Is this real life?

There is a certain female student, JM, who I have this year in my class again. She is now a senior and the class she's in now is more or less a study hall with other seniors that is meant to provide them with an opportunity to work.

Last year, she was one of my worst students. She had a bad attitude, would always try and talk back to me, and would pretty much attempt to do whatever she wanted to do. It's not that she wasn't smart. She was one of the smarter students I had, and this was what made things difficult. JM would turn other students against me, and sour the mood of the whole class.

This year she's completely different. She is one of my best students. JM will actually quiet the class down if they are being loud. Today she came up to me and showed her progress report because she was proud of her GPA. This girl is nice to me. I am almost afraid of her because I expect her to turn on me at any minute (almost).

I haven't really done anything to warrant this change in her attitude other than to be relentlessly nice. I have helped her out with papers and showed her tricks on the computer. Really, I've always liked her in a way, as I do most students, and I enjoy seeing them succeed.

Today, JM invited me to come to her debate event this Saturday. I can't overstress how much this girl's attitude towards me has changed. I used to think she literally hated me; now I'm beginning to think she may actually like me.

Is this what it's like to parent a teenager?

Why Do People Read?

1. to get out of the real world

2. to learn about the way people or animals act

3. to enjoy using their mind

Mirrors

Last night I dreamt I was in a house with a girl that kept morphing identities (Which is not unusual in my dreams. It's probably the same for you). We were standing together and looking into a mirror. When we looked at the mirror from just the right angle, we caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a zombie-girl and I was filled with fear. This happened several times in the dream, and then the third time we looked into the mirror we saw what appeared to be a hipster owl (see picture).

I left the room and went into another bedroom, where my mom presented me with a wooden carving of another hipster owl. She told me she'd found it within the curtains that covered her room's window.

Immediately I woke up, terrified. It's been some time since a dream frightened me so badly it woke me up. My vision settled on the mirror that hangs on the inside of my bedroom door. I could see the reflection of my curtains and the light from the alleyway outside my window. Against all logic, I was afraid.

uhmerica

I really just wanted an excuse to write the word 'uhmerica'. Up until about 2 minutes ago I actually thought I made this word up, but apparently it's actually the title of Regina Spektor song. However, my version is not hyphenated and therefore better.

For some reason the word has been floating around in my head and randomly coming to the service for a matter of months now. Maybe now it'll go away.

Provo, Utah

We arrived in Provo at around 10 pm, tired and hungry. Being tired of sleeping on the cold hard ground, we'd opted to drive halfway to Vegas, leaving the Tetons at around 5 o'clock. Provo is a decent-sized town and the approximate halfway point.

Provo, I learned, is where BYU is located. The iPhone informed us that 88% of Provo's population identifies as Mormon, and the rest is mainly Hispanic. All of this I found mildlyinteresting but not particularly titillating, especially since we only planned to spend a brief night in the hotel without interacting heavily with the local populace.

Stumbling into our Best Western double-queen bedroom, I found a pulp-fiction book penned by none other than L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of Scientology, sitting on the nightstand. As usual, I checked the drawer, only to find (to my disappointment) a regular Bible. Now things were getting good, as I imagined that there was an underground war being fought in Provo: the Mormon majority was being sniped by the guerilla Scientologists, one hotel room at a time.

Jesus and I headed out to find something to eat and soon settled on a local 24-hour taco place called el Monterrey or Las Pedro's or something like that. Staffed by Hispanics, the clientele was predominantly white people on what seemed to be second dates. As I ate my decent burrito (the chicken was dry and the thing just wasn't that flavorful, if you want to know), I watched the people in the restaurant to gain some insight on the Scientist/Mormon wars. A group of Mexicans came in, ordered to go. Also a group of Asians (!).

Three quarters of my burrito had vanished before I came to my most profound and horrifying conclusion of the night.

Every white male in the restaurant was dressed alike. It appeared that each one went into a Pac Sun and purchased the first T-shirt and shorts combo within reach. Every single one was wearing some combination of board shorts, Billabong shirts, flip flops, and/or those weird plaid button-up surfer shirts.

Here I was, sullenly eating my burrito in the company of these boisterous people who looked as if they'd been surfing all day without managing to get tans. They ate their burritos gleefully, helping themselves at the complementary salsa bar and eating while the melted cheese dripped down their chins. They talked to their girlfriends. They gulped their soda. Where was the war? Where was the tension, the book of Mormon, the starched white dress shirts, where was anything normal?

Thereis something too perfect about Provo, that paradise in the desert. It has been named by Forbes as one of the top 10 places in the country to raise a family. It ranked first for volunteerism in 2008, and the fourth-best place in the country for your health and well being. The Osmonds live there. Perhaps most alarmingly, it is projected to have the greatest population increase (47%) in the 2010 Census.

My unsettling experience in Provo left me with far more questions that answers. I leave you now with a simple image: that of Provo's flag. Yes, this is actually the official flag of the city. I'll allow it to speak for itself.

another open letter

Dear Chicago,

[I'm writing this on a PC using a dial-up internet connection, which is my version of hell]

I miss your mild climate and your breezes. I miss your plethora of restaurants and bars. I know I haven't updated this blog to you in a while, but I still love you.

Right now I'm in Greenwood, which is nothing like you at all. She's much smaller, hotter and sweatier. She never wants to do anything. Although Greenwood is my real home and you are my adopted one, I like you better. But don't tell Greenwood - she's the jealous type. I confess that I'll be seeing others before I'm in you again. This Saturday I'm flying to California and I'll be getting acquainted with quite a few West Coast cities and parks. But I'll be back to you soon. Count on me July 26.

I know I haven't been writing to you as often as you'd like, but that doesn't mean I have nothing to say. I have so much I want to tell you, but sometimes it's hard to find the words. We've been through a lot in the past year, and we have a long way to go. I can't promise you that we'll grow old together, but I will say this: I'll be back. I'll give you at least another year of my life.

I can do a better job. I'll write to you more, I promise. I haven't forgotten you, Chicago. See you soon.

Love,

Matthew

Still Fighting

What follows is a reflection posting I had to complete for my grad school class. It's not very well-written but I figured I'd post it on here anyway since it's been a while since my last post.

Today I tried a new technique with one of my students that seemed to work and that I hope will have a positive impact on his behavior in the coming days and weeks.

There is one male student, DM, in my first period who engages almost daily in flirtatious behavior with a female student, YC. The students do not sit one another but in my class there is a fair amount of movement involved, and DM is usually able to do something to bother YC. It's usually something along the lines of taking her book or pencil and playfully refusing to give it back. YC will then raise her hand and say, "DM has my . Tell him to give it back."

Today, during independent work time, YC raised her hand. I walk over, and, sure enough, she says, "DM won't give me back my sweater." I looked at DM. He had been wearing this sweater (actually, it's a sweatshirt, but they always call it a sweater, which baffles me) all period. Wearily, I asked DM if the sweater belonged to YC. He of course denied it. It was at this point that I gave him my new talk. It went something like this:

Me: DM, how old are you?

DM: 17 (as soon as he says this, he begins to look guilty. DM is in 10th grade).

Me: YC, how old are you?

YC: 15.

Me: Now, almost every day, DM, you take something that belongs to YC and then I end up moderating. Do you realize how much time this wastes? Do you realize how childish you are acting?

DM: (looks guilty and nods)

Me: You're 17 years old. You are almost a fully-grown man. You should be treating YC like a lady and resolving conflicts on your own instead of having me get involved every day. There's no reason that I should be resolving such childish conflicts between two people who are on the brink of adulthood. I'm not going to deal with these things anymore. Find a way to get over this without disrupting the learning environment.

They seemed responsive. I have no idea if it will work long-term, but they actually did their work for today. The key seemed to be shaming DM into doing the right thing based on the fact that he is 17 and behaving like a small child. It's probably not by the book, but, well.... we'll see what happens tomorrow.

A Letter From A 10th Grader

Dear Mr. Mcalister

Please do not be closeminded about this. I will cut right to the point we should be able to pick our own seats. I speak on the behalf of all the students In this room when I say that giving us our choise of seatting will help the class to run smother. For example some of us may sit next to people who we may find rude or annoying, but if you let us get our own seating well we get along with each other better thus makeing the class work better run smother and improve grades. A lot of kids at this age have been restriced limeted, and stoped from doing what we want and when we finally get freedom some of us will go down a wrong path, but if ou give us give us the freedom to chose you will be showing us that we really can do what we want if we put our minds to it; that if self is a lesson on its own. Mr. Mcalister we are in an era of chang, thankfully it is change for the better so be a part of this great change and give us freedom, choise, and hope for the feuture by letting us pick our seats.

Teachers signature ______________________

Students who agree

ID, MB, MG, JB, GG, AP, JS, YC, AR, AR, DM, DW (signatures)

by signing this contract I promiss to do the best that I can in Mister. Mcalister's class on the condision that we the students of Rowe Clark will have our choise of seatting in his class.

I Don't Actually Hate Teenagers That Much

Dear teenager(s),

I actually don't hate you very much, or even at all. At least not most of the time. I really enjoy spending time with you and I don't regret becoming a teacher at all. Most of you are funny at least some of the time and you make me laugh.

But sometimes you make me angry, especially when you are a menstruating girl who thinks that this simple fact gives you a license to be mean to me and go to the bathroom whenever you want because of "girl problems."

And also you make me angry when you won't. stop. talking. Because none of you ever really do stop talking. You only pause for breaks.

Really, the affection I feel for you is something closer to love than hate. I have fun with you even if I don't know what I'm doing. It's true that I count myself fortunate to be able to spend time with you.

If only I knew how to teach you something.

Sincerely,

Mr. McAlister

P.S. When I told you my first name was "Mister," I was lying. My first name is actually Matthew.

I Hate Teenagers Very Much

That is all. 1.33

A Brief Story From Last Semester About Bruce Lee

It was probably back in October or so when we had this free day and I had to entertain my advisory (which consists of 12 9th graders) for an hour and 10 minutes. I found a movie on youtube called Spirits of Bruce Lee and put it up on the projector.

We spent the whole hour trying to figure out which guy was Bruce Lee. Every time a new Asian appeared onscreen, we had another argument about whether he was Bruce Lee or not. Someone, either one of the kids or me, invariably thought that every new guy who showed up was Bruce Lee. We never really settled on which one was him.

Just today, I looked on imdb and it turns out that Bruce Lee was not even an actor in the film. No one was Bruce Lee. The whole time we were just grasping at spirits.

Hot Doug's, The Sausage Store and Encased Meat Emporium

I am not generally a fan of hot dogs.

Almost every hot dog I've ever eaten has looked and tasted like the amalgamation of meat it is. Doesn't really matter how you dress it up: chili, mustard, onions, celery salt peppers. The hot dog is American food at its finest: cheap, processed, and very nearly tasteless. I probably eat hot dogs about three times a year, and even then it's usually just to be polite.

After moving to Chicago, which is a place sort of obsessed with hot dogs, I only ate one of them in the first six months of living here. One "Chicago-style dog" left me unimpressed and not exactly eager to eat another.

Which is why Hot Doug's caught me by surprise.

Monday was MLK JR day, so we (we being me, two friends, and a new acquaintance) decided to go out and enjoy some unhealthy food. The plan was to go to Kuma's Corner, which is a heavy-metal themed bar/restaurant that allegedly has some of the best burgers in the United States.

So, we drive out to Kuma's, de-car, and go inside. At exactly 2:11 on a Monday afternoon, the wait time at Kuma's corner was 2 hours and 30 minutes. I would've personally been happy to wait (they did have beer, after all), but my companions had no interest in waiting that long for food, even if said food was America's Best Burger. So, I found myself in the car of my new acquaintance, en route to this place he suggested called Hot Doug's.

This place, claimed my new acq., had delicious, made-in-house hot dogs. I bit my tongue.

We arrived at Hot Doug's, which is surrounded by parking lots and warehouses, and grabbed a parking spot. Then we got in line. Yes, we got in line. The line for these weenies snaked out the door and around the building for maybe 60 feet.

I attempted to stereotype the people waiting in line, but couldn't. These people were black and white, rich and poor. Young Puerto Ricans jostled among middle-aged white businessmen. Perhaps the only thing these citizens shared was a love for encased meats.

So we waited 40 minutes in this line in the freezing cold and finally entered the building, where I was able to appraise the menu. Hot Doug's has your general selection of hot dogs: the Chicago-style, Polish sausages, Bratwurst, etc.

But it's when you turn your attention to the 'weekly specials' board when things really get interesting.

A preview:

Foie Gras and Sauternes Duck Sausage with Truffle Aioli, Foie Gras Mousse and Sel Gris

Pepper and Onion Pork Sausage with Sun-Dried Tomato Mustard, Roasted Yellow Tomatoes and Ricotta Salata

Spicy Thai Chicken Sausage with Thai Peanut Sauce and Toasted Coconut

And, of course, the Game of the Week:

Bacon and Cheddar Elk Sausage with Half Acre Beer Mustard and Moutardier Cheese

Well. Doug certainly had my attention. The menu left me with more questions than answers (How does one make chicken sausage? Or bacon sausage? Where does one buy elk meat in Chicago? How do you even pronounce those words?)

After much debate, I ended up getting the elk sausage (And how could I not? It's elk sausage). After ordering, it took less than five minutes for my food to come out.

And then I ate it. I'm not gonna lie: it was delicious. The sausage itself was superb. The mustard was tangy and flavorful. And the cheese, which was cut into little cubes and stacked on top of the sausage, was a perfect compliment. Even the bun was toasted to a light brown.

Okay, so no, it wasn't technically a hot dog. It was a sausage dog. But still. Hot Doug's has changed the way I'll view encased encased meat products from this day forth.

Shannon's Rhymes

Some lines composed by one of my advisees.

My name is Shannon

I'm almost perfect

100 grand but I'm still working

with ya girl u no I flirtin

To da crib u no Im workin.....

yea Ima kill the game with this one

aim fo ya so un I won't miss ya

I stack cake deeper than lakes

keep talkin **** and get yo *** raked

To play wit da top gun

whip out the nine and make yo *** run