So as I enjoy the scent of the ionized-clean air in my room, courtesy of Neill, I find that I have suffered my first major training injury, a circle of missing skin from the hell of my right thumb, which thankfully does not interfere with my grip. Alas, I have spent at least three hours the past three nights trying to straighten out my hakama, which is rather difficult work.

But at least I have a killer lesson or two planned for tomorrow. It's just that these days though they should be draining somehow are not--I survive and thrive and then can't sleep--not from insomnia, but some other sort of fruitfulness.

So today was a good practice, with lots of walking drills and advanced but useful moves, but somehow my lesson I taught--in both instances--was off, lacking the spark and vigor of last week. It's hard to say why--it's too early for a slump, but I begin already to see the need to plan and overplan, structure and overstructure, until things begin falling together. That is, I'm no shichidan at math (not even shodan, after all), so I should keep working at it.

Oh, yes. A subway ad caption for the Chinese-in-America museum reads, "Absolutely original."

Here's to flooding tomorrow in the subways!

So an update--one of the middley-aged white female teachers of some renown is looking to learn some Chinese and to adopt a Chinese baby. Hopefully she won't name him 'Maddox.' Or 'Tyler.'

So today was not my best day teaching--the kids were off, I was behind schedule and flustered, I should have been clearer or much less clear, as we were doing histograms, and that's rather deep bullshit. I am beginning to see the limits of my progressive model, at least as long as I want an active and young life, somehow. The Latina crowd was rolling their eyes at me more than usual, but at least my students are respectfully honest enough to write me in their journals that (a) I should tell them more answers (b) I am boring (c) They hate writing journals, because isn't this math class anyway? And yet, they do it without question. And yet I am supposed to build critical insightful citizens? Hrmph.

So I was tired today but Rob Chin managed to drag me out to Kenka yet again, which was rather odd to say the least, on a schoolnight, but I have been relatively diligent, desiring to leave today only because thanks to the internet I had confirmation of the doorstep delivery of my hakama by insurgent DHL, which is now dutifully drip-drying in the living room, dangling by a broomstick between two bar stools as if it were some pre-Peking duck. The five folds, by the way, stand for trustworthiness, love, harmony, filial piety, and fidelity. Though perhaps those are half-translations of much deeper ideas, and indeed, they vary. Kanji apparently now veers toward the simplified, which I am rather scornful of.

Oh, oil is headed for $50 a barrel, which means it's time to buy! I really don't know what I'm doing, but it sure beats consumerism!

So I haven't blogged due to late nights out and drunkenness generally speaking--though on Friday I met parents and confirmed--confirmed that the two lame-o whitey teachers at my school who have never rubbed me the right way (or much at all) do indeed have foreign wives of Asian decent (one Chinese, one Japanese, so that's diversity). I have even met one of their half-breed spawn, which will be all the more unfortunate as they grow up to be maladjusted, maladroit.

It was odd talking to so many parents, while holding back my Spanish, while wondering why it was that we were translating everything into Spanish because we could while the poor subcontinentals, Burmese, Mongolians, Brazilians, and Hungarians had to endure another speech of like uncomprehended content. Still, it was remarkable how much I was able to pull off with assurance and aplomb.

Luckily, the weekend soon arrived and with it the promises of kendo, which I have thoroughly absorbed and enjoyed. There are many funny moments of dojo-humor, including the moment when Shrimp Sensei discovers that fat-Mongoloid-Korean-man (I mean, really fat) cannot sonkyu properly because he has managed to insert both fat legs into the same side of his hakama. Said fatty then hustles downstairs to change, though later as he and I are doing men, his obi comes undone and he scurries downstairs. Today passed with little incident, though Bigrock Sensei in putting us through walking drills at one point clapped his, um, bricks once, signalling a change to backwards direction. He then pauses to help the chubby 10-year-old new student with his shinai, while I am still hustling backwards, all the way to the shrine. So it is seven practices now, and I look forward to more. It's gotten to the point where when I received a letter from NYSTCE as regards the ATS-W, my first thought was as to whether I could make it from Utopia Parkway to Chinatown in time for practice.

Also, it is odd that there is a brand of Chinese cigarettes called "Long life."

So kendo class today was disappointing, if only because it was a little too bogu-centric, but after a week I feel good, even though it's scary to start thinking of how this will conflict with my grad classes schedule in a few years' time... But I am trying to come up with a reasonable number of suburi to do each day, while working on my footwork on the shitty creaky floors in my house. But I am such an amateur it's ridiculous. Part of all this is just willfulness.

So I been trying to figure out, now that my commute schedule has shifted somewhat, what the exact relationship between the older gentleman who rolly-polies his way to the M60 each morning from about five houses down around or just before 7 with his cheerful taller but not tall teenish Asian boi. They are both headed the same, though that time is still odd, and no longer can I follow them, as I am Queens-only these days, but I am not optimistic about the truth.

Kendo has been my mind a lot--I find myself practicing men at odd times.

Today was strange: I was a little grumpy at the beginning of class but soon felt better. I have buried myself under a deep pile of paperwork I have myself generated, but it shows that I care. The next two days are full days, which only means three classes, but is somewhat new to me, though thankfully I am giving a quiz at some point, so it won't be so bad, I'm sure.

I ran into randomly today a fat ex-student of mine from two years ago, at my first shut-down school. We caught up and I learned juicy bits, and it was odd, to see her somewhat more grown up, but still not quite, and yet while not pivoting on having seen me, somehow I am a part of a her history, if only when I am around. So there is hope, and it makes me miss that first school all the more.

Seminar today was excellent, even though I am constantly butting up against other math teachers. But I realize that the most important virtue is patience--it will take a long time to budge the system, and it might begin with one school with one grade and one teacher per subject area, but with time and patience, anything can happen. The plan tomorrow is to watch my corridor teacher teach his advanced class. I will be polite.

So Sensei went apeshit today because we had a new white trial student, who didn't even bother sticking around to sweep up. I mistook a Korean instructor a Chinese one because of his, um, nametag thing, only it was worn on the crotch. The more and more obviously gay middlekyu was hitting on the tall white guy with the tats, and I managed somehow to make it through a doubleheader of teaching without blowing a gasket, though by now it's overclear that the one class is much slower than the others, but it's amazing how much authority I have in the classroom, just by flexing it.

Beyond that, it's been very chill, I'd say--getting into the routine of the first full week, somehow. But that's going to be just fine.

So sensei says

"Do you have on your hands... what are they called? bristers? Ah, no... carruses... Well, if you have them on your hands, maybe you are gripping too tight. You should hold it relaxed, almost like you are holding the hand of a girl... Anyway, I hope you enjoy your shinai..."

Rob Chin and I dared not look at each other.

So I dragged my sorry ass into work yesterday, and got a flurry of scheduling done before heading off to visit with Alric and so on, while excited about the overall arc of my curriculum over two years.

Today I spent making a shinai bag, which while a little lopsided has a four-cornered bottom, a drawstring ring-buckle, and nearly invisible stitching for up to four shinai I don't own. Practice was brutal and humbling--not so much brutal as humbling, as I am far from the appropriate level of anything. Still, it's something that I will be able to sustain, I think, and that's all it really takes, I suppose.

So at last Rob Chin and I have started with Kendo, though of course the first session was not very auspicious, but also not very strenuous. Unfortunately, though I am not very good at very much, not even seiza which is a lot more painful than it ought to be. But everyone's friendly, I am patient and taking this as a model of instruction for myself, though I don't quite enjoy the forests of pipao quite as much as Joephet would. It looks reasonable too in terms of making it into my schedule, though maybe it would be easier on Tuesdays since Wednesdays are such easy days for me... Other than that, nothing accomplished today at the office but for reconnecting the internet service, but tomorrow I will make amends.

So "can"

I've often punned off of 'can' as the word in English is ambiguous--in Chinese there is "neng" in the sense of (meta)physical cap(possi)ability, and then there is "h


ui" in the sense of know-how, procedural ability. Both can be translated as "can," but of course we can get all deontic:

So when my students are requested to complete the fragment, "In math, I can..." or alternatively "In math, I cannot...." they get all deontic on my ass, with such great ludicrosities as "In math, I cannot divide before I take exponents."

So somehow I have a Mongolian student.

Beyond that, it's turning out to be an odd ethnic mix, really not that different from what one might expect--a whole boatload of Latinos, the rest sort of sprinkled in both here and there, somehow--not enough to guarantee any one bloc dominates, and I must feel rather anxious about bringing my material to these students--who knows if they will appreciate all that I am trying to do? Still, I am overstructuring like a mother, trying to put in this and that, and constantly blown away by the irrepressible cuteness of these baby foreigners. The smallest are the seriousest.

So Rob Chin and I finally went to check out Kendo yesterday, and it looks like it's a go, if only for a few lessons until his one-lung (shades of Lord of the Rings, only a butchered Asian version) gives up the ghost. The dojo is rather small, but this I don't mind, as it does mean more attention, and it's conveniently located in the vicinity of Chinatown, which makes it possible for Rob Chin to attend a lesson then return to work and stay until 11 or 12 albeit with a free corporate meal (complete with "liquid assets") and a carride home. Alack, our starvingness was not at all assuaged by the horrendous wait-time at Kenka. There truly is something proletarian (or bourgeois) about waiting in line.

And, I did not manage to accomplish any work yesterday, the wind having been taken out of my sails like downpour turnout downturn (out of sales....). This fact is somewhat lamentable, but I think I needed the break, and now I can go and put in some office-time ("face-time" Rob Chin calls it) and hopefully also design some more lab experiments as relates to cell-membranes and the like.

I've been exhausted, nonetheless, all this week in a way which I find hard to really pin down--I seem to be getting enough sleep, and indeed woke up today refreshed at 0930. But somehow it's not enough, and I've had afternoon headaches and weariness already. Either I find a way to nap in the teacher's lounge, or something else, but this just isn't cutting it, yet.

So I got both my differentials in the mail, which means that my next paycheck will be enormous--I will have roughly 8 months backpay, though none of it will actually go where it ought, namely my Roth IRA, or better yet some tax-deferred business.

I was scolded today, and I have found the activities in which I work with my fellow math teachers extremely frustrating--it is shocking to see the wide variation in the quality, and I suppose I am more harsh on them because of the high reputations assigned to our school--their mediocrity is more acceptable at a school which does not trumpet excellence. I am rather skeptical of the rest, I'm afraid, and yes, she was right, I should listen more, but she in her aged experience exempted herself from that requirement, somehow--there is a lot of resistance, and I feel as if some people only respond to hierarchy, which is why my old math coach was so much more effective, I think....

So while I am excited at the new grad course I'm taking for its rigor and sociological breadth, I have still spent the better part of this afternoon and evening translating into Chinese a letter to parents. This is odd, as I'm sure my locutions are terrible, and sometimes the Chineseness seems an outre thing, but it works, and while there are the peepings of frustration at work at stubborn traditional colleagues, I suppose you can't blame folks for being as white as their hair.

Still, I have again verified the inescapable schema of my chosen career:

"And then I realized I was the only person in the room not a ___________ woman."

So nuances and demographics:

Many teachers are somehow recently bebabied, and to me it is nice to see how they have their foreign parents or in-laws take care of them: this is the subtle free daycare which often makes the difference between well-raised and not at all; whereas, the mathers are not very open to change and proud of their obstinate ways set in the past and aiming rather low, I think, in terms of the content covered; whereas, everyone is in the process of fixing up a house because that is more sensible than buying a fancy one, and there are retreats to be had down the road; whereas, rent is plunder; whereas, boisterousness is at this early stage still apologetic; whereas, things run without you just fine; whereas, it is scary to be autonomous, and to be in a zone, it feels almost like we are separating the Koreas and full of landmines, though in truth we might be reuniting those two Koreas; whereas, in the spirit of cooperation all is possible, but sometimes when the Department decides to bump every class size up by 10%, only concerted collective bargaining can change matters, even if certain students must needs be turned away by the new Chinese teacher on the block in a halting native tongue, a troubling dilemma I haven't yet grasped, even though it was one of the many weaknesses of the old administration at the old school, this open and limitless admissions without taking a stand, but it feels like Lex's sorites again: why not just one more?

So I have my own copy account at school, I think. So far I have made 40 copies. This means I have only 15,999,960 left. It's a good thing I'm economical.

So I am not making this up (though I must needs paraphrase somewhat) and I feel a little guilty laughing it up, but then again, I am in some sense broadening the reach of said advertisement well beyond the community bulletin board at my local grocery store on 31st Street between Ditmars and 23rd, which I saw as I made my weekly purchase of nonfat plain yogurt and toilet paper...

Are you tired of that old, expensive
supermarket meat?
Well, you don't have to shop here any more
You can get fresh meat from live animals
right here in this neighborhood.
In the basement of my house (go to 21-xx 31st Street)
I raise many types of animals that are live,
rabbits, goats, chickens. We feed them
good food and speak Greek to them so they
are tasty healthy and fresh. You don't need
to eat refrigerated meat every again and once
you try you will never go back.

So just come to 21-xx 31st Street (and ask for house owner).

So yesterday my haircut went rather well thought it was in Chinatown on the row of barbershops on or around Pell Street, and was a slapdash 10 minute affair conducted entirely in Chinese, Chinese I was long since steeped in since my youth when my dad would cut my hair every month or so, though of course that frequency has since plummeted to zero to four times per annum. But it was sadly functional and I had no real idea what all the chatter otherwise was about, and my barber wasn't the bantering type, so that all I was asked was "yao bu yao xi tou?" "Bu shu yao"

So Rob Chin's doubts are gelling adequately enough as to the whole grad school thing, which is good for me because it's good to have an accomplice I can fully respect and not condemn, but also probably good for him, as he's actually likely to leave the profession at some point and reinvent sometime down the line when the economy is doing better--no reason to go to grad school and through more education if it's not vocational or born of genuine interest.

So it's been tax-free week, and while I'm not exactly completely taken in by it all, I did consent to purchasing some essentials, although it all came out rather bujiier than I would have liked, somehow--but this is part of growing up, these clothes that are still somehow more sensible than restaurant food or comic books or salon haircuts. Pues, el libro de espanol que estuve leyendo la noche pasada recomiene que alguien llevando corbatas frecuentamente tiene no menos que venticinco corbatas en su guardarropa para prevenir llevando lo mismo en cualquier mes. Esto me parece ridiculo, pero evidentemente, los hombres de Latinoamerica se llevan trajes casi cada dia. Tengo dos, uno que robe de Jon muchos anos pasado.

So I have been feverishly working on a website which I am insistently coding only in the pure austere glory of html.

No, who'm I kidding? Even TeX is more elegant than this shit.

But it's fun, to be digging deep into the guts of this, while my newfound (refound) college library access is excellent, especially with faculty borrowing privileges (six weeks!). It's rather exciting to be in a job and a place where I'm excited enough to have been working on this for so long tonight--ever since I got home around 2, actually.

So I am extremely pleased with myself and others. Meanwhile, Alric reminds me of a story....

So there was this girl back in college, we were both stage managers, and given her precise ungirliness and unselfimportant seriousness as well as verbal prowess, I had a rather substantial crush on her, and indeed named her my Last, Best Hope. At one point she was stage managing a Shakespeare play which required beheading, and actors being at a premium, there was some question as to how to effect the severed head, triumphantly carried. In our banter I suggested a canteloupe, and good to my word went the next day to purchase a canteloupe from the local supermarket, which I did successfully. In trying to deliver it to her, however, I was only able to hand it to her roommate. It is this roommate whom I would later imagine saying, "Oh, some fruit came for you..."

In any case, she's now working at Alric's firm, where a surprising number of my old acquaintances have ended up.