Cursive Schmursive: If It’s Legible, Who Cares?

If I were looking for a new job — I’m not, you know, but if I was — there’s a new skill I can add to my resume: Handwriting Translator.

Reason being, throughout the day students approach my desk and show me a yellow slip of paper. They ask in meek tone, one befitting Oliver Twist: “Please, ma’am, I don’t know what this says.”

Well, maybe not that Oliver Twistish. But you get my point.

The yellow slip is our school’s “student request pass”. The student’s name will be there, usually written clearly, we hope written clearly, the rest… well, the rest is a crapshoot. It might be written clearly. It might be like a doctor’s scribbling.

I do my best to decipher the note. Usually it’s from our Attendance department, sometimes the Nurse’s office. Back in my greenhorn days, I used to follow up with a polite email, suggesting the scribbler fill out the passes more carefully or give up cursive altogether. After all, most of our kids don’t read cursive.

I no longer do that. Reason being, it usually triggers a rant:

How come they don’t teach cursive anymore?!

Why in my day…

Everyone is so lazy nowadays!

Cursive handwriting is the hallmark of civilized society!

I usually enjoy seeing people on their high horse. It can be quite entertaining and worthy of a blog post or two. But after the fourth or fifth time around the track, even I grow tired of their raging.

Pity they don’t feel the same.

In any case, I’ve come to realize that people of a certain age, the age being somewhere on the far side of 40, tend to feel strongly about this issue.

Well, at least women do. I’ve not witnessed any men going off the deep end regarding cursive. Maybe they do. I’ve not seen it.

In any case, I’ve noticed the arguments for returning cursive to the curriculum range from the ridiculous:

“You’re more creative when you use cursive writing instead of a keyboard”

(Oh, if only Hemingway, Douglas Adams, Isaac Asimov, et. al., not insisted on using their typewriters! How much greater their works might have been!)

To the nostalgic:

“Remember those lined workbooks with the letters to trace? I loved those!”

I didn’t. As much as I tried to replicate the letters and follow their lines, my clumsy little hand would not cooperate.

And having to make such BIG letters too. The capitals absolutely insisted on touching both top and bottom lines. Not to be undone, several of the lower case demanded it too.

Cheeky little devils that they were.

Cursive alphabet

My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. McCullough, was not a patient woman. She rarely approved of my feeble attempts.

Ms. McCullough and me

It wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the fact several letters are battling identity issues.

The letter A, regretting her cross line and open bottom, caring little she represents my favorite article of apparel (A-line skirt), chucks it all away to look like an abnormal apple:

Cursive A

So too is S, no longer content with his smooth, sloping shape, chooses instead to shroud his silhouette.

Secretive little sneak:

Cursive S

G, ever the garrulous gent, decides he can’t give ground. He follows S’s guide and makes a point of it:

Cursive G

And what are we to make of Q? It’s shameless, really. Q, in her printed state, is round with a little tail; the cousin of O with a quirky flair.

Yet in script, she opts for something different, an queer and querulous affair:

Cursive Q

Yet none of that comes close to Z, that zany zealot who zigzags his way in print.

For cursive… well, at first he seems to copy Q. He zips onto the page, zeroes in toward the bottom and… what’s this? He zooms below the line, where he has no business being!

Cursive Z

Breaking all zoning laws!

You know what I think? I think Q and Z got together and hatched this devious plot!

“Why won’t they use us more in their writing?” Q queried. “I say we make them quiver and quake, every time they pick up their quill!”

“Zounds, Q, that’s zelicious!” And with that, Z zapped and zipped his shape in a most zesty fashion.

Q looked at him quizzically, but remained quiet.

For most of my early schooling, I disliked my handwriting. No, more than disliked. I actively despised my cursive skills. No matter how I tried, Mrs. McCullough’s elegant swoops and flourishes would never be mine.

Then sometime in high school, I was looking through old records and came across Paul Simon’s “Still Crazy After All These Years.”

Ignoring the cheesy mustache, I latched onto the words at the top.

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Look at those S’s folks! Sure, Z still gets down and dirty, but capital S remains true to form!

Only then did it occur to me how adults (as they do in so many things) throw out the rules and do what they want. I decided right then and there, Mrs. McCullough be damned, I’d write however I wanted.

Which is how I finally embraced my own version of handwriting (more like smushed together printing) and never looked back.

 

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All this is a long way of saying, I don’t think it’s a big deal students aren’t being taught cursive. Maybe you disagree with me. If you’re anything like the women I work with, I know you do.

I still say it’s not a big deal. If our youth want to learn cursive, they’ll figure it out just like my kids did. On their own, with no Mrs. McCullough breathing down their neck. There’s no age limit to acquiring it, and there are plenty of sites offering free lessons.

And of course, they can always make up their own rules.

As for the argument that it teaches them fine motor skills and helps brain development, art lessons and playing a musical instrument do that too. And I’d argue do a much better job of it.

Now as for students not being taught how to properly diagram a sentence?

My God people! When will the madness end?!

Diagram

Thoughts on Beauty, Pigeons, and Persian Cats

I was thinking about Beauty the other daythat’s Beauty with a capital Bwhen that Byron piece popped into my head:

She walks in beauty, like the night
               Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
    And all that’s best of dark and bright
        Meet in her aspect and her eyes

Actually, those exact words didn’t pop into my head. It was more like,

She walks in beauty like the… um… night
   Something, something… yada, yada…
How’s that go again?

So I Googled it and got the exact wording (see above, top).

Word on the street is that Lord Byron penned these words after seeing his cousin in her mourning dress. Even if black was her color, we can assume the dress wasn’t the reason for his rapture. (Though with Byron, anything goes.)

Third stanza:

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent!

There was a woman I knew from my younger days, way back when, who I think illustrates Byron’s point to some extent. She went to our church.

Usually children never take much notice of older people unless they impact our lives in some way. Such as a neighbor lady who bakes cookies, or a friend’s mother who will back the cost of the ice cream man.

Children are selfish beasts that way.

Be that as it may, this particular woman I noticed. My mother was talking to her and as I stood to the side waiting — I never participated in any conversation willingly — I was struck by her brightly colored dress. Church ladies in those days typically chose subdued prints, such as a demure pastel floral. But this woman was wearing magenta.

Magenta!

Secondly, and more importantly, I noticed how happy the woman appeared. Most of the women of my acquaintance, the best you could hope for was that they were mildly pleasant. More often they were… shall we say, a little on edge. So much so that an empty juice glass set next to the sink, rather than in the sink, could send them off the deep end.

Yet this woman was smiling and cheerful and looked for all the world as though life was a wondrous thing to be savored and enjoyed. She was positively radiant.

Later I asked my mother who she was and was shocked to learn she had attended our church for several years. This was news to me. How was it I never noticed her before? Or her radiance?

“Oh, she didn’t use to be this way,” my mother replied.

I asked her what changed.

“Her husband died.”

And so you see? Lord Byron was right. Grief is a beautiful thing.

Continuing on our theme of Beauty, I met a pair of pigeons the other day.

They were enjoying a quiet respite in the grocery store parking lot, where someone had very thoughtfully dropped a milkshake and half-eaten container of french fries. The couple was partaking of the bounty.

As I passed, the male regarded me in that peculiar pigeon way they have, where they study your face very carefully and store the knowledge, as it may come in handy later.

He was a pretty boy and so I told him. I said, “Aren’t you a pretty boy.” Not as a question, you see, but as a declaration. For indeed, he was pretty. The top of his head was a shimmery purple and his breast had specks of green and black, with just a dash of gray. Truly, he was a pigeon among pigeons.

He showed no sign of false modesty after hearing my compliment. Birds never do. They don’t look down at their feathers as though to say, “Oh, these old things?” They simply accept your words as a matter of course.

Then I noticed his companion and frankly, I was shocked. With her scruffy grayish-brown feathers and dull aspect, she looked the bird equivalent of a woman in an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants.

And not a flattering oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, neither.

You would think that such a noble bird as he was, she would make more of an effort, wouldn’t you? But no, not her. She squatted in the midst of milkshake froth, a limp french fry dangling from her mouth.

Pigeon

Honestly. I was embarrassed for her.

And yet — and yet, people — it did nothing to diminish his admiration of her in any way. And that is the main thing.

For Love is a Beautiful thing. And blind. Terribly blind.

So if you’ve been paying attention, Beauty is both Sad and Lovely.

Yet there is another aspect to Beauty I think we must discuss, for it is something I learned from a Persian cat. And anything you learn from a Persian cat is something worth discussing.

Missy, for that was her name, the name of the Persian cat, was a gloriously beautiful, white cat.

All cats know they are beautiful, especially Persians. Even when they are not beautiful, cats know they are beautiful. This is a scientific fact.

Missy shared her home with a Cockapoo named Bubbles.

Yes, you read that right: Bubbles.

Bubbles was an embarrassment to the entire canine community. I knew it, Missy knew it, Bubbles knew it.

Bubbles was afraid of everything. The sound of the furnace kicking on sent her cowering to the corner. A sheet of paper flying off a table made her jump. The dog was a walking bundle of nerves.

So it probably didn’t help matters that Missy’s favorite form of entertainment was to sit on one side of a doorway and wait patiently, oh-so-patiently, until Bubbles entered the room. And then, floomph! Missy sprang out and Bubbles yelped, taking off in three different directions all at once, usually urinating in the process.

Meanwhile, Missy ambled away as though nothing happened, returning to her cushioned throne, where she would groom herself.

Persian cat

For Beauty is Cruel.

Beauty is Sad and Lovely and Cruel.

And thus ends my treatise on Beauty for today.

Under the Sea and Over Their Heads

Our school’s homecoming was this past weekend. To promote it, as they do every year, our Student Government ordered t-shirts and passed them out to Admin and other staff.

Personally, I’m on the “thanksbutnothanks” list. Meaning I missed out on this one:

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The Homecoming theme was “Under the Sea”, so the front of the shirt has a shark. But for some reason, the back has a whale tail.

Get it? Whale tail?

Just do a quick search. First thing that pops up (from Urban Dictionary):

Term used to describe the visible part of a thong on a chick’s butt when worn with low rise pants – resembles a whale’s tail

Certain questions arose:

  • Are our students able to tell the difference between a shark and a whale?
  • If they are, do they understand what a whale tail represents?
  • If they do, did they think they’d make fools of our Admin?
  • And if they did, were they surprised when the Admin wore the shirts, despite being fully aware of what ‘whale tail’ represents?

Whale Tail

Yes, I work for a fun-loving group. 😄

Reportedly, the students who designed the shirt did not — repeat, did NOT — know the meaning behind “whale tail.” And obviously don’t know the difference between a shark’s tail and a whale’s.

Since we run a full service blog here at Feeding on Folly, here’s a brief lesson:

Shark's tail
Shark’s tail
Whale's tail
Whale’s tail
Thong
Whale tail

I believe kudos are in order for Adults Who Caught a Pop Culture Reference before the Youth did.

Also, here’s a Thumbs Up 👍 to our Admin, for not taking themselves too seriously, having some fun in the process, and not making an issue where there was no issue to be made. Bravo!

(Though I gotta say, I’m still relieved I didn’t get a shirt.)

🐋

The Best of Community Theater — Zoni Style!

Hey gang, did you catch the 27th Annual AriZoni Awards? Or as we AZ dwellers affectionately call them, “the Zoni’s”.

(Really, if your state name lends itself to such a great rip-off on the Tony’s, how do you not use it?)

The Zoni’s recognize excellence in community theater in our Valley, and this year we went to the ceremony because… (drum roll, please)… Son was nominated! For Best Original Music Composition for a Play.

Also, both offspring were involved in a production of Avenue Q, nominated for Best Overall Production of a Musical. Their ensemble performed a musical number for the ceremony. (*proud mama moment*)

Neither Son nor the production won, but it was a thrill to hear his name read among the other nominees. And perhaps I’m rationalizing a little, but beings how it was his first time writing a composition, maybe it was best he didn’t win.

Might set the bar a little high for the next time, don’t you think?

Or as Husband said (with more enthusiasm than I thought necessary), “I bet this will be the first of many losses for him!”

Such a proud father.

Anyway, as to the ceremony itself, here a few observations I made:

Phoenicians Clean Up Good

This city isn’t known for its fashion sense, but when the event calls for it, we don’t disappoint. There were some incredible dresses that night, several of them red carpet worthy.

I was sooo relieved I thought to do an image search on the Zonis before I got dressed. (This is something introverts can relate to: I’m okay going to big event, as long as I know ahead of time what to expect.)

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Dressing up in Phoenix usually means a nice pair of jeans with no holes, a button down shirt, and your best pair of sneakers (cowboy boots if you got ‘em). After viewing the images, I pulled out my black dress and heels. Good thing. I was just fancy enough to blend in, without drawing any attention to myself. (Whew!)

That’s not to say everyone got the memo. As we were making our way through the parking lot toward the theater, we walked past a family disembarking from their red Ford F-150. All of them dressed very casually. The woman was wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a t-shirt advertising Bud Light. As we passed, I recognized the look that passed over her face. It was that moment of realization when it hits you, “Oh! Should we have dressed up?”

Dear Lady, we’ve all been there.

Google image search. It’s a thing.

Presenters Got it Good

Yes, it’s nice to be a nominee and hear your name called, but honestly, if I got to choose my place for the evening? I’d be one of the people standing toward the back of the stage holding the award. The ones whose only job is to hand the awards to the winners. They don’t talk, they don’t perform, they don’t do a thing but walk on stage and stand there.

Golden.

Don’t believe me? Consider this gal:

Presenter

She looked to be in her late teens or early 20s. She was wearing a red mermaid dress, smiled the entire time she was onstage, and I don’t think she exhaled once.

I grew to love her.

It looked like she was having the time of her life, and why wouldn’t she? There’s no stress over winning or losing, she got a chance to shine a little on stage, and she got to hand people their award and make them very happy indeed. One woman hugged her. 

You rock, Mermaid Gal!

The Little Theater That Could

There were 26 awards given over the course of the evening and a number of them went to a community theater in the little town of Queen Creek. (By little town, we’re talking a population a little over 30,000, immediately adjacent to a large urban area. So, relatively little.)

This was the first year their theater participated in the Zoni’s and they made an impressive showing, winning several major awards. Including Best Overall Production of a Musical, beating out the production my kids were in. But after hearing their director’s acceptance speech, I forgave them.

“Everyone in Queen Creek thanks you!!” she told us. “Seriously, most of them are here! We brought a bus!”

She went on to say the town of Queen Creek provides some of their funding.

Isn’t that something? How many towns do you know of set aside part of their budget to support the arts? I think that’s darn swell of them. And no doubt a big reason why they were able to put on several award-winning productions.

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Phoenix is the Next New York!

Okay, this one might be a bit of a stretch. It was said by the dude who won Best Actor in a Play, so maybe he was a bit delirious at the time.

But one thing he said – and there was no reason for him to lie, so we should probably believe him – was that he moved to Phoenix five years ago and as of this year, he’s now able to support himself full-time as an actor. In Phoenix!

Granted, we’ve no idea what he means by “support himself.” Is he on his own? Does he have an apartment to himself. Does he have five roommates?

Maybe he lives in a cardboard box behind the theater! We don’t know!

All kidding aside, I was surprised to hear there were any full-time actors in Phoenix. Clearly, there’s more to our community theater scene than I realized, and I’m determined to see more of it next year.

And so should you! In your own community, I mean.

Wherever you live, there’s probably a little theater somewhere just aching for more people in their audience. The tickets are never too much, usually in the $20 to $40 dollar range – sometimes less and sometimes for free! (Be sure to check out your Community Colleges — that’s where we saw Avenue Q!)

And who knows? You might be surprised what talent is lurking in your community. You might find out you’re living in the next New York! 😉

 

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Why Are You So Quiet?

“Why are you so quiet?”
A coworker asked the other day.
“Talking is easy, just try it!
Do you really have nothing to say?”

“I’m sorry my silence offends you,”
I carefully replied,
“But you see, I’ve work to do,
And my mind is occupied.”

“Here, here,” my nemesis cried,
“That’s no reason for restraint.
Look at Betsy, Susan, Clyde,
They greet me without complaint.”

“Is this only a matter of greeting?
Why, I said hello just last week.”
(Sadly, for some it bears repeating.
I forget this, hence her critique.)

She continued our conversation,
Claimed it the most we talked since we met.
“It’s liable to cause a sensation,”
She said, “I’ll surely win the office bet.”

I did not like the sound of that,
Though I knew it was just a tease.
I tried again: “No time to chat,
I’ll return to my desk, if you please.”

Did she listen? Of course not, they never do,
These garrulous acquaintances we soon regret.
She spoke of shopping, shoes, the weather,
Or maybe it was her health, I forget.

The fact is, I’m with her still,
If it weren’t so tragic, I might laugh.
But as I’ll die here, I’ll write my will,
At last, it’s quiet, my epitaph.

When Girls Kiss at Gammage

I was at Gammage the other night.

That’s how we say it in Arizona: “I was at Gammage.” Old timers might say, “I was at Grady Gammage,” but most of us don’t bother with the full name.

Gammage.png

If a big Broadway show is coming to Phoenix, you can be sure it will be at Gammage and this year we’re getting a buttload of them.

Even… (drumroll, please)… Hamilton!

That’s coming up in January,and it’s the main reason we bought season tickets. Fun Home was the first show of the season and I was anxious to see it.

Do you know the story? It’s based on the memoir of Alison Bechdel. Basically, it’s a coming of age tale, but unlike most of the coming of age stories you’ve heard, this one involves a lesbian.

Husband and I knew the story fairly well without ever seeing it. Son saw it in New York twice, and from his descriptions and playing the soundtrack over and over, we knew it inside out. Plus, I read the book.

Our seats were in the Mezzanine area, and in general, I’d say that’s a nice place to sit. We had ample space in front of us, meaning people could walk to their seats with no difficulty.

Except for one guy, who was without a doubt the slowest shuffler I’ve ever seen.

For those of you of a certain age, just picture Tim Conway’s “oldest man” character from the Carol Burnett show. (See him here.) Dress him in khaki pants that are too short and a Cardinals t-shirt and cap, and you’ve got our man.

Here’s the drawing I made of him:

Arriving

That’s him shuffling in front of us, on his way to his seat. (Notice the three little lines to his right? That indicates movement.)

Please ignore the fact that he looks like he’s going to the bathroom. As I’ve said before, I can’t draw hands. I tried putting them in his pockets, but… look, just ignore that part, okay?

As to the musical, I must say, it’s interesting watching people’s reactions to a story you know well. There were lines that caused huge laughs, but Husband and I knew them so well we didn’t react.

That’s not to say we didn’t enjoy the play. Far from it. Also, that’s not to say everyone found it funny.

I think we were about a half hour into the show? Not sure, but it was about the time college-age Alison has her first experience with a girl.

You don’t see it happen, of course, but you do see them tangled in sheets. It’s the point where she starts singing: I’m changing my major to Joan!… I’m changing my major to sex with Joan!

The audience burst out in laughter and applause, with the exception of this guy:

Leaving

Yep. That’s when Shuffler shuffled his way out the theater. (Note how the three motion lines switched sides?)

I guess the subject matter was too much for him.

Shuffler aside, Fun Home was a great hit in Phoenix. If it makes it to your area, I highly recommend it.

Oh, one more thing: On our way out of Gammage, making our way through the parking lot, I noticed two women ahead of us. Older women, in their 70s I guessed, and they were holding hands.

Not like friends holding hands, but like a couple holding hands. For that is what they were. A couple.

And once again it hit me how very far we’ve come as a society. Sure, there are problems, and sure, we’ve got our Shufflers. But overall, things are so much better than they were. And if we don’t lose heart, I’m convinced they will keep on getting better.

Because eventually, even the Shufflers will get used to girls kissing.

Anyway. Those were some thoughts I had when I was at Gammage the other night.

Words from a Noble Woman – Thoughts on Home and Hearth

As I present these meditations from our mysterious M.A., first talked about here, I find myself in a bit of a quandary. There are times she seems to contradict herself.

For instance, in the passages below, you’ll see how she first tells herself to not take her home too seriously, then in the second she says never neglect it. How do we reconcile these thoughts?

I think it’s important we realize that by all appearances, they are her private reflections. It’s natural that her thoughts drift from one idea to the next, first believing one thing, then another. It is, after all, how we grow as thinking individuals. Always open to new ideas. (Would that all people were this flexible, eh?)

Also, I can’t help but notice M.A.’s fondness for the semicolon. I counted up to four uses in one page alone! To own the truth, I grew faint. Did she use them correctly? Hell if I know, and I’ve been to college. (Perhaps, at least in this, Kurt Vonnegut was mistaken.)

But enough with our rambling preamble. Let us begin. Here are two more of M.A.’s entries (plus a recipe!) that I managed to decipher from her atrocious handwriting:

Continue reading “Words from a Noble Woman – Thoughts on Home and Hearth”

When Teachers Quit: A Lesson in Two Daves

Readers who follow this blog know that in my other life, I work as an Admin Assistant to the Principal of a large suburban high school.
Readers who don’t follow this blog… well, they know now. 

Monday morning, my administrator greeted me with, “I hope your weekend was better than mine.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“A teacher quit!”

My mind raced over the staff list, the various possibilities. Was there a news report I missed? Was someone arrested? I asked who it was — braced myself for the possibility it was someone I liked.

She said the name. It was one of our new teachers. For the sake of privacy, I’ll call him Dr. Dave.

Dr. Dave was one of the first of our new hires, and we considered it a stroke of luck someone with a doctorate was going to teach at our school. First and second year Spanish, no less.

Let that sink in: a man with a doctorate was knowingly accepting a position to teach lower level high school Spanish.

Amazing.

I met Dr. Dave about a month ago. The Department Lead was going to show him his classroom and give him a tour.

Dr. Dave had white hair, thick and wavy. He was stout, but not overly so, and he had a pleasant face.

Also, he spoke like Ricardo Montalban.

Yeeaahhh.

He sat on the couch near my desk and told me stories as we waited for the Lead.

He told me of the time he taught in Costa Rica. Everyone in the village told him not to open windows. They didn’t say why, just don’t open windows. He figured it was because of bugs.

But one day he was in his classroom alone and it was stifling hot. He decided to open two windows. Within minutes, the room was full of monkeys!

brian-mann-16601

He told me other things too. The important thing to remember is that he lived in Costa Rica for a time. Got that?

Three weeks later, I’m walking him to his classroom and he’s complaining about Phoenix’s humidity.

“I guess you’re used to it, but my god it’s humid here!”

I looked it up. On that day, the temperature in Phoenix, Arizona, was 91°F and our humidity was 36%. In San Jose, Costa Rica, the same day was 82°F and 94% humidity.

Yeeaahhh.

I realize I’m suspicious by nature, and just a tad cynical, so I let it pass. Maybe the guy just didn’t like heat. Maybe Costa Rica was long ago and he only remembered the monkeys. Maybe he was just having an off day.

Then, after eight days of school, he gives his notice. But not much of a notice. Monday would be his last day.

The reason? He said our kids weren’t smart enough.

Actually, what he said was that they didn’t know English well enough. He shouldn’t have to spend time explaining sentence structure or reminding them what a predicate was.

Also, they expected him to speak English. He refused. You can’t teach a foreign language by speaking in their native language. “That goes against everything my 37 years of training taught me.”

He quoted Shakespeare in his letter too. Or as he referred to him, “Billy Shakespeare”.

Yeeaahhh.

Later that same day, we had another resignation. By another Dave. We’ll call him Dave G.

Dave G. was hired under an emergency provision, allowing non-teachers with bachelor degrees to take “hard-to-fill” positions.

Not sure if you heard, but there’s a teacher shortage. Especially in Science, Math, and Special Ed. Dave G. was hired to teach Earth Science. 

I met Dave G. about a month ago as well. I showed him his classroom, found a teacher’s edition of the class textbook, and listened to his story.

He had been a meteorologist. He worked for a news station for awhile, then for an airline. They moved to Arizona about a year ago and he decided to try out teaching.

After eight days, he realized he was in over his head. “This is the hardest job I ever had,” he told my Administrator. She was sympathetic.

He said he’d stay on until we found a long-term sub, and given the fact he looked like he aged four years since we last met, I thought that was pretty swell of him.

So what are the lessons can we learn from our two Daves?

I believe there are three:

  1. Humility is Always Better than Arrogance
    If you’re having trouble with a job, admit it. Don’t push the blame elsewhere or claim you’re too good for it.
  2. Leaving a Job With No Notice is Not Cool
    Especially for some jobs. Like brain surgery. Not cool. Granted, teaching isn’t brain surgery, but it’s still not cool to leave your post without warning. For our school, five teachers gave up their planning periods to cover the classes until we could find a sub.
    Not cool.
  3. If You Live in Costa Rica, Don’t Open Your Windows
    Whether or not the monkey story is true, it sounds like good advice.

One final note: If you happen to know any teachers, tell them there are a few positions open in Phoenix.

Daves need not apply.

Lead Photo by JJ Thompson and
Monkey Photo by Brian Mann on Unsplash

Thoughts From a Noble Woman: M.A.’s First Entries

As I mentioned in last week’s post, I’ve been hard at work deciphering the scribblings of our mysterious M.A., and I’m happy to report I have a few entries to present today.

I’m giving you the first two I found, therefore I’m calling them the First Two Entries. (Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?)

Please keep in mind nothing was dated, so let’s not get too concerned whether they were actually M.A.’s first writings, hmm?

In the same way, don’t worry about whether I’m making all this up or not. There’s much to be said for losing yourself in story.

There are far worse places you could find yourself.

Continue reading “Thoughts From a Noble Woman: M.A.’s First Entries”