Has it really been a month? I have been writing, just not here. But now, for the first time in a while, I have fast internet. I can stay up late to the comforting glow of my Macbook Pro and blog and pin and watch all the Mad Men and Orange is the New Black my little heart desires.
After homework of course.
When I’m not in school, I forget about the monotony of it. I’m excited to learn, to engage, to debate and discuss. But I don’t do well with routine. Maybe that means I won’t be a very good teacher. The research says create routine in your classroom. There’s safety and comfort in routine. That’s what kids need. But I’m a fly by the seat of my pants kind of girl, and my loathing for day-in-day-out routine is what made me choose teaching over an office job.
Each day feels the same. They blend together into a blur. How many weeks has it been? How many hours? Seconds? Is that clock slow? It has to be slow…
Wake up at 5, hair in a pony-tail, workout pants, neon pink vented shirt and sports bra. Nikes and out the door. 6 o’clock rowing, pushing my back muscles, pushing to be in sync with everyone else. With the middle-aged women and the college-aged boys. With broader shoulders than mine and thick-set hips.
7:30 and I’m back on Argonne, then the freeway, then the apartment, changing, combing, swiping on mascara and deodorant before snatching up my backpack and running back out the door.
Coffee, then class at 9, reflection, discussion, group meetings, 7-page readings, another working lunch, back to class, then to the language camp. There I work with a girl named Amina who only knows a handful of English words. And so it feels amazing when she repeats the words I tell her, then figures out the letter for the V- sound.
At 2:30, the kids leave for snacks, and I trudge back across campus with the others, back into my air-conditioned car, back to the apartment to read another chapter, another book, to write another paper. And then all the Netflix because it’s all my brain can handle after such a day.
I’m sharing a bed with my best friend for a few days. We chatter and giggle like we’re still in high school. We banter about politics and complain about boys and colleagues before finally resigning to sleep. In the morning, I turn off my alarm and creep out of bed. And then it starts again. Again and again and again. Day after day.
A couple of weeks ago I saw the high school boys from my hometown at basketball camp on my campus, and they all yelled out my name. “What are you doing here?! Shouldn’t you be at the lake?” Yes, guys. Yes, I should.