{ no more pencils, no more books }

a scene from my classroom

No more teachers' cross-eyed looks!

I definitely was feeling cross-eyed and ready for the break by the end of it all! Today was the last official day of school. I will be back next Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday marking city-wide English exams with the school board. But as far as the school year is concerned, I'm done. I finished moving into my new classroom by 1:30 today, I handed in my keys, I packed up my favorite mug, and I made my way home.

Today was also my birthday. Isn't that ideal? I'm a first year teacher, and the last day of school happened to fall on my birthday! Perfect! It was quite a gift, indeed, although I do confess that I had more than a twinge of sadness at leaving it all behind for two months. I'll miss the kids, and I'll miss some of my amazing coworkers who will not be returning next year. Goodbyes are always so hard.

On the plus side, all my family members pooled together to buy me the one and only thing I wanted this year for my birthday; I was totally not expecting to get a Canon Digital Rebel digital SLR camera, but they surprised me with it! I had asked for money to put towards one, and I was expecting to save up till at least next Christmas to get it, but they all pitched in and were able to get it for me. I was nearly in tears, I was so excited! I've already been taking snapshots of EVERYTHING tonight. I can't wait until the sun comes up tomorrow so I can go out on a mega photo adventure.

I have a feeling this is going to be a great summer!

{ my world of work: the wild side (I) }

school at 7:30 am, the only time it's quiet

So, on Saturday I detailed the joyous and fulfilling times of my time spent working at K-school. I thought now I might as well amuse you all with my best crowd-pleasing stories that have come out of my 10 months spent there. And my goodness, I don't even want to imagine what craziness next year might bring!

Near the beginning of the school year, I had to go to the super anal school librarian to sign out an overhead projector for my bare classroom. She reluctantly signed me out one of the only brand new overheads and had me wheel it back to my room on a ridiculously huge cart. I signed my name on her little list and wheeled my projector back joyously. The joy did not last long, however; that same week, I quickly realized that I could not properly work with my overhead when it was on a cart that came nearly up to my armpits--after all, I had to be able to write notes on it for the kids to copy. So, I took the overhead off its wheely cart and put it onto a sturdy desk in the middle of the room. The cord, as always, had to trail across the center aisle in order to reach the plug-in at the front of the room. I repeatedly warned all my kids with my annoyingly shrill reminders of, "Watch the cord! Watch the cord!" when they traipsed their little selves back and forth to get their pencils sharpened or to dispose of their dirtied tissues.

One girl in my grade 7 social studies class, however, decided that somehow she was above my warnings. In fact, she must have been such an expert walker that she decided she did not need to physically mind the cord at all. As she walked across the front of the room to throw something out, I chirped, "Watch the cord! The cord! WATCH THE CORD!" I proceeded to watch the cord touch her shins as she walked into it. It then proceeded to inch up her legs in seemingly devastating slow motion as she continued to shuffle her little ugg boots forward.

By now, all the kids were yelling, "The cord! Duh! The cord!" Well, this young lady was completely oblivious to us all, and she pressed on. Before I could react or reach the precious new projector in time, it was hauled off the desk and was smashed into smithereens on the floor. Everything that could break did break. Glass shattered, bulbs popped, plastic bits broke off, and metal bits were horribly disfigured.

I, Mrs. E, was filled with a sudden and never before felt sense of rage. My eyes must have nearly bugged out of my head, because I'd never seen those poor students so quiet and still.

"Your face is going purple," one of them pointed out. Several of them scrambled to help, but I worried about their little hands being cut.

"Please! Don't help me. Stay in your seats!" I barked.

"Are you mad, Mrs. E?" one of them ventured.

"Yes," I said as shortly as possible. The room, for the first time that year, was silent. You could have heard a pin, or perhaps another projector, drop. I picked up all the scattered bits and pieces and piled them into the carcass of the poor, prized projector. I set it back in its sorry place on the not-so-sturdy desk.

"I'm going to leave the room now, for a moment," I informed the students, trying to remain rational. I thought perhaps I might hurl bits of projector at them if I remained in there for one more second. I went outside my room and did deep breathing for a few minutes. The unheard of silence continued inside the room. After a few minutes, I came back in, more composed, though no less flushed, I think. I was determined to press on with the lesson as planned. The ironic thing was that I still needed the stupid overhead projector to finish what I had planned.

"I need to go switch projectors," I informed the students. "You'd all better stay in your seats and be quiet," I threatened.

I picked up the lame projector and walked it over to the librarian, who stood in horror as I brought this brand new projector back.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. D," I explained, "But a student didn't see the cord and it was hauled onto the floor and smashed." Then sheepishly, I risked, "Could I have another one so I could continue teaching?"

She was entirely displeased, but there was little she could say. She gave me another projector--an old, haggard one this time. I had to resign the sign-out sheets. I walked the projector back to my room and placed it back on the desk. Picking up my pen, I continued as if nothing had happened.

The ordeal did not end there. This is junior high, after all.

A few days later, one of my grade eights noticed that I no longer had the nice projector.

"What happened to the new projector?" he asked me, loud enough so all his comrades could hear.

"It got smashed."

"Oh," he said, glancing around. "Were you mad?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

The next day, I taught my grade eights again. That certain curious boy was sitting beside the projector, quiet as could be. Then the grade eights left the room and my precious little grade seven honors class (all extremely pious and concerned) entered. I had to teach them from the overhead. The minute I gestured to it, they were all up and doing their good little tasks--one flicked the lights, one pulled the screen, one fetched me my pen from the basket. I was ready to go, I was in my element, and they were ready to learn. I flicked on the switch and the overhead illuminated. Approximately seven seconds later, I smelled a queer smell. The good boy, Khalid, beside the overhead, smelled it, too.

"Mrs. E, I smell something funny," he said.

"So do I, Khalid." I stuck my nose near the projector and sniffed. Smoke started pouring out of the overhead projector's body, streaming out from under the glass on top.

"IT'S ON FIRE!" the kids all yelled.

With lightning fast reflexes, I turned off the overhead and yanked the cord from the wall. Smoke continued to pour out of the decrepit machine. The kids were panicked.

"SHOULD WE GET THE EXTINGUISHER?!"

"No, just wait, just wait," I urged, trying to calm them.

One girl, trying to be helpful, thought she would try to blow the fire out, so she began huffing and puffing in the fan vents. Naturally this just made the conflagration flare up even more.

"NO! Don't blow on it, please!"

I picked up the smoldering machine and took it to the corner where everything is made of tiles and cinder blocks. I figured I would just let it smolder out. That did work. However, I still went home smelling like smoke.

The next day, I meekly hauled that projector back to the librarian, less than one week after I had gotten it from her.

"What happened to this one?!" she cried.

"The kids stuffed it with paper and it lit on fire," I explained (that is what had happened; my grade eights stuffed the body with paper and the bulb made it catch fire).

"Oh my!" she exclaimed. "I suppose you'll be needing another one ... " she said, displeased.

"I'm sorry," was all I could mumble. Anyways, I got another projector.

I took it back to my room as those same grade eights were filing in. "Mrs. E, another new overhead?!" they exclaimed.

"Yes, the other one lit on fire," I explained.

"Man! Nothing cool ever happens when we're here!" they said.

I asked one boy, Mohamed, to help me set up the new overhead. Bless his heart, he wanted to position it just right to shine on the screen, so he turned it on and went to center the desk. He squeaked the desk across the floor just three inches or so, and then--everything went dark.

The bulb had shattered from the vibration of the desk sliding across the floor.

This time I sent a kid to the librarian to ask for an overhead projector bulb.

He came back and told me she had no more, but she'd put one on order for me. It would be in sometime the next week.

I wrote on the board a lot that week.

The librarian didn't like me for a long time.

No word of a lie, that was all true--walla.

{ my new look }

my new haircut!

Snip, snip. I love it!

{ my world of work: the facts }

a locker right outside my classroom, and the view down the hall

Well, my working world is beginning to wind down very quickly now. As it begins to wrap up, I realize how interconnected the school is with my life as I begin to feel useless sometimes in the evenings. My marking is done, no planning is necessary, the report card comments are written and ready to come off the press. I am so intertwined with this job, and I love it so deeply. I also realize that in the course of my ten months at K-school, as I'll call it (I would like to remain student google-proof!), I've shared little to nothing with you all, my readers, about my intense times there. Sometimes it is hardest to write about the largest, most substantial parts of your life because it is hard to know where to begin.

I figured now, when I'm finding myself with heaps of spare time, would be a good time to start.

At the beginning of the school year I found myself still without a full time teaching job. School started somewhere around September 1st-ish, and I was still working at the hospital, pouring cups of java and flipping burgers (sigh). I was planning to continue with my susbstitute teaching in the day and my sub sandwhich making at night. It was a tiring existance, the flip-flopping between job roles and personas, and I had really had faith that I would have had a "real" job by the end of August. However, I figured it must not be my time.

One school called me around September 6th, to offer me a position as a 0.39 p/t math and gym teacher. Not only would that not be enough to pay my bills, but the schedule was sporatic and hard to work around. I also despise both math and gym. I painfully turned down my one and only job offer.

Two days later, I was at work at the hospital, literally flipping burgers, when my boss came up to the grill to let me know that my husband, Derek, had just called and that I had to return his urgent call. I phoned Derek back, and he had phoned to say that I had just received another job offer on our home answering machine, and that they wanted me to come for an interview that same afternoon. He gave me a series of names and phone numbers to call, and I stood in the back beside the grumbling ice machine making those essential phone calls. I spoke to the administrative assistant, who told me I would have the best chance at getting the job if I could come for an interview that day, before 5:00. It was 2:00 at that time, and I was scheduled to work at my job to 7:00. Additionally, K-school was a one hour drive away.

Despite all the stresses, I decided I had no choice but to make it work. I trepidatiously meandered into my bosses' office and told them that I had to leave work early and unfortunately there was nothing they could say that would stop me. I told them that if they had to fire me on the spot, I'd understand. They acknowledged that they would be pretty much screwed for the rest of the day, but they were all also cheering for me to find a teaching job. They said to me, "Lisa, if you didn't go to this interview, we'd smack you ourselves." Thus, I had their blessing to immediately leave. I told Derek to come get me, and to bring some nice clothes and high heels with him (at the time, I was wearing greasy white scrubs and a hairnet!). I cleaned myself up in the locker room and was off to K-school.

Since the school year was already 5 days into the swing of things, I got a brief glimpse of the other staff and students as I was sitting in the little glassed-in office. It was an absolute hub of activity, of comings and goings. I knew right away that this was an active and lively school, not a quiet little hole in the wall. I also noticed other young teachers right away, which seemed to be a possible good sign.

My interview went well overall. They cautioned me about the intensity of the school and even warned that "It's not for fragile people." I told them that in my career of being a sub, I'd already had two desks and a chair thrown at me. They seemed thrilled with this response. They also told me that K-school is known in the district for its bad reputation, its behavior problems, and its cultural uniqueness. I emphasized that I was up for the challenge. They told me they'd call me with their decision later on in the weekend.

On Saturday I still hadn't heard, and I was worried about what that might mean. However, on the flip side, I was also terrified that I would get the job! The school is a one hour's drive away, and I had no car at the time. I was concerned about all the negative things that had been mentioned in the interview--the behavior problems, the bad reputation, the ambiguous "cultural uniqueness". I was having a wave of nervous second thoughts.

Sunday night at 5:30, the principal of K-school called me back to offer me the job. I would be teaching 7 different courses with no overlap--Language Arts 7, Language Arts 8, Social Studies 7, Social Studies 8, ESL 8, Study Skills 9, and Physical Education 9. I would start immediately, the next day at 8:00 am.

I took the job.

Once I hung up, I nearly threw up. I had no clue what I'd gotten myself into. I furiously made lesson plans that could work in any situation. You know, let's play the name game, let's write a poem about ourselves, let's discuss some current events, those sorts of things.

I walked into K-school the next morning at 7:30, armed with a small pencil case and a clipboard with paper. I clutched my lesson plans pathetically. The administrative assistant showed me to my classroom. It was by far the worst classroom in the entire school. At the time, I jotted down a few observational notes about how little I had been given (you can read that flashback here).

Luckily, the school had provided me with a substitute teacher to also use at my discretion that day. I had him lead the class in whatever he had been doing with them for the past 5 days (he had been with them temporarily from day one). Periodically I popped in to introduce myself to the kids and to try to get a feel for my classes. From what I could see, they were rowdy and rude already, even with the male sub. I could also now see what the "cultural uniqueness" was all about--I found out the scoop within the first few days: 85% of K-school is made up of Muslim students. The majority are all Lebanese, and many of them are in Canada on and off as they escape the bombing in Beiruit or the war in the Lebanese countryside. The other major cultural presence in the school is that of the Somali kids. These kids are also all Muslim, and some of them came as refugees from Somalia years ago. Two years ago, I was told, there were no Somali students at K-school. However, I am told that the Somali population has kept its traditional roots as functioning as a nomadic community. When they all moved to escape the famine or war in Somalia, the community chose Canada as a safe place to start over. They sent scouts to check out our country, and Toronto was chosen as the place to settle in. Family by family, the majority of the Somali people who settled in Canada chose to move to Toronto where they could remain a strong community.

Over time, however, Toronto proved to have its own challenges. It was difficult to find work to support a family, and the cost of living was very high. The community decided it was time to make a move. They sent new scouts out west to find a suitable place to live. They came to our city and found the prosperous economy and the amazing amount of jobs. They sent word back to Toronto. Last July and August alone, over 5,000 Somali people moved from Toronto to our city, and they all settled in the same north-central area. Teachers at K-school said they arrived back to school last September and were overwhelmed by the sudden explosion of grinning Somali faces looking back at them in classrooms. They brought in a Somali cultural expert to explain where they had all come from, and the above story was the answer that was given.

We are told by this cultural expert that the migration will continue and that we should expect upwards of another 5,000 Somali people moving to our community this July and August, also. Wow!

Anyways, I was greeted by all these Muslim students, whether Lebanese or Somali. Here and there the tiniest scattering of white or Asian students could be seen. For weeks I struggled to learn all the names. In our school we have not one student named Ben or Lisa or Scott or Jason or Brian or Laura or Megan. I would lose track of the numbers if I began to count the Mohameds or Mahmouds or Belals or Fatimas or Rimas or Mariams. I soon learned how to pronounce the deep, throatal aspirated "K" in "Khalid". I learned that all my "r's" should be rolled at the front of my mouth. I learned to say "As-salaam-alaykum" to greet others. I also learned the trademark phrase that students at our school love to use when lying: "Walla!" means "I swear to God!" and as devout Muslims, they take this phrase very seriously; however, as fourteen year olds, they are not so different than other teenagers, because they will lie as often as they can get away with it. I think "Walla" might be the word I hear most in one day. Walla, they didn't do their homework because their auntie had a baby last night. Walla, I swear I didn't break that chair, Mrs. E. Walla, it wasn't me who tripped that girl! Walla! Walla!

Our school, unofficially, is probably comprised of over 50% ESL students. None of them are funded by the government as being such, however, because there are simply too many of them. We run almost all of our classes with ESL strategies incorporated. I was assigned to teach the most severe of ESL students, some of whom didn't even know how to write their own name with the English alphabet yet. I've loved teaching these kids all year. In my "regular" grade 8 language arts class, however, the average reading level of the kids was a grade 5 level. I had several girls who read at a grade 2 level. Try teaching them to read a grade 8 novel or to interpret poetry when they are just learning simple sentences! It was a very difficult assignment, but I was up for the challenge.

I've fallen in love with K-school and with the kids, despite their definite out-of-control behavior (more on that in a later post). I can't believe I'm still in my city--some days I'm certain I'm travelling to Dubai or Lebanon every morning when I go to work. My sense of what is "normal" has shifted so much, and I'm in a totally different cultural mindset, myself.

The saddest news came at the end of this year, two months ago, when I found out that they would have to post my job description and open it up to other applicants. I told them I'd love to stay, and they confided that they don't want anyone other than me to fill the position next year. However, on a technicality, I was only a temporary teacher this year because I was hired 7 days after the start of school. Thus, I woud have to surrender my position by June 30th. I hoped and prayed that nobody would apply.

They posted five positions for us temps. Mine was the only one not applied for. All the other temporary teachers are being let go of in favor of more experienced, senior teachers coming in, but they have decided to keep me! I found all of this out only this Wednesday, while I was supervising final exams in the gym. My principal pulled me out, shook my hand, and said, "I'd like to officially offer you the job for next year." All I could do was cover my mouth dumbly and say, "Really? Really!" with tears in my eyes. My wonderful principal laughed and said, "I'll take that as a yes."

Next year I will be teaching all language arts or ESL, my two passions, and the two areas I'm heavily trained in. This year, I just found out, all my classes did the best on their language arts final exams out of all the kids in the school. Yesterday, as I was cleaning my classroom, eight girls wandered in and begged me if I'd be their L.A. teacher next year. I had to laugh their question off outwardly, but inside, I beamed. When they said, "All the students said they learned so much from you this year," it was the greatest compliment of my professional life.

In addition, as if the news couldn't get any better, I found out that next year they're upgrading my classroom to be one of the nicest ones in the whole school! I'll have windows, uniform student desks, and a new computer! I am ecstatic! I spent two hours yesterday in that new room, washing the walls and all the built-in shelving units. I started hauling reading books and binders and making it my own.

At this point, to me, September cannot come fast enough!

However, on the flip side, K-school has also led me through some of the hardest times of my life, and I have never felt so angry at certain times as when I've been teaching these junior highers. I've also never felt as scared or nervous or in danger. Do you like that sneak preview? More on that scoop tomorrow!

{ a taste of heaven }

chewy double chocolate cookies

Yesterday, for Father's Day, I made a batch of my famous chewy double chocolate cookies for my dad. Seeing as both he and I are total choc-o-holics, I thought it would be a good start to our week. I came up with this recipe two years ago when I blended a couple of different recipes together--it is now my absolute favorite cookie recipe. Give it a whirl sometime!

Lisa's Chewy Double Chocolate Cookies

2 cups all purpose flour
¾ cup cocoa
1 tsp. baking soda
½ tsp. salt
1 ¼ cups butter/margarine *
2 cups sugar
2 eggs
2 tsp. vanilla extract
1 ⅔ cups chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350°F. Stir together flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt. In large mixer bowl, beat butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Add eggs and vanilla; beat well. Gradually add flour mixture, beating well. Stir in chocolate chips. Drop by rounded teaspoons onto ungreased cookie sheet. Bake 8-9 minutes (do not overbake--cookies will be soft). Cool slightly; remove from cookie sheet to wire rack. Cool completely.

Makes approximately 2 dozen medium-sized cookies.

* I have only ever made this recipe with Becel soft margarine, and it always works well.

{ a caution }

pussywillows; photo taken several weeks ago

It is interesting that tree procreation and reproduction and fruition can be such a beautiful thing. Several weeks ago, the first things that came out to show off were these pussywillows, catching their most beautiful light that certain mid-afternoon.

Following them were the blossoms that came out as the opening act a few weeks later. Dazzling pinks and snow whites and magentas and purples impressed us all as they paved the way for the early fruits that are still to come.

Last night, we had a barbeque outside with friends at the park. This time, it was the poplars' turn to show off. We had claimed our little barbeque pit in the midst of a poplar grove, which had the appearance of being snowed in. White fluff rained in a continuous stream down from the trees, which looked like they had amassed millions of cotton balls in a matter of one week. The ground was white with the seedy stuff; some chunks were so big that it looked like perhaps a whole truckloud of white cats and white rabbits had fought there for a fortnight.

We roasted our weinies and ate our potato salad there in nature, at first enjoying the splendor of it. After a few minutes, we grew tired of attempting to pick the stuff out of our hair, off of our shoulders (I told a friend it looked like a white bird had exploded while sitting on her shoulder), and out of our food. Once in a while I simply pretended not to see the light colored fluff in my coleslaw, and I thought there must be little to no harm in eating a very small amount of it.

Maybe I was wrong. This morning, from the instant I woke up, my nose has been watering incessantly and the insides of my ears and throat are itching like crazy. I suspect it was the fluff after all.

If you spend the day in nature today, please just enjoy the beauty from afar; don't injest it too deeply!

{ bones }

our house in stage four

Well, the house updates just keep rolling in, and we wanted to keep friends and family posted! This is what I'm calling stage four, and as you can see, the second floor is all up, and the bones of the roof have gone up. It is an exciting time! We can't believe how quickly this is all happening right now. If the sunshine continues, I'm sure the windows and doors will follow the roof quite quickly.

Here's another little teaser (click for larger):

{ our house: stage three }

the first floor being framed

So, the framing is going up quickly now. We can see the beginnings of where things will be--our fireplace, our bathroom, our staircase. It's very exciting!! We were very lucky to even be allowed up that shaky ramp to stand inside the house and check it out. They suspect the entire thing will be framed, complete with a roof and everything, within a week or two! Fun, fun!

See a larger version of the collage here.

{ six days ago }

homemade greek salad, on the patio

Six days ago, it was Sunday, and we had the chance to see our dear friends, Evelyn and Jacob. It was swelteringly hot, and we couldn't decide which was worse--the beating heat of the sun on our balcony, or the stuffy heat inside our condo, with all its blinds and curtains closed. We opted to hang out on the balcony while we visited together. After only a short while, we decided a small spot of lunch was definitely in order. We walked down to the store together and picked up a few ingredients for a perfect scorcher of a day. Hotdogs and fresh buns were a given, and vegetables for a fresh salad also seemed invaluable. We chose one long, English cucumber, five gorgeous on-the-vine tomatoes, a medium red oninon, and a small tub of feta cheese.

Back at home, the boys worked the barbeque outside while we girls opened a window in the kitchen and got to work washing and peeling and chopping and mixing. We created this chunky, delicious greek salad in a matter of moments, topping it with some bottled Greek dressing and tossing it in the fridge to chill for a few minutes.

Twenty minutes later, the four of us were sitting on the balcony, rotating chairs every few minutes so that we took turns in and out of the sun. We sucked back can after can of chilly ginger ale and talked about subjects both heavy and light over grilled hot dogs. Dessert consisted of cheap, no-name fudgsicles that couldn't have tasted any better at that moment.

All in all it was a wonderfully perfect day with good friends, and good, simple food. I'm hoping this weekend might have something similar (and spontaneous) in store! We'll see!

{ and this little piggy went "ow, ow, ow" all the way home }

So three nights ago I broke two of my toes. The injured little piggies are on my left foot--the pinky and its next door neighbor. As there is nothing that anybody can do for broken toes (especially for ones as little as mine!), I've been suffering through, trying different tricks to combat the dull ache and hide the gimpy limp (loose shoes, tight shoes, flip flops, taped, not taped, etc.)

One of my students, a grade 8 boy who appropriately looks like Dennis the Menace, asked me on Friday: "Miss!! What's wrong with your leg?"

I informed him that two of my little toes were broken. He seemed taken aback. "What happened?" he asked.

I explained, "Well, I was walking in my house, and I kicked the bottom of my table, accidentally, really hard."

"Wait, wait, wait a minute," he said, clarifying. "In other words, you stubbed your toe."

"Right. I stubbed my toe."

"No, you stubbed your toes, and they actually broke."

"Right. I stubbed my toes, and they broke."

"Miss," he said with his first hint of sympathy this year, "that sucks."

Yeah, it really does. But, for the record, I'll be sticking with tight-fitting shoes and tape until they start to heal.