My Great Futbol Debut!

Where I am from, sports rule the high school world as I suspect is the case in most of America. However, being a pretty small, white, middle-class school, the high church of sports is limited to the basics: football, basketball, baseball, track. Volleyball for the girls (and I suppose cheerleading, also, although it depends on who you talk to.) Soccer has become a little more popular as a club sport for elementary students, but I only actually played it once on "Field Day" in eighth grade.

Here, in a larger community with a large Hispanic population, soccer is an everyday part of life. It is what my students talk about, what everyone plays all year round, and what several of my friends coach. I decided I would be remiss as a teacher, friend, and townsperson in general if I didn't at least attempt to understand the sport.

I started slowly this winter, watching Local Boy play a few games in an indoor intermural league with various students and staff. It looked pretty straightforward. I mean, I get the basic idea, of course, but I learned a few more of the rules through observation. As one of my friends playing pointed out, "you just kick the ball."

So, two weeks ago, with the sun shining outside and the green grass beckoning, I bought my first soccer ball. It's baby pink and white. I spent a few days gingerly pushing it around my apartment livingroom, not wanting to actually get any mud or grass stains on its smooth pastel surface. But, this week it was destined to get broken in as I promised my French students I would take them outside to "joue au foot."

At first some of my eigth graders were upset, thinking it was unfair that I was actually going to play with them, until they realized having me on the team wasn't exactly an advantage. They were very sweet, though, and every time I made contact with the ball would yell, "Good job, Mademoiselle! Très bien!" By Wednesday morning I was able to pass a little and even made my first goal! My confidence sufficiently boosted, I promised to take my high school class out on the field to play during their last regular class of the year on Wednesday afternoon.

Before going out, some of my boys (stars of the undefeated JV team this year), showed me some tricks and some basic strategies. We then headed out to the field, with half the class watching on the sidelines, as I attempted to play real soccer with my Mexican students for an entire hour. I learned a lot in that hour. First of all, freshmen boys (and girls) run much faster than eighth grade girls. They will push a teacher, but not very hard. They will yell at each other in Spanish (and I have learned the swear words by now.) They will also occasionally let me have the ball and pass it to a teammate without knocking me down, which is nice of them. I even almost scored a goal.

Even though "je suis nul" (I suck), it was nice to bond with my students on their own turf. But I paid for it. Wednesday night I could barely walk and stairs were out of the question. Even my arms hurt, which I realized later was from pumping them so hard while running to try to keep my unathletic self anywhere near those tireless sixteen-year-old legs. I didn't even know that was possible. Even now, on Friday morning, I can feel every fiber of muscle between my hips and knees. But it's only Memorial Day weekend, which means I have all summer to practice before taking on my new students in the fall...

Aw shucks...

There's nothing like an unexpected compliment. Example:

Friday afternoon, in my ten minute break between teaching classes for over three hours and two hours of meetings (without a lunch I might add), I was standing in my office in front of a little mirror trying to make myself look somewhat presentable. Not having the time or energy to do anything special- just brushing the chalk off of me, trying to wipe the smudged mascara off the bags under my eyes, and desperately hoping my greasy, flat ponytail would be more flirty than pathetic- I heard a voice from across the hall. "Don't worry, Indy, you look great!" called one of the young, male ENL paras. (For the layperson, that's an English as a New Language paraprofessional. Basically, he helps the native Spanish speakers in their regular classes.)

I, of course, laughed heartily. I think I chortled a surprised, "Thanks, whatever." It didn't really occur to me the man could be serious. Until later, during a short break in the meeting, when he said, "No, really, I wasn't kidding." I don't really remember what I said then, but it made me smile all weekend.

(In addition, thanks for the nudge, Rick. As an inveterate procrastinator, the days slip by quite easily between my posts and it's good to know at least a couple of masochists are amused enough by my musings to want more.)

Oh Bureaucracy , how I loathe thee...

Let me count the ways, by the hundreds. As in, the hundreds of dollars I have to spend to take standardized tests that are basically identical to the ones I took five years ago to get my Michigan license. But, of course, those tests were designed by Michigan standardized test writing sadists, while the Indiana Department of Education clearly mandates the PRAXIS (by the same company who offers such joy as the SAT.) No substitutions.

So, I basically get to take tests I've already essentially taken to keep a license I already have to keep a job I already have. C'est logique.

I've already traveled to Notre Dame once to take the Basic Skills portion, and next up are the always enjoyable content area tests (both English and French!). I know I'm a competent teacher, but I am terrified I will fail these tests. Not only will I be humiliated and risk losing my license and possibly my job, but I'll have to take the damn things again.

As MasterCard would say:

6 1/2 years of college: $40,000

fees to be licensed in two states with testing: $1,000 (conservatively)

keeping a job you love (which pays at near-poverty levels): priceless