Good Question

"Do you love yourself?  Do you love anyone more than yourself?"

the questions were given to me for the second time, in a hurriedly-folded note, thrust into my hand my a student before she left my classroom for the last time.  today was the last day of the semester, and my last day with most of my students.  it was written in my student's pretty curled script.

in Tuesday's class, i asked my students to write down any hanging topics they would like to discuss in our final period.  i got a range from, "How can I get over bad things that have happened in my past?" to, "I need help dealing with heartbreak," to "Do you love yourself? Do you love anyone more than yourself?"  i took teacher's liberty and paraphrased 7 of the questions, put them on cards, and passed them out for class discussion.  i'd changed up the above question to, "How do you know if you love yourself?"

my student who asked me is a beautiful girl who has recently moved from India.  she gets frustrated with me here and there, and she and i sometimes write notes back and forth to discuss things.  her last note communicated well her message to me that i had missed her point.  in fact, it was even re-written on the back of my paraphrased card.  

so, she gave me a second chance.  the bell had rung and we had some still time.  after she was sure i'd read her questions, she began shuffling through graded papers to let me know the answers needed to come now.  

"Are you asking these questions specifically to me?"

A single, determined nod.

"Do I love myself?  Yes."

An exhaled, ha! laugh.

"Lately, a couple of people have told me they feel that I don't love myself.  Sometimes people misunderstand each other.  But, I do love myself, even if sometimes I am not completely confident."

her eyes narrow, paper shuffling becomes more terse.

"I know that I love myself because I accept myself, even though I'm not perfect.  And I know I am important to the world."

still no verbal response.  suddenly it occurs to me that possibly she was looking for a philosophical conversation, not a confession.  i feel a bit vulnerable.  then, remember i am talking to the most private person i've ever met.  my confession is safe.

"Do I love anyone more than myself?"  hmmm.  pause.

she looks up, to see why i didn't finish.

i didn't finish because i don't know.

"i don't know how to measure love for other people with love for myself.  i don't know.  i do love other people."

another, knowing, laugh.

"Do you love yourself?"

she answers.

"Does your mother love herself?

i don't think she'd thought of that.

"Do you love anyone more than yourself?"

another answer.  i'm not sharing, because it's her private information.  

i was very intrigued by this conversation.  unfortunately right at this point, students began pouring in the room to discuss their sudden interest in getting good grades.  it reminded me of a poster one of my teachers had on her wall back in my day, "Lack of preparedness on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine."  i had to leave the conversation, and my philosopher's mother was waiting.  

her question is yet unanswered.  and i am not satisfied with her own answers.  the semester ended too soon!

The Notebook

i just found a notebook I used during my final semester of grad school at Penn. it has an empty section that i'm going to use now for study notes as i prepare to teach a sunday school class. each time i open it i find a new little treasure: contact info for the professor who kicked my intellectual butt and i admire him for it, especially since he helped me become a better academic writer; questions that led the last chunk of research i did on charter school authorization--interesting to see the thought process of the biggest project of my life; ideas for vocabulary instruction: concept circles, multiple contexts...; a sweet lesson plan Jill and i wrote to teach a short story through superstitions; chicken-scratch, shorthand notes i jotted down right after my then-boyfriend told me he loved me for the first time--it was in a parking lot outside the building my class was in, afterwards i ran to class (late) and wrote down everything. cute. and another thing, a short story i wrote during a dialect exercise for my English Methods class. it is untitled.

This is my dad. The picture shows just the two of us, 'cause it's just the two of us that's left. My mom and two brothers were in a car accident and died. I used to say they were killed, but when I used to tell people that word they thought I was being dramatic. At least that's what I think they thought of me. That was back when I cared what people thought of me. I don't, now. So I guess I can say that my mom and two brothers were killed in a car crash and it don't matter how I say it.

Before the crash, I used to help my mom with my little brothers. They were always running around and getting into trouble. I had to keep an eye on them for my mom on account of her headaches. She would just get really mad at them. I knew they didn't know any better so I just tried to keep them under control. This one time, though, I still feel really bad about it. When we came home from the store one night Matty showed me this pack of gum he stole. It was the Bubbalicious kind that you can pop bubbles with, that you can smell it clear across the room. Well he showed that to me because he was going to share it with me and Jonathan. I thought it was pretty nice of him to share. And I sort of felt bad for him because he was all nervous and too excited to eat it. But then I saw it and even though he told me to "shshshsh," I still told my mom. She was really mad and we had to take it back to the store and give it back and Matty was crying. Mom didn't care if he was crying. She just got a headache and grounded him for a week. Now I think...he was just trying to share with me. Maybe I shoulda just let that go and ate some gum with him.

So now it's just the two of us, me and my dad. Things are better now than after the accident. They're just different. But at least my dad isn't freaking out all the time. It's weird to see him crying and try to take care of things without my mom. And sometimes it's awkward with just the two of us alone, but we got to where we really like watching movies with eating popcorn and chocolate. Mom, that was her favorite mix in her mouth and so we eat that just when watch movies.


that's it. the dialect is heard better in my own handwriting. i wonder what made me pick such a sad subject. i can't recall, but i do remember that i was too timid to read it infront of the class, even though i wanted to. so there it is.

Girl Advice

i couldn't fall asleep last night because i was excited to see my students.  weird but true.  and it's a good thing school started again, because ________ needed to have a conversation.  it went like this, as he sauntered up to my desk after class:

him: "miss, have you noticed that people don't really hold hands anymore?"

me, not really paying much attention: "i have not noticed.  in fact, people actually still do hold hands."

him: "i hate holding hands."

me, now only pretending to not be paying much attention: "girls like it."

him, with a manly snarl: "i feel like i am going to, like, crush the girl's hand or something." 

me: "well, how exactly are you holding hands?"

him: "just holdin'.  then, my hand gets all sweaty and i feel weird when i have to let go to wipe it on my pants.  it's sick."

me: "don't let your palms touch.  just lace your fingers together, but don't smash the hands to each other.  and sometimes you can sort of change position or switch hands."

his eyes narrow in thought.

me, gently:  "holding hands is something ya just should do, if you like the girl.  it's nice.  it's most important that you grab her hand with confidence.  act like you know what you're doing."

him, shrugging:  "well anyway, happy new year."

hee hee.  cute.