been banging and sawing and probably disturbed the little guy till he flew up the stairwell; or, alternately, there's a screen with a hole in it somewhere. Yes, a Real Bat they said. They had called Animal Control, the SPCA, security, and the one man's co-workers. No official showed up and the four men had tried to catch it for an hour.
"Watch out, 'cause when you move, that's when he starts flying." Oh good. They carry rabies, but I was going to operate on the idea that this is just a lost soul who needs assistance. "Watch your hair," he advised. I try not to; my hair is a combatant that fights me everyday, we do not have a great relationship. No matter what, it doesn't stay where I put it, so if that old wive's tale is true (it isn't), the bat is welcome to nest there. How about your fishing net, I ask fisherman guy. Left it on the boat. Rats, but not the end. What the heck do I have that could catch it safely for release back into the bat wilderness of the city? Nothing.
Think a think a think. One of the most useful things on the planet is a wire coat hanger, and every time I need one to unclog a drain, tie up a car muffler, or beat a cat, I swear like a drunk that just fell off the barstool because of Joan Crawford. "NO WIRE HANGERS," and I agreed with Joan and if there is a wire hanger in this apartment, it is only because it effected temporary escape. I cussed out Joan Crawford while looking. My dresses hang on thick IKEA hangers or padded luxury Cadillac hangers with pink ribbons. Fie! I shoved and dug through the closet and found a cluster of three wire hangers hanging out at the edge of civilization, clustered like orphans in a storm. They knew what was coming, that there would be a wire hanger sacrifice.
I grabbed the thing and started backing off from all the swearing by genuinely thanking God for this wire hanger as if he cared, but maybe he does a little because the bat is one of his children. As if the roadkill and all the little mice caught in traps aren't. I thank God for the provenance of the hanger and help me catch the thing and not get rabies. All the eff you Joans disappear, and now it's Praise the Lord; imagine the tv remote switching from a George Carlin retrospective to Davy and Goliath, welcome to my world, it flips that fast.
The hanger gave up easily and shrugged as I bent it into a loop and straightened the hook. We went into the kitchen, and I got a thin, billowy garbage bag that I stole from school since the roll was almost gone and we were packing up and moving anyways. The thing floats like gossamer, and is about as flimsy. I got the big roll of packing tape that splits into shreds when peeling off a length, and the cussing started again, I paid four dollars for this piece of crap at the post office, you think the government would sell its own people decent tape instead of this ratsin-fratsin klipnagle Friday stuff they shill. You figure out what ratsin-fratsin klipnagle means, I bet you already know what the Friday word represents. I got the bag neatly taped to the circumference of the wire hanger.
A pole, I needed a pole, there was no pole. Ah, but there was a broom and the Lord is sweet, it's a bamboo handle so there is a hollow end to fit the straightened hook into if I folded it in half. More tape, more praise the goodness of the universe. The Lord loves me for trying to save a bat. See? It's a pattern: swear a blue curtain, praise heaven; swear, praise; swear, praise. I tire myself out. But it was a success, and my contraption was ready, but was I? A shiver ran smartly down my spine, for what if this thing was rabid? It wasn't behaving erratically, it's solemnly huddled in a corner. I got leather gloves that I wear when there's a biting cat that needs a fix at either end; oh, my guys love me, no doubt, but if I'm messing with one of their body parts high in the echelon of cat sanctity, they will let me know, usually with a firm-toothed hand hold. Have any of my guys deliberately bitten me? Oh no, no, no. I know they try very hard not too; we have a deal, they don't bite me, and I don't bite them. Works.
So I have the broom-garbage bag invention, and leather gloves, keys in pocket, and shut the door so the cats don't get exposed or try to fly up to the ceiling to catch Mr. Bat. I walked slowly to where he was huddled, I don't know, I don't think bats know if they are he's or she's either, and was making kissy noises. Here boy. He's upside down. No movement at all, I am guessing this is one tired bat after being chased by four men in their late twenties. I just put the hoop part over it, still no movement, so I pulled down and voila! There was a bit of fascinating wing flapping, but I yanked the net thing up like I'm grabbing a kid by the arm from running into the street---I'm in Mom-mode---and the bat got caught right in the bottom of the bag and stopped struggling. I tipped the hoop thing to close the opening, and pushed the elevator button. Took me fifteen seconds to catch a bat.
While waiting for the elevator, I brought the bat in a bag up to where I can see him. Tiny little head, cute as pie. He's not gasping or twitching, and I'm still on his side. Trotted outside, the neighbors saw the bag and you've got it? You got the bat? Right here, right here step right up. Cell phones came out for pictures, and bat photos will be sent to sons and daughters. I spied a bush and planned to shake him out where he could hang onto something until he's oriented, but one of the men, a sweetie pie who didn't want to hurt the bat in the first place asked if he can let him go. Well okay, but I still felt protective and watch the man as he tried to shake the bat out of the bag, but it's hung on with it's claws. He had to shake a bit roughly, and eventually the bat dropped onto the grass. The man then gave the Little Brown Bat a nudge and the wondrous wings flapped and lifted, and the bat flew! It flew off to a low brick building across the street, where I imagine it will rest up a bit after this adventure. It was beautiful, the scalloped wings arched so neatly, the delicacy of the whole bat machinery. It was a gift. Again, the heavens were blessed.
The neighbors and I woofed a bit about bat catching technique and how we were all glad the little thing wasn't hurt, but had flown for safety and another night of bug hunting. The wire hanger and bag were tossed, the broom and I ascended in the elevator. I congratulated myself in front of the cats and told them how I saved a bat, and how bats are really neat creatures and they are disappearing because of a white, fatal fungus. They had not even one eff to give about bats and why hadn't you opened a can of cat food, what else do you think you're good for? It was a good thing I was down to two wire hangers or there would have been beatings, and I think they would have won. Can you even buy wire hangers anymore? They are on the grocery list.
We will sleep while the little bats flutter in crazy zigzags in the night sky, eating bugs and doing bat somersaults. I love to watch them, but the immense clouds of bats that once came out of far off warehouses that I could watch from my window have dwindled down to a few occasional visitors.
Little winged brown angels, busy doing their bat business while we of the diurnal dream and shift throughout the night. Sleep and dream, human, dream of wings that let you fly and taste the night sky.
Sleep well, with love.
I thought they said. "There's a bat!" Turns out they had. Bat, bat, mammal flying bat? Workmen had been repairing the overhang all day and had been banging and sawing and probably disturbed the little guy till he flew up the stairwell; or, alternately, there's a screen with a hole in it somewhere. Yes, a Real Bat they said. They had called Animal Control, the SPCA, security, and the one man's co-workers. No official showed up and the four men had tried to catch it for an hour.
"Watch out, 'cause when you move, that's when he starts flying." Oh good. They carry rabies, but I was going to operate on the idea that this is just a lost soul who needs assistance. "Watch your hair," he advised. I try not to; my hair is a combatant that fights me everyday, we do not have a great relationship. No matter what, it doesn't stay where I put it, so if that old wive's tale is true (it isn't), the bat is welcome to nest there. How about your fishing net, I ask fisherman guy. Left it on the boat. Rats, but not the end. What the heck do I have that could catch it safely for release back into the bat wilderness of the city? Nothing.
Think a think a think. One of the most useful things on the planet is a wire coat hanger, and every time I need one to unclog a drain, tie up a car muffler, or beat a cat, I swear like a drunk that just fell off the barstool because of Joan Crawford. "NO WIRE HANGERS," and I agreed with Joan and if there is a wire hanger in this apartment, it is only because it effected temporary escape. I cussed out Joan Crawford while looking. My dresses hang on thick IKEA hangers or padded luxury Cadillac hangers with pink ribbons. Fie! I shoved and dug through the closet and found a cluster of three wire hangers hanging out at the edge of civilization, clustered like orphans in a storm. They knew what was coming, that there would be a wire hanger sacrifice.
I grabbed the thing and started backing off from all the swearing by genuinely thanking God for this wire hanger as if he cared, but maybe he does a little because the bat is one of his children. As if the roadkill and all the little mice caught in traps aren't. I thank God for the provenance of the hanger and help me catch the thing and not get rabies. All the eff you Joans disappear, and now it's Praise the Lord; imagine the tv remote switching from a George Carlin retrospective to Davy and Goliath, welcome to my world, it flips that fast.
The hanger gave up easily and shrugged as I bent it into a loop and straightened the hook. We went into the kitchen, and I got a thin, billowy garbage bag that I stole from school since the roll was almost gone and we were packing up and moving anyways. The thing floats like gossamer, and is about as flimsy. I got the big roll of packing tape that splits into shreds when peeling off a length, and the cussing started again, I paid four dollars for this piece of crap at the post office, you think the government would sell its own people decent tape instead of this ratsin-fratsin klipnagle Friday stuff they shill. You figure out what ratsin-fratsin klipnagle means, I bet you already know what the Friday word represents. I got the bag neatly taped to the circumference of the wire hanger.
A pole, I needed a pole, there was no pole. Ah, but there was a broom and the Lord is sweet, it's a bamboo handle so there is a hollow end to fit the straightened hook into if I folded it in half. More tape, more praise the goodness of the universe. The Lord loves me for trying to save a bat. See? It's a pattern: swear a blue curtain, praise heaven; swear, praise; swear, praise. I tire myself out. But it was a success, and my contraption was ready, but was I? A shiver ran smartly down my spine, for what if this thing was rabid? It wasn't behaving erratically, it's solemnly huddled in a corner. I got leather gloves that I wear when there's a biting cat that needs a fix at either end; oh, my guys love me, no doubt, but if I'm messing with one of their body parts high in the echelon of cat sanctity, they will let me know, usually with a firm-toothed hand hold. Have any of my guys deliberately bitten me? Oh no, no, no. I know they try very hard not too; we have a deal, they don't bite me, and I don't bite them. Works.
So I have the broom-garbage bag invention, and leather gloves, keys in pocket, and shut the door so the cats don't get exposed or try to fly up to the ceiling to catch Mr. Bat. I walked slowly to where he was huddled, I don't know, I don't think bats know if they are he's or she's either, and was making kissy noises. Here boy. He's upside down. No movement at all, I am guessing this is one tired bat after being chased by four men in their late twenties. I just put the hoop part over it, still no movement, so I pulled down and voila! There was a bit of fascinating wing flapping, but I yanked the net thing up like I'm grabbing a kid by the arm from running into the street---I'm in Mom-mode---and the bat got caught right in the bottom of the bag and stopped struggling. I tipped the hoop thing to close the opening, and pushed the elevator button. Took me fifteen seconds to catch a bat.
While waiting for the elevator, I brought the bat in a bag up to where I can see him. Tiny little head, cute as pie. He's not gasping or twitching, and I'm still on his side. Trotted outside, the neighbors saw the bag and you've got it? You got the bat? Right here, right here step right up. Cell phones came out for pictures, and bat photos will be sent to sons and daughters. I spied a bush and planned to shake him out where he could hang onto something until he's oriented, but one of the men, a sweetie pie who didn't want to hurt the bat in the first place asked if he can let him go. Well okay, but I still felt protective and watch the man as he tried to shake the bat out of the bag, but it's hung on with it's claws. He had to shake a bit roughly, and eventually the bat dropped onto the grass. The man then gave the Little Brown Bat a nudge and the wondrous wings flapped and lifted, and the bat flew! It flew off to a low brick building across the street, where I imagine it will rest up a bit after this adventure. It was beautiful, the scalloped wings arched so neatly, the delicacy of the whole bat machinery. It was a gift. Again, the heavens were blessed.
The neighbors and I woofed a bit about bat catching technique and how we were all glad the little thing wasn't hurt, but had flown for safety and another night of bug hunting. The wire hanger and bag were tossed, the broom and I ascended in the elevator. I congratulated myself in front of the cats and told them how I saved a bat, and how bats are really neat creatures and they are disappearing because of a white, fatal fungus. They had not even one eff to give about bats and why hadn't you opened a can of cat food, what else do you think you're good for? It was a good thing I was down to two wire hangers or there would have been beatings, and I think they would have won. Can you even buy wire hangers anymore? They are on the grocery list.
We will sleep while the little bats flutter in crazy zigzags in the night sky, eating bugs and doing bat somersaults. I love to watch them, but the immense clouds of bats that once came out of far off warehouses that I could watch from my window have dwindled down to a few occasional visitors.
Little winged brown angels, busy doing their bat business while we of the diurnal dream and shift throughout the night. Sleep and dream, human, dream of wings that let you fly and taste the night sky.
Sleep well, with love.
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