As Girl Friday pointed out, the universe works in hilarious ways. Presumably like my fellow weekday dishers, I was hard pressed to find time to sit down with blogger this week-- but for me it was because I was on the road in the deep south. My first trip there, ever.
So, this Girl Wednesday wanted to take a few minutes this Saturday to think about what I witnessed and to see what yaw'll think about it.
Having grown up in a part of Long Island that's so heavily visited by people from New York City, and having grown up to move there, I usually have a hard time figuring out what draws people to live in parts of the country that do not at least somewhat frequently interact with city folk.. Not to mention places that are planes, trains, and automobiles away from the Big Apple. (I fully recognize my ignorance here, is equivalent to one's small-town mentality. I am not proud of this by the way).
My producer and I drove from the airport in New Orleans to Gulfport, Mississippi. A three hour trip. We drove the low bridge that hovers over boisterous muddy waters, the humid green of the bayou, the endless stretch of rolling highway surrounded cavernous woods in the brightest greens I've ever seen. We switched highways, briefly passing through bursts of oversized strip malls; then, less populated areas with mom-and-pop truck stops surrounded by small junk yards, antique shops, and magnolia trees.
Right before we hit the gulf, there was a long row of fast food restaurants, and a vacant border town.
Then-- remnants of old southern mansions dotted the coast, amid sun-bleached sand and blue water: Long Beach, Gulfport, Biloxi, Bay St. Louis and Pass Christian- where hurricane winds and waters have left almost nothing of a sleepy, happy town.
I was sort of knocked off my feet by the beauty- especially of Pass Christian- which actually felt so much like home, I was surprised when people spoke and a southern drawl came out.
We were there interviewing hurricane survivors for a show we're working on. And speaking with these people, who so loved their home that literally not hell nor high water could convince them to live someplace else, made me realize that maybe not everyone cares about New York City and wishes they were there. And maybe I am still lucky that the vegetable of the day in my neighborhood will never be "fried-red-beans-ma'am," but it doesn't mean that its the only place I'll ever love and call home. Maybe I'll find a place that I'd cling to a tree for, in the middle of 200 mile-per-hour winds, walk home barefoot, and then go rebuild my home, right where it stood before the storm wiped it out to sea.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
The Diamonds in the Rough
I think it's hillarious that only GirlTuesday has posted so far. Even I am several hours late as you can see. It's funny how the universe works. Even though we are all living totally different lives, we all find ourselves extremely busy on the same week. Except for GirlTuesday- she has tons of time. J/K! She's probably the busiest, but also the most responsible.
I thought a lot of teachers in my school district were deplorable. When I was in 4th grade and we did a Social Studies unit on our town, my teacher insisted that our town was incorporated. It's not. I got that fact wrong on the test, even though I was actually right, but the test ending up being thrown out anyway because it was so poorly constructed. Yup, teachers that can't write a decent exam for 4th graders learning about their hometown. That's my district.
But okay, some were good. My 3rd grade teacher was extremely demanding and yelled all the time. No one wanted her. I was really scared when I was assigned to her class. But thank goodness I was. She was one of the only teachers I have had who actually pushed her kids and wanted them to literally be the best they could. 3rd grade was a crucial year for me-- it was the year I became the girl who would eventually be in all honors and AP's, and go on to elite schools and jobs. Now that is influence.
Someone else I also really appreciate is my junior high orchestra teacher. Since we had to set up our instruments before we starting rehearsing in class, a lot of students would take advantage and get to Orchestra class after the bell rang, since it was hard for the teacher to notice. But she started to. She warned us that we would get detention if we were late. But I didn't worry about it. I figured, I was a good kid, I had never gotten in trouble and I never would. Sure enough, I was late one day and she made me go to detention. I think this was also a great lesson, that you can't expect your reputation to save you, and you will lose it if you don't maintain it.
Teachers do have a lot of influence and I'm quite relieved that although there were a lot of duds involved in my education, there were also some gems.
I thought a lot of teachers in my school district were deplorable. When I was in 4th grade and we did a Social Studies unit on our town, my teacher insisted that our town was incorporated. It's not. I got that fact wrong on the test, even though I was actually right, but the test ending up being thrown out anyway because it was so poorly constructed. Yup, teachers that can't write a decent exam for 4th graders learning about their hometown. That's my district.
But okay, some were good. My 3rd grade teacher was extremely demanding and yelled all the time. No one wanted her. I was really scared when I was assigned to her class. But thank goodness I was. She was one of the only teachers I have had who actually pushed her kids and wanted them to literally be the best they could. 3rd grade was a crucial year for me-- it was the year I became the girl who would eventually be in all honors and AP's, and go on to elite schools and jobs. Now that is influence.
Someone else I also really appreciate is my junior high orchestra teacher. Since we had to set up our instruments before we starting rehearsing in class, a lot of students would take advantage and get to Orchestra class after the bell rang, since it was hard for the teacher to notice. But she started to. She warned us that we would get detention if we were late. But I didn't worry about it. I figured, I was a good kid, I had never gotten in trouble and I never would. Sure enough, I was late one day and she made me go to detention. I think this was also a great lesson, that you can't expect your reputation to save you, and you will lose it if you don't maintain it.
Teachers do have a lot of influence and I'm quite relieved that although there were a lot of duds involved in my education, there were also some gems.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Those who can, teach.
Chalk it up to the fact that I come from a long line of teachers, but I've always had the utmost respect for academia. So I'm finding it particularly difficult to craft a blog entry about a single teacher or professor who had a significant impact on my life. The truth of the matter is, when you add up my pre-school, elementary school, middle-school, high school, college, graduate school, and law school experiences, I am the product of nearly 200 teachers. Add to that the coaches, mentors, TAs, guidance counselors, advisors, each bestowing upon me the lessons you cannot learn in a classroom, and the number approaches closer to 250.
I'd be lying to say that every single one of those 250 people imparted upon me a lesson I carry with me today. And it would be absolutely false to suggest that I enjoyed each and every class I sat through. Frankly, there were some in middle-school that I probably could have taught better than the teacher. . . BUT- I can say that who I am today because of the support and encouragement of a long line of teachers. So I thought I'd adopt yet another list highlighting the very best.
- My mom. No, I was not homeschooled. But my mom was my gifted education teacher in elementary school. I found it terribly annoying at the time, but she was, hands-down, the only teacher in the gifted curriculum that actually did well at making extracurricular actually fun and challenging. While I'm glad she didn't follow me to middle and high-school, the folks who were around when she did move up to those grades were far more fortunate than I.
- My middle school art teacher. She did far more for my brother than she did for me, but being asked to participate in extra art classes and being given the liberty to explore new mediums outside the every-day classroom instilled in me an appreciation for fine-arts that I carry with me today. It's the same love that leads me to sit, fascinated, for hours in the national gallery, staring at the same picture, and seeing something new each time.
- My ninth grade English teacher. Hands down, the scariest man on the face of the plannet. I can't tell you how many times I wanted to throw Great Expectations out the car window, down the trash chute, into the pool, or off the deck while reading it the summer before I started high school as part of our assigned reading; but the fundamentals of grammar, composition, and critical reading we built during that year-long course planted the seads of the writer and reader I would eventually become.
- My junior and Senior year English teachers. They were the best of friends and the best of teachers. Quirky in a way that I would only later come to realize typified the best of the English profession, they walked me through the woods with Walden and Dillard; guided us to the town square with Hester Pryne; and took us to the Bull Fights with Ernest Hemmingway. Sure, there was Gatsby and Catcher in the Rye and Hamlet and all the "typical" high school thomes. But then there was As You Like It, and As I lay Dying, and Portrait of and Artist as a Young Man, and the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. They taught me to pick apart the words on the pages in search of greater meaning, of aesthetic truth, and of intellectual engagement. And they taught me to put pen to paper. To show, not tell. To craft, not speak.
- My senior year government teacher. Quirkier still than the english pair, she was a rather nutty woman with more passion for the constitution than I have every witnessed. Until, of course, she introduced me to the Federalist Papers. Numbers 10 and 51. That was all we read then. It was not until college that I would come to understand her penchant for all things steeped in the great American Experiment. But, looking back, the passion that still burns deep within me began as a spark in that classrooom.
My college professors were even more important, still. My Poli Sci advisor is probably, hands down, the best mentor I've ever found. Critical yet fair, and always impassioned, she took that spark and helped me shape it into a career. My time and narrative prof helped me not only understand, but actually love Virginia Woolf. Yes, you read that correctly. My American Fiction professor turned Melville into music, and my digital imaging professor opened the world of photoshop to my fingertips.
By the time I'd reached graduate school, my thirst for knowledge had grown a bit less awestruck and a bit more focused. But the inspiration remained-- my International Security Professor taught me the true spirit of courage and service to the country. His stories from Vietnam were breathtaking, and the lessons he sought to impart, even more sobering. My political analysis professor-- a stickler for the red pen, taught me how to peel away verbiage from my prose with the fine scalple of an analyst (no, you wouldn't know it from my blogs, I know). My torts professor didn't teach me much about torts (at least my grades wouldn't seem to say so), but she did teach me about how not to let law school beat me down, but rather, how to hold my head high and succeed. And my constitutional law professor taught better than anyone I've ever met and will likely meet again.
Now that I've been forced into the "real world" and away from the classroom, these are just some of the the voices and lessons I carry with me each and every day. If only the world had more like them.
I'd be lying to say that every single one of those 250 people imparted upon me a lesson I carry with me today. And it would be absolutely false to suggest that I enjoyed each and every class I sat through. Frankly, there were some in middle-school that I probably could have taught better than the teacher. . . BUT- I can say that who I am today because of the support and encouragement of a long line of teachers. So I thought I'd adopt yet another list highlighting the very best.
- My mom. No, I was not homeschooled. But my mom was my gifted education teacher in elementary school. I found it terribly annoying at the time, but she was, hands-down, the only teacher in the gifted curriculum that actually did well at making extracurricular actually fun and challenging. While I'm glad she didn't follow me to middle and high-school, the folks who were around when she did move up to those grades were far more fortunate than I.
- My middle school art teacher. She did far more for my brother than she did for me, but being asked to participate in extra art classes and being given the liberty to explore new mediums outside the every-day classroom instilled in me an appreciation for fine-arts that I carry with me today. It's the same love that leads me to sit, fascinated, for hours in the national gallery, staring at the same picture, and seeing something new each time.
- My ninth grade English teacher. Hands down, the scariest man on the face of the plannet. I can't tell you how many times I wanted to throw Great Expectations out the car window, down the trash chute, into the pool, or off the deck while reading it the summer before I started high school as part of our assigned reading; but the fundamentals of grammar, composition, and critical reading we built during that year-long course planted the seads of the writer and reader I would eventually become.
- My junior and Senior year English teachers. They were the best of friends and the best of teachers. Quirky in a way that I would only later come to realize typified the best of the English profession, they walked me through the woods with Walden and Dillard; guided us to the town square with Hester Pryne; and took us to the Bull Fights with Ernest Hemmingway. Sure, there was Gatsby and Catcher in the Rye and Hamlet and all the "typical" high school thomes. But then there was As You Like It, and As I lay Dying, and Portrait of and Artist as a Young Man, and the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. They taught me to pick apart the words on the pages in search of greater meaning, of aesthetic truth, and of intellectual engagement. And they taught me to put pen to paper. To show, not tell. To craft, not speak.
- My senior year government teacher. Quirkier still than the english pair, she was a rather nutty woman with more passion for the constitution than I have every witnessed. Until, of course, she introduced me to the Federalist Papers. Numbers 10 and 51. That was all we read then. It was not until college that I would come to understand her penchant for all things steeped in the great American Experiment. But, looking back, the passion that still burns deep within me began as a spark in that classrooom.
My college professors were even more important, still. My Poli Sci advisor is probably, hands down, the best mentor I've ever found. Critical yet fair, and always impassioned, she took that spark and helped me shape it into a career. My time and narrative prof helped me not only understand, but actually love Virginia Woolf. Yes, you read that correctly. My American Fiction professor turned Melville into music, and my digital imaging professor opened the world of photoshop to my fingertips.
By the time I'd reached graduate school, my thirst for knowledge had grown a bit less awestruck and a bit more focused. But the inspiration remained-- my International Security Professor taught me the true spirit of courage and service to the country. His stories from Vietnam were breathtaking, and the lessons he sought to impart, even more sobering. My political analysis professor-- a stickler for the red pen, taught me how to peel away verbiage from my prose with the fine scalple of an analyst (no, you wouldn't know it from my blogs, I know). My torts professor didn't teach me much about torts (at least my grades wouldn't seem to say so), but she did teach me about how not to let law school beat me down, but rather, how to hold my head high and succeed. And my constitutional law professor taught better than anyone I've ever met and will likely meet again.
Now that I've been forced into the "real world" and away from the classroom, these are just some of the the voices and lessons I carry with me each and every day. If only the world had more like them.
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