Mr. Gobbles

This is the tale of Mr. Gobbles and the day he spent in first grade.

Mr. Gobbles is a hand turkey made of dry erase marker and imagination. He doesn't have a lot of personality, but he's a deep soul and likes to take long walks in the dry erase marker forest.

The main character in this story, however, is not Mr. Gobbles, but Ms. Love the substitute teacher.

Who happens to be me.

It started on a cold, rainy Tuesday morning. 

I was not one bit excited to be subbing first graders two days before Thanksgiving. You see, the last time I was in a first grade classroom my day culminated with a child knocking her crayon box on the floor and then screaming and stomping on the little wax nubs as they rolled across the floor.

That was not a good day.

But on this rainy Tuesday I decided to be festive, so I slapped my hand on the board and created Mr. Gobbles a few minutes before the children came in.

The deal was that Mr. Gobbles would gain or lose feathers dependent on how well the class followed directions and kept their hands to themselves. 

(This picture was taken after he earned a purple feather.)

A few minutes later, the first few children shuffled through the door, staring at me through deceivingly adorable eyes. 

The first two coherent sentences I heard were, 

"She's not married. She got a 'M S'."

and 

"Who's Mr. Gobbles?"

To my absolute surprise, the rest of the day went beautifully. 

We spent the morning making butter out of cream. 

And who doesn't love butter?

All four first grade classes rotated through my room for thirty minutes at a time, and after each group shook and tasted the butter and I couldn't think of ANYTHING else to do, we talked about things you can make out of milk, like

cheese

and ice cream

and chocolate milk

and cupcakes.

(It was an interesting discussion.)

During the afternoon my class did worksheets, watched Pocahontas II and Anastasia, and made turkeys with things they were thankful for written on the feathers. 

(because the teacher who left me plans knew it's hard to do anything really serious with a sub on a rainy day before Thanksgiving)

Of course, having too much fun can be wearing, as one child let me know:

 "We want to do work--we are tired of doing all this other stuff."

Mr. Gobbles presided over all behavior (earning four extra feathers throughout the day) and was a point of some serious discussion. 

"Mr. Gobbles is my BEST. FRIEND."

"Is Mr. Gobbles married? He's 'M R'."

"I made my turkey look like Mr. Gobbles."

"Mr. Gobbles is my husband."

And this note:

"I love you Ms. Love you are the swetist teachere I evr met. I like Mr. Gobbles to tel hem that frum me."

Sometimes all it takes to start a day off right is a marker and some imagination.

Pictures from Narnia

Everyone knows that I went to China for a year and taught the cutest second graders in the world. 

It was hard, and I loved the people there a lot. 

A LOT. 

Then I came home and didn't talk to them anymore. It was over. Ka-put. 

Most people in China don't use facebook. They use something called QQ (which is more like myspace), and in order to find people on it you have to have their number. 

When I got back to America I made a QQ account but I didn't have any of my friends' numbers. 

No numbers, no friends.

I felt cut off. 

VERY cut off, in fact. 

For the last few months I've been wrestling with feeling alone in my experiences. I did so much in China, knew and loved so many people, and spent a year trying to adjust to the smog and smells.

 But nobody in my daily life now was there with me.

In some ways it's like trying to tell my friends about Narnia.

Really, sometimes you couldn't see the sky AT ALL.

To say 'thank you' you say 'xie xie'...no, not like that.

Chinese food is like stir fry...but better, and not with frozen vegetables, and actually not at all like stir fry. And they have this thing that they make with sweet potatoes and melted sugar that's like...well, nevermind. But it's really good. I promise.

Even if I don't think about China during the daytime, I sometimes have vivid dreams about going back to visit and seeing my students--who in the dreams have gotten taller and forgotten me. 

Yikes.

In one last attempt to reach back into my school in Taiyuan, I emailed Fabio's aunt in September to ask for his mailing address. I sent him a letter and I was scared to death that it wouldn't get there. Of course, there wasn't really a way for me to know unless his aunt sent me a message to tell me.

Then I had an idea. 

I decided to ask a foreign teacher who is at the school this year to pass on my QQ number to my old co-teachers. 

Two days ago, this happened:

Jane, Ann, and Angel. 

Some of my funny, sweet, wonderful co-teachers used my number to find me and I got to talk to them--really talk.

I got to see them and hear the funny ways they phrase things and feel the joy and life that they bring to conversations. 

Then--JOY OF JOYS--two of my old students, Josie and Celia, came into the office where my co-teachers were, rushed to the screen, and exclaimed, "Mees Love!!!"

I nearly wet myself with excitement. 

Last night we talked again. They told me about how Ann is getting married tomorrow and Evelyn is getting married next month. Candy and Sunny had babies. Angel wants a boyfriend more than I want chocolate cake. They sent me pictures of my students, whom they are teaching again for 3rd grade English. And Ann was excited to let me know that she is helping Fabio write me a return letter.

I can't even put words to how these few pictures made me feel.

I believe it was the way the Pevensie children would have felt if Mr. Tumnus had texted them pictures of Narnia after they tumbled back out of the wardrobe. 

As if to say, "It was real...and these people still love you."

The Sub.

I never wanted to be a sub, because subs are always called "THE SUB". 

I understand that there is a lot of turnover in the world of substitutes and that I'll probably be guilty of doing it when I'm a regular teacher one day. 

But really.

THE SUB?

What am I?

A sandwich?

And underwater boat? 

Sub is at the beginning of words like "subservient", "subordinate", and "subdue". 

I would rather it be associated with better words. 

Suberhero?

Suberb?

Suberawesome?

Regardless, I really like subbing.

It's what I do two days a week at school that's six minutes away from my house on the days that I'm not working at my dad's office.

I like walking into the school cafeteria and having rock star syndrome because kids are yelling, 

"AY, THERE'S MISS LOVE!!!"

"HEY MISS LOVE!"

"NI HAO MISS LOVE!"

I like telling my older classes about China.

If I've met the teacher before, I'll ask her to leave behind her computer password so I can bring in some pictures and videos of my Chinese babies to show the students at the end of the day. It's nice to talk about China to people who really want to hear about it, are interested in learning Chinese numbers, and are FASCINATED by squatty potties.

"Do they use toilet paper?"

"Where are the doors?"

"They pee TOGETHER?" 

"What happens when they--EWWWWW!!!"

Kids get excited when they walk in the classroom and see me, THE SUB, because they expect a free day. 

Then I slap a behavior chart up on the board and crush their hopes and dreams. 

From 1st grade to sixth, I progress from adding limbs to stick figures to drawing stars and dots to putting up bad checks and good checks to pitting myself against the class in behavior football. 

Not what I'd necessarily use as a regular teacher, but it works as a one-day survival technique. 

I also don't understand--or underestimate--the power of stickers.

There is an extreme difference between yelling at a kid in front of the class and talking quietly with a kid at their desk.

Yelling makes you an instant enemy. Talking quietly shows what your voice-level expectations are.

Giving compliments can make you a trustworthy ally.

I really like subbing fifth grade, mostly because I've done it three times and now they know me and think I'm cool.

Even if they smell weird.

Each day of subbing always begins with an hour of panic because it's like the first day of school...every day. 

I don't know what the class routine is (and magically the students don't seem to, either).

Sometimes the teachers leave especially cryptic lesson plans. 

Every class has different protocol for bathroom breaks.

And there's always that one kid. 

The one kid who insists that the teacher gives him candy at the end of the day because she's definitely his aunt, who stuffs his hand in the basket of dried snake skins because they belong to him, who is suffering injustice every five minutes just because, and who always alwAYS ALWAYS has to pee.

Somehow that one kid usually ends up being a guy, and he's the one kid in the class whose name I certainly won't forget.

My heart hurts for the one kid. 

Even as a sub, I have really touching moments.

Talking to a boy out on the playground who comes from a really broken home but has specific dreams of joining the army and then going to college and becoming a dentist.

Seeing kids I subbed around town and hearing them say, "When are you coming to our class again?" 

Being told by a mom (who was at my dad's office where I happened to be working that day), "My son hung onto your every word when you told his class about China. He wouldn't stop talking about it."

I especially love it when I'm called Miss Love instead of the sub...which is short for, you know, 

Suberstar.

The Ginger Diaries: Entry of the Canine Barbarian

Dear Diary, 

The humans brought another canine to the den. 

It's been nary a month since the last canine left and didn't return. There was talk of "grief" and "mourning"--as if the humans expected me to shed petty cat tears over that smelly excuse for a plaything. 

Oh no, I was positively euphoric with my newfound sense of royalty. 

I was queen of the den. 

Finally, I received the choice bits from the table, I owned the soft human laps, I could shed my fuzzy orange fur wherever I deemed fit. For one glorious, short-lived month, the humans answered only to me.

Queen Ginger.

From my younger years as ruler.

The first imbecile dog who thought she was ruler. 

Then they brought that thing here. 

The new canine, the beast, the hairy hoarder of attention that stole every shred of joy I'd spent my whole existence working towards.

I thought that if I could only outlive the first furry fiend, I would have ultimate happiness, but

I underestimated the stupidity of my humans. 

There were whispered rumors of a new dog and some cursed place called the animal shelter, but I thought the mother human would never allow another canine in the den because she knew how much I valued her lap. I worked my queenly charms until I was sure the humans had forgotten love for anything but me. 

Then it came--the new, young, smelly, teeth-bearing monster that the humans call Heidi. 

It has ruined my life.

I can't eat. 

I can't sleep. 

My only solace is that the slobbering devil can't fit in the caves under the humans' sleeping places, and it is there that I find peace. 

The den is now a battleground that tests my speed and skills as I outrun the canine to survive. 

Here are some images of the barbarian:

The beast preparing to strike. 

 The mongrel's multicolored eyes. 

 The creature's ridiculous hindquarters. 

The mutt's absurd countenance shows it's aptitude for a life of subservience. To me.

Soon I may have to deploy the paw-pounding and hissing techniques passed down to me by my feline forefathers.

My only hope is that the brute can be forced into humble submission and that the reign of Queen Ginger may be restored to greatness once more. 

Viva la feline!