Blog #24 - Revised Essay 3/4

Marilyn M. Buda

Dr. Chandler

English 5017, Section 01

December 6, 2010

Middle School Morph

          The movie “To Sir With Love” debuted in 1967.  If there was ever an inspiring story to lead you to become a teacher or not, this was it.  Even though I was only twelve, I recall sitting there with tears in my eyes through most of the viewing, being even more sure now that this was what I wanted for my life’s career.  Sidney Poitier portrayed an out of work engineer, who took a teaching job, just until he gained employment in his area of study.  The setting was in an urban, low socio-economic area of London.  When he found it just about impossible to do his job, he reached out in the only way he could think of, by disposing of his textbooks and starting to teach his students from scratch, with lessons on daily life and values.  In the end, it was worth his while.  At the end of the school year, he had made major breakthroughs with the children, and the Engineering job he was waiting on came through, so he wrote his resignation letter to the school.  While he had both a challenging and successful year as a teacher, he believed he was ready to move on.  Right before he was going to leave his classroom and submit his resignation to the administration of the high school, a few students came wildly flying into his classroom to let him know that they were going to be in his “bloody” class next year.  He tore up the letter.  He realized this was where he belonged, and that while it was difficult, these children in this place needed someone like him.

          This neighborhood school and its students can be found pretty much anywhere in the world, where children live under some less than acceptable conditions.  I know because I work in one of them.  In the urban areas of New Jersey, every year, the kids come plowing into the classroom, anxious to start their new school year of learning – but alas, that is just the dream of their teacher!  They come for many different reasons, least of which is their education.  They come for the social life, for time to hang out with their friends.  They come in hopes of potential personal relationships, to become a part of a couple or a family.  They come to get away from their home life, this for a variety of disturbing and emotional reasons. The teachers, who have chosen to be here with them, don’t quite realize the baggage the students carry with them right away, but I promise, you can be sure it’s there. 

They begin to strategize on getting the kids into a viable routine, and the students fight them every step of the way, because routine is not something they are accustomed to.  The teachers later find out that their classes, and follow-up on these kids, may be the sole bit of consistency that a good number of them have in their lives.  We begin with a kaleidoscope of a few tradotional ways to get the students motivated and engaged, mixed in with the type of creativity we have been instructed to use by those who mentor us.  Unfortunately, our frustration in using these strategies is often demonstrated by an occasional fit of rage and disbelief in the apathy of our children’s minds and spirits.  The teacher turns into a screaming lunatic, every once in a while, but after observing my scary monster self in a mirror and taking my blood pressure, I soon come to the realization that this, too, is not effective.

 The days, weeks and months drag on, but teachers never give up.  We have brainstorming meetings to share ideas of our colleague “family” members, to see if they have come up with anything novel.  We call their homes to arrange parent conferences, most of which never pan out.  There are too many issues in the home including multiple jobs, and even the responsibility of at least a few younger siblings, which is what I like to refer to as “job security”, no disrespect intended.  Further, when you begin to wonder why a particular student acts the way they do, meeting and understanding their parents and family frequently provides the answer to all those questions.  Finally, just when I think I can’t make it through another day, I start all over and continue to teach them from books and life’s experiences, in spite of themselves.  Real teachers have the genuine insight to see in their students, what their students can’t yet see in themselves.

          They call us “Miss” or “Mister”.  That’s it, no surnames.  When I first encountered this pseudo-greeting, my reflex reaction was that these kids were even too lazy to use your actual name.  The accurate justification for this shortcut was actually cultural – in the many Latin countries their families emerged from, this was a sign of respect, the opposite of what calling someone by their name indicates in the United States.  I soon realized that my small world was about to be broadened in a significant way.  We, too as teachers, were in for a very special learning experience.

          “Let’s start with an ice breaker!”, the results of which are meant for the children to get acquainted, but are truly to give the teacher a pathway to their individual needs.  Teachers, then assess their academic needs, because they need to understand the learning styles of the kids, and instruct them accordingly.  You see, they are not just teachers in these neighborhoods.  They are parentis in absentia, social workers, psychologists, nutritionists, and on and on.  There is no end to the special needs of most urban students.  Teachers have to learn to communicate not only in their native languages, which are widely diverse, but must also become a quick study of “street” language and the “urban dictionary”.  They come from many countries, and are labeled as “bi-lingual”.  But their languages are attained in this order:  Native language, which they speak at home, English, as they learn it in the street, texting short hand, and finally the real English, or whatever of that is left anymore, what with e-mail and cell phones.  Of course, the miracle that these teachers are expected to perform, is to take them from here, to writing a five paragraph, logical and coherent, persuasive argument.  The students must use proper English, so that the state will continue to fund the school and supply teachers with the tools they need to open the following year.

          Teachers can’t do this job unless they love this job, along with the stress and frustration, but even more, they must love the children.  In addition to their diverse backgrounds, their hormones are raging, so the assignments they are given are obviously not very high on the priority list of these early teenagers.  Middle school students don’t believe that their teachers expect them to actually study, nor can they be convinced that teachers’ aspirations for their success, is truly for their own good.  But they are in middle school.

          At age eleven or twelve, children are promoted into the grades called middle school.  They have completed their elementary education, but are not yet ready for high school, so they cautiously move into this transitional middle, with the weariness of that of a middle child in a family.  As sixth graders, they meekly arrive onto the scene, where they become holders of this square piece of metal, called a locker.  While it is surely a status symbol, it is not something they can actually use, for there must certainly be a gremlin hiding inside which prevents the secret combination from opening the door.  Therefore, these children remain the tested weaklings of the middle school.  By the end of this year, however, if they have survived, and have been able to open the locker for at least one month, the power that begins to grow in their body and minds is overwhelming.  They are now fighting the takeover by the battling hormones, which leaves them with little left to focus with in their studies…..but their teachers still do not give up.  From September through December, they still feel like sixth graders, but once their winter holiday is completed, they return to the classroom with a focus and vigor, not to see what can be learned from their books, but what they can learn about how much they can get away with.  It is surely their turn to test their teachers beginning in January until the end of the school year.  They are now also very strong, as they will soon become the upper classmen in this kindergarten through eighth grade facility.  As a seventh grade teacher, January through June can be death-defying.  These facts teachers are divulging, are the results of both keen observation and highly developed teaching philosophy on the adolescent brain.

          Finally in September, the frightening seventh graders return as the leaders of the school.  They are powerful and their teachers continue to push on, for now they must prepare them for a more significant transition to high school. There, every choice they make will have more critical consequences, so no matter how much they fight against it, we, their teachers must persist on this starship, flying through the educational stratosphere.  The eighth grade teachers know a secret about these new students this year, which the students themselves are not yet aware of, for they have seen many children come and go.  It is for this hope and light at the end of the tunnel that they hang on.  They know the light is not an oncoming train, but an ebbing tide of hormones and power that is approaching.  For when an eighth grader returns from winter break, their teachers begin to see an awakening.  While earlier in the year, you witnessed a rare sparkle from a child, as rare as a shooting star, the illumination of recognition is beginning to burn brighter.  If you have ever seen the blooming process of peonies, a flower whose outside must be eaten off by insects before it can fully bloom, this is what a latter year eighth grader resembles.  This tough exterior of their personality begins to dissipate, as they realize their time here is growing short.  The comfort and safety net that was built for them is about to change, and they suddenly feel the need to hold on for dear life to what they have been pushing away for the last eighteen months.  They cling to their teachers in middle school to fight off the fear of moving on to the overpopulated, overwhelming high school campus, where they will become more of a number than an individual who needs help.  They say words like “help” and “thank you”, and my heart, what’s left of it, becomes light and warm, and begins to regenerate.  It is when the teachers of these middle students finally see this scion, that they know they have done the right things.  It is now, in this metamorphous, that they are certain it is all worth while.

Blog #23 - Presentation on Publication Venue

Marilyn M. Buda

Publication Venue

December 1, 2010

The Teacher’s Voice

Ø  The editor’s description of essays accepted into this publication include  creative nonfiction, poetry, short stories, and essays that discuss reflections on different experiences of teachers, as well as other education-related staff, within the United States.  This venue publishes thematic issues, so their schedule, format and pieces they use vary from year to year as well as issue to issue.  While they may find your piece interesting and worthwhile for publishing, they may not be putting out your particular theme in a given year.  They also frequently run Chapter Book contests and Poetry Contests.

Ø  This publication provides a place and a voice for anyone involved in the educational environment.  Very often, individuals in a teaching career go into a turn style mode and many leave as a result of disillusionment.  Therefore, we never are able to gather the data on the cause and effect of this situation.  Additionally, due to the current battles going on between the government and our country’s public school systems, this is now an even hotter item and place to express your thoughts and experiences.  They emphasize the even more critical aspect of schools in low-income and working class communities. The people that are putting down the public school systems may be able to place these children in a prettier situation at school, however, that will not resolve all the other issues that interfere with their learning.  They need to realize that most of us are not just here for the paycheck and the benefits.  There are also writings about state testing, overcrowded classrooms, and finally why teachers become teachers.  The teacher’s Voice is less interested in political rants and more interested in authentic experiences.  They remain a “work in progress” for any and all stakeholders in education.

NOTE:  The majority of the items published in this venue seem to be poems, all related to authentic experiences.  There were however a few creative non-fiction essays, so the one I have written would certainly be a potential entry.

Ø  Representative Essays:

“The Writing Teacher” –

          Written by a teacher of English with great use of dialogue, segmentation, and ultimately humor.  The teacher describes the exaggerated physical and emotional reaction of one of her students who goes into a supposed seizure upon being given her writing assignment.  While in this seizure, the student is spouting a litany of story starters, transitions, and blurbs she must have learned in class.  The teacher is on the floor trying to help her and the only thing that brings her out of it is telling her she doesn’t have to complete the assignment.  Suddenly another student falls to the floor with similar symptoms.

“The English Patients” -

          A poem, describing the varying group of students in a typical high school classroom in an inner city, shocking but real.  A pregnant student, another with a baby in tow, (our high school has a day care center), students who take classes on their lunch breaks from a job, gangstas with crooked hats and low risers so you cak peek at their boxers, and the ones who will be playing in the NBA and NFL, so they don’t really need to be there.  You come in with the tools to teach, but not necessarily to deal with all this.

“Drama Queen” –

          A poem about the prospect of retirement for a teacher.  It doesn’t seem to be as easy as it might be in other careers.  I mean, whatever will you do with all that free time – weekends of course were made for grading papers and strategizing on each individual’s learning style.  If you’re not a teacher, I guess we all look like drama queens.  This poem uses dialogue and the residuals of the many leesons taught by the teacher that she cannot ever let go.

“The Face on the Coin” –

          This essay is written by a man that spent most of his career as a substitute teacher.  I don’t think I like him, but I know and understand him.  He vows to practice his art in writing, but can’t seem to get paid for it.  Therefore, he subs in a local junior high, but doesn’t, of course, have to teach like a real teacher.  While he is there all day, he does a minimal amount of working with the kids and spends most of his time writing.  The school environment and especially the students, give him lots of material for his writing.  He is happy to have this job he has been doing over twenty years, because it allows him the space to work at his real dream.  Interesting.  He uses dialogue, and a great deal of sarcasm, enveloped in selfishness.

Blog #22 Draft Reflective Writing

• I thought this class was going to teach me more about teaching my kids how to write non-fiction - SURPRISE!
• I used to really enjoy writing when I wasn't teaching, but my job takes away my personal reading and writing time.  I have been inspired to get back into it.
• I have been immensely challenged by this course.
• I believed I knew what creative non fiction was until now.
• I have been beating myself up by thinking my writing isn't good enough, which sometimes it isn't.
• I write better when I am not tied to a schedule or deadline, because I don't have time to wait to get inspired; it hust happens.
• I have learned quite a bit about myself as a writer.
• I have learned things that I CAN use with my students in class.
• I have a lot inside to write about and have shared it in my writings, therefore incresing my comfort level.
• It is sometimes difficult for me to distinguish between the "I" and the "EYE".

Blog #21 - Markets available for my work

I am very excited to try my hand at getting published, which is something I thought about doing after I retire from teaching in about ten years.  I have secretly started what I hope will turn into two books - one, a fictional romance, and the other, a non fiction story based on starting over in a new career at middle age.  Having the opportunity to complete this part of our course work has encouraged me to think about starting sooner, and makes me anxious to recieve my first acceptance or rejection letter from a publisher.

The source I have chosen is called "The Teacher's Voice", and I will be submitting the essay I wrote about my favorite subject - my career as a teacher, and the authentic, but candid experiences I have to share with my students from "the hood'.  I could not be in a more rewarding place, and am thankful for this second chnce in my life to be able to do what I always wanted.

The majority of the writings at this sight are poems, but there are a few essays.  Either way, the topics are all generally the same - the positve joys of working with kids and making a difference.  There are some politically, pointed writings as well, since the recent attacks being made on the teaching profession and their unions, however, I hope to not go there with my writing.  It really is the genuine experience writing that will shoot those opinions down, without even trying.

We'll see what happens.

Blog #20 - Completed Essay 4

Middle School Morph

          The movie “To Sir With Love” debuted in 1967.  If there was ever an inspiring story to lead you to become a teacher or not, this was it.  Sidney Poitier portrayed an out of work engineer, who took a teaching job, just until he gained employment in his area of study.  The setting was in an urban, low socio-economic area of London.  When he found it just about impossible to do his job, he reached out in the only way he could think of, by disposing of his textbooks and starting to teach his students from scratch, with lessons on daily life and values.  In the end, it was worth his while.  At the end of the school year, he had made major breakthroughs with the children, and the Engineering job he was waiting on came through, so he wrote his resignation letter to the school.  While he had both a challenging and successful year as a teacher, he believed he was ready to move on.  Right before he was going to leave his classroom and submit his resignation to the administration of the high school, a few students came wildly flying into his classroom to let him know that they were going to be in his “bloody” class next year.  He tore up the letter.  He realized this was where he belonged, and that while it was difficult, these children in this place needed someone like him.

          This neighborhood school and its students can be found pretty much anywhere in the world, where children live under some less than acceptable conditions.  In the urban areas of New Jersey, every year, the kids come plowing into the classroom, anxious to start their new school year of learning – but alas, that is just the dream of a teacher!  They come for many different reasons, least of which is their education.  They come for the social life, for time to hang out with their friends.  They come in hopes of potential personal relationships, to become a part of a couple or a family.  They come to get away from their home life, this for a variety of scary and emotional reasons. The teachers, who have chosen to be here with them, don’t quite realize the baggage the students carry with them right away, but you can be sure it’s there.  They begin to strategize on getting the kids into a viable routine, and the students fight them every step of the way, because routine is not something they are accustomed to.  The teachers later find out that their classes and follow-up on these kids may be the sole bit of consistency that a good number of them have in their lives.  The days, weeks and months drag on, but they never give up.  They continue to teach them from books and life’s experiences, in spite of themselves.  Real teachers have the genuine insight to see in their students, what they can’t yet see in themselves.

          “Let’s start with an ice breaker!”, the results of which are meant for the children to get acquainted, but are truly to give the teacher a pathway to their individual needs.  Teachers, then assess their academic needs, because they need to understand the learning styles of the kids, and instruct them accordingly.  You see, they are not just teachers in these neighborhoods.  They are parentis in absentia, social workers, psychologists, nutritionists, and on and on.  There is no end to the special needs of most urban students.  Teachers have to learn to communicate not only in their native languages, which are widely diverse, but must also become a quick study of “street” language and the “urban dictionary”.  They come from many countries, and are labeled as “bi-lingual”.  But their languages are attained in this order:  Native language, which they speak at home, English, as they learn it in the street, texting short hand, and finally the real English, or whatever of that is left anymore, what with e-mail and cell phones.  Of course, the miracle that these teachers are expected to perform, is to take them from here, to writing a five paragraph, logical and coherent, persuasive argument.  The students must use proper English, so that the state will continue to fund the school and supply teachers with the tools they need to open the following year.

          Teachers can’t do this job unless they love this job, along with the stress and frustration, but even more, they must love the children.  In addition to their diverse backgrounds, their hormones are raging, so the assignments they are given are obviously not very high on the priority list of these early teenagers.  Middle school students don’t believe that their teachers expect them to actually study, nor can they be convinced that teachers’ aspirations for their success, is truly for their own good.  But they are in middle school.

          At age eleven or twelve, children are promoted into the grades called middle school.  They have completed their elementary education, but are not yet ready for high school, so they cautiously move into this transitional middle, with the weariness of that of a middle child in a family.  As sixth graders, they meekly arrive onto the scene, where they become holders of this square piece of metal, called a locker.  While it is surely a status symbol, it is not something they can actually use, for there must certainly be a gremlin hiding inside which prevents the secret combination from opening the door.  Therefore, these children remain the tested weaklings of the middle school.  By the end of this year, however, if they have survived, and have been able to open the locker for at least one month, the power that begins to grow in their body and minds is overwhelming.  They are now fighting the takeover by the battling hormones, which leaves them with little left to focus with in their studies…..but their teachers still do not give up.  From September through December, they still feel like sixth graders, but once their winter holiday is completed, they return to the classroom with a focus and vigor, not to see what can be learned from their books, but what they can learn about how much they can get away with.  It is surely their turn to test their teachers beginning in January until the end of the school year.  They are now also very strong, as they will soon become the upper classmen in this kindergarten through eighth grade facility.  As a seventh grade teacher, January through June can be death-defying.  These facts teachers are divulging, are the results of both keen observation and highly developed teaching philosophy on the adolescent brain.

          Finally in September, the frightening seventh graders return as the leaders of the school.  They are powerful and their teachers continue to push on, for now they must prepare them for a more significant transition to high school. There, every choice they make will have more critical consequences, so no matter how much they fight against it, teachers must persist.  The eighth grade teachers know a secret about these new students this year, which the students themselves are not yet aware of; for they have seen many classes come and go.  It is for this hope and light at the end of the tunnel that they hang on.  They know the light is not an oncoming train, but an ebbing tide of hormones and power that is approaching.  For when an eighth grader returns from winter break, their teachers begin to see an awakening.  If you have ever seen the blooming process of peonies, a flower whose outside must be eaten off by insects before it can fully bloom, this is what a latter year eighth grader resembles.  This tough exterior of their personality begins to dissipate, as they realize their time here is growing short.  The comfort and safety net that was built for them is about to change, and they suddenly feel the need to hold on for dear life to what they have been pushing away for the last eighteen months.  They say words like “help” and “thank you”.  It is when the teachers of these middle students finally see this scion, which they know they have done the right things.  It is now, in this metamorphous, that they are certain it was all worthwhile.

Blog 19 - Pre-draft Essay 4 draft

The Movie "To Sir with Love" debuted in 197*.  If there was ever an inspiring story to become a teacher or not, this was it.  Sidney Portier portrayed a new teacher in an urban, low socio-economic area of London.  When he found it just about impossible to do his job, he reached out in the only way he could think of to his students.  And in the end, it was worth his while.  Ultimately, he decided to resign and not go through a similar experience again.  Some of his new students came wildly flying into his room, before submitting his resignation, and he tore up the letter.  He realized this was where he belonged, and that while it was difficult, these children in this place needed someone like him.

Every  year, they come plowing into the room, anxious to start their new school year of learning - NOT!  They come for the social life and hanging out with their friends.  The teachers never realize the baggage they carry with them right away, but you can be sure it's there.  The teachers begin to strategize on getting the kids into a viable routine, and the students fight them every step of the way.  The days, weeks and months drag on, but they never give up.  They continue to teach them from books and life's experiences in spite of themselves.  Teachers have the genuine insight to see in their students, what they can't yet see in themselves. 

"Let's start with an ice breaker!", the results of which are meant for the children to get acquainted, but are truly to give the teacher a pathway to their needs.  Teachers then assess their academic needs, because they truly need to understand the learning styles of the kids and teach them as individuals.  You see, they are not just teachers here.  They are parentis in absentia, social workers, psychologists, nutritionists, and on and on.  There is no end to the special needs of the urban student.  Teachers have to learn to communicate not only in their native languages, which are widely diverse, but must also become a quick study of "street" language and the "urban dictionary".  They come from many countries, and are labeled as "bi-lingual".  But their languages are attained in this order:  Native Language, which they speak at home, English from the street (scary), texting short-hand, and finally the English.  Of course, the miracle you are to perform is to take them from here to writing a five paragraph persuasive argument.  You are supposed to get them to use "proper" English, so that the state will fund your school to open the following year.

You can't do this job unless you love it and you love them.  In addition to their diverse background, their hormones are raging, so what you give them for homework is way down on the priority list.  Besides, they actually don't believe that you actually expect them to study, and you want this for them and for their own good.

BLOG #17 Draft For Essay 3

An Art of the Senses

They all had a collection of aprons and beat- up, old pots and pans, but there was no question,  this was where everyone wanted to be, where the action was!  How many family members can you squeeze into your apartment kitchen – the more, the better.  The Guarinos’ and the Mauros’ craved the coming of every Sunday dinner, when aggressively awakened by searing garlic and meat, seasoned with the intruding fragrance of fresh basil, and yet the coffee had not finished perking yet.  We assumed everyone’s kitchens were just like ours, where creativity partnered with nutrition and tradition.  Being raised on a comfort called “food” inspired love of family and pride in heritage.  Not until many years later would the subject come up of what negative effects it could have, but then maybe we just weren’t listening.  We were too busy cooking and eating!

“Are we going to Aunt Josie’s today for dinner?”  If you think Sunday dinners were special, the holidays brought life to a halt with the hours of cooking and preparation which went into days and sometimes weeks. We prayed for invitations to one of our eleven aunts’ houses or just looked forward to family coming over to share food and a good time.  Our apartment was so small that sometimes we had to pick up the beds so everyone would have room to sit.  The kids made a vertical pattern up and down the staircase which was a fun challenge, but through everything, it was all about the food and being together.  I looked around and knew, even at that young age, that was what I wanted my house to be like some day, and it would.

Cooking was often looked upon as an item on the list of chores of a housewife in the 1950’s and 60’s.  It wasn’t until later in life and society that it had been finally looked on as what it truly is – an art.  There were a few pioneers in the television cooking industry, like Julia Child, the French Chef and the Galloping Gourmet.  Today there are multiple networks featuring the art of cooking, for it is, in my humble opinion, an art of all the senses.  After all, you can look at a painting, listen to music, touch a sculpture and smell fresh gardening, but you can do all those things, as well as taste, when your cooking becomes an art form. 

In sophomore year of high school, Mom had to go back to work to help pay tuition for my brother and I.  Aunt Mary, Mom’s oldest sister who lived on the first floor of our house had passed away, so the responsibility of taking care of Uncle Ignazio fell on us.  “You are going to have to make sure dinner is on the table no later than five o’clock every day”,  Mom mentioned, as she prepared for her new retail position.  She wasn’t qualified for much else and would be working a few nights a week.  I will leave you a note and let you know where everything is for each night’s dinner.  While I had learned a lot by observing, I really had no actual training by Mom, but just been around it my whole life, so I’d give it a go.

The key was at first was to keep things simple – meat, potato and vegetable, sometimes a salad.  The fans of my cooking were of great variety – Dad who could never be objective about anything I did, Uncle Ignazio, who would pretty much devour anything you put in front  of him, my younger brother, who somehow developed the theory that he eats to live and not lives to eat (did we really grow up in the same house?!), and an occasional army of ants who would march in rhythm up the plastic tablecloth to the electric frying pan perched on the kitchen table, frying up some pork chops and sauerkraut, their personal favorite. 

After a few days, I began to really enjoy this experience, as it proved to entice all of my sensory limits.  Expansion on this new skill was the answer, which started with an educational visit to the grocery store and some farm stands.   A lot of what Mom had gotten me to make came out of boxes, frozen and unfrozen, and a few cans.  Watching a cooking show or two on public broadcasting television presented what REAL cooking looked like, so I followed the people in the food store who were buying real food and fresh dairy, vegetables and protein.  Walking back into the house, I felt as though I had struck gold.  The ambiance in our small kitchen turned to delights of the palette.  There was nothing better than this new experimentation that touched the enjoyable sensory soft spots of my entire family.  Mom laughed cynically when I told her what I had been doing, and more so when she came home from work.  “You don’t need to worry about cooking anymore, Rosie.  Our girl here, has a real knack for it.”  Mom took this okay and joined in the merriment.  From this day on, the household had a new head chef.  I experimented, created and modified most of the recipes I had grown up on, but made sure not to try and fix anything that was not broken.  Change, just for the sake of change, can have horrible results.

I noticed that I sang when I cooked.  When I felt sad, I cooked.  When I felt nervous, I cooked.  I cooked when I was happy, anxious, depressed, and it always helped me to relax.  I had found something that was better than a therapist, and the fact that I was so successful with it made me very excited.  Cooking makes you feel alive because it does spark all your senses.  The crack of separating fresh vegetables, the scent of spices and grilling, the rainbow colors of fresh ingredients, the feel of a successful quiche or soufflé, and finally the taste of a project well done.  A level beyond what my Mom and aunts had done had come upon me, and I waited like a child on Christmas Eve night to be able to present my family with a holiday spread. 

My home had been the place people hoped to be invited to and what I had dreamed about as a child.  My thin and healthy younger brother, who does not believe in overeating, usually has to loosen his pants before dessert hits the table.  Friends call and tell me that they are fasting before the big day, and check what is on the menu.  The food that we serve in our house is a definitive welcome to those we care about.  My husband, of course, is the one upon which they created the saying, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”, and provides me with a great, willing and able assistant to clean up after me.  He is also the caretaker of our grandiose garden and supplies boatloads of fresh veggies from May through October.  This can be overwhelming and proved to burn out our stove this past season.  Excess bagfuls go out to the neighbors.  Supposedly, real cooks make large messes, and I seem to fit that profile.

Since cooking has become a hobby and an enjoyable past time, other opportunities to learn to cook and eat healthier have led down other paths.  I chair the Alliance for a healthier generation in my school and annoy my students with how eating healthier will increase their performance in school.  They do not believe me.  I think sometimes that when I retire from teaching, I would like to open a restaurant, but I will probably be too tired.  A neighborhood, short order luncheonette would be really cool, and I could entice my customers with a special of the day.  

So one day when you are bored and have nothing in particular to do, go to the store, go home and envelop your house with something multi-sensory to warm your palette.  You will guarantee yourself a creative experience.

Blog 12 - Draft Essay 2

Layers and Ages of Lying

Lying is something that, as an adult, I have absolutely no tolerance for.  If one of my students does something they are not supposed to, I advise them to at least tell the truth about it.  If it comes from them, the consequence is mild, but if I have to hear about it from someone else, it becomes more severe.  What's worse is that I don't feel I can trust them anymore, so I am always second guessing them - not a good feeling!

I believe we go through stages of lying for various reasons.  Being raised Catholic, I tried not to lie, but only because I would have to go into that scary little room and confess my lies to the priests at my church, who pretended not to know who you were.  I didn't mind confessing when I fought with my little brother and he beat the hell out of me (he was alot smaller and faster than I was, and had a wallop of a punch), or that I missed saying my prayers, but lying was a bad one, and I knew that he knew it was me behind that little screen.

Then we learned about little white lies and fibs, which were actually lying on a lower scale without much consequence, so I figured why not, just once in a while.  Where exactly does the line fall among these classifications of untruths?  As we became adolescents, we lied to try to fit in, and sometimes we lied because someone was bullying us.  Was it okay then?  I thought so.  There are some lies that just stand out in your life as moments you will never forget.  Lying begins to get worse as we approach adolescence.  A nice way to say this is that we are testing our parents as to what we can get away with.  Maybe we find ourselves in situations where we think we must make ourselves into something we are not. 

To this day, every time I go visit my cousin Joanie, who lives in a Union County suburb, one of the worst lies I ever told still haunts me, and I get a really sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I was eleven, and trying to be a bad girl from the city, when some of her new neighbors’ children came out and started to say mean things to me and my cousins. We had started playing a game of box ball, and they thought they would be funny and try to ride their bikes in between our action.  Of course, my response was to use some seriously strong expletives on them, that I had been hearing in school.  Since they were about the same age as we were, I figured they knew them as well, and they were boys after all.  A while later after they left the scene, and we were all back in the house, the door bell rang.  There stood the three boys, crying, accompanied by their parents, and they wanted to speak with the girl who had used such language. 

I denied such a thing ever happened, but everyone knew I was lying.  Some people can lie and some can’t.  In my case, my face totally gives me away.  As soon as I get nervous and flustered, my body temperature hits the roof, and guilt runs across my face in a flood of red and purple.  I didn’t actually get in trouble that day, but it was never spoken about again.  What kind of beastly little child would risk their family member creating a conflict of someone they just moved next door to…..a bad one, that’s who!  It was too scary, I wasn’t good at it, and I swore I would never lie again.

Until next time - there always seems to be a justification for the next time.  I made sure that I was only telling lies that wouldn’t hurt anyone else.  I attended an all girl, private school, and it was difficult to fit in due to the number of cliques.  I went there with some of my elementary school friends, so I figured we would all just keep hanging out.  To my ignorance, they started becoming involved with some of these bully girl groups and I was devastated.  I tried for a while to fit in, and, in the process, had to tell a few lies to get my foot in the door.  Once I got in there, I realized it was so not worth it, so I went back to being my own true self, and whoever wanted to still hang out with me was fine.  No pressure, let everyone make and live with their own choices.  Eventually, they all saw what I had seen only it took them a lot longer and things among our group got back to normal.

  In college, I cut a few classes to hang out.  I don’t know if that is technically lying.  But then, maybe there are times when there are “good” reasons to lie.  One weekend, my Dad was cleaning out his bureau drawers and I offered to help him.  We were super close, and I loved doing things with him.  I had done this chore with him when I was younger, but I was more observant now.  He left the room for a break, and I picked up his wedding ring which he hadn’t worn very much that I could remember, due to his job.  He was a graphic printer, and his hands were always full of ink and chemicals.  I looked inside the ring and saw engraving that I had never noticed before.  It had their initials and a wedding date of November, 1952.  I was immediately surprised and confused, since I knew that they celebrated their anniversary every February 22^nd.  There was even a pretty, wedding event wall plate in our house with the date February 22^nd, 1953.

Now I was curious.  I waited until no one else was around when I approached my Mom, which I felt old enough to do now.  I proceeded to ask her why the wedding date in Dad’s ring was different than the date they celebrated.  She obviously doesn’t turn purplish-red like me, and she said that she figured I was old enough now to know.  She explained that my Dad had been previously married to a woman in England during World War II.  He was an army staff sergeant over there, and it was one of the many romantic, but impulsive wartime weddings that took place over those years.  Her name was Joan.  When Dad and Joan married, they hadn’t spent much time discussing the details of their life.  She assumed Dad would stay and live with her in England near her family when the war was over.  Dad assumed that she would return with him to his family home in Brooklyn, New York.

Mom said “Come on”, and we walked to the back of the house to a storage closet and pulled down a big flat box out of the crawl space.  When she opened the box, I saw a photographer’s portrait of a beautiful and petite, fair skinned, blonde haired, blue eyed woman.  “This is Joan”.  I found the whole thing really ironic – talk about opposites.  Mom was a bigger woman with olive skin, almost black hair and dark eyes, also pretty.  She went on to say that Dad eventually won the argument and returned home with his war bride at the end of his duty.  He got a job and was busy running with his friends, the lifestyle he was used to before being in military service.  Joan was at home a good part of the day without him, living with his sister and her husband and children.  One day when Dad got home from work and my aunt had been out all day, Joan was gone.  She had been frightfully home sick, and apparently had packed her things and found a ship or plane to get her back to England.  He tried to locate her for a while, but she did not respond, so he gave up.

About a year later, he and Mom met working in a factory in Jersey City, New Jersey, where my Mom grew up.  It was also a very intense and whirlwind attraction between them, however, they were dating for a good three years when they decide to get married.  They set the date for November 1952, a year away.  My Dad was technically still married, so he applied for an annulment here in the United States.  They thought it was going to be no big deal, but then they found out that they were going to have to try and locate Joan, and follow a more complicated legal path.  Dad was obligated to advertise in local newspapers, both in New York and in the area of England that Joan lived in when he knew her.  He would have to do this over a period of approximately six months to try and each her to agree to the annulment.  The paperwork could not get started here until the six months were up.  Joan never responded.  The church and the hall were booked for the wedding, but the annulment paperwork would not be processed in time.  They went ahead with the wedding in November because he was legally single by the actions he had taken, but they could not get married in church.  They were married by a local judge in the reception hall, and when the annulment was finalized early in the new year, they got married in church on February 22^nd, 1953.  We had looked at their wedding album hundreds of times, and saw them being married in the hall by a judge, but it had never hit us…….why not in church?

“Your father didn’t want you and your brother to know because you guys are his whole world and he wanted you to feel secure.  He probably is going to be upset about you knowing now, and maybe we shouldn’t tell your brother.  We believed that this was the best thing to do for your sake”.  In this case, was not  telling the same thing as lying?  I didn’t care because I thought the whole thing was just loaded with romance and some adventure, which I love.  We did wind up telling my brother later that week, and he didn’t have much of a reaction, but I guess his reaction was no different than any other seventeen year old boy would have.  Dad wasn’t thrilled about us knowing, but since we were all okay with it, he adjusted.  I, of course, continued to have lots of questions about the details, and was able to learn some more from discussing it with other extended family members who were involved in the conspiracy of keeping it from us. 

When I graduated college and got a job as a Customer Service Manager, I learned about another necessary kind of lying – to the customer.  However, if you did lie to an irate customer about a shipment going out, you better turn that lie into a truth by making it happen, pronto.  I think this kind of lying was okay, but you had to do it skillfully, with lots of follow-up.  And if you didn’t, you better let the boss know before he hears it elsewhere, because then he’s going to be really pissed.  That’s where I got it from with my students.

Dad passed away in April 1990, on Mom’s birthday.  He always said that if he went first, he would find a way to haunt Mom.  So he did!  A few years later, Mom received a letter from the United Kingdom, addressed to the family of Alphonse James Mauro.  Over fifty years had passed and she had decided she wanted to make peace with Dad before their lives ended.  She was devastated to find out that he was already gone.  We couldn’t believe she had finally tried to reach him, and wondered if we might have a sibling somewhere that we didn’t know about.  It was awkward at first, so we ignored the first letter.  She wrote again because she had to make peace in her heart.  We had a family discussion and wrote back to her, and agreed to help her do this.  Joan was coming to the United States to visit some friends.  Mom said, “So we’ll take her to the cemetery and make her some tea.”  She placed a beautiful bouquet of flowers on his grave and said she was sorry.  She flew home the next day. It seemed like all the untellings and misleading truths were okay now.   I kept the letters.

Blog 10, My move into Education

Education has always been both a valuable and appealing aspect of my life.  We were trained in its importance early on by my father, who barely had an eighth grade education, and had to work two to three jobs at a time to make ends meet, along with his desire for us to have a better quality of life than he had.  School was the first word he wanted us to learn.  Throughout both my elementary and high school education, my teachers were always my biggest heroes, and my aspiration was to become one of them.

I entered college as an Education major, but due to various reasons, changed over in my second year.  One discouraging factor of that time, was that there was an overabudance of graduates going into the teaching career, and not a lot of jobs available.  Additionally, I became interested in doing Social Work because of the tremendous amount of problems going on at that time.  I was looking at the world through rose-colored glasses and believed I was going to save the world from becoming a Welfare state.  I guess it was a sign of the times.  During both High school and college, I continually held a corporate part time job including working full time in the summers.  This was also greatly influenced by my father's wish for us to learn independence and the value of hard work and the dollar.  Disappointed by the job prospects of a Social work position (which didn't seem able to pay the bills), upon my college graduation, I remained in a corporate position, while I continued additional course work at night.

I did not want my mind to get lazy.  I did voluntary substitute teaching in our local private schools, volunteer work with the Association for Retarded Citizens, and got involved with Literacy volunteers of America for over a year.  Now, here I was, several years later, with the same desire to teach.

Throughout my corporate career, my desire to train and teach was demonstrated in the day to day middle management environment, as well as specific programs that I had gotten involved with.  For example, I was a corporate liaison with the local high school Cooperative Education and Learning programs.  I was also the catalyst in starting up distance, post secondary education for employees with children, whose lives had never given them the opportunity to go to college.  This proved to be very rewarding for all involved.  My personal satisfaction of these programs, coupled with an undying regard for children and their welfare brought me to a late, but ardent realization.

Along with the rewarding experiences, I have found in teaching, I now bring the additional work ethic and skills in technology and presentation I had gathered in the corporate environment.  I also believe that the organizational skills I had learned have enhanced my fitness for teaching children to be successful when they are ready to go out into the real world.  Believe me when I say that teaching is a very different career now than it was when I was in school, yet I was still anxious to be a part of it, and it a strong part of my life.

I speak of educating children from both my heart and my mind, which no teacher should be without.  Finally the biggest hero in my life, my Dad, is based on what he did.  At age fifty-six, there was a Vocational Technical School opening up in the county he lived in, and he was offered a position, if he returned to school.  He quit the job he had been doing his whole life, a graphic printer, and went back to school, obtained his GED, and went to college for his Associate's Degree in Vocational Teaching.  This accomplishment and the years of experience in his field made u for the rest.  It also made my mother a nervous wreck.  He was a teacher of a trade to Special Needs students the best and last ten years of his life.

No wonder, the first day I walked into a classroom full of students was the best day of mine!

Blog 9 - My first essay analysis

In my first essay, I definitely established the "I" fromation and goals.  While I believe I made some seriously necessary points, there were some definite areas where more clarity was needed.  I attempted a segmentation strategy to offer my points in a more compelling way, that I deemed successful.  In order to revise it to be more successful, I would try to focus in on some points that were somewhat blurred.  This thoughts were definitely a result of the delving questions brought up in my writing conference.  Some of these should be based on "eye" perceptions, from both a cultural and personal standpoint.  Making a cultural point in introducing my thoughts will bring on more attention and curiosity by the reader and clarifications that were questioned by my classmates.

In exploring my next essay in terms of craft or content, I would want to bring in more of others'perspectives and make it still a bit less emotional and personal while bringing out a more concrete focus based on the control of stronger facts, which may have had a profound effect on me, as I wrote it.

Blog 8 - Project 1, Essay 1

Marilyn M. Buda

Dr. Chandler

English 5017, Section 01

October 11, 2010

Some Bad News and Some More Bad News?

You would think finding out that you have breast cancer is probably one of the worst things you could hear, whether you are a woman or a man.  Yes, men get it too.  And then you find out there are other thorns attached, that can cut you to the quick and hurt you further yet.  But you continue to not be able to hear the parts you can’t deal with.  I should really stop whining about this because I survived, and got my life and health back....just not the life I thought I was going to have.

“It’s not so bad, it’s early and we can get it.” – okay, age thirty-six, still single.  There was no family history.  The only “indicating factor” was that I had not had a child yet.  If you make it five years, you’re cured - Great!  Four years and nine months later, it’s back, but not in the same location, in the opposite pole, so you can’t really call it a recurrence.  The five year thing turned out to be a farce, anyway.  I can still deal, though, age thirty-nine, married now.  Ten months later, now we can call it a recurrence; it’s here again at the original site.  This time chances are slim that it has not spread.  I never fall into the slim chance category, except when it is the margin of error of what could be a worse situation.  Then I’m all there, but amazingly not this time!  Just a little radiation, and maybe some chemo and you’ll be good as new.  Okay, age forty, still married.

When I was five, I loved playing with my dolls.  I loved being around babies and children, and everyone said I was really a good care taker with them.  After I started menstruating at age twelve, I thought I knew all the wonderful feelings I was going to experience as I became a woman, dreamed about it constantly.  When no one was home, I would occasionally stuff a folded bed pillow under my shirt to make believe I was pregnant, because to me that symbolized the true and only way you were a real woman, and WHEN that happened to me, not if, well that was the only real thing I wanted out of life.  When I cramped up once a month, I imagined that’s what labor would be like, but a little more extreme, like on a television show. 

If I didn’t get married, I would get assistance from a sperm donation facility, no problem.  I could do this on my own!  My parents brought me up to be very independent. Except, the doctor walks in and tells me now how “lucky” I am.  Oh, and by the way, you really shouldn’t get pregnant.  We advise against it strongly, particularly with your type of cancer.  I felt the blood drain down to my feet.  Running through my mind are the words, “there is no way you can be saying this to me”, and “you don’t understand, I’m supposed to have four kids – two boys and two girls!”   Being my forceful, cup-half-full, optimistic self, I persisted.  “What if I do, what can happen?!?  If the cancer were to return while you are pregnant, we would not be able to treat you, and while you would probably survive to give birth, you most likely would not see the baby’s first birthday.  I didn’t care what they all said.  I was going to do it anyway, I had to.

We are at a restaurant in the old neighborhood, and my mom points out my old doctor at the next table.  Maybe I should go speak to him.  She doesn’t know what I have recently found out about my condition of infertility because it is too painful to bare, let alone tell anyone, especially her, as she knows my heart is totally broken.  He was my doctor when I wasn’t listening to the surgeons and oncologists about their advice on pregnancy.  I went to him and told him that I was trying and there must be something wrong because I can’t get pregnant, aged forty.  He tells me to get a puppy, but I persist, and he finally agrees to set up some testing.  The results show no mechanical reason for my failure to conceive.  A few years later, signs of cancer show up in the lower part of my body, so I go to another type of recommended oncologist, a colleague of my breast cancer doctor in Manhattan.  All the really great doctors are in Manhattan, you know.  I had already given up, didn’t have sixty thousand dollars to adopt a child, and the more reasonably priced, Christian agencies that were recommended to me, said they couldn’t give me a baby, because they looked at my medical history and said I might die!  “So could any other parent when they walk out their door in the morning”, I responded, at which point, the Christians hung up on me.  The bad news was that they saw something, but believed they could fix it, the pre-cancerous condition I mean. 

The really bad news was that when they shot my reproductive mechanics up on a monitor, he showed me that my cervix had been closed over by scar tissue that had developed as a result of a procedure that had been done by my old doctor, years ago.  Did he intentionally not tell me?!?  Something was definitely mechanically wrong with me inside!  Did he realize it was a result of something he had done, and just couldn’t be bothered, or was he afraid of being sued for malpractice?  I went to him since I was eighteen, for over twenty years, and he chose not to help me?  I’ll never know, though, because I couldn’t stop shaking when I saw him that night, let alone risk a scene by approaching him to speak with him about it.  This is all much too difficult, and it is easier to tell myself that things happen for a reason.

There is no miracle happy ending here.  My severe state of depression lasted the better part of five years.  Towards the end of that time, I made some major changes in my life to help myself along.  I finally pursued a career in teaching, which I had always dreamed about, but had forfeited, to spend over twenty years in the corporate grind to become more financially successful, also a myth.  As a child, I had never been allowed to have a pet because we lived in a small apartment; now, we had a home and I was able to experience the love of animals as added family members, as well as visitors to our rural backyard.  I was only too grateful not to have become the weird, scary cat lady on the block.

Someone once told me that timing is everything.  Isn’t that the truth?  In the early 1990’s, researchers didn’t have enough cases of breast cancer survivors moving on to have children, because most women that got breast cancer were beyond child-bearing age, so they preferred to err on the side of caution.  At least today, they are fortunate enough to have more history and experience.  Maybe my experience helped with that, and that is the role I was meant to play in my long and sad saga.  Every year during Breast Cancer Awareness month, you hear the incessant messages about the death rates of stricken women, but it’s the stories on the peripheral that you don’t always hear about, which are even more striking.  The women that can’t look in the mirror, the men who learn to dislike themselves when they can’t deal, the marriages that break up, and the children that cannot be born are the real side stories attached to the diagnosis of a cancer, which, thank God, has become more of a chronic condition in our day.  Don’t know how to end this because there is no end to the pain it has caused me, just an easing of it. 

I will ache from this always, and continue to act like it’s no big deal, and be happy for my friends as they had their children and have their grandchildren today.  Again, a side story comes to pass as we look at friendship.  When you are devastated by infertility, some strange things happen to people you thought you have known all your life.  True, they think they know how you feel and they want to help, but suddenly, an unspoken rule takes control because people with children only socialize with other people with children.  Sometimes, they try to help you by keeping others’ good news from you, which just makes it hurt even more.  Fortunately for me, my best friend of forever, did not share my desire and maternal instincts.  She chose not to be a parent which was a difficult, but honest decision and what made her happy.  Then I have new friends with genuine empathy who tell me I’m not too old to become a “mom” now, even at my age.  They are sweet and caring.  Finally, as my friends get older, the ones who understood, continue to ask the question, “Why was it you didn’t have children?”  Sometimes I just want to cry and hit them, but I make myself numb and try to laugh it off. 

I have this sore that will most likely never heal, and I will eternally ask questions that probably cannot be answered.    Maybe I would have been a bad parent.  Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to handle both a child and a career.  I guess it wasn’t meant to be, but for what cause?  I now believe there are many other women out there like me, and possibly a lot of people would call me selfish and an ingrate.  My situation did not make me a statistic, but it did kill a part of my spirit. As I age, and find some peace in the blessings I do have, I will continue to ask myself if this was a punishment of some kind, an act of fate, or a life-saving choice made by a higher power.

Blog 7: Project 1 cont'd.

We are at a restaurant in the old neighborhood, and my mom points out my old doctor at the next table.  Maybe I should go speak to him.  She doesn't know what I have recently found out about my condition of infertility because it is too painful to bare.  He was my doctor when I wasn't listening to the surgeons and oncologists about their advice on pregnancy.  I went to him and told him that I was trying and there must be something wrong because I can't get pregnant (age 40).  He tells me to get a puppy, but I persist, and he finally agrees to set up some testing.  The results show no mechanical reason for my failure to conceive.  A few years later, signs of cancer show up in the lower part of my body so I go to another type of recommended oncologist, a colleague of my breast cancer doctor in the city.  I had already given up, didn't have $60,000 to adopt a child and the more reasonably priced, Christian ones said they couldn't give me a baby because they looked at my medical history and said I might die!  So could any parent when they walk out their door in the morning.  The bad news was that they saw something, but believed they could fix it, the pre-cancerous condition I mean.  The really bad news was that when they shot my insides up on a monitor, he showed me that my cervix had been closed over by scar tissue that had developed from a procedure that had been done by my old doctor years ago.  Did he intentionally not tell me?!?  Something was definitely mechanically wrong with me inside!  Did he realize it was a result of something he had done and just couldn't be bothered.  I went to him since I was eighteen, for over twenty years, and he chose not to help me?  I'll never know because I couldn't stop shaking when I saw him that night, let alone ask him or speak with him about it.  This is all much too difficult and it is easier to tell myself that all things happen for a reason.

Don't know how to end this because there is no end to the pain it has caused me.  I will ache from this and continue to act like it's no big deal and be happy for my friends as they had their children and have their grandchildren today.  I will continue to ask myself was this a punishment, fate, or a life-saving choice made by a higher power.

Blog 6 - Brainstorming for Project 1 - Some Bad News and Some More Bad News

You would think finding out that you had cancer is probably one of the worst things you could hear.  And then you find out there are other carats attached to that.  But you continue to not be able to hear the parts you can't deal with.  I should really stop whining about this because I survived and got my life and health back....just not the life I thought I was going to have.

"It's not so bad, it's early and we can get it." - OK, Age 36, Single.  If you make it five years, you're cured - Great!  Four years and nine months later - hello again, but not in the same location, in the opposite pole.  I can still deal though, Age 39, Married.  Ten months later, guess what... it's here again at the original pole.  This time chances are slim that it has not spread.  I never fall into the slim chance category.....except for this time!  Just a little radiation and maybe chemo and you'll be good as new.  OK, Age 40, Married.

When I was five, I loved playing with my dolls.  After I started menstruating, Age 12, I thought I knew all the wonderful feelings I was going to have as I became a woman.  Dreamed about it constantly.  When no one was home, I would occasionally stuff a pillow into my shirt to make believe I was pregnant, because to me that symbolized the true and only way you were a real woman, and WHEN that happened to me, not if, well that was the only real thing I wanted out of life.  When I cramped up once a month, I imagined that's what labor would be like, but a little more extreme like on TV.

If I didn't get married, I would go to a sperm donation facility, no problem.  I could do this on my own ..........
Except.....The doctor came in and told me now how "lucky" I am.  Oh, and by the way, you really shouldn't get pregnant.  We advise against it strongly, particularly with your type of cancer.  I felt the blood drain down to my feet.  There is no way you cna be saying this to me, and being my forceful, optimistic self, I persisted.  "What if I do, what can happen?!?  If the cancer were to return while you are pregnant, we would not be able to treat you, and while you would probably survive to give birth, you most  likely would not see the baby's first birthday.

I didn't care what they all said.  I was going to do it anyway, I had to.................................