1 Comment

This Day in History: Happy Brainiversary!

I’m a history buff.  Both because I studied history in college and because I attended CU Boulder.

Go Buffs.

As a furry buffalo friend who loves all things historical, I’m always a fan of learning about the significance of any day of the year.  Like did you know that on August 12th of 1865 Sir Joseph Lister, a British surgeon, pioneered the first antiseptic surgery that would go on to promote sterile procedures, therefore saving the lives of thousands of patients across the world?

Or that on this day in 1908 the Henry Ford Motor Company built the first Model T car?

Or that on this day in 1918 the Allies defeated the Germans at the Battle of Amiens, the last great battle on the Western Front in the First World War?

Oh my goodness, look how exciting history is.  Don’t lie.  You got excited by that last one.

But more interesting to me than any of these events was the event that took place on August 12, 2014.

It was the day I had a brain hemorrhage.

It was just your average day.  If average to you means a twelve hour work day, a broken down car, and a mediocre date with a stranger.  Go big or go home I suppose.

On this day in history I woke up like any other day and began what would be the most important day of my life.  I headed to work at East High school to start a long day of district meetings, planning, and organizing the classroom with my mentor. 

As a student teacher I was eager and ready for the challenge.  But after eight hours of running around like a chicken with my head cut off I began to feel a migraine sinking in.

I shrugged it off. 

“Normal.  Totally normal.”  I reassured as I plowed through the day without stopping to address basic bodily needs like drinking water, eating, and going to the bathroom.  Who’s got time for that?

By 5pm the work day at East had ended and my mentor drove me to a coffee shop.  Because my car had broken down a day earlier and I had to bum rides until it was repaired.  She offered me a Tylenol like the angel she is because I had been complaining all day about my headache also known as a brain hemorrhage.  I insisted that I was fine.

Off to my next meeting.

I sat in the coffee shop for an hour killing time until my meeting.  I remember ordering a champagne and fine tuning my first day of school PowerPoint.  Because I’m a champion.

By the way, alcohol and brains don’t go together so well.  Woops.

After about an hour I trekked several blocks to my next meeting.  I sat in the back among a sea of stressed out student-teacher faces.  I think I won a mug for answering a question about culturally responsive classrooms or something.

Teachers love free shit.

After that meeting I trekked another few blocks down to a nearby bar where I was meeting a blind date.  As I waited for him to arrive I pulled up my first day of school PowerPoint again and questioned whether I should go with a blue or a purple background and which YouTube video would engage my students the most. 

The date was as disappointing as the appetizers he bought for me.  Tons of potential, but I just wasn’t feeling the spinach artichoke dip.  I’ve had better.

At around 10pm my parents drove down to Denver to pick me up and take me home.  I remember being so emotionally spent and in pain that I cried the whole way home for no good reason.

Well I mean, for a good reason.  A brain hemorrhage reason.  But I just didn’t know it yet.

The throbbing in my ears and lack of coordination continued for the next week as I continued to pretend like it was no big deal.  As we all know it was a very big deal.  The kind of big deal that changes everything about a person.

Here I sit exactly one year later.  Today was the first day of school.  Another standard day if standard to you means teaching five 58 minute classes back to back, shoveling food down your face in between, and having a nervous pit in your stomach as you try to convince 14 year-olds to like you.

Go big or go home and take a large sized nap.

Holy shit, you guys.  What a day.

To make matters more significant on this day in history I actually had a headache today.  And yes.  Yes it did make me nervous beyond belief.

At certain points in the day I was entirely convinced that if I sneezed my brain would fall out of my head and onto the brightly carpeted floor.  That would have been a nice show on the first day of school.

But while I was nervous I was also excited; thrilled to be at where I am in life today despite what happened a year ago.

Another tradition of mine is to give a quiz on the first day.  Because obviously I’m as intimidating as the Godfather.

If you didn’t catch that, this is sarcasm.  My classroom is so covered in polka dots that it makes Zooey Deschanel look like a punk.  I am not intense.  But I carry a big stick.  Actually I do.  It’s my yard stick and I carry it to feel cool and rebellious. 

After announcing how “serious” this first day quiz was, my students groaned as they shot daggers out of their eyeballs and into my soul.

It’s an About Me quiz, you guys.  Stop taking everything so seriously.  Geaz.

As we got into silly questions about my favorite foods, my dog, and my history as a sports superstar, the kids lightened up a little bit.  But only a little.  Sometimes I swear this job is harder than doing stand up comedy for a room of five angry men.

I presented the following question:

Which of the following statements is true about Ms. H?

A.) She played 9 years of women’s ice hockey as goaltender

B.) She ran her own improv comedy group in college

C.) She had brain surgery last October

D.) All of the above

“Hey you guys, which one of these can we rule out right now?  Which one is just a gigantic lie?”

The room shouted A and C as answers. 

“There’s no way!  She has all of her hair!”  One lively student shouted.

"She's too tiny to play hockey!"  Another added.

Others shook their heads.  This lady is full of you know what.

I made a grand reveal.  The crowd went wild.  It’s crazy, I know you guys.  My life is really freaking crazy.

So I explained myself a bit.  I showed a few pictures of my scar, my Fall Risk bracelet, and told them about The Great Brain Costume that might make an appearance this Halloween.  The kids were stunned and so was I.  It’s hard to even believe myself when I say it out loud.

One year ago I had a brain hemorrhage that would knock my world upside down, show me humbleness, and teach me more about life than I could ever teach my students.  I feel my scar everyday and am still in denial about the resilience of my body and soul.  So here's to you, you stubborn lil' cuss!  May you have many more crazy years ahead of you.

Happy One Year, Brain. 

Am I going crazy or is there an elephant on my head right now?

Am I going crazy or is there an elephant on my head right now?

1 Comment

Comment

Back 2 Skool Ain't So Bad

I hear a lot of disgruntled thought bubbles these days.  Whispered under the breath of an exhausted parent who can’t believe a teacher would ask a student to bring a box of pencils to class.  Or loudly audible among a sea of stressed out faces as the price of binders, folders, and colorful sticky notes continue to increase.

We have to go back again already?

Yes.  I understand the sentiment.

As a new teacher I have had my fair share of mild to moderate panic set in at the thought of the new school year.  There’s school supplies and clothing and teeth cleanings and car repairs and the dreaded readjustment to the 7am-3pm school day.  Sometimes I feel like I am swearing away my soul until Fall break; hoping that nothing malfunctions or runs out before then.  God forbid we run out of hand sanitizer in my class.

Teachers, parents, and students the world over are taking a deep sigh and settling in for the tidal wave of school to hit the mainland.

Here we go again.

But let’s take a second to reflect here.  Because we must.  Or else we will lose our minds and our freshly sharpened pencils.

Yesterday was really cool for me for a few reasons.

Yesterday I showed my best friend my first classroom for the first time.  Lots of firsts.  I held the door open for her as she joined me and a handful of other stressed teaching staff in the building on a Saturday.  I walked her into my room and gave her the tour.

“Eventually this will be where my white board is,” I said pointing to a hilarious sheet of paper hanging on my wall with the words “White Board Goes Here” scribbled on it.

Her face lit up.

“And this is my Word Wall for U.S. History,” I noted half interested as I eye-balled a pile of un-laminated pictures I had yet to get to.

She smiled some more.

“Oh my goodness, Mimi. You have a CLASSROOM. It felt like just the other day when little 14 year old you and me were sitting right here. Now some little kiddo gets to have YOU as a teacher.”

It took another second to sink in.

Up until recently I had the habit of calling myself a “Fake Teacher.”  I had student taught under a mentor, and while I had my own students and a shared classroom, I never really considered myself a true teacher.

A teacher in training, a newbie newb, a joke of sorts.

Brennyn began snapping pictures of me pointing to a variety of cheesy things around my room as she looked on with utter pride.

I am the real deal.

Polka dot cork boards, seating charts, a yard stick I plan on carrying around with me as I pester my students about their extra-curricular activities and if I can come to them and sit in the front row.  It’s the whole 9 yards…get it.  Because I have a yard stick.

Sorry.  Not sorry.  My students are going to have to get used to my awful puns.  But they had better Walken with a good attitude or else (I have a collage of Sir Christopher Walken posted on my front door).  Let the cheesy teacher-ness begin.

But my joy didn’t end there.

After a few hours of running frantically around my classroom making copies and contemplating essential questions for my lesson plans I went down to the Castle rock Outlets with my mom to do some shopping for the upcoming school year.

Our first stop was to an Express.  Because I’m cheap.  And poor.  And a teacher.

Here's a candid picture of me in my classroom.

Here's a candid picture of me in my classroom.

I picked out a handful of 50% off tops and skirts to channel my inner Zooey Deschanel and headed to the cash register.  As the sweet high school grad rung me up I made small talk.  I asked if she had another denim shirt that wasn’t snagged (I hadn’t noticed until that moment, again, cheapy cheap).  She was happy to grab me another.  I asked if she had any discounts this time of year for teachers.

Nope, unfortunately not.

Ah, well.  I thanked her for going out of her way to get me the shirt.

Then something amazing happened.

A man from behind me in line (and a long line at that since I was just chatting it up with my cashier) came up to me and the cashier and asked if he could give his military discount to me.  He insisted. 

Military ID in hand he said with the most special smile, “I really appreciate the work you do.  If anyone deserves a discount, it’s you.”

The wind was knocked out of my chest.

What?

You want to give little old fake-but-very-real teacher me your highly esteemed military discount?  I was completely taken aback.  I thanked him profusely and couldn’t believe it.  My faith in humanity was restored entirely.

Unlike so many of us this time of year, this amazing man saw the value in me when I could not.  When talking about my teaching and the work I do everyday I tend to throw around some jokes.  Surprise, surprise.

"Well that's why I get paid the big bucks," I jab.

It's no secret that my salary over the stretch of a lifetime will be a tad bit laughable.  And during this time of year it's easy to slip into the mindset that it's all for nothing and that the kids will eat you alive out there.  It's easy sometimes to forget what we're doing this all for.

When I get this way I watch this. 

Goose bumps, folks. 

So yes, going back to school can kind of suck.  And you had better believe that come October we will be having an entirely different conversation.  My classroom will be a petri dish of kid germs and I will likely be buried in ungraded papers, assessments, and grueling professional development meetings.

But you know what?

I wouldn’t change going back to school for anything in the world.

Comment

2 Comments

How To Be in an Improv Class with a Sexist Frat Boy

I realize that I'm about to open up a juicy can of worms here.  But let's do this thing.

Bring it.

Bring it.

As I sit absorbing last week's festivities I can't help but contemplate a noticeable pattern in comedy: Careless Sexism.

I spent last week gallivanting in New York City taking an intensive Improv 101 course with the Upright Citizen's Brigade.  I loved the learning that took place and I met a lot of great people.  While it was a beginner class, it was a pretty mixed variety of talent and interest levels.

Some people in the class were stand up comedians who wanted to hone their ability to think on their feet.  Some were just graduating high school and looking for something new to try.  Some were fellow writers.

And a select few were misogynistic assholes.

Now let's take a pause here.

In all comedy - be it stand up, improv, or sketch - there is this thing called "The Low Hanging Fruit."  Dick jokes, racial slurs, jabs at the disabled, women suck.

Sure, sure.  If you're thinking it then it's probably been done before.  And some comedians can actually obtain this Low Hanging Fruit in a tasteful and funny manner.

After all, who doesn't love a good poop joke?

That's not the point I'm making here.  My aim is not to eliminate all inappropriate content from the comedy world and give everyone a soccer trophy.  Low Hanging Fruit jokes are here and they are here to stay.

But if I've learned anything from improv it's support.  Yes, and.

Being able to stand next to your scene partner and support them unconditionally.  To be the trapeze artist; to catch them when they throw themselves into the comedic unknown.  Because support was the pillar that I was taught to place improv UPon, the idea of throwing your scene partner under the bus, whether intentional or accidental, eats at the very core of my being.

So naturally it came as quite a shock when I began tallying up the amount of back-handed and sexist comments made in a variety of scenes during my week-long course.

I get it.  Improv is nerve-racking. 

The thought of having to say something funny in an instant can make even the most level-headed humans become riddled with anxiety.  But here's a fun case study.

Picture this improvised scene:

Two disgruntled men are standing outside of a house that has just been foreclosed on.  The house belongs to Steve.  Steve's neighbor and friend, Bob stands with him.  They are both upset and throwing rocks at the house in frustration.

Steve: Man, this sucks.

Bob: Yeah, dude. It does. You just keep doing crazy things and things keep happening to you. This is some bad luck.

Steve: Yeah. (Throws rock at house) I just hope I can beat this pattern...

Bob: Yeah, just like you beat your wife last night...

While the exact details of this scene are fuzzy to me now, I will never forget the sharp pain that hit my gut as I watched these words leave his lips.  Collectively the entire class's jaws dropped to the floor.

Are you fucking kidding me?  No, you are not kidding me because when people kid it's actually funny.

When, and I repeat when has violence against women ever been funny?

This isn't Low Hanging Fruit, my friend.  This is Pull Your Head Out Of Your Asshole and Think About What You Are Saying. 

In addition to the wife-beating comment, I also tallied up a garden variety of other comments including calling a woman a "bitch" for no reason, a nude dating scene where a woman was told to keep her legs closed because "I don't want to see that while I'm eating" as he proceeded to wave his parts around, and even a comment made to an immigrant waiter to "go away, you're taking good people's jobs."

Allow me to poke holes in why these comments are not funny from a non-feminist perspective because while my feminist insides are screaming I do think it's important to separate the two.

Here are my discontents as a comedian:

  1. In improv, it is essential to play "to the top of your intelligence." This means that improvisors must choose content with the logic and reasoning parts of their brains. It then follows that if you are playing a circus clown that you might be knowledgeable on which types of clown shoes produce the best squeaky noise and how to best tie balloon animals at a children's birthday party. Therefore if you are going to make a choice to call a woman a bitch, you had better be making an intellectual social commentary on the topic. See video below for the kings of social commentary, Keegan-Michael Key and Jordan Peele.

  1. There's so much more to play with in an improvised scene than the obvious. Why limit yourself? A nude dating scene at a restaurant could be so much funnier if other things were considered. Does this restaurant have any nude meal deals? Topless Tapas for $5.99? Are you required to shower before before you dine like at a public pool? I have so many questions about this reality and none of them include you shaming a women's body parts.

  2. If you are going to take a stance on a political issue, be it immigration, abortion, gun laws, gay rights, etc. you best be prepared to get down and dirty with the details. A simple comment will simply not do. That's just lazy comedy. Which "good people" is this immigrant taking jobs from? Which jobs? Do you have a proposed solution to the immigration policy? Shall we build a moat around America and pour scalding hot oil down on anyone who attempts to enter our castle doors? I want the details here, people.

It came as no surprise when I learned that one of the gentlemen with the above comments is joining a frat this year and only has two female artists on his iPod.  He was also convinced that the best way to get women to talk to him on Tinder was to say really offensive, gross things to them.

Classy, bro.

Now I want to also make a point of saying that I understand that not all men in frats are sexist scumbags.  It would be unfair to classify all men in this way.  It just so happened that the improvisor I took issue with just so happened to be in a frat and just so happened to have some very interesting views on women.  Maybe some views that he doesn't even realize are stone cold sexism.

Some might simply say, "Boys will be boys," to which I say no.  Absolutely not.

Humans should be humans.

Teach your sons and daughters to be smart with their humor.  Speak up when you don't feel empowered.  And shape up when you say something stupid.

Sometimes we get nervous and sometimes we grab onto the Low Hanging Fruit because it's right at our immature fingertips.

But for the love of all that is Holy, please, please don't be that person.

2 Comments

2 Comments

"We're not in Colorado anymore, Tucker..."

I never really considered myself a "small town" gal.  I always pictured myself as more of a "big city" lady; trolling around some bright skyline looking for love in all the wrong places.  

Sophisticated.  Street smart.  And with killer style to boot.

Ha. Haha. Hahahahahahaha. 

(That's me laughing audibly loud at myself from this busy coffee shop table)

Today marks my fourth official day in New York City for the first time.  And while I would love to say I am the version of Carrie from Sex and the City that we all aspire to be, I am actually Tom Hanks from The Terminal.

You see that movie? Of course you did.

You see that movie? Of course you did.

Tom Hanks is the man. 

I am perpetually confused and bumble around hoping to make sense of something or someone.  Sometimes I'm not entirely sure if I'm even speaking English.  My "Resting Confused Face" follows me around the subway as I get on and off of trains that only occasionally take me to my intended destination.  

So I'm a smidge directionally challenged it turns out, but the Big Apple hasn't entirely chewed me up and spat me out just yet. With some time I think I could stumble gracefully into this place.  

The first day was the hardest, hands down.  As I exited the subway for the first time I started walking in the general direction of the swarm of humans also exiting the subway.  I figured being a salmon wasn't the correct move so I went with the flow.  I walked towards the metal turn-style to leave to the street.

Right as I was in the middle of the turn-style about to pass through the metal gate, a woman approached me from the other side.  I was already almost through and she entered my turn-style.  

We made direct eye contact.

Um, hi.  Hello.  I'm in this one.

I didn't say this out loud.  But I thought about it.  She continued to make eye contact with me as she kept coming at me at full speed.

Suddenly I thought I must have been going the wrong way.  Surely I was doing it incorrectly.

I went into reverse and backed out of the turn-style as she continued like a freight train into my lane.  I backed all the way out as she passed by me as if it was nothing, making uncomfortable eyes at me the entire time.

"Oh my goodness, how embarrassing," I thought.  "I just went the wrong way in a turn-style."

Nope.  No I didn't.  They go both ways.  She was just a busy New Yorker who couldn't be bothered to move out of the way.

She high-statused the small town fuck out of me. 

Which is easy to do when you look like me: short, baby-faced, and with a permanent confused furrow in my brow.  Worry lines, if you will.

I have always loved big cities.  I have just never seen anything this big before.  I mean New York City is enormous.  People are on top of people here.  If you hit the town at the right time you might just see more people then you ever even knew existed. 

Where are all of these people going?  What are they doing?  WHY ARE THERE SO MANY OF THEM.

These are the thoughts I have as I get on and off the subway each day.  It makes me physically anxious.  Am I supposed to look them all in the eye?  Do I compliment each person I see on their outfits?  Is it okay to ask someone how their day is going?  I'm just at a loss as to what to do about all the humans I see on a daily basis here.  

Not only have I battled with my human-related anxiety levels while here, but I have attempted to adapt quickly to the environment.

I do things in New York that I would never do back at home.

Subway too packed?  Let's cram on in there.

Sketchy street deals?  99 cents for pizza AND a back massage?  What a steal.

Don't Walk sign?  Sure, let's walk.

My mother is most likely cringing at the thought of these things that I have just said, but I adapted this way to make it out alive.  I mean don't get me wrong.  There was plenty of overlap between Suburban Me and City Me.  

A good day was getting lost five times instead of six.  I think my count this morning is only two, so we're on a roll.

(knock on dirty wood table)

Well, back to the old grind as they say.  I have approximately three minutes to inhale this fancy sandwich and trek the five blocks to my improv class.  Which is plenty of time if you're a New Yorker.

Bye! Or as they say in New York,

"..."

(says nothing and proceeds to jog-walk past you in the turn-style.)

 

2 Comments

Comment

Got That S-S-Summatime Sadness

Today marks my last week of summer employment.  As I sit in my wheelie teacher chair that is not actually my own at summer school monitoring my one student I contemplate that the summer is pretty much over. 

He's taking a test.  He's fine.

A week from today I will be enjoying my last bits of summer freedom in The Big Apple.  As a treat to myself and the hectic summer I signed myself up for with summer school tutoring and trying to haphazardly string together a novel, I enrolled myself in a UCB improv class in New York City.

Treat yo'self.

UCB, Upright Citizen's Brigade, the comedy school brain child of Amy Poehler and home to the world's best comedians, is the stuff of legends.  

It's the big deal, the trifecta; Emerald City, if you will.

And like Dorothy, perpetually confused but always fashionable, I will be trying my hand at the big leagues.  During this week long intensive course I will be testing my improv chops with the best of the best.  Or at least the best ones who could afford to be here.  I myself can't actually afford to be here.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, I owe you like a thousand dollars. But really. I'm sorry I'm so poor. But have faith. My degree is being put to good use, I promise.

The class includes five days jam-packed with improv theory, training, and a final performance on Saturday to showcase how awesome we'll all be at improv.  I mean some of us, present company included, are already awesome at it. 

But we'll get awesome...er.

But no matter how awesomely awesome this New York trip will be for me, I can't help but feel like my summer is over.  As I sit now in my sweaty and filthy bedroom and listen to Lana Del Rey's Summertime Sadness, I question what became of the months of March, April, May, and June.

Seriously.  What became of them? 

My guess is that they're sitting in some hipster coffee shop that moonlights as a puppet theater trying to avoid humanity.  I can't make this stuff up.  I actually had a kiddie scoop of gelato yesterday at a small Denver coffee shop that closed at 3pm for a children's puppet show.  Who knew things like this even existed? 

You're drunk, Denver.  Go home.  Anyway.

I'll never know what became of the spring or much of the summer, but I do know this:

A storm is coming.

The tidal wave that is the coming school year will soon hit the mainland and I will likely find myself clutching to my deflated life rafts and arm floaties.  I have a confession.  I can't really swim all that well. 

My mother tried relentlessly every summer of my childhood to get me into swimming lessons and I always ended up shivering and crying in the pool and pissing off my instructor.  I mean don't get me wrong, if put in a situation where I was forced to swim for my life I would certainly put up a good fight. 

But I would also be the first one to die.

You know, like in those survival movies.  It's usually the character that everyone loves the most, too.  The endearing map expert.  The hopeful youth with a gal back home.  Yeah, I'd definitely die first.

I use this hilarious and all-too-real metaphor because teaching is a lot like swimming for your life in shark invested waters.  Especially in your first year.  No one can really prepare you for the shit-storm, you just gotta' kick and hope yuh don't feel something graze your foot.

Speaking of those majestic creatures, excuse me I have a date with my television set to binge on Shark Week programs for the rest of the evening.

Ta!




Comment