No more comments until I install MT Blacklist. I am tired of being spammed. You can e-mail me (address is under “About”) if you have any comments.
Comment Spam
I had to ban several IPs as the source of comment spam. If you have trouble posting comments to anywhere on Planethuff.com, please let me know. This person has a lot of time on his or her hands or else has figured out how to get past JunkEater.
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Autumn Leaves
This morning, I peeked out the window of my classroom because I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Autumn leaves were raining down from the trees above onto the gravel walkway leading to Zaban Park. It was beautiful. I love the fall.
I haven’t been especially busy lately. In fact, quite the opposite. Yesterday, I only taught one 45-minute class. Tuesdays are my lightest day anyway, but one of my classes was canceled so students could meet with their clubs. This sounds weird to most of you, but basically, my block schedule is reminiscent of a college schedule: I meet with each class four days a week, three 45-minute periods and one 90-minute period. For the rest of the day, I was scrounging for things to do. I suppose I could have left, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was supposed to be doing something, so I stayed.
We had visitors to our school yesterday — prospective students, eighth graders looking at private schools. A week or two ago — it’s all running together now — we had a fair for prospective parents. I think that I’m developing the reputation for being good at “selling” the school. I guess if you really like and enjoy something, it just doesn’t feel like “selling.” The prospective students came in the morning for an introduction to the school, attending selected classes. Mine was one. Sim told me that the eighth graders said they enjoyed my class. We read a poem by Margaret Atwood called “Half-Hanged Mary,” which is about an accused witch who hanged, but did not die, and finished Act 3 of The Crucible. The eighth graders were participating in discussion about the poem, and two of them even volunteered to read parts (!). It was fun.
Meanwhile, my 10th grade Honors classes are evaluating themselves like Ben Franklin: looking inward at one thing they might improve about themselves, whether it is snacking between meals or procrastinating, and keeping a daily journal reflecting over their successes in failures for one week. One of my students is doing a Livejournal, and I am having the best time reading it and learning so much about him. He’s awesome. I can’t link it here, because I won’t compromise his anonymity. I long ago realized that if I am keeping a blog using my own name, it is probable that some of my students will find it. I write with that thought in mind (most of the time). I don’t give them the URL or encourage them to read it, but I decided I wouldn’t say anything here I wouldn’t say to them. At the same time, I don’t use their names here. For one thing, they’re underage. For another, they didn’t ask to be written about by their crazy English teacher. Anyway, before I went off on that tangent (and my students know I never go off on tangents, ever), I was going to tell you that looking inward and searching one’s self is a Jewish teaching called cheshbon hanefesh, or “an accounting of one’s soul/self.” I have asked students to do this activity when I’ve taught the standard textbook excerpt from Franklin’s Autobiography before. In fact, when I was getting certified to teach gifted students, I had to write a unit that I would actually teach, and I wrote a Revolutionary War unit including this activity. So basically, I integrated the Judaics and English curricula and didn’t even realize it. So I wrote an article for our school newsletter. I’m excited about it. I think everyone will really be interested in it.
Monday, I have the GISA conference. I am kind of hoping to see familiar faces there, but I am only sure of one person I went to UGA with who teaches at a private school.
I am a little disappointed in some of my former colleagues. I wrote them telling them where I was, what I was doing, and just touching base with them. I chatted with these ladies every day while I worked with them, but I didn’t get a reply. It’s possible, I suppose, that my e-mail didn’t get through, but it seems to work for everyone else I’ve sent e-mails to. Oh well, as they say.
I’m going to call my grandmother and wish her a happy 54th anniversary. Good night.
Marilou Braswell, Part 2
I have exchanged a few e-mails with Matt Braswell, Marilou Braswell’s husband. He has been kind and thoughtful, despite the fact that I posted my opinion about a news story that reflects negatively upon his wife. I commend him for that, because it isn’t easy to be that way when you’re in the line of fire, as he and his wife undoubtedly are. He seems like a decent person. To that end, I extended him the opportunity to share his story in this blog, unedited. He politely declined. I invite you to peruse his website, helpmarilou.com. In his own words, “I can only urge you to do your homework before believing anyone, including me.” All people should be so classy when they disagree. To that end, I encourage you to do your homework if this story has piqued your interest. I will be candid and say that I have read through the documents on the site, and while I think the Braswells have some valid points and may even be completely in the right about aspects of the case, my mind remains unchanged, primarily because of the “infamous prepared statement,” which, to their credit, they post in its entirety on their site. I want to underscore something I said before, that we need to follow the advice of Atticus Finch and walk around in someone else’s skin, consider things from their point of view. I think I can fairly say I’ve done that — I’ve read about this issue from both sides, and I’ve come to my own conclusion based on the evidence each side has provided.
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Book Reviews
You know, two of my book reviews for Blogcritics have been chosen for Advance.net, which I guess means they are posted on some newspaper sites. You can read them here. They are slightly different from the ones posted here — I take out some of the more personal comments.
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Weird
For lack of a better place, I am sticking this in my OCD category, but I’m not entirely sure it’s OCD-related.
As a kid, I used to lay awake nights wondering — ruminating over — why am I me instead of someone else? Why do I look like I do? Why has genetics conspired just so to create me instead of someone else? All of which leads to the big question: why am I here?
The odds against anyone of us actually getting to the point of being here are pretty astronomical. I would think about that and it would really freak me out.
I was driving down Mount Vernon Hwy. today after having been unsuccessful at finding the SAT testing site where I needed to fill out my I-9 so I can grade SAT essays all locked up. All of a sudden, I wondered why in the hell I was me, and why I looked like I do. I mean, when I am talking to someone, I am not really conscious of how I look. I don’t think about it much. But they associate my appearance with me. It is an integral part of who I am. It’s how they identify I am me instead of someone else. But not me. I don’t identify myself by my appearance. I identify others by theirs. And then I thought how unfair that it is we are judged by our appearances. I mean, I am stuck with gray hair, skinny arms and legs, and glasses. Sure, I could dye my hair, but then I’d have to keep doing it. I’m not sure if there is anything I can do about my arms and legs. I guess I could wear contacts. I have no problems with that. But ultimately, you still look how you look. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have any major problems with my appearance. I really don’t. The grande caramel Frappuccinos are going to my waist, hips, and thighs, but that’s the price you pay for sucking down fat-laden beverages on a near daily basis (430 calories per drink, 140 calories from fat — oy vey). Of course, I’m convinced they’re laced with pure crack, or I wouldn’t have to have one all the time.
So. Back on task, Ms. Huff.
What I was saying before I digressed over the frozen coffee is that I was driving down the road and the childhood thought about my identity resurfaced. It was like I suddenly popped out of my body, looked at me, and realized I was in that body, and it didn’t seem connected to me at all. It occurred to me that my body wasn’t part of me. I also recall thinking I am always looking out of my eyes, and I don’t see things in any way except mine — not really. So it’s kind of hard to look in the mirror and connect that person with me. I can’t explain this very well, but it was jarring. I really did kind of freak out.
I shouldn’t freaking read The Catcher in the Rye anymore. Holden Caulfield is not someone with whom I’d like to identify.
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Sharing Gifts
One of the Hebrew teachers approached me several days ago. She is worried about her writing in English and wondered if she could sit in on some of my 9th grade classes (when we’re doing grammar). I said, sure!
This morning, she showed me how to write my name in Hebrew. She also taught me how vowels work. She said that “Dana” isn’t a Hebrew name, by which she meant, I believe, that the long A sound doesn’t exist. Something approximating “Dina” is the closest thing. I can’t tell the letters apart. The Hebrew letters all look the same to me. It doesn’t help that Hebrew runs right to left, either. But I really want to learn it. At least a little bit. It’s a remarkable language.
Ghosts
Do you remember when you were a kid, and for the first time, you heard about something really awful happening to someone close to your age? There are two stories I remember from childhood. Maybe because they were never solved.
The first was the disappearance of Beth Miller. She lived in the pretty Colorado mountain town of Idaho Springs. She vanished one day while jogging. In 1994, she was legally declared dead. She’s been missing more than 20 years, now. I remember when we would drive through the mountains, I would look up, searching the caves from my vantage point in the car, and I would try to see if she was in one of them — a cold hand, carelessly flung over a ridge, revealing her resting place; a shock of white-blond hair riffled by a breeze. Because, you see, I was sure she was dead. About 10 years ago, a Florida woman claimed to be Beth Miller, but it was a hoax. A few months ago, investigators announced their intention to test mitochondrial DNA from a hair sample taken from decomposed remains and determine if they belong to Miller.
The other case that I think of every now and then — the one that terrified me most as a child — was the murder of the Bennett family. That happened in my hometown, Aurora, Colorado. It is believed the family were bludgeoned to death with a hammer. The mother, Debra, and older daughter, Melissa, were raped as well. The lone survivor was three-year-old Vanessa, who still lives in Colorado and (thankfully) has no memory of the attack. It was an awful crime. It was hard to feel safe after that. It happened so close to home. It’s kind of morbid, but I have rarely picked up a hammer without thinking about this crime. It is still unsolved, though with the advent of DNA analysis, they may one day be able to match the killer with samples taken from the crime scene.
These two crimes created ghosts in my childhood — an awareness that the world can be very dangerous, and bad guys are not always caught. But the ray of hope is that science has found a way. I wonder how many ghosts like these DNA will finally put to rest.
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Treasure
I think everyone likes that old pat on the back now and then. I arrived at work very early this morning. I was fixing myself some International Coffee in the teacher’s lounge when Nanci walked in and greeted me. She said she had a very pleasant conference with the parent of one of my students. They were discussing his grades; Nanci was running down the list teacher by teacher. Then, when she mentioned me, my student’s mom said, “Oh, he just loves Mrs. Huff.” Well, gee. I’m fond of that little guy, too. And Nanci said she wanted to share something with me… maybe it was a little unprofessional, but ah, she was just going to go ahead.
You might recall that when I was interviewing for this job, Nanci was very honest and said that she was seriously considering another person. Basically, she had it narrowed down to the two of us. She said this morning that the other candidate was very bubbly and exuberant. Well, that’s Nanci all over. She has boundless energy. Anyway, she told me she sent both of us to Sim. Maybe even the same day. The idea was that she needed his help to decide. She told me that she said she was looking for a good anchor for the English department. She said she had me pegged as quiet. Maybe the first few days or so, students wouldn’t exactly have me figured out. Soon, however, they would realize… how do I say this? I guess that I may seem sort of quiet, but underneath there is this great teacher. She didn’t come out and put it this way, but the gist of what Nanci was saying is that she needed a foil — someone to bring some balance to the department. She may be the principal, but she considers herself an English teacher at heart and always will. So I’m feeling very pleased. Nanci lets slip that the other candidate graduated from Yale (for crying out loud!). “But I chose you, Mrs. Huff,” Nanci added.
She chose me.
I e-mailed her later, thanking her for making my week. She replied that I was becoming “one of [their] treasures.”
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Blogcritics
You know, I have been writing for Blogcritics for a little over a week. I thought the idea had some merit: a forum for your above-average writer to express his or her opinion about media, music, books, and video. It has become clear to me that the editors will tolerate any sort of poor writing and immature posturing on the part of their writers. I doubt many visitors to the site can possibly take our opinions seriously, considering the writing is rife with grammar/usage/mechanical errors and expletives. It reminds me some days of a drunken frat party, laden with testosterone, and stinking of… well, shit.