Teachers and solidarity

I find it ivery interesting how teachers show so much solidarity here in Belize. It seems like they are ready to jump at any cause. Well, at least it seems to on a micro level. Let me explain....

For the last two years have studied with, cried along with, hurt for, hurt because of, learned and grew with a variety of student teachers. Some of them were fresh out of high school, young and giddy with lofty dreams about teaching. Others were middle age and calm, long past their second wind after being jaded so many times. And then there are the middle group of teachers with a few years of teaching under their belts who have realistic but hopeful ideals about teaching and life. Agree most of my peers are of mestizo or Latin American decent, a few are Creole, Mopan Maya, Yucatec, Q'eqchi Garifuna, East Indian or a mixture. Then me... an white daughter of an American expatriate (some call me one too, but I was too young to care when my mom moved here). We bled together, fought together and cried together.

When news came out that I failed, I found that my peers were all equally, nay, even more, upset about then I. Some many of them were willing to speak about the injustices of the sytem. So many were encouraging and uplifting. All were dangerous to listen to less I given into self indulgence and vainglory (truth is... I am not very good at teaching.... but I do love it). I had to hush so many who were winning to speak up about it.

Why, I wonder, are we then so given to so much of the gossip and malices that have been going around so much. My last summer at Sacred Heart has been tainted with finger pointing and harsh words. It is fourth form all over again. Maybe it is stress or tired, or excitement of finishing this course. I think it is sick. I hope no one is gossiping about me... but then I don't really care.

Gossip won't conquer the world, but love will. Hatred will enslave up love will free (I said that myself and hope to use it in a book some day).

I Love My Mom, I Really Do

Today was a nice sunny day with a breeze that sang and a humidity that is breathable. I happily jumped on a bus to a village school and my heart sang as I took pictures of Rosita, a little girl with Morquio's Syndrome. I didn't know the little girl or that syndrome a week ago, but since it has become my life, mostly because I have to right a case paper on Rosa for a special needs class that I am taking, but also because this sort of things is my niche.

Well, while I was in my prime, the height of my purpose and being, on this beautiful day, I had no idea that my name was suffering humiliation that I am not sure how I can recover. It is sort of a long story, but to keep it short you will have to already know that (a) My mom just got back from visiting in California (b) while she was away, I failed my teaching practicum. I emailed her the details and we hadn't talked much about it. Whatever, I failed and I am getting over it.

Ready for the daunt-dun-dunn and a flash of lightening?
While I was gone she walked to the college and spoke to a professor while I failed !!!
Et Tu Brutus? I know that she meant while by doing it, but it is so horrifying that she did it but that makes me look a thousand of things (why do I care? I have no idea, but I do). I know that she was just a concern parent.... but I am in college (and almost finished too, despite failing the practical). I think I am mature enough to represent myself, if I had a question about it. I have never regretted being 21 years old living with my mother until today. Why would she do that? I always prided myself that I had a mother who knew the balance between emotional support and interfering. The sadly ironic thing is the professor that she spoke to is the one that always sang professional development to me.... Oh sigh!

Happy Father's Day

To all the father's I know and the men that will be fathers.... Happy Father's Day. Embrace your masculinity and the potential to be fathers in all aspects of life. Encourage, and impart to your children.

Friends United

Frieda Friesen, my good friend since eighth grade, through high school, and the confusing years afterwards, until now is back in Belize. I am so excited! She was away for nine month and twelve days. She is a dear soul! I am so glad that I can laugh with her.

I have homework to do, but who cares. I am at Friedie's house for the whole weekend. Priorities comes first.

Passion is Stirred

I just got back from my class trip. For my Introduction to Recognizing Students with Special Needs, we went to he Special Education Unit (now known as National Resource Centre of Inclusive Education) and the largest and oldest standing Special school, Stella Maris, both in Belize City. I had a wonderful time! My nose is sun burned and my hair is dried out from the windy bus ride to and from the City. I love going to Belize!


Ever since I failed my teaching practical I have sort of dread the idea of me being a a teacher. I haven't told anyone about it, but there is a certain uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that I am going to hate this job as much as much I hated working in tourism. Yes, I am glad that I got a post for next year, despite my failure, but there is still unshakable gut feeling about this. Today gave me a renewed set of view and encouraged be to reach for a dream that I was convinced was hopeless. Of course I am dreading the prospective of being a teacher everyday fro the rest of my life. I love teaching but I get s sour feeling about doing it for ever. I am not made to do that. I am suppose to be a special ed teacher and an innovator of a new system for special needs. That is who I am, even though I am not there yet. I may have to put up with a class of normally boring children form a while, and I am going to love doing it. But the truth is I am not going to stay there. I am going to be a special teacher for special children!

I don;'t dread the idea of teaching in September anymore

Silly Dreams

I had a dream last nght that I moved to California. I got a job teaching Spanish at the middle school that I went to the year before I came to Belize. The students loved me but I hated them and I loved the mountains but I froze everyday, even the "warm" ones. My sisters and I fought and I was always broke. Hm.... is it a sign? Signing what? Why?

Many I have been blogging too much...

Pink Silk Pajamas

I was given a pair of Pink Silk Pajama Bottoms the other day. Now that I have my own pair, I advocate that every human being have their very own pair. I am not such about the tops, but loose fitting shiny silk light pink pajama pants at are slightly too long are a must for any creative individual. Let me explain.

I got home late from school last night. It was around 10 o'clock. It was cool and I had energy to do some stuff, but my house guest were sound asleep in the hall (living room, front room, whatever you call that thing), and I didn't want to disturb them. I so took a shower, then slipped on the long silk pajama pants with a flimsy cotton top. I locked myself into my little after thought room to the back of my house. As I cleaned my room and read about Transitional Bilingualism, I transformed worlds. First, I was a Arabian Princess imprisoned in a harem of an wicked Sheik. Then, I fluffed all my pillows and became a genie trapped in a bottle, waiting for someone to let me out. Some time between dusting my shelves and going a silly genie dance (how do genies dance anyway?), I feel a sleep. This morning I woke up in a wonder world. I was arch duchess Elizabeth the III, well mannered and admired by the world. Instead of reading about Transitional Bilingualism, I felt Annish so I I picked Anne of Avonlea and read a few chapter. I was refreshed and reminded of my youthful visions and ideals.

Getting ready for school I could step out of the fantasy world that I molded. Then the thought struck me.... maybe I am not Annish. Maybe, I am more like Dianna, Anne's comrade. Anne can step out of Dreamworld into reality easily. Dianna couldn't. That is why should stopped day dreaming, she couldn't control it and got into trouble when she was little. I got sort of blue thinking this thought. Bummer. But then I got cheered up when I realized that I am only Diana next to Frieda Friesen. She is the real Anne. Friedy even has the red hair. I am the short pudgy dark hark buddy.

That thought made me feel better. Frieda should be home any day any time now. She has been in Canada for over a year and is on the road coming back. She is probably in Mexico now which means she should be back before the weekend. I really miss her and I think I am going to take the weekend off to visit her, if she isn't too overwhelmed. She is part of a family of ten plus, and she has a lot of people to greet.

I should wait for her little sister's graduation this weekend. But I will see. I love drama, and drama in front of people is not always nice.

The Things Gurls Do

Forget the last post. Here is a nicer piece about the people in my class that I wrote today:

The teacher is late, so I sit in the back of the class playing with the German made purple magic marker. I am doodling some pretty strange stuff that I will regret later on my notebook. The thin, acne marked face girl (henceforth gurl, because that is how I say it) waddles in. She never walks, but always waddles, swaying her hips as she slowly moves. She sat about three seats a head of me. She chats with Eddy, to direct right, as she roles ans twists and giggles. Then she spots Juan, who is sitting next to me at my left. Flashing a bright smile, she makes a flirty statement that basically means that she wants a mint sweet and knows that he has one to give her. Then she slides to seat in front of him and draws in closer to him. She laughs and rubs his arm and laughs again. He says something and she says something back and laughs again. Then the teacher comes into the classroom and we learn about special needs students in the regular classroom. I wish I didn't have to put up my purple marker....

(I am trying a new writing style.... does it fit me?)

Boys and Men

Because teaching is some how a predominately female profession (which is really against my philosophy of education, but it is the truth). There are only five guys at the level of the programme that I am in. We have been in most of the same classes since the beginning since we are in pilot program here at Sacred Heart Junior Collage and class selection is limited. All of the guys get on my nerves every once and a while. There are two sleazy married guys that I try to avoid. Not so much because they are married but because they are sleazy and I I hate sleaziness! Sleazy men make me sick. I want to vomit just thinking about it. Then there is another married guy who is not sleazy but he is very narrow minded and so much better then everyone else. He and I quarrel a lot so I stay away from him. I try to live as peacefully as possible. Then there is my homosexual friend. He is nice and sweet as a stereotype homo can get. He does mind when I refer to him as my homo friend either, and I won't label someone like that normally but to make this essay short I will. Lastly there is Juan. Juan is great. no one in our class knows that he has a girlfriend, but I do. He is my neighbour and walk to and from school talking about this sort of important thing. Juan is younger then me by two years, but everyone thinks were such a great couple. Usually when it comes up we look at each other and laugh and think about the secret girlfriend. People are so narrow minded. And now that I gossiped about the guys in my class I can say that I hate gossipers. Hum!

Sorry

I just want to let you know that my blog bothers me. I love the background colour, and I love my post. But my blog is boring. Boring. That is just it... boring is a nice word because it fits the feeling I feel when I look at my blog. Boring isn't a fancy word with a nice ring.It is just a ...boring... word.

I love to visit other people's blogs and see the layouts and pretty things they have. Some of them are just fun to visit. Others are exciting, a few are breathe taking. All of them mirror the creative talent of the writers. Mine is just simple and boring. Sigh.

Don't get me wrong. I can list a thousand reasons why mine is not so decorated with pictures of me and the people I love, or photos of objects that I see. But I hate excuses (I think). The point is I am just to busy (read lazy, uninterested) to figure out how to beat the thousand excuses I have.

My heart goes to the faithful reader of End of the Street. You have witness pieces of life at the end of a little bumpy road, that so many people have not understood or realized. I also apologize for not making this a more fulfill experience. Some day I will figure this out and End of the Street will be the expressive, well rounded, place that will attract much food for thought, and more talented bloggers like yourselves. Until now, the beauty will hide under the seemingly boring front.