(Ugh, my phone is taking forever to upload any images. I might need to add them later).
No, not moonshine. HIGHLIGHTER shine!
Behold, the magic of highlighters in lasertag! See, my room mate's birthday is tomorrow, so yesterday his father and brothers (bit of an energetic set) took him lasertagging, and I went along too. One of the amazing things about the game is that it takes place under a black-light. Therefore, anything white (or fluorescent, or possessing of chemical charisma) glows like a lightning bug. Did it make me easier to hit? Of course. Was it totally worth it? Heck yeah. I don't play to win (although, I did get the most points on my team during the second round, at 4865), I play to have fun. If that means that I get to pretend I'm a glowing warrior of peace and destruction (because why limit my options to what I want to do), then all the merrier.
Anyway, one reason I bring it up is that the place was crawling with my current students. The 8th graders completely ignored me (even though we happened to play against them), while my 7th graders all said hello. Some were a bit more surprised to see me than others. I call it the, "my-teacher-escaped-the-asylum" look. I know that I gave it when I was younger. When most of us are students, we just don't like to think about the fact that they have a life outside of the classroom.
Speaking of which, the classes are going great. The seventh graders are working magnificently on their posters, while the eighth graders are creating wonderful altars. Some of them stretch taller than me, especially with their arches. It's really impressive. It never ceases to amaze me just how much students can accomplish when they're given the opportunity to succeed. I'll be honest, I sometimes get the feeling that some teachers are as afraid of their students failing as their students are of failing. And I get where they're coming from. Failure is utterly terrifying. It's like this great gaping black hole beneath you, and you're scared that if you fall into it, you'll never get out. You'll just be stuck down their forever, always swimming in the direction that you think is right, only to keep running into more and more failure, until you eventually decide to give up. And you're only choices when you are succeeding are to either use the wide, comfortable bridge above it, the bridge that you know you can easily cross, even if you don't really learn anything from it, or the narrow one. The scary one. The one that you're not sure you can support you all the way across.
At least, that's how failure used to look to me.
And, in many ways, it still does. I still see that black hole, and those bridges. Part of me is still terrified that if I mess up--even a little--that everything I've worked for will come crashing down, and I'll never be able to go on. But, there's a part of me that sees things differently. There's a part of me that looks down into that blackness, and sees stars--glimmering lights of possibility--that I can only reach if I end up having a misstep. And each of those stars rests within a galaxy of shimmering possibilities, a rainbow array of colors more beautiful than anything I can even imagine. And each one of those lights shoots out, creating a new path and a new set of bridges, but each of these potentially more magnificent than anything else I've built up until now. Because, that's what risk does, when done right: it takes us towards new possibilities. True, it doesn't feel good to leave where we feel safe, but if we never really explore, then we'll never really get to see what we can become.
And as a teacher, I know that it's my duty to not only model for my students what that looks like, but to help support them along the way. If they choose the narrow path, the dangerous one, the one that can really help them grow, then I can walk beside them, and keep them balanced. I can also, if the bridge starts to crack, hold it up so that they will not fall, and even if they do I will be there to swim through that ocean of mysterious darkness until we find one of those infinitely beautiful pin-pricks of light that we call possibility.
Wow, that got poetically philosophical. However, I stand by it. My role as a teacher doesn't end when my kids leave the classroom. That's one of the reasons I don't mind seeing them when I'm off doing things on the weekend. I'm always doing something that I am proud my students see me do, even if they laugh. After all, if I get to choose between being weird, or being monotonous, why would I ever choose the latter?
Anyway, I've been baking. See, my room mate apparently just loves brownie cookies. So, I went online, looked at a few recipes, chose one that looked nice, and set to work.
Oh, optimism misplaced.
No sooner had I softened the butter, when I realized a slight obstacle: the recipe was in ounces. Not cups, not tsp, not tbs, but ounces. And I don't have a scale. "Ah well," I told myself, "time to improvise." So, I promptly poured in what I can only say must have been twice as much cocoa powder. I say that, because I then had to add in twice as much butter. Needless to say, it was an adventure. In the end, I had what can only really be described as slightly thick frosting.
But, feeling optimistic, I put some on a cooking tray.
Loaded it into the oven, and 10 minutes later, got this:
Aren't they pretty? And they don't taste like crap. In fact, they taste fairly decent. What can I say, backing is fun!
Speaking of fun things, in order to be a teacher, I have to write this big thing called an edTPA (it's a special kind of monster. It feeds on the hopes and dreams of prospective teachers). Right now, I'm writing a practice one, focusing on the first task (I guess they called them Tasks to either be really specific, or make it feel like you're on a cool quest! Kind of like adults who think they make a difference by rapping at kids to brush their teeth and not do drugs. If you couldn't tell, I have a low opinion of such programs). Basically, this is the setup. I tell the edTPA people what the class is like, what my lessons will be (in almost absurd detail) and then get to write a commentary. Max: 9 pages. Single spaced. And people run out of room. Basically, for this my motto should be: if it doesn't add value, don't add it in. No superfluous words. No quixotic tangents. Not even an iotic-speck of added color. Cold, clinical, and condensed.
This could get a little rough.
This has been another exciting adventure in the Austentatious. If you liked it, tell your friends; if you hated it, tell your enemies; and if you don't care either way, then tell everybody. Good night!
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