all a mess

I frequently see myself as youthful, I mean I'm in my early twenties and still consider TGIF as one of the best times in television.  So ya I'm young.  When it comes to relating to my students, I do not have a problem whatsoever.  Which is a blessing from the Lord, but my youthfulness can become a bit annoying.  For instance, today I stopped by Old Navy to check out some sales and as I was perusing through the skinnies on the display table that were only $16.99 I saw someone I knew, a student.  So I did what any normal person would do when they see someone they know.  I called out her name and greeted her with the ever popular colloquial phrase 'what's up?'  She peered up and squinted her eyes to see if she knew who it was that was speaking to her.  Nothing but confusion could be read on her face. Then that's when the reality hit me, I had no makeup on, I was in my workout clothes and looked all a mess and I could pass for a 15-year old.  I had to tell her it was me and apologize for my unsightly appearance.  She felt incredibly uncomfortable so I quickly ended the small talk and found another sale rack to inspect.  I totally forgot I'm not forever a college student and act like I have no responsibilities with what I wear and look like, I have students I look after.

To add to my issues with my age, frequently my kids think that I dress like them, a good and bad thing at times.  But when I have no time in the morning or wanna be comfortable I pull my hair in a pony, put my jeans on, hoodie and converse and I'm on to teaching in my classroom.  Kids will stop my lecture/teaching and raise their hand just to tell me, as if I hadn't already noticed, that I don't look like a teacher and that I look like an 8th grader/high schooler.  Super.  But I guess that is better than the alternative.

Regardless of the fact that my 8th graders and I wear the same size and shop at the same stores, I will be me and express myself as long and as much as I am able too, so long as it's on sale. :)

bad bitches, diapers and midriffs

The other day I was interacting with this adorable baby girl who kept peering over her shoulder and played the ever-popular hide and seek with the chair next to her with me.  As we kept making eye contact we pass each other a toothy smile the kind the makes your eyes squint and your nose wrinkle.  Her sweetness made me fall in love with her.  Innocence.  Cute little cheeks you could squeeze all day and tender eyes that looked at you and reminded you that there is good in this world.

Then a searing thought burned through my eyes as they shown the expression of my question that crumbled the enjoyment of this game.

When will she be told she's gotta be a bad bitch?

It hit me, when will she succumb to the weight of the pseudo-truth played over through lyrics, movies, media: Be a bad bitch. That's what men really want from you.

When will it hit her?

When she's watching the previews to the latest movie her older cousins take her to?

When she's listen to the radio as she's taken to school?

When she's forced to some sexual act with a boy?

This baby girl, still in diapers, but I knew that moment will come soon.

As I look around I see what she will be, what she has coming..... 10 and 11-year-old girl midriffs out to tease and please the eyes of the boys around them.  Girls, just able to read chapter books, aiming to  grab the attention of the pre-pubescent boys against the wall. That was me, I did the same thing strutting around with my midriff just enough to tease with the curve of my body, thong slightly out to beg the notice of those walking by.

That moment of false clarity, well, it was more like lies, happened to me when I was in jr high.  I remember  locking myself in my room turning on KISS FM and playing the latest most vulgar hip hop song that was popular at the time.  I got a high from it.  I would sleep with my headphones in imagining me, being one of those girls they were rapping about because then, then I would feel love by a man.  I mean it only made sense to me.  It was almost like a love and a curse because I would imagine myself like one of those video girls or the ones in the songs I would find almost like a how-to manual to get a man and be what I need to be for him which led to a goal that I must meet, but then I knew I couldn't.  I took it as truth.  Although I never acted on those impulses in their fullness, they still stunted my growth leaving me with a constant struggle to this day.

My salvation is secure, I know Christ is my atoning sacrifice, my debt has been paid for and I'm graciously loved my a man who cares for my soul and will marry me soon.  BUT I struggle.  I know the truth, and God has given me victory and truth to hold on to, but this world is covered in sin and even being grown the Holy Spirit has to remind me of my worth and stability in him and not the empty lies the enemy whispers in my ear 'marina, don't you wanna be a bad bitch too, come on, its better, more fun.'

I relate to my girls because I know.  I know this world and its a constant struggle, and I have even been kept from a lot and its still a constant war of my soul.  I teach to point out the lies dressed in sexy beats and attractive men that want more than what we need to give to them.  I teach to change a pattern of depravity.  I teach so they can, on their own, identify lies and stomp em out.

I teach so they know they don't gotta be a bad bitch, but to glorify God as a woman and enjoy him forever.

Bad bitch?  Not this one.

ass-essments

Frustrated.  Like I can't take how scores are so important for students.  I mean like I get em because it shows progress and the level of knowledge the students are at, but my heart breaks and I feel like screaming all at the same time when I get my average back on assessments that I give to my kids in class.  As I teach I realize that my weaknesses are magnified as well as my strengths.  I hate tests. always have, always will.  But I mean, life if filled with them, literally and figuratively.  But I hate it and nothing will change that.  It shows whatever is being assessed in a numerical form easy for distinction between pass or fail.  Growing up I used to get a test back from 1st grade to college/career exams and would close my eyes and slowly open one eyelid then the next to see what the verdict was, pass or failure.  When really I'd think 'loser' or 'winner.'  I feel the same way when I give my kids exams.  I just want success.  I want them to feel victory.  I want them to feel like they got this.  I want them to be like I can, I know.  Maybe it has to do with me being a first year.  Maybe I suck at giving tests.

And all I wanna do is just rip the test up and throw the pieces in the air and go, "THIS DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING!!!"

I'm told to give a test by big brother, and I concede.  But wait, what should we do to see where the kids are at academically and if they will succeed in life, I HAVE NO IDEA.

I feel pressure, and I want to just play a movie in class and give up.

#firstyear #suckitbigbrother #numb

relate or get out of the classroom

Today I intro-ed my poetry unit by having our song of the week be Unconditional Love by Tupac and then the students heard an interview of him when he was just 17 years old.  My kids were instantly silent and perfect school boys and girls.  Literally, as soon as they heard Tupac's voice, they were all ears, sitting up straight, and even straining themselves to get their ear closer to my ihome.  Why?  Because they heard themselves.  They heard a voice, another "them" talking through the speakers.  Through rap they are vulnerable.  Through rap they are at home.  Through rap they are calm and comfortable.

Every time there is language in a song, interview, video clip or story I have to give them a heads up and apologize for the inappropriate words being spoken (just in case I get a parent who contacts me and tells me I'm feeding their child's mind garbage).  And each time they say, "Stop Miss Fernandez, this is real life.  This is real."  My kids are the best detectors of fakers.  They even call me out on it sometimes (even though I try to hide it, they know).  Today my most rowdy kid in class who is involved in a family of gangs, violence, and drugs. Who's only outlet for attention is in the classroom when he misbehaves instead of love from his father says to me, with a smile on his face and eyes lit up, "Man, I'm really into this stuff right here, this is real to me.  This is dope."  I stopped for a moment asked him to repeat what he just said not because I didn't hear what he said, even though that's what I told him, but because I was amazed by his attraction to the material when I brought it home to him, simply by having a relatable person speak to the material that must be taught.  I made school relevant, and I won their attention......... for now.

The Fatherless

I have to say one of the coolest things of being a teacher, among many, are the rare chances that you get  to see two opposite type of kids work together that really have nothing in common. Typically where one of the kids should and usually bullies the other.  But when they, in some conversation, in some rare full-moon, Twilight-type moment they agree on something and laugh together.  I witness such a gift earlier this week and I can't seem to shake it.  It was my last period of the day and the kids are pretty ruthless, all crazy like they just can't contain their pubescent chit-chatter of who slept with who and who got beef with who.  The kids got a few minutes as a reward to 'do their thang' and talk, relax and take a break from their assignment.  It was then that the above described moment happened. It's like the East and the West seem to meet up and embrace each other or some out of this world experience.  The two boys were talking. Laughing. Sharing.  About what though?

Their memories of their father before they were both sent to prison.

The boys connected with their unrestrainable anger.  The only thing their fathers seem to leave them with.  Anger.  They both shared stories of punching numerous walls, fits of rage that has left them with scars from poor decisions in the heat of passionate, mind-numbing rage.  They love their fathers and even though they left them with these storms of violence they love their fathers.  Respect them.  Want to be just like him.  Isn't that what we all yearn for? A Father's love?

Hughes

There are words like Freedom
Sweet and wonderful to say.
On my heartstrings freedom sings
All day everyday.

There are words like Liberty
That almost makes me cry,
If you had known what I know
You would know why.

- Langston Hughes

There are times when only poets can speak for your heart beats. Journey with me.