In the early morning, I walk out of the bathroom laughing quietly. I'm not even conscious of my inside joke until Tony pipes in,"Why are you laughing?"
"Because of my hair." I pause and add, "It's good to have hair that makes me laugh."
"It is," Tony says.
"You too." Meaning he has hair that should make him laugh.
"Yes," he acknowledges, "it's funny to have hair like a chicken."
The funnier thing about this early morning conversation is that it's in French. More laughs.
However, what I couldn't explain to Tony was that not only was I laughing about my hair, but also about a new phenomena in my life: being laughed at in class. Not because I say something funny or tell a joke, but because, I am becoming the older teacher whose quirks, idiocyncrasies, and passions are making the students laugh.
I'm okay with this.
Over the years, I have slowly been letting go of my reserve, my shyness, and at some point in this year, I've let go of the yield signs, the protective fences, the apologies for who I really am, the restraints I've held on to in order to stay within the decorum of a proper middle aged woman.
As of late, if my students REALLY understand a concept, or break through low level thinking and come to an enlightened conclusion during a stellar Socratic discussion, I let lose. This might be demonstrated by dancing or using Italian hand gestures, or just expressing some sincere and joyful gratitude.
Life at age 57 is too short now to be holding back.
We are currently reading Joseph Conrad's 1898 novel "The Heart of Darkness." Its reading is paired with the study of Civil Rights, not purely in a historical context, but from a philosophical questioning. In reviewing the amendments and watershed court cases that have affected America, we ask such questions as Can we regulate hate? Is racism systemic? Is prejudice really poverty and not race? and foremost, What can we do to facilitate change?
But it is Heart of Darkness that brings forth my literary passions and consequent expressions. A difficult 1898 novel that I have read at least three times, each read reminds me of the incredible eloquence of written language. Conrad is a master of imagery and when I read his images, it shoots through my bones and I can't hold back the excitement his mere words bring.
Yesterday, while reading his description of Marlowe's childhood map fascination, I was reliving my own. When I was a young girl, Kentucky Fried Chicken had a promotion that included a globe. With the purchase of a bucket of chicken, the customer received a spinning world globe. My mom was determined that her three daughters each had a globe, and so we ate a lot of chicken that week. Cumulatively, I must have spent hours turning that globe and imagining distant lands. It affected my exploration ambitions in the same way it turned Marlowe into a boat captain that made its way down the Congo River.
After reading Conrad's passage, I looked up at the world map on the wall, and I saw Africa the same way that fictional character saw it a hundred years ago, and I reverently uttered the word "Africa." One student witnessed and understood the emotional connection, and he laughed, but it wasn't a make-fun-of-the teacher kind of laugh; he purely understood the genuine reaction, and it was funny. Even to me.
The funny result of this letting go: Each morning in the hour before I leave for school, I get excited. I can't wait. My hands get clammy. I can't wait to feel! To experience! To learn! To be surprised!
Even at myself.
What a pleasure it is to finally, unabashedly, be myself.
It took a long time. Too long.
"Because of my hair." I pause and add, "It's good to have hair that makes me laugh."
"It is," Tony says.
"You too." Meaning he has hair that should make him laugh.
"Yes," he acknowledges, "it's funny to have hair like a chicken."
The funnier thing about this early morning conversation is that it's in French. More laughs.
However, what I couldn't explain to Tony was that not only was I laughing about my hair, but also about a new phenomena in my life: being laughed at in class. Not because I say something funny or tell a joke, but because, I am becoming the older teacher whose quirks, idiocyncrasies, and passions are making the students laugh.
I'm okay with this.
Over the years, I have slowly been letting go of my reserve, my shyness, and at some point in this year, I've let go of the yield signs, the protective fences, the apologies for who I really am, the restraints I've held on to in order to stay within the decorum of a proper middle aged woman.
As of late, if my students REALLY understand a concept, or break through low level thinking and come to an enlightened conclusion during a stellar Socratic discussion, I let lose. This might be demonstrated by dancing or using Italian hand gestures, or just expressing some sincere and joyful gratitude.
Life at age 57 is too short now to be holding back.
We are currently reading Joseph Conrad's 1898 novel "The Heart of Darkness." Its reading is paired with the study of Civil Rights, not purely in a historical context, but from a philosophical questioning. In reviewing the amendments and watershed court cases that have affected America, we ask such questions as Can we regulate hate? Is racism systemic? Is prejudice really poverty and not race? and foremost, What can we do to facilitate change?
But it is Heart of Darkness that brings forth my literary passions and consequent expressions. A difficult 1898 novel that I have read at least three times, each read reminds me of the incredible eloquence of written language. Conrad is a master of imagery and when I read his images, it shoots through my bones and I can't hold back the excitement his mere words bring.
Yesterday, while reading his description of Marlowe's childhood map fascination, I was reliving my own. When I was a young girl, Kentucky Fried Chicken had a promotion that included a globe. With the purchase of a bucket of chicken, the customer received a spinning world globe. My mom was determined that her three daughters each had a globe, and so we ate a lot of chicken that week. Cumulatively, I must have spent hours turning that globe and imagining distant lands. It affected my exploration ambitions in the same way it turned Marlowe into a boat captain that made its way down the Congo River.
After reading Conrad's passage, I looked up at the world map on the wall, and I saw Africa the same way that fictional character saw it a hundred years ago, and I reverently uttered the word "Africa." One student witnessed and understood the emotional connection, and he laughed, but it wasn't a make-fun-of-the teacher kind of laugh; he purely understood the genuine reaction, and it was funny. Even to me.
The funny result of this letting go: Each morning in the hour before I leave for school, I get excited. I can't wait. My hands get clammy. I can't wait to feel! To experience! To learn! To be surprised!
Even at myself.
What a pleasure it is to finally, unabashedly, be myself.
It took a long time. Too long.
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