What Would Frost Do?

It is with much sorrow that I have to accept my denial to study at Oxford this summer. The news came by post and fell into my hands like the scorching letter 'A'. My initial reaction was one of embarrassment, as I had configured a fantastical tour of London and the Abbey's with my closest friends and family. I still have not informed them of this defeat. My hope is they will forgive my premature planning and move on as if Oxford was never an option. The next stage was one of introspective reasoning. Where has my desire to write among pioneers of such a luxurious language led me? Am I to be relinquished among the doubts and insecurities, which plague English teachers, for the rest of my career? The apricot trees in Santa Fe mesmerized my imagination and I have been longing for the Tudor ceiling beams in desperate hopes of rekindling my love affair with words. The question that I am struggling with is the very same question I asked my sister only a couple of weeks ago: "What defines you?" I have to swallow my own response and say that this decision cannot define me. The things which define me are around me on a daily basis, and a passport will not add to that definition. I will be spending my summer in Vermont, at the flagship campus on which Robert Frost professed his admiration for the students. The golden buildings that rise out of the sparkling snow in February will be my home. Though I have yet to see them among the spouting grass in summer, I cannot think my father was wrong when he detoured our drive to Burlington to let me know what future could be awaiting me. Tudors will have to wait, for now, as I begin this new affair with the history of Bread Loaf among the whispers of Seamus Heany and the camaraderie of Frost enthusiasts. Each semester I begin my classes with a reading of "The Road Not Taken"; this poem has sentimental meaning to many readers, yet mine comes from my own father's recitation of it during my bleakest moment. "Honor" is not what I feel as I accept my post among the brilliant landscape in Vermont, which is only accessible from the back roads. I am humbled and ecstatic, with the knowledge that my father would never steer me in the wrong direction.

Amtrak Romance

I am in need of a good romance, and here is the best one I wrote. I am hungry for travel, can you tell?


Finally, you have shown your majesty! I have been waiting for you since last night, as I tried to appease my longing by playing childish games with the Prairies. My only solace was knowing that you had no choice but to come; it was only a question of daylight, as I prayed you would not be shrouded by the darkness that can be so cruel and unforgiving to your countenance.
I am shocked by the smoothness of your face up-close. Ha! And you have fooled us all! Hardly a blemish, though you must be guarding your past within the lines that run deep within your surface.
The snow is trying, desperately at times, to cover your amber rocks and prickly vegetation. But you know, it is too early just yet to allow these to slumber.
There’s a tiny, frozen pond, guarded by Spruce, that has sealed its surface with ice from the migrating birds for the season. Unlike the soil, it cannot wait any longer to sleep.

Your city is below us, so far that the skyscrapers look like toothpicks rising out of your base. The sky is clear, but it only gets bluer as we ascend.


A barbed wire fence warns of a ranch, but the only signs of life are the grey, bristly plants that have no interest in admiration.

Every so often we glide through a tunnel and your jagged, blasted walls make me thankful for your graciousness. You may threaten a collapse, but maybe only to those who are unworthy. The locomotive cracks and creaks around your curves, careful to respect your temperamental invitation. As I peer over your side I wonder how many you have thrown off before us in their vain attempts to speed. In all of our greed you have allowed us passage for a price that some think is too steep. You have forbidden us to travel through you, unnoticed. After all these years it is finally clear to me who is the Jester and who is the Queen.

As we bend through a tunnel my head begins to feel your massive height. Maybe my brain is going to explode out of my ears, or maybe that’s just how it feels. When we leave the darkness of this manmade womb, I am greeted by your pines and snow that have conquered the beautiful shades of orange and your scraggly shrubs. It is the only life form fit enough for your summit.
But wait!
Footprints in the snow uncover the sacred hiding place of the elusive cat!
What are you hiding up here?
A creature so misunderstood within our civilization that it can only find sanctuary on your highest peak. You are what myths are made of!
Where lines and cracks once were, the pines have revealed their unsurpassed omnipotence. They thrive on the absence of oxygen, their height towering above their cousins down below. They taunt the greedy consumer, though you have protected them with your impassible terrain.

Far ahead of us looms the snowy peaks of your siblings. They soar so far into the blue that I mistook them for clouds! What a fool I am to think a cloud would dare blemish this scene!
There is a foreign rumbling coming from the earth, and at first I mistake it as a grumbling coming from you.
Then it’s source sheepishly reveals itself; a freight muscles past us and for a moment I am shaken from this romance. But it doesn’t take me long to realize that the slow, lumbering cars filled with coal have a way with seduction, and the passion continues.
They told me of the Bald Eagles and coyotes. They said you hid them well but often exposed them as a reminder of your glory. You must have outsmarted me this time, as I press my head against the glass, eager to see my kindred spirit, but your trees are guarding them well. You have this way of taunting me, but I will be back.
I see you have finally allowed the water to flow from your peak! After years of turmoil between you and the river, it looks like you have given into your ego and allowed her to cleave smoothness into your roughness. She allows you to have life and as she carves her way deeper into your core she exposes more and more of your guarded wisdom. I can see that it has taken you years to cooperate, and with all due respect, I think she is more powerful than you.

Sadly, I see our affair is coming to an amicable end. Pavement is visible and residents are threatening our privacy. Power lines are beginning to bully their way into our secret and I think some are becoming suspicious of us. As the pines start welcoming the leafless tress back to their neighborhood, and the rocks become slippery with moss, our time is quickly running out. So I bid you farewell, but find comfort in the fact that we will meet again. Not to worry, your beauty will not be marred by disrespect or greed; you have proven yourself stronger than that. As the light creeps further west, your face resigns itself to youth and I will bow out gracefully, thankful that the desert is on its way.

Long Live the Headmaster

There are three things I hate arguing about: politics, religion and sexuality. These are personal, fiercely personal, yet somehow people think it's alright to tell others what is right and wrong. We have all been there and experienced ignorant busy bodies. That's why this might come as a shock to most of you when I tell you how sad I am about Ms. Rowling's outing of her dear headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. When I saw it on the front page of The Post this morning, I thought I was reading a page out of The Enquirer. As all of you know me, I am a staunch supporter of equality across the board, especially when it comes to sexual preferences. I am not upset that Dubledore is gay, I am upset that Rowling outed him. Absolutely against his wishes. Dear J.K., even though the ink has dried on this epic masterpiece, the magic of Hogwarts and it's inhabitants is still very real to us loyalists. You awakened more than just imaginations and belief in pixie dust; it was hope for a more accepting and equal world. I am dreading reading the backlash of this mistake. For once, I might agree with some of the critics, but not because I am a bigot or a closed minded bible thumper. I need to ask why this was even an issue, and how it will affect the most real gay community. In a world that can be so permeated with hatred it was refreshing to literally become lost within the pages of this fantasy for the past seven years. I fear for the legacy of Hogwarts, especially for Dumbledore. I now agree with my sister, who thought that Rowling's portrayal in book seven of the wizard was pathetic. By the end, he was a sniveling excuse of a soul, who took his lifelong accomplishments and used them as excuses for self pity. She was right. And if Rowling intended this outing all along, then shame on her. His final moments should have been filled with triumph and personal acceptance. The backlash of this realization is going to be devastating for many of us. Our biggest fears are yet to be realized, but thanks to Rowling, our enemies are again, armed with ignorant shrapnel. For my part, I am going to petition to Time Magazine, and offer Dumbledore a chance at the Man of the Year title. There are no wizards who can fix this, not even with the most powerful Patronus. The only ones who have the power to change this are the muggles, and I, for one, definitely need a refresher in the Defense Against the Dark Arts. Who's with me? I will begin in Parliament this summer . . . .

Formative Observations-Final Chapter

I went back to my classroom after walking in the rain (it hasn't rained here in about 3 weeks) and sat at my desk in the back of my room. The students were watching the movie, thankfully unable to see my frizzy hair and red hot face. I watched the sillouettes of 27 students; each one was fixated in the 1982 version of George and Lennie and not one head was on the desk. Maybe you remember what Friday afternoons were like 15 minutes before the release bell, and if you don't I can only tell you that I began to cry, again, at this sight. I relieved my wonderful E.C. inclusion teacher, who had so graciously let me take a soggy walk. I dismissed my students with little words, and the lights still dimmed, shut my door and prepared to call the AP postponing our standard observation debriefing until Monday. When there was no answer in his office I decided to just take my things and leave him a note, hoping he would understand my need for a two day debriefing of my own. Unfortunately, when I opened my door, he was standing there talking to the music man so I would have to tell him in person. He is a tough nut to crack, to say the very least. In the year I have worked with him I have had little contact with him. Mostly, this is from my own intimidation of people who do not show emotion. It brings me back to a phrase my brother coined when we were young, looking at our father and trying to figure out if he was going to get spanked or laughed at. "Are your eyes smiling, daddy?" When I am in a situation where I cannot read a person's body language or facial expressions, I often repeat that phrase in my head until I leave the room. Unfortunately, there are rarely times when said person erupts in laughter, as my father did.
Looking at AP I could only hope that his "eyes were smiling" and he understood my emotional outburst in his office leading to my abrupt departure. "You cannot take anything personally". I do believe this is the slogan HR uses to hire fresh meat. I walked up to AP and immediately apologized for leaving his office during confrontation with student. He stared at me for about 2 seconds before saying, "Ok, let's go up and discuss your observation." I had a very long walk ahead of me and I did the only thing I really know how to do well: I started talking. Walking next to him as students pressured the drink machines and cheerleaders warmed up, I told him how I felt. This is roughly how it went: I love this job and the students and I know I shouldn't take things personally but sometimes, when you bend over backwards and put your life into seven hours, five days a week, and sacrifice family and friends and money and you watch your defeats and cheer your victories and live and breathe these hallways and their goals and affinity for Lennie and then you have the ones who you put even more into, if that is possible, and they come around and sock you so hard in the gut, where your heart is always, and I wonder what on earth am I doing?
It was now my position on his couch and as I waited and took lots of breaths he looked at me and nodded, then smiled, and told me it was all a part of this twisted life of teaching. Betrayals and passions and failures and, of course, those victories. I wondered how he had channeled my parents as I sat there feeling like I was looking at Bread Loaf for the first time. Or listening to "The Boxer" as my sister sat on the other end of the line. And before I knew it I was signing my Formative Observation Data Analysis thanking him for a wonderful beginning to my weekend.
Sometimes the formal observations are most telling in the informality of our lives and our weaknesses. Or strengths, depending on how you look at things.

Standard Observations

Today I was observed. For the first time this year. At this point last year I had video taped myself twice and been observed three times. My ego was stroked. This time it was a total sneak attack. Observation during yearbook where there is no essential question and very few, if any, lesson plans. Observation was a success . . . how can anything go wrong when you have the most motivated students in school working on the annual publication of pictures and catchy captions? I was rest assured the observation was now over with, barely missing my read-aloud unit of Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. Though morally I refused to read the "n" word, I was asked by my students how I could read G.D. (it is peppered in most conversations between Lennie and George). The unit was a huge success. The students enjoyed the story with much enthusiasm and their affinity to Lennie was genuine. Frankly, I told them I would not, nor could not, read the last two chapters aloud. My emotions take over and I end up sobbing like a 6th grader reading Where the Red Fern Grows. There is a point to this, I promise. Stay with me. I had a fantastic day. Too bad the day doesn't end at 2pm. I decided to show my students the movie; although my one-woman show of the book was up for an Oscar, Randy Quaid and Robert Blake portray the different hairstyles.
Cell phones have a way of ruining everything. This is not off topic. A student asked me to use the bathroom just as Quaid was professing his love for ketchup and beans. Feeling exhilerated, I let her go, even though I was disappointed she would miss the first appearance of Curley's wife. After ten minutes I began to worry that she had gotten flushed down the toilet, so I sent a trustworthy student to check up on her. She was not in the bathroom, she was on her cell phone. In my hallway. While Lennie was offering to go live in a cave. And Candy was debating on shooting his most loved and trusted companion. Wicked bad timing, my friend. She reamed me up and down, lied to me and to her savior and then told me where I could stick it. Fine. Let's go to the office. She proceeded to the AP's comfy couch, where she yelled and cried and called me lots of names . . . but she called me a liar and a really "bad teacher". Friday afternoons are not good for this. I lost it. And my face was red and I could not listen to anymore. I put my hand up, shakily, and informed the audience I could not, or would not, listen to this anymore. Somehow I managed to keep the convulsions at bay until I got down the hallway; tears down my face and a class to teach. Defeat. I had been observed in my utmost weakness. By a student who got my goat.
Never, never, never let them know where your goat lives. She just broke into the house, unchained the goat and fed it the best brambles on the east coast.
To Be Continued . . . . .

Searching for Santa Fe

Feeling a bit nostalgic, maybe even a little misplaced here in the dripping humidity. Trying to keep my memories of it more than a sillouetted chalk drawing, I found this email I sent to friends and family back east during my last week there. I do not know if I will ever get to spend more than a few weeks there, or if I will ever go back. But there is nothing like knowing there is still a piece of me there, among the dusty sunsets and bristled sagebrush. This is my account from my last day--I hope you all get to find your own Santa Fe--I hope I get to go back.


So my time in this mystical city has come to an end. I spend
one final night atop this little mountain before being shuttled off to
Albuquerque tomorrow morning. It is bittersweet, as I look forward to
reuniting with Aaron and Lola, but am sad to bid farewell to this
spectacular place that has given me a home for the past six weeks. The
sunsets are the most majestic I have ever seen, and will miss watching
the sky turn from blues, to magentas and ambers and finally violet
across the San de Cristo mountain range. The weather has even begun to
change and our nights are filled with the cool breezes that they
promised at the start of summer. The apricot tree outside my window
has dropped all its fruit and the bunnies are having a feast! Of all
the places I have spent time, Santa Fe has truly been one of the most
inspiring for my writer bug. Between the adobe facades and the Native
American cultures I cannot help wondering how so much of this country
has lost its roots. (the only Bush bumper stickers are those that say,
"BUSH- CHENEY 1984) The borders between
countries seem lost or nonexistent in many places here. It's humbling
to walk down the street as a white person and be a minority. So as I
prepare to fly back east I hope that I have been able to capture the
essence of this place in my pixels and words. I'm aware that no matter
what is said or seen in glossy light will be the shadows of this
accidental oasis. So I hope you all have the privilege to visit Santa
Fe, and if you already have, come back. I look forward to seeing you
all and telling you more stories of this adventure when I get home.

Friday Night Lights Meet the Dead Poets

I can only begin at the beginning. I thought my recent name change would be a personal struggle as I try and slip into this new identity. I am humbled, once again, as I find myself on this journey with not only my nuclear family, but also my students who seem to have adopted themselves into my soul. My words are only adequate to describe this phenomenon, so let me share the words of some students. Faithful student of yearbook, cresting on her senior year . With tears in her eyes running into my room: Thank goodness it is really you! she grabbed my hand and wiped her eyes: I saw this name, Kinsey (the office misspelled it anyway) and thought you had abandoned us! I was prepared never to forgive you!
Star QB and track star with unidentified learning disabilities and a very macho facade: Hey Ms. Dakin! Hope to see you at the game on Friday! Me: Actually, I will see you this afternoon, for English. Macho QB: Jumps in the air, looks at his schedule, looks at me, back at his schedule: For REAL!? You my English teacher!? Jumps again: Oh sweet! I thought this was a new teacher! You change your name? SWEET! Oh man, I will see you after lunch! Left hook with fist: You gonna make me read so much this year? It's cool!
Although I can tend to be a bit dramatic, I promise you I have not embellished on these interactions. As I write this I need to remember to say this is not a boost for my morale; rather a realization on my part that I am making a difference in the lives of these teenagers. This may have been one of the most difficult transitions for me to make, as I left the warm embraces and security of fabulous friends and family. Again I find myself humbled by the constant reminder that wherever I go, there I am. I was fortunate to have 90% of my students from English 2 back in my class of English 3. My body trembled as I welcomed them into my room, my world of American Literature, my mouth moving with rote tics escorting them to their new seating assignments. The uncertainty of these changes blasted to shards as my primal introduction was interrupted with applause at the matrimonial explanation for my name change. Overcrowding and moldy carpet take a righteous back seat to the wide eyes and nervous expectations. As I outline the course and procedures we all take a deep breath and relax--just a little--enough to connect to examine the difference between realistic people and the idealists. The definition of idealism raises the eyebrows of all of us, silently and knowingly challenging each other to this ultimate task.