Me, teach? No way!

One of the routine questions I ask my college English classes is, “Who plans to be a teacher?”

I laughingly tell those who raise their hands that they can be my “special helpers.” It’s useful to have students at the ready to hand out copies, record lists when we brainstorm, put out the lights when we use the projector. 

Yes, even some tough, abundantly tattooed,  facially pierced college students want to be the teacher’s special helpers. Especially if there is a whiff of extra credit in the air.

This year has been different.

This semester, for the first time, when I asked about future teachers… not one student raised her hand. In any of my classes.

“But who is going to teach the children?” I asked, lightly. Were the future teachers too shy to declare themselves?

Now that I have repeated the question several times over the course of many weeks, I’m starting to worry.

When I asked for a bit more information about why students aren’t considering the teaching profession, first the incredulous stares spoke volumes. A girl in the front row, a smart student, a hard worker, pulled back from me as if I was contagious. A male student in back looked me over as if I was promoting a bizarre religious cult.

A woman in the second row stammered, “Bbbut Ms. Bruce—teachers don’t make enough money! I have two kids!”

A 35 year-old male Marine Corps combat veteran spat, “Teach? No way! I don’t think they’d appreciate the discipline I would want to give!”

That got a round of chuckles.

“My high school was awful—most of the teachers could care less if we learned anything. All they cared about was the EOG’s” (end of grade tests).

“Yeah, my little sister failed her last EOG’s and they pushed her on to the next grade anyway. That was stupid. She wasn’t ready to be promoted.”

“No Child Left Behind ruined everything. My mom’s a teacher and she said she’d kill me if I ever decided to teach. She’s counting the days to retirement.”

“But many of you have children!” I said. “Aren’t you worried about who is going to teach them?”

“Heck, yes, I’m worried,” said a 30 year-old mother of twins. “But it won’t be me. I don’t need that kind of abuse.”

A friend and fellow blogger who works at a school in California recently vented her frustration. “Most of the teachers are 'retired,' but the worst of it is… they are still 'working' in the classroom. They show up in body, but expend the bare minimum energy to teach.”

I’m certainly not trying to indict my fellow educators. I’m on the same team! They often have a thankless job. Many of them are doing the best they can. No one got into teaching to be rich or famous. But at least there used to be the prospect of a modicum of respect from students, parents, administrators, and the community.  Teachers were not seen as leeches on the system, adversaries to “balanced budgets.”

For some teachers, the grind year after year with little or no support from administration or parents turned once enthusiastic new teachers into burned-out shells. The dropout rate for new teachers is sky-high.

Nowadays, even college students who I see excited about learning and are enjoying our class, wouldn’t dream of teaching as their profession. I’m running out of time to try to change their minds.

Who is going to teach the children? Does anyone know?

Everyone Comes from an Old Family

My last post, Memories of Arcadia, told a bit about my adventures in family tree research. In its original form, the post was much longer as I mused on tangents related to genealogy. Those tangents need saying, sayeth me.

Like this post title says, everyone comes from an “old family.” I get a big kick out of TV shows or movies where some duke or duchess, in referring to another member of the aristocracy, notes something along the lines of “She comes from a very old family in Devon.”

As if all the families in Devon are not old. This is silly. We all come from scallywags, princes, and paupers. Thieves, chiefs, stable hands, empresses. Priests, healers, zealots, idiots, ne’er do wells, geniuses, farmers, city dwellers, conquerors, conquered, enslaved, free people.

Most of all, we come from survivors.

My search through some of the branches of my father’s family went easily, thanks to distant cousins who had already done much of the work back to about 1640 and posted it online. Another break in my favor was the county in Virginia where these ancestors lived for so many years has existing, continuous court records. Just to have court records is unusual with the perils of fire, floods, or other disasters.

Then too, this part of the family didn’t move West, but remained “sticks” in the Virginia “mud” to this day. Finding the genealogical information owes little to my research skills and more to luck. Other branches of the family are proving much more difficult or impossible to trace.

As I pointed out in “Memories of Arcadia,” my forefather Richard came to this country under a cloud, and quite possibly was an indentured servant. My foremother Dorothy certainly was indentured, since Richard had to purchase her freedom. Richard did amass some property by the sweat of his labors, but he was no aristocrat. He was a farmer, just like some of your ancestors undoubtedly were, whether in Africa, Asia, Europe, Australia, South America or all of the above. Just because I have an inkling of part of my bloodline in no way means my family is older or better than anyone else’s.

Looking at how our family tree is connected to so many other family trees was a little dizzying. Finally I realized something you probably already knew (hey, I’m not as brainy as I appear)—we don’t have to search back many generations to see that we are all related.

Yep, all of us.

So love us, like us, hate us, or don’t give a hoot—we are all connected. We’re all in this together. 

Pablo Casals, the famous cellist, said "We ought to think that we are one of the leaves of a tree, and the tree is all humanity. We cannot live without the others, without the tree."

I think grandfather Richard and grandmother Dorothy would agree.

Memories of Arcadia

I’ve been digging around the roots of the family tree, and discovered an ancestor from the 1640s in Virginia who had a wee farm. Of 2,000 acres. Don’t get too excited—he probably came over as an indentured servant, and a lot of the farm was marshy—more sea than land. We aren’t talking royalty here-- He was a tobacco and sustenance farmer. Aside from farming, he must have loved the sea, since he dwelt within sight of it until the end of his days.

His name was Richard, and he had three wives over his long life. Wife one was Dorothy, definitely an indentured servant, according to the records. How desperate was an Englishwoman like Dorothy, to indenture herself to live in the dangerous, god-forsaken colony that was Virginia? Richard agreed to buy her freedom from another planter, by “replacing” her with a servant from the group due to arrive on the next ship. She gave him the son from whom I am descended.

The next wife was Ruth. She was a pistol, and Richard must have loved her to put up with her wild ways. Ruth was convicted of fornication, and had two sons “from the other side of the blanket.” Richard stood by her and got along so well with the two illegitimate sons they eventually took Richard’s surname. Now that’s being broadminded, all the way around, for the 17^th century or any other time.

Wife three was Elizabeth, a much younger woman, who was with him to his death. Richard referred to her in his will as his loving wife, leaving her a life estate on his farm. The will mentions distribution of the acreage, cows, sheep, horses, tobacco, bedsteads, and a few other basic, household goods among the five children. Not a bad estate for a man who had arrived in the New World with nothing and did not own slaves.

In those days, conditions in Virginia were so harsh, that many, especially indentured servants, did not survive their first two years in the colony. The first year, called the “seasoning,” would have included scorching, blistering heat, followed by an icy winter, when water drawn in buckets for the livestock was frozen by morning. Clouds of biting insects, diseases, back-breaking work, crop-failure, and scant food for many years was the lot of most colonists. Setting traps for game, netting fish, eating venison, turtle, wild duck, geese, and mud-hens, and glad to get them.

Richard, who’d been converted to membership in the Society of Friends by an itinerant preacher, noted in his will that he was departing this life with much more than he deserved. He committed his soul to God, his body to Mother Earth. I can find no known remnant of his dwelling place or his grave. Much of the land is still under cultivation, right down to the marshy edge of Gargathy Bay, with its outlet to the Atlantic Ocean.

The place names from Richard’s day fascinate me. The creek near his homestead he’d named “Long Love Branch.” The plantation--no, not Tara—it was probably originally one room and a dirt floor-- was called “Arcadia,” a reference to a district in ancient Greece, a symbolic, lost, rural place of innocent bliss, as the dictionary tells me. A school near the site of his farm bears the name Arcadia to this day.

You may have heard a Latin expression:

Et in Arcadia ego.

Roughly translated, it means “I too lived in Arcadia,” and as an inscription on a grave marker meant the departed one had also enjoyed the metaphorical pleasures of an idyllic place, his own personal Arcadia.

I too lived in Arcadia.

Learning about Arcadia, Richard’s farm, explains a lot to me. In high school my group of friends joked a lot about running away to live on an island. I was the one who actually did, when I slipped off to live for 15 years on Ocracoke Island, on North Carolina’s Outer Banks. I worked as a commercial fisherman for years, and I’m sure that Richard took what fish, clams, crabs, and oysters he could from the teeming waters near the farm. Although I have never raised enough food to sustain me, I’ve dabbled in gardening, dirt under my fingernails, since I was a child. I have had a compulsion to plant flowers, herbs, and vegetables, even when I lived on sandy Ocracoke.

My years on the remote island were often idyllic, although not without struggles and heartbreak. Yet, there I was free. The simple kind of free that comes from not owning much, having few bills, being able to walk to work or the grocery store, futzing around in a garden, having a few books and the time to read them.

So when I discovered Richard's Arcadia, I was not entirely surprised. Not to get all New Age-y, I believe some of us have a genetic memory that may affect our lives in ways we don’t fully understand. These memories pull on us, giving us dirty hands at the end of a summer day, calling us to live near the sea, and making our ears prick up at the sound of Canada geese flying overhead.

As their 10th generation granddaughter, Richard’s and Dorothy’s blood is present in me, even across four centuries.

When menopausal women dream...

When menopausal women dream…

1.      Donuts are a health food.

2.      Reubenesque figures are the height of hot.

3.      Employers fight over women aged 50+, offering bonuses on a sliding scale for chicks with the most gray hair.

4.      Young women dye their hair gray because it’s sexy, fashionable, and gets them faster promotions at work.

5.      Broken capillaries, age spots, wrinkles, and varicose veins become so desirable that younger people draw them on with makeup.

6.      Men attend mandatory “how to make menopausal women happy classes.” Those who earn less than a B average face exile to Mars.

7.      Washington insiders have many menopausal women on hotlines and take our sage advice on important legislative matters.

8.      Men get manopause.

9.      One week a year is set aside as Menopausal Appreciation Week. Women of menopausal age are feted, fed, and pampered.

10.   Uttering the phrase “Damn, you’re moody!” is punishable by six months of community service to the menopausal community. While wearing a sackcloth and ashes.

S*#! Menopausal Women Say

I am going to kill him.

If I could just get some sleep, I’d have the energy to kill him.

What is this poofiness around my waist?

I’m going crazy.

Is it warm in here?

It’s so f-ing hot in here.

I am not crazy!

When did I grow these gigantic breasts?

Why are you looking at me?   

          

Where is my icepack?

What bullsh--!

I'm going completely drug-free through this hallowed passage. Wine, anyone?

What fresh hell is this?

When did I become invisible?

If I see one more article on vaginal dryness, someone’s gonna die.

Lovely. The vaginal gel company sent me a free sample? How did they know where I live?

Don’t Spanx come in heavy duty?

Spanx are the work of the devil's spawn.

I dreamt that I held my boss under water until he drowned. 

I worked out every day this week, ate Paleo, and I gained two pounds.

Sometimes, I break china, just so I don’t kill anybody.

Why shouldn’t I wear shorts and a tank top to go ice skating on the pond?

I’m not crying. Have you got a tissue?

Sale on stretchy pants? I’m there.

Turn the f-ing heat down!

Turn the f-ing A/C up!

Don’t you dare touch the f-ing thermostat.

Moody? You think I’m moody?  

        

For lunch? I’ll have an HRT on Zoloft, hold the Zanax.

I need a new moisturizer.

I need a new drug.

I’m going to stop taking all my drugs.

Gotta go to the drugstore. My drugs are ready.

I don’t think the drugs are working!

If men got menopause, there’d be a drug for this.

Motherfu---! My sweater was on inside-out all day and no one said anything!

Stop scraping your spoon on that bowl!

Why are you breathing so loud?

I’m gonna save so much money on tampons and pregnancy tests.

If I don’t get some sleep, someone may have to die.

If men got night sweats, there’d be a cure for this.

Who invented magnifying mirrors? I'll strangle them with my bare hands.

The person who invented air conditioning? Should be made the saint of menopause.

Menstrual Math at Menopause

Officially in menopause as of October 2012, and now wondering why we don’t throw parties to mark this occasion, I’ve been doing some menstrual math.

The book, Riding Astride: The Frontier in Women’s History, by Patricia Riley Dulap, inspired my pondering of some numbers associated with menstruation. Dunlap goes into detail explaining how women’s biology either through child birth every two years, breastfeeding, child rearing, and menstruation often confined them to the home virtually until they died, most often by their forties.

Amazed that women ever had a spare minute to make the intriguing and important history that they have, and not having thought about women’s history in quite this way, I questioned the numbers related to the menstruation in my own life.

For me, my 12^th birthday was the never-to-be-forgotten day of my first period. Whoopee! Little did I know about the years ahead.

The years.

Age twelve from age 55 is dear Lord, 43 years! Of menstruation.

Let’s let that sink in. Forty-three. Years.

I menstruated for more years than most women used to live.

My average period was seven days. That’s 3,612 days of Aunt Thelma. Let’s say I used 6 sanitary products per day on average. Now we’re at 21,672 products. Being conservative, since periods and cramps went hand-in-hand for me, let’s say I used 4 aspirin or later Acetaminophen or similar per day.

Suddenly I understand why there’s a CVS or Walgreen’s on every corner with me knocking the doors down to purchase 14,448 cramp killer pills plus all those pads and tampons. That’s not counting the icepacks for headaches, the cola to settle my stomach, the pimple cream, the salty snacks, the sweet snacks.

No, I won’t do the calculations in dollar amounts. I'm just guessing the amount would pay for an extended luxury vacation in the Mediterranean or the South Pacific. With lots of fruity drinks and a massage therapist on staff. But I digress.

                                                                                         

What do all these numbers mean?

Derned if I know. But hey, menstruation—I don’t miss you. Not even a little.

Further, I’m an English major-- math makes me queasy.

Think I’ll pop out to the drug store for a coke.

My Voice is Here

After blogging for over two years, I left what felt like my first truly “negative” comment the other day. 

I’ve second guessed myself a lot since then. As both a blogger and an avid blog reader, I’d decided from the start that if I didn’t have anything positive to say, I would not say anything.

Knowing that it does take some effort, if not downright courage, to put oneself out there by publishing a post, I’d vowed to take the high road. I have tender feelings myself and want to show respect for other blogger’s work. After all, there are MANY people who are more than willing to express their criticisms, so my voice is not needed when I disagree with a blogger’s position, I felt.

Even if I differed vehemently with someone, I didn’t want to be part of the snarling pack. Acts of kindness, paying it forward, Little Miss Sunshine—that was me.  Not rocking the boat, damn it, being the nice girl. Argh. I can be such a wimp. But I’d rather err on the side of wimpy, than to hurt someone’s feelings or stifle someone’s right to express herself. That was my choice.

But a post by an “expert” on HuffPost50 got me riled up. Reading along, it was all good until about half-way through when the writer paused in her advice to midlife women about diet and exercise. She said something that made it all very personal to me. 

To paraphrase, she actually repeated that ancient and hard to dispel notion that anyone who is overweight or out of shape is … lazy, sluggish, unenlightened AND lacks the passion needed for healthy living. Find your passion, and the weight will fall off easily, she claimed.

She just said I lack passion.

LACK PASSION.

Whoa. Passion?

Calm down, I told myself. It’s just a blog post. Be kind. She’s misinformed, judgmental, holier-than-thou, yes, but let it go.

I tried to dismiss my outrage.

I failed.

I commented, as calmly as I could, in a few sentences, ending with the charge that she had just added one more voice to the chiding chorus, to those who wag fingers at midlife women struggling with their weight.

We hold down jobs that while perhaps aren't deeply fulfilling, keep the bills paid. Or, laid-off, are looking for employment in a workplace that openly discriminates based on our age and our looks. We may commute for hours, care for elders, children, spouses, homes. 

We’re trying to get another year out of a 15-year old car, or keep enough cash on hand for the bus. We do not need one more rebuke, one more expert telling us we are too stupid or too lacking in passion to be the same dress size we were 20 years ago. 

Because our clothing size is the only issue we have to worry about, right? I ended with note that she had “not advanced the dialogue on women’s health issues.”

Not particularly proud of my anger, fearing I was being a bit Joan of Arc, I hit “post” on my comment.

I don’t plan on making negative comments a habit, but maybe there is something to the notion that at menopause, some women find their voices (thank you, Magnolia Miller at The Perimenopause Blog). 

I think it’s happening to me. My voice. MY VOICE IS HERE.

It’s been a long time coming.