Cold Shower

Blogging while taking a cold shower?!?!

The audio quality ain't fantastic, but use your imagination.

"(laughing) That's refreshing!!!"

Who is Vincent Mottola?

So it started innocently enough. Back in April, I inquired with my car insurance agent: "What exactly is my 6 month premium?"

You see, I had good reason to ask. Every month, my insurance company, Mercury, was automatically taking two payments out of my bank account: one for usually around $240, and another for usually around $85. So yes, that would make a yearly premium of about $3,800. Did I do the math at the time? No. In fact, I just did it for the first time 10 seconds ago. Even if I had done the math at the time, would that figure have surprised me as much as it surprised you? No, because I had no idea until this week that paying almost $4,000 a year for car insurance wasn't normal. Yes, I'm weird.

Now, you have to remember, money is kind of a funny thing with me. I don't really notice it much. Besides, when I bought my new car I figured my payments would go up...

So I requested that information back in April and I finally opened up the envelope containing it today. My yearly premium? $933.80.

To my credit, I did at least notice that's considerably less than $3,800.

So I did some investigating. I open Quicken where I download all my bank transactions. I look at my insurance payments. I've been paying twice every month, far more than I should. But why?

I make a "QuickReport" and sort out all the insurance payments I've ever made. In this format, I can, for the first time, see the entire "memo" section attached with each payment and a huge light bulb went on over my head and came crashing down on me. The $85 a month payments have my policy number and my name on them, and the $240 a month payments have a different policy number and the name Vincent Mottola.

So who is Vincent Mottola? He is, essentially, my mistress. I'm his sugar daddy. I've been paying his car insurance for the last 3 years, and he hasn't even slept with me yet!

Lest you think that the only bad guy here is Mercury insurance (well, they did somehow screw up the payments, but they immediately acknowledged their error) and that they've been charging both Vincent and me for *his* insurance, according to the folks at Mercury he hasn't paid a cent. I mean hey, free car insurance!

How did this happen? I don't know yet. But Vincent Mottola, you owe me $5,819.40. Mercury will pay me on your behalf, but when they send you the bill, I hope it hurts.

Why I'm a Teacher: Part 2

It's not for the pay, obviously. We even got a pay cut last year.

It's also not for the vacation. I'm officially on vacation right now. Summer school ended on Friday and so yesterday was my first official day off. I don't like days off. In fact, I wish our 180 instructional day school year was more like 220. Working keeps me going. It keeps me going to bed and waking up at decent times. It keeps me feeling productive. Yesterday, for example, with my first 24 hours of freedom, I surfed the net, went to school to start cleaning up my classroom, read, ate a super burrito de asada, rode my bike around for an hour and a half, watched what must be one of the worst TV shows ever (anyone ever heard of "Extreme Akim"?), talked on the phone, and played online chess and Scrabble with Pam. So I did things, but I don't feel like I really did anything. I do need a vacation, but I don't have to like it.

It's not for the respect. Sure, everybody seems to identify with and like teachers. They have fond memories of their own teachers and so whenever I tell them I'm a public school teacher they smile and say that's cool and usually throw in something about how they could never be a teacher. But I think there's usually not a whole lot of respect there. A lot of people, much more than you'd guess, think we just work from 8:30 till 3:00, 9 months out of the year. I know you all know better than that!

Since I have a Stanford education and political aspirations, some folks seem perplexed that I would spend so much time trying to educate fifty "disadvantaged" fifth graders year after year.

I recently received an email from C. who is now 15. When I met him, he was 9 and a rather short, pleasantly plump 5th grader in my very first class. At that time his goal in life was to be a comedian. Now he's 15, a boxer and a baseball player, about to start his junior year in high school, and he wants to get an engineering degree and be a Navy Seal. He wrote me asking for my advice. I wrote him back and then he wrote this:

Hey Mr. Evans I'm glad you got my email I wasn't sure if it was old or not yours, I was actually hoping that you would do me the favor and give me the best advice that you could which I appreciate by the way; for some reason you have always been more than a teacher for me; you know how people say that you will probably forget most of your grade school teachers? well it's the complete opposite with you, I don't write to any other of my past teachers other than you, and Mr. Truong. I don't know why especially because it was your first year teaching when I was in your class so I think that says a lot about your abilities as a teacher. I think I just learned a lot more from you guys than I had from regular teachers just so you know teachers these days just aren't the same it's a problem a lot of teachers don't care much about a students success. so you guys had a lot to do with my decisions and choices in life that have led me to where I am today you have influenced me in all the positive ways so I would just like to thank you for that.

That's why I'm a teacher.

The Impossible Dream

From Man of La Mancha:

To dream the impossible dream,
To fight the unbeatable foe,
To bear with unbearable sorrow,
To run where the brave dare not go,
To right the unrightable wrong,
To love pure and chaste from afar,
To try when your arms are too weary,
To reach the unreachable star.

This is my quest, to follow that star,
No matter how hopeless, no matter how far.

To fight for the right, without question or pause,
To be willing to march into Hell for a heavenly cause.

And I know,
If I'll only be true,
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I'm laid to my rest.

And the world will be better for this,
That one man, scorned and covered with scars,
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star.

Listen here if you'd like.

In case you haven't seen it...

Mr. and Mr. Fingers Episode 1


Now this, yes THIS, is, uhhh, entertainment.

I had a dream...

I had a most interesting dream last night. I awoke from it feeling... happy. Relaxed. And I found a new perspective as I entered my classroom this morning. I was able to tap into a well of patience that I thought had dried up in the heat of summer. Let me try to describe it, and we'll see if it makes sense.

I'm in a house. It's day time, the sun is shining brightly. It has the look and feel of something right out of a Mexican novela. I actually start not inside but essentially in the backyard. On my right is what looks like a homeless person's ragtag improvised shelter. I don't see anyone there, but I can sense that someone lives there who's not too well off. I somehow can tell because, well, it's made of twigs and grass, like a hut on Survivor, and I can see muddy footprints where its inhabitant has come and gone. I'm a little disgusted by it, a little afraid. It's in stark contrast to the rest of the yard which is neatly manicured, with tall, lush grass, framed by the pristine walls of the house.

I step gingerly by, feeling that I'm really not supposed to be here, but continuing on to explore nonetheless, and I come across K., my former student with Down syndrome. She's smiling, very happy to see me, and I'm happy to see her. It's not awkward at all. She's going about her business on some kind of patio. I move on and enter the house itself. At this point, I feel like I'm really trespassing. I'm inside this home that's not my own, but I get the feeling that if I just walk resolutely and with confidence through the rooms, no one will question my being there. So that's what I do - I quickly walk through room after room, usually inhabited by just one solitary person, always Latino. I don't stop to talk, I don't make eye contact. They don't even seem to notice me - my plan is working. I just act like I'm supposed to be there, continuing on through the house with mock confidence. Finally, I come to a room with a table where an old woman is sitting, eating. On this table is an object, a small glass sphere on a little pedestal. On top of this sphere is a button, and I'm compelled to push it. When I do, a magical, colorful, gravity defying liquid begins to swirl into the sphere. Somehow I know that this is a very good thing - it's creating harmony, it's bringing people together, it's mixing people in a way that will lead to happiness (far out, I know). With each push I'm creating fantastic, wonderful changes. So I keep pushing the button, and inside the sphere the liquid, which is a shimmering, sparkling blue, continues to grow and eventually takes the shape of a gently twisted column. The woman at the table, though she still doesn't really seem to notice me, seems pleased.

At this point, I notice three of my former students sitting on barstools nearby. They're smiling at me, and they say, "We love you, Mr. Evans!" Somehow I know that everything is better now - I have a feeling of euphoria. I tell my former student J., with some sense of urgency, suddenly aware that all of this is a dream, "Remember this! Try and remember this!" I want her to remember, so that in case I don't, she can remind me.

So what does it all mean? Dreams are like horoscopes - you can see in them what you want to see. But I think that this dream is very much related to all the stress I've been going through with being accused of racism by a parent (see Deflating below) and the feelings of betrayal and resentment it has evoked. It may be a metaphor for how I feel working in a Latino community - I'm an outsider with the best of intentions, and I want to be accepted. I want to be appreciated and loved. I want to feel like I'm home.

Good Question

From the trailer for Spider Man 3:

How long
can any man fight the darkness
before he finds it in himself?

Independence Day

A happy Independence Day to you all...

North Korea seems to have misunderstood our little tradition of setting off fireworks to celebrate the 4th and, in a classic case of hyperbole, shot off several missiles into the Sea of Japan. Nice try, guys.

Today, I declare myself independent from the refuse of the last 6 years that has explicably gathered itself into several piles in my little duplex. After working hard for the last three days to clean and get rid of things I don't need (Pam had to work, so I had nothing else to do!), my place may not be "rightsized" just yet, but it's well on the way.

To celebrate, I bbq'ed. Gluttony prevailed as I downed 3 small ribeye steaks and 5 lamb chops, all deliciously grilled on my front porch, and I now pay the price as it hurts to sit here and type, bending at the middle as is necessary from the sitting position when my middle is full of bbq goodness.

Addendum from 6:00 the next morning: I never want to eat again.

Deflating

In six years of teaching, despite working in a school that is about 95% Latino, despite all I do there for my students, I've been accused of racism by parents *twice*. As in, "My kid is getting in trouble all the time. It must be because you are racist!" even though their kid is Latino, and every single other kid in the class is Latino, and the other kids are doing just fine.

The first time was 3 years ago, the year I taught sixth grade. A boy was getting in trouble in my class frequently - he was always goofing around, talking, etc. He was staying after school nearly every day for some transgression or other. I have high expectations for my students, and when they fail to meet those expectations, there are consequences. But I received a voice mail message at home one night from his mom. She just couldn't understand why I didn't like her son, why I always was punishing him. Maybe it was because, in her words that I'll likely never forget, "maybe you don't like Latin people."

Well, you can imagine that upon hearing that I felt like I had been hit in the stomach. Hard. I called for a meeting with her and my administrator where I vigorously and emotionally defended myself and explained the truth of what was going on with her son. She was still convinced that I had some racist vendetta against her son. Two years later, she asked me (!) to write a letter of recommendation for her son to get in to a prestigious private high school in East Palo Alto. I did, and he got in.

And so today I was accused of being a racist again. But this time, not to my face. Interestingly enough, the mother came to my classroom just before the bell rang this morning and simply asked me how long summer school was (how many days). She didn't ask me how her daughter was doing or how she could help support her daughter's learning at home. Of course, that would be the most prudent thing to do. Her daughter is extremely low, in all academic areas. You'd think that might be a big concern for her. But no - she justed to know when summer school would be over. Five minutes later she was in the office, furiously demanding that her daughter be moved out of my class because I was too mean and racist. Our summer school director told her she should come talk to me and discuss her thoughts and concerns, but she told him that she's afraid to talk to me.

Well.

I take my job very seriously. I consciously choose to teach at Garfield because of the student population there. Rather than take my Stanford education and Orange County upbringing to some suburban school for middle and upper class white kids where I wouldn't need to "teach" so much as just create activities for kids to do, or to some elite private school where I can get more respect and more money and more resources (where they actually have post-it notes and pens for FREE, and I wouldn't have to spend an average of $1,500 of my own money on school related supplies each year), I *choose* to work at Garfield with all of its challenges and difficulties because schools like Garfield are the ones that have the greatest need. Frequently, schools like Garfield have the least qualified teachers, the least experienced teachers, and knowing this I have made the decision to stay for six mostly rewarding but at times (like right now) extremely frustrating years.

I guess being accused of racism just twice over that span of time isn't so bad. It's not common, but it's not rare. Teachers like me that have high expectations for behavior and academic performance and hold students accountable to those expectations are, from what I've seen, more likely to be accused of racism. One of my former colleagues left Garfield to teach at a school near Sacramento that was majority African American. She is STRICT, and one of the best teachers I've ever worked with. But she's also a white woman, and by the end of her very first day there, a parent of an unruly child had already accused her of being racist. But I even know Latino teachers who have been accused of racism, though all of their students are also Latino.

So what do I do? My first instinct is to fight back, to fight for my reputation, to confront her ignorance, to give her a talking to. But also to listen. I want to listen to what she has to say. I'd like to know what her daughter told her that led to this conclusion. And I know that Latinos and other minority groups frequently do experience racism, so I can understand that she's probably more sensitive in interactions with white people.

But baseless charges like this are deflating. And it's so backwards to accuse me of being racist for pushing her daughter to work harder and do better.