Proud

This past weekend, I visited friend in Minneapolis.  His birthday was this past week, the big 2-5, so the object of the weekend was celebratory.  A party was planned, beer was bought, dip was made. It was amazing dip made by yours truly that included several dairy products and half a beer. I'll zap you the recipe if your craving some taste-bud goodness.  Something that I thought was inconsequential was the fact that this weekend was Pride weekend; Pride is based on a march in New York in 1969 after a riot at a gay bar called Stonewall Inn resulted from a police raid. Since then, New York, Minneapolis, Chicago and several other cities celebrate Pride every summer.  The only reason why I know about this entire weekend is completely based on Mountain and Lucky, two of my friends, who are extremely supportive of LGBT rights. Lucky, whose birthday we celebrated, is gay. Mountain is his closest friend. They love each other dearly.

The Pride parade was extremely different than I expected. There weren't thousands of drag queens. Though, there were a few. There weren't naked men everywhere. The naked ones were wearing barrels. They weren't throwing condoms from the floats. They handed them out from a booth in the park. My friend was dressed as a leprechaun for one of the floats. Mountain called him the "ambassador for rainbows." We arrived late and didn't stay for the end. Once Lucky passed by, we wiped our brows of sweat and began a jaunt through the park filled with booths and tents of companies that supported Pride. I got pens from Wal-Greens, a bracelet from Best Buy, and coupons for a local restaurant.  I even had my first celebrity sitting: the comedian, Ant, walked right by me. Mountain took a picture of the back of his head.

Here's the kicker. I was sad. I pitied these people. WHY? These people weren't helpless; they stood up for themselves, their friends, their families just to be treated equally. The pity I felt resulted from the fact that any gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgendered person shouldn't have to walk down a street defending who they are. There shouldn't have been a riot in New York in 1969. They shouldn't need people to look up to like Harvey Milk. Just like blacks needed MLK. Or women Susan B. Anthony. It sickens me that we need these examples to earn rights. Rights that should be given freely, without prejudice, without feeling ashamed, without argument.

I hate the thought of labels. Yes, sometimes they work well as identifiers. I am white. I'm female. I'm 24. I am American. But a label is just another line to cross, another wall that keeps us in and others out. We shouldn't have to describe ourselves in a way that outcasts others.

I worked for the census this past year. One of the questions I was required to ask was about race. One night, returning a phone call from a household where earlier I left a note, I asked this question.

"How would you classify your race?"

"Human Being."

This struck a deep chord with me. Why do we need to distinguish ourselves? What point does it serve? Isn't this how animosity is fueled? By keeping us in these distinct groups, we keep ourselves from evolving, from reaching out across that line to create unity among all. This is something they shouldn't have to work at.

It should just be.

After the parade, Mountain had tears in her eyes. When asked why, she said, "I'm just so...Proud."

Choose your own adventure

I'm not a big believer in fate. I feel as though I need to have control over my destiny; however, I think that our lives are similar to a "choose your own adventure" book. We have choices, a few of them at a time, and each choice sets forth various scenarios into motion. Do we decide to knock on the door of the spooky old mansion, or try to look around the backyard instead (from one of two of my privately owned adventure books)?

Likewise, I feel as though my life has been based on a series of choices I've made - all leading up to one definite conclusion. I haven't reached that conclusion yet, but I've definitely ended (or began) another chapter.  Let's retrace our pages here...

Final page (so far): The girl lands a job in a small, northern Wisconsin school, miles from all she's known and loved (and something resembling love), to live in sin with her sort-of long-term boyfriend (I say sort-of because a year and a half is not, by any means, long - but there is infinite potential). Back track to the last page with her choices.

Third option: The girl graduates from college with honors from a music education program. Choose to apply to schools which are fitting to your preferences, or choose to apply to schools near your boyfriend. Back track another page with choices.

Second option: The girl is stuck in a school that seems too big and too generic for her tastes; though, all her friends are here, and she's pretty close to home. Choose to stay in the big city, or transfer to start a music degree program at a smaller school. Back track to yet another page with choices.

First option: The girl's parents trust her to make the right decision. She is torn between keeping up and adding on to her music studies in high school and going out for sports, which all her siblings have chosen ahead of her. Choose to stick with music or go out for a sport. Back track to the beginning of the story...

A girl in a small town with a large family has several challenges in front of her. Her parents tell her that she is expected to participate in many extracurricular activities such as band and basketball.  She, of course, knew it was coming.  All her brothers and sisters before her followed the same path - all she had to do was walk in their footsteps. Turn the page.

The only thing you can't do with these "adventures" is change one of your previous choices, which, I'm not inclined to do at the moment.

A day in the life of the intervieweeeeeee....eee

My first interview for a full-time, long-term teaching position. 

My gut was filled with the dread/calm that comes before the inevitable hurl. This school - this small, insignificant school - turns out to be the perfect job for me.  The placement is near my boyfriend. I have control over the whole K-12 thing. It seems very daunting, indeed, but I like control - I live for control. If I could plan out every second of every day in a spreadsheet form, I would. (I know this is not an endearing quality, but I've come to accept it in such a way that lets me sleep at night.) The classroom sizes are perfect. The whole shebang warrants a "from scratch" smell, and I love building ideas and plans and whatever fits into a spreadsheet.

The interview is in front of five adults and two students. I forgot their names as soon as they introduced themselves. I smile generically at everyone and make a funny joke about something. They smile generically back and emit tiny chuckles to encourage me into the false sense of security.

I don't characterize my personality as "bubbly," but that hasn't stopped other people from describing it so. Do I love to laugh? Yes. Do I try to make jokes to ease the tension? Sure. Does it ever work? We'll say fifty-fifty.

My answers are solid as a lime-flavored jell-o mold.  I didn't completely bomb the interview.  I believe there were some very insightful ramblings that may have passed out for thought-out answer These answers were thought-out, mind you. I went through 110 questions a week before this interview.  Most answers I had were written out after careful thought and planning (I should have used a spreadsheet). It's just when I'm sitting in front of five adults and two students, whose names I can't - for the life of me - remember, my mind goes completely and utterly blank. Oftentimes, my responses were more than a little awkward, but I got the point across...I think.  For example:

Them: What are the main ideas you would be teaching in the elementary general music class?

Me: (the beginning of this answer is fine. It's dandy. People could write epic poems on the beginning.  It's the end - where I find myself crying in the corner late at night) I would teach music from other cultures.  Not only American folk songs, but pieces from other cultures. African, maybe with an African drumming class. Asian, South American.  And from Europe as well...cause...ya know...that's where most of our heritage is from...  

Myself: (you really can't hear much between the sobbing and the wailing)

What was that?!?  What was that?!? Was that me speaking?!?  I also went on, later, to inform them that I am extremely klutzy and I cannot jump very high. It was slightly in context, but nonetheless, I was giving myself a mental head-slap for that one.

FYI: most of the time when I wanted to kick myself in the butt for saying all these (I have no word for it) responses were after a very eloquent answer that rambled into my self-burial.

After all this, I was still called in the next day to sign for a background check. Maybe my awkwardness was seen as endearing. I'm not convinced, but I guess I'll know Monday.