Tuesday, May 31, 2011

S'mores, Like Gold in My Hand

A Lesson in Point of View.  Too much of the time I look around my house and see mess--an Everest of laundry, an embarrassingly persistent pile of “wash by hand” dishes stacked on the counter, a full diaper pail, bathrooms that need scrubbing, a carpet of cheerios, dirty socks and toys where a carpet should be.  My point of view is often tired, cranky and self-loathing or self-pitying depending on the time of the month.  Often as I'm racing to work or frantically trying to get home from work (see Transition Words for a reminder of this chaos) I hear the voice of Katharine Hepburn in my head as she confesses in the best movie ever, The Philadelphia Story: 

"I'm an unholy mess of a girl."



When you are a mother of five who works full time outside the house, you can start to feel like a hot mess, start to resent the perky stay-at-home moms who have time to go for a walk around town in the morning, bouncing past the window with their dogs on leashes, their Starbucks cups and their cute workout shorts from Kohl's. You start to envy the women who get their hair done more than twice a year and who have the time and treasure to actually take their kids to Disneyland.  It's a slippery slope when my point of view starts to see the glass not just as half empty, but as a sippy cup tipped over and leaking milk all over the counter. 
Sometimes though, in unexpected and desperately needed moments, I’m given brief glimpses of the messiness of my life that seem pleasing and comforting, if not downright romantic. 
Yesterday was Memorial Day.  This was the detritus of my life:  Hershey’s chocolate wrappers scattered on the counter, graham crackers smashed on the floor, bamboo sticks with marshmallow stickiness, dishes stacked in the sink, wet laundry languishing in the washing machine, clean and rapidly turning sour.  Yet it was also linguica basted in beer, charcoal smoke, buttery garlic bread crusts on the high chair, Giants baseball--"3-2 pitch and Bumgarner strikes him out…"Grab some pine, meat."

I watched through the window as four children, gathered together in the back yard burying Joey’s chubby leg in the dark soil while making dirt castles and picking dandelions. 
After dinner, I saw four matching ballerina buns through my living room window, four buns perched on the top of four heads while they waited patiently over the Weber, marshmallow sticks in hand, twisting them slowly to achieve the perfect toast.  Marshmallows because, well, have you ever eaten a s'more?  If it's warm and it's a holiday, I am fairly certain there's some kind of local ordinance or maybe even a state law that requires s'mores.  Ballerina buns because Daddy threatened, “Any girl who has her hair down, doesn’t get a s'more.”  If I could use the promise of s'mores for clean rooms and speaking kindly to your siblings without my daughters weighing two hundred pounds each, I would do it. 
S'mores Recipe

Anyway, a quiet family day that ends with grilling and copious consumption of s'mores can make a girl feel downright warm and fuzzy.  The disaster of my house, the bickering of my children, the unholy mess of my life miraculously became a sanctuary from the world that houses beautiful human beings whose very existence keeps me inhaling and exhaling. 

No grand change took place last weekend.  Despite my ferverent prayers, we did not win the Mega Millions or even A Million.  Alice the Maid did not move in, nor did the DIY Network come to rescue my yard or remodel my kitchen.  Heaven knows my daughters are probably bickering like old women right now: 

"No I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
"No, I didn't!"
"Yes, you did!"
Altogether now with feeling...

"MOM!"

The plot didn't change, just my point of view.  In teaching literature point of view is essential and complicated.  First person, third person, omniscient, limited omniscient.  A novel isn't a newspaper or chapter summaries on Pink Monkey Notes; you have some work to do, Dear Reader.
Reading great literature requires an understanding of point of view.  To Kill a Mockingbird is about Scout’s point of view.  If not, it's an entirely different novel.  Mayella Ewell's novel or Tom Robinson's novel or even the memoir of Atticus Finch is not the same.  The best line in Adventures of Huckleberry Finn loses all power without point of view:

 "I was a-trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:  'All right, then, I'll GO to hell.'"  (Chapter 30)

In the hands of a naive or passive or lazy reader, those lines may not make you tear up like I do.  Okay, perhaps I'm a bit of a literary nerd, and I'm the only one who cries every time Charlotte dies or Elizabeth Bennet realizes she loves Mr. Darcy, but believe me:  point of view is powerful stuff.  If you need outside evidence, here's a link for you.  As Annie Savoy in Bull Durham would say, "You could look it up."  Literary Point of View

This blog is about point of view, and about my job.  I haven’t posted about my work lately.  Given the title of this blog, I really should.  Basically God has given me bountiful blessings this year: rehired into a job I never would have dreamed I could love so much, a new perspective on my profession, a profession I had grown too comfortable in, a point of view on teaching that had become too routine, even jaded.  My job this year renewed my practice and made me belive this is what my layoff was for, this was what God had in store for me, this wonderful new teaching life. 

Just when it all made sense, I was laid off again and rehired again.  Wonderful right?  Let's have some s'mores and celebrate!  Not so fast.  Here comes a plot twist that would make Charles Dickens proud. My district has not yet decided what position I will return to in the fall.  In fact it's looking like I will be back at my old site. They want me back at the campus I left, the “main” campus, the “comprehensive” school, the Big House. 

Now, to you, Dear Reader, this may sound like I got sent down to the minor leagues but am now being called back up for a starting position in The Show. I am Crash Davis, and I finally get to go back to the bigs.  I should not have to explain this movie reference, but I will for those of you who, in the pretentious, post-Dances with Wolves-director-of-Waterworld-Kevin Costner-era have forgotten his great earlier films.  If you want to understand baseball and watch good movies, you can't go wrong with these:



Great film, even if it's the Dodgers.


But I digress.  Like Crash, I am a veteran.  I’ve done my time in alternative education, and now I “get” to go back to the “real” school.  That’s probably what they thought I would feel.  Before my epiphany year in alternative education, it is what I would have thought I would feel.  [Someone save me from my own syntax!]  Instead, I said, “No thank you.  I’m happier here.” 

Now my point of view becomes crucial.  I can be upset, sad, and frustrated.  I can be daunted by too many students, too many preps and returning to a more stressful job.  Or, I can be resigned to see the beauty in both options.  No matter where I end up next year, and as of this writing I still don’t know, my point of view is the only thing that matters. 

It must be positive and enthusiastic because my students deserve nothing less, and life is too hard to live any other way. 

Unfortunately, my point of view about where I should teach next year does not matter anymore than it did when I was laid off the first two times.  If my point of view had any power, then in the last two years I could have just said, “Wait, I’m a really good teacher.  You don’t want to lose me,” and they would have kept me.  Silly girl.  That’s not how education works.  It’s not how life works either.  Therefore, after dutifully explaining all of the reasons why I should return to my current position next year and generously acknowledging that I would go wherever I am placed, my superintendent offered some more polite version of "Damn straight, you will, Sister, and you'll like it."
Next fall, I will still feel like an unholy mess of a girl because the daily chaos of my life won’t change. Life is messy. The s'mores my children enjoyed last night were messy.  I probably still have marshmallow squished into the couch, and I know there are still graham cracker crumbs on the floor.  They stayed up way too late on a school night, and I know at least 3 of the 5 didn’t brush their teeth before collapsing for the night into a diabetic coma. 

However, those s'mores, those moments with them yesterday, are gifts, colorful jewels.  What would my messy house and chaotic life feel like if I was suddenly diagnosed with cancer or my house burned to the ground or one of my children got sick?  Would I care about Laundry Everest or the three mystery bowls of leftovers at the back of the fridge?  Not likely.  Every messy, crazy stressful moment would be a jewel, or as Joe Banks said of the days he had wasted in worry instead of living his life, they would be “like gold in my hand.” 

If you don’t know this reference you aren’t alone, but I encourage you to watch Joe Versus the Volcano an easily overlooked romantic comedy starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.  (Yes, Janeane Garofalo, I do wish every movie could star Tom and Meg, and you would be a lot less cynical if you embraced that philosophy, too).  Anyway, it has some of the best speeches and sweetest messages about living in the moment.  Like this gem of  a speech when Joe finally quits his miserable job and explains to his boss why:


Either way, alternative education or the Big House, each day will be a sweet, delicious s'more because I have, not just a job, but a profession I love in a beautiful mountain home in the best state in the best country in the world.  My students, my children, my husband and I all deserve a point of view that can generate joy, share love, and embrace adventure.  The Lord has not abandoned me yet, so He must have more important work ahead.  If He finds an unholy mess of a girl to be the place to start, I'm up for the challenge, and happy to be a
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