"Fair" Doesn't Always Mean "Equal"

Years ago when I titled this blog I could have never prophesied just how apropos "The Applicant" would become such a perfect phrase for my life. I ripped it from Sylvia Plath's poem of the same title because I love her, and that particular poem flicks a thumb to our society that values a woman's conformity and subordination through marriage. Through all of my transitions, both professionally and personally, it has become a beacon for my identity, one that I often celebrate. But currently it is a label that is seared onto every moral I uphold, every success I have achieved and every flaw that is woven into my being. 

It took us seven months to complete what turned out to be a ninety-three page document to apply to become adoptive parents of an infant.

"Including, but not limited to": FBI fingerprinting, letters of reference, religious views, thoughts on discipline, detailed description of our home, ethical and philosophical views, community involvement, family relationships, philosophy on raising children (including discipline, structure and consequences) and physical and mental health evaluations. 

The essays, which totaled approximately eighty-three pages, were my biggest hurdle. I am a writer by nature, whether it is good writing or not, I enjoy the process but I underestimated my self-scrutiny. How could I possibly convey the intricacies of my upbringing through incomplete character development and anecdotes? Would I have to classify as a heathen in order to explain my religious beliefs? They asked for details about how Aaron and I met, but do they really want to know the name of the venue for our first date was called, "The Last Chance"? I felt like I was Chunk from "The Goonies" in the scene where he was confessing all of his sins to the Fratellis. I'll tell you anything you want to know, as long as you just give me a baby at the end! There was no limit to their inquisition, and every time I asked for more structure, I was derailed by, "whatever you think is necessary". Their penance for being ambiguous is having to read the "Comfort a Cow" story.

Then came the "Evaluations", which included a one page form for our primary care provider to check boxes and one question for them to free text an answer: "Describe the applicant's general physical condition". Aaron's came back with, "good", from a provider he has never seen on a regular basis. Mine came back to me with a scribbled , "fair/good".  

FAIR. Physically. My skin is so fair I have to get regular skin checks. My hair is bleached blonde to be fairer. I get my nails done on a regular basis. My eyebrows are waxed and I generally wear clean clothing and mascara everywhere I go. I am on Weight Watchers and eat oatmeal every morning. I have all of my teeth, and I smile a lot.  Though my head sweats and I need to shed a bunch of pounds, I can carry six of my filled, reusable grocery bags from my car into my kitchen and not clip my heel on the too-fast-to-close front door. 

One word, buried in thousands of others, that finally brought me here to break my silence and scream to the masses, "THIS IS NOT FAIR!"

It made me realize, again, that we are dependent on someone else to decide whether or not we get to expand our family. If we could have a biological child, none of this would be questioned. The midwives would not list me in "fair" condition and I wound't have to explain to anyone why I quit teaching or what it felt like to do weekly house chores or why we co-habitate with both cats and dogs or how clutter makes me nervous. And try not to judge me based on my med list.

But I do. And they will.  

There are times when everything makes sense. Logically, I understand why we must go through all of this. But it doesn't make it any easier. I will need to explain to someone how my "fair" rating makes me fit to be a good parent. I will have to elaborate on my experiences in therapy and someone will have to follow up on my references and check my driving record before they can move us forward towards our endgame. We now give you permission to move to the next stage. I can hear the voice through a tinny loudspeaker as each metal door seals shut behind us and we've earned a new tool to help battle the foes in each unlocked level. If only we had Lenny Kravitz designing our costume changes for each judging panel.

We will expose our most hidden vulnerabilities and polish our strengths and then fall back into the arms of all of the saints who have given us the momentum to continue this journey. It's not fair. But that's why we teach our children this lesson from the moment we split a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Some of us have to use more tools to reach the same outcome and Aaron and I have been entirely blessed with our arsenal.

Though I have never considered myself a role model for perseverance through muddy waters, I will continue this challenge, and the next, until I have reached its peak. I can tell my children what it means to believe in something with so much passion that your heart breaks with love and determination, and that most of the time life will never be fully realized until they have embraced the challenges that define the essence of their deepest desires.

This life was never meant to be fair. And we could not be more thrilled about that.

"This is a big shift for you"

I scored an interview today! Second interview since my search began, back in September. This time, someone finally looked at my resume and wanted to know more, albeit for a job that requires a minimum of a high school education, preferably an Associates Degree. Foot in the door. That was the only thing on my mind as I prepped for an ambiguous position at the revered hospital in town. I told myself that I was not nervous. Why would I be? I can be discreet, multi-task and stay calm under pressure. And if a high school graduate is qualified, then I can roll with the best of them. 

I am notoriously early for my responsibilities, and today was no exception. Navigate a ten story parking garage to take a few elevators up, then down, to a secluded hospital wing? Forty-five minutes prior to my interview, I found myself sitting outside radiology picking cat hair off my pants and trying to beat the next level of "Whirly Word". As I sat in the standard institutional foamy chairs, I realized that what I was trying to do was to fit in as a patient, nonchalantly waiting for my last name to be called so I could have a purpose. The horror of inadequacy flared through my cheeks and I scurried to the bathroom to run icy water over my pulse points. Why did I choose a polyester shirt? Skinny pants and pink grosgrain flats? I closed my eyes as the water soothed my wrists and I contemplated pulling the cord to alert a nurse that I needed help in the bathroom. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Four breaths later and toilet paper in my armpits I was heading to the clerical office, fifteen minutes early for my interview.

"We have each applicant perform a typing test. Recreate this letter, using the proper format. I'll be sitting right here if you have any questions."

Thank God for Mavis Beacon typing lessons and schooling in proper letter formats. Nailed the letter, while inconspicuously wiping beads of nerves from my forehead and nose. 

"D is running a little late. She'll be with you as soon as she's out of her meeting." 

Meeting? Do you mean another interview with an applicant who had a time slot earlier than mine? Oh God. If it was another interview, they've been in there for a long time. Deep breathing. Readjust the toilet paper under my arms by rolling my shoulders up to my ears. I realized I was sitting in an empty cubicle, with scant traces of a previous occupant. Pizza menus tacked to the wall; colorful paperclips neatly arranged by the keyboard; a list of in-house extensions, hilighted in neon. The women behind my cubicle were rattling about the horrors of Facebook and their teenagers who conned them into getting an account, interrupted, only briefly, by a phone call to be redirected to the proper department. 

"I mean, that girl who went missing in North Conway last month probably had a secret account, met a guy, and arranged to have him pick her up. And you know, they only tell us about the account they want us to know about. Things just aren't the same as they used to be." 

As a teacher, I have been on the other side of this conversation numerous times and it took my entire strength not to peek my head around the corner and alleviate some of their frantic misgivings. My restraint may have also been guided by my fear of losing my armpit tissues, but I was also curious to hear a conversation about teens that was not tainted by an educator. Is this my new life? I felt a little bit of an impostor, but maybe this is what it's like to be on the outside.

Fifteen minutes after my scheduled start time I was called into the interview room. As she perused my online application and poorly formatted resume (thanks to the software employers insist on using) she paused at my level of education. "A teacher with a master's degree. This is a big shift for you." Her eyes scanned the rest of my credentials, but before she could speculate, I seized my opportunity:

"I loved teaching. I do love teaching. But I am looking for a change of venue, where I can still use my . . . passion. I've never been reprimanded. I've never been late. I am kind and love computer programs and I am respected and reliable and there is no common core or bubbling tests and I am patient and highly skilled in reading and writing and articulate and compassionate and am cool under pressure and innovative and supportive and love team work and am obsessed with literature." 

Fifty minutes later I walked out of her office with a suggestion for a position I had not applied for, and an invitation to shadow. Validation, of sorts, for the skills I have learned while being a passionate educator. Validation that I do not have to sacrifice as much as I thought. Is this the end of the line for me? Never. But it is a platform from which I can finally jump into a promising chaos of rejuvenation. 

 

Disqualified

dis*qual*if*y: transitive verb: 

1   :  to deprive of the required qualities, properties, or conditions :  make unfit

2:  to deprive of a power, right, or privilege

3

:  to make ineligible for a prize or for further competition because of violations of the rules

I'll admit, when I voluntarily left the teaching profession a little over two months ago, I was overly confident that I would have numerous opportunities to expand upon my talents and passions, which would make it very difficult to choose between multiple job offerings. I embarked on a journey towards a radiant identity, fueled by new found freedoms and a deep sense of gratitude for the multiple skills I had learned over a twenty year period working with students of all ages and backgrounds. After the initial sensation of having the wind knocked out of me began to cease, I became filled with a giddy electricity that often led to an inflated projection of my future. Bed and breakfasts by the beach; flower shops; pencil skirts and nude heels with a full face of makeup (including foundation, with which I have an unreasonable adoration and longing for); morning commutes when the sun is shining, versus rising; lunch hours spent picking up dry-cleaning and getting a polish change (heck, just being able to LEAVE for lunch--no--HAVE a lunch!); walking through my kitchen door, confident, satisfied and prepared for the following day. 

I gobbled up the daily classifieds, much of which were filled with beacons from two of our most renowned and respected employers in the Upper Valley: Dartmouth College and Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center. The job overviews with their required qualifications called out to me like sirens from the sea, which means I should have been more cautious to their wily temptations, but when I encountered the following requirements for all of the positions, I could not resist their songs:

• Strong time management.

• Strong reading/writing skills.

• Sensitivity to the needs of differing groups of students. Commitment to a diverse study body.

• Some experience in higher education, secondary school teaching

• Attend training sessions 

• Full participation

• Demonstrated communication skills (oral, written, and interpersonal) with a diverse community of colleagues

• Strong problem solving and organizational skills.

• Demonstrated ability to organize work efficiently; set and modify work priorities; and remain calm under pressure, despite interruptions.

• Bachelor’s degree or the equivalent combination of education and experience.

• Ability to use standard office equipment.
• Dishwashing
• Rotating through all areas of the cafe (barista, cashier, server)
• Receiving and restocking deliveries

• Self-starter with excellent teamwork skills.

• High School graduate
• Associates Degree preferred.

For the sake of the reader, I have limited the list of qualifications, in both skills and education, to the most repeated and emphasized. In total, I have applied to fourteen positions throughout the Upper Valley, and have been gently informed, by numerous employers, that, "At this time, we have been fortunate to have many qualified candidates apply for the position. Although we have found your background noteworthy, we have decided to pursue other candidates." Some of the positions I have applied to have not even extended the courtesy of a rejection, and not one of the employers will elaborate, upon inquiry, how I could become better qualified for their positions. 

Please do not mistake my chagrin as conceited or superior. I am well aware of the economic factors that plague our society at this time and understand that there may very well be a large volume of applicants for entry level jobs. And since I have not just fallen off the turnip truck, I am also quite tuned into the businesses apprehensions elicited by my resume. Although I have clarified my eagerness to embark upon a major career transition, and tried to emphasize the permanence of this while highlighting my gratitude and respect for my former profession, my resume has started to behave like an auto-immune disorder. Rather than marketing my skills, temperament and education as an asset to many employers, my background as a loyal and effective educator is disqualifying me from the very positions where my skills and knowledge are most desired. 

What better way to emphasize effective multi-tasking than explaining how I organized, implemented and executed five separate curriculum during the course of a six hour day? Maybe I could better explain how I remained calm under pressure when managing a group of 120 high school sophomores with fifteen chaperons during a "field" trip to our nations capital, four years in a row. Or maybe they would be interested to know how teaching is similar to customer service when the parents berate us over a grade (product) they are not satisfied with. Would it make a difference to these employers to know how we show our devotion by coming into work an hour before our clock starts, and leave hours after the clock has stopped paying just because we want to provide the very best in service and satisfaction?

I loved my job as a high school English teacher for many years, but was able to recognize the need and time for change before it became detrimental to my classrooms. Fear not, future employers. I will not abandon this ship in order to return to the front of the class, but I do need you to recognize that I, and all of my colleagues, are not defined by the four corners of a classroom. It is time to start showing appreciation for your teachers and prove that this society values our work by hiring me to make a latte. 

"Things Never Happen the Same Way Twice"

Ah, it's been 2 weeks since I last posted, which might have something to do with work and a little play. Things have been tumultous in the past 2 weeks, but not necessarily bad. I turned in my first paper, had to give up going to Much Ado About Nothing, had my first Oxford style tutorial and just won a coveted ticket to Kevin Spacey's perfprmance of Richard III. Those are only the big things that have heppened, but it's still really overwhelming. The one thing I have realized is that at some point I stopped being a tourist and started taking sights and places for granted, but that also coincided with a security within the people who've surrounded me for the past month. When I wrote my first paper one of my friends edited for me. If you've never had someone edit a paper then you have no idea how much trust you need to put into that editor on many different levels. For one, they will see your greatest flaws, and you WANT them to, but you also need to trust that mechanical flaws will not be the pawns by which to judge the person. Thank god I have a friend here who can not only be my editor, but someone who encourages my self confidence. But it's not just one person who has enriched this experience for me; there are many people who have wandered into my life this summer for the first time or as re-acquaintances who have shaped this experience into a time that will be achingly painful to say good-bye to. Though reunions are already planned and re locations are in the works, and next summer is just 11 months away, we will never have this place or time ever again. Words and pixels will replace these experiences, and will be the things we rely on to bring us back during the dead of winter to the croquet only, the Momma Swans, the pre-tutorial anxieties, the kebab carts, paper topics, Purple Turtles, Macbeth, bus rides and river walks. As things begin to wind down and people's conversations move from papers to departure times I have to remind myself to take this all in and savor the days we have left with each other in this time at this place. I reminded them about this during our last high table--to take a look around at the people on the benches because this moment will never be recreated. Though this might sound dreadful to some, it is my interpretation that these fleeting moments become a part of who we are. As I've already posted somewhere in cyber space: When you get used to a place it becomes routine, and that familiarity leads to complacency, but not with the friendships that have formed. Forever thankful for the people who surround me who give me laughter and love.

"It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"

Longtime the Manxome Foe He Sought

The last couple of days have been difficult, and there are probably many people who think it's foolish to feel a little homesick and out of place in such a privileged experience. Firstly, there have been increased thoughts that this class I am taking, Restoration Drama and Literature, is not just out of my comfort zone, but out of my abilities to understand. I was really looking forward to delving into Paradise Lost, but we spent about one hour on it, on the first day, and then were told that we probably won't come back to it. I spent DAYS reading that book and annotating, AND doing my own research to prep me for discussions. Oh well. Next to the plays. I have always had a very diffcult time visualizing plays that I am not familiar with, and these 5 are no exception. I looked feverishly for video productions, and was only able to find one before I left. I find that I have to read numerous summaries before I begin reading the plays, then have to go back to the summaries as I am reading, just to make sure I am on the right track. Sometimes I don't feel worthy of being here, but was reminded this morning by my gracious (and all knowing) mother that I can persevere, and that I DO deserve to be here. As I trudge through the poems for today's discussion I have to keep telling myself that learning is about needing to ask questions, and to also remind myself that I need to STOP giving into reason. Nature should be my guide, but as you all know, my mind LOVES to get the best of me, and often prohibits me from success. This is my Jabberwock, and though I know it MUST be slain, I've yet to find my vorpal sword.

The other sources of discontent come from simply being homesick. With Aaron's birthday a few days ago, my mom's surgery yesterday, and my 4th wedding anniversary tomorrow, I just feel sad and disconnected from my sources of strength. As it is so cliche, I have to say, This too, shall pass, and things will move forward in this city of spires.

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"The Devil Can Cite Scripture for His Purpose"

Much anticipation for last night's performance of Merchant of Venice in Stratford-upon-Avon, not the least of which was surrounding Patrick Stewart portraying "villain", Shylock. We had heard rumors that the play was set in present day Las Vegas, and those rumors didn't disappoint. Vegas, on many levels, seems absolutely appropriate to breathe sin into the souls of all of the players, especially Shylock--the notorious money lender (who happens to be a Jew) who demands to be repaid with a pound of Antonio's flesh if he defaults on the loan. So is where we begin--at a casino in Vegas where Bassanio and Antonio agree to ask Shylock for the money that will allow Bassanio to travel to "Belmont" in order to pursue, and woo, a wealthy heiress, Portia (Insert an Elvis impersonator, portrayed by Lancelot, crooning tunes throughout the rest of the play).

Yet we do not ever get to "Belmont", rather we travel to a stereotypical, Debutante yielding, southern town. Portia is supposedly a southern belle, with a creepy resemblance to Dolly Parton, both in appearances and speech. She and her mistress, Nerissa, are presented as talk show hostesses preparing for some type of game show that will allow Portia's suitors to compete for the chance to marry her. They look, and sound, like bimbos. And though we soon learn that this public Portia is merely a facade to protect the vulnerable and HIGHLY insecure private Portia, I have a very difficult time appreciating this artistic license. One of the reasons I always admire Portia as one of Shakespeare's greatest heroine's is due to her strength and wittiness. I could barely see a glimmer of her in this version.

There were also quite a few stereotypes that were brought to the forefront in this version, and though they subtly exist, peppered throughout the original version, these were uncomfortably evident. The only conclusion for the superficial southern belle, the incoherent Mexican, the gangster-thug-best-friend and the neanderthal-brute Prince of Morocco is to try and spread the politically incorrect stereotypes around so the play doesn't overtly drip with anti-Semitism. But the play IS anti-Semitic and in the 21st century we have to recognize that, not try to bury it beneath comic relief. Has the world learned ANYTHING about the dangers in turning someone else's suffering into laughter? And is it REALLY accurate to say that a southern belle suffers as much as a Jew? Or even MORE than a Jew? But maybe that's the point--in keeping true to Shakespeare's time, who would have cared if a Jew suffered, even the loss of his only child? (Which brings me to a brief blip about Jessica, rather, the actress who played her: She. Was. Awful.)

As I have always said about this particular play--it makes me uncomfortable to see it billed as a comedy, albeit a tragic comedy. In this version, Shylock's conversion to Christianity was painless, unemotional and inconsequential. His yarmulke was taken off his head, his tallit slid from his shoulders and he turned and walked out, with the most emotion coming from Gratiano, who violently spit at his back. The saving grace of this production was it's closing scene, which was speechless except for Elvis singing "Are You Lonely Tonight". The lights faded to blue and each character was left standing alone on the stage, whilst Portia twirled uncomfortably in the middle of them all, having only one of her 5 inch heels, weeping. That was the most powerful and tragic scene of the performance, and well worth the 3 hours leading up to it.

"I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano,-

A stage, where every man must play a part;

And mine a sad one." Antonio, I.i.77-79

Experience vs. Liberty

My first day of class was yesterday afternoon--it was definitely something to write home about. The cap for the class size here is 6, with an exception for the Shakespeare page to stage class, which is 12. On the information sheet we received upon arrival, professors gave nice, detailed instructions as to when and where they'd be meeting the class. Ours simply said, " Walk past Brown's restaurant and the Catholic church and 2:00 and I'll be looking out for you" (insert furrowed brow and re-read). I intermittently asked around if anyone knew this man (just enough to seem intrigued, but not enough to come off as desperate) until finally my right-sided lunch buddy said, "Yes (pause), he's very British". I asked if he wore a monocle or used a scarf covered cane and unfortunately my hopes were dashed when he informed me that no, he merely swaddled his shoulders with rabbit fur.

So begins my anticipation of Dr. West. We've been informed that Oxford professors, or any British professor for that matter, is called a Doctor, and if we choose to refer to them as professors, we'll be quite "daft". I am not making this up, and not using these words to sound Oxfordian. It turns out Dr. West has the ability to melt the fear within all six pupils as he chatted to us about his compulsive coffee drinking, his work at "The Other College" and his admittance that this particular course is a new adventure for him as well (not to be mistaken as a newbie in any sense--he's been a teacher at Oxford and Cambridge for quite some years, yet usually focuses on Milton). Our regular meetings are usually twice a week, in his office at his "home" Oxford college. Oxford contains 39 colleges, each one focusing on a different subject matter or age level.

Today was spent studying--and vigorously trying answer the questions he posed to all of us yesterday. The one that continues to throb in my head, though, has to do with experience vs. liberty. I come back to this because I believe there might be some truth behind the claim that it is impossible to achieve ultimate liberty beneath the layers of experience. For myself, this is in the form of understanding expectations of this program and the knowledge of the difficult tasks that lie ahead of me. Academically, I cannot be fooled by Dr. West's warmness and comfort-ability--and this is not as dire as it might sound to some of you--rather, a little bit of pride that gleams with each summer successfully completed. Yet, on the other hand, a slight twinge of sadness when I begin to understand that this is not, in fact, Hogwarts. It's finding the balance between the two that will be a challenge, and that balance means the difference between living a solitary life, and one of sinful balance (insert smiley face) but if ever there was a place to seek this out, it is here.

"The world was all before them, where to choose

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:

They hand in hand with wand'ring steps and slow,

Through Eden took their solitary way" P.L. XII 646-49