Some of my colleagues were sitting around talking the other day when the issue of personal "sensitive spots" came up. One guy said that his was looking foolish. Perhaps it was because he had grown up in the Middle East, he said, or perhaps it was because he was the eldest in his family. But, whatever the reason, he would avoid looking foolish at almost any cost. Another fellow piped in that he didn't mind looking foolish, but he would practically stand on his head to avoid failure. The thought of not measuring up was something he just couldn't abide.
I was silent. Personally, I can look like a fool several times before lunch on any given day, and if I haven't failed more than once before dinner, it is only because I have elected to take a nap. I think I have become somewhat inured to both dangers. Act foolish often enough and you come to regard it as a given part of your routine. Fail often enough and it just becomes one more story to add to the plot.
So, I am running my fingers over my psychic surfaces, feeling for bruises and other sensitive spots in order to find what it is that I just couldn't stand in myself, whatever it is that I could never allow myself to be. I have my ideas, and several of them are pretty good possibilities, but so far, there are none claiming primacy.
For one thing, I hate it when I have behaved inconsiderately. I cringe when I think of the times when I have been rude or selfish or uncaring. On the other hand, I get angry when people think I have been any of those things when in my own estimation, I have not. I am willing to take the blame when I have wronged someone. So, maybe "not nice" is the thing I would avoid most.
That may be a girl thing, although I know plenty of females who are more than willing to be mean. Maybe it is a likability issue. On the other hand, I know lots of people who don't like me, and, frankly, I'm not usually so wild about them, either. (But I AM nice to them.)
Monday, August 11, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Diving
When I was nearly five, my mother and sisters and I accompanied my father on a business trip. It was summertime, and someone must have thought it was a good idea. While my dad was doing business things in central Pennsylvania, we stayed at a motel in Lancaster. It had a small outdoor pool with a low diving board, and the door to each room was painted a different color: aqua blue, bright orange, lime green, and chocloate brown. I was relieved that the door to our room was chocolate brown. Not only was I a great fan of chocolate, but I privately thought the other colors were garish--- a tad too bright, and just a little too "modern." I had an inexplicable dislike of all things "modern": Danish modern furniture, neon colors, saxophones, sheath dresses. Fortunately for me the motel, although single-storied and with most door colors poorly chosen, had something of a timeless mountain chalet look about it, and I was able to overlook it's faults and relish my pleasure in knowing that the door to our room, at least, was in good taste.
The motel pool was the central attraction for my sisters and me. I had a green bathing suit with large cream colored shapes on it that looked like squares with the corners sanded down. I had not been sure that I liked it until one sister suggested that it looked like something out of the Flintstones. I was a great fan of the Flintstones, particularly Pebbles, and even though I looked more like Dino in my suit, there was enough proximity to Pebbles there to allow me to comfortably wear the suit.
Jan, the eldest, at twelve, was an elegant diver. She could execute a tidy swan dive, her petite figure compact and self-contained, her concentration and self-consciousness blending in a neat, graceful arc. She would come up for air scowling as we admired her. Paige, at nine, could dive, too, but her dives were faster and more casual. She was a natural swimmer, and could wipe the water from her eyes in one quick gesture using her thumb and forefinger. I tried to copy the move, but only succeeded in poking myself in one or both eyes, and then having to use both hands anyway. I was a veteran dogpaddler, much to my sisters' disdain, and they regularly urged me in unison to put my face in the water and swim. Of course, I could put my face in the water, and demonstrated that talent readily, but my favored underwater style was to wriggle like a fish to the side of the pool. I could open my eyes underwater, but in the murky pool, I could not see the side until I was inches from it. The old 8mm movies from that trip show what seems to be a dark-haired, green suited blur torpedoing straight into the side of the pool. In reality, I stopped just as soon as I saw the blue-painted side and came up to wipe my eyes with two hands. I flatly refused to perform the crawl stroke as I had been learning it at the high school pool for the past several weeks.
No one else staying at the motel seemed to be interested in using the pool, and we had it all to ourselves. We swam and my sisters dove, and they called out instructions to me and I whined back at them. At some point, they decided that I needed to learn to dive. At first, they made me stand on the side of the pool with toes lapping over the edge and arms pointed straight above my head. Then they bent me over at the waist and tipped me into the water. I learned the meaning of the phrase "belly smacker." But, as they goaded me into trying again and again, I began to achieve a certain prowess of my own. In my mind, I was as agile and self-contained as Jan. I would stand at the edge, toes lapping over, arms above my head, bend at the waist, bend my knees, and launch myself into the water. The 8mm film shows a Dino-like creature squatting with amphibiously outturned knees and splashing into the water and swimmuing straight into the poolside wall. I thought myself prodigious.
Once I was an established diver, my sisters decided the time had come for me to use the diving board. I stood at the end, toes lapping over the edge, raised my arms, bent my waist, squatted, and tipped into the water. I executed this dazzling move again and again.
Heady with the power of their instruction, my sisters then decided that I needed to learn a backwards dive. This, they said, was even easier than the frontwards dive. All I had to do was to arch my back and tip over backwards. They demonstrated, each one. Jan stood on the edge of the board on the balls of her feet, and effortlessly threw herself backwards in a graceful arch. Paige stood on the edge of the board on the balls of her feet and casually leaned back into a loose, but nonetheless respectable dive. Then they walked me out to the edge of the board and turned me around. They both gave running patter of directions: Balance on the balls of your feet, let the heels hang over the edge, lift your arms, arch your back, just fall, trust me, it works.
I whined. A breeze came up and the sun disappeared behind a cloud. I trembled. I pulled my arms down. I chickened out and turned around. They insisted. I turned back and balanced on the edge, lifted my arms and began to cry. I lost my balance and fell in. "See?" I yelled. "I told you I couldn't do it!" They made me get up and try again. I whined. They said I had been doing so well, that I couldn't stop now. They called me a baby, and pretended that they would never again play with me or acknowledge any relationship to me. They begged me and promised that once I had done it, I would want to do it again and again, just like the frontwards dive that I had so recently mastered.
Reluctantly, I climbed out of the pool and stepped up on the diving board. They cooed encouragement and followed me onto the board. I turned around. They reached for me and peppered me with advice: Back up, balance, arms up and tight against your ears, just lean back, arch your back, just go--- And I went.
It was an unremarkable dive. It was stiff and awkward. If I recall correctly, I felt a little wrench, a little strain, a little muscular warning that signified a brush with some danger. I immediately righted myself in the water and swam madly for the side. My sisters were all beaming smiles and affirmation and applause. "You DID it!" they announced to the empty lounge chairs around the pool.
I knew, though, deep in my heart, that I would never, ever do that again. I knew that it was an accidental success, mere happenstance that I had fallen in at a lucky angle that saved me from terrible injury. I was sore and tired and ready to dry off and head for the chocolate colored door behind which I could find clothes and perhaps an episode of Gilligan's Island.
The motel pool was the central attraction for my sisters and me. I had a green bathing suit with large cream colored shapes on it that looked like squares with the corners sanded down. I had not been sure that I liked it until one sister suggested that it looked like something out of the Flintstones. I was a great fan of the Flintstones, particularly Pebbles, and even though I looked more like Dino in my suit, there was enough proximity to Pebbles there to allow me to comfortably wear the suit.
Jan, the eldest, at twelve, was an elegant diver. She could execute a tidy swan dive, her petite figure compact and self-contained, her concentration and self-consciousness blending in a neat, graceful arc. She would come up for air scowling as we admired her. Paige, at nine, could dive, too, but her dives were faster and more casual. She was a natural swimmer, and could wipe the water from her eyes in one quick gesture using her thumb and forefinger. I tried to copy the move, but only succeeded in poking myself in one or both eyes, and then having to use both hands anyway. I was a veteran dogpaddler, much to my sisters' disdain, and they regularly urged me in unison to put my face in the water and swim. Of course, I could put my face in the water, and demonstrated that talent readily, but my favored underwater style was to wriggle like a fish to the side of the pool. I could open my eyes underwater, but in the murky pool, I could not see the side until I was inches from it. The old 8mm movies from that trip show what seems to be a dark-haired, green suited blur torpedoing straight into the side of the pool. In reality, I stopped just as soon as I saw the blue-painted side and came up to wipe my eyes with two hands. I flatly refused to perform the crawl stroke as I had been learning it at the high school pool for the past several weeks.
No one else staying at the motel seemed to be interested in using the pool, and we had it all to ourselves. We swam and my sisters dove, and they called out instructions to me and I whined back at them. At some point, they decided that I needed to learn to dive. At first, they made me stand on the side of the pool with toes lapping over the edge and arms pointed straight above my head. Then they bent me over at the waist and tipped me into the water. I learned the meaning of the phrase "belly smacker." But, as they goaded me into trying again and again, I began to achieve a certain prowess of my own. In my mind, I was as agile and self-contained as Jan. I would stand at the edge, toes lapping over, arms above my head, bend at the waist, bend my knees, and launch myself into the water. The 8mm film shows a Dino-like creature squatting with amphibiously outturned knees and splashing into the water and swimmuing straight into the poolside wall. I thought myself prodigious.
Once I was an established diver, my sisters decided the time had come for me to use the diving board. I stood at the end, toes lapping over the edge, raised my arms, bent my waist, squatted, and tipped into the water. I executed this dazzling move again and again.
Heady with the power of their instruction, my sisters then decided that I needed to learn a backwards dive. This, they said, was even easier than the frontwards dive. All I had to do was to arch my back and tip over backwards. They demonstrated, each one. Jan stood on the edge of the board on the balls of her feet, and effortlessly threw herself backwards in a graceful arch. Paige stood on the edge of the board on the balls of her feet and casually leaned back into a loose, but nonetheless respectable dive. Then they walked me out to the edge of the board and turned me around. They both gave running patter of directions: Balance on the balls of your feet, let the heels hang over the edge, lift your arms, arch your back, just fall, trust me, it works.
I whined. A breeze came up and the sun disappeared behind a cloud. I trembled. I pulled my arms down. I chickened out and turned around. They insisted. I turned back and balanced on the edge, lifted my arms and began to cry. I lost my balance and fell in. "See?" I yelled. "I told you I couldn't do it!" They made me get up and try again. I whined. They said I had been doing so well, that I couldn't stop now. They called me a baby, and pretended that they would never again play with me or acknowledge any relationship to me. They begged me and promised that once I had done it, I would want to do it again and again, just like the frontwards dive that I had so recently mastered.
Reluctantly, I climbed out of the pool and stepped up on the diving board. They cooed encouragement and followed me onto the board. I turned around. They reached for me and peppered me with advice: Back up, balance, arms up and tight against your ears, just lean back, arch your back, just go--- And I went.
It was an unremarkable dive. It was stiff and awkward. If I recall correctly, I felt a little wrench, a little strain, a little muscular warning that signified a brush with some danger. I immediately righted myself in the water and swam madly for the side. My sisters were all beaming smiles and affirmation and applause. "You DID it!" they announced to the empty lounge chairs around the pool.
I knew, though, deep in my heart, that I would never, ever do that again. I knew that it was an accidental success, mere happenstance that I had fallen in at a lucky angle that saved me from terrible injury. I was sore and tired and ready to dry off and head for the chocolate colored door behind which I could find clothes and perhaps an episode of Gilligan's Island.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Camp
My daughter is at New Teacher Camp. She is 23. She has been to camp before, but it has admittedly been quite a few years. New Teacher Camp is where all the first time teachers in the state go to, I don't know, get ready to teach.
I had visions of heading up to the craft barn on a sunny morning to create new curriculum with sticks and brightly colored yarn. I imagined a circle of bright and shiny young teachers, fresh out of college and ready for the classroom gathered around a campfire and hearing stories of terrifying hovercraft parents and principals that refuse to die. I wondered if old seasoned teachers, ones who had long ago grown impervious to the term "battle-axe" or Alice Cooper's song about the end of the school year, came to tell war stories and to tell the campers, "I was once like you." The smooth-skinned teachers-to-be would sit cross-legged (or Indian style, as they used to call it at camp camp) listening, jaws slack with wonder, imagining their own potential prowess when they themselves are sitting at the Big Desk.
I wonder if they will sing Cum Ba Yah, but quickly catch myself. Cum Ba Yah is a cliche now. No self-respecting camper of any stripe would be caught dead singing Cum Ba Yah. On the other hand, speaking of being caught dead, I wonder if they will play some version of Capture the Flag. Maybe it would be Students versus Teachers, or even Teachers From A High Scoring School versus Teachers Who Were Born To Teach And Are Passionate About It.
I suspect they will have a section on sitting in the Teachers' Lounge. No one really knows what ever transpired there, but everyone who has ever been a student has wondered. In every school, there was a closed and closely guarded door behind which the gods apparently put their feet up, fanned their faces, and talked about us. We liked to think that perhaps they smiled, laughed even, and said, "damn." Maybe these teacher campers will learn how to put their feet up, fan their faces, smile, and say, "damn." I'm not sure. I have never been to New Teacher Camp myself. But surely they have to learn Teachers' Lounge Protocol.
Maybe they will receive their first black faux leather grading books. Every teacher has one of those. When I was a student, names were printed in fine tip blue ink, and next to each name woukld eventually be a row of scores that were indecipherable from the sideways view that one would have while standing beside the teacher's desk. Maybe the New Teacher Campers would learn to print in tiny blue letters.
And make big, fierce-looking comments in red. How to underline certain phrases. Exclamation points might be on the agenda. I really hope smiley or frowny faces are not. These things have been clinically proven to reduce student respect.
I hope my daughter gets nice counselors, though. People who understand how hard it is to be away from home the week before you start a new job and all. I know she will be missing her husband. And in a couple of weeks, he will be heading off to Law School Camp. I wonder what kinds of crafts they will be doing.
I had visions of heading up to the craft barn on a sunny morning to create new curriculum with sticks and brightly colored yarn. I imagined a circle of bright and shiny young teachers, fresh out of college and ready for the classroom gathered around a campfire and hearing stories of terrifying hovercraft parents and principals that refuse to die. I wondered if old seasoned teachers, ones who had long ago grown impervious to the term "battle-axe" or Alice Cooper's song about the end of the school year, came to tell war stories and to tell the campers, "I was once like you." The smooth-skinned teachers-to-be would sit cross-legged (or Indian style, as they used to call it at camp camp) listening, jaws slack with wonder, imagining their own potential prowess when they themselves are sitting at the Big Desk.
I wonder if they will sing Cum Ba Yah, but quickly catch myself. Cum Ba Yah is a cliche now. No self-respecting camper of any stripe would be caught dead singing Cum Ba Yah. On the other hand, speaking of being caught dead, I wonder if they will play some version of Capture the Flag. Maybe it would be Students versus Teachers, or even Teachers From A High Scoring School versus Teachers Who Were Born To Teach And Are Passionate About It.
I suspect they will have a section on sitting in the Teachers' Lounge. No one really knows what ever transpired there, but everyone who has ever been a student has wondered. In every school, there was a closed and closely guarded door behind which the gods apparently put their feet up, fanned their faces, and talked about us. We liked to think that perhaps they smiled, laughed even, and said, "damn." Maybe these teacher campers will learn how to put their feet up, fan their faces, smile, and say, "damn." I'm not sure. I have never been to New Teacher Camp myself. But surely they have to learn Teachers' Lounge Protocol.
Maybe they will receive their first black faux leather grading books. Every teacher has one of those. When I was a student, names were printed in fine tip blue ink, and next to each name woukld eventually be a row of scores that were indecipherable from the sideways view that one would have while standing beside the teacher's desk. Maybe the New Teacher Campers would learn to print in tiny blue letters.
And make big, fierce-looking comments in red. How to underline certain phrases. Exclamation points might be on the agenda. I really hope smiley or frowny faces are not. These things have been clinically proven to reduce student respect.
I hope my daughter gets nice counselors, though. People who understand how hard it is to be away from home the week before you start a new job and all. I know she will be missing her husband. And in a couple of weeks, he will be heading off to Law School Camp. I wonder what kinds of crafts they will be doing.
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