I Have a New Obsession

The first time I saw it, it was at my sister’s house. She has a few actually in the front garden by the steps that lead out onto Main Street. To the best of my knowledge, they came with the house. They look like juicy green roses, so juicy that you could bite them. I don’t know what would come out – aloe? Maybe it would be a pungent disaster. Or perhaps, a slightly sweet milky fluid that would require some getting used to. Not that I would ever bite these miracles of nature.

I asked for one as I was leaving Mary’s house one day. She casually pricked off a leaf of one and made a little pot for it. They survive the moving process, as long as you have a root system in place. I kept it by my window, but it eventually died. It never achieved the beautiful rose structure, but it was reminiscent of the original. I once peeled a tiny piece off of my own once it was big enough, and gave it to a dear friend. I hope she still has it.

They are of the “succulent” variety of California plant. What a suggestion. The name alone evokes that desire to chomp into them. They must be that way in order to survive the desert climate. Some are of the rose-shaped rendition I saw at my sister’s, but few have a classic rose/artichoke shape that I lust after. I saw one this weekend and bought it. I named him, though I won’t divulge that ridiculousness. He has proper sunlight, ventilation and love. I look at him constantly. I worry about him. I did research on the internet about him. He’s called by some a “Ghost Plant,” by others a “Ghostbuster”. Who knows where these nomenclatures come from?

The woman who sold him to me told me to take very good care of him. I asked her if he would survive, and she said, simply, “If you like him, he will.” I haven’t had good luck with previous plants. This would sting if it didn’t pan out well. Apparently, I have to submerge him in water for a half hour to water him, and that’s only when he’s completely dry. The semantics of the watering process are enough to make me second and triple guess.

Today I Got Dunked On

Ever since the first day I walked into that classroom, I knew I was a goner. I wanted them to love me. Not in a mushy, superficial way, but in a “that guy is cool” kind of way. I wanted them to trust me enough to be themselves and open up to the opportunity of learning more than just what the books had to offer. I wanted to teach them about life, and just happen to get a little English on the side. The first week of teaching, I had a recurring dream that I was in a cover band playing to my students and they were my rabid fans. It was a beautiful dream.

And then I woke up. The day-to-day started to chip away at this romantic notion, and throughout the rest of the year, these moments of divine insight were fleeting at best. I went from believing I could be the next Mr. Holland’s Opus to resigning to the fact that I never had any real training and would be thrilled to make it to the end of the year. Don’t get me wrong – I’ve done a great effing job considering the circumstances – but there’s the perfectionist in me constantly pricking my subconscious, telling me I could have been that lead singer of the cover band.

Today, I was that lead singer. Man, I’m getting chills just thinking about it right now. I totally flipped on the kids, asking them why they hadn’t been reading the book 1984, which my mom donated to them out of the kindness of her heart. Since not having the book wasn’t an excuse, I asked why they were all far behind.

“We’re Seniors, and we’re not into doing anything the last few weeks of school.”

“We’re just lazy.”

“It’s too much to read.”

“It started off good, but now it’s boring.”

“I can’t relate to it.”

And that’s where I stopped them. All the other excuses I could buy, since I was a Senior myself (a decade or so ago), but not relating to a book about invasion of privacy and Big Brother and technology controlling us in this age of MySpace, iSight laptops, intersection cameras, AIM, Blackberrys, Sidekicks and phone tapping? I wasn’t gonna let them get out of this one that easy.

We had our first “real” discussion, the kind where everyone (even the sleepy kids) is involved, there’s a real democracy of sharing ideas, and the clock burns through a half hour before you know it. At one point in the discussion, I was going off on a MySpace rant (about how nothing changes on this website – you could check back in a month and everybody’s talking about the same shit, with the same pictures, and the same lame music, etc.) and one of my students yelled out unconsciously, “Preach it!” I was going off.

At the end of the period, as I was wiping the board clean, I could sense a student coming close to me, slowly. I then felt as he was backing up into me, pivoting, elbows up, backing up some more, and pivoting. I turned around, and one of the tallest Seniors in the school was basically backing me up into the board as if he was a guard positing himself for a dunk. When I turned around, he made his last move, and “dunked” on me, to the utter delight of the rest of the class.

I made it. I belong. For one blissful moment, I was their lead singer.