What happens to a dream deferred?

Dream Deferred: Harlem
Langston Hughes (1902 - 1967)


What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
Like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?



This is my favorite poem right now. It's been on my mind for the past week or so. I was thinking about it a lot last night and again when I woke up this morning. I thought it would be a good idea to share it in hopes of somehow releasing it so my mind is able to make room for another poem. Hmmm, I think that sounds a little bit crazy. Come to think of it, I've been proffering a lot of crazy to those closest to me as of late. So to my dear friends and family, I sincerely apologize. I promise to go back to my normal abnormal self as soon as possible. Student teaching will come to a close in about two weeks, so that should help. In fact, the only reason I have the energy to add this blog post is because I've been able to catch up on my sleep for the past couple days due to the junior high's Spring Break. I love Spring Break! I FINALLY got some snowboarding in for this season. I went up on Thursday, and the snow was great. I hope to go up again on Monday. Life is good when you're able to sleep in a little every now and then.

First Book Club Meeting

This morning the 8th graders and I tried out the new in-class book clubs for the first time. I was super jazzed about the whole thing but you won't be able to pick up on that by listening to the sound of my voice...I sound like I'm drugged up. Do I always sound like this? And man, I always manage to forget about what a strange accent I have until I actually listen to a recording of my voice. But the kids sound great. I circulated around the classroom while all the students were meeting in their assigned book clubs and had some time to join a few of the discussions. Here's a recording of one of the groups made up of 2 boys and 1 girl. The boys took over most of the conversation. I tried to get the girl to talk a couple times, but she didn't feel like saying much. This particular group is reading a fantasy novel called Curse of the Shamra, but we don't end up talking much about that book in this recording. I had a good time.

This Morning I Woke Up Thinking About How...

One time this guy I was dating came over to my place to pick me up in a car that wasn’t his own. He normally drove an old truck with bondo on its side, but this time he was driving a shiny black Porsche. I soon discovered that how he got a hold of the Porsche wasn’t nearly as interesting as it should have been. Don’t think I haven’t realized that showing up in a Porsche is supposed to be impressive or something. But the truth is that I very much preferred his old truck with bondo on its side. Sometimes guys are dumb.

Why It's Hard for Me to Make New Friends

I don’t do very well in large groups. I’m usually much more comfortable in a one-on-one type of situation. One time I drove to the local movie theatre to meet up with my good friend Dave and about a couple hundred of his pals. Upon arrival it became clear to me that Dave was the only person I knew out of everyone making up his gigantic crowd. I was actually coping with this situation until I took my seat in the theatre. Dave sat down to my right and one of his girlfriends was sitting down to my left. Dave was nice enough to introduce me to this girl before he got up to go to the snack bar. At that point I said hi to my new acquaintance and offered to share my box of Junior Mints with her. She said no thanks to the Junior Mints (What kind of person says no to JMs?!) and then proceeded to ask, “So, how do you know Dave?” Little did the girl know that this question is one of my top ten least favorite questions of all time. So, how do you know So-And-So? Aside from a formal job interview sort of situation, I think posing this particular question is not only arbitrary but also completely useless in obtaining any meaningful information about someone you’re really trying to get to know. Well I met him while waiting in line at Café Rio about two years ago. So what! Because of my low opinion of the question, I quickly deduced that this girl wasn’t trying to get to know me at all. So I took the low road and replied by telling her that I was Dave’s 2nd cousin from Las Cruces. I guess I had New Mexico on my mind that night. This answer seemed to satisfy her curiosity as she didn’t ask me any other questions after that. I know that fibbing was more than a little bit childish of me, but I was annoyed and had a feeling that I wouldn’t be seeing more of this girl in the future…She didn’t strike me as the type that enjoys associating with people from Las Cruces.

A Sure Remedy for Doubt

With this torturous Fall semester over and done with, I can finally see the light at the end of my master's degree tunnel—the tunnel I've been in for the last two years. I can't believe it's been two years. It feels like it's been ten. Now that I can actually see the end nearing {Don't worry, by "end" I mean the end of working on my degree.}, I'm often left with a feeling of doubt. Doubt that I'll be able to know what do to and where to go after I'm finished with school. Doubt that I'll be able to pull off my master plan. And what in the world is my "master plan" anyway? Can someone please tell me so I can get on with my life?! Man, so much angst. I feel just like Angela Chase felt right after Jordan Catalano decided to cruelly ignore her at the Buffalo Tom concert. Oooh, by the way, I finally got to see Jordan Cat...uhh, I mean Jared Leto in person! Yes, it's true. I was no more than 10 feet away from him at one point during the 30 Seconds to Mars concert a couple weeks ago. Awesome. And he's just as beautiful in person as I've always imagined he would be. Anyway, back to my angst. Whenever I've been a bit overwhelmed with these feelings of doubt, I've found that referring to the long list of great things in my life immediately washes away my anxiety. Reference to said list is a sure remedy for doubt. Works every time for me. And here's just a swatch of the many things I am truly grateful for—just some of the great things that add so much to my so-called life {sorry, had to throw one more Angela Chase reference in here}.

I'm grateful for the homemade centaur costumes that Matt and Leesh donned this past Halloween.

I'm grateful for Dave Grohl.

I'm grateful for Grandma Fern and the fact that she has never failed to wish me a happy birthday.

I'm grateful for being able to live with Hughler for the past two years. Poor Hugh passed away last Friday. Hugh's one responsibility while on earth was to be a true and loyal friend to Phil, and he fulfilled that responsibility perfectly. I miss him.

I'm grateful for Elvis and recently found out that The King is still alive and well! J/K, J/K, that's Isaiah, wearing yet another incredible homemade Halloween costume. And for that, I'm very grateful.

I'm grateful for Phil and for all the ways he helps me figure things out.

I'm grateful for irreplaceable friends like Mandy who are always willing to hop into photo booths with me.

I'm grateful for my fashionable niece and how she has taught me that there are only two certainties in life: 1) Animal print never goes out of style and 2) A girl should NEVER leave her house without a purse.

I'm grateful for Ruth and how she manages to make life more cozy.

I'm also grateful for long sidewalks and how they're perfect places to go when you need to mull something over in your head. {I love this picture of little peestola}

There's so much more I'm grateful for, but I'll stop here for now. Thanks for reading my blog.

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Hands

Everybody in my family has different hands. My dad’s hands are thick and calloused, folded together, patiently waiting for the next question. Melinda’s hands are always moving, moving, moving—appearing out of nowhere to pinch you when you’re not paying attention. Matt’s hands are open and have nothing to hide—what you see is what you get. My hands are plain with neglected fingernails begging for a coat of paint. Maria’s hands are up in the air, dramatic and expressive when there’s something in need of explanation. And Melanie, my baby sister, has elegant hands—long and poised and ready for their next challenge.

But my mother’s hands, my mother’s hands, like soft meringue all featherweight and airy, so delicate you’re afraid you’ll hurt them if you hold them the wrong way, silky to the touch with pretty pink fingernails because she just came back from the manicurist, are the warm dinner waiting for you when you get home, are painfully curled into themselves but determined, constantly in motion, always marching toward a grand goal, working, sewing, producing, creating beauty in spite of their sickness, fragile yet so strong, ignoring their handicap while going about daily chores, can’t move like mine, can’t move like most but still manage to hold me in tighter, grab my face and somehow convince me of my own importance, hold me up higher than any other pair of hands have ever managed. Holding me in tighter, holding me up higher, my mother’s hands, like soft meringue.

Retro Photo of the Week

I'm not sure what year this was taken, but if our sweaty, tired faces are any indication, I'm pretty sure it must have been taken after we were done trick-or-treating for the night. Maria's face is priceless + she's already in her PJs. And I'm not sure why Melinda is not in costume. Those were the days.