Remembering Gamma and Pop Tom

I've just gotten the word that my grandparents, my father's parents, otherwise known as "Gamma" and "Pop Tom," are not doing very well. Pop Tom has fallen and broken his hip, for which he is not going to undergo surgery because he can't withstand the anesthesia. This means he'll be laid up, flat on his back, for about eight weeks. It also means that things are not looking up for him. Meanwhile, Gamma spirals further into full-blown Alzheimer's and now spends her days fighting off those nasty nurses who insist on "assaulting" her by trying to do things like dress her and make her eat, and obsessing over a lost swim suit that she hasn't worn in about five years. These are the days of my late 80s/early 90s grandparents...

So I guess it's only fitting that I write a tribute to them. And on that note, I find myself caught in mixed emotions.

I was the first grandchild. The oldest. Well, at least until we found out about my half-brother, the charmer of the family, and then it was like fruit-basket turnover. But before that I was the oldest. I coined the names "Grandmama" (which got changed to "Gamma" when my next cousin couldn't pronounce the whole thing) and "Pop Tom." I think the best word to describe my relationship with my paternal grandparents is...complicated. My father, their oldest son of five children, died when I was just 18 months old. He apparently was the only person who could ever charm his way around their Southern Aristocratic Gentility (except for my brother, see comment above). I, on the other hand, never seemed to be enough for them. Not petite enough, not feminine enough, not demure enough, not polite enough, not Southern-Belle-ish enough. Just not enough. This, of course, is an accusation they would categorically deny, but that doesn't make it less real to me. And I can honestly say, after almost 35 years of vying for their approval, and receiving it only when I accomplish a "thing," never just for being the awesome person I am, I am tired. I'm tired of having to "adjust" to their version of love, especially when I am surrounded by easy, free, unconditional love. I wish things could've been different.

On the other hand, I find myself reveling in nostalgia anyway. Pop Tom taught me to play Rummy at age 4, and he never went easy on me. To this day I've never met another person who plays Rummy the way he does -- in that all-or-nothing, have-to-be-an-expert-at-remembering-cards way. But I loved it. Still do. And I loved the homemade peanut butter/black walnut milkshakes that went with those late night games. He also taught me to swim like the champion college swimmer (U of Oregon -- Go Ducks!) he was. And when my cousin Rusti, who was like a sister to me, came along, he taught her too. And we spent so many hours down at the Liberty Bell pool in Pine Mountain, GA, diving for pennies and racing from end to end -- his "little guppies." He tried to teach me golf, a love second only to Gamma, but it wasn't my cup of tea. But I still have great memories of riding the greens with him, Classic Coke (in a glass bottle) in my hand, and getting out to putt. And I'm pretty sure I get my love of crossword puzzles from him, although I still can't finish a New York Times (which he did every day) on my own.

Fond memories of Gamma are harder to come by. She was a brilliant painter (oil, acrylic, watercolor), and I always wanted to learn to paint, but whenever I asked her to teach me, she would wave me off and tell me I had to learn about perspective first (apparently from someone else). She was always hardest on me about my weight, my appearance, my lack of Emily-Post-ness. But then to others she would say how proud she was of me and my accomplishments. I still wonder if she was actually proud...and if she would've been proud if I'd never accomplished anything, if I'd just been...me. But there is one thing: her vanilla cupcakes with homemade vanilla frosting. She always made them for me when I was there, regardless of special occasion or not. Granted, she mocked them the whole time, always saying, "these silly things? They're just cupcakes for Heaven's sake! Just regular old cupcakes with 7-minute frosting." But she always made them for me. And I loved them.

In the final analysis, the most difficult thing about our relationship --the most perplexing, the most complicated -- turns out to be the simplest: I love them. Fiercely. And no matter how much water passes under the bridge, that will be the rock that remains.

Unemployment

Why is it that the less I have on my plate to do, the less I get done? You'd think that all that free time would allow me to get all those little things done that I never had time to do before. But NOOOOO...instead I've managed to catch up on 8 seasons of Law and Order SVU!

You know it's time to find a productive occupation when you start referring to television characters as friends of yours in common conversation.

Houston Home Gym

Upper Body Workout

Exercise #1: "Getting Something Out of the Car"

1. Open front house door and squeeze through

2. Sink shovel into waist-deep snow

3. Lift and throw

4. # reps = 128

Exercise #2: "Letting the Dog Out"

1. Open back house door

2. Squeeze arm with shovel through opening, creatively wrap arm and shovel around door, and "push" snow away from door

3. Squeeze body through new (wider) opening

4. Sink shovel into waist-deep snow

5. Lift and throw

6. # reps = 74

7. Manually remove dog from snow bank before going back inside

To Madame with Love

I haven't posted on here in so long...I almost don't know where to start. But lately I've been filling out lots of apps for lots of jobs, hoping to snag a full time gig for next year. One of the apps required an essay question that asked me to describe what makes me a good teacher. In thinking about this question, I wrote the essay that I'm about to post. The essay doesn't really answer the question very well, but it turned out to be a nice tribute to one of the most inspirational people in my life, so I thought it'd be good to post it here:

Musicality

I’ve known I wanted to be a teacher since the eighth grade, when Mrs. Zohn walked into our chorus class singing. She had big shoes to fill: the man whom she replaced had been our favorite, and we were all prepared to hate her on principle. All during the previous summer we’d talked about how we couldn’t believe Mr. Holben was leaving, how we’d never betray him by even liking her a little, how we’d simply refuse to do anything she said. But we couldn’t do it; she took hold of our hearts from that very first day as she belted out the chorus of “Sloop John B.” We barely registered the news that soon each of us would be singing “Gee, Mom, I wanna go home,” solo, in front of the rest of the class (until, of course, we actually had to do it).

Deborah Zohn was a striking woman. She was young, but she had taught before. Dark, thick, curly hair, olive skin, tall (at least to an eighth grader), and often dressed in black leather. She exuded confidence and ebullience and she reminded us of all the great women from history we’d learned about – a mover and a shaker for sure. She made us smile while we sang (imagine that), sometimes by reminding us of little in-jokes that had developed during practices, sometimes by pushing up the corners of her mouth with her index fingers in a purposely campy way that made us crack up every time. She told us that smiling improved our pitch, but over time we realized that there were other benefits too.

A day wasn’t a day without a little Zohn. I wore my first self-chosen dress for her, for our first concert (quite a contrast with my tomboyish ways). She gave me my first on-stage feature, the alto part in a duet from Les Miserables; I learned all the music for that play before I ever read the book or set foot in a theater to see it performed, and to this day it’s still my favorite. And listening to her stories about past students who would come back to see her, all grown up and almost unrecognizable, was the first time I had conceived of the idea that a teacher could be that influential in a person’s life. I knew I would be one of those students, and I hoped I would be one of those teachers.

Many of us had already been “musicians” for about five years before she came into our lives, but she taught us the real gestalt of that word. She taught us about the things that have to happen before any of the notes or key signatures or breath marks can make sense: things like discipline, commitment, confidence, positivity. She also taught us about something called “musicality,” which I define as the art of synthesizing the technical with the interpretive, the theory with the practice, the external and learned with the internal and inherent, thus creating a seamless performance unique to the musician. And, though I didn’t realize it until much later, she taught us that another term for “musicality” is “teaching.”

Mrs. Zohn used to tell us that she and her husband would never have children because she had enough kids already. We’d laugh at her sarcasm, knowing how true it was that dealing with us must be exhausting indeed. But I didn’t realize until I became a teacher myself that the exhaustion came not from frustration and stress (although I’m sure there was plenty of that) but from caring. Her rule on signing yearbooks was that she would only do it for ninth graders, who would be leaving junior high and venturing into the unknown of high school – that way, she said, she could focus on writing a truly personal message. And, as with all of her other rules and expectations, she followed through. In my copy of the 1991 Troxell Junior High yearbook, where all my other teachers simply signed their names or wrote, “It’s been a pleasure,” or “Have a great summer and good luck in high school,” Deborah Zohn made her mark. “Certain students seem to stand out in a teacher’s mind,” she wrote, “you, of course, will always be among them.”

Explaining what made me want to become a teacher isn’t hard; but delineating what makes me a good teacher is a daunting task. It feels overgeneralized and somewhat contrived to say that I get to know the students, use my sense of humor, establish and enforce expectations and consequences, constantly search for new ways to break down abstract concepts into accessible chunks, and try to show students how literature applies to the real world, even though all of that is exactly what I do. The musicality of teaching isn’t about the broad strokes; it isn’t really about your philosophy or your curriculum or your classroom management. All of those things are subject to change anyway, because of the variables we call life. The musicality of teaching is about the day-to-day: the conversation you have about the best sports cars with the kid who always sits slumped down in the back; the smile in your eyes that no one else sees but the shy kid who’s just made a breakthrough in analyzing a poem; the endearing nicknames you give them, and vice versa; the concerts and games you attend; the times you make a fool of yourself and laugh with them; the words you write in their yearbooks. Very little of it has to do with literature, or music, or whatever subject you think you teach. But it all has to do with learning.

Certain teachers seem to stand out in a student’s mind. Mrs. Zohn, of course, will always be among them. And now, thanks to her, so will I.

Obama-nate

Here's the transcript of a recent [frightening] conversation with a student:

STUDENT: what does "abominate" mean?

ME: basically it means "to hate"

STUDENT: oh, good, that's easy to remember. I hate Obama, so "Obama-nate." [chuckles and congratulates self for cleverness]

ME: why do you hate Obama?

STUDENT: well, first of all, he's not even black.

ME: [thoughts: !!!!!!!????] Huh?

STUDENT: he's Muslim.

ME: um. . . o. . . kay?

STUDENT: and you know the Muslims' whole goal is to take over America.

ME: all the Muslims?

STUDENT: see, I knew it -- you like Obama, don't you?

Friendly Conversation

Haven't posted in a LONG time, so I'll ease back in with this riveting conversation I overheard while dining at Friendly's the other day:

[special note: these girls were NOT being sarcastic]

GIRL 1: So I'm on my way out the door this morning -- late of course -- and he decides he wants to "talk." [actual air quotes were visible] I mean, every time I want to talk, he's too busy watching the game or whatever, but when I'm in a hurry, then he wants to talk. [huffs loudly]

GIRL 2: Jesus.

1: I know, right?

2: So what was the big deal?

1: Oh, get this: he says he wants to talk about my drinking. Says he really wishes I'd quit drinking.

2: You mean totally? Like, NEVER drink?

1: That's what I said! I'm like, "Dude, you've GOT to be kidding me. Practically the only time I'm happy is when I'm wasted." [is it me, or should this have been a sign to her?] So he's like, "Well, why can't we have fun without drinking? I mean, you know I don't drink -- can't you at least quit drinking when you're with me?"

2: Psshh -- as IF!

1: I know, right? So I'm like, "Well, you know I DO drink, so can't you just START drinking when you're around ME?"

2: omg [these letters were her actual words], what did he say?

1: Huh! This is the best part! He's like, "C'mon, Baby, you know I'm an alcoholic!" [laughs uncontrollably] I mean, can you beLIEVE this guy? Could he BE more selfish?

2: Jesus, Lisa, when're you gonna drop his ass?

Open Letter

The following is one of those hilarious-because-it's-sadly-true things that I just had to share. Borrowed from McSweeney's:

AN OPEN LETTER
TO MY ABANDONED
MA ENGLISH DEGREE.

June 11, 2010

- - - -

Dear Abandoned MA English Degree,

We could've been big, MA English Degree. God damn huge! Working together, our forces finally combined with BA English Degree to form that ancient tripartite power of analysis, critical thinking, and original content. We could have taken the world by storm. There was no shortage to where we could have gone: non-paying internships at publishing houses, a PhD program, the list... well, the list kind of peters out there, but man, what we could've done in either of those, it would've really set the world aflame! But alas, here is where we must part ways. Two semesters into our supposed two year relationship I must take my leave from you.

Ah, just thinking about all we've done together, and all we could've done, makes me get a little misty eyed. We had grand plans. Together we were going to finally shed light on the latent homosexuality running through the short stories of Flannery O'Connor. And our thoughts on why the Harlem Renaissance was actually BAD for African Americans... man, that really would've zinged 'em!

But these are ideas for another time, another student who comes to you full of piss and vinegar and a new way to read the great works (was Shakespeare really a woman?! Now, the world may never know...) But it won't, nay, it can't be me, not anymore. I've finally realized that I can no longer change my life or myself for you. You see, MA English Degree, I want a real job, one that lets me wake up and go to sleep at a reasonable hour, gives me health insurance and grants at least the possibility of future employment. No longer can I pretend that I'm satisfied with what you offer. You try to seduce me into staying, offering teaching assistant jobs with possible adjunct professorships to follow. Perhaps, you say, I can publish my original short story in the campus lit magazine or sit in on a creative writing class, even though I'm not an MFA student? It's tempting, but no, I must stay strong. Don't make this any harder than it is.

Will I regret abandoning you? After all, we were so close to finishing. How does the old song go... "Didn't we almost have it all?" Yes, MA English Degree. We almost did. And perhaps, thirty, forty years from now, when I'm in the twilight of my life, I will look back and feel a sadness in our unfinished business. Standing in the door of my English classroom as the high school English teacher I will inevitably become, I'll wonder what life could have had in store for us. Giving papers at academic conferences in South Dakota? Uprooting my family and relocating for a job at a small community college in Ohio? Maybe even a book, something with a ridiculously long title and a colon or a semicolon thrown in, like Home Sweet Home: Domestic Violence in the Early 20th Century and its Affect on Children's Literature; Looking at the Adolescence of Young Girls in A Tree Grows In Brooklyn and To Kill A Mockingbird, published at a university press? Who knows the wonders you could've opened up to me. Like the genie (who, as you've taught me, is actually a metaphor for the oppression of the mystical practices of various indigenous tribes in the Middle East) you could have granted me riches beyond my wildest imagination. But I'll never know for sure.

So it is, with a slightly heavy heart, that I abandon you, MA English Degree. It's not as callous as you might think. I don't regret our time together. And whenever I read a book, I will think fondly of how you taught me to stop at every word and wonder, what does that mean? But I cannot care for you anymore, not in the way you want, the way you need. I'm sorry MA English Degree. I do hope you find someone else, someone who can give you the time, patience, and obtuse thinking you so desire.

Best wishes,
Liz Skoski