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.