Don't Mess with (me when I am leaving) Texas

I move very, very soon. My messy mid-packing apartment is a constant reminder of the rapidly approaching departure. Currently, we don’t know where exactly I am moving to; this includes both city and type of residence. Joe has bounced up and down and then up and then down again and then back up this season enough that we haven’t settled on what we should do about the roof over our heads. Polly says she isn’t worried about it.

We totalled up how many miles I have traveled this year thus far: 18,000 miles between January and today. The world is 24,0000 around so I am almost guaranteed to have traveled “around the world” by the end of the season. To those of you who have jobs like George Clooney in Up in the Air, you have far more patience than I. 

Can you imagine if Clooney sat next to you on a flight?
I might not get off the plane.
Oh, come on, even Joe might stay on the flight next to George!

Things I will miss about Texas:

Good Co. barbecue 

Goode Co. on Kirby

Dr. Pepper
My familyPeople saying Coke, but really meaning any carbonated beverage
“Y’all”
Cowboy boots in a non-novelty way
The Guadalupe River. By the way, this is my first summer in 4 years to not be working at Mystic and my first summer in 16 years to realize I can't go back and work there.... or be a camper.

The Guad at Camp Mystic's Waterfront

My friends
Steak
The Galleria
My church
Finding any item of clothing you can imagine can, in fact, bear the Texas flag

I think my sister owns one of these
shirts. They have
the real thing too, if that's what you're
looking for

The Rodeo
St. Arnold’s and Shiner Light Blonde
Swimming in October
Texas Country Music

In honor of my hiatus from Texas (as if four years of college were not enough), I am going to write a few little vignettes about the Texas I know, the Texas that has been created around me and the one we so love to romanticize when we have to be away.


Water from the sprinkler turned to steam on the concrete. Everything was wet and hot. Even the cars’ hoods looked like water as the heat rippled over them.  Somewhere in the distance an ambulance drove by, its siren’s tone getting lower as it passed. Zoe played in the soil with naked Barbies. Her toddling sister slept inside, her hair curling on her forehead from the baby sweat. Later their father would come home with his dry cleaning and golf shoes. Later they would eat Kraft macaroni and cheese and drink milk from cups they bought at the circus. Zoe’s was a pink elephant. Its trunk was the handle and it had long black eyelashes. She made the Barbies do the splits and tried to make them hold handstands in the grass. One of the Barbie’s hair was brown, which meant she wasn’t really a Barbie, but Barbie’s friend Susan. Or Brenda. Some name that was not Barbie and did not have an “i” with a heart on her box. A boy rode his bike, without training wheels, down the street. Zoe wanted her baby sister to wake up so they could fill up the inflatable pool and make the Barbies, and Brenda, go skinny dipping. Zoe liked to go under the water and open her eyes. She could see the pebbles and sticks poking at the bottom of the soft plastic pool and her hair stuck to her face when she finally came out. Her mom did not like it when she put her face under. Her mother, now, was moving the sprinkler to make sure her begonias and monkey grass got enough to drink. It had been many days since she watered the plants so much of it was dead. Little brown buds fell off and ran in streams to the hot, wet street.

The second canoe was smoother than the first. The Guadalupe water was still and green before the dam and we could see turtles heads pop up and the outline of their shells. Sweat prickled on my back like the insects that landed on the water. Their legs twitched and spasmed, then they flew to another spot. Or went to the tall grass on the road side of the river. I asked West if he wanted to turn back before the dam; he said no. We didn’t talk for a while after that, just listened to the sound of our paddles dip in the water and scrape against our old metal canoes. Sometimes my Dr. Pepper cans rattled by my feet. Sometimes West was so silent I could have sworn he was a Hill Country Indian. His bandana was tied around his head and his shirt, long discarded, was tucked into the seat of his shorts over his butt. He stopped paddling and looked at me while he took a drink from his water bottle.
“You’re doing a pretty good job there,” he said to me.
“I like the river.” He smiled but didn’t say anything and went back to his silent paddling. West’s back was burning and I was sure that mine was red, too. Later we would have to take turns putting cold aloe vera on each other’s backs. West would tell me to put it on my hands first before rubbing it in. I wouldn’t say anything. And maybe he would pat my shoulder as a way of telling me he was finished. The dam was upon us. We had to pick up the canoes one at a time and walk them down. Though the water was more shallow, the river floor was clay and dipped down in tubs. West got a leech on his forearm. He pulled and flicked at it till the leech fell off.
“So do you have to suck the poison out?” I asked.
“No, that’s snakes. This will just need to be cleaned. Plus, if I was bitten by a snake, you would have to suck the poison because I would be too weak.”
“I would do that. For you.”
“I know.”
The current moved us for a while without having to paddle except to stay straight. We would need to turn around soon to make it back before dark. Or we would just stay on the river till the breeze picked up and the water turned black beneath our canoes.


They sat on top of the picnic table with their feet on the bench, just like they had done in high school. They’d eat cafeteria yogurt and talk about their days, uniform skirts tucked between their thighs as to attempt modesty. They had on jeans and boots so there was less balancing involved now. There was also no yogurt, just some beers in plastic cups and a poorly sugared funnel cake. Marcy wore a push up bra that night and it was riding up her back and she was certain one of the straps was twisted. When she got dressed she looked like a sexy cowgirl, she thought. But now, sitting next to Allison and a few hours into the night, she felt like she had tried too hard. You could tell she had tried to look like a sexy cowgirl, and what she really was was a sexy cowgirl’s overly primped friend. Allison, who did not own a push up bra, wanted to get a cinnamon roll and maybe ride the ferris wheel. They got up to find the tent with the cinnamon rolls, but there was a cluster of high school students flirting and laughing too loudly. Marcy suggested they still wait in line, but Allison said she changed her mind about the cinnamon roll and she just wanted to go sit and watch the ferris wheel and finish their beers. Marcy had wanted to finish her beer in line with the high schoolers, but followed Allison back to the picnic table that now had two Hispanic boys playing with one of the prize stuffed animals. It looked like a squid. Marcy almost made a joke about things that look like squids; she decided against it though.  They watched the boys play for a while then looked back wordlessly at the blinking lights of the ferris wheel.

The Heels Were Made for Teaching

Bookshelf at Shakespeare and Co. in Paris, France
One of my study abroad trips in college

“Wait, what do you mean ‘Free Read Day’? I don’t get it." This was the general response from my students when I told them to bring a book, no iPads, Kindles, eBooks, magazines or comics, to read in class last week. (Note: A student brought Captain Underpants and actually tried to make an argument as to why he could read it as a junior for Free Read Day. A book that comes with stickers is not going to fly for Free Read Day.)

This face would probably shock
my students

When they were unable to bring a book to school, I let them borrow some of mine.  
I shocked my students with the fact that the books I gave them were not 17th century poetry or written in Old English. The books I gave them were by modern and contemporary authors with some elements I know they weren’t expecting (“Uhm, this book says the word ‘beer,’ is that okay?”*) and with endings they certainly were not anticipating (“Why does he just walk away? Why did she still love him?”**). But I loved that they were holding books from my personal library, with my old notes and scribbles in the margins. I know they felt like they were looking into my diary or something, and in a way they were, by my diary as a reader not as a writer. 

Student A: “Are we going to find notes to ex- boyfriends in here?”
Me: “Would I still have the book if I wrote notes to other people in them?”
Student A: “Guess not.”
Me: “Besides, I would never let an ex-boyfriend keep my books.” Student B: “ Wait, You have ex-boyfriends?!”


This is the same reaction to my having a doctor’s appointment, as though we, teachers, do not go to doctors or get sick or leave the school campus for anything. Did I think that about my teachers? I guess to some degree I did, but when I came back to school after the doctor they were very inquisitive then as well.
Student A:“Are you sick?”
Me: “Nope.”
Student B:“Are you getting sick?”
Me: “No, just a check up.”
Student A again: “Were you faking sick?” 
Student B:"I bet you were faking."

Me: “Okay, time for a pop quiz.”

With this year winding down I keep wondering if I have made any impact on them besides my clothing-- which is still commented on daily (“I don’t think you have worn the same shoes twice,” said a male student to me. “Yes she has, she wore those before Christmas break. That is two times this school year, gosh, you idiot,” said a female student in my ‘defense.’)
But I think about my most influential teachers, the ones that made me want to be a teacher; I wonder if I have done even half of that, a third of that, for my students. I know they will not leave my class dreaming of being an English teacher. I know they will not go out and buy every Barry Hannah, Miranda July, Mary Karr book they can find.*** I know that they don’t think Shakespeare is cool or that Old English is easy. But I want so badly for them to think something, to learn something and most importantly, to feel something. That is what reading and writing does that no other subject really can, it makes you feel. I want my students to have read something, even if it was just a page and the rest was Sparknoted**** I hope they read it and had to look inward at themselves in a way they hadn’t before. We have talked about pride and greed and lust and love and death and creation and isolation and abandonment and fear-- oh goodness have we talked about fear. The most fearful thing, after all, is that someone can look at us and see us for who we truly are. Reading is that, it forces you to look inward. I want them so badly to have studied these themes and thought, I know what he/she feels, I have never killed anyone to become king, but I know how it feels to want something you can't have or I know what it feels like to be alienated, I know what it feels like to reach out and have no one reach back-- I didn't know other people ever felt that way.


I personally fear that I did nothing but show them how to write a proper thesis statement and insert page numbers on a Word doc.

A student from the other 10th grade teacher’s class said that all we do is color in my class. He said this to two of my girls who are not making very good grades and that all they have to do is stay in the lines in my coloring books and they will get an A. My teacher friend teaches the class that this conversation was taking place in. She said the girls stood up for me, but mostly for the rigor of my class.
“It is, like, hard. Like, we really have to read and learn stuff. She grades our essays hard and she makes us like, go deeper”
“Yeah, you don’t even know. It is a hard class and we are trying really hard to make good grades. It is hard.”
                         
The girls also told me about this the next day. We joked as a class about if that was actually the case, than they should all have made A’s on the test I just handed back, which they did not.


Being the young, new teacher I am an easy target. 
Being the young, new teacher means I will quip right back at you. 

My teacher friend said I should come meet this boy, the naysayer/hater, so I did.
Teacher Friend introduced us: “Boy (name omitted to protect his identity), this is Mrs. Savery. She wanted to meet you.”
I smiled big, gave a firm hand-shake and said, “Hi, Boy. I hear you really want to come to my class to color.”
He looked at me wide eyed and shocked, “Uhm, no.”
“Really? I think you should just stop by sometime. I have plenty of extra coloring books if you want a break from Mrs. Other 10th Grade Teacher’s class.”
“I like Mrs. Other 10th Grade Teacher’s class.”
“Oh, that’s great! I will let her know. But in case you need a break from all of your learning and test taking, I have all of the Crayola crayons you can imagine and we don’t even have grades. Just stick figures.”
Still shocked and stammering he said, “Oh, okay.”
“Okay, great! Well, come by sometime. It was so nice to meet you!”

My girls, who were listening from the hallway, all hugged me after like it was an episode of Saved by the Bell and I had confronted the bully. They thought it was, like, so awesome. Which it kind of was.
(Boss, if you are reading this, please don't fire me. I was standing up for my students! I was standing up for literature!)

What was even better was that the next day a few students stayed after class to tell me how much they had learned this year and what a good teacher they thought I was.
“I would take your class every year if I could. Even if there was a coloring class, I would take yours instead!”

What did we learn from this, class?
We learned that teachers talk. That you shouldn’t talk about what you don’t know.  That maybe I have done something for my students.

And don’t mess with the teacher in the red-soled shoes.







*Reading Larry Brown's Big Bad Love; which is not, in fact, about love being big or bad. Well, maybe a little bad.
** Reading "Up In Michigan" after I told them that Gertrude Stein told Hemingway it was the cruelest story she had ever read. And it is pretty cruel. So of course, they wanted to read it.
*** All amazing authors, very contemporary and not for everyone.
****Sparknoted: a verb meaning read the first and last page of a book and used Sparknotes for the rest.

"Never go on trips with anyone you do not love"

 There is a scene in Ernest Hemingway's novel A Farewell to Arms in which the main character, Fredrick, has a conversation with the priest while he is injured in the hospital. Fredrick tells the priest he does not "love much." To which the priest responds: 


"Yes," he said. "You do. What you tell me about in the nights. That is not love. That is only passion and lust. When you love you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve." 
"I don't know love." 
"You will. I know you will. Then you will be happy."
"I'm happy. I've always been happy."
"It is another thing. You cannot know about it unless you have it." 


Though this is not my favorite Hemingway book*, this scene certainly strikes a cord to any reader. Those who love know, those who do not, won't until they do. 


Another favorite quote of mine is in this novel (I promise this is not a literature lesson, so bear with me): "The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places." 


I once told Joe I knew I wanted to marry him when my plans changed because of him. Whatever silly timeline I had come up with, whatever check list of life accomplishments I had before him, changed when he came into my life. 

Such an attractive couple

And plans have changed again. Next fall I will not return to teaching full time; I will travel with Joe and take care of our marriage full time. I have loved teaching in the way you love things that make you struggle, that break you and make you stronger, and I hope to one day come back to the classroom full time. But for now, my family (however small it is) has to come first. 


But God is good and were we are needed he will find a way to have us there. My boss came in my classroom two days after I wept in his office about how I couldn't teach next year and offered the creative writing class to me through an online course-- I didn't even hesitate to say yes! There will be a presiding teacher to basically administrate the class, but the syllabus, grading, teaching and instruction will be "mine." The Lord has lead me to this school and has a purpose for me here, one I am even more certain of now that we are able to make an arrangement that satisfies all of my roles. 




At Camp Mystic for Girls**  there is always a Sunday we talk about putting God first. It is visually demonstrated through a giant fish bowl, rice and some golf balls. When we put worldly things first, represented by rice, God's will doesn't always fit, shown by trying to fit golf balls in the already full fish bowl. But putting the Lord first, meaning the golf balls, the rice sifts through and the Lord provides. I guess I forgot this in all my crying over what to do about next year. 




                                 Put your golf balls in first and your rice will fit, too. 

One of my favorite camper photos ever       

Photo Ode to Mystic 


**I went to Camp Mystic since 1998, with a hiatus between 2005-2007, quickly to return to be a counselor. Aside from my parents, I don't think anything has been as impactful and formative as Mystic. The river, the Hill Country, the tradition and the people make you renew your spirit and your body like nothing else can. God's hand has made Mystic as a place for girls to find their faiths, walk in hope and grow in love. 

Camp Mystic Dance 2011; sister and Rita 

Asking campers to back up so I can do the worm
at a Mystic dance party 

A little HBR
That's horse back riding to those of you who have never
filled out a Mystic Activity Card 

Reading at Mystic on CC Day, aka best day ever.
Yeah, I am a freak, kind of. 

My Mystic friends and the directors, Dick and Tweety at my wedding.
You don't go somewhere for 12 summers and not get attached to some folks.

* Read Hemingway's short stories or A Moveable Feast or The Sun Also Rises.  A Moveable Feast is a collection of short memoirs about his time in Paris. Better yet, read it in Paris. You'll never be able to stop loving the city. The title of this post is a quote from A Moveable Feast, and I couldn't agree more. 

UPDATE: Since this post went public Joe was called up to the big leagues again! Another player is injured, so there is no telling how long he will be there; however, it is nice to know that he is the next guy in line when something like this does happen! 

What are you getting?

Joe and I fell in love over a meal... or maybe a few more than that, but food certainly was and is a huge factor in our marriage. For this reason, we don’t take eating together lightly. We aren’t just going to swing through some franchise fast food place to grab dinner or worse yet, pour a bowl of cereal. Forget that noise. Oh, no. If there is food to be had, we want to eat at a place that we won’t soon forget.

The challenge? Minor league baseball teams are not in towns found in the Zagat guide.

First challenge: Clearwater, FL
Joe has Spring Training here. It is a short drive from Tampa, which is great in terms of getting to. The same cannot be said for the AA and AAA teams.

Below I have gone through the most important food stops in the Clearwater Beach area.

Breakfast: 
Lenny’s : Lenny’s is your typical diner. Big haired waitresses waiting for their cigarette breaks, syrup in the perpetually sticky pourers, signed baseball paraphernalia on the wall and eggs more ways than you can think of. The danish basket alone is worth it. They will make your omlette however you want and the waffles are delish, too. Joe and I usually team eat in order to get equal parts salty and sweet in our caloric indulgence. These people are beyond kind to Joe when he goes in alone about 5 days a week and does the USA Today crossword puzzle in a booth. 

Clear Sky Cafe: The French toast here is the best I have ever had. And I have eaten a LOT of French toast. Huevos Rancheros eggs are also amazing here. Notice how multicultural I am in my dining experience. I do not discriminate any food, except salad. Anyways, this place is great. Outdoor seating, which is nice in pleasent weather. Fill up a big coffee cup and eat till you start saying things like, “Merci beaucoup for la toast de France y los eggs de ranchos.”*  

The French Toast pictured is the Java flavor. No breakfast is complete without coffee. Heck, no day is complete without coffee.

Java French toast with cinnamon butter 

Lunch: St. Petersburg Italian Market is the place to go if you want bread with the consistency of a cloud and melted cheese and peppers in your mouth, than you need to go eat here. The Philly cheese steak with chicken is my favorite sandwich-- ever. Italians know food, they take pride in their food, and the Italian Market is very worthy of Italian pride. Get yourself some coffee made from the big copper coffee maker, sit at the bar and watch the pastry chefs make beautiful little sugary treats. 

Started eating the cheese steak before I thought to take a picture 

After your cheese steak or pizza panini (yeah, you read that right. It is a special item so cross your fingers it is there ), get a canoli and another cup of coffee and some gelato.  Real gelato, not ice cream that is calling itself gelato. Pisachio is a standard favorite (pictures below), but Nutella and Frutti de Bosco are other top choices of mine. Joe and I have sat here for hours. If there is one thing to look forward to in Spring Training, it is knowing I will go eat at the Italian Market. 

Pistachio gelato, don't let the color intimidate. Or do, more gelato for me than. 

Dinner: Ceviche
A totally random find, but a freaking gem. Joe and I Googled this place and thought, yeah, sounds better than Hooters (the original Hooters is in Clearwater, less than a mile from the field. Thank you for playing to stereotypes about athletes). It is tapas, meaning basically appetizers, meaning team eating at its finest. Get a sangria wine and begin a Spanish feast. The filetito is to die for. Beef, peppers, goat cheesed, toasted bread-- so simple, yet so tantalizing. Then get the piquenos rellenos. They are red peppers full of cheese, chorizo and veal. You just about want to get into the pepper yourself. The fish and garlic grilled shrimp is wonderful, though I personally think you have to get fish if you are in a place that you can see the ocean. Try the frog legs, too. I know eating Kermit sounds daunting, but it is totally worth it. They're fried and an old sock would taste good fried. So go to Ceviche if you are ever in the Tampa Bay area. Just tell them Jen sent you.

Actually, don’t because they don’t know who I am. But maybe one day I will be greeted at the door with a bouquet of stuffed peppers and a box of filetitos. 

After a delicious, gluttonous weekend, the time has come to return to Houston. You know when you don't care about PDA? When you're saying good-bye. Nor do you care about crying in public, Public Displays of Sadness? Of tears? Something like that. Even now, thinking about waking up tomorrow a thousand miles apart makes my eyes sting. 

Joe and I were very intentional on taking counseling classes with the church. We read stacks of books about being married and took compatibility quizzes. And they were very insightful. But I haven't found one that answers the questions we are faced with within this lifestyle. So tonight, belly and heart empty, I go to sleep praying to find a way to take on marriage from a distance and for sweet dreams of eating french toast and cheese steaks with Joe. 

* I am aware that this is a grotesque combination of two languages. I chose to write this for comedic effect, I don't actually think this makes any real sense.

When I Was Your Age

If given a chance to take back some mistakes, I think most of us would take back things from our four years we each spent in high school. Poor choices in study habits, peer pressure, romantic relationships or attempted romantic relationships and even fashion-- yes, looking back at high school sometimes seems a parade of our most glossy mistakes.

Which makes it very fun to teach high school and watch all of these same mistakes being made. And by fun I mean difficult, stressful, insightful and maturing.

In short, I feel like I am doing an improvisational comedy show five days a week.

Some highlights of this, my first year teaching, thus far:

I proudly typed my syllabus and course objectives, wording it to make sure that the class seemed rigorous and I seemed strict and intimidating. I tried to hide any evidence of my youthfulness since my mere presence spoke for itself.  People told me not to smile for the first quarter; some said year, some said month--- but the general message was don’t smile. The bell rang for my first class on my first day in my first “real job.” I handed out the syllabus and gave the same verbal overview to all of my classes: I will reward hard work, but I will punish laziness, you must read the material, writing does not have a formula, you will respect each other and me, you will not get off task on your laptop, you do not “get” grades-- you earn them. I finished my lecture, lips tightly closed over my teeth, and asked if there were any questions. A few brave hands shoot up:

“Is it true you are dating a professional baseball player?”
“What was it like being in a sorority at Ole Miss?”
“Did you like SEC football?”

And my favorite:
“Are your shoes Christian Louboutin?”

I garnered their respect from the start.

When I got the job, I was ecstatic. I had wanted to teach high school English since I was taking high school English. There was the promise of a creative writing course in the future, too. I was thrilled to mold and shape students the way I had been by my amazing and engaging English teachers. I was proud to tell people when they asked what I was doing after graduation, “teaching” “Oh, what age?” “Sophomores and juniors” “High schoolers?!” “Yes...?” “Those boys are going to be all over you.”

Gross. I decided this was a myth, something made up by Britney Spears music videos and The O.C. I wouldn’t have students like that. They would see me for my brain and my brain only.

For the most part I was right, I was able to sass back at them and gave them a seating chart and graded them hard enough on their first paper to prove whatever it was I needed to prove to them. But there is something about boys ages 14-23 (yes, I realize the giant age bracket and that it includes guys my age) that makes them nearly intolerable.

Around homecoming, this particular student came in my room and asked if I would wear his jersey on Homecoming Friday. “What in the world? Are you trying to get me fired? I don’t think you should ask things like that!!” He responded that all the teachers do it, it is a tradition. Tradition my left foot! I quickly e-mailed my other young teacher friends and it was confirmed that teachers do wear players’ jerseys, but that asking on MONDAY of Homecoming week was jumping the gun a little bit. Even though all the other teachers had on jerseys, it still felt a little weird.

Something that really makes my day, and by that I mean makes me really insecure, is being mistook for a student. Moms do this a lot. Of course, they themselves can often times look like students, or at least much closer to my age. Yes, hot-tennis-mom is not a creation of the writers for Desperate Housewives, they exist in the real world. Bless them for not working and being able to do so much for the school (luncheons, goodybags, breakfasts, cupcakes-- seriously, they take care of us and we would be a public school without them), but I would appreciate you recognizing, if nothing else, I am in a pencil skirt and a blazer-- the kids are in jeans and flip-flops.

These same well-meaning parents have had some glorious comments such as:
Laziness is a learning disability, my son has it and you need to be sensitive to it*
I know that all the assignments are online, but could you e-mail me what they are everyday?
My son will be grounded if he doesn’t have an A, I just think you should take that into consideration when grading.
Do you think you could change the research paper from Macbeth to the play they read last year because I know my daughter read that one?
My daughter said I needed to come to Parent Night to see your shoes, she said that is all she looks at in class.

In closing:
Our boss told us this quote in our first faculty meeting : It is the job of the parent to prepare the child for the path, not prepare the path for the child. I love this because it can translate to so many other aspects of life. How often do we want to change our circumstances before we admit we need to change ourselves? A LOT.

I hope I am helping prepare each child.

And if not, well, at least I tried while wearing great shoes.

*This was not said directly to me, but I heard from an eye witness.