Puzzle Pieces

Teaching has made me a different person. I see things from perspectives I have never seen things before.

I've been reminded that while, yes, teaching is hard...it's also very scary. I am in charge of the lives of students all day, every day, 5 days a week. But, that's something I already knew.

I'm seeing things from so many angles, I can barely handle it sometimes. Somehow, I have to be able to understand and accept the girl who has no compassion for others while simultaneously comforting and creating a safe space for the young man going through a serious identity crisis - sometimes while this girl is confronting the young man. I have to love the student who refuses to stand for the pledge as much as I love the student who wants to shove the U.S.A's conservative politics down everyone's throats.

And, to tell you the truth - that part isn't so hard.

The hard part is convincing other people that all of these different personalities and flawed youth and perfect youth and sensitive youth are all worth loving. The hard part is trying to convince other people to see how what they may be saying is (or could be) irreparably damaging someone else - even if that is not the intended consequence.

I'll burden you with my most recent plight: I feel like I am not hearing voices of compassion for those affected by tragedy so much as I am hearing demands being made by those unaffected. Now, I'm a grown up. I understand that we want and need to discuss our beliefs and opinions about guns and God or lack-there-of.

But I can't help but notice the missing voice in all of this - the people who might be getting tramped on.

I'm thinking specifically of Atheists - but I suppose the Muslims or Buddhists or any other non-Christian faith may fall under this umbrella - how those families must be feeling to be hearing again and again "lack of [CHRISTIAN] God has allowed for these things to happen."

The lack of a christian god is being used synonymously with "lack of morals" and "lack of being able to discern right from wrong" and "lack of self control" and "inability to empathize."

Do you think, out of the 26 families affected by the most recent tragedy, that there is not one family of Atheist or non-Christian beliefs?

What message are we sending those families? That their child deserved to die? That they were just bringing their child up in a way where something like that was just bound to happen in their life anyway...? That they are a moral-less people? That somehow, Christians have it figured out better than non-Christians?

I don't think a lack of God is our issue.

I think a lack of human decency is. 

Heads or Tails?

I have officially been teaching all by myself for a whole quarter. That's something like 43 days.

Today is a grading day because, naturally, quarter final grades are due. So, I'm back with funny student work to share.

First, I'll preface all this stuff with telling you that we read a novel in class called Finding Miracles. It was pretty good. Some students liked it more than others, but overall we were all able to connect with one character or another. Their quarter-final-assessment(s) were based on student choice. They were presented with 6 options and had to choose 2, and do one that was required. These things varied from "I am" poems to one pagers to mapping the story to short essays.

So, think of today's blog as a variety show of sorts. :)

Weirdest/most awkward questions asked to me this quarter:
Where to herpes come from?
What's an abortion?
Are Milly and Pablo (book characters) just hugging, or are they doing one of those "special-baby-making" hugs we learned about in science class?
Who are you voting for?
Do you like to go clubbing?

Most interesting things I over-heard this quarter:
- Finally! A teacher who understands our perspective.
- He paid me $20 to do his homework, but I failed it. Should I give the money back?
- I feel strangely attracted to (student name) when she's in a leotard.

Most unexpected reaction/s:
Me: Next quarter, we will be learning about the more technical aspects of writing - like grammar, spelling, paragraphs.
Class: Yes!!! (commence clapping and fist pumping).

Favorite misspellings:
Secret : Seakret
Learns : Leunns
Passionate : Passinate
Pablo : Poplo, Poblow
Adoption: Abdoption, Aboption

Favorite Mis-answered questions:
What is the resolution: Pablo and Milly start making out.

Pick any character (from any text) that you feel represents you. Who is this character? How are they similar to you?

- Juny B. Jones from the series Juny B. Jones. We are both funny and laid back about life.
- I am like the guy from The Fighter because of my brother.
- Green Lantern because him and me are both awesome.

Confessions made via homework:
* I'm tibetan.
* I'm adopted.
* I had surgery as a baby.
* When I got a cat, he made me wonder how I would be as a father.

Random pictures from the quarter:

Will They Know?

As a teacher in a city-school, I have my bakers dozen of kids that make me cry. They make me cry for different reasons. I cry when they exasperate me. I cry when they distract the class from learning. I cry when I think about the system that is failing them. I cry when they fail. I cry when they succeed. I cry when they cry.

Tonight, I have one young man in mind. I knew 5 weeks ago that this would be a student who I would cry over.

The first days, he was hesitant to do anything. I could see his frustrations with schoolwork boiling up into his eyes and spilling out in a variety of ways: tears, dancing and singing, throwing stuff, fighting. Everyday with this young man has been an absolute battle.

Two weeks ago, we had an open-notes quiz. He had all the notes in his binder, but they were so disorganized he didn't want to look through them. Slowly, we went through and pulled them all out and when he realized he had enough notes to get a B on the quiz, the biggest smile came across his face and he looked at me and said, "Oh. I can do this."

Yes, I thought. Yes - you can. You've always been able to do this. But for him to recognize that in himself was the key. It was a pivotal moment in our teacher-student relationship, and his relationship with his schoolwork.

Over the course of the next few days, he handed in all of his assignments. The effort he'd put into them was obvious, and he beamed at me as he handed them in.

"I bet these ones will be as good as my quiz!"

This young man is tender-hearted, but he's impulsive. Like most 12 year old boys, he acts before he thinks. He sees a friend in the hall, he's going to go to the hall. He feels like chatting with his buddy 6 rows over, he's going to get up and chat with his buddies. He hates the girl behind him? He is going to tell her, and when she comes back with "Boy, I'mma slap the shit out of you" he stands up and meets her request for battle.

This week, his impulsivity got the best of him.

5 weeks of piecing together the puzzle of this young man - so, so delicately - has been shattered. His eagerness and desire to please - to be included, to be heard in this world....those things took over.

He brought a knife to school. Kids were threatened.

It's heartbreaking. Just as we were making progress. Just as he was beginning to believe in himself, just as he was starting to understand that you can play the game of school without getting played yourself - that classrooms can be a place where we learn and grow and laugh and love and cry and live...

Over. Before it even started.

So I worry. I cry for him. I wonder - will there be another teacher in his future who will give him the time and space he needs to grow? Will they keep him in the classroom and let him know that he belongs there - not in the office? Will they let his behaviors keep him from learning?

Will they let his behaviors keep them from trying to teach him?

Sad-urday Morning.

It's really interesting how death can put a relationship into perspective. When Jamie died, it became very obvious to me how much we communicated - facebook, phone. I hadn't ever noticed when it was happening. He became a permanent presence in my life when I was 15. I forgot what life was like without him - so when he drove his motorcycle into Heaven on his way to school, it was a huge shock.

It was then that I noticed - it was then that I remembered - what an important figure he had become in my life. 

But with my grandma - she'd always been there. There hadn't ever been a time where she didn't exist for me. I came into her life, not the other way around. My whole life is almost entirely built upon a foundation that she created for her family.  But when she passed (in August), it didn't hit me like a freight train the way that Jamie's death did. 

Instead, it's been a slow process. Slow. Painful. Jamie's death was overwhelming in a way that fried my brain for a solid year. It was such a shock to the system that it changed the way I function - probably forever.

My grandma's death feels more like I'm being starved. 

Can I call grandma and tell her about the crazy muffins I made this week? No.

I'm so excited to see grandma this October. No, you're not. She's dead.

I'm sick in the middle of the night, I'm going to text her because I know she's awake. Not this time.

I hate myself, I hate my body and I hate everything I do. Grandma knows what to say. Nope.

I ate a giant meal. I should probably let Grandma know about it. She thinks I never eat... Still Nope.

I want to sit in Grandma's closet and listen to all the music boxes play at once. Never, ever, again.

It's amazing how many times in a week I forget that she's gone. I was there. I kissed her goodbye. I cried with my cousins. I comforted and was comforted. 

But there is a part of me that seems to be inconsolable. Something that rejects the attempts at comfort and refuses to accept that she's no longer living. An abusive little part of my heart that wants me to regularly relive the loss of her.

I don't like knowing what a huge part of my life I lost. It's true - you never know what you've got until it's gone. Especially when you've had it around you your whole life. 

Superlatives

I left school yesterday feeling pretty sick. Some virus has been hitting the students & teachers at Anthony pretty hard, and it is my turn.

But, even in my hour of illness, I found it absolutely essential to keep my promise to the students I taught at Armstrong - and so I put on my sweater and braved a high school football game. Well, part of one anyway. I left after an hour. I just stayed long enough for the kids to see me.

This morning, I'm paying for that little excursion. But it seems a teacher's work never ends because, despite the fever and the other stuff, I'm sitting on my floor surrounded by vocabulary story-quizzes and student research for the quarter final project.

And you know how I am...I hate to be selfish and keep these little gems of student work to myself. So I'm back...with some funny student stuff, and a short photo essay that illustrates my week. Enjoy.

*Weird side note: I told the students exactly how much work they needed to do for an a/b/c/d/f and it was amazing at how many students elected to get a b/c of their own free will! Especially because if they'd used one or two more words in context correctly, they'd have gotten an A....

Student Research:

Who are you researching? Ellen Degeneres
What have they done to make a positive change? Well, she's gay. So obviously she supports gay right.

Who are you researching? Abraham Lincoln
What have they done to make a positive change: Tried to end slavery (and kill every vampire in America).

Best one-liners from the vocab story-quizzes:

- Then all of a sudden my excitement abated when my friend got pissed.
- My sister and I were vexed by the malevolent George Bush.
- The malevolent and languid man, who was the epitome of a behemoth, woke up in his scintillating, yet derelict, house feeling vexed - though it was nebulous as to why; his ephemeral temper about this subject shortly abated when he got up, absconded with his roomates wallet and usurped the ring of power from Sauron.
(Yes, that 7th grader really wrote every word in one sentence).

Most common sentence used:
It was behemoth.

The music video we watched and analyzed this week (which became a huge hit and now my students walk around singing it):

The video that got the most smart phones taken away this week:


My week in photos:

Word of the Day: Languid

If you would have walked by my window at around 6 pm yesterday evening, you would have found me cross-legged on the floor, sobbing over a stubbed toe.

But the tears weren't really about the stubbed toe at all. I was crying because it was - as they say - the straw that broke the camel's back.

I'd had a rough day. Week...2 weeks. I've been having a rough few weeks. Your first year of teaching is no joke...

Anyway, yesterday I had a substitute teacher. The whole English department did! We were on a "data retreat" where we spent the whole day in a long meeting about MYP, IEP's, GTT, IB, FI...WTF? IDK.

In the afternoon, there was some planning time. So that was nice.

As I was saying, it was a long day. I walked away from it feeling this much more inadequate and that much more like I'm breaking all my students, and ever so slightly irked that my life has seemingly disappeared. School, home + chores, grading, sleep, school!

And then I stubbed my toe. I'd had enough! So I cried for an hour without being able to articulate why. In fact, I couldn't articulate anything at all.

So as you can imagine, I got ready for work this morning in a languid fashion. I was unsure of how I would reign in my already rambunctious kids after a day-long-party with a sub. But when I walked into my room, I was greeted with a blackboard filled with drawings like this:

(this one is actually a few days old, but I forgot to take pictures of the ones today).

They said things like, "We miss you Ms. Hansen - period 1" and "Tristen loves Ms. Hansen" and "we love you!" and "Ms. Hansen is the most awesome teacher ever."

When they actually arrived in classes I found out that the sub:
1.) called a student in first hour (my perfect class) a slut. uhm...what?
2.) made her own rules despite me leaving her our class norms.
3.) referred to herself as the rockstar sub.
4.) allowed students in 6th hour to get into a physical altercation that left other students feeling unsafe.

Needless to say, the students were happier than ever to see me. There were many requests that I "never, ever leave again."

Of course, they felt differently at the end of the hour. But that doesn't stop them from drawing hearts for me. <3 p="p">

Vocabulary Quiz

Best misused words:

I was afraid for a behemoth when I saw my friend's Halloween costume.
(In this case, "behemoth" was being used as "a short moment, fleeting.")

This test is scintillating.
(Scintillating is also being used as "a short moment, fleeting.")

I abate a lot.
(This one was just to be a punk. He knew the meaning of the word and decided to be a smart-aleck. )

I will scintillate this sentence.
(The word he was looking for was alliterate).

I had an idea but it epitomed out of my head.
(epitome : abscond).

Favorite misspelling:

jewels : gewls

To Teach

To remind myself why I'm doing this:

Hey Teacher! How You Sound?

I am looking through the students' binders before I actually grade them. Kind of a "first reading" - if you will - so that I don't get distracted while I grade. Here are the gems so far:

Things that helped my students:

This most helpful thing was the word of the day because instead of just you telling it to us, we used it in sentences.

I like how you eased in to homework. It helped a lot. I think we can now get a little more since now I am used to it.

I liked that you gave us the T.S. Eliot poem because it was challenging.

I like that you let me draw what's in my mind when I'm having trouble writing it. 

You helped us by showing us pictures.

This week, I'd like more time to write in class. I found it helpful that you often had directions on the board as well as saying them. 

Examples of hyperbole:

He's so cheap, he licks other peoples fingers at KFC.

My teacher is so nice, she should win the Nobel Peace Prize.

My teacher is so tall, she bumps her head on the moon.

Examples of personification:

The eraser hungrily ate up the chalky letters, his appetite never satisfied and always ready to try new things without hesitation.

Favorite misspellings of the week:

wore : whore
neighbor: neybior

I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends.

School has been in session now for 7 days (I subtracted the weekend/holiday). Everyday as I am leaving I think to myself, "Gee, Nikki. You really ought to sit down and write about what you're doing. Write about what happened today." So I sit down. I grab a pen. I open my laptop.

Whatever.

I try to write, but nothing comes.

Okay. That's a lie. Lots of things come to mind when I sit down to write, but I can't put the words together in a fine, prose-like fashion. If I let the words loose, they will come out jumbled and jagged. Unruly and loud. They'll slip and stumble instead of aligning neatly.

Actually, that sounds a lot like my 7th graders.

Because I seem to be unable to write everything I'd like to, I'm just going to write a list of the things I have found interesting thus far:

1.) I did not experience any 1st day jitters. None!
2.) A large, stuffed teddy bear can do a lot to calm down energetic children.
3.) My largest class (40) is easier to contain than my 5th hour class (25).
4.) iPods are not the enemy.
5.) Students will still ask you the directions, even after you have had them repeat the steps back to you at least 3 times...
6.) Sometimes, it's more effective to just use a regular speaking voice than it is to yell.

Actually, let's talk about #6. Something crazy fascinating happened in my last hour, today. They were (understandably) unruly. We had a lot to get through, and 3/4 of the class was waiting on 1/4 of the chatty cathy's to shut up. So, instead of yelling, "Quiet down, folks!" I just started using my "normal" voice. I gave the directions, and then started reading the excerpt we were focusing on. The kids who wanted to hear me actually came and stood in a circle around me (a decision they made totally on their own). This really caught the attention of the kids who had been off task, and they came and joined the circle. Soon, everyone was silent and engaged - we were totally able to complete our learning goal.

So there you have it.
The kids are crazy, the expectations are high, and I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Grandma's Got This One.

I'm not usually one for church hymns or Jesus-y blog postings. But with all of the chaos in my life, this verse couldn't have come at a better time. 

Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.

And yes. I'm sharing the version with David Archuleta singing it. Deal with it.

Growing Up and Up

My mom sent me the most amazing birthday package. Included in it was a file, if you will, of many of the writings (done by yours truly) she'd kept hidden away throughout my childhood and adolescence. Talk about opening a time capsule! I was truly overwhelmed (in a good way) and awash in emotions as I relived some of the weirdest, most exciting and revolutionary times of my life. It was (and continues to be, since I keep staring at it) so interesting to look at my own work from a variety of perspectives: as an emerging teacher I critiqued and laughed at some of my funny grammatical errors...lingering over hand-written essays and laughing at a writing portfolio from the 5th grade with a very grown-up table of contents.

I guess I could keep writing about how all of this makes me feel...but it might be more fun for you if I just share.

Take a look at this picture. First of all: the little girl who can't write her s's? She's going to grow up and become an English teacher someday. And that picture? Yes. That's me. I am like a flower - ever growing. 5 year old me can't write a sentence but - damn - my picture sure is worth 1000 words. (You might need to click on it to see it better. The quality isn't great).

Here's another picture from my kindergarten years. I am clearly expressing something important that involves my mommy and a grocery cart.

Next - the first poem I ever wrote. I remember this day clearly. I was 8 years old and had been inspired by a book I'd just read. I just really wanted to create something amazing. Here it is:

Title: Lovely trees scrape my knees

I love trees they
scrape my knees.
I wear pathes patches on my rashes

Now - we jump forward to the 5th grade to my author portfolio :) The table of contents is as follows:

Fiction stories
Poems
Personal Neratives
Rough Drafts

What an organized child I was!

I wrote an epic story about three cats in a kingdom in which I made my real-life arch nemesis "as fragile as an eggshell" as well as born in jail. I wrote another story in which my uncles and aunts steal a bunch of fossils and go to prison. In yet another, my imagination takes me on a wild ride in which the birds on my non-existent wall paper peel off and fly away, and everyone in the world thinks I'm crazy because of one stupid reporter. But my favorite: the story that include MLK Jr. as my soccer coach.

Here are two short poems I wrote in that portfolio as well:

Me
Athletic, Energetic
Running, Hiding, Seeking
In a big bush
Nervous.

My Little Rose

Spikey little rose
Such a pretty sight to see
There is a small bee.

---

So there you have it. Some of my earliest writings. I have some others (from my more dramatic years), but those are best saved for the vaults. Instead, enjoy this picture of my cuteness:

Hey, Teacher.

Who Stole the Cookies From the Cookie Jar?

That, my friends, is the question of the hour. Only it sounds more like this:

Who stole my great grandmother's ring from my jewelry box?
Who stole the necklace Matt's mother gave him when he was confirmed from his cuff-link box?
Who took our iPods from the office?
Who took all of our change off our shelf?
(I think you're getting a hang of the pattern, here).

Last Tuesday (around Midnight) we arrived back in the U.S. after our marvelous honeymoon in Rome. That same evening, I noticed that my childhood pacifier had been moved from my jewelry box, and I was exceedingly irked. As I went to place it back in the box, I was greeted with several gaps. Some rings were missing! I told Matt, but he was certain I'd misplaced them.

The next day, he noticed the change was gone. And an irreplaceable knife.

We continued to discover things, here and there, that had seemingly disappeared during our trip to Rome. Nothing big. The laptop was still there, the camera, my very expensive flute, my most expensive jewelry - kitchen supplies. The stuff actually worth money was still safely in our clutches.

Let's not kid around, though, they stole thousands of dollars worth of property anyway...without breaking any windows.

But here is what doesn't make sense:
- Why not take all of it? (Don't worry, we have a theory)
- Why not the big stuff?
- Why the jewelry, when women obviously know their jewelry?
- Who were these people?

So here is theory #1:

While we were gone, we had maintenance done on our place. A leak was ruining the ceiling/wall, so they knocked it out, fixed it, replaced the wall. While the landlord denies it (although his story has changed 3 times already), we know of several instances during which these maintenance workers were in the building without the landlord present. The landlord also denies that the workers ever entered our bedroom. Well, tell that to the drywall all over my clothes, and the panel of new wall in the bedroom...

Why they went into the office is beyond me. It also looks as though they were under a time constraint, since they picked and chose what they'd take.

Or: because they do maintenance on multiple properties maybe they feel like it's safer to take little things from multiple places.

Here is theory #2:

We talked to the landcare guy who lives on site. He was saying that as the old tenants (of this apartment) were moving out, three teenage boys snuck into the building. They attempted to take bikes, and sure enough, they succeeded in taking change jars and jewelry from the girls who lived here. No one filed a police report, though, and apparently the boys only got in because the doors were unlocked.

But, while this theory fits somewhat - here are the flaws:
If 3 teenage boys have unlimited time in an unattended apartment, you can guarantee they aren't going to take a few gadgets and gizmos. Not in this city. Also, how would they have gotten in...unless someone unlocked the door for them?

The landlord swears up and down that the doors were never unlocked. That's a lie. The day we moved in, we found the back door unlocked. And, since we know he wasn't with the maintenance folks the whole time...who says they didn't leave it unlocked and go to lunch (since they have no keys)? Maybe, then, nervous boys DID come in and rush - looking for the things that seemed expensive.

---

Obviously, whoever robbed us has no idea of what expensive jewelry looks like. My great grandmother's ring is, in my opinion, priceless. It's the only thing of hers that I've ever owned. But - that being said - monetarily it's worth very little. It's costume jewelry. They chose that ring over a butterfly ring, sitting right next to it, which has opal and ruby in it...(actually worth money). They didn't take my expensive watch. They didn't take my expensive necklaces.

And, obviously, they touched stuff. Let's hope they weren't smart enough to be wearing gloves.

Sock it to 'em.

So close, husband. So close.

The Few, The Proud...

We should be allowed to enjoy our good days.

I'll admit, that's a place where I need practice. I let the good days slide by, forgetting to write them down. To put them somewhere that I'm going to remember them.

Today was a good day. In so many ways.

I had a very successful teaching day. The students were able to actively engage in discussion. They worked together to solve problems. They asked questions. They were respectful of the space and each other. A lot of that was them, but it was me too. I was able to structure class in a way that allowed for success.

What a huge deal for me.

I even got a lovely note from my cooperating teacher. And, let's be honest, nothing makes me feel better than knowing I've done my superiors proud. (Here's where some of you think I'm being sarcastic. But I'm not. Which is why I'm awesome).

Also, I got all of my MTLE (teaching exam) scores back today. I'm officially done with my licensure tests. I've passed them all!

Tomorrow, I walk in graduation for my Masters of Education. That sounds like a good thing to me.

My parents came in to town today. I spent the afternoon doing absolutely random things with my mom. MY mom. I got to spend the day with MY mom for once. Not your mom. Not your friend's mom. Not my friends. Not my cats. My mom. She got me some cute gifts :)

Then my mom, dad, Matt & I went to a stellar restaurant for dinner - to celebrate my degree.

So, I feel like today is a day I should be allowed to enjoy. I have the people I love nearby. I have made huge strides in my student teaching. I'm taking the steps toward the future I've worked so hard for.

I get to be proud of that. 

Mid-February Shouldn't Be So Scary

When I walk around cemeteries, I am always fascinated by the headstones. Some are modest, little plaques that say nothing more than a name and a date. Some are crazy large monuments. Others are strange symbolic figures that are comparable to abstract modern art. But, no matter what they look like, they are a very real signifier that beneath the stone - and my feet - lays a person who was once loved - is still loved - by many.

This plaque above will be on the back of Jamie's headstone.

His headstone. Did I just type that? It still feels unreal. I'm still waiting for him to send a text that says "JK everybody! Did you miss me?" I wouldn't even be mad. I had this sinking feeling in my chest as they closed the casket over him - would he be lonely? Was there enough space? Can I see him just a moment longer? When they put him in the ground, I had similar thoughts: would it be too cold for him? - It became very real. He was gone, and it was time to say goodbye. I just hate(d) thinking about him being under the ground when he belonged above the ground. With his wife. With his friends. Flying planes.

I let myself slip into denial from time to time. Maybe it's not healthy, but it's true. Sometimes, I just want to pretend he's still around. That I can send him that text. That he will still be taking my brother to lunch in the near future. That we will see him and the wife at conference and we will all play conference bingo together.

So, seeing the plaque brings me both joy and sorrow. Joy that we have all made it this far. Sorrow that we had to make it at all. It makes me sad that people may stand over his headstone, doing what I do so often when I walk through the cemetery... they will wonder what happened to this young man. Where are the people that love him? They will wonder at what his middle name was, and they will always be wrong because they won't know that it only ever was D. It makes me sad that people will pass by his headstone but not know him. They will not know his love for cherry dipped cones. They will not know his funny laugh. They will not know that he loved Firefly or Tomcat F-14s or F-18 Super Hornets. They will not know about how he proposed to his wife. They won't know about Lolita or his mission to South Korea or any of his funny sayings: Make all 100's! Remember who you are! Don't embarrass the family! Now - get out of my car!! They will not know that he achieved his dream and they will not know the pure love and joy this man embodied. His selflessness. His spontaneity. His steadfast faith in God.

Instead, they will simply know his name.

They will see his plaque. They will wonder - and then they will do what so many of us will struggle to do for the rest of our lives: they'll move on in a different direction.

I suppose that I'll have to visit him sometime. I know the story. I won't have to wonder. Not about this man. I will be able to stand at his headstone and know - remember.

And it is a beautiful plaque to be mounted aback a beautiful granite headstone that will appropriately mark the beautiful resting place of a truly beautiful human being who, to use the word one more time, brought a love of beautiful things to my life and the life of many others. So, this headstone brings me sorrow. But it also brings me joy. Sorrow that the world lost a truly righteous, honest, loving man and joy that, in this moment, I get to remember him...and Him...in such wonderful and powerful ways. Joy that I ever had such a friendship, and sorrow that it will be such a long time before we see each other again. Joy that the plaque brings a comfort, marks a milestone, signifies a wonderful life lived. Sorrow that comfort is needed, that milestones are being reached and that his wonderful live isn't still being lived.

So it is bittersweet. But it is beautiful. Just like he was.

Picture This.

If a picture is truly worth 1000 words - I should be able to write a novel about these ones - Enjoy the funny pictures I've taken in the various places I've been :)

Do these pants make my hips look big?

Ah yes, my little sister is so much like me.

It was a hard winter...

If you look closely, you will see that there are two people in this picture - and they are not being very appropriate. I was very stealthy in taking it.

Just another Hansen family portrait.

Why the heck is there a monkey in this picture? And what is a chute fall?

The thing that is weird about this is that when there was a moose in the road, the lights were blinking. How does that even happen? Did the moose push a button?

Please slow down cats. You're moving so fast....I just want to pet you....

I tricked you! You've been caught and now you are mine!

Is that dog wearing a helmet?

I've never met a bland Italian.

I don't know what this means, but here it is.

Yes, Matt. Keep paddling.

If I Should Die Before I Wake.

Today has not been very productive.

I mean, not in the sense of getting any studying or unit planning done. I got a lot of cleaning done, and I painted for 2 hours. I dyed my hair.

I think I have a mental block because I have a few doctors appointments this week - one (tomorrow) at which I will be put under for a little while.

But I keep thinking what if I'm that person who has a complication? Do I want to spend the last hours of my life unit planning? I think not.

In the .0001% chance that I decide to hit up Jamie and the Heavenly Fiesta in the sky, I'd like to have had enjoyed my life the day of, and the day before.

Like I said. This way of thinking is not exactly conducive to academic productivity. Plus, I'm just being a little morbid. But what's life (or death) without a good chuckle?

Can't Take My Eyes Off of You.

Don Quixote didn't have a bad plan, did he?

He lived in his books. His books came alive. Life and dreams, they became the same.

Wouldn't that be something?

That's what I want, a lot of the time. I want my life and dreams to be the same. I want to blur the line. I don't want to know fact from fiction.

But that's not the way life is.

Not for me. Or you.

I'm glad it happened for someone, though.

A Poem You Can Read

The Man of La Mancha, an Ingenious Gentleman

a knight-errant

who is Don Quixote

who is Alonso Quixano

and who is also Don Quijote

and tío

and Master

and friend

and beloved character,

who reads all night

asks why not live a storybook life -

who is armor and wisdom

who tosses lances at windmills

who loves horses and Sancho and,

above all, chivalry -

his dreams are alive and

he is living his dreams - he

who tells princesses; prostitutes,

lords; thieves, prisoners; actors

and Sancho, and Rocinante

that he loves Dulcinea:

"..her beauty is superhuman, since all the impossible and fanciful attributes of beauty which the poets apply to their ladies are verified in her"

who sends her gifts

and love letters -

whose heart is broken

because he cannot even

make her

learn

his

name -

who cannot win her,

cannot make her love him back

doesn't galavant around anymore -

has put the golden helmet down,

retired Rocinante,

has locked away his books

and thrown away his soul

round eyes open to what everyone else sees

has decided

there are bigger adventures

somewhere grander

and wonders

who will love him, who?

Nuggets of Knowledge

Enjoy my snarky comments, accumulated over the years of being nothing but a student:

"The Faery Handbag" If Zofia is lying, then it's just an ugly bag & she's just a grandma with too much time on her hands. Jake is dead or ran away & who knows who Ratan is...the mailman? But if Zofia is telling the truth then it's probably not to carry the bag. Who knows - your wallet, your dad and your boyfriend could all disappear in there. If, you know, it's a real portal.

Personal Ad: Hello! My name is Diane and I am 21 years old. I am tall and I like tall men. I have short hair and so I don't like guys with longer hair than me. I am nice and I have good self-esteem. I like to exercise. I don't like guys who are conceited, stubborn or who have a lot of bad habits. (This is much funnier in spanish...which it was originally written in...)

From my Ed Psych class: Children are just little barbarians in need of a civilization.

Paranoia: being afraid of ghosts. the feeling that someone is watching/chasing/following you - like a stalker. that feeling you get when you wake up from a nightmare. the idea that you forgot to turn something in or off - "are they looking at/talking about me?" - dark windows with no blinds. knowing you've done something wrong, and not wanting anyone else to know (but assuming someone does) - not that i've done anything wrong, though. hypochondria.

Random note from a page: ...like they say, you need discomfort & disequilibrium to learn - so I'm probably learning a lot in this class. These kinds of activities give me anxiety.

Marginalia worth sharing:

Zombie - Finger Smash!

I love penguins

Cradle to Prison...

Is it good to be smart? sometimes.

You are so important. Never underestimate who you are.

Loveless marriage? --> Don't marry older women.

Dear future children: people suck. Dont let other people's stupidity bring you down.

The Billy Goat Gruff Opened His Mouth and Swallowed The Troll Whole.

Lonely words falling

from left

to right

D

O

W

N

the page

only to land atop each other

in a mess that will never make sense.

Let an Image be an Image.

All you need is love.

But love is the last thing you need.

Do you want to go out?

yes

maybe

no.

All you need is chocolate.

If you're selfless, you'll give me some.

Okay, love.

I Dream of Painting, and Then I Paint My Dream.

I was at an art museum this afternoon, with Matt.

We've been there a few times, and we never seem to have time to make it through the whole thing. We start at different parts, but always manage to end up next to the chain mail, armor and swords before we leave.

Anyway - that isn't really what I want to write about.

My biggest issue with art museums is that it seems like everyone wants to run through them. I start looking at this really beautiful Monet painting of a footbridge. Oil on canvas. Truly beautiful. I take a step back, just to look at it from another angle, and I realize everyone I entered the room with has disappeared. They have moved on to another exhibit, and I've been looking at Monet's bridge for 5 minutes.

But how can you not? How can you not stand in front of this painting, or Picasso's "Woman in an Armchair" illustrating the absolute devastation of his own deteriorating marriage ...or Salvador Dali's lobster phone ...or that weird piece in the corner that's mostly comprised of geometric shapes - how can you not stand in front of them for minutes, hours even, and let them take you in - or you them?

I mean, you don't pick up a book and flip quickly the pages and claim to have read it.

These paintings, this art - it is proof that these people exist(ed). Hours of their life hanging on a wall just for me. Their intimate thoughts. Their light-bulb moments. Their heartbreaks and triumphs. They are hanging on a wall for me, you - us.

So I just don't understand. I don't understand how people just breeze through, glimpsing here and there. Pausing for a minute to look at the very tiny details of a portrait, or some other more complex piece, not reading the name of the painting. Is it oil? Acrylic? Something else? What does it look like if you stand 5 feet away? 10 feet?

Maybe I feel this way because I paint, too. Maybe that's why I want to stare for hours at the strange piece of abstract art that's title says one thing, but its colors say another. I want to know what the artist saw. I want to see it. Feel it, even. I want to turn to my left or right and make eye contact with the person next to me and come to a silent understanding. Or experience being absolutely baffled together.

And if Bacon's "Study for Portrait VI" scares or concerns me, or if Couture's painting of an Italian street musician makes me cry for no apparent reason - should that be a solitary thing? Was it not meant to be experienced together? And how long do I let myself be consumed by these things? If it were a text...I'd give it 20, 40 minutes - an hour, a day. Maybe a few days.

Do I stay when I am left alone with Monti's Veiled Lady? Or should I turn and run, like everyone else, to the next piece of art - not allowing myself to feel it? Just skimming the back page for the details, and moving forward?

A Baby Bat, Bat, Bat.

When I was a kid, I loved to read.

Who am I kidding? I still love to read.

Anyway, when I was a kid...I loved to read. I loved As Long As I Love You and The Secret Three and Big Sarah's Little Boots and Stella Luna. I loved a lot of books, but I think I can clearly point to Stella Luna as the book that piqued my interest about the world. I remember asking questions about the world (maybe not earth shattering questions, but definitely big questions for a 5 year old): Would a bird really raise a baby bat as it's own? Is it okay to be different? Why do bats love fruit so much?

So I embarked on a journey to answer all my questions, born of literature! Eventually, I found the answers...

I guess now is a good time to tell you that Stella Luna also instilled within me a deep love for bats. Maybe it was because I was so happy that this bat found acceptance or something. Maybe I just really thought all bats were misunderstood (actually, I do feel this way...). I researched bats constantly. Big bats. Small bats. Fruit bats. Vampire bats. The benefits of adding bat guano to your garden. What to do with an injured bat.

I loved looking at bats at the zoo. Or watching them fly over-head at night.

So, you can imagine exactly how thrilled I was when I found one trapped in my hallway the other day. He landed on a little ledge and peeked at me, pretty much telling me he needed me. You don't understand how excited I was! I dropped my trash bags and I said (out loud) "I am in a hallway with a bat. I will save you, bat!"

So I ran upstairs, got a stool and a bowl and a cloth and ran back down to save my precious bat friend. He was such a good sport, like he knew I was going to make things all better. He just let me put him in the bowl (and then he started baring all his teeth and making noises...until he found the orange I left him as a treat). I took him upstairs and for a good 5 minutes all I could do is say "I have a bat. In a bowl. I have a bat in my possession, in a bowl. Right now, I am interacting with a bat."

He and I shared an hours worth of adventures, and then I took him to the wildlife rehab center where they will take care of him until spring, when he can be released again.

But in my hour with my bat I wondered - how had he gotten into my hallway? Was he raised by birds? How did that bat know I wanted to meet him so badly?!

I thought for a while about how my crazy love for this little bat had all been born in one afternoon, curled up with Stella Luna on my lap. I hadn't ever truly thought about the influence books can have on people until my interaction with Hector (my bat). How different might things have been if I'd never read that little book? If I'd never learned to love bats through reading?

It may seem ridiculous but reading Stella Luna as a child literally changed my life! It really makes me wonder how the other texts I encounter are constantly changing the way I interact with the world (is this transaction theory?)

...and it's a beautiful, amazing and terrifying thing.

O Useful Element and Clear!

Water has always intrigued me.

When I was young, I used to stare straight into my glass (or fish tank, or bath water) and marvel at the fact that I was looking at something that was almost invisible. I could see it, feel it, taste it. I was amazed - like I was in the presence of something that, at any moment, could instantly and completely conceal itself from me forever.

I loved water so much that sometimes I would just stand at the water fountain and let it run over my lips. I didn't want to drink it. I just wanted to feel it. I took long showers on purpose. I drank from the hose in the back yard. I got up in the middle of the night to drink water from the bathroom sink because a still glass of room-temperature water just wasn't exciting enough for me. I jumped in fountains. I stood outside when it rained. When condensation formed on the side of a glass, I crouched down and stared at it - in awe of the fact that my near-invisible object of fascination could do things - like run down the side of a glass without any help.

I thought I'd grown out of my fascination with water - you know, after learning about chemical compounds and evaporation and all that stuff. But, today, as I bent down to get a drink of water from a water fountain...I let myself linger just long enough that I was no longer drinking and was just letting the water run over my lips.

As I was walking away, I started thinking about all the poems and songs I knew about water - and how lucky I am to have clean water, and how I hate drinking water but love the sound it makes when it sloshes around in my water bottle, and the way the rain sounds when it hits my window...and the little streaks it leaves. And how the high-pressure mode in the car wash makes me really happy because I like the way the water sounds when it hits my almost invisible windows.

Maybe I never really grew out of my strange fascination for the liquid I love to stare at but hate to drink. Maybe the relationship just got complex enough that I forgot how much I loved the simple things.

Chapstick, Chapped Lips and Things Like Chemistry.

I have been a student for 18 years.

This means 18 years of sharpening pencils, trading erasers, passing notes, lunch hour, markers, tape, glue, construction paper, posters, book reports and papers. For 18 years I have walked school hallways, high fived friends, loaded up my binders with pictures and poetry. In 18 years, I have written a novel's length worth of witty comments in the margins of my books. I have signed my name as

Nikki W

Nikki C

Nikki A

Nikki M

Nikki P

Nikki I

Nikki S

Nikki J

and of course, as Nikki Hansen, all on the left hand side of my notebooks, near the coil that holds the paper together. In 18 years I have collected numerous, hilarious drawings of people that I know or knew. Phone numbers. Snide comments. Lightbulb moments. Impromptu poems. 18 years of who I am, how I've grown lives in writing around the edges of my notes.

Oh yes. Notes. For 18 years I have taken notes. The alphabet, times tables, sentence diagrams, mice and men, geometric shapes, musical theory and happy daggers. For 18 years I have had a notebook as a steady companion, with little pockets to hide secrets and house schoolwork in. For 18 years, I have had a fairly predictable routine: waking up, packing my back pack, going to school, doing homework.

I cannot remember life as anything but a student. Sitting in desks, staring at chalk boards...then white boards...overheads, then projectors. A place to put my lunch and hang my coat. My best friends sitting next to me, keeping me distracted from the schoolwork I love almost as much as I love them.

Naturally, the fact that in May I will formally leave the structure in which my whole life has taken place scares the hell out of me. Or maybe it scares hell into me. I'm not sure which.

Either way, I feel a little ridiculous. Every time I pick up my green four subject notebook, I get a little emotional. I know that it is the last notebook I will own as a student seeking some form of degree. I can see the bright light shining - telling me that, soon, the page will turn and there will be no more curled edges. No more notes to take. No more "I like your pen you" or hearts being drawn, no more swirls or butterflies or "hi's" - no more phone numbers being scrawled across the top of the pages, no more drawings of teachers, cats, bff's holding hands. No more pictures of farmer dan, who has appeared on the pages of my notebook for a steady 10 years. No more snarky remarks written to the person next to me, and no more critiquing the things I like or dislike about the ways my teachers teach.

There will be no more teachers.

I will be the teacher.

I will watch the girls and boys scribble on their notebooks - songs and notes and awful pictures of me and everyone else they know. Poems and signatures of names they hope they never have to change, or someday get to have. I will watch them doodle, and I will let it happen, knowing that they only get to be students for so long and that life is being written on those pages.

Alternative Energy

I have always been made of coal.

I just pressed hard enough

to make my edges shine bright enough

to distract his eyes

and her eyes

from what is underneath

the thin, shiny exterior.

It makes them forget that

underneath

all I am is a material that burns

in uncontrollable, underground fires.

Burning for decades.

Pumped Up Kicks

When I was 14, I asked my parents to buy me 3 pairs of Converse for Christmas - and I told them they'd never have to buy me street shoes again (until college).

I was right.

My chucks took me everywhere. All over the streets of Los Angeles. My chucks took me from class to class to class. They took me to marching band practice and to the baskin robbins down the road. My chucks were there when I had my first ham sandwich with mayonnaise on it. My chucks took me to my first kiss. My chucks took me across the picket line in front of Vons to buy snacks. My chucks took me to the tide pools.

My chucks took me to clubs, arcades and temples in Japan. They took me to sushi-go-round, Yoshinoya, the Odakyu Sagamihara eki. My chucks took me to my first day of high school back in Japan. They took me to my junior and senior prom. They took me to Tokyo Tower. They took me to a number of concerts and soccer games and youth camps. My darling converse took me to my first job, and to my first year of college.

I still have a functioning pair left, and I'm about to graduate with my M(asters of) Ed(ucation).

I bought (actually, Danica bought them) a new pair last summer. I'm sure they will take me everywhere. Where will yours take you?

The Catcher in the Rye

If I had tried to read Catcher in the Rye as an adolescent, I would have been outrageously frustrated. Holden (the narrator) is all over the place. Every thought in his head spills onto the page. He says a lot of swear words. He's a little crazy - seriously. He's actually a little crazy. He is just so intense that he's a little exhausting.

I had to take a few breaks.

That being said, I'm tremendously happy I read this novel as an adult. I found Holden endearing, heart breaking, hilarious, frustrating, confusing, complex. I found him incredibly fascinating, and I am still wondering why he would choose to be a catcher in the rye above all things? I guess this was an effective novel, since I'm still thinking about it....

Anyway, that phrase "catcher in the rye" is from a Robert Burns poem. I looked it up. It's a masterpiece, and I feel like reading it has rounded out Holden for me in a way I wouldn't have understood without the poem:

O Jenny is all wet, poor body,
Jenny is seldom dry:
She draggled all her petticoats,
Coming through the rye!

Coming through the rye, poor body,
Coming through the rye,
She draggled all her petticoats,
Coming through the rye!

Should a body meet a body
Coming through the rye,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?

Should a body meet a body
Coming through the glen,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need the world know?

Should a body meet a body
Coming through the grain,
Should a body kiss a body,
The thing is a body's own.

Also, this song is stellar, so click here.

There is no "I" in Me and Myself.

I woke up feeling very much like myself this morning.

That could come off sounding a little strange, because - hey, don't we all wake up feeling like who we are? Because, we'll we are who we are?

Maybe. Sure.

But, today, I woke up feeling very much like who I am this morning. I still woke up to the tremendous ball and chain that is my health, but I also don't feel like I'm lost somewhere in this sea of 'what is the illness and what is me'? It's easy for me to drown in myself: my external self needs a lot more maintenance than my internal self.

Last night, I spent a lot of time reading about writing which, in turn, caused me to spend a lot of time thinking about who I am as a reader, writer and observer of the world. I was relieved when I read about how sometimes we get the crazies when we write, and everything just kind of falls onto the paper/word processer with no real restraints - because it shouldn't happen that way. For some reason, this rang true to my little soul.

Writing. Writing. Writing.
I love doing it. So why don't I always do it? I think about it, but I never do it. Sometimes, I just want to write down snippets from the conversations of the people around me, or a funny idea, or a word a teacher said wrong. I find myself hooked on little, seemingly meaningless nothings and I want to write them down but always never do for the sake of normalcy. But writing is cathartic. It's healing. It should go uninterrupted but never does. Writing takes you out of yourself, but also deeper into yourself. It should just be allowed to happen.

I mean. what do we do when we really, truly care for someone? We write for them: letters, poems, quick little notes. It's like we take tiny pieces of our soul and draw them with words on paper for them to keep and look at. Here. Here I am. And we cherish those things. Haven't you ever found yourself going through all your old notes (I'm talking about the ones you wrote and received in the middle/high school years), wanting to toss them but feeling like somehow you're committing an awful crime? It's like you're looking at the essence of who these people were and are, evidence that they existed in that moment, words that were selected specifically for you.

Writing is powerful. It's humbling.

So, with the security of knowing that I can deconstruct and reconstruct and rearrange and totally recreate my world through writing, I woke up feeling much more like myself this morning, knowing I am never lost inside myself unless I choose to be.

Tag, You're It.

I have a problem with blog writing which is: I always want to write about something deep. Something profound. I want to make a challenge to the world. I want to explore a topic until I've reached all its corners and divulged all its secrets.

So, the problem? Public blogs make that difficult. How can I provide a true, completely and totally heartfelt account of something without the fear of judgement on a blog so public? How can I broach any topic without people feeling as though it is somehow directed at them, or an attack of their character, beliefs, eating habits, exercise regimens, preferred types of cheeses?

I mean, let me be frank: I understand that I'm not so deep as to be able to write an earth shaking blog post every day, but I feel like I keep things 'shallow' because I'm afraid of letting everyone know what's really beneath this surface...this bubbly exterior that's truly boiling underneath.

A dear friend of mine recently asked me what my purpose of creating a blog was, and in talking to him I recognized that I'd abandoned the true purpose of this blog. Not that it's not fun to visit and write silly things in for people to read and all....I'm just a little sad that I've lost yet another 'outlet' to the public by way of full disclosure.

I truly believe that some things should remain anonymous (note that I said 'anonymous' and not 'private'). So, maybe I should take a hint from a flicker of a friend of mine and create a new place to write - a place without my name stuck to it. A place where I can have those free-flowing thoughts, in a space where I can share them, without fear of my character being judged for them.

So....
I know where I'll be.

All you have to do is find me.

If At First You Don't Succeed, Cry About It. Then Try Again.

It's funny (not really) how life seems to slap you in the face.

You open up to the world, tell everyone "Hey! I'm afraid! I'm insecure about this thing!" and what does the world do? It kicks you when you're down.

I recently blogged about how I so badly want people to view me as their intellectual equals. Well, I guess that was the wrong thing to say because....today I got my MTLE Content Area Exam scores. I passed part one.

I failed part two.

Let it be known that I am mortified. Absolutely horrified. I am devastatingly embarrassed.

Sure, tests may not in any way be an accurate measure of someone's knowledge, but that doesn't matter a whole lot because, at the end of the day, the tests are still what matter. They count. Those tests decide what and who I get to be. And, right now, I get to be the one who had to take it x amount of times. I'm the one who, despite having a degree in the field, can't pull it together enough to get the minimum score. So yeah - tests may suck, but I am still the one left feeling like a complete idiot because I couldn't choose the right.freaking.answer.

So, I guess this is just life's way of telling me I am truly intellectually inferior. And, if not intellectually inferior, I'm still the world's worst test taker.

If I'm still allowed to become a teacher someday, I am going to make sure to do this to make sure my students never, ever fail a test:

I Pray You, Remember The Porter.

Confession: I was a really awkward adolescent.

I am not entirely sure what happened to me in my early adolescence, but I somehow decided to become "that girl" who wore her teenage brother's clothes, listened to awful music and identified more easily with young adolescent males than females. When I did finally decide that I wanted people to look at me and think "girl" .... I floundered. I went from looking like a girl dressed in boy's clothes to looking like a girl who liked girls.

As you can imagine, this did wonders on my self esteem (but, hey, adolescence does a number on everyone's self esteem). To cope, I became the "funny" friend - the cool girl friend who hung out with the guys "cuz she's like one of the guys." I managed to trade in my true thoughts in feelings for a mask of humor. It was comfortable, but had unforeseen side-effects - some of them long lasting....one of which I'd like to complain about right now: I don't think anyone takes me seriously.

Humor is great for a lot of things. It makes people like you, it makes you seem kind of witty, it's useful when you're in a large group. Humor can be used to deflect off-putting questions, or feelings you just don't want to deal with. Humor can save you from all sorts of little anxieties - which is why I relied/rely on it so heavily. It has some serious benefits.

But the price for all those benefits is that I feel like I'm a walking joke (not all the time, let's not be melodramatic...). I occasionally feel that, when I have a serious thought on something, it gets brushed off because I'm just silly. Or, when my incredibly intelligent friends begin conversing about authors, etc, I assume (yes, that evil word) that they expect that I won't know any of the books or authors they are talking about because, well, perhaps I just don't operate on the same level of intelligence as they do (...I know...what a nerdy thing to be insecure about). *disclaimer: I am fully aware that my insecurities do not accurately portray the feelings of others.

So, it leads me to this point where I feel like I want to jump out and say to everyone I know, "Hey! Surprise! I'm really super smart!" I may be awkward and uncomfortable and, sure, somewhat average in many respects - but I'm an intelligent human being! I have a large compilation of complex and well written essays on abstract or 'dry' topics that prove it. Accept me!

For some reason, I feel like this is my biggest social hurdle. I desperately want people to see that I am smart. I want them to accept me into their circle of intelligence, but I fear that my *ahem* ambivalent nature deters from the fact that I am an intellectual equal and therefore causes people to think that I am somehow simple minded. And, while I could be worrying about whether or not people see me as beautiful or talented or whatever other female insecurities are out there, this is the one that affects me most deeply.

In short, I really want people to like me for what I can truly bring to a group or a friendship - and not just the comic relief. If people would give me the chance, they'd see I'm deeper than the drunken porter or Juliet's nursemaid.

I can be a complex character in the novel of life, too.