Arctic Running and the Metropolitan Opera

Cool title, huh? It's been so long, I needed to come back with a bang. I like the title because those two things sound surprisingly interesting together, even though they have nothing to do with one another. Steve Martin, in a farcical essay on writing entitled "Writing is Easy!", rattles off a list of promising potential book titles that are really just juicy words strung together, my favorite being "Naked Belligerent Panties." I don't think "Arctic Running and the Metropolitan Opera" quite competes, but it has about as much substance. Wait! I can connect the two: they're both new things I've experienced since I last wrote back on election night. Allow me to explain.

I've become an avid runner, but running in the winter was always something I relegated to the treadmill. I'm not a big fan of the machines; I get bored too easily and I don't like the way the track feels on my legs. Running for me is less about the exercise and more about connecting to your surroundings in a unique way. There's something organic and vital about your feet pounding the pavement, or the trail, or the track. There's something about the way the air smells and the way a beautiful sightline can inspire and propel you forward. You get none of this on a treadmill. The only one I could stomach was the treadmill in my mom's basement, which I used quite often last winter, but that's now hundreds of miles away. Last weekend the temperature was freezing, and I wanted to run. Hence, my first experience with arctic running.

I felt so legit. I bought special skin-tight thermal running pants, as well as a hat and a pair of gloves. I looked like I was serious. Running out in the cold was, well, cold, but it wasn't as difficult as I would have imagined. Breathing is one of the hardest adjustments because I had to breathe less through my nose and more through my mouth. It really wasn't that bad. I felt like the single moving, warm-blooded object coursing through a frozen scenery. I felt much more alive by comparison. In retrospect, the experience was not unlike getting my teeth pulled, which, if you didn't already know, was one of the all-time great moments of my life. I enjoyed getting my teeth pulled because I was sitting in the dentist's chair, blood spurting from my mouth, knowing that I should have been in a tremendous amount of pain. The fact that I wasn't in a tremendous amount of pain made it an incredible and enjoyable experience. I knew I should have been freezing my butt off out there, but I was warm and cozy in my running gear, certainly adding to my satisfaction.

Alas, arctic running has not been my only source of recreation. Since you last heard from me, I have made a visit to the Metropolitan Opera House not once, but twice. My roommate Natassia works for the Opera Guild, and she hooked me up with tickets to see The Queen of Spades by Tchaikovsky a few weeks ago and The Damnation of Faust yesterday afternoon. Here is a picture of the Metropolitan Opera House:



The Tchaikovsky show was beautiful, especially the music, but it was 4 hours long. On a Monday night. When I got about 3 hours of sleep the night before. Faust was a spectacle. The set was ultra-modern, with LCD technology that reacted to the movements of the performers. The set could transform seamlessly between night and day, heaven and hell, a grassy field and a lavish home. Not what you come to expect from an opera.

I'm starting to find outlets for all my various interests. I have people with whom I can run, friends who like to see movies, friends who like to go to concerts and talk music, friends who drink wine, friends who drink Guinness. Last night I went to my first improv comedy show in the Big Apple, which ironically starred a bunch of recent Northwestern alumni.

Now, if only I could find someone to stay home, eat banana pancakes, drink hot chocolate, and watch Wall-E with me, I would be set.

Congratulations, President Obama

Read those words. Let 'em sink in. How sweet it is!

Is it January yet?

The moment has almost arrived

I can't settle down.

I've had the jitters all day, struggling to stay focused at work and aching for the time to move more quickly toward the poll closings. Unlike my fellow teachers at Bronx Letters, I'm more excited than nervous. This election has unified the country in an extraordinary way, whether you're for McCain or for Obama. I think some of the excitement has to do with finally being able to celebrate the end of the Bush administration. Today marks the first page in the next chapter of our history.

Seeing videos of the lines wrapped around polling areas all over the country reminds me of the pandemonium of the last Harry Potter book's release. We can't wait because we want to know what happens, and we kind of know that we'll be celebrating in the end. We're so close to something so monumental. It's still hard to believe that this country has come this far. What an extraordinary time to be an American.

And that's what it feels like - an extraordinary time. I took a bus all the way down 135th Street last night, and for the first time since I've been in New York I saw Harlem come alive. People were in the streets, voices were being heard. There was a community. There was passion in the voices and purpose in every person's step between the bodegas and the vendors. It reminded me of what happens to a dream deferred. The explosion was palpable last night.

This evening I was walking through Manhattan and I saw the throngs of people gathered around NBC's studios in a red, white, and blue Rockefeller Center. There's already magic in the autumn air, and everything that's happening multiplies it a million fold. What a time this is. I only wish I could be in Grant Park right now. That'll be a party bigger than all the Bulls' championship celebrations put together, and those were some big parties. What a time this is.

I'm sure I'll be back writing before long.

I'm still here!

It's so hard to find time to write.

It bugs me to no end. I have a ton to say at any given point in the week, but I just can't muster the energy to forge my ideas into words. I would love to finally write my piece on the Chicago Marathon, share my experiences after two months as a real-life teacher, and talk to you about what's going on inside this bizarre old head of mine. The marathon post will come, I'm promising myself. For now, I'll try to fill you in on what's been going on in my life.

To be honest, it's been a strange few weeks. Professionally, everything's going unbelievably well. I'm settling in to my school, I'm forging relationships with students, and I'm gaining their trust every single day. The principal has been co-teaching a class with me, and while this could be the cause of profound trepidation on my part, it's actually been a great experience. She helps focus on little things that will make me a better teacher. She's also been extremely complimentary, which I didn't expect. She says that the students genuinely respond to me, and that while I'm very laid-back, it works well for me. The two of us are polar opposites. Our class is like good cop/bad cop, but I think it works. I love it, actually.

So if I'm genuinely happy being a teacher, a thought upon which I will expand later, why has it been a strange few weeks? Nothing in particular happened, but I have noticed a profound change in myself. I had a tough Spring. I guess it must have been fairly traumatic for me because I realize that, to a large degree, I shut myself off emotionally. It's not unlike what I experienced when my parents divorced. It's not like I ignored my emotions, but I felt extremely distant from them. Back then, the distance allowed me to pour myself into school, sort of insulating me against the pressures of moving to a new town and adjusting to a new life with two homes. In this case, I think my emotional state allowed me to move to New York with surprisingly little fear or doubt, and it allowed me to pour myself into my new career.

Let me clarify this a little. I didn't become a robot or anything. I was still perfectly capable of making friends and sharing feelings and being myself. I simply couldn't connect to any deep emotion. I didn't deeply feel the sorrow of moving away from home or the excitement of living in a new place. I felt hollowness where those things should have been. I felt an emptiness take over when I couldn't connect to people the way I wanted to. I felt numb to the pain of no longer being around the people who taught me how to love. In a way it was a blessing because it helped me transition, but I don't want to live like that. It's very lonely.

In the weeks preceding my return to Chicago, I finally started to thaw out. I damn near burst into tears when that plane landed at O'Hare. When I came back to New York, I was filled with that wonderful sense of home, buoyed by all the love and affection I encountered during that weekend. I was also pained by the distance from it. Genuinely, deeply pained. In the subsequent weeks I've been all over the place. At any given moment, I might be grateful, wistful, sad, content, satisfied, and totally restless--all at once! Weird, right? I guess that's what happens when the switch suddenly flips. Everything comes cascading down all at once. So while it's no fun to be sad all of a sudden when I really haven't been very sad for awhile, it's also reassuring because I know that I'm still in touch with those sides of myself. It also tells me that I'm ready to forge deeper relationships with the people around me because I'm finally getting comfortable confronting the bigger stuff within. I feel like a more complete version of myself.

With all that stuff going on inside my head, my heart, my soul, whatever you want to call it, it hasn't affected my work. I'm steadied by my sense of responsibility to these kids. I wrote this reflection last week, and I think it fits in quite nicely to what I'm saying here:

"What I’m doing might not matter at all in the grand scheme of things, but the fact that I’m doing something aligned with my hopes and ideals for what makes the world a better place is something astoundingly gratifying. I really believe in this stuff. I do. I believe in it so naively, so innocently, so acutely, but I don’t care. I believe in my students. I want to help them become smarter and more interesting and more articulate. I want to show them love so they can find it in themselves. I want so much for them. It’s so different from making friends or falling in love. It provides you with none of the instant gratification, but it magnifies all those things inside of you that you hold in the highest regard. It brings out all the principles, the ideals, the dreams to which you aspire, and it makes you say, 'Yes! I am acting on the greatness that lies within me!' And it’s powerful! It’s a big deal. It’s unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. It’s so much more than theorems and equations. It’s harmony between your actions and your principles, and while it doesn’t replace all those things I left behind—in fact, it doesn’t fill that void at all—it has shown me something new and fantastic within myself."

So there you go. Those are my thoughts on teaching. It really doesn't fill the void left by family in friends (if you're reading this, I'm probably missing you a great deal right now), but I'm glad to be experiencing all of this.

Okay, there's the heavy stuff. On to lighter things. I saw the Ting Tings yesterday at Webster Hall, the first real concert I've attended in New York City. It was about time. I had a blast. Their lead singer reminds me of what Holly would be like if she was British and fronting a band. Today was really cool. One of the teachers at my school (Fred) ran his first marathon today. I wanted to support him and see what the NYC Marathon was all about, so I ran down to the Queensboro Bridge with some orange slices and an energy gel. I knew Fred's pace, so I planted myself at a spot where there weren't too many cops patrolling the crowd and waited for him to run by. As I was waiting, I saw Ryan Reynolds run past. He's an actor who starred in movies like Van Wilder and Definitely, Maybe. He's also engaged to Scarlett Johanssen (sadly, I did not see her). He was running for Michael J. Fox's charity, raising money for Parkinson's research. About ten minutes later, I managed to spot Fred amongst the huge throng of participants, and I darted through them to run at his side. I supplied him with oranges and encouragement, as well as a sign on my shirt that read "Go Fred Go!". Taking my cue, onlookers cheered him on by name, which I think was pretty cool for him. He managed to spot his parents in the crowd along 1st Avenue, and I left him to run with his wife, who jumped into the race at 103rd St. Not a bad experience for your first marathon. I'm so happy for him. I also can't wait to run the New York City Marathon next year. I sort of jumped in at the best part, right when you enter Manhattan for the first time. It was awesome.

That's where I'll leave you for today. Maybe I'll have a special election-night post on Tuesday. I cannot wait.



And rest in peace, Miko. I hope you have found it at long last.

Finally, the Chicago post

I'd like to say I've been spending the week collecting my thoughts, and that's why it's taken me so long to record my experiences from my first trip back home to Chicago. In reality, my plane touched down in Laguardia at about 10 0'clock Monday night, and I've been frantically trying to get caught up with my school work ever since. It's a gorgeous, sunny day in the mid-50s here in New York, just like it is in Chicago right now (hmmm, that would have been nice, oh, I don't know, a week ago!), I've got a cinnamon crumb apple pie in the oven, and I feel like it's a downright good time to tell you about my wonderful weekend back home.

My preparation for the weekend was less than ideal. I was off school on Thursday, but I had a ton to do. I went for a tranquil run through Queens early in the morning, did laundry, graded tests, cleaned the apartment, packed, and so on. The day felt like it was over before it started, and I had not yet finished compiling the grades I had promised for my geometry students when I was about to pass out at 10 or 11 at night. I decided to wake up at 2:30 in the morning, finish my grades, and then go back to sleep. Grading took a long damn time. By the time I was finished, it behooved me to get ready for work because I had promised to meet a student early and still had some photocopying to do.

I whizzed through the day trying to keep my students focused and myself awake. I gathered my bags after the three o'clock bell struck and zipped out of school. Instead of feeling all that excitement from the past couple of weeks hit the peak of its crescendo like I had imagined it would, I felt sleepy and kind of guilty for mailing it in during the second half of my last class. Oh, well. I could do a better job next week. Now it was time to get to the airport. I took the bus I usually ride to go home, only I stayed on to Laguardia. I became confused when I realized I wouldn't be flying from the same terminal as my last trip to Chicago, so I got off the bus to see if I could figure things out. It happened to be right where I needed to be. I zipped through security, changed into jeans, grabbed a sandwich, boarded, took off, and got some much needed sleep.

I've flown into O'Hare plenty of times, and I almost always experience a rush of nostalgia, a surge of elation at the prospect of being home again. (The one exception was flying home from Hawaii--flying home is unequivocally the worst part about going there.) This occasion blew all the other landings out of the water. I had the Blues Brothers playing on my iPod right before we touched ground. My first glimpse of downtown and the lake and the Northwestern campus just about brought me to tears. Everything flooded back--the people, the places, the smells, the tastes, the feelings--all those things that make up home. And it was all so close.

The air was cool and crisp. The night was fine. Dad drove up to the departures area a few minutes after I called. I was home.

Not much had changed. I walked up the familiar steps to the familiar door and into the familiar room with the familiar soft light and the familiar scent of Lou Malnati's pizza. In the dining room there was Dolores and Dave and Jennifer and Steven and Steven's girlfriend Heather--the first unfamiliar sight of the night--and, looking as distinctive and beautiful as ever, Holly. I missed my sister.

The rest of the evening at Dad's strolled by pleasantly, just like most evenings at Dad's do. When asked about my experiences teaching and being in the Bronx, I had trouble speaking in anything but generalities. It's the same thing I experience when I try to write in this space about what goes on at Bronx Letters. I think I'm still in reaction mode, and everything flies by so quickly that I struggle to hang on to all the little things that make up the day. My teaching experience is only now starting to crystallize. I'll give you some good words on it someday, whenever I have the time.

That first night home was a race to make my time as meaningful as possible with as many people as possible before I passed out. Given that I had been awake since 1:30 am Central Time with only a half hour nap on the plane, I think I did pretty well. I even managed to spend some time with Danimal and Sherri, two of my former co-bakers from a memorable Kim's Kitchen summer that seems like it took place forever ago. I awoke promptly at 8 am Saturday morning, having slept on a futon that I knew quite well when it resided in Zev's apartment some 200 miles away in Urbana. By the way, I apologize for including all these minute details, but there was so much history and familiarity wrapped up in this weekend that I want to write down every little thing, hold onto each part a little bit longer. I also think it's pretty funny that I ended up crashing on Zev's futon like so many times before, and it wasn't in the same city or even in an apartment that belonged to him. Such is life.

I had really hoped to go for a quick run down Sheridan Road, nestled by the lakefront in Wilmette and Winnetka. I even managed to wake up early enough. Alas, it was not meant to be. I had too much to do, too many people to see. Next up was Mom's. I took the red line to Howard and made the familiar switch to the purple line, getting off at Davis (my nostalgia for the L is somewhat dampened by the superior efficiency of the New York subway system, but the L's a lot more scenic). I caught the 250 and took it up Dempster Street into Skokie. Mom was watching C-Span and Spongebob, her typical Saturday morning. I like that Mom and I don't really need to say anything; we just get it. We hung out for awhile, watching cartoons and sharing what was on our minds before heading back to Rogers Park for brunch with Holly.

Brunch was tasty. Kristina was sleepy. Back to Evanston to make the switch into Kristina's familiar Rav-4. Eventually we made a left onto Hollywood and I was taking Lake Shore Drive south to the city for the first time since I had my entire life packed into the back of a rented Chevy. The afternoon was spotless but traffic was heavy, so we played a bunch of songs real loud and sang to our hearts' content. Home. We finally made it down to McCormick Place for one of my favorite things in the world, the Marathon Expo. (That's right, I would be running the Marathon the next day; this entry's been so long, I bet you forgot.) Kristina and I got psyched for the race and stuffed on all the free food. I realized that I would be starting from one of the special lettered corrals up at the front. I'm not sure why--maybe I registered early this year or qualified because of my time in 2006. Either way, it was kind of cool.

Saturday night was spontaneous and fantastic. I got to see Beth and Mariya, who says she doesn't think she'll move to New York, so I might just have to follow her to Portland some time. Juan, Rick, and Aaron, three very good friends from middle school through high school, happened to walk past us while we were having tea, and suddenly we had a very large group for dinner. It's extraordinary how the more things change the more things stay the same. There I was, in from New York for the weekend to run a marathon, having dinner next to Aaron Reisberg and talking about books and movies like we were back in freshman year of high school. I don't know how to put the whole thing into words. I'm shaking my head and grinning as I write this; that's the best I can do.

Saturday night was Jon time, but the preceding events left very little of it. I picked up my gear from Skokie and got a ride into the city, but I only had about 2 hours or so of awake time before I needed to get some pre-race sleep. I made the most of my time with Jon and Sheila--who are getting married in less than a year--wow! We talked about teaching and grad school and whatever was on our minds. I miss nights like that. I hope that wherever I end up, those two are somewhere nearby.

Especially if I need to wake up for something. I didn't leave myself much time for sleep, and I probably would have been passed out right through the race (I bet you're thinking about that Seinfeld episode; I was) had it not been for Jon. He was kind enough to wake up at 6 am on a Sunday morning to remind me that I needed to wake up at 6 am on a Sunday morning. I ditched my plans to shower (it wasn't going to help how I would smell in a few hours anyway, so why bother?) and slipped into my marathon digs. I might not have the best time, but at least I could make it look good.

I grabbed a bagel and some water and caught a bus headed for Michigan Avenue. Marathon morning featured the most astonishing sunrise I had seen since Hawaii. Despite getting there in good time, the whole place is swamped with people, and you're rushing to check your gear and stretch and find your starting corral no matter what you do. I made the unfamiliar walk to corral D, and I enjoyed the added leg room it provided. It was sort of like flying first class. The national anthem emanated from the speakers. Standing for the national anthem and realizing that it's for a real life sporting event and you're not one of the spectators is one of the greatest feelings in the world. It makes you feel legit. The elite runners started, then corrals A through C, and we were on our way.

I'll have a detailed post about everything I experienced during the race, but it's a little gross so I'm not putting it into this one. Suffice it to say that the weather was beautiful, even though it crept up near 80 by the end of the race. I ran my best time of the three marathons at 4:06:06, but it wasn't nearly as good as I could have done. I was in a certain amount of pain for the last 3 hours of the race, and it sapped me of my will to break 4 hours. Looking back on it I wish I would have toughed it out and done better, but at the time I would have none of that. One of the highlights of the race was spotting my dad in the crowd and reaching over to give him a high five. That was pretty damn cool.

After the race I sipped a crisp, cool, and, best of all, free pint of Goose Island 312 beer. I drank it while I iced down my knees and struck up a conversation with a Chicago-area teacher. I had forgotten how much it hurts your body and your soul to run a marathon, and how extraordinarily exultant you feel when it's all done. I was lucky that my body didn't hurt too badly after the race. My only trouble walking came from my "roast beef" toes, which both had some nasty blisters.

I could write more about the rest of the weekend, but the action receded after the race. I saw my grandparents, took a whirlpool bath, slept about as soundly as any human being could ever sleep, and saw my former coworkers at Northwestern. Chicago, in many ways, was just as I had left it. I came back and my life picked up where it left off. Much more happened in between the conversations, the dinners, and the drives that filled the weekend, but I think it will take a little time for me to figure out what it all means. All I know is that being back in my city helped me to feel love. Real love. Deep love. And it helped me feel home. I've only been on this earth for 23 years and change, but to me that's the greatest feeling anyone can have. Thank you.



P.S.: Click here if you want to see some photos from the race. You have to select "Chicago Marathon 2008" from the drop-down menu, and then enter "McHugh" and "9167" for the bib number. They got some pretty good shots of me, and I don't look as beaten-down and devastated as in years past. Good stuff.

Sprung from cages out on highway 9, chrome wheeled, fuel-injected, and steppin' out over the line

In about 24 hours, my plane will touch down in O'Hare. I can't believe it's finally here. I'm bolting school as soon as my last class ends tomorrow and heading for Laguardia. Come on, baby don't you wanna go? Back to that same old place, sweet home Chicago.... I've had the tune in my head all day. I miss my city so much. I miss everyone there. I can't wait!

Everything looks good for the marathon this year. The temperature keeps on creeping up every time I check Tom Skilling's seven day forecast, but the high for Sunday is 74 right now and cooler by the lake. Low to mid 60s is my favorite temperature in which to run, so I'm excited. It sure beats 96 and humid or 38 and sleeting. Last year I was nursing a bum hamstring at this time. This year I'm pain free outside of the typical aches that result from training all summer. My biggest hang-up from my first marathon was that my legs kept cramping up. I'm hoping that the warmer weather will help with that situation because it loosens up the muscles. The silver lining to last year's heat was that it helped my hamstring situation. I'm carboloading as we speak--all rice and pasta all the time. I'll be glad to make an exception for some Lou Malnati's pizza tomorrow night.

I will write all about the marathon experience when I get the chance, probably when I return to New York. If anyone out there is interested in getting live updates of my progress during the race, click on this link. The race starts at 8 am Central Time on Sunday. I think this service sends you updates via e-mail or text message. I can't wait for the race! I can't wait to be back home in Chicago! I can't wait to join my crazy fellow marathoners on Sunday!

I guess we've gotta be a little crazy, cuz tramps like us, baby we were born to run!

The Post-Mortem

"Someday we'll go all the way. Someday we'll go all the way."

I'm dealing with the latest Cubs setback--their ninth consecutive playoff loss dating back to that memorable Marlins series in 2003--by putting things into perspective. Eddie Vedder's words are tinged with both hope and lament not unlike Irish songs of yore. Compared to what the Irish went through, a hundred years of suckitude ain't so bad.

The parallels between Cubs history and Irish history are unmistakable. The Irish fell under British domination and spent hundreds and hundreds of years trying to earn their freedom. The harder they tried, the more catastrophic was the disappointment. They fell under the spell of charismatic leaders who failed to deliver what they promised. They crumbled under the weight of their own history, unable to shed the memories of past failures with every new effort. Their culture cranked out stories, poems, and songs of pain, suffering, and sorrow tinged with that maddening sliver of hope. Were the songs and stories chronicles of past times or prophesies of what was to come? It's the concept expressed so beautifully by John Cusack (are we surprised with a last name like that?) in the movie High Fidelity: "What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?"

Do we root for the Cubs because we're masochistic? Or are we masochistic because we root for the Cubs?

Ireland tried a lot of different things in their quest for freedom from the British. They tried getting angry (like the usually mild-mannered Derrick Lee, who slammed his helmet to the ground after a strikeout, his only at-bat that didn't result in a hit last night). They tried getting political (like so many Cubs who insisted all season that the past would not affect them, particularly Lou Piniella). They went to the Spanish and the French, enlisting help from overseas (Fukudome). They turned to their Catholic faith (the holy water sprinkling before the Dodgers series). They also turned to drinking (yes, I'm looking at all you Cubs fans who know there's some vodka mixed in that orange juice as you read this at 10 am). The result was a ton of great, if tragic, stories, but no progress toward their independence (Bartman, billy goats, Leon Durham, black cats, you get the idea).

Luckily for the Irish, while they couldn't forget about their oppression, their oppression forgot about them. The British had to concentrate on World War I and its aftermath, and keeping Ireland in check was no longer on their list of priorities. The Irish never earned that great victory that had eluded them for a millennium; they sort of won by default. That didn't prevent them from claiming that a drunken raid of the Dublin post office in 1916 was the final turning point. I don't know how this could translate to the Cubs. Maybe some disease outbreak would force baseball to quarantine the 29 other teams, while Wrigley's unique blend of filth, stale beer, and urine troughs would inoculate the Cubs from its effects, thereby making them champions by default. I'm sure we'd take it at this point. The more important thing is that Ireland finally lifted itself up from the bowels of its history and rode the "Celtic Tiger" to become a normal, modernized, fully-functioning place, kind of like the Boston Red Sox.

Even though this series was doomed from the start, I still thought they would come back last night and eke one out. All they needed was one win to lift the pressure. I could not believe they looked so tight. You knew things were bad when the leader of this team, Ryan Dempster, threw seven walks in the first game of the series. He set the tone, and we were nervous in every facet of the game from there on out. The usually happy-go-lucky Alfonso Soriano looked as if he was awaiting the electric chair in every dugout shot of him last night. No one stepped up to break the funk and breathe some life into the team. James Joyce wrote, "History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake." That team was stuck in the nightmare last night with no alarm clock in sight.

My advice to Cubs fans would be to go out for a walk, read a book, or hug someone you love. Hell, watch the Bears--they're playing the Lions this week. Forget about last night, but don't forget the spirit of those 97 wins. It was a fun season. And who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky and have our own World War I break out. Here's to wishing.

See what I'm talking about:

Looking for home

It's 10:10 p.m. and I still have so much work to do.

The Cubs just dropped their 7th straight playoff game a few minutes ago. The apartment smells of tzimmes and matzo ball soup and latkes. I miss home.

I spent the day doing my best impersonation of my grandmother (0kay, I wasn't screaming "Marvin!!!!!" at the top of my lungs), and it was pretty tough. I made matzo ball soup, tzimmes, kugel, latkes, and brisket for a group of friends. It was my first time entertaining at the apartment, and it went quite well, despite the fact that I was slipping into a deeper and deeper depression with every Dodger that crossed home plate. The food was pretty damn good, I have to say. I was pleased with how it all turned out, especially my Pushing Daisies-inspired pear pie with gruyere cheese baked into the crust. It was an effort, though. It gave me a ton of appreciation for what my Nana does year in and year out.

I'm so easy to adapt, and I roll so easily with whatever happens that sometimes I forget to stop and remember what I've left behind. Sitting in my living room shoveling in mouthfuls of kugel with a bunch of people whose company I really enjoy still couldn't erase the fact that this was my first Rosh Hashanah not spent at my cousins' or my Nana's. I don't know if I always adequately express how much I miss all of it, all of them, but I do. Very much.

Time to grade some tests. I wish everyone a Shanah Tova. Let's kick some Dodger ass tomorrow, huh?

I can't think of a better title, so Go Cubs!

This might be the first post in which I do not have at least a vague idea of where it will go. It's been two weeks since you last heard from me, and to be honest not much has happened. Well, that's not entirely the case. Even as I type those words I can think of a hundred reasons why they're not true. I suppose much has happened, but very little of it seems story-worthy. Considering what I gleaned over the summer in stories from teachers who had recently completed their first year, it's no surprise to me that teaching has taken over a considerable portion of my life. It occupies not only my time but also the majority of my thoughts. On the whole, I think I've been getting better over the past few weeks. My lessons are sharper, I'm getting more people involved, and I'm becoming more efficient with my time in the classroom. I'm finding ways to reach students at different levels of learning. I'm trying my best to think about each student's individual learning experience, which is more than a lot of teachers can say.

That doesn't prevent me from having a slew of worries and concerns. Sometimes I wish I was more experienced, as if I'm letting students down because I just don't know how to do things that would be simple if had been teaching for a few years. I'm still adjusting to being a disciplinarian, and I've had several moments in which I could have made a more forceful demonstration but decided against it. My largest class has a tendency to get noisy, and I always think about the students who genuinely want to be there, who genuinely want to learn. Again, I feel like I'm letting them down by not emphasizing why it's disrespectful to talk out of turn and establishing concrete consequences for those who do.

On a related note, I'm also trying not to take things quite so seriously. I think it's great that I'm thinking about what's happening in my classes and working at things upon which I need to improve, but I don't want to get lost in my thoughts. It's interesting; I think a lot of teachers are affected by what their students do in class, and bad behavior and poor test scores are what they take home with them in terms of baggage. I leave those things behind rather easily. I give my students a clean slate every day, and it's not even a conscious effort for me to do that. I'm much harder on myself than I am on them. It's the nagging feeling that I'm not doing everything I could that gives me a heavy feeling when I fall asleep at night. On the flip side, if I feel like I gave it my all on a given day then I can rest easy regardless of what happened in class or how they did on a test. So far I've had more days like the latter than the former, so it's been a good month.

So what does it all mean? It means I'm pretty happy with how things are going considering that it's my first year teaching. It also means that I enter moods in which I'm very hard on myself, and I get lost in my head, close myself off a bit from the rest of the world. I don't like being in moods like that. I'm at my best when I open myself up to whatever the world has to offer me, when I let things flow through me. I'm just now exiting one of those closed-off places, and I think even writing down these words helps to put it behind me.

Here's another thing that oddly added to my overly-stuck-in-my-head mood. I'll be back home in Chicago in 12 days, and as the wait fell below two weeks I became increasingly nostalgic. I started listening to XRT on iTunes, in addition to my weekly Breakfast with the Beatles fix. I heard Eddie Vedder's tribute to the Cubs (it sounds a lot like an Irish drinking song, which I think is a perfect fit for this franchise). I watched the Cubs-Brewers game yesterday, which fortuitously aired on Fox when the Yankees rained out. I wish I was there for the playoff celebrations and for the first round games. I got excited for Derrick Rose's first practice as a Bull, and I thought about how cool it will be to have Neil Funk do the play-by-play on television now instead of radio. Then I remembered that I won't be watching many Bulls games this year (except for the MLK B-day game against the Knicks in the Garden--I'm totally buying tickets). Kristina told me about her run along Sheridan Road, and I missed running my favorite route during the best time of the year to run. I miss Gulliver's and Northwestern and bowling with Zev. I miss Sunday night barbecues at Mom's and Dad's cozy living room. I could go on. It's truly astonishing to think that a place can be such a part of who you are. When you open yourself up and let the world flow through you, a lot of things stick. I can't wait for those last 12 days to go by.

I've also had moments where I stop, look around, and say to myself, "I can't believe that I'm here." Sometimes it's in the middle of a class looking at the faces of students I'm only beginning to know. Sometimes it's on the corner of 5th Avenue and 59th Street and I realize I'm in New York City. I had a moment last Sunday that made me feel very lucky to be here. I ran for about 19 miles, which included two bridges, a trip past the United Nations, a spectacular view of the Brooklyn Bridge, and my first run through my favorite areas of Brooklyn. The run itself was fantastic. It was a gorgeous day, I finished and I didn't feel completely exhausted (which makes me feel good about the marathon), and I ended up in Prospect Park. Prospect Park is sort of like Central Park Lite. There's something different about it, something more intimate. I sat in a meadow resting my weary legs and watching a trio of twenty-somethings toss a ball back and forth for something like a half hour. The moment provided a calmness that can only come in contrast to the constant activity of the great metropolis.

I think I'll leave you with that thought. I'm glad that the Cubs drew the Dodgers for the first round of the playoffs. I'd rather face Manny than Johan. Eddie Vedder sang, "Someday we'll go all the way." Let's hope it's this October.

Surely, you Jest

Hey, Mom. Check this out.

Bummer, huh?

My first two weeks

Has it been two weeks already? The days fly by faster than I can account for them. Let me give you an update as to how it's been so far. First of all, it's time consuming. So far I have been waking up extremely early in the morning to prepare for the upcoming day and to try to work ahead. I find myself passing out at 9 o'clock at night as a result--usually with a geometry book in my hands.

It's frustrating. I think I'm generally enthusiastic when I'm in front of the class, but I can tell when people are tuning me out. It's difficult policing 30 kids and trying to get all of them into it. I'm constantly aware of moments in which I don't take enough of an authoritative stance or I lose a teachable opportunity. I teach a lesson and afterward know I could have done it better. I want to come up with teaching strategies and activities that allow students to take ownership of their learning, to learn by discovery, but it's hard because I have virtually no tools in my utility belt. Other teachers tell me I shouldn't worry about being interesting, that I should focus on simply getting them to buy into my routine. They're right in many ways--that part is far more important--but I think making my class more interesting would help in getting them to buy in.

With all that being said, I think it's fantastic. I genuinely enjoy coming to work every day. Sometimes my exuberance is irrepressible. I can tell when teachers are bogged down and weary, which I've been more than a few times already, and it's nice when I can add a burst of energy and optimism to the atmosphere. The individual classes are ridiculous. One day a class will drive you crazy while another is like a gift from up above, and the next day the roles are totally reversed. It teaches you to let go after each class, whether they've been good or bad. I knew from the get-go not to take any negativity home with me. Sometimes it's just a bad day. You have to release it, think about what you can do better, and come to the next day with a fresh perspective. It's actually not as hard as it seems.

My geometry students took their first test on Friday. The results so far have been fairly predictable. A lot of very poor grades, but several excellent grades as well. I know the students with whom I need to spend more time, and I know those who I need to keep challenged. The funny part is that I had a group of students who were complaining about the material because they had already taken a version of the course last year. They wanted to work ahead and go at their own pace because they weren't being challenged. For the most part, those students scored completely mediocre grades on the test. I guess they'll have to stick to my pace now. It's just so interesting. I'm learning so much--about teaching, about teenagers, about behavior. Fascinating stuff.

One thing I don't like: grading tests. It blows. It seems like I spent all of yesterday after class grading those damn tests, and I'm only halfway through. Guess what I'll be doing during football today?

Anyways, I hope everyone is well as they read this. If you're in the Windy City, I cannot wait to see you. It's only four weeks away! It's a great time to be in Chicago. I'm excited about the Cubs, the Bears, and the Bulls. It's difficult being a Chicago sports fan in New York City; I have very few outlets for my fanaticism. I really can't wait to be back home.

I'll leave you with a link to a blog written by, of all people, Paul Reiser. I include it only because I had the same idea almost verbatim a few weeks ago, and I thought it was funny that Mr. Reiser captured my sentiment so perfectly and humorously. Although it's getting to the point where it's not really funny any more.

And here's a clip of the lovely ladies at Saturday Night Live, in case you missed them last night:

Longing for some "Common Sense"

Where have you gone, Thomas Paine?

With last week's Republican National Convention introducing even greater levels of acrimony, nonsense, and downright Orwellian doublespeak (see clip below) to the national scene, it has me thinking back to the times of our founding fathers and marveling at how much we've lost touch with their story. It became difficult to watch as the grand old elephants heaped criticism on Barack Obama for being intelligent and inspiring. It was repulsive to listen to Sarah Palin mock and belittle Mr. Obama's background as a community organizer, passing off not only his work but the work of all grass roots community leaders as insubstantial and fruitless.

Where would we be without grass roots community organizers willing to sacrifice their well-being for the sake of change? Where would we be without the intelligent and articulate likes of John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and Benjamin Franklin? Today these three would be denegrated as East Coast Ivy League snobs. Nowadays we are more than content to be subject to the ridiculous whims of our own King George.

Back in 1776, Thomas Paine wrote a pamphlet that helped change the course of human history. His Common Sense inspired a burgeoning nation to wake up and recognize the opportunity that stood before them. Watching this presidential campaign devolve into a string of made-up stories and shallow insults, I wish there was a voice powerful enough to give us some Common Sense. Even if there was, I doubt you could hear it over the constant stream of noise that envelopes our day-to-day lives. And besides, nonsense sells better.

Why I became a teacher

I've wanted to write this entry for a few months now, and I suppose there's no better time to finally let the words flow. My first day as a New York City teacher has come and gone. It's what I've been preparing for all summer--the introductory speech, the laying down of the rules, the first lesson. They told me that if I lost them today it would be hard to go back. That's a hefty amount of pressure, thinking back on it. No wonder so many teachers seemed nervous and a little on edge this morning as they milled about the office making their final preparations. As for me, I floated around smiling and saying hello to everyone and generally feeling a camaraderie with my fellow instructors. I slept fine, woke up early, and made it to school experiencing what I usually do when the new school year rolls around: sad that the summer is on its way out, but happy to be back in class.

That isn't to say I wasn't nervous. It is difficult to dismiss the impenetrable dread that you're going to fall flat on your face, but dealing with it isn't too bad. I had a long wait before my first class (I don't teach until 10 in the morning), and it struck me at about 9:45 that I was actually doing this. I became a teacher today. It wasn't at all what I imagined it to be. I start off my day teaching algebra to what is called a self-contained special education class. It's a small class of 10 students who took the course last year and failed to make any progress. This will test me as a teacher because I will have to try and step inside their shoes and figure out what each person needs to learn the material best. It will test my creativity and probably my patience. I'm glad I have this experience, especially in contrast to the other classes I teach.

The rest of my courses are in geometry, and, while there's a wide range of learning levels, the students were generally on the same page as me. It was in these classes that I had the chance to be myself a little more, to be a little more irreverent. I tried to establish a routine from the very first moment. I had them silently working on a questionnaire at the beginning of class, and that helped transition into my introduction and a brief lesson on basic geometric terms. I didn't make an elaborate speech. I didn't try to be Sidney Poitier in To Sir, With Love or anything. I tried to be direct and businesslike, but also welcoming and a little lighthearted. We'll see how it works out.

The students are great, and I really lucked out to have such a hard-working group. I also received early support from my principal and assistant principal, and I get the sense that they're looking out for me. Ever since I began teaching summer school, I've felt comfortable at the helm of a classroom. It's a strange experience because I recognize how inexperienced I am, and I'm constantly wondering what I'm missing as I teach a lesson. I know there are things going on amongst the students that go right over my head, and I'm trying to be as conscientious as possible. It's almost a sixth sense that you need to develop as a teacher, and it takes time. I try not to let this consciousness bother me while I go through my lesson. I try to commit to what I'm doing and hope my enthusiasm carries over to at least a few students. I'm looking forward to getting better at this.

And I think I will. The more I do it, the more I realize how committed I am to helping these students learn. I enjoy the urban setting. I enjoy the personalities that fill up my room in the Bronx. I have a sense of purpose that what I do gives my students a better chance to succeed, and my school goes a long way in reinforcing that purpose. I'm not teaching only because I like to do the work. I'm teaching because I get to work with these specific students. It's something I can't quite describe and something that I'm sure will evolve as the year goes on. Teaching in the Bronx is a unique endeavor. I'm committed.

So much to say, so much to say

It's been a little while, but I'm back and better than ever. Well, sort of. I'm certainly back on the blogosphere and I'm feeling better than ever, but I'm exhausted and I'm not going to make this a very detailed post.

A lot has happened since I last checked in. I've been without internet since Friday because I had to switch the service into my name. I had to wait for the company to uninstall the service before calling them to reinstall it. Today was the earliest they could do it. I would have made this post over the weekend otherwise. It's been a busy, busy week. I went through training at Bronx Letters at the beginning of last week, and then the new teachers and I organized a new student summer bridge program for the rest of it. The bridge program went spectacularly well, the students are wonderful, and I developed a deeper admiration for the school. I cannot tell you how lucky I am to be in this position. Many, many Fellows are still without jobs as the budgets have been uncommonly tight this summer. Not only do I have a job, but I have one at an extraordinary place. I'll tell you all about it in greater detail in my next post.

My roommate Jack moved out over the weekend. I didn't realize how much I would miss him until he left. We didn't become very close friends or anything over the course of the summer, but we certainly struck a bond. I spent Saturday night with some of his friends from Wicked, and we gave him a proper send-off. I wish him the best as he embarks on his new life in San Diego, and I hope he finds the fulfillment he seeks out there.

Part of my discomfort upon Jack's departure stemmed from the fact that I still didn't have a roommate. I had some other Teaching Fellows sign on and then opt out at the last minute over the past few weeks, so I decided to give up on the idea of having another Fellow as a roommate. I went public with the room and it took all of six hours to find someone. I am very excited to be on board with Natassia, an aspiring opera singer from Delaware who recently graduated from the University of Alabama. She's my age, she's way cool, and we get along quite well. My living situation looks much better than it did a few days ago. It's good to no longer be subleasing; I can make this place my own.

Those are the big stories from the past few weeks, but there's so much more going on between the lines. I can't wait to tell all of you how excited I am to start school on Tuesday, but also how anxious I am about truly beginning this new life (and yes, Papa, I mean anxious in the proper sense--it gives me angst). Actually, I can wait because I still need to get a lot of work done for tomorrow and I'm ready to fall asleep. You'll hear from me again very soon. I promise. I have my internet back.

Baby, don't you wanna go...

Hi everybody!

It's been awhile since my last post because things are starting to get busy again here in New York City. I spent the weekend with my most excellent friend Jon in New Jersey. Just like the last time I visited, it was wonderful. He and his family make me feel like I have a home away from home there; it's almost like seeing everyone in Las Vegas for me. I also went to Philadelphia for the first time, and I thoroughly enjoyed the city. It has a friendly neighborhood vibe, kind of like Chicago, except it's also invigorating to remind yourself of how much significant American history surrounds you. I didn't really see the sights--I wasn't all that interested in that aspect. I did get a good feel for how the city flows and how people live there. I visited the Italian neighborhood where a lot of the Rocky movies take place, which was pretty cool. I did not eat a Philly cheesesteak sandwich for my fear of Cheez Whiz.

It was great to see Jon again. There's nothing like spending time with a great friend, especially after not having seen him for so long. The weekend reminded me of the wonderful friends I have back home. After parting ways with Jon to attend a planning meeting at my school, I didn't have to wait long to get that feeling again. My friend Mariya was in town a day later, and we spent yesterday afternoon together. Today we'll be headed to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Last night my professor from over the summer hosted our class for a barbecue at his home in Ardsley, New York. The gang was back together again, and it was just like old times. Jon and his fiance Sheila will be in the city on Friday. In other words, I'm surrounded by friends, and life's been a dream.

The planning for school is also picking up, and I'm getting very excited about the year. It's a lot of work, and I need to make sure I make time for it this week. I should have a lengthier post about what it feels like heading into the school year and why I want to be a teacher in the first place.

The last thing I want to add is that being around all these friends really makes me miss Chicago. I love that city. I can't wait for the marathon. I miss my family, I miss the character of the people, and I just miss the buildings and the restaurants and the lake. I miss the Cubs a ton, too. It's hard not being there, as much as New York has been wonderful to me. Along those lines, my favorite site for news and opinion, the Huffington Post, has just expanded to include regional news. Their first city? Chicago. They just made their Chicago page live today, and it features exclusive blogs from people like John Cusack and Christie Hefner. I think it's pretty cool.

The Blues Brothers is playing outdoors in Midtown Manhattan next week. I think I'm going to have to see it.

Come on, baby don't you wanna go... back to that same old place, sweet home Chicago....

Other ideas about "the twins"

Here's a random thought: am I the only one who sees a headline like "Brad and Angelina introduce the twins," and Angelina's babies never enter my mind? Anyone? Anyone?

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit

It's now day 7 of the cold front, but the end is in sight. I played some basketball and went for a bike ride this morning, and I felt okay afterwards. The rest of the day will be for reading and writing.

Before I enter into the main thrust of this post, I wanted to share some thoughts about yesterday evening. I had dinner with Dr. Steinberg, who is in town for a national speakers' convention. He gave me his keynote speech in its present incarnation. The keynote is a concentrated version of the book I was helping him to write last summer. I imagine the speech will change drastically in the coming weeks as he hones in on the most important parts of his message and whittles away the components that obscure it. I was genuinely impressed by the progress he's made. I'm someone who has almost no patience for self-help books or the like, but I like how he approaches the big questions from a philosophical-spiritual-scientific angle and then takes it home with the experiences from his life. It's good stuff if he can streamline it and make it more accessible to the general public. I look forward to this vision of his coming to fruition, so he has nothing to do with the title of this post. That goes to the following paragraphs.

Okay, now on to the next topic: politics, politics, politics. I'm not much of a political scientist, but I took a course on public opinion and voting behavior during my senior year at Northwestern (we got a free pizza party at Lou Malnati's at the end of the term--best class ever). In light of what I learned during that course, the presidential election has become much more fascinating over the past few weeks as it dips into the realm of filthy mud-slinging. As citizens, we should be disgusted. How often do we read or watch the news on the race and see something about health care? Energy? Strategies for the economy? All the coverage focuses on other immensely significant questions like, "Was Obama having lunch at Spago on Friday with Britney Spears and Paris Hilton?" or "Did Obama pull out the race card when he made the comment about the dead presidents occupying our currency?"

In the age of the sound bite, the photo op, and the video highlight, these questions end up shaping the public opinion of a candidate. As far as issues go, most people will vote along party lines. It's the impression that will end up swaying swing voters. And no one is better at creating a negative impression of their opponent for the voting public than Karl Rove and the Republicans. It's gotten to the point that when the McCain camp pulled out the "Obama is playing the race card" card last week, I didn't even bother to debate the merits of their argument; I knew it was completely inane. But I had to marvel at the political strategy behind it. The second Obama said something that could be remotely construed as racially charged, they jumped on it so they could make race fair game in the discussion AND say that Obama started it. Never mind that Obama only months ago delivered one of the most eloquent and powerful oratories in American history on the subject of race. Never mind that saying "Obama played the race card" has absolutely no meaning behind it whatsoever. Think about it; it doesn't. There's no meaning behind any of these stories, only the insinuation for many voters that the negro everybody seems to like so much has something up his sleeve. That's why it's so hard for Democrats to fight back against these allegations, from Gore to Kerry but hopefully not to Obama. They try to counter with rational arguments, but you can't fight nonsense with reason.

While I was taking the class, I read what I believe was a New York Times article on a popular political scientist at Emory University in Atlanta. Both parties were vying for his services because he had such a stellar grasp on the campaign process and the framing of public opinion. The article began with a powerful speech by Al Gore denouncing George W. Bush's fraudulent attacks upon his character and then launching into a vicious attack on all of Bush's well-documented shortcomings. The article then asked the reader, "It doesn't sound familiar does it? That's because Gore never made this speech." It turned out that the speech was written by this political scientist, who lambasted Gore and the Democrats for taking the high road and being afraid to get dirty. The problem with the high road, he argued, was that it allowed the insinuations to remain in the public consciousness. Denying the attacks only further legitimized them. However, by getting a little dirty you question the motives, records, and character of the other side and it puts the negative focus back onto them.

I was reading a political blog a couple of hours ago, and I was amazed by the depth of its analysis of McCain's tactics. I scanned down to look at the author's bio, and I realized that it was written by the very same Emory political scientist I had read about all those years ago. I thoroughly recommend reading this article. It doesn't denounce McCain or Obama, but it takes a frank look at just what McCain's camp is doing at a strategic level to hang tight in a race that by the issues he has no right winning. Here is the link to the article.

I know politics is a touchy issue, and I would never presume to tell anyone what to think about any candidate. Of course I'm more than happy to share what I think about a candidate. The point of this post is to activate a higher level of thinking about what you read, what you see, and what you hear. When you're making a voting decision, and you're looking at all the different things you've seen, read, and heard about a candidate, make sure to think about the context and the framing of how those images, sound bites, videos, and ideas were presented to you. Thinking about how politicians frame their issues makes the whole game a lot more interesting. I sincerely hope you read the article.

If not, Mel Brooks always manages to do it better. I think the first minute and twenty seconds of this clip capture it best:

Passersby

Are there any other words in the English language to which you add an "s" to make them plural, but you do not add it to the end of the word? There must be, but I can't think of any. Even if there were, "passersby" would be my favorite. It reminds me of Carl Sandburg and his poem about the sidewalks of Chicago. (Yes, there is another famous Chicago Sandburg/berg other than Ryno). The word leads me to paint this picture in my head that I think is actually a memory of something I've seen in the past. The vision is of a chalkboard, and someone is standing in front of the chalkboard while different people come up with various brightly colored chalks and shade in the area surrounding him. After many people have added their tone to the picture, the person steps away from the chalkboard leaving a silhouette behind. The colors that surround the silhouette? Passersby.

I've had plenty of time to think thoughts like this over the past few days because I have been sick. I've also had ample time to write, but my mind fixates on drinking tea or blowing my nose. It wouldn't allow me the patience to concentrate on something like this. The cold has died down enough to where I can count on a solid thirty minutes without coughing like I have emphysema. I wish I had great stories to tell, but most of my time has been spent drinking orange juice, drinking tea, and getting angry at my immune system for this outrageous mutiny.

Having said that, here are some highlights from the past week. On Wednesday, I gave my best lesson of the summer. There was nothing fancy about it. There was a lot of math, and I put a lot of responsibility into the hands of the students. I think they got a lot out of it. There was some improvisation involved, so I felt loose and confident. I was more at home with myself. I was proud because by the end I had used up three full white boards, filling them with definitions and examples and student work. Yet I was also milling about the room trying to keep students interested and on task. I wasn't glued to the board, but I still managed to use it often. It was cool. It was by no means a perfect lesson, and I wasn't totally aware of everything that was going on around me, but it was very encouraging. I wish I could have carried that momentum into Thursday, but my cold struck back and I had to miss my last day of summer school.

I was bummed. The cold set in on Tuesday, and I felt horrible until the evening. Things started to look up, and all I had was a light cough and a light runny nose when I taught my lesson on Wednesday. I deteriorated over the course of Wednesday and was at my absolute worst on Thursday. My only tangible accomplishment on Thursday was re-writing the words to "We are the World" for my class at City College. Let me explain why this was an accomplishment.

Friday was our last day of training. It consisted of a brief reception in which every class had to make a five minute skit or presentation. I wanted to do an improv game like "party quirks" because it's easy and requires no memorization. They do it all the time on "Whose Line is it Anyway?"--it's the one where someone is hosting a party and has to guess all the different quirks of the guests. It's easily adaptable to a classroom in which students have all sorts of weird quirks, like one who births an alien out of his stomach (my creation) or one who feels the need to sing like Michael Jackson every time he answers a question (true summer school story from a classmate).

Alas, we decided on "We are the World." So I re-wrote the lyrics, which wasn't difficult because they made absolutely no sense in the first place. On Friday I took the lead and channeled my inner Lionel Richie to start them off, and we gave an unforgettable rendition to the other fellows at the school. It was fun. I think it's funny how I evolved from the quiet nice guy at the beginning of the summer to the crazy guy who pretends to be Lionel Richie at the end of the summer. I'm not sure how to feel about this.

Anyways, the performance was a wonderful testament to our group's cohesion and willingness to trust one another. And our complete inability to carry a tune. We got paid at the end of the reception, said our farewells, and went our separate ways. After becoming virtually inseparable over the course of the summer, I wonder how much we will stick together now that we won't all be in the same place at once. It was palpable how everything came to an end after collecting our checks. People were off to move into new apartments, go on vacations, or travel to be with their families. It was all happening right away. One phase had ended, and the next had begun.

Always the passive tag-along, I recognize that it is now on me to reach out to people and continue building friendships where they had begun. I hope that we can amount to more than being vague passersby in each other's lives. After all, we've shared "We are the World." There's no going back now.

It's a tough life

Summer training is steaming ahead to its climactic final week. I have summer school until Thursday, two more Student Achievement Framework (SAF) Sessions on Wednesday and Thursday, and a closing ceremony Friday morning. After that, I will be free for about two and a half weeks, during which I plan to do extensive research and planning on just what I am going to teach for the upcoming year. I'm also going to look for creative projects and lessons to disperse throughout the school year.

This past week was my last long week of the summer. I finished my course work on Thursday, which means I will be free to go home after summer school this Monday and Tuesday. It was a great class, and I had a fantastic professor. I feel much less nervous about that first day of school than I did a few weeks ago. I'm astounded by how quickly this summer flew by. While I'm excited to have some free time, I am very thankful that I still have a week left of teaching summer school. That has been by far the most useful training, and I want to work on creative lessons and building student interest.

If you talk to teachers in training, they will most likely complain about the long days, the abundance of time it takes to plan lessons, and the constant demands of their training program. Let me add some color to this assessment. My last two days have been, quite literally, a walk in the park and a day at the beach. On Friday morning we had a groggy workshop on special education (some of us had a long night leading up to it). Afterwards, a decent chunk of the class made its way to Central Park, where we spent a beautiful afternoon in the shade of the Sheep's Meadow eating lunch, chatting, tossing a football, and playing with a young couple's puppy. It was a perfect afternoon. The next day many of the same people went to a beach on Long Island to soak in the sun and support our classmate Brian, who was playing in a beach volleyball tournament. It was another picture perfect day spent in good company.

Tough life, huh? The only concern I've had from the last couple days is the pink tint of my shoulders and back. And the stinging sensation that accompanies it. This week was just an encapsulation of the entire summer. While it has certainly been strenuous, it's mostly been a lot of fun. I have no complaints.

It was strange driving through Long Island yesterday and seeing the suburban side of New York. Yesterday was the first time I felt like I was living on the east coast as opposed to another city. It still strikes me as odd that I'm living in New York. It feels like I should be returning back home to Chicago at the beginning of August. I truly miss the city. Regardless, I'm enjoying my courtship with New York, and now I can add Long Island to my expanding mosaic.

What else can I say? I love getting to know all the new people I've met here in New York. I also miss everyone who reads this from Chicago and elsewhere. I hope all your summers are filled with laughter and friends. That's all I've got for today. Life's pretty grand, isn't it?

Okay, I do have one more thing. Our class had a barbecue recently and the multi-talented Bostonian Jamie Northrup took some pictures of everyone. The pictures reminded me of something, and I decided to make a new video. Here is my class at the City College of New York, in '90s theme song form:

Taking a step back

I have so many things to say that I don't know where to begin. I've written extensively about teaching and being in the city and starting this new life, and I want to step back for a moment and ruminate about what's going on while all this is happening. It's an intriguing experience for me. I'm growing up very quickly as I develop my understanding of what it means to take responsibility for scores of students. I give the performance of being an actual adult every time I step inside the classroom, and I'm finding that if you pretend for long enough you start to believe it. I've received kudos from classmates on my "teacher stare"--the look you give when students need to stop whatever it is they're doing and start doing something constructive. I'm learning about patience and thoughtfulness and leadership. All these things are happening while I'm scrambling between trains and classrooms and happy hours and classwork and barbecues and homework. What is it that John Lennon said? "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans," right? It's like that.

So there's been heaps of growing up since I moved to New York, which is one of the reasons why I wanted to become a teacher in the first place and why I wanted to do it here. The other interesting aspect of doing it this way is that I'm away from home for the first time in my life, and I'm surrounded by people my age who are kind of like me, and we're all surrounded by this behemoth city of endless diversions. It is in this regard, as opposed to the teaching, where I imagine growing up will hit me the hardest. Teaching feels like a natural extension of my character, and while it has been difficult adjusting into that role, I still feel a harmonic balance to it all. Being on my own in the big city isn't always so harmonious.

It's hard to shake the notion that you're constantly "missing out" on things. There's so many people and so much going on in this city that no matter what you're doing it's all-too-fathomable that you could be doing something more interesting, more sociable, more . . . New York. I find myself flipping between periods of restlessness and the compulsion to be around other people, to match this city measure for measure, and periods of wanting to bring the small town to the big city. I'm just as content to share a slice of pie and a good conversation as I am to traverse the eclectic social scenes of the Village or Soho or Williamsburg. I like the small town part of me; I think it makes me more equipped to handle a place like this. I think of it as the Chicagoan in me that carries a small town mentality within the massive metropolis. The important things are to be yourself, to do what makes you happy, and to surround yourself by people who enable those things to happen.

Still, it's hard to find a balance. I felt so settled in Skokie and Evanston. I had the comforts of close friends and a supportive family. I surrounded myself with familiarity. Despite taking this major leap and trekking off on my own to a new place seemingly at the drop of a dime, I find I'm hesitant to fully put myself out there. Part of me feels nervous about coming off as boring or bizarre, but I'm usually more than capable of dispelling those nagging worries. More than anything else, I feel like I'm a novice to making it on my own, and I know I'll have to make heaps and heaps of mistakes en route to discovering new sides of myself and connecting to other people. It's difficult to reconcile how much I've already learned and experienced with how much growing up I still have yet to do. I'm absolutely terrified of all the awkward moments, the embarrassments, the heartbreaks, and the silly mistakes that lie ahead for me. I'm also excited about all the epiphanies and triumphs and moments of beauty that I hope will fall in between.

This whole experience has been awesome. The more I teach, the more I find myself endeared to these students and the more excited I become about having my own classes come fall. Being in a new place and doing something new, I find myself supremely confident and simultaneously scared shitless. The overachiever in me is taking hold in the presence of all this newness and in the absence of those sources of comfort that left me content. Going with that train of thought, I miss people, a lot. It was hard not to be in Las Vegas with Holly and the rest of my family as she celebrated her birthday. It's hard not having a good grasp of how things are going in my mom's new life as a social worker. It was very hard not being there for my dad while he was in surgery for his back. It's hard not being able to bridge the distance between so many close friends. I guess that's my life here--a little bit of everything. I realize how fortunate I am to be doing what I'm doing as well as how lucky I was for everything I had back home. Living here draws a barrage of experiences, emotions, and sensations that fly through my everyday. But I can handle it. I'm doing ok. I'm growing up.

Update at the week's end

The lack of content that has characterized this space over the past week is probably more telling than anything I could have written. That isn't to say nothing has being going on--it's quite the opposite. I haven't had time to write anything down. On the rare occasion when I don't have coursework to do and lesson plans to construct upon returning to my apartment (take last night, for instance), I end up collapsed on my bed and fast asleep within twenty minutes.

This week was a whirlwind. I began teaching on Monday. I am posted at the Bronx School for Law, Government, and Justice for the rest of the month teaching summer school with a teacher from the Bronx Academy of Letters, where I'll be teaching in the fall. The teacher with whom I work is also from Chicago, and this is her first time teaching summer school. I was more of an observer my first couple of days, and my teaching was all one-on-one or in small groups. I acted as something of an enforcer, if you'll believe that. After weeks of being told how stern and forceful you need to be right off the bat with a new class, she was extremely nice and lenient with the students. The class had a tendency to get out of hand, and I initially didn't think much of her management style. After a couple of days, however, they seemed to settle down with her vibe, and I realized that she was more in control than I originally thought.

Of everything I've learned this week, and believe me, I've learned a lot, the notion that you have to be yourself in front of a class has hit home the hardest. I can't let my class run wild, but I'm too laid back to be a drill sergeant. I don't want to come off as a phony. I think I'm intense enough to keep kids in line just because I care so much about their education. I'm focused on helping students to be better learners, and I don't think I'll let bad behavior get in my way.

This whole thing about being myself became clear to me after my first real teaching experience. On Thursday I was given the reins to the classroom, and I taught an hour-long lesson on determining the slope of a line. To be quite honest, I sucked. Ms. Pappas (my partner in crime) said she thought I did a great job for my first try, and I know I'm being overly hard on myself, but I really did suck. It was such a strange experience! When I taught a demo lesson several weeks ago, I could sense my excitement transferring to the students. (The content? Well, who knows....) I didn't do anything fancy, but I was able to draw out their participation, even from a student who I was told typically never spoke in class.

Thursday was completely different. I surprised myself with how long it took to create my lesson the night before. I kept worrying about it, and I had trouble sleeping. I generally never over-prepare; it's just not in my nature. Whether it's a presentation for class, studying for a test, or writing an essay, I simply don't like to expend the energy and time. This is why I always came off as the smart kid who never had to work for his accolades, but that's not the case at all. I work hard. I simply know what I need to feel prepared. Plus, when I'm making a presentation I like to have some wiggle room for improvisation. I'm better on my toes than when I know exactly what I'm going to do. So I'm a little perplexed as to why I over-worked myself for this lesson. I made a beautiful powerpoint presentation that utilized the class room's "smart board" and I filled it with plenty of visual representations of slope. But when push came to shove, I didn't feel like I taught very well.

Maybe I wasn't quite comfortable, and that transferred to the students. I'm not sure. Management wasn't much of an issue, and they were generally well-behaved. They just weren't quite 'there.' Afterwards I felt like Neo from The Matrix plummeting to the ground after failing to make his first jump across distant rooftops. The phrase "No one ever makes their first jump" rang through my ears for the rest of the day. I wasn't too discouraged because I know I'll have to take my lumps to become a good teacher, but it's hard hard not to be a little disappointed. I wanted to make my first jump. Oh, well. I'll get back on the saddle next week. I can't wait to do this again.

As for the kids, it's a hell of a challenge. They lack so many fundamental skills that even if they understand the larger concepts of algebra they can't perform the operations. It was difficult to teach slope when so many students didn't know how to plot points on a graph. One of the most difficult parts of the teaching aspect of my job is figuring out how to reach the students who don't have the basics to even begin understanding your lesson as well as the students who pretty much get it and need something more challenging. It's doubly trying when so many students need to be constantly prodded just to lift up a pencil and start working, regardless of ability. I have a tough road ahead of me.

On the same token, they're wonderful. I barely know the students in these classes, and I already find myself endeared to them. I love and hate the way they talk to each other. I admire their expressions of individuality and resent their obstinate defiance to people who genuinely want to help. I tend to like the problem kids. It's completely fascinating. I'll keep everyone posted on how the student-teacher dynamic develops over the course of the year.

This has been my life for the past week. I go through ups and downs and have tremendous learning experiences each day. And then I go to class for six more hours. Then maybe dinner with classmates. Then the train. Then I get home and want to write a blog post about all of it. Then I fall asleep, or do work. Sleeping takes precedence. Today I didn't have summer school or class, but I had to attend workshops all morning before talking curriculum for next year with the head of my math department. No rest for the weary over the weekend either because I'm taking six or seven hours of certification tests tomorrow. I imagine this sounds like I'm complaining, but I actually don't mind it. I enjoy what I'm doing, and that makes all the difference in the world.

I hope to have another post up this weekend. There's plenty of things on my mind. I've had a deeper, 'artsier' post in my head that I haven't quite been able to pen down for some time despite starting it a while ago. Perhaps you'll see it soon. I'm also going to see a play starring Bradley Whitford, Gina Gershon, and Christine Baranski tomorrow night, so I'll let you know how that goes. Bradley Whitford (The West Wing, Billy Madison) is one of my favorite actors, and Gina Gershon is just plain hot. I'm seeing the play with two friends from class. I can't express how grateful I am to be surrounded by these people everyday. I needed to borrow a calculator for the test tomorrow, and one of my classmates (the former Pittsburgh Pirates minor league baseball player) called me this evening to make sure that I had received one. These people are off the charts. I'm so lucky.

One last thing before I sign off. Holly went to Vegas earlier this week to celebrate her 21st, and she's spent the last few days with my Grandma Betty and Aunt Pat. I wish I could be there. I talked to her for awhile last night, and she couldn't have had more good things to say about them, as well as our Uncle Mike, our Aunt Kim, and our cousins Mike, Kath, and Ally. I don't get to see them very often so I'm something of an outsider to their tight-knit connection, but I miss them very much. They know how to make you feel like family, even if you're not biologically part of it. To add to what I just said, I'm something of an outsider but I never feel like one when I'm with them. It feels like I've been there for years the second I walk through their door. It's uncanny. I'm happy for Holly, and she deserves this break. It sounds like she's having a fantastic time. If anyone out there is reading this, please know that I'm thinking about you all the time.

That's it for today. I'll keep you posted as things progress. This great adventure continues to roll along....

Craving Some Good 'Donuts'

This post will be the first of what I think might be a series on what I love so much about Chicago. Think of it as a sort of large-scale public brainstorming session for when I write my great Chicago-themed novel. Just so you know, James Joyce wrote the entirety of Ulysses traveling about Europe. He never once set foot in Ireland while writing the book. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, right? Certain aspects of the city brighten and become vivid when remembering them from afar. I only mention this because I have a lot of things running through my mind, and I'm not sure how coherent this posting will be.

I'm writing because I miss Chicago. I miss Buckingham Fountain. I miss the Taste. I miss the lake and the Cubs and Pilsen and Rush Street. I might be in New York for awhile, and I might find myself quite happy here (so far, so good), but Chicago is one of the great characters in my life's story. It's difficult to say because it's only been a little over a month, but I get the feeling that I will always consider myself a Chicagoan. I'm proud of my city, proud to acknowledge it as a part of who I am.

Which brings me to my craving. I thought it was innocuous at first, but I only just now realized that it's quite nuanced. Let me divulge something to you. I might be a health-conscious marathon runner, but I have a weakness for Dunkin Donuts. Lately my desire for a buttermilk donut and medium coffee has been strong. I finally had that donut and coffee this morning (glazed because they were out of buttermilk, eh) when I accompanied my friend Beth to Penn Station. Beth was en route to Newark Airport en route to Tel Aviv. Maybe it was not having the buttermilk. I don't know. The donut experience left something to be desired.

Only fifteen minutes ago I realized that my craving ran deeper than a Dunkin Donuts buttermilk donut. I was in need of Superior Donuts. Superior Donuts is a play that premiered for review today at Steppenwolf Theatre. You can find the New York Times and Chicago Tribune reviews I just read here and here. It stars Michael McKean of Laverne and Shirley and This is Spinal Tap fame as well as budding star Jon Michael Hill. Jon Hill graduated from the University of Illinois a year before Zev, and I had the good fortune to see him on stage alongside my best buddy in the musical I Sing. I like to think I knew him "before he was famous" when in reality I probably shared two sentences of congratulations at a cast party after the show. Jon Hill is a stud, and I believe he's the youngest actor ever to be named an ensemble member at Steppenwolf. Now he's starring in the latest work from a writer who just won a Pulitzer and the Tony for best play. How 'bout them donuts?

I promise this has a point. If you read the reviews, you'll glean that the critics appreciate the fact that the playwright went back to his Chicago roots after earning international fame for his last play. Donuts might not be a staggering work of genius, but it is an honest expression of a Chicago writer's take on the dynamic of his city. It's a show that takes place in Uptown, and it is physically performed in Lincoln Park. It's about race and gentrification and changes and, best of all, those most delectable of all comestibles--donuts.

Which brings me back to my initial point. I wish I could be in Chicago right now to see Superior Donuts. New York is full of big-ticket shows with big-ticket stars, but Chicago has the best stuff. It has Second City and Improv Olympic. It has Uptown and Lincoln Park. It has the sights and sounds and people with whom I grew up. No matter how much New York has to offer, it will never be able to give me that. Tough donuts, I guess.

NYC on the Run

Hello out there,

It's been a little while since I posted anything substantial in this space, and that's not going to change today. I have some bigger ideas in my head, but they're not quite fit to print. I wanted to take this time to say rest in peace, George Carlin. Never has such a sagacious human being started an act with lines like, "Have you ever picked your butt?" He was the best.

I also figured I would share this video I made of New York City. A lot of the shots are from the streets of Astoria and Astoria Park. Some are from the Queensboro Bridge and the edge of Manhattan. The rest are from Central Park and Brooklyn. As you're watching it, keep in mind that I made the entire thing without the use of a Macintosh computer. If I had a Mac, I probably could have made it in a tenth of the time. Here's the fruits of my labor:

Cubs win! Cubs win!

Walk-off style. Cubs 1. White Sox 0.

Fleeting Impressions

I went for a run this evening after my first day of teacher school, and I experienced numerous thoughts and impressions which I will share with you now.

First, it's good to run. I feel free, unencumbered. I move through the world at my own pace. It was a beautiful evening to run. The temperature was perfect. The air smelled of barbecues and youth.

Kids playing little league baseball. A rush of memories--a maroon jersey in the park, a plastic bat, my Uncle Bert announcing a star is born in the backyard. A childhood.

Sunlight streaking across Manhattan, echoing between two bridges stretched across the yellow-blue river. Light shimmering in between buildings as the sun makes its descent. Harmony.

A couple huddling together in a sleeping bag on a grassy slope watching the sun go down. Men and women bathed in sunlight kissing along railings. Slow steps in rhythm. Held hands. Loneliness.

Rejuvenation. Freedom. The sun shines for you today. Shines so brightly through the towers. A gleaming Empire. The Emerald City and the brick path before me. So many children.

The sun sets first over Manhattan and then over Hell's Gate Bridge. I say goodbye and trod home. Running. Grateful. Glorious. Peace.

For my dad

Hi Dad!

This was supposed to go up yesterday, but I sort of fell asleep.... Happy Father's Day one day late!

Yes!

Now that the sports post is out of my system, I can tell you about my wild and wacky week, which just came to a thrilling conclusion. Actually, I encourage you to read the tail end of the last post, even if you don't care about sports. I went into a tangent on the future of news media, if that sounds interesting to you.

These past two weeks have been a fantastic learning experience, and not because I've been stuck in a classroom doing math for six hours a day. I went to a hiring fair last Tuesday, and I had the chance to deliver my spiel to a number of administrators who in turn told me about their school. I came away impressed by two schools, both of them very new and very different from each other. The future of education in New York City seems to be going in a direction where large dysfunctional schools break up into smaller themed schools. Any given high school building could be housing five or six individual schools inside of it. Both of the schools in which I was interested were smaller "themed" schools.

One school, for which I held my first demo lesson last Friday, made architecture and global studies its theme. Students are evaluated not only on their class work, but also on two large projects they present to a panel of judges each year. Their goal is to provide students with an interdisciplinary background and a confidence in public speaking. I was thoroughly impressed by the principal, a former Teaching Fellow who has a good idea about where he wants the school to go. He has his work cut out for him; the school received a "D" rating from the Department of Education last year (this is his first year as principal). However, I liked his direction, and I was prepared to sign up when he offered me the job on Wednesday. I was completely surprised. My interview with him was my first real interview, and I had no idea how to gauge my performance. I guess it went well.

The only reason I didn't accept on Wednesday was because I had an interview with another school on Tuesday. This was for the Bronx Academy of Letters, another small school with an emphasis on writing and verbal skills. I know I'm teaching math, but needless to say this school appealed to me. I was optimistic because they reached out to me to set up the interview. I arrived at the school Tuesday morning, looking pristine in my polished shoes, sleek dress pants, and sweat-stained undershirt. It was about 98 degrees outside on Tuesday, which translates to about 120 degrees in the subway. I had to take off my suit coat and my shirt to survive. I changed into my interview attire in the school's bathroom, and I must say I was looking dapper.

Quick comment: there should be a law against wearing suits when it's hotter than 90 degrees. It's just not right.

Anywho, I nailed the interview on Tuesday. I was prepared, I was clear, it felt good. I didn't have to teach a lesson, so I had the opportunity to sit in on a class. The whole thing was pretty hastily thrown together, and I only spoke to the assistant principal. She told me she would contact me later in the day about coordinating a follow up interview and a teaching demo. Later in the day passed, as did Wednesday, and I still hadn't heard from her. Then I received a call from the principal from the other school offering me the job. I asked him for a couple more days to make my decision.

On Thursday I checked a voicemail during my lunch break from class. It was the principal of the Academy of Letters. At the hiring fair I was given a photocopy of a magazine article written about this principal. She was an all-American lacrosse player at Yale, a high-ranking staffer for Bill Bradley's presidential campaign, a successful history teacher, and the founder of a school designed to prepare students for college and beyond by emphasizing writing skills. She's written a book about voting and the political process. She's sort of a big deal.

I returned her call, and she asked me to come in for an interview either later that day or the next day. I had my final for the math course and an introduction to my graduate studies, so Friday was out. It would have to be Thursday afternoon. I lobbied with my professor, and I was able to leave early from class. I shuttled across Manhattan on a bus and made my way back to the school. I met with the chair of the math department as well as several other math teachers. I was getting the impression that I had a chance at nabbing this job.

I was led back into principal Joan Sullivan's office, where she had to leave abruptly to tend to some other matter. I was left alone with a precocious sixth grader eating a slice of cake given to him by one of his teachers. I asked him about the school, his studies, how old he was, wanting to be polite. I was taken by a wise-beyond-his-years quality to his voice, especially since he was a particularly diminutive sixth grader. He showed me a copy of a free-form poem he had written earlier in the day, titled "Profane." It was pretty good.

Principal Sullivan walked in, sat down, and before her back reached the spine of her chair she had asked me the first question of our interview. Jacob the precocious sixth grader remained in the room. I was wearing a pair of jeans and a buttoned-down short sleeve shirt. I was loving every second of this.

Ms. Sullivan was everything I had expected of her from the magazine article--intelligent, direct, intense, but caring. She reminded me very much of Mrs. Goethals, my extraordinary junior year English teacher, unrivaled by any professor I had at Northwestern. She let Jacob sit next to her, and she let him ask me several questions. Unsurprisingly, his questions cut straight to the core of what's hardest about being a teacher, the things that great teachers overcome. I'm not much of a bullshitter, so I wasn't put off by his presence or his questions. You can't put anything past a kid, so I didn't try to. I answered him thoughtfully and candidly. I don't know if he was planted there on purpose, or if Ms. Sullivan thought he might as well stick around before meeting with his mother.

I came away from the interview feeling I could have expressed myself in a way truer to my thoughts and feelings. I might have just been hard on myself because I realized how badly I wanted this job. I also used to have the feeling that I never did enough or showed enough promise to Mrs. Goethals, and I think Ms. Sullivan had the same effect on me. Regardless of how it went, I had a blast. It was an ideal interview setting for me.

This was going to be a long-shot because the Academy of Letters is an "A" school. They have tremendous standards for their students despite being a Bronx public school like so many other struggling institutions. Apparently they also hire very carefully. I told Ms. Sullivan that I had another offer on the table, and she told me she would let me know about their decision by today.

I breezed through my math immersion final and at 12:05 I received a call from the assistant principal of the Bronx Academy of Letters offering me the teaching position there. I didn't give a demo lesson, I wore jeans to my final interview, it's one of the best public schools in the city, and they gave me a job. Whoa. I accepted in about half a second. I'll write more about the school at a later time. All I have to say right now is "whoa."

There's one more thing I wanted to say before I sign off. Earlier today, NBC's Tim Russert died of a heart attack at the age of 58. I don't know if anyone out there is a big fan, but he was the host of "Meet the Press" and the chief of the Washington Bureau. Like the way your taste buds develop to learn to like certain foods, it took me awhile to develop an interest in politics. Tim Russert made that transition palatable for me. "Meet the Press" is one of the few television shows I watch consistently, and I always went to Russert for election coverage. He had an uncanny knowledge of politics and an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. You knew when he was excited about something, which has pretty much been all the time since the primaries started. I loved watching his face light up when he talked about strategies and big issues. I cared about whatever he said, just because of how he said it. He was a tremendous journalist, and I'm certainly going to miss him.