Writer in Real Time: Reflecting on the Beginning of the Year

It is 5:00 AM and I have been up since a quarter to 3:00, making my mother’s amazing caramel corn recipe as my contribution to Fall Fest (Mill A School on Saturday, October 20, 2018 at 6:00 PM). This is not my first early morning this week. In fact, there have been a lot of early mornings and late nights lately, and they are not all due to an eighteen-month-old with the worst case of FOMO you have ever seen.

It is nearly three weeks since Simchat Torah, and I have spent that time reacquainting myself with my students and welcoming myself back to daily life. The Chaggim (Jewish holidays) came fast and furious this year, a mere two weeks after school was back in session. Two days out for Rosh Hashanah, one for Yom Kippur, another two for Succot, and then Shmini Atzeret and Simchat Torah.

The Chaggim were wonderful—my daughter took her first steps on Rosh Hashanah. We spent time with our friends from synagogue. And, of course, we ate a lot of food. This was the first year my daughter was able to participate—last year she wasn’t even sitting up or eating solid food. This year she danced on Simchat Torah, I threw her up in the air, and carried her on my shoulders. She ate her first Laffy Taffy—okay, half a Laffy Taffy—we are pretty restrictive with the sugar.

But having to take seven days off from work when the world keeps whirling around me is always a challenge. Imagine not automatically having Christmas or Thanksgiving off, no one around you in tune with all the planning, shopping, and cooking you are doing, and that this happened at an especially critical time in your work cycle. Now put Thanksgiving and Christmas a week apart, make them both two days long, add in a fast day and you hosting two more days of New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day and that’s kind of what it’s like. Sort of. But with more cooking and more time in church.

I am very grateful for the Chaggim. They give me a chance to take a good look at my relationship with G-d and with other people, and also give me a chance to do tshuva, and to celebrate. Focusing on the health of my soul and spiritual self once a year means that I can make serious change. It also eliminates a lot of unproductive guilt. The time spent with family and friends is literally irreplaceable. Certainly, the Chaggim are a great gift.

This year has been a greater adventure than usual, as I am taking classes to earn my teaching certificate. For the first time in at least ten years, I pulled an all-nighter in order to get a paper turned in on time. I am happy to report the essay was given an A+, but staying up after Shabbat and into erev Succot and then being functional for the first night was an experience I would prefer not to have to repeat any time soon.

But the overwhelming experience of this year’s Chaggim was not one of feeling other or stressed or even squeezed for time. No, it was one of gratitude. Good friends across the country, loving family, tight-knit community, fabulous coworkers, lovely students, mobility, and, of course, my husband and daughter. There were many years of Chaggim when I stood before G-d and wondered if I would be given my own family, and knew the desire for one was aching between myself and G-d. Now, seeing everything that I have been blessed with is like looking out at the awe-inspiring Pacific Northwest mountains. There is no effective way of describing it, but you want to share the feeling, you want everyone to know the peace and joy.

Writer OOO: A Look Back from Vacation Mode

It has been a beautiful summer with some brutal heat on the East coast. We have enjoyed visiting with family and friends, as well as spending time relaxing, which for me means as much reading and writing as I can fit in. As I prepare to begin another school year, I am reflecting, again, on the lessons that I learned during the past school year. Some things I already knew, but it was good to have them reinforced and articulated. Others were stumbling blocks that I had to acknowledge and will lead to changes during this coming school year. Here are my top five.

1. All of this will be on the test. Yes, I prefer to motivate my students and get them to do things for the sake of learning alone, but I have not yet managed to convince all of my students that writing and literature deserve to take over their lives and monopolize every moment when their eyes are open and to possess every dreaming moment, as well. So, since I need them to do their reading, take notes and pay attention during lecture, and actually memorize vocabulary and key terms, I will have to give tests. A bummer, but incentivizing their work more directly by giving them points for what they have learned should encourage them to study. 
2. It’s all in the syllabus. Starting out with clear expectations and sticking strictly to these expectations at the beginning of the year means that as the students reach these expectations, some loosening can happen as the year goes on. Especially important regarding late work policies—keep to deadlines at first, and students will follow them. Allow them to turn things in late at the beginning of the semester, and they will never turn things in on time. 
3. Mine is not the only voice. Listening to the students and getting to know what motivates them and what their concerns are helps to build the kind of rapport that supports mutual trust. It also means that I can begin to meet the students at their own levels and challenge them, especially by creating assignments that will interest them, speak to their strengths, and push at the areas where they could stand to grow. Of course, it does not hurt to have an idea about what they like and change some of the readings to match these interests. 
4. Never let them see you sweat. This one was given to me by a coworker, but it speaks to the ability to be flexible, remain at the front of the tour group, and accept when the unexpected happens. Since it was the first year for our school, there were a lot of surprises. Getting frustrated would not have been helpful, complaining would have been disastrous, and allowing the students to see either frustration or hear complaints would have been deadly. They did not need to know that the textbooks did not arrive on time or that the baby kept me up all night so that my zombie brain was guiding the lecture. They just needed me to be present and keep the tour going. Okay. I can do that. 
5. Ever tried. Every failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. When innovation is championed, trying new things is encouraged, logic tells us that some teaching experiments will be more successful than others. I tried some ideas out that I thought would be pretty brilliant this year. Some worked well with my students. Others were epic fails. Some could be saved with some tweaking. Some should never be spoken of again. Being honest about which worked and which did not, as well as why the successful ones worked and the fails failed means that I can learn, make changes, and hopefully have even better classes this year. 

I am excited about getting started with my students. We will have some new students, many returning, and lots of excitement ahead of us. Let the adventures begin!

Wanted: Writers of the 21st Century

“Why is everything we read so old?” This was the question a friend’s teenage son posed to me over a Passover lunch. Good question. Of the longer works we are reading in my classes, the newest is Raisin in the Sun, which was first performed in 1959. Nearly everything else is from the Modern period or earlier. The school where I teach has “innovative” in the name--so how is it that I am teaching the same texts that I read in high school?

There are several reasons that high school classrooms focus on literature fifty years or older, and some of the reasons are better than others. The simplest answer is that we are teaching what has already been taught for years: novels which have proven their importance and literary worth and have effectively established their places in the literary canon. To teach a new novel requires a teacher to search through contemporary literature, reading widely and looking for books that are both appropriate for high school and appealing to high schoolers. And then there is a good chance that the book, even if it is a best seller and a darling of critics today, might no longer be discussed or even remain in print in ten or twenty years. We know the classics are good and have staying power. They have been placed in a literary movement and have been given context to what was written before and what is being published now. These novels have already been approved by the school board and risk little or no controversy. They are safe choices.

Not unreasonably, English teachers do not always want to do the extra work it would take to find a new gem. There is an excellent chance that their own literary education left off in 1950. Most college-level literature courses do not cover contemporary literature, and with the myriad demands of teaching, there is little time left for family, let alone leisure reading.

A better reason, however, has to do with the expectations for material to be covered in high school. Going into college, students are expected to have a basic understanding of the literary history of both the United States and Britain, as well as the literary movements and some of the major works and players. For example, it is reasonable to expect that a high school graduate has read Beowulf, Pride and Prejudice, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, and The Grapes of Wrath. College literature courses will build on this knowledge, and if they do include one of the common reads, such as Great Expectations, the discussion supposes students will approach the with the knowledge of the plot and some of the central ideas already mastered.

Besides preparing students for higher learning, reading older books which are already established as canon means that students across the country are reading the same novels as their parents and possibly their grandparents. They are building a connection to their generation as well as to previous and future readers through the shared experience of studying literary works. Think of the conversations you have had about how much you loved The Great Gatsby or loathed Wuthering Heights. Or when you discuss how you identified with Holden in The Catcher in the Rye or Esther in The Bell Jar. Perhaps your roommate was just as mystified with Lord of the Flies. Sure, we all studied algebra and World War II, and we may have even loved these subjects, but they are not a lived experience in the same way that Romeo and Juliet is. They become a shared emotional reference in a similar way to the historical events that we live through. I have listened to many stories about where people were when they learned that JFK was assassinated and have many times shared the story of my experience of September Eleventh. But once history becomes history and not life, it is no longer a shared experience. I have the same emotional connection to JFK’s assassination as I do to his inauguration, which is only an interest in how it affected the country and not me, personally.

The problem with only reading from the literary canon is not that the works can be dry and challenging and therefore feel old, because a good teacher, a creative and passionate teacher can help you appreciate and find relevance in Oedipus. No, the issue with the canon is that it has all the diversity of a pack of strawberry Starbursts—they might be delicious, but you still feel that you are missing out on all the other flavors. To put it bluntly: the canon tends to be dead, white, and male. The works may be genius, but in excluding everyone else, there is a lot of the American experience (and many geniuses) which is excluded. Many times, inclusion means reading contemporary literature. But when we read something new, it feels as though we are pushing something out. There is only so much time in a school year and only so many books which can be assigned. How, then, is it possible to work in the contemporary?

One way is by teaching other experiences in poetry, short stories, and essays; all of which have an important place in literature classes but do not require the same amount of time for class discussion as full-length books. It can also be more manageable to find contemporary work in these genres—again, because they are of more manageable length. There are several anthologies every year that sift through the literary magazines for the best, such as the Best American series and The Pushcart Prize anthology. There is also less pressure to choose something that will be known forever and great variety in most of the anthologies.

We are not going to quit reading Pride and Prejudice in every high school across America any time soon, even though Austen is already past 200 and gets older every year. But we can include a discussion of a poem by up and coming Oliver Baez Bendorf and give our classes exposure to another voice and perhaps even validate their own experience. It is not a perfect fix, but it is a plausible start.

Mother's Day? None for Me, Thanks.

Mother’s Day is not for me. Yes, I am a mother, and this will be my second Mother’s Day, the first happening barely a month after the birth of my daughter. So why do I say that Mother’s Day is not my holiday? I consider Mother’s Day to be for women who have sacrificed, who have given up gym time to watch band concerts, who have stayed up beside a child’s hospital bed, who raised their grandchildren, or go it without a partner. But we have not yet been through any of the hard stuff. With my daughter still in diapers and not quite walking, she has caused little trouble. Other mothers have given up time, peace, and other resources in the interest of their families. Mothers should invest in self-care, of course, but there is still so much they give up in order to care for their families. I am not about to claim that parenthood has been easy for us, but we have had so much help from family, friends, community, and coworkers that we have bravely gotten through the sleep deprivation, extreme schedule change, and stress of keeping a helpless infant alive with little incident. Yes, high five, we made it through the first year, sanity relatively intact.

But my sentiment comes not just from my relative lack of sacrifice, but also from the depths of gratitude I have for having a child. I married late, after the magical age of thirty-five, when a woman’s fertility is supposed to greatly decrease. I watched friends as young as myself struggle with fertility, and witnessed the emotional and physical stress they experienced. There is a history of fertility challenges in my family, so I had reason to think we might not have the easiest time. I spent the beginning of our marriage waiting anxiously every month for my period not to come. And every month, when it came, I felt defeated.

On my commute to work, I began watching people with their children. They pushed strollers while watching their phones or dragged their kids across the street, hollering at them for not moving fast enough. I wondered how they could take their kids for granted. Children, I surmised, must have come easily to them, perhaps so easily that they did not understand the blessings they had. Not thoughts I felt good about and I realized that it was specious thinking—I knew as well as anyone else that kids can be difficult and not every moment of parenthood is filled with blissful adoration. My harsh judgments came from a place of sour grapes, a painful place of intense desire.

Similarly, when I attended baby namings and brit milot, my happiness for my friends was tempered by my fear that I would not be able to raise a family of my own. We went to see a fertility doctor, and the news was not good. Results showed that my fears were correct—I was not very fertile. With intervention, the doctor said, we might be able to have children.

One Shabbat afternoon about a month after receiving the various test results, we were at a friend’s home, where they were having a kiddush to welcome a grandson. During my friend’s grateful speech, I had to slink into the bathroom because I could not stop myself from crying. The test results had fed my growing despair. The thing that my body had biologically been made to do, it could not do.

Two weeks later, we found out we were pregnant.

We were blessed not to have to begin fertility treatments and not to have to wait years—in fact, by our first anniversary, we were already expecting. I felt terrible about my selfish thoughts and promised myself that I would be sensitive to the feelings of others while remaining grateful for the gift we had been given. I was so grateful that it showed on my face. During my third trimester, when I was encumbered by more than forty extra pounds, I still took the stairs every day and hit the gym before work. When I showed up to work in the morning, my coworker marveled at my smile. She did not understand how I could be so uncomfortable and still be happy. But what she did not know was that according to the data the doctor collected, I should not be pregnant. Statistically, the odds were against me. And soon I was to meet my baby. I was smiling because I did not feel any discomfort, just joy and excitement.

Mother’s Day, with its endless efforts to fill the coffers of the florists, chocolatiers, and, of course, the greeting card companies, can feel omnipresent. I remember the last Mother’s Day before I was a mother. Walking through the store during preparation for the greeting card holiday, it was painful to see all of the cards and chocolates and stuffed animals. I feel for my friends who are childless and wish not to be.

Regardless of whether you have children or not, whether you want to have children or not, I wish you a day of comfort and contentment. I hope that you have people you love to be with. I will spend the day with my beloved family. Maybe next year, when my daughter is causing holy terror running around and speaking intelligibly, I will demand a Mother’s Day full of presents and no domestic work. But for this year, I am good.

Writer in Stasis: Flight Risk

Our actions affect everyone in our pond.

On December 29, 2017; minutes before Shabbat, I fell and broke my kneecap. I was on winter break with my husband and eight-month-old, visiting friends and family in Philadelphia. We had plans to visit friends we had not seen since moving to Portland last August. My knee hurt, but I had no idea it was broken, and did not want to change our plans, so we walked to a friend’s house for dinner. During the meal my knee swelled and when we left, I was not sure I could walk back to where we were sleeping, but we made it. By then, I knew that there was something wrong, maybe a sprain, and I stayed in instead of going to Synagogue or out for lunch. However, when I went to an urgent care facility after Shabbat and the x-ray showed that the kneecap had a crack in it, I was still surprised. Hadn’t I walked over a mile to and from dinner? And besides--who breaks their kneecap? The physician’s assistant put my leg in an immobilizer, gave me crutches, and sent me back out into the world.

Because it was the end of the year, and a weekend, I was not able to see an orthopedist until January 2nd. In the meantime, hobbling on crutches and trying to care for a baby was quite a challenge. At my sister’s house, where we were staying for most of our visit, my family had already moved our things downstairs, and we were set up in the living room. My brothers, parents, sister, and her family all helped us. We joked about my exquisite grace. While it was a difficult few days, since I could not carry the baby or get anything for myself, compounded with not being able to take anything for the pain except ice and Tylenol, my family made sure I had everything I needed and helped with the baby. When I finally saw the orthopedist and he told me I did not need crutches, I was terribly relieved.

“Let’s get rid of this one-size-fits none immobilizer,” he said, and gave me a new brace. He said that I would be in the brace for at least six weeks. At least, that is what I heard. It turns out that I would be immobilized in the brace for six weeks, after which the orthopedist in Oregon would begin to increase the flexion so I could slowly begin to bend my knee again. At the time, six weeks sounded endless. If I had known I would be in the brace for ten weeks and six more weeks in physical therapy, I am not sure I could have been so civil.

The orthopedist also informed me that I would not be able to fly back to Portland for another two weeks, due to the risk of a blood clot. We were scheduled to fly back in three days, and school started back in six.

Not only would I not make it back before classes restarted, but I was not going to be able to drive the hour and a half commute to and from work. I emailed the principal to catch him up and to ask if there might be a way for me to teach remotely. It was the end of the semester, and I was concerned that a substitute would not be able to prepare the students for their final essay assignments.

I should not have worried--my principal, always understanding and kind, helped arrange for me to Skype with my classes until I was back. Two of my amazing coworkers also live in Portland, and they kindly organized a schedule to ferry me to and from work.

For the next two weeks, my husband and I had to tend to my recovery, my job, and the baby. While we were visiting, my husband’s grandmother died and my father had scheduled surgery. We were able to be there for our parents both emotionally and physically, which, given the current distance between where they live (my husband’s parents in southern New Jersey and my parents outside of Philadelphia) was quite a blessing.

Even as the experience was manageable, my injury helped me to have an understanding of others’ challenges. A good friend of mine, for example, has fibromyalgia. For her, pain is a daily reality. For me, with my grossly swollen knee, I knew that the pain was temporary. However, in the beginning, it was a constant pain. Sometimes it hurt less than others, but it did not go away. I found myself more agitated and less patient. In circumstances in which I would not have noted irritating behavior, I found my nerves jangling. And then there was the pain itself. It would sometimes engulf me, to the point where my vision was literally darkened and I felt weak. At such times, I would ask for an ice pack and sit quietly, trying to distract myself with my cell phone. I did not want to speak to anyone then, and I did not want to do anything or move at all. Really, if I could have paused my existence at those moments, that would have been ideal. It was not the worst pain I have ever experienced, but it was unrelenting for an extended period of time, and I was unable to take anything that would greatly lessen or remove the pain. I could see how having the prospect of pain as a part of daily life could make a person miserable, anxious, depressed, and irritable. I was very grateful that my life has been relatively pain free and for the most part, quite healthy.

The broken kneecap also limited my mobility. I could not walk as quickly or for long periods of time. I could not sit normally, as the brace prohibited my knee from bending, and so I had to sit in a position with my leg up at all times. Getting into a car was a challenge, as was getting in and out of buildings. Finding a place to sit was more difficult. This was most problematic when we could finally fly, but it also made each car ride excruciating. Our rental car just did not have enough space in the front, even with the seat pushed all the way back. I could not sit in the backseat, because the baby’s car seat was in the middle. So each ride, I shifted, moved my leg gingerly, and practiced the breathing techniques I had learned in hypnobirthing class.

Once I took the subway from Crown Heights to Manhattan with a friend who used an automated scooter to get around. She had an app on her phone to show which subway entrances had working elevators. The elevators on subways are often out of order, which was not something that I had ever thought about. In addition, not all subway platforms have a ramp into the car. Without the ramp, the gap between the platform and the car prevented her from entering the car. We went to two different subway entrances which were marked as having working elevators, but the elevators were actually out of order. Once we were underground, people did not move to let my friend through. I was impressed by her patience at not plowing through the crowd and running over toes or ramming heals. Even when we were in the door of the subway, people did not make room. I could not believe how inconvenient, how truly problematic it was for her to take public transportation.

My own temporary situation did not compare, but I now had to plan my movements and consider where and how I could sit once I arrived places. I had to watch how I moved my leg and plan getting up and sitting down. I had to figure out how I was going to open and close doors. Bathrooms, because my leg could not bend, became another issue. I knew that my situation was minor and temporary, unlike others who, again, found that planning how they moved and got from place to place was how they lived their lives.

It was not fun asking for help or for accommodations. Even from friends and family, I did not want to ask them to do things I could not do for myself. I worried that my requests would become annoying or overwhelming. My family and friends, of course, did not feel that way, but the reality of my situation was slowly coming into my understanding, and I was feeling the enormous limitations. I am stubborn. If I am told not to do something, I will try to do it anyway. But this time, there were many things I could not do, and I was also making an effort to listen, as I did not want to prolong or endanger my recovery.

Of course, my husband had the brunt of the responsibility. When the baby woke up hungry, he had to get her and bring her to me. He had to help me with things like bathroom and shower. My difficulties were his difficulties. As the old joke goes, our knee hurt.

When it was time to fly back, the attendants at the airport were extremely helpful. In addition to pushing my wheelchair, they also helped my husband with the luggage. We would not have made it through security without the nice gentleman at the Newark airport who pushed me and wheeled a suitcase at the same time so that my husband could push the stroller and wheel the other suitcase. Once home, people from our synagogue brought meals. A friend picked us up from the airport and helped my husband load the luggage and get the baby’s car seat in place. My coworkers were amazing, picking me up every morning and taking me home every afternoon, while requesting nothing in return. It has been really wonderful getting to know them better. They are even more amazing that I originally thought.

The big takeaway is that I am blessed. I am surrounded by people who care about me and for me. My family, friends, my community, and my work all came together to help. During winter break, I was also following the story of Blaze Bernstein, a Penn student who disappeared from his parents’ home in Newport Beach, CA; and who was not, unfortunately, found alive. His killer belonged to a neo-Nazi organization, providing evidence of hate and evil in our country. I watched as Bernstein’s parents publicly grieved and requested that the focus be not on their son’s death, but on his life. They requested that their son be remembered by acts of chesed, or loving-kindness, done for others. Even in their pain, they were trying to continue their love for their son and encourage hope in not just themselves, but others, as well. What an incredible gift they are giving to others, and what an incredible model they are for us. With our differences, with our own private suffering, with our challenges that we face, we can still extend loving-kindness to others. Thank you to all who have helped me and my family. I wish to dedicate this writing to Blaze Bernstein, Chaim Natan, may his memory be a blessing, and may his family be comforted among the mourners of Zion.

What We Talk about When We Talk about Anne Frank: Teaching The Diary of a Young Girl as a Literary Text

The path might not be easy to find. 

In Nathan Englander’s short story, “What We Talk about When We Talk about Anne Frank,” a riff on Raymond Carver’s “What We Talk about When We Talk about Love,” Englander depicts a reunion between two women who grew up going to day school and high school together. Sitting around a table drinking and smoking pot, they introduce their husbands and their current selves to each other. One woman has become more observant, now a Chasid living in Jerusalem, and plotlines, but then there is usually some philosophical subtext or literary technique on which we focus instead. and the other has become less observant, now secular living in a Florida suburb. Similar to Carver’s “What We Talk about When We Talk about Love,” in which love is not the subject of the story, but awful behavior that could be called anything but love, Anne Frank is not the subject of Englander’s story at all. When the conversation does get around to Anne Frank, she does not feature for even a moment, instead the discussion is of which non-Jewish friend they could trust to hide them, if we were again in a situation like the Holocaust.

Englander’s story, like many of his, is not in the least bit kind to Orthodox Jews, or really, Jews in general, but putting this aside, Englander is right about one thing: when we talk about Anne Frank, the discussion is not usually about Frank or the diary, but about what happened after the diary. Or, more to the point-, what did not happen after the diary: Frank did not grow up to be the writer which her talent promised she would become. She died in a concentration camp at the end of the Holocaust, not from being gassed, but from catching typhus in the abominable conditions of the camp. She died just weeks before she would have been liberated. When we discuss her, we discuss her as a girl who puts a face on the six million victims, who gives a voice to all of those who were murdered. The problem is that we do not usually listen to her voice.

In teaching Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl as a literary text in a high school English class, finding a point of entry was not easy. Translated into English by B.M. Mooyaart, in a manner which I trust to be faithful, the diary does not have a basic narrative arc, because it is a diary and not a novel. The diary is also constrained by the circumstances in which it was written: not much happens to the characters because they are trapped in an annex. Certainly, we teach novels that lack narrative arcs, but usually they are philosophically significant or have great literary merit. The diary, though translated in a style that is far from artless, it is also far from revolutionary.

Before approaching the book with my class, who are all male and Christian, I did not know the history of the diary, and found myself intrigued by the controversies. I originally stumbled into the debates when I came away from the book puzzled by the lack of Judaism. No mention of Passover, which almost all American Jews today celebrate, as well as no Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashanah, also almost universally celebrated. There is mention of Hanukkah, but because their protectors are Christian, there is much more of a to-do about Christmas, St. Nicholas Day, and Whitsunday, a celebration related to Pentecost. I asked Google about the editing of the diary, as I was curious whether the Franks simply did not celebrate Jewish holidays or if they had been edited out. While I did not, at that time, find my answer, I did find controversies over what had been edited out, what had been hidden by Otto Frank (Frank’s father, who made the decision to publish her diary), and who owned the content of the previously hidden pages.

I did find one essay online about the depiction of Anne in the diary, “Can Anne Be Like Margot and Still Be Like Anne?” Tthe authors, Linda Irwin-DeVitis and Beth Benjamin, have conducted a book club as a case study of adolescent girls, using Diary of a Young Girl as a way to discuss some of the pressures of adolescence. As the title suggests, one of their questions pertains to the expectation of young women to be obedient, cheerful, and uncomplaining, all personality traits attributed to Margot, Frank’s older sister. The discussion of Frank as a character in her own book was refreshing, if not enlightening.

I also found a session of the Dead Authors Podcast, featuring Anne Frank. The Dead Authors Podcast is unscripted comedy, in which a fictitious H. G. Wells brings authors in his time machine to interview. Anne Frank, portrayed by Jamie Denbo spars with interviewer Paul F. Tompkins as H. G. Wells. Denbo’s Frank is biting, sarcastic, and hilarious. Her irreverent portrayal emphasizes the aspects of Frank which are truly adolescent and often downplayed: her sense of superiority, interest in sex, grandiose sense of self, and bickering with family and other residents of the annex. As a parody, the podcast takes the jokes a bit far and is not for those with delicate sensitivities. However, it does hit home the cultural expectations of Frank being innocent to the point of unrealistic.

Ultimately, in discussing the book with my class, we talked about being in captivity, family frustrations, the break-ins (universally scene as “the exciting parts, because something actually happened”), the feelings and experiences of teenagers, developing of identity (an overarching theme of the course) and ownership, editing, and publication of the book. Interestingly enough, though all students agreed that if a teacher posted an essay of theirs on social media without permission, they would demand that it be taken down, they found no problem with the publication of the diary, even though Frank had no way of giving consent or approving edits.

My hope is that for my students, the conversation and their understanding went beyond Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl as a book about the Holocaust, and also helped them begin to think about the experiences of others. Whether or not this is true I may not discover, as tends to be the case for most teachers. While we have a long-term view for our students, we do not often get to see what the long-term view actually ends up being.

Sometimes we do not wish to see what is waiting for us.

Maternity Return, or, Learning to Love Adulting

Cute Baby Being Cute

Due to a job change and related move across the country, I was blessed with a longer maternity leave than most. In addition to the usual maternity leave work of healing from the physical trauma of birth and caring for my infant daughter, I also had to pack and drive across the country. When I had free moments, I spent some of them reading and writing, but the majority of time I spent marveling at my daughter, and watching as she learned the world around her. Sure, it was stressful being a new, first-time mom, and there were times when I was not able to get a shower before my husband came home from work. There were certainly early mornings when I did not feel myself up to the challenge of getting up again to feed her. I felt in over my head and wondered what exactly it was that I had gotten myself into for the next twenty-odd years--or, if I am honest--for the rest of my life. But there was truly a lot of joy and wonder and gratitude tempering the stress and naked fear that accompanies the birth of a baby, especially a first-born.

With the short amount of time we had to plan for the move, coupled by our decision to drive across the country, I had little time to contemplate what it might be like to return to work. And then, with starting a new job at a brand new school while designing a new curriculum, I had little time to consider anything remotely introspective. In the morning, I got up at 5:30 AM, fed the baby, pumped milk so she would have something to eat during the day, got myself ready, drove the long (hour and a half) commute, got to school and taught, used any prep time to revise syllabi, review texts, and design lesson plans. Then, came home, took care of baby, talked to husband, made dinner, unpacked something if I felt capable, got ready for next day, repeat. I was grateful that I got to see my husband and baby while they were awake.

It was not until I had been back to work for over two months that I began to feel how painfully I missed my daughter. The days were excessively long, and though I loved my new job, I would think of her often during the day, pulling up pictures on my cell phone and watching videos I had of her dancing, crawling, and singing/howling. The intensity of my longing for her surprised me.

After witnessing the challenges my mother faced as a stay-at-home mom when I was growing up, I never dreamed that I would desire to not have to leave the house to go to work every day, and that I would instead want to be at home with my child. Just thinking about cleaning the kitchen gives me a panic attack, and I truly enjoy teaching, so being a stay-at-home parent is not the best option for me right now. Still, the idea of being home with my daughter to care for and educate her during her babyhood is an enticing one. As surprised as I am to enjoy motherhood and the duties that accompany it as much as I do, I am equally as surprised to realize that the majority of the joy in my life is related to work and not leisure.  

Parenthood is helping me realize that life is not about seeking pleasure or ease, but seeking the meaningful experiences which bring contentment. It would be folly to say that parenthood is easy or always fun. There are times of great fun, but caring for an infant, who can literally do nothing for herself, is challenging and exhausting. And although I will devote many years to caring for her, there is no guarantee that she will always show me gratitude for my endeavors. In fact, it is very likely that as she grows more independent, she will desire to spend more time out in the world and that our relationship will not always be easy or simple. If I raise her right, she will, by necessity, be at odds with me at times. And, having her own interests which are completely separate from myself, she will spend more and more time without my company. While I am so pleased to have her as my daughter and I love her a crushing, frightening amount, my loyalty is to her, her well-being, and her development. All of this is easy for me to say before she can talk, but I hope that I will continue to live by this philosophy.

For now, I serve my family by working and building a career, which both supports us financially and provides me intellectual stimulation, the ability to positively impact adolescents through education, and to discuss my two greatest non-biological loves—literature and writing. My work requires research, patience, and a lot of experimentation in my teaching and curriculum building. All of this involves great effort but brings me great satisfaction. Teaching adolescents, who are experiencing a dynamic and difficult time in their lives, means that there will be challenges for me, as I discover how best to educate them. As in caring for my daughter, my loyalty is to their development, especially their intellectual development. No small task, I assure you, and I take it very seriously.

Though everyone needs downtime, certainly, I find that I have little pleasure in the time I spend on Facebook or watching YouTube. It is fun for the moment, but does not bring the same satisfaction as a good day of teaching or an evening of playing with my daughter. Work brings more rewards than vegging out.

Most probably, these are not new lessons for you, and they are not new for me either. Long ago, I recognized that an evening spent writing was more fulfilling than an evening watching TV. But in the rest of my life, the value of activities that require much of me is newly felt and understood. I spent a good deal more of my life chasing fun, pleasure, and ease than I would prefer to admit. With the rise of the term adulting, I suspect that I am not the only one. Certainly, I had great passions and worked very hard at my jobs as well as at the craft and business of writing, but I also spent a good deal of time working for the weekend and toward vacation as well as just wishing to end my day with leisure activity. When I came home, I wanted to write if I had the energy and alertness, but I did not want to do any other kind of work. Not only did I not want to clean or make appointments, but I actively avoided these and other activities. I did not have the same distaste for cooking, but even so, if I could avoid it, I would. In part, this is a result of my days being long and being exhausted when I got home, but there was also a feeling of being entitled to a bit of rest. I had worked hard and I deserved to be able to sit down and veg out. Even when I had the energy, I felt it unfair that I should spend it folding laundry. How could that possibly be just? Why did I have to spend my free time doing something that would need to be done again the next day or the day after?

Although ending my maternity leave and returning to work has been painful, I am happy to have the responsibilities of both my job and my baby. The luxury of free time is gone, but I am coming to understand how daily toil serves us. I am becoming grateful to spend my time helping to create and maintain a home where our family can grow and develop. Would I say that I am elated to wash dishes? I would not go nearly that far, but I can say that I am becoming less miserable when I am cleaning. And that is progress.

Bridge of the Gods: Holiday Edition