Optical Insomnia

It's 3 am and I'm still awake.

Perhaps it is my over stimulated brain, anxious for tomorrow's events to happen and play out in real time as they imagined. Maybe my body has been over rested from being on Christmas break, with feet that don't know what to do with themselves but to itch for a walk downstairs for one more drink of water. And of course when all you're thinking about are a countless random things, you begin to wonder what it all means.

I spent half my day at the emergency room, awaiting news of whether or not the wheezing and shortness of breath I had been battling over the past week was bronchitis, pneumonia or worse. Urgent care shot me up with a steroid and ordered me to the ER, I refused and got progressively worse. Delcina finally harassed me into going, and I was undoubtedly thinking more of the cost, time and possible bad news more than getting myself better.

Despite all that, I read some more of a book I had been reading "God's Politics" (and interestingly enough, quite a bit of information I didn't know about the Israel-Palestinian conflict), people watched (Del and I had some bad fun out of the sound of someone vomiting) and talked like husbands and wives do when their isn't a task involved or being interrupted by phones, kids' requests or the television. We left the ER, made a Kroger visit an ended the night with a banana split. It's good to be sick, indeed.

Over the past week, the inevitable wait for sleep to sweep over me like a smooth blanket never arrives. There's the thoughts about my family. Sometimes the distance from some of them is a blessing unto oneself. I always tell my mom that I love coming to Houston now because I see the best of my family. The vacation time, stress-free from work. The cousins playing together, grandma's making my favorite meals, eating out at the places I can't get here. And we've all grown up some too. As a teenager, I was too full of pride to listen to any advice. Lost and mean spirited. Who the hell was I to appreciate what I had on front of me?

And then a sleepless night turns into music, and jokes you've made during the week, and quips you want to remember the next time you see that one person. I end up thinking about women I shouldn't be thinking about, and creative ways to get my kids at school to be more than creatures of their environments. Then eventually, my thoughts turn dim and I try to black out everything (sometimes I have fun shooting the Devil with a shotgun, or chopping him with an ax and telling him to get out of my head). When I was a kid, I used to squeeze my eyes shut hard enough to see glittering spots of white and yellows. It's never really black you see when you close your eyes. That would be the end, wouldn't it? I see cloudy impressions, sometimes distant faces, those freaky optical illusion pictures that seem like two faces at a standoff, or is it an hourglass? Sparkly, faded renditions my synapses shooting fireworks.

The Reluctant Worshiper

Something today at church clicked. Perhaps it was the man sitting in front of me playing solitaire on his cell phone (ironic, the game that shares a synonym for "being alone"), or perhaps it was my son throwing a tantrum in Sunday school class. Maybe it was the youth director asking me if anything was going on at home (regarding Cruz), or the snow falling lazily outside. Maybe it was the talk I had with Rob about another friend who will be spending his first Christmas without his wife who recently passed. Or maybe it was none of those things. Maybe it hasn't clicked yet, and that's the problem.

The advent season, along with a strong message from the church to spend less (money) and give more (time, love), it goes without saying that the time of season brings out people to church who normally don't attend during the year. It's been a complete transformation to see how I expect to go to church on a regular basis, rather than the former, when i only attended for weddings, baptisms or on religious holidays like Easter and Christmas. You can tell there's a new crowd at church. Sometimes your favorite seat is filled with the butt of another person whom you've never seen. You might sit a row closer, a row back, you see the back of heads you never knew before. Sometimes you have a new-member ceremony or a baptism, like this morning.

Two babies were introduced to our church family. Beautiful kids. One of them rested on a relative's shoulder in front of us and suckled on her hands. The young man sitting next to her kept his head down for much of the service (even during the morning "welcomes" he made a point not to shake anyone's hand), and at one time I stood to sing, I realized he had been playing solitaire on his phone. Another gentleman, about a row up, fidgeted with his phone and had the look of frustration about him. He sat with his back halfway turned as if to leave at any moment. A man on a fire drill routine.

I saw myself in both of them. The reluctant worshiper, like myself over the past few weeks, with eyes on something else. Your phone, the church pamphlet, a pretty woman. Mind elsewhere. Lunch, what failure God is making you see right now (or the failure you're choosing to focus on at the moment. God has to see us in a loving light, or he'd be done with us for sure), an attractive woman's neckline.

I wondered of my emotions were on my face, exposed for everyone to see like these two men. Was I upset that my church family did not show their true love of Christ to these two men enough for them to look up from their phones, enough to smile, enough to shake someone's hand? Was I upset that I was not worshiping to my fullest, haven't been in my personal life?

Leaving church and walking up to class, I stopped by to see a friend. I've been chosen again to be part of the next Emmaus Men's Walk in March and told him I'd be ready. Will I? Will it be the kick in the pants I need? Will it give me the energy to pick myself up off the mat?

Then once in class, I see the look on my son's face. Downcast, surly. Like the two men in church, both my son and I resemble now. Two faces not ready for church today. Two faces that need some focus and adjustment. Two faces that need some discipline. But love too. Lots of love.

I sat for the remainder of the hour, my wife teaching class among the chatter and laughter of our beautiful fourth graders. I spent most of my time trying to reassemble an eraser that fits together in a 6-piece puzzle. One of the girls had broken it apart last week, and I was struggling to find the proper way to fix it. One of the kids (his name is Clay, another bit of irony in this fantastic, puzzling day) asked to try. We both couldn't make sense of it until almost the end of class. Until we noticed the pattern. We even broke it apart again to see if we could recreate the magic. Unbroken. Broken. Magic. Faith. Seems like a pattern, doesn't it?

There's a Softball in my Eye

I hate softball.

There, I said it. I hate the one sport that I willingly sought out for my daughter to play at age 11. The motivation then was to involve her in something. Perhaps it was that dad fear of his daughter becoming THAT girl. so, sign them up for everything. Chess club, band, choir, sports. Anything to keep the guys away. College scholarships? Yeah, that will work too. Just keep the guys away. Too busy for dating. Too busy for relationships. Too busy.

And softball was fun. It helped me build some daughter/dad time when she was a tweener. I loved our talks on the way to practice as she was rushing to put on her socks. The smiles when she scored. The surprise of her first triple.

There were underlying issues I dealt with. Being gone every weekend. Less time with my younger kids because I was taking score, or lobbing whiffle balls an hour before games. Early wake-up calls. Losing on Sundays. Losing on late Saturday nights and not even getting to play on Sunday. Playing 14u.

But, in the end, my daughter excelled. She was everyone's favorite teammate. She compliments well. Not the star but certainly not the runt of the litter. Fast but not lightning. Flexible. the utility player. Kinda like she is in life. Everyone's best friend, great grades but not 4.0. Not the loudest one of her bunch but no slouch. What a young lady she has turned into. And it has nothing to do with my quest to keep her away from guys or to keep her too busy to socialize. I hate softball but I love her. It's a good "but then" to have.

This fall and now going into winter, I've stayed away from any of her tournaments. If I ever missed a game during the summer, I took it out on whoever was making me not be there. I cancelled appointments and denied visitations from friends. Sorry, softball tourney. Sorry, practice. Sorry.

I did not handle this sub culture well. I enjoyed the notoriety that went with the game and being involved. I joined a softball message board and met hundreds (okay, tens perhaps) of people. Giving myself to God helped in that regard too. Instead of wins and losses (well, not sure if that itch to win will ever leave, just not by any means necessary) it was being on the right team, the right place. All the whiffle pitches and cookouts and hour before games with bad coffee were supposed to lead somewhere. A scholarship, recognition, maybe even some coaching glory. I grew selfish. Instead of loving the game because it accepted Lisa, I loved it for how it made me feel.

And this lead to other feelings. Resentment isn't something you carry around lightly. What kind of person am I to be jealous of a teenage girl. Why? Because she plays better than Lisa? Because she's treated better by the college coaches? Why am I picking on the flaws of everyone and not noticing the log in my eye? I tell my friends and they side with me. Friends sometimes comfort you instead of telling you to get over it. If I get over it, I'm weak and submissive. But isn't that the way I have been taught by my church community? Submit yourself.

So, now I sit at home on the weekends and get text updates about how my daughter is doing. This past week she finally told me she wanted me there and that it had obviously upset her that I haven't been to one game since August. How do you tell your daughter you don't want to see her coach, or a friends' mom or dad, or even their own friend? What kind of dad have I become?

Walking Jars

After finishing 17 conferences in the span of three days, I still felt comically exhausted by week's end. Not that I don't stay up late nights (although I actually went to bed this week, so my demeanor was slightly less salty), or grade papers, but hearing parents' stories and meeting many of them for the first time, its any wonder why my students are both mini-scholars and empty, walking jars that are unsealed and ripe for the influence of just about anything.

I smile at kids toting their moms and grandmothers (and the dichotomy between what a grandma will say as opposed to a mom, always with that condescending "I'm-your-mom" look towards their daughters), parents who come together who've been apart, separate conferences for dad, cancelled conferences and the ones that are unexpected walk-ins. The ones that you end up having more of a conversation with all night (which is something I could get paid to do, I realized), and the ones that you pray right afterwards, for God to mend hearts, minds, fix that brokenness.

I stepped on toes too. I take my position sometimes as a politician. I'm out at recess reffing basketball games, umpiring disputes and giving the little ones a platform for their singing, stories hang-ups, gymnastic/jump rope routines and diverting attention away from bathroom breaks (I think if we had outdoor port-a-johns, no kid would want to go inside for a break and they'd spend more time playing. My kid never wants to pee when there's fun to be had.) I want every parent to flood the office with referrals to my room. I want to carry all the babies that come through the office and shake every hand. I know it's all vanity and ego. I've had it since I started teaching. And not that I don't think I need to improve. If anyone is critical of my everyday performance it's me. I'm still reading strategy books, I still cry when I see "Stand and Deliver" and I kick myself five minutes after a lesson for forgetting something or not getting it right. I know it has nothing to do with me. Or at least I'm supposed to know this. God has given me a gift and a platform, a job and a position of authority. Me? Too much to take in.

The week ended with awards assemblies. We rolled away the cafeteria seats and replaced them with about 150 kids. Maybe, 20 parents. I called out their names and watched them form a line next to me. Proud kids. Happy kids. The ones sitting out rarely have a scowl ( a few do, the ones who realize they should have been up there too), but the trick is to get the rest up there by any means necessary. This year, my ego will try again, and God will remind me that it isn't about awards, or me, or the parents who help with homework. Maybe this year I'll learn it.

Traded Megatrons

Just finished my first round of conferences tonight and when I'm booked like I was tonight, it stirs that passion that makes education all the worthwhile. I enjoy meeting parents for the first time, the look of recognition when mentioning the countless newsletters and Friday Folders, the agreements to hound their kids to work harder and with more vigor than ever before. I vaguely remember any of my conferences,but I do remember my fourth grade year.

Magrill Elementary was one of the few schools were I stayed for more than one year. We moved just about every summer (I called us the "nomads" in a poem), from one apartment complex to the next. By the time I was in junior high, we had been promoted to renting houses, but still moved quite a bit. I moved around so much that when i entered my third high school in as many years, I actually had plenty of friends when I lived in the same neighborhood as a seventh grader. But at Magrill, i entered as a fourth grader and even graduated into Teague Middle (before leaving in 6th grade).

Magrill's classrooms were all open-spaced cubicles that branched off a center foyer/assembly area (we watched movies like "Raiders of the Lost Ark" there and a kid knocked the movie projector off the stand which fell on a kid, and I was called in the office for my account on what happened--my first snitch job). Two of the corner rooms were closed in, one being a resource room, and of course we called it the "special" room, which for us meant you could be strange, spazzy and available for ridicule 24/7.

With my attention span as thin as a eyelash, I sometimes zoned off to spot friends in other rooms, threw crayons when I thought no one was looking and searched for Ross Pekar (Heath Scardino and I were obsessed with her). In my free time, I paper constructed desk footballs, chinese stars, wrote silly stories about a G.I. Joe inspired combat force called L.A.W. (Land, Air, Water, how original) that were R rated. I once took the lyrics of "Thriller" and re-mixed it into some lewd rap. The teacher found out, I was sent to the office, where I had to call my mom on the phone and sing it to her verbatim (in tune and on beat, no less), got swats wearing my stupid, mexican-tight parachute pants. Can you tell I had plenty of time on my hands? I frequently forged interim reports and traded my Megatron Transformer toy for an Optimus Prime and was always the last one picked for kickball (I spent that entire summer playing kick against the brick wall of our home, vowing to get picked first in fifth grade. The first kick-homer of my career was one of several fond memories).

I began to realize I could get by with alot of humor and by batting some brown eyes. My best friends in the world were Jeff and Omari. the last time we were all together, it was after Jeff had moved away. It was his birthday party and we hung out with his new friends, cursed, watched Freddy Krueger on tv. Jeff's mom was one of the only other moms who ever drank in front of us, and I ended up home late, too late for my mom's sake. But wherever he is, I wonder if God was just as patient with him as he was with me. I wonder if my teachers went home and laughed at some of the things I said, or were just frustrated because I was wasting my education on fart jokes, video games and girls' smiles. In essence, I sometimes haven't evolved much past that silly, little boy.

Tricks and Treats

The scariest thing about Halloween this year has been the color of my yet-to-be-closed pool water. I can't say the same for my youngest daughter, who would jump at the slightest provocation. Cruz exclaimed to us on the ride home that "nothing" scares him. I'd say he's about right.

Halloween with the kids does remind me of my childhood, mostly the differences, but I don't want to spend too much time with how it was back in the "day." I don't remember Halloween much before age 10, except for that we did much more in school, like dressing up and having parties. Somewhere along the line, a parent sued and so we now we call Halloween "Beggar's Night" or some other safe-sounding phrase that doesn't rile up anyone. School parties are different too. This year, we're not even allowed to serve food, which means that we all sit around and stare at each other during celebrations. Not much fun.

I do remember my trick-or-treat nights being much different, but more so when I was getting older. Parents didn't walk with you through the neighborhood (although I do remember going through Greenspoint Mall in Houston once) like they do with their little ones. There were no time limits and we knocked on every door, sometimes well after 9pm.

I remember going out once, sixth grade, with Jon Patterson from down the road. And while the venturing through Greengate is a story within itself, I dredge up so much more about my junior high years that had more of an affect on me that I thought ever would.

Jon and I pretty much ran that street. We lived in a cul-de-sac, played football while waiting for the bus and baseball games in the court next to the Rice's house. There were a large group of us, some of us popular, some of us outcasts and all of us unsupervised. We smoked cigarettes (although my mom did eventually realize I had been smoking in the garage), cursed, hid adult magazines in vacant home's cabinets, cursed, watched scrambled Playboy Channel and snuck in each other's backyards. We fought sometimes and we tackled each other on the concrete even though we were supposed to tackle one another in the grass. We talked lewdly about girls, terrorized our smaller siblings, bullied kids on the bus and popped fireworks in neighbor's porches. Once, the guy living across from us chased us from the yard and caught me, specifically, gave me a good shaking and sent me away to fetch my dad. In the altercation that followed, I realized that my step-dad was behind me all the way, even though I was totally in the wrong. Funny how I can think about that event, and all the tears he spent on me years later when I was a confused high school kid. We may not talk much now, but it has nothing to do with that night, nor the tears, but alot to do with men and their fathers.

Jon Patterson. I was lucky one night to have seen him again after many years not knowing how he had ended up. His story took him out of state that year, and his house was occupied by people who never came outside. He drove through the toll lane where I worked as a supervisor, jotted down his number and we ended up talking. He had the voice of a guy who had been through a divorce, maybe a stint in juvenile detention. I was a guy who was lucky enough to have been renewed in a relationship with my future wife, still directionless but alive and in the right place.

Driving through Louisiana last year, I stopped at a gas station. One of those nasty coffee stops in the middle of the night, and as I'm walking out I notice a familiar face walking past the open door. Pax Whatley. Another one of those neighborhood kids who was around through much of those times. He lives in Wisconsin now, but on his was up north, we pass each other in a roadside gas station. God gives you those treats sometimes, eve when you've lived the life of a trickster.

Waiting for Superman thoughts and review

I finally watched the documentary, "Waiting for Superman." I always gauge documentaries for what they get you to do afterwards. Did you spend nights searching through the internet for answers, like "Paradise Lost"? Or did they bring you into a world you previously avoided, like the achingly tough "Stevie," or "Capturing the Freidmans"? Some like, "Hoop Dreams," or the strangely funny "Crumb" stay with you for years afterwards. "Superman" falls into the category of recent docs, like "Super Size Me" wherein the stamp of their maker is keenly evident, but one that will still provoke thought, anger and stunned silence in equal doses.

The doc isn't so much anti-teacher as many make it out to be (although, maybe conspiratorially, it doesn't feature one voice of current teachers in the business). The film dartboards some big ideas, and as a teacher myself, I know that treating the film's ideas as bullets pretty much makes me one of the stiff upper-lipped, voiceless people in the crowd of angry teachers.

While featuring the lives of a handful of students and parents as they make their decision to get into prestigious charter schools (all by lottery), the film tackles widely known truths and devises some clues into where it may go. One major theme outlined in the movie is the need for reform, from teacher incentive-based pay to longer school hours. Much of the reform is brazenly being harassed by teacher's unions, which come across as out-of-the-times lobbyist. There's a scene midway showing a disciplinary sequence from New York, where teachers are sent to the "rubber room" where they sit, nap, and read newspapers for hours while waiting on their cases. Others show hidden cameras teachers reading while their high school class plays craps and naps. Scenes like this don't necessarily make me mad because it picks on teachers, but it makes me mad that we allow those teachers to teach along side us. Watch the scene about the "lemon dance" and tell me that not one teacher would relate to the feeling of that particular administrator's failed attempts to remove a pimple from the face of their school.

Other ideas fly under the radar but hit home nonetheless, like longer school days and boarding schools. In those cases, the film doesn't portray the parents as losing their rights as parents, as authority figures, but makes them a blameless cog if a broken system. And what of teachers who would work these longer hours or live in a boarding school? Is the film saying that teachers with families would benefit from having less time with their own families to raise kids not their own? Still, the movie makes you want to ask the person next to you and have that hour long conversation with a pot of coffee.

In other ways, I wish the film spent more time with Geoffrey Canada's Harlem Children's Zone. The film doesn't talk about the per-pupil spending of its charter, or the social services that are part of their groundbreaking model. I also found that comparing American test scores to foreign countries is a mute point, considering foreign students flock to our colleges and that most countries feature one culture, as we are an amalgamation of several cultures, religions and people.

Still, the film has its detractors and followers. I simply love the conversation, and know that if I continue to do what I'm supposed to do in the classroom then everything will take care of itself. One lesson from the film, it seems when the superintendent, chancellor or school founder is in the room, you teach your ass off.

The Rembrandts

I received my 30th kid today. I feel like I have repeated that fact quite a few times throughout the day. My teacher friends approach me as I walked through the halls going to pick up my kids at gym or from lunch and say, "Ray, are you okay?" and other hyperbolic phrases. I don't blame them. Maybe I look exhausted on the outside. Perhaps my eyes give me away, saucerfull. Is it my smile? I honestly wore one today, no misgivings.

I introduced her to my other 29 (we had everyone there for a change, one tardy and no one left early) kids in my own certain jovial way. I teased them about their last names, their lack of height, or the air-balling three-pointers. Everyone got a laugh, we lined up loudly, had to sit and then retried with success. She seemed comfortable enough, at one point I looked down to see her fiddling with my ID badge and keys. Maybe God approves of what I'm doing in the class. Maybe he wants someone in that class to find a friendship with another kid, or maybe I'm needed to provide some sort of reasoned fixture beyond their norm. Of course, God doesn't need me for anything, but I can ask and pray to do His will. What else could be said rather than a complaint?

All our classes are pretty full. It reminds me of one of my years at my previous school. I remember having anywhere between 30-32. We sat in a large U-shape, with me at it's core. We had an East side and a West side, and I screamed and directed and taught (some) and ate lunch with just about everyone. I still have their pictures on my wall. I remember the one whose brother ended up assaulting their junior high substitute (or was it the other way around?) years later. Another who everyone told me would be the death of me, ended up being my hardest worker, even when she and her friends began flicking staples and tacks at one another on a day I was absent (she must have read my junior high diary, damn her!). I remember sitting in a meeting, watching a hard-working mom cry because her daughter was basically not "low enough" to qualify for services.

I too moved around a lot. Most of mine were before the year started, so any teachers I knew the first day never scrambled around the room looking for extra supplies, folders and notebooks. I was just another kid, nothing special beyond my sarcastic jokes and occasional forays into greatness (I do remember busting a 100 on a Scantron math test, for a junior high teacher who also ended up calling home to my parents on a previous sarcastic argument I had with her. I learned never to argue with a black woman ever again.). I would fall in line somewhere between the dweebs and half-breeds, the pretty girls' best friend and the one fat dude whose mom didn't know how to dress (thanks for my mom, she knew what looked best, like green, starched Polo shirts or Air Jordans that were left on front porches to be stolen by rabid pizza deliverymen).

In junior high, I joined football teams for friends, enjoyed the fame of being the only Hispanic kid in a trail mix of whites faces (okay, well, there were three or four of us, and if you didn't know Spanish like me you were basically white).

I can relate to those kids. The ones who want to sit under their teacher's chins and dangle their keys. Or the kid that sees a familiar face and wants to cut a joke. My former teachers would probably laugh at me if they realized the things that itch me are the same things that I had done to them years ago (who gives detention for gum? I do, now!). I know the mind of the sports kid, the creative kids, the dweebs and the so-cool-I'm-going-to-call-you-a-culo kid. I'm learning the divas and the strong-willed girls (oh, my Lisa in kid form). I wonder if I'm reaching the shy girl, the babyish boy, the kid who is always sick and looks sleepy.

I have a bulletin board for the affirmations. Drawings, tracings, cute Rembrandts from the colored pencils of my kids, all devoted to their best teacher of the moment. And in this moment, I'll take it.

Old Man Toes

Today was the evening I had been praying for. After a summer of softball from Thursday to Sunday, without much end-of-season payoff, then going into the fall with unresolved feelings and more schedules, Volleyball drama and school-wide computer system failures, it all culminated into a clear, 60 degree day, fall Ohio.

Cruz and I threw the football, I wheezed trying to outrun him and he couldn't catch a football on the run. Reycina was like a bag-lady, carting her wares through the cul-de-sac, seemingly talking about everything and nothing all at once.

We took a walk in the neighborhood, Cruz stopping at every corner or block marker (stop at the white mailbox, or stop at the Frankenstein in that yard). At one point, I told Milly to hurry to pet a puppy that Cruz was petting at the corner. By the time her little feet get there, the puppy leaves. So, she's bawling as we walk down the street, hand in hand, pulling a wagon with a purple, gargantuan tennis ball in the carriage. We ended up back at the puppies' house, where she quickly ended her tears (they always seem to vanish once she gets her way. hmmmm), petted the puppy and we went on our way.

I'm reminded of the book, "Shiloh," which I'm reading aloud in class. Poor beagle gets abused, boy keeps beagle a secret. man comes looking for beagle, drama ensues. Great book. I'm tying it in with "Because of Winn-Dixie" during reading, how both characters show nerve and heart, how the dogs are a catalyst for change. I also notice both books have doses of religion, in that both characters pray for childhood concerns, or that the ritual of religion are characteristics of secondary characters.

I see symbols of God in other novels. Ever read "Sounder"? Totally Biblical. How do you learn about Martin Luther King, Jr, or Harriet Tubman and not invoke some kind of spiritual talk? I've been watching the PBS series, "God in America," a six-hour essay on America's origins that were rooted in religion, but them splintered off from Anne Hutchison's defiance of Puritan authority to atheists' fight for the separation of church from our school systems. Billy Graham (didn't realize his impact on the current American political/religious right landscape), and the Methodist movement, just some of the interesting discussion worthy topics. These are the kinds of videos we should be watching in class. How will my kids truly understand an abolitionist without understanding the foundation for which they were basing their argument? Or even a slave trader, who would also use the Bible to justify owning slaves?

I'm blessed to also have a great student teacher 3 days out of the week. We talk about God, and family and our pasts, our futures. She's young and a churchgoer, not something that typically goes hand in hand anymore. We both agree that we both would never be smart enough to understand brokenness, or the great "whys" of the world. We're simply bystanders to something greater than us.

So tonight I ate Frosty's with my kids and asked them silly questions, "Did you eat old man toes for breakfast?" and watched them laugh. I laid next to them in bed and felt like crying. I don't deserve to blow dry my daughter's beautiful hair, or to hear the giggles of my son. Cruz tells me tonight, "Daddy, I want to be like you." Son, you're going to be so much more.

Wide Screen Mirror

Heading to the doctor this Wed. afternoon. The doctor will certainly chastise me for my weight gain and my indifference to my health. I'm probably somewhere over 350 pounds, the heaviest I've ever been.

I've let my schedule overrule any health standards I tried to have this summer. New excuses become blurred from the old. Motivation perhaps? That's some of it. When I do go and work out, I feel tremendous. Eating habits? Not as bad as I think, but two things I've been trying since the spring have failed from my own lack of consistency. I had hoped to monitor my snacks better, so that my meals wouldn't be as big, especially at dinnertime. I eat a practical lunch, and I used to be better at eating a high fiber, low cal breakfast. But any goodwill I accomplished early was ruined by poor choices at dinner. Too much bread, seconds, schedule-induced fast food.

I had a friend send me his diet plan and it looks feasible. Then again, all of the diets I have tried recently have been manageable. In the past, I've done diet pills, shake diets and supplements. I've literally ate a soup for 8 days straight, protein and low carb diets and other practical measures like, "no fries, or pop" months. All of them have ended pretty much the same. Some success, then fall back into bad habits. Not sure what will be the difference this time.

He (the doctor) wanted me to go Weight Watchers. I was looking into a cleanse diet from the chiropractor as well. Each of them are in the range of 200 dollars or more, and right now, pretty much off the board in terms of finances. Will I dig myself an early grave? Will I end up trapped inside my own body?

Lately, I had been telling everyone that I have been the happiest in my life that I've ever been. That hasn't been an understatement. God has blessed me with three beautiful kids, I have the chance to be creative each and everyday at my job, working with 29 curious minds. Wow. My friends are dependable and caring. My wife supports me and loves me more than anyone else besides my kids and my mother. When I used to look in the mirror, I didn't like myself, but that everything to do with personality and choices on my part, not the way I physically look. I wear my Charlie Sheen shirts and loosen my belt a bit.

The Invisible Trophy

Lots of thoughts and probably not much focus, it seems as if I could write about any number of things and call it a blog.

Hugs. Reycina hugs me, and anyone, like it's the last hug she'll ever give. Just one of those per day this last week has been a worthwhile gift from God.

Teachers. There's been a huge amount of talk online and within the media about our "failing" schools. I even had a student this week who wrote down, "our schools are failing" on a graphic organizer designed to help them brainstorm problems in their communities. There's a movie coming out soon called "Waiting for Superman," whose conceit is to prove that our schools are failing by showing the lives of several different parent's on their quest to find the right education for their child outside the public school system. I'm dying to see it and give my own opinions. As an educator, I feel that we need to realize the trends and pulse of what the public perceives about our profession. It does teachers no good to hide and cry foul. Go watch it. Connect. Talk and share.

I know the movie features the work of Geoffery Canada, founder of the Harlem Children's Zone. His story was shared on CNN's "Black in America," and I found his story riveting and what he was doing with education a step in the right direction.

I read an article on HuffPost about how to fix our schools. Much of the article feels like an attempt to dartboard the issue without really saying how or what changes should take affect. Part of this stems from a seemingly political attempt to discredit teachers' unions and tenured teachers in particular. Any union right now gets lumped in with lazy workers, high pensions and ineffectiveness. By letting the unions speak for us, we sound like blamers and avoiders. If unions do end up being broken over the next several years, what then? I feel as if the public wants us to be more qualified, work more and give their child the necessary tools to pass a test. It's also almost an American right to complain about anything and everything, especially in regards to education, from homework to teachers. I believe that alot of the funding issues that plague schools, are part induced by inefficient building managers (most teachers have no say-so on what gets purchased in a building, nor are they privy to their respective schools' budget). There's millions coming down in the way of grants, and taxes, so why do we still have buildings without computer labs? Why are we continually going back to operating levies and higher taxes, when we cut teachers and bloat the size of the classrooms, thereby eliminating the quality of a teacher by having to manage 30 bodies instead of 22/23?

Schedules and sports and daughters. This past week saw the end of my son's baseball season. It's been fun, and I didn't lose sleep on having some daddy-ball meltdown on the field or from mentoring-gone-bad moments by chewing out some poor kid. I did learn that baseball is just as beautiful as a sunrise and sometimes more frustrating than what i'll give it credit for. Lisa's volleyball season is ending very soon. She's playing softball this weekend. We used to tell her that she didn't have an option of not playing because it was better than what some of her friends were doing at the time. Now as we near the end, we're exhausted and frustrated. Burned slightly. Egos deflated. If colleges spend more time looking for character and realized the type of girls they were asking to represent their schools, perhaps they'd think otherwise. Lisa has put alot of time into her sports, I too as a parent have sacrificed quite alot of time. Your human side wants a payoff, some recognition, but in the end it's hard to realize it isn't about you, it's about her. What a kid. God brought us Lisa to teach us a few things. I'm looking forward to enjoying her company in the upcoming months, regardless of what softball may or may not bring. No one gives awards for love.

Redistributing the Tears

Today, I finally accepted new kids into a room the way I always wanted: with applause. Never in the history of room 160, or my other rooms for that matter, did a new student arrive with any fanfare whatsoever. Normally, I am scrounging for books, ripping out papers of a notebook to be used again, sharpy-cross-out name of a student's agenda book for it's new owner, name tags that are promised but eventually forgotten. They are rushed into their new area, set up with a partner and eventually become part of the scenery.

New kids come and go. I've lost and regained students, at about a rate of 10 kids per year. Kids move in with their dad, move in with their mom, lose jobs, relocate, get sick of the school, try something new. Some I try to coax with bus passes not to leave, and others' attendance is so blatantly poor, I've prayed they move just so their child attends school SOMEWHERE. Sometimes, kids get transferred within buildings, they leave because they qualify for services we do not have, or because of too high of enrollments in other grades, get split up between teachers. This happened to my school this last week.

I "adopted" 5 more students, which considering what some of my partners went through, was anything but a blessing. We're more crowded and we suddenly grew louder, but I get to teach the same material Monday. I wont have two grade-levels to maneuver through, plus getting to know kids again like it's day one.

According to the faces of the children in the building, redistributing kids to other rooms was quite traumatic. For those teachers that had to move buildings, or chose to teach split classes, you feel a sense of relation and disconnect at the same time. I wouldn't know what it would be like to teach second graders, and I've not taught third grade in so long, I would imagine I'd feel defeated teaching little ones before the day would even start. I'm used to independent readers, workers, kids who get inside jokes and have little mood swings. You feel compassion for all they work they must have this year, and you feel almost a sigh of relief that the buck passed you and went to the next person. You stand in front of class and tell your students, no one is leaving, and the kids you think hate you, the kids you think you haven't figured out, they are the first ones to clap and fist pump when they realize they are not leaving. It bothers them to know you don't like them, or perceive that you don't enjoy their company.

Kids were in tears today, which is something you don't see much from kids other than sick ones, hurt ones or stubborn ones. Real general tears is something you want to avoid at all costs. And kids today just don't cry easily. Oh, there's some great fakers, and some real actors and actresses, but to drop genuine tears among the waxed floors in a building will not only draw them out of you, but you start looking for someone to blame, someone to point to and say, "it's your fault!" Numbers and figures. Hearts and minds. Learning and relating. I'm not sure how much learning happened today, except for me.

So we clapped those kids in the room. We played games. We got loud and we laughed. So what. It beats tears anytime of the day.

Floating Effect

There's a scene in some Spike Lee movies I always liked. It's the staple that follows many of his protagonists, watching them literally "float" down a local sidewalk. Denzel Washington floats towards his death in "Malcolm X" (and floats twice more, once in Mo Better Blues and "Inside Man"), Mekhi Pfieffer in "Clockers." Other movies include the "25th Hour" and "Crooklyn." Regardless of when it happens or why it's happening, it's the scene I most resonate with now. I think I'm currently in my own floating scene. Floating by while those around me are desperately trying to reel me in from drifting away. I can't sense any soundtrack except for my own frustration.

Now I'm the one to blame for this floating effect. I fully admit it. Could I be doing a better job with my devotions? Should I have been making better financial decisions over the past few weeks/months? Am I helping my body adjust to the stress and lifestyle with my diet? Have I been willing to make those sacrifices I know are good for me? I know the answer to all my questions, yet I'm the one refusing to adhere to what I know will help my feet touch the ground again.

I told my share group tonight that before I was a "Christian" (not that I was an atheist before, just uncommitted to anything but believing that I had everything to do with me), it was easy to be a jackass. The world values sarcasm, a commitment to oneself. You're an exhausted dad? Leave those kids and party! You deserve it! Save money? What the hell for, you can't take it with you, that's for sure. Relationships? I'd be lucky to remember your name, much less value any time I was going to spend with you. So now, as I see myself spinning aimlessly, doing the same things that I know aren't what God wants from me, and I honestly said, "If I didn't know what I know now, I could just be an ass and be okay with it."

And I chuckled, because I knew when I said it, that God never intended for me to be ignorant of his grace. He doesn't want any of us walking around not knowing forgiveness, and love and genuine relationships. He wants the best for me, for you, for all of us.

Today, on a Monday when everything worked at school, and the lessons had been prepared and the day ran without a hitch, a student told me if I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. so there it is, in my face, Jesus reminding me in the smile of a child, in that concerned face of hers, that I needed to cheer up. I immediately fought back with a "no," but I know what she was getting at.

So, tomorrow, let's wake up with a smile. Hug the kids and kiss my wife. Is there really any other way?

Mindful Redirection

Three weeks into the school year and I feel like I'm a month behind already. I hate that this is my opening line to my blog. Way to be positive, right? Perhaps this is the therapy I need to get myself going into the right direction.

I told my wife today that perhaps the decision to go off my medication (for those in the dark, I started a round of Lexapro a few years back for the demons/immaturity of depression, with mixed results and have been off them since this past spring), not because of an outburst or because I'm losing my mind, but because of the lack of focus that has seemed to plague me over the summer. I routinely find myself driving back to the house to pick up something I missed, or driving home and forgetting that I had to stop somewhere (like now, I have pictures at Target to pick up). I start one project at school, and I stand up and realize that other things need to be done. I lay my clipboard down somewhere and freak out when I cannot find it. Perhaps I've been ADHD all this time, it would explain some of my boyishness as a kid, but then again, it's probably just an excuse. My memory is quite acute, as I could vividly remember past events as if they were unfolding before me. I forget names but not faces. Why is it I cannot remember where I laid my wallet?

In my refusal to read boring basals and stick with the old, I've been working on novels in Reading, which would explain some of my trepidation coming into this week. Along with a newfound focus on vocabulary, I feel like I'm generating new lessons every day. I create, I adjust on the fly and I evaluate. Thank goodness for that kind of leverage, and I surely wont go back to the old just to make myself more comfortable. My Monday, however, was pretty typical of what my mind must be doing.

I get a new student about five minutes in, no paperwork. Cleaned out a desk and got her to work. Phone rings two or three times, parent wanting work (he's recovering from a diabetic fit and a hospital stay, and thats what a parent wants? Seriously?). Computer is slowing down with every touch of the Smartboard. Music teacher comes in, suddenly other kids are reminded that they need to talk to her, lose five students. Afternoon comes, forget there is an assembly, lose 20 minutes. This bleeds into today, Obama speech at 1pm, lose 30 minutes redirecting sleeping students to sit up, remind them of their "personal code," which apparently has nothing to do with zoning out to streaming video of their president's motivational speech as it freezes and makes him look like he's giving funny faces ever half minute.

What am I looking forward to? Reading my student responses to their personal code of conduct based on their 6 levels of happiness (thanks to Rafe Esquith's "Teach Like your Hair's on Fire"). I'm reinforcing the why we behave and that it has nothing to do about rewards or incentives (which are great motivators of used correctly). Not a new concept but I'm working on making our room the place where acting the way we are made to act is safe and conducive to learning. Let the games begin!

Emmaus Gathering 4th Day Speech, September 8, 2010

(What follows is a transcript of my speech yesterday. I'm still feeling the after effects today, like a high still, of being called up to speak at church of all places. Who would have thought I'd ever be asked to speak at church. I will use this to undoubtedly fuel me for as long as it will take me.

As my nervousness wore off, I distinctly remember faces and expressions, and it felt as if I weren't reading at all. And I still recall my first ever speech class in college, when I dropped the course after I bombed the basic "introduce your neighbor" speech. God is great)

My name is Reynaldo Cordova. I attended the Reynoldsburg Men’s Walk #59 and sat at the table of Mark. I am honored to stand before you as a brother in Christ to deliver two messages for you today. One, what did the Emmaus walk mean to me and what have I done since then.

My experience with church and Jesus began as a four year old boy in Houston, TX. I am told that on that first visit, I began asking my mother what was church. And after given an explanation that church was a place where a man named Jesus lived, I decided to find out who that man was. In doing so, I shouted upon entering Catholic mass that Sunday, “Where’s Jesus? Where’s Jesus?” Little did I know that it would take me almost 33 years before I listened for an answer.

As a teenager, I surely asked where Jesus was in my life. I longed for that fatherly relationship from my dad I saw on weekends and rebelled against the step-father who was raising my sister and I. I tried drugs in high school, alcohol, questionable friends and unhealthy relationships. I questioned every moment and looked for the unfairness of life. Why would Jesus take my Uncle Richard, just married and handsome, so full of life? Sometimes I would think that Jesus only lived on the walls of that church growing up, a figure so distant and painful like the tears of a viejita at church, like the Jesus oil painting above my grandmother’s kitchen table that watched as I guiltily ate tortillas. My relationship with Jesus mirrored a church statue of the Virgin Mary that sat regal in a glass encased podium, no doubt bullet proofed and free from the oily touch of us parishioners.

But little did I know that all the turns I made in Texas would eventually lead me to Ohio. You see, roads in Texas are flat, straight, narrow. Five lanes of sameness. You make 3 right turns in Texas you end up back where you started. You try that in Ohio, you end up in Chillicothe. The roads here corkscrew and deviate from the norm that I was used to. I remember being frightened of hills that make your stomach churn, fearful for what was ahead. I know that to have stayed in Texas would have meant I was not to grow as a man, as a new husband, as a potential father and later, for my spiritual growth.

Recently, I struggled with one such road. I volunteered to drive my daughter’s softball team after a canoe trip in Hocking Hills. Because I had dropped them off the day before, I didn’t feel I needed the GPS to get back to the camping area. Once there, I realized I needed to be down river, and without any phone service, I raced down and found the girls had found other means of transportation. So here I am, ready to take route 33 out to anywhere but home. How embarrassing. This was just another scab on this summer’s résumé of being late to games, getting lost, the stereotypical man who won’t stop for directions. I began to drive back, ready to crawl into a hole. My phone rang then, and to some of my friends, the next part they will never believe I did unless they were there sitting next to me: I answered it. On the other line, Emmaus. In my worst moment, when my confidence was zero, surely not enough to stand before you today, God wanted me. He called. “Reynaldo, I’m here.”

So as a married man and teacher living here, struggling with selfishness, with pride, with the role of a man, I didn’t even know where to ask, “Where’s Jesus?” I even promised Jesus I would straighten up after fostering our now adopted daughter. Two kids later, he was still waiting for me to make good on that promise. Depression followed, and something a great friend saw in me led him to suggest an Emmaus walk. And when John Hack shows up with paperwork to sign, you sign it.

That Saturday night, the answer I had searched for since childhood filled my bones and soul like a fever. And like all good answers, it made me realize he had been there all the time, and that it was me who moved too fast to realize the answer. It was in the loving advice of my mom, the narrow escapes from troublesome situations, the guiding hand of my wife, the love and acceptance of my in-laws, to college scholarships that just happened to be discussed as I walked into the registrar’s office. “I’m here, Reynaldo, just accept it.”

What have I done since then? Since then, I see parallels to the game of “Perfection.” You know the Milton Bradley game. You take 25 random geometric shapes and place them in corresponding holes on a game board before an arbitrary timer springs the gameboard upward, spilling your hard work all over the floor.

Sometimes, I play the game like my 3 year old daughter. I spend more time fitting shapes into the wrong places. Like my lack of devotions or church attendance this summer. The timer suddenly goes off and I’m picking up the pieces.

Other times I play the game like my six year old son. He’s a little more advanced. Sometimes, he actually gets most of the pieces right, like bible studies, share groups and teaching Sunday school. Other times, just when I think I’ve won the game, the schedule erupts yet again. Softball practices, volleyball, meetings. Some weeks the timer doesn’t shake my world, and other times it does.

And sometimes, I play to win. And like most board games in my house, you realize there are missing pieces. Gifts I don’t have, my fears, my hangups. What I have realized is that the Emmaus community, and to a better extent, my church family, is behind me the entire time, rooting for me. Every hug, every positive facebook post, every phone call when you’re feeling down. That’s Jesus right there. In your face. “I am here, Reynaldo, remember?”

So friends, continue to gather, continue to join a share group. If you aren’t in one, find one. I’m blessed to have my buddies Ted and Doug, and sometimes Matt and Jay, meeting every Saturday mornings at Tim Horton’s. I’m beginning to love that place. As a people watcher, I love the families coming in, the soccer moms, the one guy with 4 boxes of bagels, the men that sit next to us that make the back of the room feel like a barbershop. Donuts and extra large coffees, and the best conversation one could ask for. I’m amazed of our similarities, from our teenage daughters to raising boys into men, from nerdy movies and fantasy football. We’ve come to understand that fooze ball can be considered a call to discipleship. Sometimes we even meet at the Waffle House, which means if you haven’t prayed over the sound of sizzling bacon and Flo calling out something “smothered and covered”, well, you haven’t really prayed at all.

Volunteer too. And when you feel it isn’t for you, try something else. Keep playing because the timer is going to run out eventually. The greatest thing is, you’re not alone. I haven’t been feeling much like a Christian lately, but that’s because my game needs a slight adjustment. Some refocus. Some new game pieces. I know God is going to help me find it, because of that answer I gave him that Saturday night. “Jesus, I love you and accept your grace.”

De Colores

Tales of a Nomad

School starts (it has now been one week in now that I'm editing this) Monday, which really means a day of meetings, one day of dusting the cupboards and Wednesday we welcome the kids. Should be exciting this year. I feel that my mind hasn't been too much in the clouds (well, as it pertains to work that is) this summer, and reading books and concentrating with my wife, having those great talks about improving should be a great motivator.

The kids have been especially rambunctious. Cruz has been on a non-stop question barrage since Monday. We get into Wal-Mart today for some last minute room supplies, he asks me about color coded staples and when he's going to play in the Major Leagues (a running theme over the last several weeks), partly from X-Box MLK withdrawal (our game system showed the red ring of death recently), watching little league games on ESPN and the arrival of fall ball machine pitch.

Reycina was shipped off for a few days. She inadvertently wrote with dry erase maker on our newly 5-coated waxed floors at school (according to Lisa, she also likes to write on her dry erase board in the room, except with Lisa's mascara or lipstick, walking down the stairs looking like a drunken Cleopatra applying makeup) , which drew out naturally a verbal reprimand by the custodial staff's supervisor who probably had his eye-twitch when he noticed her handiwork. She came back today, talking even more and looking a year older.

But school is pretty good, all things considered. Financially, it is actually good to keep me in a building away from my wallet. Back to lunches and routines. This year, we are down 15 minutes from our cushy one hour lunch break, so there's no opportunity to eat out, which will be good for us in the long run.

School continues to challenge me and awakens me to a side of people that I would otherwise never have known. As a father myself and with a child in the building, I'm even more aware with how I'm supposed to talk to children (the "old" Mr. C sometimes will unleash itself on a unsuspecting elementary student), what I expect from parents and being patient with what kids deliver to me, in terms of their learning, work ethic and achievement.

Amazing how so many people can live on the Earth and everyone has a different opinion on what raising their child for school really is. What makes a parent choose a charter school, only to watch their kids fail and return? What makes a parent not bring the required paperwork from building to building, knowing that the school has a legal requirement to uphold a child's disability? I moved around almost every year when I was a kid. I know there were years I saw the principal more than the classroom, and other years that the teachers held on to every sarcastic musing and wondered when I was going to perform up to my ability. Never having been that "A" student, I relate to the hyper kid, the funny one, the all-out-boy. The baby boys and the quiet, wall-flower girls, those are the challenges. The learning disabled boy, raised on hip-hop, strife and bad teachers. One tells me recently, "I never got a 3 before (the equivalent of an A)" after his right answer. My young man, it's only the beginning.

Summer Madness

This coming Monday, I will return to work (sort of). I'll bring the kids into my room, breathe in the 5 coats of wax on my floors, struggle to find something for my two little ones to do and start unpacking drawers, sharpening pencils and fret over the first week of school. If the kids really knew that I'm just as scared they are going to revolt on the first day, I'd be working in the book warehouse.

This August also brings some self reflection time, some pertaining to the new year, what I want to do differently, looking over months long notes I wrote to myself in professional development seminars and idea forums, trying to construct some kind of meaning from them. I recall ideas driving, and swerve to place them on a sticky note on my phone, etch them into a notebook, stitch them into the very fibers of my shirt. I hear a good tune on the radio, all is lost.

Personally, it's also a time to reevaluate my goals, my past year, my imperfections and chest-thumping.

Perhaps it's because my birthday, perhaps it's my own conscious focus on my past failures and trying to somehow make amends for them. Three years ago, I gave my life to God. Having been someone who had no idea what that really meant, I've been striving for the right to proclaim it loud in the streets. To me, it's more than being a Republican, or a conservative, or having a value system, or whatever labels Christians get lumped in with. But the last three summers, I've done the exact opposite of what being a true believer would exercise.

So, here I am, doing yard work this last Thursday, at least attempting to do so with a stubborn weed eater that never stays on long enough to bend a weed stem. I threw a monumental tantrum, the kind that if caught on youtube, would have been one of those that would have generated hundred's of posts about "that crazy dude." On top of that, I end up crying myself to sleep about how blessed of a family I have at 3am after a round of card playing and sharing dinner jokes.

Needless to say, on the eve of my 36th birthday, losing patience with the dry erase board schedule that seems to be shrinking with available days, knowing that I was possibly more bummed out by not going to Texas like we had planned took more of an effect on me than I realized (as for that reason, what an unpublished bit of work that would become!), and that my loved ones are rooting for me to succeed. I used to think those in my inner circle were secretly wishing for my demise, to bring me down a notch, to show me just how fragile life can be by yanking the rug right out from underneath. Perhaps it was MY wishing that on others is why I have such a workable knowledge on that area. Oh, the life of a selfish man!

But teaching will arrive soon. In a song I heard at church, God has "potter's hands" because of how he shapes our lives, makes us whole and each of us, unique and gifted beyond belief. In a sense, I know he has shaped me, and is allowing me to build upon the foundation originally set by him, crafted with a future unseen by only him. How cool is that, that I am allowed to water the roots of a young mind? It surely is a kick in the head!

So, Happy Birthday to my new students, and to my loved ones. You have brought life into my mind and body, built onto my foundation, and have made me the man I have become.

Educationally Defiant

Three weeks into summer school. I've had an interesting year, probably one that I'm learning the most about myself and the "system." The first few years I taught summer school, we were working with fourth graders who had not passed the OAT, so we had sort of a mission and a goal at the end when they were to retake the test. About 5 years ago, the state stopped offering this, so summer school ended up being basic remediation for struggling students going into 5th grade. A few years ago, they offered a computer lab version of summer school, which ended up being a criminal waste of time. No wonder I was not asked back the following year, I'm sure the district analyzed the results and wondered where all the money went.

This year, among my crew of 10 kids, more than half require small instruction, individualized teaching time, special needs and constant monitoring. After one week of wondering why the kids weren't trying, the school tutor realized she was to be in my room to offer intervention and help for them, and that has changed the climate. I certainly found myself with some of my patience whittled down to small broom threads and I began to rely more on frustrating redirecting, which with a kid who is defiant, ends up being more foolish than endearingly purposeful.

Of course, I then begin to question the axiom, "Am I qualified for these types of students?" Aren't they much like the ones I have taught before? What's so different, and why I am I so willing to throw up my arms and claim it isn't my responsibility? I begin to ask questions with the teacher assigned to my room, and we begin a revelatory conversation about the nature of labeling students and whether they are a product of their environment.

Is it fair to assume that educators place a label of emotionally disturbed African-American kid simply because he refuses to listen to instruction and is highly disrespectful? Think he's allowed to be at home considering his large family, a single mom and a culture that promotes selfishness, misogyny and violence through their music and movies? The same kid who refuses to listen in Pickerington is labeled autistic. He too lives with a single mom, listens to country music and goes to every doctor's appointment. Kid A gets cursed out by his parents, has older siblings that do drugs or hang out at the house all night. Kid B sees his dads on every other weekend, likes to be on the computer all day.

Then, because of this disparity in race, districts and state policy makers nationwide are working hard to label fewer kids (or at least to balance the ethnicity of those being taken to intervention), therefore maybe hurting a kid who truly needs help. Case in point, a child who was born with a drug-addled mom, received no form of human touch for several months and who ends up being adopted to an exhausted single mom who doesn't know what to do with his social awkwardness and lashing out at school.

It reminds me of a scene this weekend. I set up a fly trap outside my garage to prevent garbage pail flies from entering the house through the garage. I go out and see that during the storm, the trap has fallen and I realize that a bird has become snared within it's tangled snake-skin. I lift it and see that the bird is awake but perhaps not fighting any longer, tired perhaps from fighting. I place the tape in the trash, begin to think about a dead bird rotting in the garbage and take it out. I begin to wrestle its wings from the sticky substance, it flaps, gets tangled even worse. In my attempt to peel him free, a few feathers fall. I took a napkin and grab the small bird firmly, free him from the trap and place him on the ground. It hops frantically away, chirping protestingly. If only I could stop wrestling with the trap, limp away quietly and vow to live another day.

Mirror Image

I'm swimming with thoughts on a multitude of subjects. I may tunnel through some and whirlpool around others. So is having conversations with me, sometimes.

School ended Friday, and so begins another summer. I'm reminded of my past summers, which somehow all end the same despite all attempts to the contrary. I begin motivated, I vow to stay productive, I end up teaching summer school with a thought of working towards the next year, to fine tune myself. What eventually happens is I succumb to the human condition of perpetual regrets, bordeline depression and selfishness.

Last year, I survived until August, wanted nothing more that to begin school again and made everyone around me miserable until I went into my locked room and began moving around furniture and shuffling through dusty cabinets. Am I defined by my job? I recently commented that I was going to countdown the days until I was allowed back. Most teachers are the opposite. We count down the days until spring break, Christmas break, spring break, summer vacation. We count the days left in the school year as you remind ourselves that summer is the only reason why we became teachers in the first place. When we are confronted by a number that matters--like, how many kids in my class need to pass a test?--we can't summarize the enormous amount of data so we include excuses like, "The curriculum needs to change," "These kids won't learn," "Parents should have to take a test," and other legendary lounge room soliloquies.

My wife also reminded me that making such a countdown was proof that I wanted nothing to do with my own kids this summer. I think sometimes I fall victim to the thought perpetuated by my father, who claimed that he didn't know how to father because no one ever showed him. To some extent, he is correct, as fathers don't necessarily raise their kids to be parents. We raise our kids to become independent, make good decisions, to live under authority. When I get a notice from school that my own son couldn't control his temper I have no mirror in the house that would testify to the contrary and that their ins't some truth to the statement, "Did he get that from me?" Perhaps this summer I can exercise some patience and love towards my kids.

Then there's the issue of softball.

A friend of mine recently used the word "consumed" when he detailed how his family's lives have changed from playing compettive softball. There are several connotations of the word consume, from to do away with completely, to spend wastefully, or to eat in great quantity. My pastor in service this morning asked the congregation, and specifically to me, "Will my daughter be playing softball past the age of 25? Then why are changing our entire worship schedules on something that will not prepare them for life?"

So, my friend is consumed by softball. He's done away with other elements of his life--family time, worship, devotions, vacations--to play ball. He's spent his time wastefully by being at a park while the grass around his home devours the house, a metaphor for the lost time spent with a wife, a child. Softball has eaten away at the important aspects of life. Again, there's not a mirror in the house that I could walk by to reveal a clean heart, an unbroken spirit.

God allowed me to worship this morning thanks to a well-timed rain delay that stumbled onto a cancellation. I don't find it ironic as much as I think well-timed for me to hear that message today, to rid me of my filthy mind this morning by getting me our of bed to read the Bible. God is rooting for me from above. I love my friend, too. I will continue to pray diligently for an outcome that doesn't consume him.

Cliff-Diving

This past Friday, kindergarten zoo field trip. As a teacher at the same school, I get to be just daddy, but unofficially a teacher as well. Day started off well, kids excited, checking lunches. I specifically remember my grandmother's packed lunches on field trip days to the Museum, or San Jacinto monument. She'd wrap fried chicken in tin foil, a soda pop miraculously still cold (wrapped in a wet paper towel and tin foil did the trick), a bag of fritos. Del fixed myself and Cruz a lunch, flat-bread pita style sandwiches, pickles in a sandwich bag, vitamin water, brownies. We ate better than the manatees.

This was Cruz's first bus trip, so he sits with his partner while I get to wave at all the kids I see everyday and confirm once again that I am Cruz's daddy. On the way, the kids sing vowel and alphabet songs, season songs and clapping songs. On the way back, we dropped off almost half of the kids with the parentals. Half of those kids fell asleep on the way back to school. Cruz sat next to me, not because I was his favorite but because I had a large souvenir drink and he wanted my ice. The cutest thing is watching him dig for ice, drop it out of his small hands, dig or another one and telling me his love me while he makes mouth slushes.

Once we began the trip, Cruz and his walking buddy formulated our plan (monkeys and lions!) and we set off, me wearing Cruz's transformer backpack (I think it all came full circle, i might have had one back in the day). The second we entered a housing area for Asian-themed animals, the kid with us refused, became scared and wouldn't forward the field trip. Cruz is bouncing around him, saying, "I'm not scared," "Don't be a fraidy cat," and other borderline mock/assurances that boogeyman, man-eating tigers or aliens would not attack the child. I kept thinking I'd be the first teacher fired for dragging a kid through the zoo, of all things. Poor kid heard a lion roar and you would have thought I was chasing him with a packet of worksheets.

After lunch, no big deal. We went through maybe 1/3 of the park, saw manatees floating in cabbage-laden waters, made funny faces at the bonobos, laughed at Gorilla butts, answered questions about kindergarten-thought evolution--"When that bird grows up, will it become an eagle?"

In the reptile exhibits, Cruz pets snakes, he stand on the edge of the glass looking for snakes like he's searching for Waldo. Our partner was not a finger-length from my hand, skittish at the sounds, delighted in seeing turtles and wondered what an iguana looked like. Am I blessed with a fearless son, or is he a product of my influence on him? I keep thinking of our little partner, no father at home, all the other kids at my school--no fathers. I see people complaining about the lack of marriages that are faithful. Boy, did men blow their responsibility. I see an entire generation of kids, fatherless. God gave us the responsibility to be fathers and what have we done with it? It's squandered.

No wonder the kids are afraid of lions, the darkness, succeeding and failing. Cruz is ready to bungee jump off a cliff and scream, "What's next?" Fearless. God Bless him.

Fearful Unwillingness

Just a few notes I've been wrangling with:

Education--Taking a fantastic vocabulary class on Tuesday nights. Working on changing the way we study and teach this particular subject, as in, no more rote definition lists, taking vocab multiple choice tests, etc. Through the conversation we are having in class with a range of teachers from special education, middle school, high school, a second-year teacher and a retiree, there is always these phrases that somehow creep into our lexicon--

"What about those kids that are unwilling to learn?"

"Some kids don't want to learn."

"Some kids just don't get it."

I wrote in my notebook the word, "fear." Teachers fear the unknown. They fear failing in front of the kids. They fear failing in front of their peers and bosses. They fear the success of their kids. I believe some of them hope for that light bulb to brighten on top of their kids' heads, and then what? What if I go to school and all the kids "get it?" Am I needed anymore? What if everyone was on grade-level, then maybe I wouldn't have to give out these remedial worksheets I've had since 1987.

We fear lots of things. I fear being exhausted and not caring, simply waking up and not loving my job. I fear running out of dry erase markers, losing my door keys, kids revolting and throwing pencils at me. Do I fail in front of the kids? Damn right, but it's those moments that we don't know the answers should bring out the best in us.

I have a friend who could lose her job this week. That's what I fear, not having that control over my job. Sure, I could lose my patience, say something stupid, any of us are at the mercy of kids and complaints. I don't fear accusations as much as I am aware of them. I fear a system that would remove a good friend and judge it right for the "betterment of kids." What's better served in the end?

But class awakened that commitment, that renewed sense of belonging to something larger than myself. God doesn't need me in the schools, he can work his wonders on his own, but He is using me for something. The kids will learn with or without me, but in going forward I have to know that the kids have just as much fear as we do. Do teachers actually think they awaken themselves and WANT to fail? No kid wants to fail. No kid wants to not get an award. It's the same for parents. No one wants to go to an assembly and not see their child on the stage, cheesing for the cameras, shaking hands with the principal. I haven't met those parents yet, or that kid. They are overwhelmed, sometimes ignorant, always fearful, and sometimes unarmed to their bombardment lifestyles. Fear

Fielding Grounders

Thank goodness for Matthew 6:34! On that note, I'll tread around the verse until later.

Mondays here at the Cordova house always start fairly typical. Get the kids ready, head to school, and for myself, a day without specials for school, and normally the beginning of a new Reading lesson. Without a plan on Monday, it makes all the other days at school fail in comparison. So, I'm normally 20% stressed, slowly declining by the year's end because by then I'm mastering more of the curriculum and there's not so much need to weigh the lessons down.

My wife Delcina has just begun Spring session of grad classes, so she's gone in the evening. After school, Milly has dancing/gymnastics. At age 2, it's more wrangling the kids down in some semblance of order so that they may do a forward flip on the inclined mat. Control consists of sitting on a circle or star. My daughter runs past the circle, onto the stack of mats furthest from her station, climbs them and jumps off. Come after her and you begin to realize you're running in circles with your socks on, laughing and having a better time than the kids. It all ends with Ricky Martin's "Ole ole ole" song, lots of hip shaking and jumping. She says, "I'm happy" and we leave.

I finally get as chance to get to my older daughter's softball games. She's a sophomore on varsity, not playing much but unlike last year (maybe that's for another blog), I'm not going into blaming the entire town, district and coaching staff for not playing her. Smiling through the complaint/awkwardness/concern from another parent about your daughter is the kind of silence that I'm learning but not sure I always like. In my Bible study class, one of the lessons concerned how we poison our body's with sex, food, lack of exercise, etc. Then it talks about poisoning your mind with suspicion and gossip. It engulfed me last year. No doubt I'm conscious of attempts to get me back into the man of 2009. Keep growing, keep evolving.

Cruz's baseball practice started at 7:15. Despite his short stature, the boy is all ball. He's a dirt devil. At one point he was miming how to field the ball to his partner, motioning towards where the ball was hit, picking up an imaginary ball and hurling it across the diamond.

And even though my left ear has felt like it's been clogged all night, and I forgot to walk the trash out to the curb, I went back to Matthew 6:34. Do not worry about tomorrow, my dear friend, for tomorrow will worry about itself. It's all those moments of today and so many more to come. Tell me when the ride stops, I have plenty of stamina for another go.

Where's My Drink?

Something like a left behind fountain drink surely wouldn't bear a blog, much less a parting thought to the everyday person. At once, it something tedious, forgetful and absent-minded of which I have been described as committing or acting as such many times. For me tonight, it reminded me of something I had left in the past, and something more than just the extra calories of a Dr. Pepper.

You see, only three years ago, something as trivial as leaving a fountain drink at a fast food pizza buffet, a drink I had bought to save for later, would have been the final straw after a long day. It was another sign that I couldn't handle mundane tasks, responsibility, having the kids on my own. Little thoughts that tear a man down and stick thorns in his side. It starts with a forgotten phone on the nightstand, forgetting to copy something for work, missing a doctors appointment. One event piles upon another. Someone jokes about your "failing" mind, you laugh and wonder if there's some truth to the statement. Aren't jokes nothing more than truth rolled inside an insult. Eat it! Sarcastic people eat more, they dish more out. We all expose our flaws in some way, why not humorously?

So, on my way to Bible study class, I look over at my cup holder and realize the drink is not there. I flashed to the previous night. After packing my bag for my first night of my Masters class, I notice I brought the wrong white binder. I suddenly saw my first impression of myself towards my unseen professor one of some desperate teacher who signed up for the class late (I need the class to re-certify for my teacher's license, which, if you're understanding this blog so far, was overdue and close to expiring), now has forgotten it's notes and content. Back to that moment in a minute.

So I escort (rather, follow) the little ones (Cruz, 6, Reycina, 2) into the church sanctuary and into their respective classes and daycare. As I pass my class, I see my instructor, Chip, sitting alone. Where's the rest of the class? I remind my son not to run in, I slap an armband on his wrist and rush him in despite the pizza sauce stains on his cheeks.

I enter class, Chip looks as if he's packing up to leave, but we speak about the school day (he's a retired Reynoldsburg teacher), dive into the material and the book of Hebrews. We get to around the finishing point--all good things about "once saved, always saved," Catholic priests, Calvinism vs Arminianism--and I tell Chip about that annoying forgotten drink. I express how the last two weeks of school had been more caught up with meetings and feelings and drama instead of what God brought me there to do--to teach, to bring some understanding into a young kids' mind beyond the textbooks. I talked about wanting to just drive home after work, instead of heading to the park, to pizza dinner, to anything. And despite Chip's encouragement, I felt more guilty for complaining about being busy. We read Hebrews 12:1, which talks about being surrounded by a "cloud of great witnesses," cheering us on. How many people, seen or unseen, have been part of my "new" life, when I gave my life to the Lord? How many of my loved ones gasped at the thought, or shook their heads in disbelief? Who are my cheerleaders?

And remember that class of mine, where I left my binder? Well, it went fantastic. I listened, I took notes like a fiend and even worked out some new kinks for my current class the next day. God is good.

And that drink? Three years ago, it would have been the last straw. I would have pouted, driven home, probably gotten into a silly fight, doubted myself. Let the ice melt, like my old self.

Let it water down--undrinkable life!

I'm drinking something new anyways.