"What do Great Sports Triumphs Show us About Ourselves?" essays

by Josua (pronounced HO-swah)

Maybe not quite an essay, but at least a couple paragraphs...

The sports world is now usually seen with a dollar sign attached. It is about winning, but that winning is measured against the cost; “Of course the Yankees won, with their $160 million payroll.” “He’s the MVP of the league, but isn’t worth $25 million a year.” “I loved going to the game, but what about those $7 beers?” We have transformed our perception of the sports world to include the home run and the home wrecker, which are both judged against their per annum salary. But there also are times when a sports event or a sports figure transcends the associated monetary moniker. And this is when we see ourselves in sports. Whether performing or watching, our hearts race, our muscles flex, our minds sharpen, and our passion for the moment peaks. We extend, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and stretch our limits to feel new feelings and to inhale the excitement of the event.

What does a great sports triumph show us about ourselves? (Patronize me a little here, because I might sound like an NFL pre-game promo, but I’m still very serious.) That hope is not in vain. That commitment is rewarded. That each of us has the ability within us, somewhere, to achieve goals and reach places we have forgotten exist. We exalt and idolize sports triumphs because they epitomize what we strive or at least dream to be; the best…and not in comparison to others, but the “best we can be”. It is easy to mock what I am saying, because often sports are over-hyped and basically Hollywood recreations at their best/worst. And it is easy to cynically bash my enthusiasm for a sports event or lifestyle that some deem completely unnecessary or unfulfilling. But when I think about the essence of a victory after taking away the glitz and the glamour, it is one of the purest forms of achievement. Not just physical, not just mental, but absolutely emotional.

I could go on to other aspects of these lovely v-style essay questions right now, but I think I won’t. Maybe later. Hasta pronto.



by Sistra

What got me going on this little endeavor was indeed an article about Lance. I like to take a result or an emotion and work at understanding all its components. The force, one tangible being the newest Nike "Can't tell a joke . . ." commercial, generated by Lance's cycling has become something that we want to touch or wear like a banner. It has become something for which to stand behind. And I wonder how physical exertion in competition leads us to that end, as humans, because we all know this goes back to our dear friends and models, the Romans. But, as I think on it, the physical expenditure need not necessarily require competition to become something to exalt. Think of the climbers of Mount Everest. There is the part of us, driven to burn energy at ever-more-challenging levels. Okay, plenty of sedentary folks exist. I've even heard the virtures of a sedentary life be exalted as well. But even the sedentary may, often do, take pleasure in being the spectator of such wondrous human achievements as Mount Everest climbs and 5-time Tour de France championships.

The thing that I am most interested in is the question: how does the physical extend the mental. When I run, I need more air. If I stop, it will be easier to breathe. But I lose something. My legs are no longer pushing off the ground in strides. Perhaps that doesn't sound fun, but who of you as a kid didn't try to see if you could leap from stone to stone across a creekbed, or simply swing as high as the sky? Mentally we are problem solvers, survivors, and communicators. When I am running, I am repeating a motion over and over. The same muscles are responding. The response is gratifying; the exertion is gratifying. The stretch, stretching to connect with a ball flying through the air, or stretching to reach a blurry endpoint marked through sweaty eyes, or stretching to hold muscles in a planted position tied to the ground, is gratifying. The physical is forever distinct from the tangle in the mind. It is clear and pure and felt. It is singular and present tense. It is something we strive for mentally, but can never achieve because the mental is past, past-perfect, present-perfect, and future tense. It is neverending, even in sleep. Through the physical we push through our own thoughts to find a respite that teaches us about ourselves.

Indefatigable is such a cool word. Who's indefatigable? Lance Armstrong, according to the wires. He effing did it again, and I love him for it despite so-called linebreaking during an actor's strike. It's good to have principles whereby to define your life (jefe), but sistra also has her own little principles.

What do great sports triumphs show us about ourselves?

How does the physical extend the mental apsects of ourselves?

And, how does the spectator differ from the participant?

Enough thought-provoking questions for you? I fondly remember a little E S S A Y
C O N T E S T sponsored by the people at Punch it, Chewy last summer regarding "What Baseball Means to Me."

Any takers on a N E W E S S A Y C O N T E S T for this summer season? If so, please post. I'll be working on my own composition on the matter.

test scores

Dates seem to be one of the stand out features of the blog spot. June 3, 2003. And then January 11, just prior, skipping stones through life.

So, today the state told me which of my students may continue progressing through their lives and which may not. At this point I'm down to 17. Nine will go on. Eight will not. Of those eight, 3 are on grade level presently, meaning those who are not functioning within the system set up to educate them, well, they're still not functioning after the stellar year we've had in Class 603.

Teachers received their scores in a schoolwide meeting. I received mine in class after an incident. By now you know the definition of an incident. No need to describe. The lecture from the AP (this time Miss P--no more Mr. S) went a little something like this. "Some of you will go on. But there are those of you who will stay right here, choosing to throw away your education. You laugh now and you're having fun. But some day you're going to be 18, and people won't find you funny then. Then you will just be slow. You won't be going anywhere, and eventually you will become a burden to society. People will be forced to support you, and people don't like that very much."

By the end of Ms. P's very effective speech my frustration had welled up. I looked down at the paper and counted nine names. Half of the class. Half failed. All the hours, all the stupid charts I made. All those moments attempting to gain quiet so that we could just simply go through the directions, so that they could have a sliver of the concepts and make an attempt at learning them. September through June. So much of my energy to the cause of Izaiah, Jamaal, Rachel, LaShonda, Angie, Sade, Desmond, Khadim, Synard, Sheena, Destini, Shawn, Qiyana, Jonathan, Vernett, Bernard, Sayyed.

Tears started coming out. I thought of trying to stop them. But that seemed like effort that I didn't want to give. I wanted to give up. Then I just wanted to cry. So I did. I stopped and announced all the names of those who failed. My AP said I should do this publicly unless I objected. My compass was kiddywampus, so I just went ahead and read out the names.

My compass is back. I know that tomorrow is a new day and that we've got work to do, that it's fine to have an emotional let down to bad news, but that after you experience it, it's time to pick things up and get back to business. That's what I plan on telling my kids tomorrow. I plan on pairing them up -- a buddy for those who will need their portfolio work to pass them. Seems proactive and positive. But there's this other part of me that is churning because I'm angry at this whole experiment in public education for these particular children. Half pass. Half fail. It's just not okay with me. I'm seeing them slip as children. They have free will and they make their choices. But they are children with spirit and ability. They can accomplish something in the world, and they're slipping.

It's a new year! Always uplifting if only for a moment. I am rather uplifted of late. Things began to shift about a week ago. I watched The Lord of the Rings and got swept up in the melodrama of Froto's perseverance. Yes, Froto, yes! I wish I'd never found the ring either!! I wish I'd never found Sayyed and Silvester and Jamall, or that they had found me. But it happened. And now all that's left for me to do is to decide what I will do with what I've got.

So as you've probably gathered, I remain in my post. My Assistant Principal, three cluster teachers, two second grade teachers and one fifth grade teacher have left. Things are shaking, but they are also settling.

I'm off to see 25th Hour, so I must be brief. But I think it's time for a new look to this site. I'm not feeling very orange. Hip hip hooray (I hear out in the distance).

Have things gotten better at the Dirty Dozen, you may inquire? You better back up with that shit. (That's D.D. lingo) It's six hours a day in the Gibbon cage. My coping strategy is to stop living there constantly. I had a lovely weekend, celebrating birthdays and life, eating tacos, sirloin, deviled eggs, sweet and sour chicken, chorizo and eggs, and cookies. YUM. Went dancing at the Pyramid, jumping and scream-singing, my favorite kind. And I sorta found some resolution to my dissolution of expectations.

I could have found myself in a nice little teaching spot, say with second graders at one of the "model" schools. It's possible. I have friends there. But instead I was placed in hell for awhile. Sometimes people still say, "You're doing a good job with them," or even better, "You're such a good teacher," or once I got, "You're a hero." That was good. But everyday when I sigh, and then take in a slow breath big enough to fill the new and improved diaphragm, then scream-talk to pronounce my will over theirs, I simply say to myself, "I hate this."

I don't think the problem is with schools. The problem is with kids. I've got plenty of good, dedicated parents. It's the kids, and how they are influenced by what's around them. During one golden moment last Friday, some of my kids opened up about their fathers during a book discussion, fathers in and out of jail, who've killed people, who deprive their kids of love on a regular basis. That made me think for awhile about little Kevin's resentment, and Cherif's desire to inflict violence on his pop. But then there's Davon with his ma and dad right there, calm, guiding him sternly. Is it that people don't know how to parent? I don't know how to teach. I still think more responsibility should be placed on the kids. Maybe they're outright rebelling against the norms of this society as if to say fuck you white America, Eminem style. Fuck rules. Fuck making me do anything. I'm tired. I want to eat seeds and roll around on the floor, throw pencils, say fuck you to anyone who stands in my way. I don't know. I haven't gotten wise yet about these matters. Raising kids is quite the complex conundrum.

My resolution is that I can leave this behind without feeling like I couldn't cut it. I don't enjoy making people follow rules. Rules are what school is all about. I suppose it's what societies are all about, systems, yadayada. No thanks, folks. I'd like to fit into some other spot as a community helper. I have my dream job pretty clear in my head. I have trees and hills and open fields pretty clear in my head.

Sometimes finding yourself in extremely uncomfortable, non-form fitting situations tells you the things you need to know. For that, I thank my children. But I won't miss them next year. I'm not sentimental or idealistic about public school teaching in the least. I'm glad I'm here in the middle of it to know and to explore facets of our world. This one is shocking, but very real. Knowledge is liberation, my friends.

Philosopher V

"Demographics is desitiny in Texas tomorrow," so says some pollster talking to Lou Dobbs right now. Ron Kirk, he's our man. I have to say that politics has been boring the piss out of me over the past two years. Perhaps all the vim and vigor was syphoned out of me during the HISTORICAL, carnival-freak-show-esque past presidential election. Maybe it has something to do with 9/11, local debates losing their luster. But I read a great article on Kirk in the New Yorker a few months back and felt excited about championing the right choices again. Politics for me is all about what's right. It goes back to 1980 . . . while standing, waiting for the yellow school bus with Melissa Muench, the two of us got into it about what a pig Ronald Reagan was and how cool Jimmy Carter was, trying to rescue the hostages in Iran and all. (Future Habitat for Humanity peace, love and happiness guy, need I say more?). Well, Melissa didn't agree with me, so the two of us got loud, pointed fingers, and did a lot of standing with hands on hips. Nine years old, yeah. (historical tid bit--Melissa later became Miss Austin.)

I went on to University of Texas School of Government alumni status, worked for the elder statesman of the Texas House of Reps, and found my way into a seat in the audience of the Texas House Committee on Public Education's hearings for rewriting the state's education code. Fuel for my fire for the right choices, I tell you, Paul Sadler, he was my man--a now-retired state rep who headed that committee for 5 to 7 years. I am drawn by those who have the compass. They say what's right in a way you instantly recognize, but never could piece together in such a clear way yourself. Leaders define for us. They serve many purposes, but the one that makes me cry (I'm a bit of a freak show myself) is the way that they make oral art through definition.

Politicians have become our Howdy Doody cartoons, but leaders draw out the right amidst all that is messy. Go to the polls, all you Texans out there. Vote for Ron Kirk!

I've developed a strange tick

Sometimes in the morning when I'm arranging my room, moving chairs around and moving ten steps ahead in my head to the math, the Writer's Workshop, the gosh darn SFA!, I say "shhhh." No one's there.

When walking around a person or two in the busy subway underground, instead of saying "Watch it!" or "'scuse me," it comes out as "shhhh."

Then I say it back to myself to see if that's what really just came out of my mouth. "Shhhh"?

* * * * *

The news from 301--
I told a City College observer to get out of my room today. People skills. I got 'em. The kids are getting hyped up UP UPP. Today was muy mal. I was angry. Grrrr. But I'm not really discouraged like the Ms. Haley of old. I'm tired. Tired. But I think I'll whip 'em back to acting right. I've got to make parent phone calls up the wazoo, which I hate doing. DEspise. I told the lady to git! She didn't say a word, turned around and walked out. Taunting the forces . . .
(the principal accompanied by a police officer came a knocking during the last period today . . . so what else is new.)

Ms. Haley

Good morning friends. If any of you will be driving Texas way for the holidays, avoid the state of Virginia for gosh sakes (I'm watching Sunday Morning and Joey Chen reporting on the latest shooting).

Thanks for all the cents y'all chipped in. An update--they were able to figure out most of the boys who broke into my friend's room. Police officers were at our school on Thursday and Friday. The boys have parole officers now, and if they get another offense they will go to juvy. Apparently our principal gave the fourth grade a big speech with weight. Our school on Friday was more of a normal place, but I'm not fooled. These kids' moods swing wide. I do not know why they act out the way that they do. Seeing and hearing violence and having it well up within me is a disturbing place to be. I'm sure whatever is coming out of them is a result of their surroundings.

Drifting in and out of blog and Sunday Morning, the movie reviewer reviewing "The Grey Zone" quotes, "We are all in the ghetto."

I haven't made any decisions. I was able to have a very good day with my class on Friday. Those days help but are rare. I need the paycheck. That's a big motivator. Oh, and I want to be a teacher. That's motivator numero uno. Every first year is difficult, but is every first year violent?

Our job at PS Dirty Dozen (The Post grouped us as one of the 12 worst schools in the city) is to socialize these children. I don't believe I have any special talents in that area, no inclinations or affinities. I'm free-to-be-you-and-me girl. Never had the sales touch. I'm down with the mind, analytical processes, language, expression. Socialization is for social workers. Mom, Dad, how did this happen?

Joking aside, I'm not a social worker. I've lived, learned, and I know this about myself. When whimpers come out like "I suck . . . I can't do this," I'm saying this isn't me. We are most miserable when we try to be something we're not, right? But I do believe there are teaching jobs where you're primarily instructing. Alas, I'm going to keep at it this week. I hope I stay with it so that I can find myself in a rewarding teaching job perhaps next year or the year after with some stability in my life.

Me, me, me!!! What about you! Let's hear some posts about you!

I was going to blog last night with cheer, but the site wouldn't let me in. Perhaps it knew more than I. Today all I can say is, uuuuuugggghh. My brother warned me last night. He was right. Today I was hostile towards them. That's what lingers with me, my growing resentment for it all. I have four tables. One became a table of four boys who resisted their new seating arrangement. They got away with it, and proceeded to push my boundaries at every turn until they were throwing paper wads, one after the other, right at this poor little girl's head. I couldn't do anything to make them stop. I can't do a thing. I'm useless. I suck. I fucking hate it. There's no detention room right now, no one to call for aide, just me and my babies, threatening phone calls home, which I made tonight. But I hate them for doing it to me. I am taking it all personally, which is going to defeat me all the more.

Today the fourth graders rioted (about 70 of them), throwing chairs at Ms. Berry and Ms. Taylor, breaking the metal door handle off of Ms. Brown's door to break in and wreak havoc. They stole stuff and threw books and papers around the room. They inflict and they inflict. The smart ones (the teachers I mean) maintain themselves. They stay centered, thus maintaining their authority. I get angry. I scream at them. I've been manhandling my boys, yanking them by the shirt or coat to get them in line or to keep them inside my classroom or to make them sit down. I said, "Get the hell out of my room" today to this strange little girl who kept popping in. I don't even know who she is. Kids coming into the rooms all day! Whose kids? I'm sure some are mine after they decide it's time to roam. I feel like I have nothing on them to make them do the right thing, thus I don't. I see teachers who struggle and I see myself. I see teachers who are cool and who know who's boss. I don't have that. I can't seem to get it. And underneath it, I don't think I want to get it because it's not who I am. I don't know how to find it because it's so unnatural.

Terrific Tickets, they're Grrreat!

Shout out to Pinky B for your kind words last week. Shout out to Anne for your many superb inspirations. I believe in the bribe. I'm a believer. My friends who came in this week to shake up the joint (4 Fellows were sent over to help the international teachers--Americans take it to the mat) started this whole Terrific Ticket thing. You get a ticket for each thing you do right. Positive reinforcement all day long! Complete switch-a-roo from, "DAVONDAVONDAVON!!!!!!!!!" Now it's, "Thank you for being on task," "Thank you for raising your hand and not calling out." ["On task," "Calling out," "She's fresh," "He's fresh"--this is teacher speak.] "Fuckers" is also teacher speak, but only after hours.

So we had this whole blind drawing and prize giving at the end of the day. It was fun. Good times. One of the best girls won. My girls. And then two of my annoying-but ever-so-cute-in-a-weird-hateful-kind-of-way boys were stomping their feet, twisting, crying for ANOTHER DRAWING. "Only one a day," she says with glee.

I was laughing out loud, saying, "Straighten your lines!" hee, hee.

Prizes are so complex and psychological. They're amazing.

So today was a good day. Grace be to God.

Sistra Teach

the yard

Today was humbling (as is every day). I called in sick yesterday thanks to my sweet brother's insistence, slept for 15 hours, no shit, did some school-like stuff, and then went out to a comedy show last night for a few hours. I felt like a human being again, or at least that I was playing one on TV. So this morning it was back to PS in yo face, and what a difficult walk it was. I said "grrrrrr" as I entered my room, thinking, "What did they trash?" After a minute or two my eyes found their way to my board, which read: "Ms. Haley, we talked a lot, but weren't that bad. We miss you and hope that you're okay," signed 5 of my girls. Lashonda, my bad ass tough mama, who I love, wrote me that she loves me and misses me. What? And then tart Destini wrote that she followed my homework direction accordingly to sign each child out a library book. (no boys expressed no love, you know, but they feel it, right).

Well, anyway, that gave a jump start to my day. Downstairs in the yard it was a show. Every teacher in the place was on hand. We were told to keep our children there until they got it right. If they couldn't walk up right, we were to walk them back down. My class was the last to go up. We made it to floor two, and then headed back down. We made it to floor three, and then Ms. Garvey told us to go back down for one girl at the end of the line, leaning on the wall, and not in line. We went all the way back down to the yard, and slowly crept our way to the top of the building on the far end. (This was an hour after school starting time, no lie).

So the morning started off with children sitting in my chairs, but after an hour or so their unstoppable will crept back in and I was fighting them yet again. Not sure what to do, I asserted my authority by calling them out one by one in the hall (which never works, but today it did a little good). By noon, their heads were down with the lights off. They hadn't gotten the message, were talking all over the place, ignoring their classwork and me.

One of the APs gave me a long talk after school, saying that they see me as this mild mannered, petite woman. She told me to lower my voice and put on a show. To take vitamins and go in with as much energy as I can muster. Rough em up. Tear em down. Break em. Let them know I'm in charge.

I'm questioning all that because I've tried a million things. I'm not consistent with my persona everyday, which likely hurts me. Sometimes I'm more demanding. Sometimes they're so freaking crazy that I try to ignore their shit. Sometimes I'm zapped. I keep wanting to defend myself to me. Ms. C, who's telling me all this, told another teacher that she'd spent most of her day in my class and was wiped out. I spend every day there. But maybe it's such a chore, or more of one, because I'm not whipping them into shape.

Well, my principal told me this morning that it's my classroom, not theirs, and to do whatever it takes . . . "Whatever it takes." Any clue as to what she's talking about?

my whole school is wack! tid bits: 15 kids having a paper fight, disregarding lunch detention consequences, mother fucker, i don't fucking care, somebody said dildo, paper penises being made, two strangling attempts, doritos in yo face!, discipline board? my discipline board, ms. haley, seed spittin, trash can contents out the window, me locking kids out my room, 5 chanting down the hall as they stroll 20 paces behind my line. ridiculousness. so what do you think they're really saying, yo? that they rule the school? yes. that's it. they do. for fighting they write a sweet little note that retells their story. for disrespecting the teacher, breaking the rules, walking in and out of rooms, trashing the place, swiping, drinking on gin and juice with a side of now and laters they get lunch detention, a phone call home, told to walk themselves down to the detention room, left there alone while the dean gets his lunch, writing on the blackboard for fun, then granted the keys by being allowed to walk back when and how they please.

i writes my shit down.

Last weekend I didn't know if I could make it, lots of sporadic tears leaking out. But I was able to get it together by Sunday evening to take on a new week. Tuesday they did in fact riot (sort of), but luckily the 5th and 6th grade teachers had been sent out after lunch to tour a "model" school and its classroom set ups. The punks were corralled in the auditorium, only gaining strength through their numbers. Mr. S isn't so smart sometimes.

To quell them he says, "You'll stay here until 7 if that's what it takes for you to settle down." They rushed him, broke through, and ran through the halls as pre-K and K kids were being picked up by parents in the entry hall. I heard stories that kids were destoying bulletin boards, but I haven't seen evidence of that.

As punishment, the 6th grade was given silent lunch in the classrooms for the rest of the week. A team of 5 teachers and administrators laid it down first thing Wednesday morning, made them write essays and have continued to come in for spot checks throughout the days. For my part, I created a new seating chart, Daily Assignments folders equipped with sheets for every period explaining the directions and the task. They can't handle discussions or being led from the board. It's simply, "Pass around the next sheet. Read it. And get started. Independent work! No talking!"

Things have improved for three consecutive days. In that time we did have two strangling attempts, so it's not all peaches and cream. But the point is that I'm not going anywhere. It's PS #& and the sixth grade for the year, unless my principal decides otherwise.

Of note: A fifth grade teacher quit on Friday for being hit by one of her students. A sixth grade teacher was replaced last Friday for poor classroom management and poor lesson planning. Two new Fellows have been recruited to take their places. I know them and feel for them.

The word from Room 301 . . .

they're close to rioting.

hey peeps, i think i'm going to be on break for awhile. one of my friends put it well today. writing requires the room for reflection. i would add that it sometimes requires a shot of adrenaline to get you into blog mode. i have none of these now.

unsure about this path. sad about that. i am failing, and don't pump me up. i'm failing at this. the only thing to do now is to turn it around or realize that this particular situation isn't for me.

i'll let you know how the turns go.

Rats

Fat
almost cuddly,
but scary as they Tango up
ten steps
then to the side
in a swipe like "I see you, smell you, follow you."

How fast do they run?
Like Cockroaches scampering?

Eewww! Two
on either sidewalk.
I'm in the middle.

134th Street.
Safe ground?
Free from fat, feral rats.

Tonight anyway,
there's no place like home.

Ms. Haley's my name, infrequency's my game. Lo siento, readers. I have moved to the Land of the Lost, another plane, aka, the sixth grade. But it's Yom Kippur today! God love the Jews.

Friday was super. Mr. S, the fickle AP who's got my back, me and the other upper grade teachers, marched the whole sixth grade to the auditorium after lunch and parked them there until some future time yet undetermined. It was a show for which I wish I had popcorn. The best line in the lecture was, "You will stay here, and your teachers will get to pick who they WANT to teach." Sizzle, crack, ka-bang!

In the midst of his 15-minute tirade, these little bad asses (about a third were still bad asses) called out, cackled, put their feet on the chair in front of them. Lots of "Ah, man(s)," "I got a question(s)," and random whistling and other odd noises intended to be comedy of the sixth-grade kind. Noises are so clevah!

That's the latest from Room 301. How are things in your world?

I hate kids, yes I do. Day 2 of school was not cool. Books thrown across the room back and forth (Jammal at Davon, Davon at Jammal). You know why? Cause the silver book was the best book, so Davon got up and took it. A child's wallet gone missing at the end of the day. Tears. Davon again. My special one. They're almost all special cases, at least the boys. I had 4 new additions, two troublemakers of the child kind, and two notorious like B.I.G. of the teenager kind, a boy and a girl. No teenagers aloud in my class. Go somewhere else to be a star.

My body feels like it's been slapped around by a bundle of stones. What a work out yelling is. Yelling on day two? So sad.

I'm not down or even close to being out. I'm ready to come back fighting, with strategery. Recess? You like to play b-ball? Uh hugh, you know what I'm talking about.

hyped-up Ms. Haley, coming atcha

oops. I forgot to say thank you to each of you for your suggestions, pep talks, and well wishes. THANKS. You rock.

First day of school and I have no energy to be spunky on blog. But it was a very good day indeed. I stood out in the yard with my neon orange "Ms. Haley, 6th grade" sign and slowly had young children (younger looking than i expected) walk up to me and ask if they were in my class. Bernard was the first, then Kennard (they rhyme), Destini and Doniqua, Khadim, Desmond, and Davon. A few parents came up as well. I shook hands with one and all. They liked that. I did smile, but I was serious about school! I lucked out in that all my kids are sweet. Silverster likes to pester because he just can't stop talking. Davon suffers from the same disorder (the kid kind), but that's why school buildings are so great. They attract kids all over the neighborhood. A place for kids. How cool. I love em, yes I do. More to come . . .

Ms. Haley