Papa: "Where are you going dressed like that??"
Caught. But not so fast....
Me: "I am going to the movies with Becky."
Papa: pondering and rubbing his chin "What time will you be home? It should be before sunset."
Me: exasperated and rolling my eyes "I cannot align the timing of the movie with when the sun sets!"
Papa: "Are you arguing with me? Because if you are, you are not allowed out. And don't you roll your eyes at me, young lady!"
Me: pretending to be sweet and caring "Right you are Papa! I am wrong about the sunset time. But I will make sure to be home before 10pm"
Papa: "10pm?! You are going to run the streets at night like some common hoodlum, with no rules or edicate? Is this the reputation my eldest daughter must project? You will be a loose teenager, without morals and dignity, coming home at such a God awful time??" middle vein in forehead is now popping out and pulsating
Me: cursing under my breath and looking for my mother to step in...anytime Mama, your husband is driving me crazy "No Papa. We will go straight the theatre, watch the movie, and come straight home. You know Becky will get me home at a respectable time...I promise!!" ringing my hands with desparation and trying to stand with good posture and a demure smile
Papa: raising one eyebrow and thinking intently with an intimidating stare "Fine, but if you arrive home one minute past ten, I will ground you for a week and make you organize the newspapers!"
OMG--not the newspapers. Normal people threw them out the same day after reading. Not my father. He collected three months worth of papers and made us chronologically order them with the pretext that he was looking to cut out his favorite articles (he never did). All organized just to be thrown out. Bloody hell.....
Papa: "OK go. But don't embaress me at the theatre. Someone may know you."
Score!!!!
I grab my purse and exit the house before he changes his mind. Becky is waiting outside her house in her car. I jump in the passenger side and signal her to leave in the direction of the theatre as I can see my father staring out the side window at us.. I quickly instruct her to turn down a street to my school, out of my father's sight. We make it to the school, where the dance has already begun. We 'high five' and I jump out and ask her to pick me up at 9:45.
Homefree.
I walk in and the dance is already underway and I meet up with two of my school friends who are in the corner, sipping soft drinks and giggling quietly at the couples slow dancing on the floor. We stand and watch, hoping to be asked to dance but knowing full well no boy in his right mind would even fathom the idea of asking us. We would dance the fast songs, trying to get close to the boys but they see us coming a mile away and beeline towards the 'popular' girls who wear tight Jordache jeans, legwarmers, revealing tops and feathered hair. I pushed up my glasses to prevent them from slipping off my nose during fast songs.
Fast forward to 9:45. I run outside with my trusted neighbor waiting for me. Climb into her car, make it home at 9:55, run in the house, show my face to my father who is sitting in the living room, with the light on, pretending to read the newspaper I would be organizing a month from now.
Papa: "Why are you all sweaty?"
Me: thinking quickly "It was a scary movie and I got scared and broke out in a sweat."
Papa: grimacing and shaking his head "Why the hell are you watching scary movies? You won't sleep all night, then be tired the next morning and insist on missing school! Did I allow you to see a scary movie? Is this movie rated PG? Because if its AA (adult accompany) I will ground you right now on the spot!!"
Me: "I saw a PG-13 movie. It was a cartoon..."
Papa: "Ohhhhh, ok. Cartoon is acceptable as long as there is no nudity..."
Wha???
I go upstairs and close the door. I hug myself and laugh. That was too easy! I'm snuggling in my warm bed when he whips my door open an hour later, with an all-knowing look, with the newspaper under his arm.
Papa: "You think you are REALLY smart, don't you" wagging his finger at me with one hand on his hip.
Caught. Damn.
Me: "But Papa, you don't understand. You need to let me be a teenager and try everything. It doesn't mean I am bad..."
And I thought it was so easy. My game was up. I was caught and would be grounded for the rest of the school year and monitored. How did he find out? Did he follow me?
Me: "I promise, I won't do it again...its out of my system...I didn't dance...."
Papa: interrupting "So you thought you could trick me, didn't you? You think you are smarter than your father?!?!"
Me: "No Papa, but I have needs...."
Papa:"Needs? There is no horror cartoon showing! shaking the entertainment section at me...You watched an AA movie with nudity didn't you? Why you need to see naked people? Shame on you. I swear you go out at night and the devil follows you!"
I lifted my blanket to cover my smile. It really was all too easy.....
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Teacher Preacher
A teacher can make or break you.
I remember seeing my teachers as non-human. Running into them outside of school left me feeling strange. They had lives too? They shopped for groceries, put gas in their cars and had families of their own? But during the school year, they were a steady fixture in the classroom, a part of my daily life. They represented an extension of my parents who would help me overcome my hardships as I tried to fit in an ever-changing environment that continually sucked me in and then spit me out.
Teachers were there to help the ones continue to perform well and give additional support for those who struggled to grasp the concepts.
Grade 7 was one of my best years. Mrs. Peacock-Snider was my homeroom teacher. She loved my work and I received constant public praise for all my subjects. However, all Hell broke loose when it came to Math and my life seemed to turn down a dangerous path. Our homeroom class always had a different Math teacher every grade. And I never seemed to be paired with the right one.
Mr. Rhodes was probably the most popular teacher in our elementary school--all the kids loved him, and initially, so did I. He was extremely witty, funny and engaging in the classroom. He made our class fun and enjoyable. But it took half a year to realize that his treatment of me differed from the rest of the class. And I started believing that there must be something wrong with me if everyone else loved him.
No matter how hard I tried to impress Mr. Rhodes, by studying hard, doing the bonus questions on all the math tests and staying after school for extra help, I never fell into his good books. I tried my best to achieve the highest marks in his class but I fell short. Everyone else understood the concepts and teaching methods but, alas, I struggled the whole year. I finally came to grips that my mind just didn't work that way. And it didn't help feeling ostracized on top of that.
"Mr. Rhodes, I just don't know why I get Bs every test! I study hard, come for extra help. I guess I really don't get it," I remarked one day after school. There was one other girl waiting with her Math book under her arm while I spoke. I scratched the mop on my head and adjusted my glasses. Tara brushed aside her lovely blond hair, and fluttered her blue eyes while smoothing her stylish clothing. I looked down at my ratty sweater, green pants and three year old running shoes that were one size too small.
I could tell he wanted to brush me aside so he could focus on Tara. "It's because you are lazy," he announced, avoiding eye contact, while my own eyes widened with shame. I had nowhere else to look. Was he testing me? Was he challenging the truth? I shrunk a little more. He was six feet tall and normally not menacing. That day, he seemed exasperated with me and wanted to move the conversation on.
"I am not lazy. You should see my other marks. I have the highest mark in Grade 7 in every other subject," I lowered my head so he could not see my tears.
"Well then apply the same study habits to Math as you do those subjects," he said and then turned gingerly to Tara and asked her sweetly, "What can I do for you?" He continued to ignore my presence as I waited, not realizing his last statement was a signal for me to leave. Mr. Rhodes proceeded to the blackboard to work through an equation she was stumped on. I watched how he carefully mentored her with support and encouragement until she grasped the concept. He was patient and caring--no sign of the brisk abruptness he exercised with me.
Age twelve is a young age to be disgusted with the human race, but that day was one of my lowest points in my elementary career. Too young to understand that having his approval was the not the be all and end all--however, yearning for teacher approval was like wanting your parents to hug and protect you.
Career aspirations and educational choices are directly influenced by teachers. Many have lost the passion or truly enjoy what they teach. It has negative repercussions on their students. Maybe you disagree. A teacher, parent, mentor, manager or role model. Non-existent you say?
Without a doubt, Mr. Rhodes was a great teacher--just not for me, for reasons beyond my comprehension back then and today. Perhaps I was not the model child in his eyes, God only knows. Ironically, throughout the years, I never had a 'great' math teacher, who made me love fall in love with the subject or change how I processed the concepts. And perhaps my psyche subconsciously arouses negative feelings when I think of Math because of him. Any excuse in the book?
I can tell a more positive story. And again, all it took was one teacher.
Many years ago, I switched my major in University from Sociology to English because of one tutorial assistant, Grant, who taught my first year English course that summer, off-campus. I took English as an elective course, only to fill my schedule. In short, Grant changed my destiny.
"You may not get it now, but you are on the road to greater things..." he said to me, looking me squarely in the eye, one night after class while I watched him red pen all over my first essay. He never degraded my efforts or told me I was lazy. Instead, he saw a small light and he illuminated it with his kind eyes and encouraging voice. I knew then, what he told me was the ultimate truth, to no gain of his own.
Years later, when I was the first up on stage to receive my Honours Degree in English Literature, all while finishing top of my class with High Distinction and on the Dean's list, I looked out in the crowed to my father, husband and in-laws, who were smiling and applauding wildly.
But in that moment, I could only remember Grant. He stayed with me all those years as I struggled and toiled through all my classes, balancing a family, work and school, up all hours of the night, revising and reviewing my essays. And I kept hearing his soft voice ringing in my ears, year after year, pushing me to finish and in the end, achieve greater things.
A teacher can make or break you. It's ok. I chose the right road--and I wrote it...with his help.
I remember seeing my teachers as non-human. Running into them outside of school left me feeling strange. They had lives too? They shopped for groceries, put gas in their cars and had families of their own? But during the school year, they were a steady fixture in the classroom, a part of my daily life. They represented an extension of my parents who would help me overcome my hardships as I tried to fit in an ever-changing environment that continually sucked me in and then spit me out.
Teachers were there to help the ones continue to perform well and give additional support for those who struggled to grasp the concepts.
Grade 7 was one of my best years. Mrs. Peacock-Snider was my homeroom teacher. She loved my work and I received constant public praise for all my subjects. However, all Hell broke loose when it came to Math and my life seemed to turn down a dangerous path. Our homeroom class always had a different Math teacher every grade. And I never seemed to be paired with the right one.
Mr. Rhodes was probably the most popular teacher in our elementary school--all the kids loved him, and initially, so did I. He was extremely witty, funny and engaging in the classroom. He made our class fun and enjoyable. But it took half a year to realize that his treatment of me differed from the rest of the class. And I started believing that there must be something wrong with me if everyone else loved him.
No matter how hard I tried to impress Mr. Rhodes, by studying hard, doing the bonus questions on all the math tests and staying after school for extra help, I never fell into his good books. I tried my best to achieve the highest marks in his class but I fell short. Everyone else understood the concepts and teaching methods but, alas, I struggled the whole year. I finally came to grips that my mind just didn't work that way. And it didn't help feeling ostracized on top of that.
"Mr. Rhodes, I just don't know why I get Bs every test! I study hard, come for extra help. I guess I really don't get it," I remarked one day after school. There was one other girl waiting with her Math book under her arm while I spoke. I scratched the mop on my head and adjusted my glasses. Tara brushed aside her lovely blond hair, and fluttered her blue eyes while smoothing her stylish clothing. I looked down at my ratty sweater, green pants and three year old running shoes that were one size too small.
I could tell he wanted to brush me aside so he could focus on Tara. "It's because you are lazy," he announced, avoiding eye contact, while my own eyes widened with shame. I had nowhere else to look. Was he testing me? Was he challenging the truth? I shrunk a little more. He was six feet tall and normally not menacing. That day, he seemed exasperated with me and wanted to move the conversation on.
"I am not lazy. You should see my other marks. I have the highest mark in Grade 7 in every other subject," I lowered my head so he could not see my tears.
"Well then apply the same study habits to Math as you do those subjects," he said and then turned gingerly to Tara and asked her sweetly, "What can I do for you?" He continued to ignore my presence as I waited, not realizing his last statement was a signal for me to leave. Mr. Rhodes proceeded to the blackboard to work through an equation she was stumped on. I watched how he carefully mentored her with support and encouragement until she grasped the concept. He was patient and caring--no sign of the brisk abruptness he exercised with me.
Age twelve is a young age to be disgusted with the human race, but that day was one of my lowest points in my elementary career. Too young to understand that having his approval was the not the be all and end all--however, yearning for teacher approval was like wanting your parents to hug and protect you.
Career aspirations and educational choices are directly influenced by teachers. Many have lost the passion or truly enjoy what they teach. It has negative repercussions on their students. Maybe you disagree. A teacher, parent, mentor, manager or role model. Non-existent you say?
Without a doubt, Mr. Rhodes was a great teacher--just not for me, for reasons beyond my comprehension back then and today. Perhaps I was not the model child in his eyes, God only knows. Ironically, throughout the years, I never had a 'great' math teacher, who made me love fall in love with the subject or change how I processed the concepts. And perhaps my psyche subconsciously arouses negative feelings when I think of Math because of him. Any excuse in the book?
I can tell a more positive story. And again, all it took was one teacher.
Many years ago, I switched my major in University from Sociology to English because of one tutorial assistant, Grant, who taught my first year English course that summer, off-campus. I took English as an elective course, only to fill my schedule. In short, Grant changed my destiny.
"You may not get it now, but you are on the road to greater things..." he said to me, looking me squarely in the eye, one night after class while I watched him red pen all over my first essay. He never degraded my efforts or told me I was lazy. Instead, he saw a small light and he illuminated it with his kind eyes and encouraging voice. I knew then, what he told me was the ultimate truth, to no gain of his own.
Years later, when I was the first up on stage to receive my Honours Degree in English Literature, all while finishing top of my class with High Distinction and on the Dean's list, I looked out in the crowed to my father, husband and in-laws, who were smiling and applauding wildly.
But in that moment, I could only remember Grant. He stayed with me all those years as I struggled and toiled through all my classes, balancing a family, work and school, up all hours of the night, revising and reviewing my essays. And I kept hearing his soft voice ringing in my ears, year after year, pushing me to finish and in the end, achieve greater things.
A teacher can make or break you. It's ok. I chose the right road--and I wrote it...with his help.
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