A Professional Move

I wrote the following at the last reunion of my summer writing class...which was also the last time I posted on this blog...loser! Blah, blah, school, blah, blah, busy. Anywho, the assignment was to think of a way that our personal lives are reflected in our teaching. So this is what I thought of on or about April 5, 2008. Enjoy!
Eight days ago I was the meanest I’ve ever been to anyone I wasn’t related to. I actually yelled in a man’s face, called him a liar, repeated a half dozen times at escalating levels, “you mean to tell me…”, called his boss a dozen times, and generally was a raging bitch. This all stemmed from feeling I was horrendously ripped off by the men I had hired to move my heaviest possessions from my cave of an apartment into my glorious, sunbeam-streaked house.
While the actual move was an exercise in frustration, sexism and general exposure to the shady side of things, I couldn’t be happier with my move because of the new living situation I find myself in. While the house has all the trappings of the finer life—washer/dryer, tall shower heads, excellent water pressure and a dishwasher that works so well silverware comes out so hot and clean it actually feels soft—this isn’t the thing that makes me beyond delighted and happy.
For the first time since college, I have a roommate. His name is Mike, and he is the kind of friend that you can have an amazing day on the lake with, or just recover from a hangover while watching movies. We have a tremendous amount in common, are both easily amused by one another, and have a similar outlook on life, and things we find entertaining.
Mike suggested at the start of a weekend in Tahoe that we should think about getting a place together. I remember not even hesitating, it just seemed like a perfect fit. After returning home, I started to have doubts about whether moving in with a roommate was more of a step back in life. Don’t people start with roommates, not get one at the age of 32? I could afford to live alone…what’s the deal?
Time passed, we found a place, signed a lease and started packing up, but the thought of, “why am I doing this?” didn’t leave, though I still felt like it was the right decision.
It was only after my moving maladies, and then my first week in the new place that I realized that what I needed was a fresh start. My year at school had been very taxing. New grade level, new team members, no classroom partner, my best friend at the school left, and a whole new batch of problems that couldn’t be solved with the simple kindergarten discussions “Nice people don’t hit” that had been so effective only months before.
I realized that I would go home and really dissolve into my cave. In previous years, my teaching partner and I would laugh daily about things that happened, talk about problems we were having, and strategize moving forward. This year, while I was surrounded by teachers, I was much more isolated than in the past. There was no one to laugh with, pressure was increased due to TESTING, and the burden of feeling like I had to handle and deduce all these psychological problems and parental issues on my own was overwhelming.
I need to have less of a cave to obsess over my students. I need a place to escape their problems, reboot my own system, and connect with an adult who gets me.