Dear Satan,
You're a back-stabbing, low life bastard. With that said, I know you've been lurking about. I smell your presence like a skunk plastered on the roadside, dead for days and unseen except for the ripples of rotted flesh that sits like a torn scab. That stench stays with you for at least a day afterward. You think you smell it when you step into the shower. Is that me? And you smell it on the way checking mail, and you sniff your clothes and make that wrinkled-forehead face. It's not the skunk, it's the smell of evil.
So, I've been feeling you lurking about ready to strike. You know what bothers me, what gets me fired up, what I'm most prone to. On Monday, you perverted my sense of competition and the desire to win. You masked yourself not in the baseball pants of 8 year-old boys, but in the questions and tactics of oblivious coaches. I conceded and you tested my patience when every one of my squad freaked out about taking the field. Then you knew I would notice their best kid play infield every inning. You even put the little kid right next to me so he could make diving plays when we needed 6 runs. I'm hi-fiving the opposition while mumbling curses at the coaches.
While God blessed me with 2 new students to nurture and care for at the end of the year, you twisted my perfectionist nature and rattled any sense of control I thought I had. I raised my voice, grew impatient, separated kids. I dodged parents, flirted with insubordination and stared at fifth graders who mumble curse words at my general direction. You mangled the patience I showed all year to my own students when I pointed out to the new girl that when someone gives them the middle finger it sure wont be the last time that ever happens so get used to it. I began using the same lisp and stutter speech pattern of my autistic kid. My old sarcasm resurfaced, the bully from junior high who walked like I was crippled down the hallway for a juvenile laugh.
At work you exposed the gossip I've kept hidden in the confines of my room. You verified what I felt about people all along but in doing so it brought that festering, over-bearing do-gooder. I buried that man with weeks of prayer and Bible reading but you knew where to find him. You have the GPS towards our past failures. God is continually making his presence known, and it's you who unlocked the tattered cellar door. Who gave you the key anyhow?
And today, on top of school, you grind away at another pressure point--softball. On my daughter's last high school game ever, you laughed while the last out was recorded with my daughter meekly holding her bat on deck. She never made a play, never took a swing. I saw you handing over the tissues with that sarcastic sincerity while I fumed in the stands. You knew I'd scoff at the errors made by other players, at her old positions no less, and patted me on the back. You still have that email draft, right? Send it tonight. Show that coach how you really feel. I drove my exhausted daughter home, consumed with my life, consumed with the attacks on me, while she sat in silence. The passive man, leaving behind scars on her life. When I needed my Dad the most, he sat there in silence.
But, I got something for you this time, Satan. While you tempted me with a beer and pizza at a local bar where I would surely consume as many slices of grease to replace the energy of the f-bombs leaving my mouth, I called a friend. We raised each other up. I went back inside and hugged my wife. You think I'm leaving her alone so you can attack her more? Bring it! I looked into the eyes of my children who were oblivious to the tension and told them I loved them. Loved them more than you lie about. You've always told me that sin feels good, that it's what I needed. Fleeting are your lies.
So, Satan, you know what I'm going to do tomorrow? I'm going to do my reading, my devotions, and I'll pray again. I'll give my life to God and ask him what he wants to do with my life. I'll be humble in my meetings tomorrow because men know when to speak up and how to handle adversity. I will smile at my students, show them firm discipline if need be, and even if I get a new kid tomorrow, the child will realize that Mr. Cordova was something completely different. Reborn. Cordova 2.0. God-armored. Alive.
Sincerely,
Reynaldo, Christ follower.
PS--I'm ready for your next attack.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Hydra Man
I must have the most dangerous job on earth. The media hates teachers right about now. We get summers off, we are glorified babysitters, we allow bullying to run rampant within our walls and we are so lazy that we need a union to protect us from our own ineptness. The president endorses the marriage of two men over the livelihood of the thousands that are working overtime to get these kids what they need. Men in society are construction workers or buffoons on ABC Family shows, but not teachers (unless you count the liberal professor in college or the literature high school teacher with dreamy eyes and a weakness for teenage girls). I work in a profession dominated by women. I know I'm making two separate arguments here, one of danger and one of passiveness. It's dangerous to work with kids, this has always been somewhat true for me. It's not dangerous to have to tone down the essence of what I am.
I was reminded how dangerous my job can be last week. It first started with successive absences which either exposed a substitute teacher for being under qualified or it proved that I am unable to sever the umbilical cord attached to my students. During my hiatus, the room became a bedlam of thrown tennis balls (they serve as chair silencers), racial slurs, screaming fits, shoving matches and middle-finger salutes. My colleague mimics the chicken-coop movement of the sub I had Friday, extinguishing one fire before being engulfed by another. In the melee, the kids were removed from participating in the Bouncy House celebration next week.
My wife is prone to give me the eye from time to time, the emasculating reminder that I overstretch my man-pant boundaries. This is part 2 of my dangerous mission. Not only do I work with women (and I'm only pointing this out in a negative in terms of not having another man to share job experiences with like I had in the past. I do think teaching needs more men, but not necessarily because we can do it better. Together, men and women can provide that bond that kids don't get at home, the maternal and the fatherly.) but I work with my wife as well. She sees my insecurities manifest themselves in all sorts of endeavors. I become some hydra-man as I tentacle my influence on the basketball court taking score and reffing the games, or eating with my Wednesday 3rd grade girls who I believe like the fact they can sit on rolling chairs and do a conga line during lunch than my conversation. In the mean time I try and complete all the possible teacher duties one has during the day--grading papers, re-directing students, coordinating meetings, etc. It's what all teachers do. Nothing more, nothing special. And I'm sure each teacher has their "thing", the little extras they do that make their classrooms unique. I'm no different. I'm working on realizing that my gifts have nothing to do with anyone else's gift down the hallway, or that my gift is somewhat better or more genuine. That's being a man too, realizing that I don't have to be the end all be all.
So when my class behaves, I do walk with pride. Who wouldn't? When they freak out when a sub is there, is it an indication that the sub shouldn't have ever stepped into the room or does it mean they will only listen to me? And if they only listen to me, if their true nature is somehow boiling just under the surface does it mean that they respect me, fear me, or are intimidated by me. I think I've said on here before that I feel I'm being attacked and the attack is on my masculinity. No one wants an aggressive, forceful male presence at school. That's dangerous. Just look what we do to active boys in school. Sit down, shut up, do your work, don't do that. We don't know how to harness that energy because we are constantly being told by our mothers, our teachers and now, my boss to control my tone, the tenor of my voice, my presence.
So this week it has been silence in room 160. I haven't had my hallway conversations with my chosen few. No lunch bunch. No hi-fives to the little ones. I know this is not my wife's intention for me to stifle me, but it's my over reaction to her prompst, my boss's hinted reprimands. In a sense, this is the danger. It's easy to overreact. Easy to stumble. Easy to err. Dangerous is trusting in the big picture. I've been all over my new kids lately. Blaming them for being dumped in my classroom without school supplies. Blaming them for starting fights. Blaming them for coming from a charter. Is this what God meant when he made me a rock, the leader in my building?
My fourth graders finished watching "Sounder" (the Martin Ritt version. I have yet to watch the updated version) today. The movie has always been a favorite of mine. Later, I've come to realize how special the book and film are in a way that I've grown to appreciate. The mother's faith, the boy's journey to find his father. Aint no journey hopeless, the boy says. The boy is searching for the namesake that only his dad can provide. His masculinity turns aggressive in his mind in the dreams of retaliation against the white, nameless powers of authority. In the book, the boy eventually meets a teacher who takes him in, provides that bond that his father cannot provide (and just how many black men were taken away in the times of slavery, and later, sharecropping from their families? How many fail to provide that bond to their sons now?). The movie presents her as a black woman, and I don't question the move. It's honest, truthful. A woman provides so much for us. But a man balances out that longing of spirit. Boys will search far and wide for their father. Some on journeys, some on aggressive and destructive detours.
By the end of the movie, I'm always crying. Here, the crippled dad returns. Aint no journey hopeless. He returns home as a husband and a father. You've got to beat the life that's been laid out for you, he tells the son. Sends him to school. Bestows the namesake. You are worthy, son.
Perhaps my kids need more attention. 29 of them. Dangerous. The autistic kid yearning for answers. The new girl who stumbled in how to handle the looks of new faces. The kid who tells me all about her beauty pageant competition. The boys and their jokes. Will they understand that their journey isn't hopeless. I drag a dead leg in their wake, pushing them onto the radiance they cannot see. Dangerous.
I was reminded how dangerous my job can be last week. It first started with successive absences which either exposed a substitute teacher for being under qualified or it proved that I am unable to sever the umbilical cord attached to my students. During my hiatus, the room became a bedlam of thrown tennis balls (they serve as chair silencers), racial slurs, screaming fits, shoving matches and middle-finger salutes. My colleague mimics the chicken-coop movement of the sub I had Friday, extinguishing one fire before being engulfed by another. In the melee, the kids were removed from participating in the Bouncy House celebration next week.
My wife is prone to give me the eye from time to time, the emasculating reminder that I overstretch my man-pant boundaries. This is part 2 of my dangerous mission. Not only do I work with women (and I'm only pointing this out in a negative in terms of not having another man to share job experiences with like I had in the past. I do think teaching needs more men, but not necessarily because we can do it better. Together, men and women can provide that bond that kids don't get at home, the maternal and the fatherly.) but I work with my wife as well. She sees my insecurities manifest themselves in all sorts of endeavors. I become some hydra-man as I tentacle my influence on the basketball court taking score and reffing the games, or eating with my Wednesday 3rd grade girls who I believe like the fact they can sit on rolling chairs and do a conga line during lunch than my conversation. In the mean time I try and complete all the possible teacher duties one has during the day--grading papers, re-directing students, coordinating meetings, etc. It's what all teachers do. Nothing more, nothing special. And I'm sure each teacher has their "thing", the little extras they do that make their classrooms unique. I'm no different. I'm working on realizing that my gifts have nothing to do with anyone else's gift down the hallway, or that my gift is somewhat better or more genuine. That's being a man too, realizing that I don't have to be the end all be all.
So when my class behaves, I do walk with pride. Who wouldn't? When they freak out when a sub is there, is it an indication that the sub shouldn't have ever stepped into the room or does it mean they will only listen to me? And if they only listen to me, if their true nature is somehow boiling just under the surface does it mean that they respect me, fear me, or are intimidated by me. I think I've said on here before that I feel I'm being attacked and the attack is on my masculinity. No one wants an aggressive, forceful male presence at school. That's dangerous. Just look what we do to active boys in school. Sit down, shut up, do your work, don't do that. We don't know how to harness that energy because we are constantly being told by our mothers, our teachers and now, my boss to control my tone, the tenor of my voice, my presence.
So this week it has been silence in room 160. I haven't had my hallway conversations with my chosen few. No lunch bunch. No hi-fives to the little ones. I know this is not my wife's intention for me to stifle me, but it's my over reaction to her prompst, my boss's hinted reprimands. In a sense, this is the danger. It's easy to overreact. Easy to stumble. Easy to err. Dangerous is trusting in the big picture. I've been all over my new kids lately. Blaming them for being dumped in my classroom without school supplies. Blaming them for starting fights. Blaming them for coming from a charter. Is this what God meant when he made me a rock, the leader in my building?
My fourth graders finished watching "Sounder" (the Martin Ritt version. I have yet to watch the updated version) today. The movie has always been a favorite of mine. Later, I've come to realize how special the book and film are in a way that I've grown to appreciate. The mother's faith, the boy's journey to find his father. Aint no journey hopeless, the boy says. The boy is searching for the namesake that only his dad can provide. His masculinity turns aggressive in his mind in the dreams of retaliation against the white, nameless powers of authority. In the book, the boy eventually meets a teacher who takes him in, provides that bond that his father cannot provide (and just how many black men were taken away in the times of slavery, and later, sharecropping from their families? How many fail to provide that bond to their sons now?). The movie presents her as a black woman, and I don't question the move. It's honest, truthful. A woman provides so much for us. But a man balances out that longing of spirit. Boys will search far and wide for their father. Some on journeys, some on aggressive and destructive detours.
By the end of the movie, I'm always crying. Here, the crippled dad returns. Aint no journey hopeless. He returns home as a husband and a father. You've got to beat the life that's been laid out for you, he tells the son. Sends him to school. Bestows the namesake. You are worthy, son.
Perhaps my kids need more attention. 29 of them. Dangerous. The autistic kid yearning for answers. The new girl who stumbled in how to handle the looks of new faces. The kid who tells me all about her beauty pageant competition. The boys and their jokes. Will they understand that their journey isn't hopeless. I drag a dead leg in their wake, pushing them onto the radiance they cannot see. Dangerous.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
The Lonely Door
It's always been a rarity for me to be inconspicuous. Today, at Wednesday night meal at church, I chose a back table, back turned from the door, spread out my bag and papers, unrolled my sandwich and ate in peace. Not that I didn't warrant company, or was slighting someone from my bad mood (anytime I did this as a child, I was always condemned for being in a bad mood. Being questioned about if I was in a bad mood always inevitably provoked me into a bad mood). As selfish as this sounds, I was in need of some me time.
It was an experiment of sorts, too. Reading through my "Wild at Heart" book, the man that is driven himself to perfection extremes, the driven man of the corporate world (in a sense, my kids have become my product with the amount we test) must sometimes sit back and force himself into a role he is uncomfortable with. For me, that's being in the back row. As far as I can remember, I've forced myself into the spotlight. I craved attention in negative ways, lots of sarcasm, the funniest guy in the room routines, the one who always knew the most foul joke.
My family enabled me to be the center of attention. Literally at my grandmother's is a photograph of me in some cheesy 70's cowboy-rainbow-cactus getup. It was still there a few years back before my grandmother moved. It was my daily reminder of the shrine that was me. (Hell, this blog is all about me, isn't it?)
Attention seeker that I was, it never quite had the impact I had imagined. I craved attention from girls, but was only the best friend, if that. I wanted some kind of approval from my fathers, didn't receive it. My mom loved me unconditionally like a mother should, but I think in a sense it gave this sense of me-versus-all hispanic guys. I wasn't the macho--I went and CRIED watching Steel Magnolias! I wasn't the auto junkie--I'm a writer, dammit! A poet!
I had great guy friends but I always felt short. Not athletic enough, not white enough, not preppy enough, not ethnic enough, not thin enough. So I kept shaking hands and cracking jokes. If I ever went anywhere in Houston, it was rare that someone didn't know who I was or recognize me. I still feel this sense when I return home. Who is here that I know? Who can I impress?
Without warning, this acceptance/narcissistic trend followed me into Christianity. God erases sins, but the Devil likes to remind us of the traits that make us human. God accepts us, and in a sense, he magnifies the best qualities we have for His glory. That's what I'm learning. Today's church adorns itself in a litany of sign-up sheets in the carpeted hallway. Prayer walls, email chains and bible studies. We make decisions of study not for the content but for the people we get to sit alongside with. I'm guilty of this sin the most. Who can I meet? Who can I impress? If I learn something about myself, so the better.
Even worse, I'm a counter. A counter of attendance, of services, of who is late and who read the aforementioned chapter. I'll admit my faults because self-deprivation has its funny moments. We chuckle at the self-aware, jolly dude in the front row who is always smiling. Fat man always laughing. And sweating.
That ego projection is harmful, I've come to know. I take it personal. These slights, the lack of viewership. It's an attack that I was not privy too. Satan has been laughing his red skin off. I love me weight watcher meetings simply because I get to talk even more. I rarely stop to listen. My wife stops mid sentence because I'm checking how many people "liked" my status on FB. How could you not like my status?
So today, I sat. People came up to my table and drew napkins from the dispenser as if I weren't there. Grabbed the salt and pepper. I didn't pat anyone's back. I'd like to say this is the beginning of another me. I've been asked to submit my assertiveness at school by whispering re-directions and reprimands. I wouldn't know what a day would be if I wasn't good-morninged by 20 kids. I know there is a lot of God in those tiny voices. He's telling me to raise my head and be grateful for another day.
But what about this new endeavor into men's ministry at the church? How exactly can I lead without being in the front? Jesus led as a servant. He defied expectations. He payed the tax and gave even more. He washed feet. He was the center of attention but made you feel as if you were the only person in Jerusalem he was saving.
Unrolling that sandwich brings fear to mind too. The lonely Reynaldo, when I lived with grandma and gorged on food behind a door that frequently wanted to be bothered as much as I wished. Just waiting for someone to knock, to ask how I was doing. And finally giving an honest answer.
It was an experiment of sorts, too. Reading through my "Wild at Heart" book, the man that is driven himself to perfection extremes, the driven man of the corporate world (in a sense, my kids have become my product with the amount we test) must sometimes sit back and force himself into a role he is uncomfortable with. For me, that's being in the back row. As far as I can remember, I've forced myself into the spotlight. I craved attention in negative ways, lots of sarcasm, the funniest guy in the room routines, the one who always knew the most foul joke.
My family enabled me to be the center of attention. Literally at my grandmother's is a photograph of me in some cheesy 70's cowboy-rainbow-cactus getup. It was still there a few years back before my grandmother moved. It was my daily reminder of the shrine that was me. (Hell, this blog is all about me, isn't it?)
Attention seeker that I was, it never quite had the impact I had imagined. I craved attention from girls, but was only the best friend, if that. I wanted some kind of approval from my fathers, didn't receive it. My mom loved me unconditionally like a mother should, but I think in a sense it gave this sense of me-versus-all hispanic guys. I wasn't the macho--I went and CRIED watching Steel Magnolias! I wasn't the auto junkie--I'm a writer, dammit! A poet!
I had great guy friends but I always felt short. Not athletic enough, not white enough, not preppy enough, not ethnic enough, not thin enough. So I kept shaking hands and cracking jokes. If I ever went anywhere in Houston, it was rare that someone didn't know who I was or recognize me. I still feel this sense when I return home. Who is here that I know? Who can I impress?
Without warning, this acceptance/narcissistic trend followed me into Christianity. God erases sins, but the Devil likes to remind us of the traits that make us human. God accepts us, and in a sense, he magnifies the best qualities we have for His glory. That's what I'm learning. Today's church adorns itself in a litany of sign-up sheets in the carpeted hallway. Prayer walls, email chains and bible studies. We make decisions of study not for the content but for the people we get to sit alongside with. I'm guilty of this sin the most. Who can I meet? Who can I impress? If I learn something about myself, so the better.
Even worse, I'm a counter. A counter of attendance, of services, of who is late and who read the aforementioned chapter. I'll admit my faults because self-deprivation has its funny moments. We chuckle at the self-aware, jolly dude in the front row who is always smiling. Fat man always laughing. And sweating.
That ego projection is harmful, I've come to know. I take it personal. These slights, the lack of viewership. It's an attack that I was not privy too. Satan has been laughing his red skin off. I love me weight watcher meetings simply because I get to talk even more. I rarely stop to listen. My wife stops mid sentence because I'm checking how many people "liked" my status on FB. How could you not like my status?
So today, I sat. People came up to my table and drew napkins from the dispenser as if I weren't there. Grabbed the salt and pepper. I didn't pat anyone's back. I'd like to say this is the beginning of another me. I've been asked to submit my assertiveness at school by whispering re-directions and reprimands. I wouldn't know what a day would be if I wasn't good-morninged by 20 kids. I know there is a lot of God in those tiny voices. He's telling me to raise my head and be grateful for another day.
But what about this new endeavor into men's ministry at the church? How exactly can I lead without being in the front? Jesus led as a servant. He defied expectations. He payed the tax and gave even more. He washed feet. He was the center of attention but made you feel as if you were the only person in Jerusalem he was saving.
Unrolling that sandwich brings fear to mind too. The lonely Reynaldo, when I lived with grandma and gorged on food behind a door that frequently wanted to be bothered as much as I wished. Just waiting for someone to knock, to ask how I was doing. And finally giving an honest answer.
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