Here's what's on my nightstand:
Expecting Adam by Martha Beck (recommended by Amy Loves Books) - This memoir lived up to the high praise that blogger Amy gave it, as well as Anne Lamott whose blurb on the cover claimed it was, "A wonderful book, funny, unbelievably tender, and smart." The fascinating insights into what it meant (means?) to be Harvard, a little bit of growing up Mormon (sort of), with the troubling pregnancy that the author experienced at age 25 which led her on a spiritual odyssey and an entirely new philosophy of life. I'm wondering if there is a sequel yet, because she includes these riveting fast forwards about what life with Adam, her son with Down Syndrome, is like after his birth, at age 3, age 6, and points in between. From a non-fiction literary theory point of view, her construction of the book is artful and complex. The generous use of leaf bullets which function as asterisks, to show a shift in time from one scene or anecdote to the next, help create a narrative thread that sustains compassion and suspense. We know Adam lives and Martha's life is changed profoundly, but we don't know how she emotionally and spiritually survives until the end.
One of my favorite passages is from Chapter 9: Martha is entering a store, with her three children, and Adam delays himself by exploring the display of plants outside. An old farmer observed Adam and tells Martha, "He didn't just smell the flowers...He smelled the shrubs, too. He smelled every bush they have out there. I think he even smelled the dirt." I don't want to spoil the surprise twist to this encounter, but this section ends with Beck's analysis:
"For every old man who invites you outside to smell the bushes, there are at least three obsequious salespeople who will congratulate you on having 'such cute little girls,' while they look awkwardly past the boy with Down Syndrome, trying to pretend he isn't there. The prejudice, sometimes even hostility, can burn like acid. But along with this pain, Adam brought with him a sweetness that surpasses anything I ever felt before he was conceived. It comes from looking at the heart of things, from stopping to smell not only the roses but the bushes as well. It is a quality of attention to ordinary life that is so loving and intimate it is almost worship." - page 75-76
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Education Myths by Jay P. Greene, with the subtitle What Special Interest Groups Want You to Believe About our Schools-- And Why It Isn't So. I've only read the entire chapter of "The Teacher Pay Myth" so far. I'm not sure how yet to respond to his comments. I do believe that if you have a Master's degree in WA State, the teacher salary is not bad. And since working more "outside of education" I better understand (and appreciate) the value of the retirement plan, life insurance, and having dental insurance in addition to health insurance that includes vision coverage. However, I do remember that my base salary my first year was $22,950. That was the fall of 1997. I had only a BA, no extra credits, and no years of experience since I was 21 and just out of college, having completed my student-teaching internship and four months of substitute teaching experience the previous academic year. I supplemented that first-year salary with the stipends from being the Freshman Class Advisor and JV Fastpitch Softball Coach. I also lived with my parents, and still drove their car. Pathetic, in retrospect—but all of the other first-year teachers I knew who were recent college grads lived with their parents if they worked close enough to home. By spring, I eventually bought my own car. I used to think of it as the only tangible reward of my first year of teaching.
That school year, from the end of August through the second week of June, I consistently worked 10-12+ hours a day, except for Fridays. Quite often I came into the building on Saturdays to complete additional grading and planning, in addition to the load of work I took home each weekend and "vacation". School started at 7:20 a.m., which meant the teacher day began at 6:50 a.m. Yuck. Teachers could leave at 2:30 (school let out at 2:00), but I really only remember leaving this early a few times. The most common reason for leaving at 2:30 was to get a latte from a local coffee shop with some fellow teachers and then head back to the building to work some more.
By the semester break, I was losing myself; by March, I was utterly exhausted. Which makes the fact that I was essentially coerced into coaching the JV team more understandable now, because I didn't know anything about fastpitch (only regular slowpitch softball). That’s how desperate the admin. were to have teachers for coaches. (I think in-building staff held only 25% of the coaching positions.)
I remember I was part of a secret "5 and Under Club"--a group of teachers who occasionally went out for dinner or lunch (during the teacher workshop days) in order to build camaraderie and support each other. The only requirement to join—you had to be teaching for 5 yrs or less. Or it might have been that you had to have been at that particular school for 5 yrs or less. I can't remember now. But I think 90% of the faculty fell into either category. The point was: we were all struggling in our own haze of disillusionment and stress, which we knew would lead to burnout eventually. The school environment and issues going on at the time in this urban school were very challenging. By April I knew of at least a handful of teachers who admitted to being on anti-depressants to cope with the work-related stress and anxiety. The future did not look promising if I stayed.
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also by the nightstand . . .
The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd – Beautiful prose, lyrical and even haunting at times, but it’s been slow reading for reasons I can only blame on the fact that there have been more riveting books to read. It’s slow, meditative fiction; that requires contemplation about the characters and their motivations. A melancholy tone pervades much of the narrative. Or perhaps my procrastination is because I’m not ready for it to end? Either way, I only have 50 pages left.
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No poetry on the nightstand? the floor?
I keep a small supply of poetry books on hand for occasionally nighttime reading. But after reading a plethora of fiction and literary theory for the past two years, it’s really enjoyable to indulge in fiction. And there is always poetry. I went to two local poetry readings the month of January, Sexton’s collected poems rests on the dining table next to my laptop as I write this, along with the Winter issue of Prairie Schooner. Poetry is still everywhere. Everywhere.
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And . . . the virtual nightstand:
- The PEN's response to Nasdijj
- a writer who publicly reveals the evil vices of a former boss (isn't this a fantasy we all have?) . . . I remember that a month before the new HS principal came, at a school I used to teach at, a teacher from the principal's former HS (and last place of employment) emailed our staff to warn us of his disguised evils, wish us luck and sarcastically give sympathy to us (though none of us, as best as I can recall, were responsible for his being hired...I was still mourning that my favorite assistant principal who had interviewed for the position didn't get it, in favor of the out-of-state newcomer).
- February issue of OutThere Monthly
- Seattle Writergrrls Zine
