Threats

Written on a day where there was a shooting threat that everyone at Sachem North "was going to die":

I can't believe we live in a world where students have to walk through metal detectors to learn, where ID badges and desks are the only line of defense, where we should be worried every time we go to a mall. Why can't the defense be a pen, a pencil, a piece of paper? A conversation with a friend, family member, teacher, anyone?

Instead, we are reduced to threats written on bathroom stalls, guns drawn on Christmas shoppers, and fear clouding our everyday lives like an impending storm hanging over our heads, waiting for the first drop of rain to fall, which will bring about the deluge, the torrent that will flood the world until we have to start all over again from the beginning.

What's for breakfast?

I have nothing to say.
I am a ball of paper, crumpled up into a mangled globular mess being shot through the air into the nearest waste-basket.
I am a tree that can no longer bare fruit due to a recent fungus infestation.
I am a river that has dried up.
I am a crayon box with one color.
I am a cigarette that just won't light.
I am a kernel that just won't pop.
I am a sneeze that just won't happen.

Gesundheit.

I need a second to breathe.
To come up from the water and take a breath.
To take a drink of water after a 3-day drought.
To find where I'm going after having been lost.

I need to not step into the same river twice.
i need to make everyday better for someone other than me.
Someone needs to make my everyday better.
I need to live everyday as if living everyday was uncertain.

My brain is fried like two eggs over a hot burner, skillet turned on high, crackling ham and melting cheese, aroma wafting in the beaming, hot sun of dawn, pine air refreshing the smell of dirt and dust, earth that is revolving, tilting, spinning, catapulting light years into and away from a black hole of oblivion.

Better

It's amazing to comment on how far I've come so far this year. Time-wise. I mean, I'm already (almost) halfway through the 2nd quarter, and it's already almost December.

However, I still feel like my head's back in September. Am I doing any good to my students?

I got into this job hoping that I would have a constant impact on my students and to teach them something I knew that they didn't. But, apparently this is easier said than done. I am constantly longing for the discourse that I had as a student in college, being challenged constantly by my professor and thinking sophisticatedly and outside the box, expanding my brain. But, to achieve this in high school is near-impossible.

The first week of school I quoted to my students something from Plato, something Protagoras said to his students: “If you associate with me, the result will be that on the very day you begin you will return home a better person, and the same will happen the next day too. Each day you will make constant progress towards being better.” I truly believe that some one person can have this impact on somebody else. And I'd like to think I'm capable of that with my students. But, I don't know if they're capable of accepting that.

How do I get them to that point? How do I get them to be better?

Wander This World

Starbucks. Stuyvesant Plaza. Sigur Ros. My room is dark, but there is a glow from within. There are only sounds within my dark room; the outside world is mute. My days go by in slow-motion playback. Take the bus back to State. Walk by myself through Dutch and Colonial. Listen to Jonny Lang on my CD player. I'm wandering this world, all alone.

How come whenever I start something new, and I feel like I don't know what I'm doing, I always get reminded of Albany? If I had never gone to school there, would these "first-experiences" be even harder?

Sitting in Starbucks--Selden this time--I wonder how I got here. And I believe it is from those first year experiences; it is through the wandering I did and have done, the wandering that is just inherent in human nature, of which I am just trying to do my part.....But, I think I just need to keep wandering this world right now. Alone, or not.

My personal credo

I stand for equality - we are all different, but the same. The world may have a multitude of religions, colors, races, languages, but in the end, we are all humans with hands, feet, toes, eyes, feelings and a heart the same physical breakdowns as the next person.

I know people are inherently good. We are born GOOD, but as we progress in age, we regress in good-naturedness. However, all we have to do is think back to our earliest memory - there is good in that. One of my earliest memories is as a kid, one, two, three, years old, bib around my neck, cake all over my face and all these people who loved me surrounding me, singing to me. There is only good in that; in that circumstance I know nothing bad at all. Does that type of situation still exist?

I stand for love. Like the famous quote, "Love makes the world go around." Hatred just adds fuel to an already enraging fire. Love more, and there will be less to hate.

I know it's hard to love someone or something that's so full of hate. That is near impossible. But, if we learn to forgive people who are so full of hate, then maybe we can teach them how to love. I am reminded of the brother of Rachel Scott, the first person to be murdered at Columbine High School. He learned to forgive his sister’s murderers for what they did, so that he could have peace of mind back, and to start channeling all the negativity that strained from that event into positivity as a motivational speaker.

I stand for family. Without family, I would not be here. They are my home that I keep returning to, and they are the blooming forest of trees that were planted when I was born.

I stand for the power of information. There is nothing more powerful than one's mind. Yet, the mind is being ignored these days with the onset of video games, high def television, computers that think for you, and the indolent iGeneration. Pick up a book, read some quotes, and respond to them! Interpret the words to fit your life and your mind! Then, go and tell someone else about it! Then, after you've successfully molded your mind and helped mold somebody else's, then go and take a well-deserved break.

I stand for educating the mind AND the body, as Plato told his students to do. Both entities must be able to work together in order to function at all. Take time out to go for a run or a hike, break the old bike out of the shed and discover new terrain. We are not physically fit until we are mentally fit as well.

It is in this new terrain that we can open our eyes to see things differently, the way others see them. With others’ help, the world can be a good place, the way it was intended. Remember - let one hand wash the other, but both hands wash the face. And it is because our hands each have five fingers, and all of our faces have two eyes, two ears, a nose, and a mouth, that we can all do this cleansing together, as one body and one mind.

a new day

today i broke up with my girlfriend. a girl named hali, whom i've been seeing for about the past month and who has treated me absolutely wonderfully.
i, however, can't say the same of myself. i hold myself up to a relationship standard, always have. this time around, i am also dealing with my life with a full-time job as a first-year teacher. the work never ends for this job, and i feel the effects day in and day out. and one area of my life is dragging the other down. so, i had to make some choices. and that's how i got to where i am.
also today, we had an assembly at school based on the life of rachel joy scott. she challenged people to make a difference from day to day, to keep a journal, and to appreciate the people in your lives whom you love the most and whom you will always keep close to you. during this part of the presentation, the presentor asked the audience to close their eyes and picture the 4 or 5 people in your lives who absolutely mean the most to you day in and day out. each one of these people for me was a member of my family. no one else was really in this category right now.
family is #1 for me, and right now, work is a close second. i dedicate almost all of my day, my waking hours, to school and my students, and it is not easy. but, as i will keep saying, and have already said, "the ends justify the means."

Paralysis

I am feeling paralyzed. I want to write, write, write, but all I can do is grade, grade, grade.
I want to read, read, read, McCourt and Sartre and Tsu, but all I can think of is Poe, and Pigman, and Piggy.
I want to think about music and movies and more, but all I can think of is Mike Mancuso, Mark Mason, and Marisa Martinez.
I want to sleep, and wake up when it's light out.
I want to go out at night, party till the morning light, and not have to worry about homeroom at 8:02.

But, I want to inspire, invent, and invigorate.
I want to motivate, mitigate, and mesmerize.
I want to make students try, trust themselves and me, and then try again.

I want to teach.

Only teaching three weeks, I have already had a milestone in my career. Monday morning, thoughts of Office Space and the "case of the Mondays" inevitably running through my mind, in addition to a million other things, I ran into a rainstorm, and left my umbrella at home. My large Dunkin Donuts coffee--just milk, no sugar--toppled down off of my armful of paperwork, and landed all over my brand new shirt, Dockers, and students' notebooks. All before first period!

My discontent was radiating from my coffee-stained pores. I wished General Zaroff would leap out of the pages of "The Most Dangerous Game" and shoot me with his pistol right then and there. End the embarrassment and ridicule.
But, fate stepped in, and I was saved by understanding co-workers, who told me to go home and change. On this hiatus, I took a step back, and realized that the students were not learning anything from my low-energy. Just because my morale was low due to my coffee stain did not mean my students should have to suffer. I returned to my classrooms re-energized and enthusiastic, and my students responded more favorably than earlier that morning.

That day, I was the one learning a lesson first period, even if my students didn't. Every day, I must teach as if I haven't spilled coffee all over my shirt, for if I am miserable like I was after the coffee incident, the students will not learn anything, and they, too, will be in a state of paralysis.

The Elasticity of Life

This is exactly how I had hoped the night would end up.

You see, I've been feeling creatively stagnant lately, like the water that gets backed up in your garden after heavy rainfall, the water that has yet to settle into the soil. I had hoped to drink, and drink until I hit the point where I experience the "click," as Ignatius in A Confederacy of Dunces likes to call it. And this drinking, as I remember Professor of British Literature Charlie Robinson saying, makes us more worldly, so that we talk about more important, more scholarly things than if we were to just drink a case of Natty Light, for instance.

I was thinking about possibilities for my creative banter even before I went out tonight, as I was lying down in the foyer of my house, waiting for my buddy Dave to pick me up and take me to the bar. I was staring up at the ceiling, thinking about rubber bands.

Seriously, rubber bands. Until a few days ago, I had been wearing a light-green thick rubber band on my right wrist for a few weeks now, since right before I got the job at Sachem. I felt some kind of importance with it when I met my new boss for a drink and he was wearing the same color rubber band on his wrist. And just last week, when my cousin, another wrist-rubber-band-wearer, had asked me if there was any significance to my rubber band, I hesitated and had to ponder an answer to his question.

I couldn't come up with an answer.

But I know quite a few people who wear rubber bands on their wrists. And I wonder, what is the symbolism in this piece of elastic? As I was lying in my foyer, waiting for Dave to pick me up, I was looking at the chandelier right above me. This chandelier has been in this house ever since I've been here, which is now 18 years, and probably even before that. Yet, it has been held up by the same cord the entire time. This one cord, which lasts decades, has been holding up the light above us without fail for almost 20 years now. But, I never pay attention to this very important cord. Instead, I--like many other rubber band-wearers--place the importance on the elastic cord I place around my wrist every so often. The same rubber band that breaks after being worn out after so many days. Imagine if the cord holding up our light wore out as often. Our light would come crashing down on us.

As I was thinking about this cord-conundrum, I was staring out my screen door at the sky, which was being bombarded with strikes of heat lightning. I was thinking about what would happen if lightning struck as often as rubber bands break; if, like the chandelier cord, light could just fall down and strike us with a drop of a dime, or, a snap of a rubber band. I wonder why people place so much significance on something that can snap and be ruined at any moment.

I suppose, however, that maybe that's how we should be living our lives. As if they could break from their spiral routine any minute, from being too worn out, or too weak to carry on.

I suppose that was what was going through my head when Dave picked me up, and I decided to go out and live up my life to its full elasticity, securely fit and strong around my wrist each and every day.

Measuring Life in Odometer Miles

Do you ever pay attention to your odometer? I always look at my odometer; it's like my crystal ball. The miles I travel in my car are symbols for my life.

I remember pulling out of Ralph's two summers ago, after managing my first year there, at 45,000. I remember crossing the border between Queens and Nassau County on my way home from school last year, at 55,000. I'm constantly looking at my odometer in hopes of noticing these little coincidences.

Often, I will look at my miles, and the mileage will match the temperature exactly. For instance, tonight, as I was driving home from Border's, my odometer read 71,710 and it was 71 degrees out. How do these coincidences keep occurring? And why do I keep noticing them? I tell you what, though: I'm not going to pass them off as merely a chance occurrence.

My 71,710 drive tonight was kind of significant. Well, my odometer reminded me to check the significance of my drive and my night. I was at Border's reading up on some education and teaching material, preparing for my double-dose of interviews that I have tomorrow. I ran into the mother of a friend of mine, whose husband happens to be an assistant principal in one of the districts where I am interviewing tomorrow. Another coincidence.

Nervous as I was in preparation for tomorrow, I did, however, manage to crack a smile with the Border's employee who rung me up. Straying from the normal clerk-customer pleasantries, she responded to my "How are you" inquiry with, "Just a little sunburnt," (obvious from her lobster pigmentation surrounding her blue tank top), "but working through it." Continuing to catch me off guard, since cashier-banter is rare and mostly banal these days, she commented on my shirt, an image of Ben Folds that says "Sham On." We got to talking about Ben's touring schedule, and I asked her if she's ever seen him in concert. She remarked that she "hasn't had the privilege" and when I responded that he comes around the area pretty regularly, she said so matter-of-factly that she's "kinda from Kansas." And her fun, teasing matter made me laugh in an unexpected, much-needed way, that it made me wish that every interaction with a stranger should go this way, with a friendliness and a worldliness that proves each of us is inherently good and sincere, something I've been wishing would be proven to me for a long time. Unfortunately, I'll need some more experiences like the one with the lobster-colored Kansan to truly be convinced of that.

Earlier today, before 71,710, I was discussing with a friend of mine "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot, wherein I was trying to remember the line, "Do I dare to eat a peach?" So simple, yet so profound. Upon a reread of the poem, I am struck once again by the line, "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons," and it makes me think of how I've been measuring my life with the miles I travel in my car. There are so many metaphors I can discuss from here about the road of life, and as Martin Sexton says, "It's in the journey that we find that there is no destination," but I'll save the road metaphor for another place and time.

Backtracking just a bit, I will return to the topic of coincidences, on and off the road. Whenever I think of coincidences, chance happenings--a run-in with the parent of an old friend, a random encounter with a stranger, the alignment of my odometer--I can't help but think of James Redfield's novel, The Celestine Prophecy, in which Redfield discusses nine insights into human culture. A few of these insights revolve around a certain recognition of coincidences that occur in our lives from day to day. According to Redfield, we are to proceed forward from these coincidences until our awakening to life's coincidences opens us up to the real purpose of human existence on Earth, and the real nature of our universe in which we live. Whenever these things happen to me--at Border's, in my car, or wherever--I am always trying to place their significance in my life as a whole, or the story of my life as others might see it.

As I see it, my story is constantly changing, with new chapters beginning and ending with each (you guessed it...) turn in the road.

Standing Outside the Fire

The great thing about coming back home to Long Island is the off-chance, the random occasion, that you see somebody out whom you haven't seen in ages, and whom you are actually happy to encounter. This happened to me tonight at Applebees with an old friend of mine, Dennis Regan.

Dennis and I were in Scouts together, so we saw each other every Tuesday for 6 or 7 years (if not more), in addition to all the camping trips and other weekly events that we Scouts used to partake in.

One time, on a trip to Washington DC, Dennis and I formed a band with a couple of other of the guys; we called ourselves the Hot Scouts of America. We even wrote a creed, in the form of a Batman & Joker-sort, out of cheese-in-a-can written on Ritz Crackers, which proclaimed that we were the Hot Scouts and any intruders shan't mess with us. Man, we were cool.

Dennis and I really haven't stayed in touch since he delivered the convocation at my Eagle ceremony in 2004. I was really glad to have one of my best friends in the group induct me into this selective group that we had all striven to be a part of ever since we joined, as Cub Scouts, back before we had any sense of what Scouting was or what it would mean to us.

Scouting taught me how to be part of a community; it taught me how to give back to others and how to let myself have fun at the same time; it taught me values and morals--personal integrity--that I carry with me from day-to-day, wherever I go; it taught me how to appreciate others and all that other people do for me.

I hope Dennis looks back on his Scouting experience as fondly as I do. It's something I don't talk about too often, but something I'm damn proud of. It has made me who I am today, without a doubt. And it's funny, in the ironic/"this must be a sign or a symbol for something" kind of way that earlier today I finally--after three years have passed--hung up all of my Eagle Scout plaques in my room, as a constant reminder of the values and good memories in my life that I should cherish and keep with me always.

As I finish typing this rather reminiscent blog, it is only fitting that the shuffle on my iTunes brings up the one song that will always remind me of Scouting: "Standing Outside the Fire" by Garth Brooks. Now, I'm not really one for country, but the Baiting Hollow Scout Camp would always play this song at their end-of-the-week campfire, where they showed clips from the week to all the campers, who got the opportunity to hoot and holler at the counselors who became friends that week, or their fellow Scouts who were caught in the act of goofing off.

But I can use Garth Brook's song as a metaphor to my own life: a reminder to constantly stand outside the fire, and look at both my own reflection in the flames and the images of those people who are surrounding me, joining me in my campfire in my camp, where I am the counselor, constantly stealing glances to my clipboard, planning activities, and living my life one day, one week, one summer at time, with the help and support of those who currently surround me (my campers) and those who are there to surround me and support me for the long run (my counselors-in-training). Everyone I meet has their choice of camper or CIT; they have to learn stand outside the fire themselves and make their own choice.

Sometimes, you just need to run into someone from the past like Dennis Regan to remind you to take a step back and see where you've been and where you're going.

Speed Limit LI

Driving down the road, looking into my rear-view mirror, I see the reflection of trees coming through the sunroof onto my sunglasses, trees that pass by with each mile per hour; and I am singing soulfully with the windows down, my hand out the window, feeling the air whip by with each mile per hour; and I know that I am home in Long Island, where the trees overhead and the wind all around and the music in my ears all remind me that this is where I should be, for each mile per hour in a day, everyday.

Where the Ocean Meets the Sky

Sometimes on lonely nights I like to take a drive to the beach and stare out onto the water and think. Tonight, since I'm in Delaware and the closest "beach" is an hour and a half away--and not just a drive down Nicolls Road to Corey Beach, as it would be at home--I decided to drive to nearby historic New Castle, where Delaware Avenue collides with the Delaware River in a fantastic view of the Delaware Memorial Bridge that connects this small state with New Jersey.

I don't know exactly what it is about the ocean--or any body of water for that matter--that leaves me basking in wonder and amazement. It may be the salty air, or the marriage of land and water, or the infinite distance that is the horizon. Sometimes it is the reflections of streetlights or the light of the moon bouncing off the water, or the sound of the choppiness in the waves, or the 10-foot long reflection of my body being stretched along the water, a shadow being cast by the light of the moon onto the massive canvass of the ocean; whatever it is, I am at home around the beach or water.

Tonight, as I was walking along the path adjacent to the Delaware River in New Castle, I was remembering a phrase that my dear friend Cos had uttered to my friends and I nearly three years ago to the day. It was after a long night of heavy drinking down the Jersey shore, where we rented a house on the beach in Long Beach Island for a week--ten guys, recent college freshmen, on vacation together with no inhibitions and endless supply of beer and food.

It was one of the best weeks of my life.

One night during that week, we were all sitting on a bench on the beach, facing the ocean, feeling blissfully peaceful (and no doubt foolishly drunk), when Cos uttered his now-infamous proverb: In 5, 10 years, this is where I want to be. This is where we all should be. We want to be there--(pointing out to sea)--where the ocean meets the sky.

We all proceeded to vision ourselves in 5 or 10 years down the road, being in this same place of contentness and resolve, that we bought into Cos' madness and repeated his oration of being where the ocean meets the sky, until we all doubled over laughing at the absurdity of the statement.

Despite the absurdity, now three years later, I am still facing the water, striving to be where the ocean meets the sky, wanting to own that feeling of infinity, of limitlessness, of bliss with a hint of uncertainty, and hope that, whether in Corey Beach, New York; Long Beach Island, New Jersey; or here in New Castle, Delaware; I'm on my way.

Last Night

On the last night of my four years as an undergraduate student, I find myself sitting by myself on a street corner, waiting for a bus to come around and take me home.

The bus would never come.

After chatting over the phone with an old friend, I start walking past the bus stop, and chat idly with a fellow bus-patron, also waiting patiently (more patient than me) for our transportation.

I find out that Gokuhl is from India, studying here in Delaware for his masters in Hotel, Restaurant, and Institutional Management. We start out discussing the bus and its very late schedule. We make our way to India and America, and his opinions on the two. I find out Gokuhl is a foreigner who absolutely loves everything America has to offer, its land rife with opportunity and ambition; this is reassuring to me, someone who is gravely worried about the state of our nation, viewed through the eyes of outsiders.

We decide to ditch the bus and walk back to our neighborhoods together, since we're heading in the same direction, and we doubt we will encounter any other reasonable company for the remainder of the time waiting for the bus (which never actually came).

On our walk back, Gokuhl and I discuss the problems we have with the American Woman, international relations, and racism, a topic I tend to gravitate towards. I hate that racism exists in our country, and, although I can't put my fingers around a specific cause, I am committed to the cause for stopping it altogether. Gokuhl had an interesting take on racism: that it should be accepted by all that it is inherent and innate within/among all of us, that we are all appealing to the differences we have with people around us, and that it should be viewed as a reflection of our society and our people.

This is a view I've never really discussed before. Is racism so common these days that it can be blamed outright on society itself? Is there nothing we can do to prevent or deter people in our society for having this predicament and this predilection towards racism and racist remarks? As I sit here, on the night before my graduation, this is what is running through my mind. This is what I need on graduation for the conferral of my degree, the state of mind that will be conferred along with my diploma, into my life as an educator and as someone who appreciates us all for who we are - individuals and Americans.

The Past Four Years: A Look Back

Today, as I was running along the James F. Hall Trail here in Newark, Delaware, observing the towering green trees, their branches drooping over the path, I started thinking about how far I've come over these past four years of college.

The song was "You Never Know" by Dave Matthews Band. The lines,
"I find it hard to explain
How I got here
I think I can I think I can
but then again I will falter...
dream"
made me look up at the sky, trying to discern what the order of the clouds meant, each one blending into one another, the sun trying to peek its way through, like the light seeping through the window shades as night gives way to morning.

As I saw this effluence of light, I was transported to my state of mind four years prior. Instead of running four miles three times a week, while listening to the joyful noise of Dave on my iPod, my only exercise in Albany, New York, was my two-mile treks to Stuyvesant Plaza, where I would visit The Book House or Starbuck's, while listening to the soulful sounds of Jonny Lang on my CD player, looking at Po Bronson's self-help book, What Should I Do With My Life?, for any answers it could give, and observing jovial friends, strangers, mingle over a cup of coffee.

I was in a different world back then: overweight, depressed, gloomy like the foreboding skies and weather forecasts that abounded in Albany. I used to listen to that sadness-laden music, and read those self-help, life-inspiring books, as if the troubles they told of were my own.

Now after three years living in Delaware, knowing what I should do with my life, I can take those depressing texts--the songs, movies, books, for which sadness is a theme--and channel that sadness into a positive process of finding a way out. As a teacher, I can educate others through these texts that explore these types of themes, that the end justifies the means, that we are here to pursue happiness, and that one day it will come, and having that knowledge is all we need to get us through each day with the hope that that one day will come, and on that day, the sun will shine through the clouds right down upon us, where each of us is standing, basking in the glory of our lives.

A Toast to My Major

Here's a toast that I gave last night at my English Education Graduation Ceremony:

Tuesday has always been our day.

We first came together on a Tuesday: sixteen faces, some familiar and some not, looking to figure out exactly how we were going to teach in only a few months. And here we are eight months later, on our final Tuesday: sixteen certified friends and (almost) certified teachers coming together to commemorate our accomplishments in student-teaching over these months.

We've certainly encountered hardships along the way, but we've had the benefit of a trusted guide: Deb Alvarez. Dr. Alvarez, whom we have fondly renamed Alvie, has been with us through all the debacles and triumphs, giving us meaningful advice that has helped us through our first experiences truly teaching teenagers the art of the English language.

Nestled in our alcove of 107 Memorial, we came together as a family, supporting one another with open ears, open arms, and open mouths (for those weekly snacks).

Dr. Alvarez taught us crazy methods, entertaining us with experiences that were both horrifying and hilarious, but which always contained a lesson at the end. It was almost as if our class, by itself, was one of Dr. Alvarez's anecdotes: we were an allegory for the entire teaching profession, huddled inside Plato's cave, peering our inexperienced heads out, trying to discern what the shadows on the wall meant.

The fire in our cave continued to burn brighter into the spring semester, and the shadows slowly became shapes. Standing here now, in the highlight of our experiences, we can finally understand what Dr. Alvarez was teaching all along; we have become enlightened.

Now it is our time to leave Tuesday behind, to go out into the world and keep that fire burning. We must present our lives to our students, offering them shadows to figure out with our support. We must strive to enlighten. I think Taylor Mali says it best, and I want to leave each of you gambrinous, pusillanimous, zucchetto-wearing whipjacks with his wisdom. When asked "What Teachers Make," he says with conviction: "I make a goddamn difference! What about you?" Congratulations: this is a profession rich in rewards, and I wish you all the best.

My Senior Will

I taught my 12th grade class for the last time last Monday. I wanted to go out on a good note and do an activity that kind of summed up everything I've taught them this semester. So, I decided on a summative activity, where I had the students reflect on the themes of the works we've read and then write their own senior will. This turned out to be an activity they loved, one that showed their power as writers and as thinkers (they're a deep group!)

I wrote a senior will of my own, since, as I shared with them, I am a graduating senior as well! Here it is:

The first theme I’d like to write about is overcoming racial divides. One of the most deplorable characteristics of our country is its disposition towards racism and prejudicial biases. We all need to get together as one, as Americans, whether black, white, yellow or brown. We saw this theme of overcoming racial divides in The House of Sand and Fog with the Behranis trying to assimilate into the culture of the US. In my own life, I try to bridge the gaps between the races in this country by accepting everyone I meet and influencing everyone I meet to be as acceptant as I am.

The second theme I chose to write about is excessive pride. Pride is the #1 fault of this country, and we are all to blame. I mean, who doesn’t want to be proud of accomplishments and skills? I certainly am. But, in spite of this, I try not to let pride get the best of me. One of my favorite quotes is from the ancient philosopher, Boethius, who advises, “If then you are master of yourself, you will be in possession of that which you will never wish to lose, and which Fortune will never be able to take from you.” I try to be myself, and not succumb to fortune or excessive pride. We saw pride in Paradise Lost and Gulliver’s Travels, but it is a theme found in many texts we read and movies we see, often acting as the fatal flaw of the main character.

I, Mr. Weston, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, on Monday, April 30, 2007, do make and publish this, my senior Will:

I give, devise, and bequeath to my parents, Mr. & Mrs. Weston, the following: unconditional love and support, equal custody of all my accomplishments and successes, and unending gratitude for their support these four years, plus two epic tailgates and countless needed visits to Delaware.

I give, devise, and bequeath to my roommates Matt Hayes, Matt Nilssen, and Dan Wanger, the following: dance parties in the fourth floor of Harter, throwing pizza at windows, bouncing the ball off The Dude in the Towers, breaking bread at the “fashion don’ts” parties, 351 Apt. #1 & 2 and its yellow couch covers, bread in the oven, garbage couch, and overall good times.

I give, devise, and bequeath to my sister, Amanda Weston, the following: my ridiculous sense of humor and ridiculously good taste in music, movies, and television (including the following: Dave Matthews Band, 24, Arrested Development, etc.); our recent tradition of Dave Matthews Band concerts, including last summer when we were 7 rows from the stage; and the tolerance and respectfulness that is making her into a really good, respectable person.

I give, devise, and bequeath to my English Education (XEE) friends at the University of Delaware, the following: hardcore support, 3:30 at Grotto’s every Friday, shoulders to lean on, ears for listening to any and all complaints, and constant laughs with Alvie in 111 Memorial.

I give, devise, and bequeath to Dr. Theilacker, the following: the immense support and mentoring I needed to get me where I am, the encouragement to help start me on my career, and the knowledge of everything teaching and everything English.

I give, devise, and bequeath to Pat Armetta, my boss and good friend, the following: instilling in me the desire to work hard and be successful, the opportunity to manage a business and learn the importance of business ethics, and the overall desire to help and support others.

I give, devise, and bequeath to Jeremy Whiteman and Meg Rector, the following: endless good times working at Trabant Delivery, you guys made that hassle of a job into a fun time to get together with friends; concerts, seeing Kristen and the Noise (an excellent performer) and Martin Sexton; and the unending support of two good friends.

I give, devise, and bequeath to Isaac Ramaswamy, the following: the strong belief in the success of others; the desire to help others, even with nothing to gain for yourself other than the joy of seeing someone else succeed.

I give, devise, and bequeath to everyone else I have met at the University of Delaware; my friends back home in Long Island; my students at Howard High School; and my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents across the board, the following: my unending love and eternal gratitude for always being there for me and supporting me in all my endeavors. This, and all of the future, is for all of you.

Reflect on the Lake

The room is inviting, but intimidating. I sit, my suit neatly pressed and my resume polished and printed, my fingers interlocked, sweat building on the insides of my palms, waiting for someone, anyone, to call my name.
The secretary, Sandy, the most standard clerical name I can think of, keeps stealing me glances and smiles. She is the most kind face I have seen so far, waiting for my interview.
As I'm waiting, engaging in quiet, polite conversation with Sandy about the greatness of the University of Delaware, I keep glancing up at the clock, watching the minute-hand pass by laboriously on the clock, as if, in its place, there were Lilliputians trying to move the Great Man-Mountain from one place to the next.
Finally, I hear "Jonathan" and immediately rise, stick out my hand, and greet my caller, as if this response was designed by Pavlov himself.
The rest is a daze, a battlefield of questions being shot at me, with the immediate despair brought about upon encountering their much bigger, much better army.
I am left with no solutions, no closure, grasping for any ounce of solace a kind patron might throw my way.

Looking for answers all afternoon, I finally decide it's time to get out of the house, get a fix (coffee) and drive to the one place I can think of that makes sense at the moment.
Walter C. Dunham came to Lake Ronkonkoma in 1955 with the purpose of educating the community that was growing out of this lake-resort town.
He would then become the first superintendent of Sachem School District, one that would grow to become one of the biggest in New York State.
This lake is a reflection of the sun which looks down upon it, but also of anyone who looks upon it for its sheer beauty. It is a home to millions--both those creatures and animals that live in it and the people who inhabit the area around it. I want to be able to walk up to the lake, dip my feet in the water, look down at my reflection, and see me smiling back at me.

Walter C. Dunham came to this area for a reason. He saw something special, something different in the people who trod upon its soil. And he wanted to give the best thing he could offer to them--a good public education. As I sit here, looking at my reflection bounce of the lake's surface, right along with the sun's rays, I want to do the same.

Long Island Dreamin'

It's the same thing each year.

The weather starts getting nicer, I've had enough of the school year, and I start wishing I was back home in Long Island. [As an aside: I am aware that I say "in" Long Island, when it should be "on" Long Island, and for those of you who constantly remind me of this grammatical blunder, I do not care!]

But yeah, the springtime blues are in full bloom here in Delaware. I write this on the eve of a trip back home, actually. However, my trip tomorrow is going to be short-lived; it is an interview that will hopefully seal my fate as English teacher in my beloved Sachem school district. Although, I won't even be home for 24 hours. I need a full-blown week at home, with free access to the beach, White Castle, Ralph's Ices, and Strathmore. Maybe throw some New England clam chowder in a bread bowl down in Port Jeff in there, for good measure.

As I was driving today, reeling after a rough day at school, the wind blowing in all directions through my car, I wished I could just drive right to the beach, sit in the sand, put my toes in the wet sand where the ocean meets the shore, and just gaze out onto the horizon, putting all my troubles at bay for at least a short time, when everything else around me is serene. Instead, I was stuck in Delaware driving on I-95 next to the funky, malodorous fetor of a garbage dump. To drive to the beach would take at least an hour and a half. It's not even like I go to the beach that often when I'm home. I think I just like it for security: it symbolizes home, and the close proximity of the beach is a calm reminder that serenity is just a short drive down the road.

In the meantime, I will keep playing my countless songs that remind me of home, and, who knows, maybe in the 15 hour time-span that I'm home over the next two days I will drop by the beach just so I can put my toes in the sand and feel one tiny grain of peace to hold me over until I'm back home for good.

A Wonderful World

I just finished watching a video my uncle made up a few years ago celebrating the lives of my grandparents through pictures. Man, they've really had a wonderful life together. As I look through their life in pictures, I notice the immense happiness and love they have for each other and each and every person that's in the picture with them.

I feel lucky to have them in my life, to be in pictures with them, smiling back at the camera with them, knowing their love and life is mine as well.

I hope I can find the happiness that they have found and given to so many others during their lives.

The Soundtrack of My Life

In one of my ninth-grade classes, in order to promote individual expression and tolerance of all, I am assigning the students to create a soundtrack to their lives, with the eventual goal of each person picking one song that best describes them to be put onto a soundtrack of the classroom. Since I, too, am a member of the classroom, I wrote a soundtrack to my own life, which follows:

The first song on my soundtrack is an instrumental song called “Number Three” by Ben Harper. I’ve been listening to Ben Harper since high school, specifically 10^th grade. I remember the first time I bought one of his CDs, I was at the mall with Chris Cosgrove. Little did either of us know that later that summer, we would be seeing Ben open up for the Dave Matthews Band at Giants Stadium. The song puts me at ease, and leaves me in a tranquil state.

“Out of My Head” by Fastball is a classic car-ride sing-along song. It reminds me of the time sophomore year when I went to the Haunted House out east with the guys--Matt, Odie, Kyle, Cos, Jay Breinlinger--and we sang this song, driving out to the sticks in the dead of night. It’s an uplifting song that I can’t help but sing each and every time I hear it on the radio. Fastball also reminds me of the time in 1999 when I saw them in concert, opening for the Goo Goo Dolls and Sugar Ray. My Dad kept calling them “Fast pitch.”

The third song is “District Sleeps Alone Tonight” by Postal Service. This song reminds me of the end of high school or the beginning of college, the timeline is kind of a blur. The spunky electronics in the song appeal to the blur of when this song came into my life. Starting out slow, “District Sleeps…” is a bop-your-head song that I love to sing along to in a high falsetto, making each and every word my own, staging it as a screenplay rather than just a song, words that are created solely to be acted out. As the tempo increases, so does my love for and obsession with this song. The guitar riffs and synth-drum beats make me want to bop my head and run screaming about a “gaudy apartment complex.” The song evens out, leaving the listener content, after their tumultuous journey through Postal Service’s “District.”

The next song is “Honey and the Moon” by Joseph Arthur. This song reminds me immediately of my mood the entire time I lived in Albany, New York freshman year. I was longing for something, someone to lift me up. This song helped, even if just a little. I remember sending this song to my friend Katie Maro, who was going to college at New York University, after I had fallen in love with it. I remember calling her one night as I was ambling throughout the streets of Albany, searching for something I, nor anyone else around me, knew, and she told me how much she too loved the song. As Joseph Arthur says in “Honey and the Moon,” that comment “lit up my night.” This song helped me keep going in a time when that is exactly the type of inspiration I needed.

A band I discovered freshman year was the Icelandic band Sigur Ros, who have since become one of my favorites. Their music evokes emotion, and the song “Ny Batteri” brings forth a wave of sadness and the outpouring of emotion from the first note. Each time I listen to this song, I am taken on a ride in the ocean, where waves crest and then crash onto the shore, in a constant rhythmic motion. Though the language in which the singer sings is an ethereal, melodic blend of sounds, I feel like I can sing right along with him, in his own (and my own) made up melodic language. I start off in peace in this song, with the crescendos building and building until all the waves crash into the sand, and I am left staring up at the clear, blue sky, gasping for air and solace.

Jackson Browne’s “Fountain of Sorrow” is another song that reminds me of freshman year, when I was looking to music to help bring me up from that fallen place I had found myself. The image of the fountain is symbolic of my stay at Albany, a campus which is centered around an immense fountain, and the school year culminates with a celebration known as Fountain Day, during which undergraduates get together and celebrate coming out of the long, dark, cold winter they had just spent holed in their dorms, and welcome spring and the prospect of summer to counteract the wintry doldrums and sorrow, the topic about which Mr. Jackson Browne sings for us in this beautiful song.

Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” reminds me of a summer day, just back from the beach, sitting on the deck of the beach house, enjoying the setting sun and the beautiful feeling of relaxation.

One of my favorite songs of all-time, “All Along the Watchtower” by Bob Dylan, is an acoustic ode to making sense out of confusion and wonder. I first heard this song performed by Dave Matthews Band, and went searching for the original. I’ve encountered versions by Jimi Hendrix, as well as others, but none completely grab me the way that Dylan’s original does, with his harrowing harmonica booming over his careful acoustic guitar.

Finally, a DMB song - “You Never Know.” This song gives me a rush each time I listen to it. It was during this song at a concert at Madison Square Garden that I ran down from my nosebleed section with my friends Krista and Marcia to a section right next to the stage, the horns, guitars, bass, and drums booming in my ears and my favorite band just feet in front of me. The feeling was surreal, and that is the feeling I get each time I hear this song.

“Eastern Glow” by The Album Leaf is a beautiful song that reminds me of one of the best days of my life--a day at the beach. The morning was cloudy, overcast, and drizzly. My family and I decided to try and make the best of it and go mini-golfing and grab some lunch. When we got out of the sub shop, the clouds in the sky had parted and the sun was shining hot. We quickly headed back to the beach house, where we grabbed all our stuff and trekked together up to the beach, meeting the rest of the family at the beach head. I remember sitting on the beach that day, staring at the beautifully blue ocean and equally beautiful blue sky, listening to “Eastern Glow,” and thinking, “Damn, I am at complete peace right now.”

Cat Stevens’ “The Wind” has to be one of the shortest songs ever, but it speaks volumes. The lyrics, about questioning our souls and where we will end up in life, are so empowering, each time the song comes on, well, like Stevens says, “I let the music take me where my heart wants to go.”

Rufus Wainwright’s song “The Consort” reminds me of sophomore year and a love lost. I loved the idea of one person being someone else’s consort, someone else’s guide, an occupation I hope to once again own.

Ah, “Wonderwall” by Oasis: This could easily be the greatest song of my time. Nothing more can be said about it that isn’t already said in the song itself: “All the roads we have to walk are winding, And all the lights that lead us there are blinding…” The message of this song reminds me of a quote, from the philosopher Cicero, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

During Third Eye Blind’s “Motorcycle Drive By,” I am immediately stricken with pangs of summertime heat in New York City. The lines “I’ve never been so alone, and I’ve never been so alive,” are mirror images of myself at certain times in my life. And the singer says it so perfectly when he says, “I hope you take a piece of me with you.” I do.

Coldplay’s “Talk” is a more recent song, and I am completely in love with the guitar riff. The message in the song just grabs me right away and swallows me whole. The singer, scared about the future, is pleading to his brother to just talk with him, help him get through the hard times. Everyone needs someone during the hard times.

Soulive’s cover of “Crosstown Traffic” is a funky jazz tune that I can’t help but shout out or jam out to whenever it comes on. I love running to this song because it makes me run faster to the beat and feel like my feet have wings and are floating on air, as opposed to pounding the rough pavement.

I chose Badly Drawn Boy’s “Walking Out of Stride” because I love the concept of “Walking out of stride.” Each person should walk out of stride, be their own person. Lately, one of my 9^th grade English classes has been pointing out my unique walk, a comment that brings me back to high school. I may have a distinct walk, but it is unique to me, and so what if it’s out of stride!

Lastly, I chose the motivational song “Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)” because I am graduating in May and love the message this song conveys. The author correctly describes life as a child, teenager, young professional, adult, and old-aged granny, humanity is a whole. I will take the advice dispensed within this song with me for the rest of my life, and he warns, “Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.”

The Road of Life

The other day, I read "New Directions" by Maya Angelou with my 9th grade class. After we read, I had them write a short story or poem of their own about their own road of life, comparing their lives to roads and the things we encounter along the way. This is what I wrote:

Accelerate onto the LIE.
Dad's always telling me to watch out for the other person.
Look left, look right, but know the road ahead.
When I was ready to get off the LIE and onto a new path, I had a choice--Go north or south.
The northern route was to Albany, New York.
Turns out there were speed bumps along the way, made me slow down, re-evaluate where I wanted to go.
The next choice I had to make had me walking backwards, making a U-turn.
Turns out I should've gone south to Delaware.
Now I'm here at Howard High School, one month left of school -- Where to go next?
Up north, signal right, back over the Verrazano Bridge, merge back onto the LIE, go Home.

And on that note, it turns out I will be going home...back to Sachem, the school district where I've always called home, to teach English. I'm psyched by the idea of this.

Southampton Comes Alive

I am sitting in a cheese shop in Southampton, New York. There is a distinct smell of mahogany and peanut butter flavored coffee, which I just purchased and am currently drinking, while listening to the ramblings of the owner, Dean, who believes that the people living on the North Shore have more sophisticated tastes when it comes to food and drink than the inhabitants of the South Shore, where, like I said, I am currently sitting, trying to plan a lesson for school.

Dean's the type who is loyal to family and friends, and that filters through into his business, where he often greets customers by name, and with a little wit, as they arrive in his shop. "It's still Kendra, right?" he jokes with a customer who is unsuspecting of his charm and friendliness.

Dean is having a conversation with an old acquaintance, let's call her Eve, about Dean's family dynamics. Parents in Florida, Brother in Sacramento, Brother's Daughter hasn't talked to Brother in 20 years until reunited in Florida for Dad's birthday bash last weekend. Dean tells a story about how he rode in the same car as his parents, brother, and sister for the first time since 1976. He tells Eve all these details about his family, and she listens intently as if she knew them personally (and she may), all until Eve's friend Adam enters the cheese shop and they leave to go for a walk. Maybe I should take that as a sign that I should go back to reading Paradise Lost...

A stranger to these parts, sipping coffee from a drab, white paper cup, I am writing and scribbling endlessly while I should be doing my work, which is figuring out exactly how I will be teaching Milton's Paradise Lost to my group of inner-city twelfth graders in Delaware next week. If only Dean knew me from Adam...

Moving on down the road, I decide to try my lesson-planning luck at the Southampton Publick House, a microbrewery of the old-fashioned English type. My company is typical for four o'clock on a Tuesday in Southampton, New York: two old men, probably fishermen, locals gathering for a round at the local pub; two businessmen meeting for a drink and a meal before they head back to the city to catch their flight out west to Minneapolis or Milwaukee; an old wino lady trying her luck at beer with her girlfriends in town for a "ladies week" at the local bed and breakfast; and two young guys catching a beer during happy hour after a long day working for the department store in town.

These last two are wondering if I always bring my work to the bar. In fact, I say, this is the first time. I've decided to move up from the typical coffee shop, and, If only they'd let me drink before I teach my students, I say with a slight, lonely chuckle. We go on to explain our respective places in society, me as a student-teacher of English in Delaware, them as the advertising-execs at the local department store in this beautiful Long Island resort town. Their immediate judgments of me have since dissipated as they wish me luck, not only in teaching but in surviving the bottleneck that is Sunrise Highway/Montauk Highway during rush hour in the Hamptons.

One of the young advertising-execs' advice was to stay in the right lane on the Highway--it moves faster than the left, surprisingly--a piece of advice he never told anyone about until just that moment, I finishing up my Irish Ale and he starting his India Pale Ale, both of us looking for some solace on this long island.

The advice worked.

Why I'm Going to be a Teacher

While I've been teaching Speak to my 9th grade classes, I have been assigning journal prompts for the students to write about. One of the prompts that I assigned last week was "What would you change about high school?" I got one response from a real top-notch student of mine that was a real eye-opener to me, and especially from the perspective of a person who is new to teaching altogether. Here is her response:

If I could change somethings in high school, I would change the student and teacher relationship. I think that teachers don't make much of an impact in their students' life, like they used to when we were in middle school. I also believe that for some kids, a teacher and student relationship is very important and gives some students the extra confidence to know that even when you believe that you can't do something, they [teachers] have the confidence that you can.
I believe that the big difference from middle school to high schol is that teachers don't appear to be or want to be close to the students like the middle school teachers do; they actually take the time off to get to know the students. That's the only thing I would change about high school.

This was a real eye-opener to read. My whole motivation for teaching is to connect with students on some level. As Gary Allison would say, to reach and teach each and every student, one student at a time. I want my students to know that I care and that's why I am going to be a teacher.

A Picture Lines Each Sidewalk

I just went on a run through an empty campus since just about everyone else that goes to the University of Delaware is on spring break right now but me and my fellow student teachers.

But that's not what I want to focus on in this post. When I wrote the words "empty campus" I had an image of something else come to mind, that of an empty canvas. I was thinking that, as I am running, my shadow runs along side of me, covering the side upon which I walk, the ground upon which I tread. My shadow, alongside me, paints a picture of the places I go, a picture of myself that I too can see, along with everybody else with whom I surround myself.

Everywhere you go, you are painting a picture with the steps you make, upon the empty canvas of your world. Look to your shadow as a your mirror image, a brushstroke to guide you along as you paint your masterpiece, your life as it should be lived.

Life

Lately, the word I have been overusing is the word "life." I say it all the time, even when it's a weird place to say it. But I think it's a good word to overuse. I mean it's not a curse word, it has a rather positive connotation, there are no images of the grim reaper that appear when you say it. So I think you should think about this word, life, and what it means to you. Think about how often you say it a day. It may be more than you think. Think about what the word "life" means to you. Then use it in whatever way life compels you.

Macabre

Have you ever heard a song and just said to yourself, or to anyone around you, "I want this song to be played at my funeral!"

Probably not. But I have. And probably with that same exclamation.

There's something amazingly beautiful about Jeff Buckley's rendition of "Corpus Christi Carol" that brings tears to the eyes, and an image of a lost loved one. A beautiful summation of a life.

Here are the lyrics:

He bear her off, he bear her down
He bear her into an orchard ground

Lu li lu lay lu li lu lay
The falcon hath bourne my mate away

And in this orchard there was a hold
That was hanged with purple and gold
And in that hold there was a bed
And it was hanged with gold so red

Lu li lu lay lu li lu lay
The falcon hath bourne my mate away

And on this bed there lyeth a knight
His wound is bleeding day and night
By his bedside kneeleth a maid
And she weepeth both night and day

Lu li lu lay lu li lu lay
The falcon hath bourne my mate away

By his bedside standeth a stone
Corpus christi written thereon


I just love the image of the falcon. Who's your falcon?

The Click

Lately in student-teaching, I have been working my ass off. Some people might ask why (and they have). And I can never give them a great response. I'm just a hardworker, I always manage to say. And that is true. But it's something more than that. I know the end game; I can see it. I've had a click recently, and not just the one that Tennesse Williams tends to talk about. I want to be a teacher because I truly like kids, and I like the art of teaching someone something, especially something that I am fascinated with, something I love.

Now student teaching isn't always "all that and a bag of chips." I never really knew what that saying meant or where it really came from. A quick google search of the origin of the saying "all that and a bag of chips" comes up relatively short. With only links to Urban Dictionary and this quiz, which I failed to answer, the first question being "Are older men attracted to you?".

I guess, in that case, I'm neither all that nor a bag of chips. Damn.

But anyway, teaching certainly has its drawbacks. It eats up your time like that bag of chips that I can now eat without fear of being labeled a type of cannibal. I guess for now, I'll press on and keep working hard, so that the payoff is high and I can enjoy what I'm doing, sitting in my comfortable recliner, watching my life unfold before me, with nothing on my lap but the remote control and, oh yeah, what about a bag of chips?

You Can Call Me Al-Jazeera

Since in the past couple of days my family has decided that we may be going to Jamaica in June to celebrate my cousin's wedding, I need to acquire a passport, a long, arduous process, that will take quite a few months. One of the first steps is getting a passport photo. So, my Dad and I went to CVS today to accomplish just that.

Let me remind you that I just shaved my head. Now let me clarify: I did not bic it. I am not Mr. Clean in any way. There is still some hair, likened to a tennis ball, or a hairy egg. But the cheerful CVS photo attendant took my picture against a blank off-white canvas. Between the neo-Nazi shaved head and the sullen gloominess of my face on a Sunday morning, I look like a full-blown terrorist.

However, I still find the humor in the irony of this situation. My passport, the document that gives me allowance into other countries, bears a picture of me that I liken to that of a terrorist. I am in no ways a terrorist; far from it. I love my country to the fullest and would never produce harm to it, or any country for that matter. But with a shaved head and a little scruff, (and imagine if I had a tan!), well then like the famous poet Paul Simon once declared, you can call me Al-Jazeera.

Cue ball

So I wonder if I'm going through identity crisis or something. Because when I came home from school today, I was looking myself in the bathroom mirror, and I decided to shave my hair off.

I really don't know what I was thinking.

I think I felt like doing something random, something sporadic, but I was thinking too drastically. Maybe a nice, long country-road drive would have sufficed, or eating a slice of pizza topped with vanilla ice cream, but shaving my beautiful hair off?! Damn, I just about pulled a Britney Spears right there. I don't think I'll be admitting myself to a rehab center anytime soon, but I'll keep my dates open.

You know what though? A little change never hurt someone. And it is hair, which does grow back. And eventually I'm sure I'll get used to it. I can't wait to hear what my students will have to say tomorrow though...

A Day at the Beach

So this week at school I'm teaching the 9th graders how to write a personal narrative. Since they have to write one, I figured I'd write one as well. The assignment is to write about a particular moment in your life that sticks out, something that was unique and memorable to you. So I wrote about a time that I had at LBI, a day which I remember vividly as one of the best of my life (as are most of the days I have spent at LBI due to the utter relaxation of the trip). So here goes...

All was silent as I was immersed in my dreams, until I reached that sudden point of uninterrupted sleep when you arrive at the cliff and have to make the decision whether or not to jump off. The faintness of the waves in the distance, the clinking of cups and silverware and quiet voices emanating from the kitchen, and the smell of fried eggs, morning dew and beach sand all met me as I opened my eyes.

I walked from the living room to the kitchen and through the house, passing members of my family, all looking relaxed but a tad dismayed. Then it struck me like a bolt of lightning. The pitter-patter of the raindrops trickling onto the roof and the cement steps in front of the house. I gazed out the window to find the dreariest day of our vacation in Long Beach Island thus far, and was immediately stricken with the same dismay I had waded through when passing my kith and kin in the kitchen.

“No use in setting up a beach head today,” I muttered to my Dad.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Uncle Don, coming out of his room, bathing suit pulled so far up his chest you’d think it was a bib. He waltzed into the living room, grabbing a towel and beach chair along the way.

“Uncle Andy, you got the binos?” Uncle Don said to my Dad.

“You got it, Uncle Don.”

I couldn’t believe their dedication, but didn’t want to show my surprise for fear of being called out. As I opened the door to follow them to the beach, the rain died down a bit, but my skepticism remained.

We walked up to the beach, stepping lightly onto the wet sand, as if our feet were baker’s hands molding cookie dough. We set down our chairs and blankets in a straight line along the beach, parallel with the Atlantic Ocean horizon. As we were sitting, the clouds rolled in deeper and the air became damper. Then, the rain drops started up again. The storm, we admitted, was not just going to pass without a fight. So, we rallied the troops and returned to the house, bummed and a bit wet.

Cousin Kyle, who is older than me by one year and a day, suggested when we got back to the house that we watch a movie.

“Let’s put in Old School or Anchorman, some crazy Will Ferrell movie.” Kyle wanted to watch one of these because of his amazing ability to memorize lines from movies and spit them out verbatim.

I responded, “Eh, I’d rather do something outside. We are at the beach, aren’t we?”

We cousins, there were about six of us older ones, got together to brainstorm a plan for the day. As we were picking each other’s brains, the rain seemed to have died down, but it was still overcast and cloudy, and the air was still cool from the rain, the same feeling you’d get from the air that smacks you in the face after opening a freezer on a hot summer day.

Since it wasn’t raining anymore, our options expanded to more outdoor activities.

“Let’s go to Pier 18,” suggested Cousin Colleen, Kyle’s sister, in an almost-predictable plea to shop at the only mall on the island.

“That’s boring!” we male cousins bellowed out at her request.

“Well what are your amazing ideas?” Colleen retorted.

“How about a game of mini-golf,” Cousin Matt chimed in. Cousin Matt, the big, burly guy with a big heart in the white T-shirt, who used to terrorize me when we were kids, isn’t really my cousin; Matt is actually Kyle & Colleen’s cousin on Uncle Don’s side of the family. But down the shore, we’re all family, regardless of bloodlines and genetic semantics.

“That’s a great idea!” I chimed in for the first time in this debate. “And we can bring the kids along too; the parents would like that one.” You see, our family beach house was actually two beach houses right next to each other, with five different families staying underneath the two roofs. The five different families are made up of 10 adults and 13 kids total, with guests floating in and out of the houses throughout the week.

So, Mr. T’s 36-hole mini-golf was the destination as we set off, about 10 of us “kids” (a term that is used lightly and which spans from the ages of 15 to 26), packed into the “gunships,” a more threatening name for Uncle Don’s and Uncle Eddie’s minivans. We bustled through those 36 holes, paying no mind to scores or Mr. T’s rules and regulations, goofing off every chance we got.

Two hours later, when we finished all 36 holes, it was about one in the afternoon and we were starved. The gunships set off for Dom’s Drive-In along Long Beach Boulevard in the town of Brant Beach for some delicious cheesesteaks.

Since gorging ourselves at Dom’s was top priority, none of us noticed the weather’s improvement until we stepped outside into the scorching New Jersey sun, stomachs full and ready to get back onto the hot sand and cool saltwater.

As we pulled out of Dom’s, the sun shining above us, the familiar chords to the Beach Boys “California Girls” filled the gunship, and all ten of us set off towards the house, singing along with what would have earlier been considered our siren song, but was now cause for celebration among family.

When we got back to the house, we found it deserted; surely everyone was up at the beach, enjoying what turned out to be a most beautiful day. We quickly changed into our bathing suits, grabbed towels and chairs, and marched up to the beach front. Sure enough, there was our established beach-head for the day: a line of chairs stretching the entire Jersey coast, filled with people who were all my family, people with whom I would love to spend a beautiful day at the beach. And that’s exactly what we did: sit at the beach for the rest of the day, under a cloudless sky, enjoying each other’s warm company and the carefree relaxation that only comes when you’re sitting on the beach with the ones you love in the wake of a storm, on what turned out to be the most beautiful day of 2005.

Dancing Naked

So last night, gambrinous and full of burrito, my roommates Matt and Dan and I were running to catch the bus back to our apartment. Of course, the bus pulled away about 30 seconds before we get to the bus stop. Panting and screaming, we decide we should just walk home, spending only 20/25 minutes in the cold, since the next bus was at least a half hour away.

We start on our way. Fortunately for us, there is a 7-11 midway between Main Street and our Towne Court apartment. The same 7-11 that my aforementioned convenience-store friend Sayed works at. Dan and I walk in to the shouts of "Jon jan!" Dan grabs a coffee; I grab a green tea, but I know that, despite our quick purchases, we'd be in for a long conversation.

Sayed starts telling us a story about when he was 19, about 16 years ago he admitted to us. He and his friends, inebriated as well, were walking home during a big rainstorm. The reason they were walking home, let me clarify, is because they were driving and the car got swamped with water.
"Automobile turns into big boat! With captain, but no oars!" Sayed roars across his store.

So, Sayed and his friends got out of their car and, according to him, acted as if they were at a car wash and the attendants were all naked. They weren't just washing the car in the rain, they were getting down and dirty on top of that car, dancing naked on top of a car in the middle of the night on a road in Iran. Five Iranian guys, standing on top of a car, dancing naked. Got a mental picture in your head? Good.

When Sayed returned home that night, his father questioned him as to why he was soaking wet and why there were dents on top of the vehicle. Sayed made up some vague story about a tree, some falling branches, and high winds. Needless to say, Sayed's father was a bit skeptical.

Years later, Sayed's father had found a picture of Naked Sayed and confronted him about it, to which all Sayed could do was laugh. What I wonder is: where is that picture now?

The Tuesday That Felt Like a Monday (Pt. 2)

So after I left 7-11, I headed over to class, a Seminar on Teaching English. I have had mostly good experiences so far in my teaching this semester, and am excited and surprised when things go my way. So, I have tried to share my excitement with friends, fellow English Education majors who I felt would share my sentiments. However, it seems when I tell of my good observations or good lessons or things that just make me think that maybe, just maybe, I decided on the right career path, I am met with criticism. People saying I am full of myself just because of my ambition and diligence, traits I would like to think I have embodied my entire life. Is it conceited to want to be the best teacher I can be? To be the best worker I can be? To be the best me I can be? I don't want others to think I'm full of myself; I want them to support me in my pursuit of happiness, in my possession of self. Is that too much to ask?

After the drabness of class, I walked back outside into the dreariness of this Tuesday/Monday, trudging to my car. After ignition, I was greeted once again by the mellifluous tunes of the Flecktones, drifting by my ears as my car and I drifted along Park Place. I stopped at the supermarket to pick up some milk and cold cuts (which reminds me of the lunch I have to make for tomorrow, better get to my point), and I got to thinking about all the people I observe in my life who I know by name or face, but probably have no clue who I am. For instance, Zeke, the supermarket attendent who, with his blonde post-bowl-cut, post-grunge rock/surfer hairstyle and obviously noticeable mole on his Adam's apple, seems to be at the supermarket each and every time I go there. Then there was Allie, the beautifully pale-skinned redhead whom my cousins mentioned rung them up that great weekend back in November when they visited. These people go through my life, and surely the lives of others around them, unknowing that they are being noticed on an everyday basis. And I wonder if I, too, am unknowing of someone who notices me, knows more about me than meets the eye. And I wonder why I can't strike up a conversation with Zeke or Allie, let them know that they're not unnoticed, just as maybe I would welcome the same kind of conversation.

As I was driving back, pondering these thoughts, I turned onto Thorn Lane and pulled into a parking spot, and as I did so, the beautiful chords ending the "Reprise" on Outbound put a beautiful cap on my day, trying not to succomb to Fortune as I went through life as it is here in Delaware.

The Tuesday That Felt Like a Monday

I started my day with the insertion of the Bela Fleck and the Flecktones disc, Outbound, into my car stereo. The melodious jazz and bluegrass sounds of "Hoedown" filled my car as I drove down 896 and up I-95 through Churchman's Marsh into downtown Wilmington, Delaware, just as the sun was making its rise over the sleeping swamps surrounding the Delaware, Brandywine, and Christina Rivers. Howard High, where I am doing my student-teaching, is nestled along this confluence of waterfronts.

The smooth, yet sultry jazz sounds were a guide upon which I'd start my day, teaching eighteen-year-olds about Afghanistan and Afghani-Americans, something which I know little about, yet fascinates me all the same. The struggle to fit into a demanding culture has been my study lately, and I can't seem to get enough of this literature.

The schoolday dragged along like tin cans behind a wedding car, but looking back, it wasn't all that bad. What I was dreading more was my night class at the University of Delaware. I still like to be the student, yes, but I sure am getting used to my position as teacher, as well.

On my way to class, I stopped at 7-11 to pick up a cup of coffee. I have made an uncanny friendship this year with a clerk working at this particular Elkton Road 7-11 in Newark. Sayed, with his V-neck undershirt showing through his food-industry white Polo Tee, greets me as I walk in, the same jovial greeting as always, "Jon jan!" Following me to the coffee pots, Sayed jokes with me, his student of Farsi (a lesson that was taught after a few drunken encounters walking back late nights from Main Street), asking me which of those (Jon/jan) was referring to my name, and the other to the Farsi term for respect. I laughed with my friend and told him the answer.

Surprised still that he remembers my name and what I look like, after at least two months of being out of town, I answer, "The first, Sayed!"

He goes on to tell me that he will make whatever flavor of coffee I want, whenever I come in. I wonder what I have done to impress this man, and offer him my appreciation.

As I walk over to pay, I inform Sayed of my newly-found interest into Middle-Eastern literature, and that I am teaching about Afghanistan and Iran to high-school kids. It is at this moment that I know I take pride in what I do, even if it is measly, amateur student-teaching.

Sayed, with his black, flowing hair, immediately turns up his interest (and his loquacity), telling me all about his life in Iran, prior to moving to America just a few years ago.
"My basement in Iran, you see, was filled with nearly 4000 DVDs and books. House of Sand and Fog? I've heard of it, I had it. You ask me about Sleeper, I walk over to my collection and I say, 'Ah, Woody Allen, yes.' But now in America, my collection is down to only 800, you see," Sayed says in beautifully broken English, an accent that says "I am not broken, but strong and resolute," a vase that has been delicately reassembled after falling to the ground.

Sayed goes on to tell me a story of a time he was in Iran at an event for his government. There were a bunch of young men standing around, listening to whomever was speaking at the time. Sayed wanted to enjoy the speaker and feel comfortable simultaneously, so he sat down on the ground. The people around him turned towards him, encircling him. His friends jabbed him. "Sayed! What are you doing? Get up! You are disrespecting your country!" Sayed just turned to them and laughed, "I love my country! I love Iran! If I have to prove this by standing up when I want to be comfortable and sit, then, huh, why love my country at all?!"

This story struck me. In his country, which he claimed he loved, he had to prove his faithfulness to his country by standing up, being part of the crowd. In America, I'd like to think I show my allegience to my country on my own terms, within my own heart, putting these feelings into action in my everyday life. That we have the freedom to be ourselves is something we cannot take for granted here, and my conversation with Sayed today helped me realize that even more.