Perpetual Smile

How can you not wake up in a good mood when, the night before, your team made a comeback in merely seconds to beat their biggest rival? Even though I woke up exhausted from staying up late watching said game and then celebrating afterward, I bounced into work with an energy that no one else had. (Literally; my boss is a Patriots fan and my co-worker is recovering from the flu.)

After work, I dragged Mike with meMike came with me to the rheumatologist, which sucked a little because I ended up being late and I couldn’t pay my copay because I am so horribly broke. I made a promise to bring them a check on Friday (AKA Pay Day; biweekly pay SUCKS), and then sat down to wait. While we waited, he flipped through an old issue of Sports Illustrated with Tom Brady on the cover and I edited some of my novel. We laughed at Tom Brady, especially because the cover said something about how awesome the Patriots are (but really, they lost to the Colts Sunday night, mwahahaha). I kept editing, he occasionally found himself accidentally watching General Hospital (it was on TV in the waiting room), I confessed my childhood crush on both Maurice Bernard (Sonny on GH) and Steve Burton (Jason on GH), traumatizing Michael forever.

Miraculously, even though I was late, I actually got in pretty quickly. Usually I have to wait forever to get in to see Dr. Greco. He did the same routine as always: asked me where the pain is, checked the fibromyalgia points and got nothing, talked about my symptoms, and then we moved on to the different doctors I’ve seen and he also asked me how the Cymbalta worked for me.

“It kept me up. For four days in a row. And I was all jittery and hyper. So I stopped taking it, ’cause I needed some sleep,” I said, afraid that he might tell me I needed to keep taking it. I prepared myself to argue.

Instead, he just said, “okay” and we talked about the other medications I’ve tried. The only one that hasn’t made me crazy and does slightly work is Tramadol — but it makes me HIGH. Like, so totally stoned. I cannot stress enough how HIGH it makes me. (It’s kind of awesome because it’s relaxing, but kinda not awesome because I’m only good for sitting around and watching DVDs or TV, or sleeping. I feel like I’ve said this before.)

Anyway, he asked me to call all of my doctors to get all of my records transferred to him. Then he wrote fibromyalgia on my paperwork for yesterday. “I’m gonna write fibromyalgia here, even though that’s not what you’ve got,” he said. I didn’t argue it, even though I so desperately want a real diagnosis, not a stand in. He said that I’m harder than an episode of House, and that this is going to take some detective work. I said that every doctor I’ve seen has dropped me or handed me off to someone else, and he said that he’s not going to do that, that he’s going to do the detective work.

Mike and I left the office and medical building shortly after. I asked him if he minded going to Southern with me so that I could sell my textbooks, and we went. I ended up getting $198 for them, which is good considering I paid about $300, maybe $400 altogether. I even sold the Praxis workbook I’d bought at Barnes and Noble; their return policy is fourteen days, and it’d been well past two weeks when I dropped out of school. I got $2 back for it, which is better than nothing.

As we got closer to his house on the way back, I asked him what he wanted to do next. Even though we’d spent the afternoon running around, I liked being with him. My novel called, but I also didn’t want to leave his side just yet. It’s rare that we get any kind of alone time together, since we both have big families and live in crowded little houses. We decided to go to Olive Garden, because we both craved pasta and I had the extra cash. We had a funny waiter and got the chance to just relax and hang out. We talked about our grandparents and our favorite childhood memories, and our waiter made fun of me because I couldn’t finish my dinner after soup and bread.

After eating, we were both exhausted so I dropped him off and went home to take a shower and do some writing. I didn’t do a lot of writing. (I forgot to post the daily toll last night, too, so I’ll try to remember to post it later.)

I had a good day, though, and hope today will be another good day (and more productive with my writing)!

I’m not sure.

I love Southern. I loved being a part of it. The campus is beautiful, and the Student Lounge (complete with Starbucks coffee) is my favorite place. I loved sitting at a table or on a couch in there, reading, doing homework, writing, or just relaxing for a few minutes before moving on. I loved walking around the campus and enjoyed its beauty during each season: warm and open in the summer, colorful and vibrant in the fall. (I haven’t seen it during the winter or spring yet, though I did see it at the end of winter.)

I loved having a major, and used that major as my sole purpose. “I’m an Elementary Education and English major,” I would proudly tell people. I had never even been sure exactly what that meant. Really, it was more of a challenge for me. Yes, I love kids, and I loved working with them during my field placement, but I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to be a teacher. The doubt just kept creeping in.

Not only that, but I also couldn’t seem to fit in. I have always had a hard time making and keeping friends. I like to think that I’m a great friend, that I am a fun person to be around. Still, I can’t seem to fit in. The closest I have ever gotten to fitting in was my Creative Writing class in my last semester of community college. Those people understood me, and we meshed perfectly together. I also fit in perfectly with Mike, and usually fit in with both of our families (though there are some times when I doubt even that). It’s a hard thing for me to admit, but there it is.

Girls who I thought liked me at Southern turned out to just be using me as a stepping stone. I fell so far in love with the idea of having a friend there that I tried to overlook the bullshit, but in the end it came down to the brutal realization that I was two months in and still hadn’t formed any kind of real friendships. I admitted to myself that I did not fit in with any of the other people in my program. Some of them were nice, but quite a few of them were smug and treated me like I was stupid. (I suspect this is because I don’t have a background in child education; I got my A.S. in Multimedia/Web Authoring, while they got their Associate’s in Early Childhood Education.) I tried not to let it bother me, but it did. I tried to just ignore it and do what I had to do, but it got awfully exhausting floating from one class to the next, passing by everyone else like a ghost.

In my English class, however, I fit in much better. There were a few English majors and a few other people pretty similar to my personality type. I had fun.

So last night, while talking to a friend I hadn’t seen since high school, I said that I thought I might start over again in the spring. I said that I thought I might just go for Creative Writing, like I had originally planned. As I lay in bed last night, I thought about it a little more. I would have to take ENG-112 once again. I would have to go through the whole registration process all over again. And will I still be dealing with the same health problems in spring? Will I have them under control through diagnosis and medication, or will they be worse, still undiagnosed?

If I were to not go back this spring, I would have to call my student loans bank and arrange to start paying off my loans. If I did go back, I wouldn’t have to pay them off until after I graduate.

What it all comes down to is, I’m not sure. Usually if I’m not sure about something, I just don’t do it (or buy it, or eat it). I don’t like to agonize over making the decision, and yet I do.

In the meantime, I’m really enjoying writing this book right now and I can see myself getting that B.A. in English for Creative Writing. I would enjoy it. It would be hard, but it wouldn’t be agonizing like Elementary Education was. (I didn’t want it bad enough to put up with the stress.)

Mike urges me to find out what’s wrong with me first, but of course my spontaneous ass wants to jump right back into it. I guess right now I just need to RELAX and focus on what is in front of me: appointments with the rheumatologist, writing a book, building websites, and figuring out how to afford presents for everyone this season.

I’ve always had a hard time admitting when something is too hard or when I need help. I’m stubborn and fiercely independent. I also tend to get hit with big ideas and goals, and then I jump into them without thinking them through.

During the last couple of months, I’ve constantly felt as if I could barely keep my head above the water. It wasn’t just school. It was also work, my health problems, my relationship with Mike, and a deep inner yearning to toss everything away and get back to writing. Every aspect of my life suffered, and I with it. I kept trying to ignore the problem, kept trying to look at the bright side. “I can do this,” I’d tell myself, and with renewed strength I’d plow on through. But several days later I would be back in the same position, tired from all of the swimming and barely avoiding the waves of my To Do list from pulling me completely under.

Tuesday night I did not sleep. My legs were wrecked with a pain so intense that I could not do anything other than toss and turn. I wanted to scream, but the people in my house slept soundly around me. I lay there for hours, trapped in a prison that is supposed to be my body, until I finally threw the covers back and got up. I did a lot of bitching on Facebook, which I sort of regret (but only because I don’t like showing any kind of weakness).

I popped in the last DVD of Dollhouse Season 1 and watched “Epitaph One” and the original unaired pilot. I watched a whole bunch of special features. And still the pain wore on. I could barely concentrate, and although I felt so tired, I could not fall asleep. Pain like that is maddening, and I didn’t think I could stand another minute of it.

I logged into Facebook again, wandering around aimlessly, when Mike messaged me. He couldn’t sleep either. We had each been awake for hours, fighting our demons alone, but a simple website had allowed us to come together. We talked on the phone for a long time, sharing our thoughts and soothing each other. I asked him the question that I have been longing to ask but too proud to put into words: “Why is this happening to me?”

“I don’t know. I wish I had an answer,” he said, and I could hear in his voice the frustration and pain he felt for me.

We talked some more, and suddenly the conversation turned to school. Suddenly, I could no longer hide the sensation of drowning that I had been feeling for the last couple of months. “I don’t even know where I’m going to be in five years,” I said, possibly unnecessarily morbidly. I confessed how stressed out I’m feeling, and how I just can’t seem to stay ahead or even on track of everything.

“Well,” he said. “I’m not saying this is what you should do, but maybe you should think about dropping out. Take the time to concentrate on finding out what’s wrong. You can always go back.”

There. He’d said the words that I’d been too stubborn to even think about, but had known deep in my heart for several weeks.

“But, I don’t know if it will affect my GPA,” I said, still stubbornly clinging.

“Screw the GPA,” he said. “It’s just a GPA.”

(Twenty-four hours later, my mom and I would have the same conversation, and she would say the exact thing he had: “It’s just a GPA.”)

“Just think about it,” he said. “School will always be there.”

For the next several hours, while I lay in bed not sleeping, and then when I barely slept tossing and turning, I thought about it. I admitted to myself that the stress of all the things I had stubbornly taken on might be making things worse. I admitted that I’m doing horribly in school and that at this point it is probably too late. I admitted that I needed to really concentrate on me, and that only then would I be able to do well in school.

After talking to my mom and then thinking about it a little more, I decided to do what my heart has wanted to do for several weeks now. I began the withdrawal process yesterday, and already I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted from me.

I have promised myself that I am not going to do this to myself again. I’m not going to jump into an idea that sounds awesome without thinking it through first. I’m going to learn to concentrate on one or two things at a time, without overloading myself. I’m going to take care of myself and find a way to find out what it wrong with me. I’m going to stop taking on so much that I end up burning myself out.

And, more importantly, I’m going to do what I love: I’m going to spend the entire month of November writing a novel without worrying about exams and portfolios and lesson plans and math.

I have taken the first step: I’ve admitted that, while I do really love kids, I’ve had doubts about becoming a teacher and going through this program. While I like school, it’s been incredibly stressful for me and I just honestly can’t handle it right now.

And that is okay. Just hearing it from Mike and Mom, that it’s okay, makes it easier for me to believe.

It’s okay, and I’m going to be okay.

Things have been very up and down lately. Right now I’m on vacation from work, so that’s a definite up. I’ve been sleeping in and even though I still have school to worry about, it’s not as stressful because I’m getting the sleep I need.

My biggest down right now is my symptoms. They are getting worse. Lately, my legs have been getting very weak out of nowhere. Since that last post, it’s happened twice more. Both times I had to sit down because my legs were like Jello and I didn’t want to collapse again. I realize at this point I should just call the rheumatologist, but I’m going on Monday anyway to get some blood test results. I’m hoping that there are answers in those results, or at least something to get me one step closer to the answer, but I am also completely pessimistic at this point.

Teaching is a huge up for me right now. Since deciding I am completely committed to becoming a teacher, I’ve been able to focus better and work harder toward that goal. (I still have no idea when I am going to have time to study for the PPST or when I am going to have time to even schedule the PPST. Luckily, my friend Cheryl told me that Sylvan Learning Center will do the test right there in their facilities, and the scheduling is flexible to your own schedule.) I’ve been thinking very hard about the lesson plan I have to write. I am, admittedly, a little behind in school, but I’m doing the best I can to catch up. I’ve accepted (for now, anyway) that my best is all I can do.

Mike and I got into a stupid fight last night, which got me down for a while but I’m over it now (and I’m sure he is, too). Things were going really well for a while, to the point where it all felt brand new and just completely amazing. Last night was both of our faults and, just like every other time we fight, we’ll just come out stronger.

Now you’re older and the weight is on your shoulder
Make the world a little colder
No more hiding in the old day
Be strong
Don’t you give up hope
It will get hard
Life’s like a jump rope

This last week has just totally depleted my energy. Even though at times I faced many difficulties, I’d have to say this week probably defined how the rest of the semester will go.

Last Friday I started my field placement for my EDU-200 (Principles of Education) class. (It will also help for my SED-225 [Introduction to Exceptional Individuals] course, since I have to observe for one hour an inclusive classroom and write a paper about the teacher[s] working in that classroom.) I fell instantly and irrevocably in love with the students in that classroom. This Friday only strengthened that love, and strengthened my passion for becoming a teacher. I bought a Praxis PPST preparation book this afternoon and am fully prepared and committed to obtaining my certification. How could I not, after spending two amazing days with around twenty amazing young individuals? These kids rock — there is no other way to put it.

During this week I also spent a lot of time trying to better understand the content in my MAT-105 (Mathematics for Elementary Education I) class, because I barely passed our first test with a 65 and spent the last week really struggling with the material (mainly Base Five and Base Two, which are these fancy number systems designed to make mean spirited wannabe teachers remember how hard it was when they grill a little kid during multiplication and division lessons). I spent a night totally depressed, because I was convinced that I could not be a teacher if I didn’t get this. I kept telling myself, You can’t be a teacher if you don’t even know how to do long division. Once I snapped out of it and really tried to get a handle on it, I started doing much better. (It also helped to have a brief recap of how elementary students do long division and determine the remainder; I was literally combining the remainder technique with decimals because it’s been that long. I blame the calculator.)

I spent several days in excruciating pain, and still am struggling. It does not help that I can’t take my medication for it because Tramadol gets me so fucked up that I cannot function normally on it. I had a great day at the school today — again, those kids are freaking awesome — but the constant twinges and the tension pain in my shoulders and neck that results from the last few days of pain made it very difficult. I still can’t take anything tonight because I have class early tomorrow morning. At the very latest, I can take it tomorrow after I go shopping for Mike (tomorrow’s his birthday)!

I am sticking with my decision to participate in NaNoWriMo this year, although I am not sure how I am going to study for Praxis and do that much writing. However, I miss writing so much that I can’t help myself. The characters of my NaNo novel have become so real to me, and I can’t ignore them even if I tried. I honestly think this is going to be the best thing I’ve written yet, as long as I can be disciplined enough to do it (and as long as my body permits me to do it).

As crazy as everything has been, today made it all worth it. I’m just taking it all one step at a time, doing the best that I can. Hopefully I’ll have this same attitude during midterms!

Now to look forward to being on vacation this week, because I finally put in for my vacation at work. I’m hoping that I can go to the spa and get a massage during the week, since I still have that gift certificate my uncle gave me for my birthday. But seriously, getting to sleep in and do whatever I want for a whole week with only school as a responsibility? Sounds just fine to me.

My house has two flights of stairs, each with maybe fifteen steps. I run up and down these guys all the time. By the time I got halfway up the second flight last night, I thought my legs were going to collapse. I’ve felt like Bambi before, but it never got that bad. Every step felt like my legs were weighted down with concrete blocks. I got to the top landing and stood there leaning on the rail for a minute before I went inside. I still felt like Bambi, but my legs felt a little stronger.

On my way to the bathroom, they gave out completely. I collapsed onto my laundry basket (and almost broke it). That has never happened before.

Two minutes later, my legs went back to normal and I was able to change, brush my teeth, and get into bed.

Earlier, on my way to math class, my hip got really stiff and sore. I spent most of the day in pain, various spots of my legs, arms, and shoulders flaring now and then. (It also totally didn’t help that I had cramps so bad that my back hurt.) I never expected my legs giving up, though.

I called out of work, just because I wasn’t sure how I would feel in the morning and at that point last night I felt that bone-deep fatigue I get every once in a while. I didn’t want to call out. I never wanted this to come between me and my work.

I woke up early this morning and lay in bed debating whether to call my rheumatologist. After pro- and conning it to death, I decided not to. I would have to drive over there, pay $30 for the visit, and $2 for parking, for him to check my reflexes and ponder the mystery of it all, only to send me home without any answers. Plus, my stupid leg hurt earlier this morning, and now everything else is taking turns flaring up, so I just don’t feel like taking the adventure.

I’ll just write the whole episode down in my notebook, and tell him about it when I see him on the 19th to get my blood test results. I know I should try to see him today — or at least try to see my PA — but I’m getting really tired of the whole cycle.

At the same time, to be completely honest, I’m terrified. I can easily see myself confined to a wheelchair, still without a diagnosis or treatment plan. All of my dreams gone in an instant.

…taken my arms, taken my legs, taken my soul, left me with life in hell

I slept like crap last night. I had pain in all my limbs, and kept waking up with random pieces of last night’s SED-225 lecture bouncing in my head.

“IEP. We’re gonna write an IEP. That poor kid needs a full-time aid. That should be part of his IEP,” I thought at one point. I tried one of the techniques Mom taught me so I could fall back asleep, but that totally didn’t work.

At least I know I’m retaining Tuesday’s late night lectures, right?

What random stuff annoys you at night when you’re trying to sleep?

This morning I went back to elementary school. I couldn’t get my hair to cooperate because of the heatwave, and my shirt kept slipping and showing my bra strap (which never happens with that particular shirt, so I blame the bra). I convinced myself that I would not get lost and, directions in hand, jumped on the highway on my trek to the town my school is in.

I found the school with little trouble, found a parking space right away, and for a moment looked at the building I was about to enter. All one level, from the outside it just looked like one long, skinny building. It looked nothing like the elementary school I had gone to, but I hadn’t expected it to. I went inside and found the main office right away. Everything stood out at me in bright, friendly colors. I felt a little out of place but not unwelcome; the school practically jumped up and down saying, “Hi Elizabeth!”

I stepped into the main office shyly, feeling all eyes on me. “Hello,” said the secretary.

“Hi,” I said. “My name’s Elizabeth Barone. I’m here to see Mr. Johnson*.”

“He’s in a meeting,” she said. “Is he expecting you?”

“Yes. I’m from Southern.” I looked at the two secretaries anxiously. Had I just drove down here for nothing?

“Your last name?” The second secretary asked.

Just then, a relatively young guy in a nice dark suit came into the room. “Mr. Johnson’s in a meeting,” he told me. “He let me know she was coming,” he told the secretaries. “Hi,” he said to me. “I’m Mr. Valdez*.”

He led me to a comfortable conference room and we sat down. We briefly talked about my program at Southern and my EDU-200 course, my grade preference, and my preference for an inclusive classroom (classroom with general education kids and special needs kids, integrated). I told him I didn’t have a grade preference, but that I definitely needed an inclusive classroom for my SED-225 class.

“I have a classroom for you,” he said, his brown eyes lighting up. I liked him instantly. He was warm, friendly, and I could tell that he just loved his job. “It’s first grade,” he said.

I nodded vigorously. I had purposely not picked a certain grade because, honestly, I’m not yet sure which grade I’d like to teach. I’m kind of leaning toward fourth or fifth, but I think the lower grades would be fun too. (Maybe I could just teach a different grade every year, and that’ll solve my indecisiveness!)

“It’s Mrs. Harkins’s class, and it’s an inclusive class. A few of the kids go out to the resource room.” He handed me back my paperwork. “C’mon, I’ll give you a tour.”

He led me around the school, bringing me into all of their inclusive classrooms and introducing me to the teachers. Everyone greeted me warmly, all genuinely happy to see me. The kids looked up at me with bright, curious eyes. I smiled back at them. (One of them made a face at me at one point. Heh.)

We watched a sixth grade classroom working on decimals and fractions with Skittles. Mr. Valdez knelt down by one student’s desk and helped him with his problem. I started to panic a little, as I’m horrible with decimals and fractions, and if he asked me to help another student, I would be screwed. Fortunately for me, Mr. Valdez worked with the boy for a few minutes until he got it, and then stood up. We left the classroom, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

“I always had such a hard time with fractions and decimals,” I said casually as we walked down the hall. “I’m trying to figure out how to explain it to my students.”

“Sometimes, the best teachers are the ones who had trouble because they understand what it’s like to struggle.”

I nodded. “Exactly.”

We came to the gym, where a class was lined up to leave. A line of girls were taking turns at the water fountain, and a line of boys waited for their turn at the gym doors.

“We’re having trouble with Ian*,” one of the teachers said. “He won’t come with us and he almost ran out.”

Mr. Valdez straightened his shoulders and nodded. “I’ll go talk to him.” He signaled for me to wait, and disappeared into the gym.

I stood, watching the girls take turns and then line up by the next set of doors.

“Quickly, quickly,” said their other teacher. “Boys, stay right here. Your eyes are on me.” Some of the kids took their time, while some of them lined up right away. She began counting to five for each kid at the water fountain, sort of turning it into a game. As the boys lined up, some of them dillydallying, she called out, “Boys, I’m not happy.”

Whatever Ian had done had upset the entire order of the class, and now she had to regain control. I listened to her tone of voice, paid attention to what she said. Miraculously, order was restored.

Mr. Valdez came out, holding a little boy wearing very baggy clothes by the hand. The boy’s left ear was pierced with a thin golden hoop, and he stood quietly next to the assistant principal.

“Ian, you want a drink? C’mon, buddy,” he said, leading Ian to the water fountain. The two lines of students began to stroll down the hall, their teacher in the rear. “Okay, that’s enough. Go get in line.” Ian continued to drink. “Ian, they’re leaving you. That’s enough.” Ian drank a little more, than turned from the water fountain. He started to run toward his classmates, stopped, and then started to go down the hall. Mr. Valdez blocked him, caught him gently by the cloth of his baggy shoulder, then led him toward his classmates.

We stopped in another classroom, a resource room, and then came back to my classroom — Mrs. Harkins’s first grade. Mrs. Harkins was absent, and in her place was a substitute teacher. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a guy as a substitute. I gave him a lot of credit.

Mr. Valdez introduced me to the kids, who all said hello. I waved and said hi back.

“Ms. Barone is going to help Mrs. Harkins sometimes,” Mr. Valdez said. “You guys are the best first grade class. They even won a reward,” he told me. They all smiled proudly. “Who can tell Ms. Barone what your reward is?”

Most of their hands shot up. Mr. Valdez looked at me. “I can pick?” I asked. He nodded. My eyes fell on a little girl with big brown eyes. I picked her.

“A party,” she said quietly.

“A party!” I tossed up my hands. “Wow!”

A few kids called out. “An ice cream party,” said one. “And five minutes of recess,” another added.

“Now, you know Mrs. Harkins doesn’t like you guys calling out,” Mr. Valdez reminded them. “What else did you win?” Another kid raised their hand. “Yes?”

“Five minutes of recess,” he said.

“An extra five minutes of recess,” Mr. Valdez said.

“Oh, wow,” I said, hoping I hadn’t caused too much trouble.

A few minutes later, we left the classroom. A couple of adults and a little boy came up to us. Ian was in trouble again. I followed Mr. Valdez to Ian’s classroom, where he took the little boy out of the room. I followed them, watching Mr. Valdez lead Ian to the main office. Ian walked with a cocky swagger — too cocky for a six-year-old. I watched the way his baggy clothes fell around his little frame, and I felt sorry for him. Here was a kid whose parents probably paid him little attention and maybe spoiled him a little too.

“Ian, you’ve gotta get your behavior together. We can’t be doing this every day,” Mr. Valdez said. We entered the main office, and he sat Ian down in a chair in a small adjoining room. “Now, you’re going to sit right here in this chair until I come get you. You understand me?”

“Yes,” little Ian said.

Mr. Valdez came back out into the main office conference room. We talked briefly about the kids’ music, art, and gym classes, and then my schedule. I said goodbye to him and the secretaries, and then went out to the parking lot, feeling buoyant. I had a good feeling about my school.

*Names have been changed for privacy

I finally got in touch with my principal yesterday!

For my EDU-200 — Intro to Elementary Education — class, I have to do complete forty hours of field work in a local classroom. I emailed my school’s program coordinator right away and he got back to me with a school within a day or so. I just had to get in touch with the elementary school’s principal to set up my schedule, but couldn’t seem to! Every time I called, he was in a meeting. I called yesterday around 11 am and yet again could not get in touch.

“I really need to speak to someone about my schedule,” I told the secretary, and explained that I needed at least twenty hours in by midterm — which is toward the end of October!

“I’ll definitely make sure he calls you today,” she promised.

I didn’t expect him to, because if I’m supercrazybusy, then he has to be twice as busy running a whole school! So I did not expect to see a missed call from his number as well as a voicemail. Cursing Mr. Bluetooth for once again failing me and not letting me know he had called, I called Mr. Principal back (I’m so going to need a fake name here, and so far have nothing.) It was 1:00 and I fully expected him to be in another meeting, but he was available!

He seemed really nice and reminded me of my old elementary school principal, Mr. Theriault (who, by the way, is running for mayor of my city this November)! He asked me what grade preference I had, and I told him none. “It doesn’t matter, but if possible, can I have an inclusive classroom?” (I need to do an hour of observation and an interview for my SED-225 — Intro to Special Education — course.)

“I don’t think that will be a problem at all,” he said kindly.

We made an appointment to meet Thursday morning so I can see the school and meet the teachers, and he said I’ll start my field work next week! He also said that they’re really into having me get my “hands dirty,” which is good because my EDU-200 professor expects us to get involved somehow, rather than sitting in a corner and observing. So I won’t have to worry about my class’s teacher not letting me do much (my professor warned us about that).

So, thankfully, I now have one less thing to worry about — and one more thing to look forward to!

Remember how I graduated with an A.S. in Multimedia/Web Authoring from the community college I went to? For that degree, I had to take two college-level English courses: ENG-101 and ENG-112. ENG-101 was all about essay writing. We read a lot of different sources and then wrote very complicated essays. Some of the topics were pretty deep for a freshman level class, but I loved it. I learned a lot about how to write an essay, and a lot of the things my high school teachers had taught me got thrown out. (For instance, I could use the first-person when writing a paper.)

Then came ENG-112, which focused more on literature and writing in response to that literature. I enjoyed the stories, but my assignments weren’t as tough as they’d been in ENG-101. I sucked it up and finished, and then thought I’d never have to take another English course again; even though reading and writing are my strong points, I was excited to have crossed those off my To Do list for my degree.

When I graduated and then decided to transfer to the university I’m attending, I assumed both of those English courses would transfer over. How could they not?

Except, they didn’t. At least not completely. And I couldn’t explain it to you even if I tried, because I’m still not sure I get it.

Both times I met with an advisor to register for classes (I had to drop out the first time because I couldn’t afford it), I was told that my ENG-101 transferred but the ENG-112 didn’t because, at Southern, it’s part of my Communications requirement. Which made sense, because at NVCC ENG-112 was about literature. I didn’t protest because how could a second-level college English class hurt me?

Fast forward to last night, when I sat with my eyebrows crinkled. Why is he going over the essay rubric piece by piece now when we had to read it over for homework? I tapped my pen and began to jot down ideas I had for a new thesis. Suddenly, I sat up fast in my seat. The syllabus, I need the syllabus! I opened my folder and pulled out the syllabus.

The very first line said, “Please note that ENG-112 used to be ENG-101.” Now I knew why we were going through the writing process so slowly. I sat in shocked, frozen silence for a long time. How could they do this to me? Why, instead of moving forward with my college education, was I suddenly thrown not one, but two steps back? Why would they make a transfer student take the same beginner’s class again?

I tried to focus my attention on my open notebook and the new ideas I had scribbled on it, but my mind raced. Should I go to the temporary advisor I’d met with earlier this summer? Should I talk to my professor after class and see what he thought? Should I go to the Chair of the English Department and demand that something be changed for me? I envisioned running around chasing people the same way I had chased down the Dean of Academic Affairs when trying to graduate from NVCC when an advisor had told me to take the wrong class — and that wrong class eventually almost prevented me from graduating.

Okay, I thought. I can either drive myself crazy trying to get this fixed (and it probably won’t happen anyway), or I can just suck it up and deal with it. I can ask Will if I can change my thesis for this essay, and explain to him my situation, and see if I can make this work.

And just like that, I let it all roll off of me. I didn’t think I was even capable of such a thing, but I guess I am!

PS: I have not smoked a cigarette since my birthday, when I partied a lot and smoked a little (and decided that, even drunk, I no longer like cigarettes). I miss them a little sometimes, but mainly I’ve been doing just fine without them.