November 7: Happy Moments, Annual Evaluation, Observation

Billy stayed in the wagon when it reached the slaughterhouse, sunning himself.  The others were looking for souvenirs.  Later on in life, the Tralfamadorians would advise Billy to concentrate on the happy moments of his life, and to ignore the unhappy ones--to stare only at pretty things as eternity failed to go by.  If this sort of selectivity had been possible for Billy, he might have chosen as his happiest moment his sundrenched snooze in the back of the wagon. 

It's a good concept--focusing only on the happy moments of your life.  Nice advice from the Tralfamadorians.  It would help me get through the rest of this week, or at least tomorrow night. 

What is happening tomorrow night, you ask?  Well, it is time for my annual evaluation at the university.  That means a full-time faculty member sits in my classroom, watches the circus I put on for my students, and then leaves with his notes on my abilities (or lack of abilities) to teach.  It's a nerve racking experience, every year.

Now, I have never really received a bad evaluation, and the gentleman who is coming tomorrow night is very friendly and pleasant.  He wants to go out for beers with me to talk about writing Catholic poetry.  That doesn't help me get through the actual Big Brother experience of being observed. 

If you haven't noticed before--if you are new to this blog--I tend to be a little neurotic about things like this.  I will over plan, create a startling lesson this evening, so that I can feel calm and at ease tomorrow night.  I will have PowerPoint, maybe a video.  I might read poetry or stand on my head.  If it were the right kind of class, I would do a pole dance, too.  All for the hour or so of that observation.

And then tomorrow night, I will come home and have a very strong special hot chocolate.

In the mean time, Saint Marty is going to think of the happy moments of his life, as the Tralfamadorians advise.  Pizza.  Thanksgiving turkey.  Filet mignon.  Buttered movie popcorn.  A nap . . .

November 6: Old Thurmer, Observation, Prep

"Even the couple of nice teachers on the faculty, they were phonies, too," I said.  "There was this one old guy, Mr. Spencer.  His wife was always giving you hot chocolate and all that stuff, and there were really pretty nice.  But you should've seen him when the headmaster, old Thurmer, came in the history class and sat down in the back of the room.  He was always coming in and sitting down in the back of the room for about a half an hour.  He was supposed to be incognito or something.  After a while, he'd be sitting back there and then he'd start interrupting what old Spencer was saying to crack a lot of corny jokes.  Old Spencer'd practically kill himself chuckling and smiling and all, like Old Thurmer was a goddam prince or something."

Yes, Mr. Spencer, Holden's history teacher, has to be observed by Old Thurmer, Pencey Prep's headmaster.  Spencer has to pretend he's not nervous or annoyed.  Thurmer is his boss.  He could stand up in front of the classroom and attempt to fart Handel's Messiah, and Spencer would have to give him a standing ovation.

I'm going to be observed tomorrow in my classroom.  By a professor to whom I've never met or spoken with.  The extent or our communication has been a couple of e-mails.  He told me not to be nervous, that it really wasn't a big deal.  Funny thing is, it feels like a big deal to me.

That's my worry this Wednesday.  Someone is coming into my classroom to assess my teaching.  I've done as much as I can to prep for tomorrow afternoon.  I've got two lesson plans.  I've got backups to those two lesson plans.  I've got backups to the backups.  My whole goal is to not look like an idiot.  That's it.  I don't expect to be Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society.  I don't expect to be anything but . . .  mediocre to competent.

Saint Marty can live with mediocre.  He'd be thrilled with competent.

Hopefully, I'll be at my mediocre best tomorrow

November 5: Concern for Your Future, Observation, Prayer for Strength

"Do you feel absolutely no concern for your future, boy?"

Holden's teacher, Old Spencer, poses this question to Holden at the beginning of Catcher.  Spencer's trying to "put some sense" into  Holden's head.  After all, Pencey Prep is the latest in a line of schools Holden has flunked out of.  The future is not in the forefront of Holden's priorities, to say the least.

I am the exact opposite of Holden.  The future is constantly in my thoughts.  And that is just as unhealthy as not giving a crap about the future.  It causes sleepless nights.  Anxious days.  Distraction.  Unhappiness.  Plagues of frogs.  You get the idea.

My current cause for anxiety is a classroom observation.  As part of my yearly evaluation at the university, I must be observed by a full-time faculty member.  My number is up this Thursday.  I will have a guest in the back of my classroom, taking notes, watching my every move, waiting for me to make mistakes.

OK, I'm exaggerating.  The guy is simply there to do a job.  He told me not to get worried or stressed.  However, being the kind of person I am (Type AAA), I can't really follow his advice.  I have to prepare a lesson plan that makes me look good.  Or at least intelligent.  At the very least, I want to look like I know what I'm doing.

That's my goal.  That's my prayer.

Dear God,

Sometimes I think of You as the guy in the back of my classroom, taking notes on my screwed-up life.  That's not a very comforting image, and it's probably not very accurate, to boot.  Unfortunately, I grew up eating helpings of guilt every day.  I can't help myself.

In the next couple of days, could You please help me out?  I need some strength and courage to make it through my class observation on Thursday.  I'm a good teacher.  I know that.  I shouldn't be worried.  I know that, too.  But, again, I can't help myself.  I'm hardwired for worry, stress.  I can't help myself.

So, strength.  Give me strength.  And confidence.  I could use some of that, too.  Strength and confidence.  You did it for Moses.

Your loving child,

Saint Marty

Chapter One:  How to Not Shit Yourself