16 is 80

Tonight I spoke with Lars, who reminded me of numerous things I seem to have forgotten.  (Perhaps also some things I wasn't aware of when they happened.)  We were together in the Nerdroom in eighth (or maybe ninth?) grade, when four of us were singled out for special attention from the school's resource program teacher.  I think she was meant to provide some sort of enrichment for the nerds, but as far as I can recall, she did not.  At best, it gave us some sense of normalcy to house us and our great big brains all together in one room.  We normalized each other's intelligence, I suppose, but we also normalized each other's neuroses.

AB was hands-down the craziest.  All through ninth grade she had pretend fainting spells.  In high school she flooded her father's house intentionally to punish him for divorcing her mother.  Later that year she tried to light the same house on fire.  I wonder what their insurance company did with this situation.

BG was angry and bitter and pretended to be a motorhead so his brother wouldn't call him a pussy.  His mother was verbally abusive, and not just in private, but right out in public where we all could be impressed with her vocabulary.  She once called me a whoreslut when I kissed my boyfriend in front of her house.  (I was thirteen.)  BG slumped around trying to be invisible, trying to blend in with the industrial arts crew.

Lars was probably the brightest star in the Nerdroom.  He was blond, of course, and handsome and well-spoken.  The sort of boy who teachers wanted in their classes.  The sort of boy who we knew would be a professor (he is) and do impressive things (he does).  Except he was also angry, secretly angry.  He quietly hated his father.  And sometimes he pretended to have lost his voice when we knew he hadn't.

And me.  I do not think I was as smart as the other three.  I was chosen for my reading skills, but they must have forgotten to test me in math.  If they had checked my math skills, they'd have known I was subordinary.  I was the token artist, maybe; the others were all far better rounded.  I may well have been as angry as my three co-nerds, but I do not think I was quite aware of it yet.  I was moderately well behaved at this age, and respectfully frightened of adults.

Lars reminded me of weird class projects he paid attention to, and I did not.  It was interesting to me that he could remember the projects, but not the names of the people with whom we shared them.  (I remembered all the people, but not the projects.)  He remembered all the pavilions at Expo '86.  I had clearer memories of the travel - and the personalities of my classmates.

And after a little wade through these memories of the past, I poked a bit at the present because I cannot resist asking personal and inappropriate questions.  And we talked about his separation from his wife, her addiction and mental illness, and his life as a single parent.  At this point I probably overwhelmed him because I specialize in that.  And that was how we ended our reunion.

*

distracted and diffused

Ophelia
Tom Petty
Millerville market
reading week
Sunday mornings at Franscisco's
my sister


*

I reread, from time to time, the things I have written here, and ask myself what I was trying to say.  I write about work, a lot, obviously.  I recognize that I am obsessed, to some degree, with my career.  I recognize, to some degree, that this is not a healthy thing.  And I also recognize that I don't want to do anything about it, not really.  I choose it - at least I choose it most of the time.  I also recognize my potential for burnout, and my nonsensical martyrdom as everyone else calls in sick and I march forward with bronchitis, as though there is some reward for this kind of behaviour other than getting to work more.  I also recognize, truly, that I am most happy on the island with the ocean and the otters and the quiet, but it is sometimes difficult to access the part of my soul that lets solitude seep in the way it should - silently and gently in my sleep.


*

conres

The first part of the week I spent at the Justice Centre learning things about conflict resolution and mediation.  My union paid for this enlightenment; it is my reward for bringing these skills to their processes and helping colleagues manage their conflicts internally rather than involving management.  I am perpetually amazed at how much our union attempts to have us align against the people we should be working with collaboratively.  Whatever, I wanted to take the course for my benefit.

All conflict is internal.  Sometimes conflict involves other people too.


*

new

Last night a former student contacted me.  Former from quite early in my career, maybe around the year 2000.  I tried to figure out his age based on when I think I taught him and I came up with somewhere between 27 and 32.  At first I assumed it was a pocket call, because he and I don't talk on the phone.  We have a Facebook-only kind of friendship that has consisted of an initial hello and not much since.  I didn't pick up.

He called again a few minutes later, dashing my belief.  This time I assumed he was drunk, because who tries to call their former teacher at 10:00pm on New Year's Eve unless they're drunk and stupid?  I didn't answer it that time either because I don't want to talk to a drunk and stupid former student.

After that he sent an instant message, and that got me curious.  What could inspire this kind of determination to get in touch with me after all this time?  So I answered - in text form.  He wasn't drunk.  (He's a recovering addict.)  He was sad.  Which I guess is worse, but I'm a sucker for that.  His mother had just died.  I believed myself to be in for a long draining conversation about life and death... but he didn't seem to want that after all.  He just wanted to chat, to reminisce about being fourteen, I guess, and how much he loved Drama class back in those days.

It was all kind of baffling.  He kept telling me that I had brought him back from his cocaine addiction.  And that I was responsible for his current success.  And several of his friends' too.  It makes no sense, really, because I was kind of a shit teacher back in those days, making up my lesson plans in the car on the way to work, scrambling to fill the time with something, anything, to keep the kids busy and not causing mayhem.  I didn't remember a lot of the life-altering experiences he credited me with orchestrating.

He asked if I would be back on the Winter Prairies any time soon, to which the answer is a million times NO.  He said he would be here in April.  He wants to connect.  I feel ambivalent.

The idea that I could have been inspiring is lovely.  But I have trouble believing it, honestly, because I know I was a sloppy disorganized mess.  This is a strange career where you have no real idea who you impact or how until they come back to tell you nearly twenty years later, and even then you don't know if you can believe them.

But still, it was interesting to be put back in touch with my youngest career self, my energy and my ridiculous optimism.  I think I like that version of myself, even though she's always in a bit of a scramble.  I like the way I had time to waste time making kids feel known.  I hope I still do that well, now that I do it with purpose.  I hope the lack of spontaneity these days doesn't make it seem less genuine or honest.

Also, I suppose that when people go out of their way to tell us that we've done something good for them, we are not meant to be suspicious of it, but rather to savour it, and to be grateful for having received it.  It is a rather rare and special gift.  I will wrap it back up and allow myself to reopen it again when I need it.