I read this poem once. And I liked it, but I put it on the shelf in my mind (it is dangerous to "like" a poem by the way). Then the other day a male friend made a comment. I am still not sure if he meant to be insulting or encouraging, but that is not my skin... The comment made me think. In my confuse reflection, remembered the poem and took it off the shelf on my mind and pulled it up off the Internet. Thank you friend for the confusing remark you made.
Why can I say, like Ms. Angelou that I am a woman phenomenally? Why am I not a weak hapless girl? Because of God. He has given me vision and a grace to reach to be the phenomenal woman. Eve was made in His image too, and He understands me more then my friend with his confusing remarks. Sure I have a lot of growing to do; lets just say I am an in process phenomenal woman.
People often mistake my idealism for naivety. The truth is, they are naive. I can see beyond their silly remarks and I don't want to get caught up in their shallowness. I am not conceited, because I know where I have been. I am just phenomenal.
By the way, if you ever want to get me a gift check ;) out this website: http://www.mayaangelou.com/AngelouBooks.html
25 February 2007
Science and Math
I am currently looking for resources (pedology articles, class and individual activities, lesson plans, en todo) to complete my math and science resource booklets for my teaching internship. If you have an ideas I would love it if you would share them with me.
24 February 2007
My Street
I live at the end of a street which is at the end of another street. Sometimes when I give people direction to be my house they claim that they did not realize that anyone lives "bak deh".
The house there is not really mine. I rent it from my good friend. Her husband built it for her. When they first got married 12 years ago,he built the house, even though he had neither skill nor money to do so. The house is his love offering to her, as incomplete and awkward as is it.
The street to my house is a little more then a path. Most people park their vehicles at the corner and walk to my house. I, though, like to drive it. I can reverse Mom's Tracker the whole length of the street now, and dodge the ruts and holes, all while talking to a passenger. The road is always either mud, when it is rainy, or a fine firm dust. It is brown, not white like most of the road around here. The road is quiet and still in the evenings; only the parrots' chatter disrupts it.
I have a garden. It is more then slightly neglected and is sort of bushy. I have lots of beautiful plants. Roses of different kinds, rare purple bells and common yellow bells, bougainvillea, a sour sop tree, variety of bananas, spinach and, my favourite, a little African violet. I love my yard, even though it is usually unkempt. If I get home from school on time, I just sit in it and read. If not I lay in the tall grass and think. I wrote a love poem in that yard, but it is a poem that is not meant for the world to meet just yet.
I find it funny how my house, my road, and my yard are a part of me. They define me. I don't despite the dirt, the rough unfinishness, or the wild bush. Rather, I love it. It makes me sing. The sun was on my back today. And as it burned my pale skin to mahogany, I was full. I walked the street barefooted, and toed the dust. If I was who I used to be, I would say that the dirt gives me strength. I know better but it still feels like it does. I am unfinished love story, a hodgepodge of plants and styles. I am the road silently unrealized by many people.
The house there is not really mine. I rent it from my good friend. Her husband built it for her. When they first got married 12 years ago,he built the house, even though he had neither skill nor money to do so. The house is his love offering to her, as incomplete and awkward as is it.
The street to my house is a little more then a path. Most people park their vehicles at the corner and walk to my house. I, though, like to drive it. I can reverse Mom's Tracker the whole length of the street now, and dodge the ruts and holes, all while talking to a passenger. The road is always either mud, when it is rainy, or a fine firm dust. It is brown, not white like most of the road around here. The road is quiet and still in the evenings; only the parrots' chatter disrupts it.
I have a garden. It is more then slightly neglected and is sort of bushy. I have lots of beautiful plants. Roses of different kinds, rare purple bells and common yellow bells, bougainvillea, a sour sop tree, variety of bananas, spinach and, my favourite, a little African violet. I love my yard, even though it is usually unkempt. If I get home from school on time, I just sit in it and read. If not I lay in the tall grass and think. I wrote a love poem in that yard, but it is a poem that is not meant for the world to meet just yet.
I find it funny how my house, my road, and my yard are a part of me. They define me. I don't despite the dirt, the rough unfinishness, or the wild bush. Rather, I love it. It makes me sing. The sun was on my back today. And as it burned my pale skin to mahogany, I was full. I walked the street barefooted, and toed the dust. If I was who I used to be, I would say that the dirt gives me strength. I know better but it still feels like it does. I am unfinished love story, a hodgepodge of plants and styles. I am the road silently unrealized by many people.
Computer wars....
So here I sit..... the day after it was due.
It is Saturday. The sun is shining and the neighbour is weed eating his yard. The high pitched sound of the his evil machine is drilling into my head, and driving me insane. I am watching a house for some stranger. Something I have never done before; it looks like my good-girl neighbourly favours have turned into a potential livelihood. I hate house sitting, but this house is lovely.
Why don't I go home today? Because of what happened yesterday at school. The cool darkness of this ridiculously expensive house smooths me. The craze-driving weed eater "music" is penance. I hate the computer. Yes, sorry Leo and all my 'puter loving buddies, that is the truth. I know that "computers are the present and will define the future" and all of that. But I hate it nonetheless.
Why am I being so melodramatic? Because the heinous computer and its dark apparatus ate my homework. Nay, it ate more then just my homework....my end of the semester project and the last chance I had to get an A for a certain teacher. Next week exams start and I have to do my work over before Monday. If not, I will fail that class, and my aspired dream will burn while it is still in the process of becoming a reality.
I love the feeling of being remorse about my grade.... pity I, in reality, could care less.
It is Saturday. The sun is shining and the neighbour is weed eating his yard. The high pitched sound of the his evil machine is drilling into my head, and driving me insane. I am watching a house for some stranger. Something I have never done before; it looks like my good-girl neighbourly favours have turned into a potential livelihood. I hate house sitting, but this house is lovely.
Why don't I go home today? Because of what happened yesterday at school. The cool darkness of this ridiculously expensive house smooths me. The craze-driving weed eater "music" is penance. I hate the computer. Yes, sorry Leo and all my 'puter loving buddies, that is the truth. I know that "computers are the present and will define the future" and all of that. But I hate it nonetheless.
Why am I being so melodramatic? Because the heinous computer and its dark apparatus ate my homework. Nay, it ate more then just my homework....my end of the semester project and the last chance I had to get an A for a certain teacher. Next week exams start and I have to do my work over before Monday. If not, I will fail that class, and my aspired dream will burn while it is still in the process of becoming a reality.
I love the feeling of being remorse about my grade.... pity I, in reality, could care less.
22 February 2007
Value
24 weeks left. Then I will begin my life as a teacher. I have 8 weeks of internship followed by summer classes mixed with a few weeks holidays in there. In August I will have my feeble, but fought for, Associates in Pedology.
I just read an article about English teachers needed in China. Wouldn't that be interesting... the sky is the limit, but in actuality, I want to work hard for a while and save like crazy so I can study special needs and psycho-linguistics. After that, Wide World, here I come.
Currently I am dealing with a tough issue. I was offered a job at an expensive, well-paying private school (name omitted). Although the potential pay-check looks good, I am not so sure about the school. I am not the prestigious school type. I would rather teach in a rural village somewhere, where quality teachers are needed. I want to inspire poor, less fortunate children to learn and dream. Preppy kids? Not me, but the money.... that would be nice so I can get a head start.
I just read an article about English teachers needed in China. Wouldn't that be interesting... the sky is the limit, but in actuality, I want to work hard for a while and save like crazy so I can study special needs and psycho-linguistics. After that, Wide World, here I come.
Currently I am dealing with a tough issue. I was offered a job at an expensive, well-paying private school (name omitted). Although the potential pay-check looks good, I am not so sure about the school. I am not the prestigious school type. I would rather teach in a rural village somewhere, where quality teachers are needed. I want to inspire poor, less fortunate children to learn and dream. Preppy kids? Not me, but the money.... that would be nice so I can get a head start.
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