I woke up on a couch this morning. It's good to have a place
indoors. Even so, it was that feeling of, "I hate alarm clocks and
being conscious. Oh God how I need more sleep, and every second of this
day will be spent dreaming of when I can take a nap again." I knew
this was a problem, because that's how I felt during most of my previous
three year residence in the city that never sleeps but probably should
because it would be much happier. Then I showered. It's a gift to have
a clean body washed with clean water. Then I ate breakfast. It's a
gift to have food to keep going. Then I put on my shoes. It's... my
shoes were killing me. If I didn't have to work, I almost would have
preferred bare feet. And yes, I know, this is New York, and I was about
to get on the subway. That's how bad they were cutting my feet. I am
waiting for new shoes to arrive in the mail, because my old ones have
lots of cracks and holes in the bottoms, even though I bought them just
half a year ago. My boots are okay, with only one hole, but wearing
them around the city is probably why I have callouses on my toes.
They're not meant for city wear. I rarely own many pairs of shoes, and
it shows, because when I get a pair I wear them everywhere and soon you
can see the wear and tear (I once polled my previous class on how many
pairs of shoes they owned, and most of them had at least five, several
women had 20, and one Japanese girl even had 100). I have spiffy
interview shoes which are intact, but they are actually really old
hand-me-down's from my dad which I wear once a year or so, and they cut
up the backs of my heels pretty well last week. They did that the few
times I had to wear them in San Francisco in February too.
Unfortunately, they were the only appropriate footwear for teaching
which I had at my disposal today, so I had no choice but to further cut
up my heels.
I left with what I thought was decent time to make it to my first day of work 30 minutes early as my boss had requested, but then remembered as I walked out the door that I had to move my car. They do street sweeping every Monday and Thursday mornings on the side of the street where I had it parked. I remembered that yesterday, but I had taken a long wandering photo excursion around Grand Central Station and Lexington Avenue up to Central Park in the afternoon/evening, and when my friend came home I simply forgot about it. So I took action by first cursing myself for being an idiot, and then going to get my car. Everybody else had already moved their cars to the available spaces on the opposite sides of the streets, so it took me over 15 minutes of driving from block to block looking for a space, swearing at myself and the unfair universe for letting me be so stupid and completely responsible for this debacle. I finally found one near a fire hydrant but not too close to it, parked, hopped out, slammed the door, locked it and went sprinting down the street in my interview shoes.
By the time I reached the subway I knew that I was not only going to be there after 9:30 as my new supervisor had asked, but I wasn't even going to make it by 10:00 when the class started. A terrible way to start my first day. And of course, I barely missed the R train. When the next one finally came, we packed in as tightly as possible until I had to transfer at Lexington. I did my best to weave through the absurd crowds which I realized I hadn't missed at all, just in time to barely miss the 4 train. After much more waiting I grabbed the next one up into the Bronx, where I had to transfer to the BD line. I tried my best to power walk during the transfer, but all those other humans were also going somewhere, and one of them was even tying their shoes across the escalator so I couldn't slip by in the passing lane. You know, the passing lane on the escalator, which is supposed to be open, yet there always seems to be at least one person unaware that people are supposed to be able to walk by them on the escalator on one side if they prefer to stand still and ride it on the other. This is a syndrome everywhere in the world, the lazy blocking the paths of the energetic. And yes, I arrived just in time to see the D train pulling away.
Luckily the subway is immediately next to the office, and I was only 7 minutes late. Even better, it was the first day of classes, since they start a new term every 6 weeks. Many of the students were still in line filling out paperwork at the front desk. My supervisor wasn't mad at me, and said it was a good day to be late because students would still be streaming in late anyway. Some even showed up 45 minutes late. So I walked into my new class and introduced myself, and realized I had to teach them for two hours and I had little idea what I was going to do besides use the one text book they had given me. I was aware of the book's content because I used it to teach a 9th grader in Japan two years ago, and I guessed since this was day 1 of the term, we might as well start at the beginning. I had everyone sign the attendance sheet, and asked them all where they were from, how long they had been in America, and why they were here.
I have a very different class compared to my previous one from San Francisco. Half of the students are from Africa. The rest are from Central America, the Middle East and Mexico. Many of them already have children. Some of them wear traditional headgear. They are the most "advanced" class, but I can already tell they're not nearly as fluent, energetic or outgoing as my previous bunch. I have no Asian students for the first time in my teaching career. You don't know what you've got till it's gone :)
Even so, I'm interested to teach students from Africa, Mexico and Central America for the first time. Maybe I'll learn a little more about Ghana, Togo, Guinea and Burkina Faso. Maybe not. Everyone seemed a little shy. I have to admit, I was a little off at first, starting at the beginning again after being so comfortable at my old job. I've only got them for 2 hours instead of 5, so we really only have time to do the lessons in the textbook, which aren't that exciting. Not much room for creativity, and they don't seem too interested or able to absorb extra information. Even if I did tell them about the wonders I've experienced, barely any of them have the financial means to explore. Although many of the African students said "Africa" when I asked where they were from and only specified their country of origin when asked, several of them had never been to any other African country. Most of the students have never been anywhere in America besides New York City. Some are students, some work, and some work 12 hours a day at menial jobs. My job is to keep them awake and improve their English so they can support their families or get into college.
The best part of class was when I explained to them the difference between "for" and "since." When I said, "I have been alive for 29 years," many gasped in disbelief. When I asked how old they thought I was, one of them said, "I don't know, but I assumed much older! At least 35." That brightened my day. As Henry Jones, Jr. said, "It's not the years, it's the mileage."
At the completion of class there were more smiles and willing volunteers to read and answer questions, so I think we're already starting to warm up. I was definitely feeling internally strange after arriving late on the heels of stewing on the subway about how late I was and how awful it would be that I was so late to my first day and how crowded and ridiculous rush hour in NYC can be and yeah yeah life is annoying, get over it privileged white boy who talks about mystical wonder one day and bitches and moans about his aching feet and morning commute to two hours of work the next. I'll be up to four hours next week, and also subbing for another class, making it 8 each day, with a 6 hour gap in between. I don't purposely pick a light schedule, it's just how the hours at these companies go. And at least I have time to write afterward.
Speaking of which, I was incredibly hungry when I finished school, but decided to hold off until I made it back to Queens. Then I got the bright idea to confirm that my car hadn't been illegally parked, so I walked up 46th street, where I was pretty sure I had parked it, although I wasn't quite sure after the morning blur of racing from street to street and yelling at myself. I walked for blocks and blocks and didn't see it. My feet begged me to be merciful, so I went back to the apartment to change into my boots, and then went back out to find my car for peace of mind. I should have brought my headphones to cool me down, because I would need it. I walked up the other half of 46th and still didn't see it, and then back down the half I had already walked. Then I tried 44th street, and back up to 46th. I finally got a quick bite to eat, went back to the apartment and took a nap. Chuck Klosterman once wrote that he hates himself half the time, but sometimes he realizes he's just hungry and tired, which is pretty much the same feeling. I don't hate myself half the time, but I know exactly what he means about the interchangeable emotions.
I decided to give it one more try, but I was getting really angry at this point because I'd intended to be productive writing all afternoon, and instead I was walking around the neighborhood like some fool who can't remember where he parked his car. I walked up and down 48th, 44th and 42nd, since I at least remembered the direction of the One Way. Nothing. I was getting furious at myself. Maybe it had been towed. Maybe I had left it unlocked and it had been stolen. I realized I was probably just stupid and had screwed up somehow, but I couldn't figure it out. My heavy boots were really starting to anger me. They hadn't bothered me in my enthusiastic promenades throughout the weekend, but now they were gratuitous weight. All I wanted was to find my car. I didn't even need to use it, I just wanted to know it was still there and hadn't been towed or stolen. I couldn't see it anywhere, so all the stresses of unsolved questions in my heart and mind stormed the gates of my brain and drove me insane, fueling feelings of being trapped, helpless and hopeless. There are few psychological ills that freak me out more than knowing I put something somewhere and not being able to find it. I'm completely okay with not being able to find things that I carelessly left somewhere, but when I have a mental image of placing something somewhere and not seeing it, it makes me think I've entered a different dimension without realizing it, and that God has sneaked his hand from behind the stage curtains and decided to remind me who's boss. And this time I had my music with me, yet it was hardly medicine for the madness.
That is, until "The Only Living Boy in New York," when I decided to go up 46th street one more time. I had been walking passed the myriad pyramid tops lining gates of Astoria houses, just wanting to explode somehow, to release this anger and confusion at the infinite illusion. If only it were socially acceptable to scream at the top of your lungs on the street for a good thirty seconds or so, and then pat your chest, take a deep breath, and smile at the world with fresh glowing eyes and a satisfied soul. But no, we're not supposed to go around scaring each other like that. We're supposed to keep it inside and be good little citizens who do anything but unnerve each other. The world's unpredictable enough with real lunatics running around spreading material terror, so there's no point in rocking the societal boat over a hastily parked car, regardless of sleep deprivation, lack of nutrition and the daily cranial debate over the best ways to pursue my favorite ambitions. The least I could do would be to kick one of those pyramids, even if they always remind me that there is "nothing to fear and nothing to doubt," just like in that Radiohead song. Or I could get angry at the universe, because this was clearly between the two of us, or one of us, whichever the case may be.
I was about to curse God for stealing my car just to teach me some warped lesson, fully aware of the futile infantile nature of such an accusation, when I heard Paul Simon say, "Catch your plane right on time, I know your part will go fine..." and I got this premonition to turn around... and my car was there. I had just walked passed it a second time. I didn't recognize it without the canoe. Of course. Of course. I was so happy I hugged it. I caressed the windshield with my left arm and patted the driver's side door with my right. Then I ignored the man walking by with a smirk on his face. Yesterday I saw a couple making out on the street and I smiled wide because love was alive. Why can't I show my car similar affection, minus the tongue and reciprocation?
Well, as small an episode as this event may have been within the daily din of Astoria, New York City, and the magic spin ball, it engulfed my being for far too many hours, so there had to be a lesson. It's not bad to get angry, or to have doubt, or to feel crazy, or to feel any strong emotion. It means you're alive. It's worse to feel it halfway and pretend it doesn't exist. At the least I had the voice of the light in the back of my mind reminding me that everything was actually okay and life was great, and that this state of mind would pass no matter what the result of my search would be. I told the voice to be quiet so I could enjoy being angry, and several times I even sprinted down the street because I was so sick of walking everywhere.
I went home on the now dark streets and returned to my friend's apartment where I am lucky to be able to stay. I cooked a healthy meal, listening to Tupac and Willy Wonka to help me forget the day's events and remember that tomorrow is a new day, with a car parked on a street with no scheduled cleaning, the first day out of the way, and lessons learned to be better the next time around.
I left with what I thought was decent time to make it to my first day of work 30 minutes early as my boss had requested, but then remembered as I walked out the door that I had to move my car. They do street sweeping every Monday and Thursday mornings on the side of the street where I had it parked. I remembered that yesterday, but I had taken a long wandering photo excursion around Grand Central Station and Lexington Avenue up to Central Park in the afternoon/evening, and when my friend came home I simply forgot about it. So I took action by first cursing myself for being an idiot, and then going to get my car. Everybody else had already moved their cars to the available spaces on the opposite sides of the streets, so it took me over 15 minutes of driving from block to block looking for a space, swearing at myself and the unfair universe for letting me be so stupid and completely responsible for this debacle. I finally found one near a fire hydrant but not too close to it, parked, hopped out, slammed the door, locked it and went sprinting down the street in my interview shoes.
By the time I reached the subway I knew that I was not only going to be there after 9:30 as my new supervisor had asked, but I wasn't even going to make it by 10:00 when the class started. A terrible way to start my first day. And of course, I barely missed the R train. When the next one finally came, we packed in as tightly as possible until I had to transfer at Lexington. I did my best to weave through the absurd crowds which I realized I hadn't missed at all, just in time to barely miss the 4 train. After much more waiting I grabbed the next one up into the Bronx, where I had to transfer to the BD line. I tried my best to power walk during the transfer, but all those other humans were also going somewhere, and one of them was even tying their shoes across the escalator so I couldn't slip by in the passing lane. You know, the passing lane on the escalator, which is supposed to be open, yet there always seems to be at least one person unaware that people are supposed to be able to walk by them on the escalator on one side if they prefer to stand still and ride it on the other. This is a syndrome everywhere in the world, the lazy blocking the paths of the energetic. And yes, I arrived just in time to see the D train pulling away.
Luckily the subway is immediately next to the office, and I was only 7 minutes late. Even better, it was the first day of classes, since they start a new term every 6 weeks. Many of the students were still in line filling out paperwork at the front desk. My supervisor wasn't mad at me, and said it was a good day to be late because students would still be streaming in late anyway. Some even showed up 45 minutes late. So I walked into my new class and introduced myself, and realized I had to teach them for two hours and I had little idea what I was going to do besides use the one text book they had given me. I was aware of the book's content because I used it to teach a 9th grader in Japan two years ago, and I guessed since this was day 1 of the term, we might as well start at the beginning. I had everyone sign the attendance sheet, and asked them all where they were from, how long they had been in America, and why they were here.
I have a very different class compared to my previous one from San Francisco. Half of the students are from Africa. The rest are from Central America, the Middle East and Mexico. Many of them already have children. Some of them wear traditional headgear. They are the most "advanced" class, but I can already tell they're not nearly as fluent, energetic or outgoing as my previous bunch. I have no Asian students for the first time in my teaching career. You don't know what you've got till it's gone :)
Even so, I'm interested to teach students from Africa, Mexico and Central America for the first time. Maybe I'll learn a little more about Ghana, Togo, Guinea and Burkina Faso. Maybe not. Everyone seemed a little shy. I have to admit, I was a little off at first, starting at the beginning again after being so comfortable at my old job. I've only got them for 2 hours instead of 5, so we really only have time to do the lessons in the textbook, which aren't that exciting. Not much room for creativity, and they don't seem too interested or able to absorb extra information. Even if I did tell them about the wonders I've experienced, barely any of them have the financial means to explore. Although many of the African students said "Africa" when I asked where they were from and only specified their country of origin when asked, several of them had never been to any other African country. Most of the students have never been anywhere in America besides New York City. Some are students, some work, and some work 12 hours a day at menial jobs. My job is to keep them awake and improve their English so they can support their families or get into college.
The best part of class was when I explained to them the difference between "for" and "since." When I said, "I have been alive for 29 years," many gasped in disbelief. When I asked how old they thought I was, one of them said, "I don't know, but I assumed much older! At least 35." That brightened my day. As Henry Jones, Jr. said, "It's not the years, it's the mileage."
At the completion of class there were more smiles and willing volunteers to read and answer questions, so I think we're already starting to warm up. I was definitely feeling internally strange after arriving late on the heels of stewing on the subway about how late I was and how awful it would be that I was so late to my first day and how crowded and ridiculous rush hour in NYC can be and yeah yeah life is annoying, get over it privileged white boy who talks about mystical wonder one day and bitches and moans about his aching feet and morning commute to two hours of work the next. I'll be up to four hours next week, and also subbing for another class, making it 8 each day, with a 6 hour gap in between. I don't purposely pick a light schedule, it's just how the hours at these companies go. And at least I have time to write afterward.
Speaking of which, I was incredibly hungry when I finished school, but decided to hold off until I made it back to Queens. Then I got the bright idea to confirm that my car hadn't been illegally parked, so I walked up 46th street, where I was pretty sure I had parked it, although I wasn't quite sure after the morning blur of racing from street to street and yelling at myself. I walked for blocks and blocks and didn't see it. My feet begged me to be merciful, so I went back to the apartment to change into my boots, and then went back out to find my car for peace of mind. I should have brought my headphones to cool me down, because I would need it. I walked up the other half of 46th and still didn't see it, and then back down the half I had already walked. Then I tried 44th street, and back up to 46th. I finally got a quick bite to eat, went back to the apartment and took a nap. Chuck Klosterman once wrote that he hates himself half the time, but sometimes he realizes he's just hungry and tired, which is pretty much the same feeling. I don't hate myself half the time, but I know exactly what he means about the interchangeable emotions.
I decided to give it one more try, but I was getting really angry at this point because I'd intended to be productive writing all afternoon, and instead I was walking around the neighborhood like some fool who can't remember where he parked his car. I walked up and down 48th, 44th and 42nd, since I at least remembered the direction of the One Way. Nothing. I was getting furious at myself. Maybe it had been towed. Maybe I had left it unlocked and it had been stolen. I realized I was probably just stupid and had screwed up somehow, but I couldn't figure it out. My heavy boots were really starting to anger me. They hadn't bothered me in my enthusiastic promenades throughout the weekend, but now they were gratuitous weight. All I wanted was to find my car. I didn't even need to use it, I just wanted to know it was still there and hadn't been towed or stolen. I couldn't see it anywhere, so all the stresses of unsolved questions in my heart and mind stormed the gates of my brain and drove me insane, fueling feelings of being trapped, helpless and hopeless. There are few psychological ills that freak me out more than knowing I put something somewhere and not being able to find it. I'm completely okay with not being able to find things that I carelessly left somewhere, but when I have a mental image of placing something somewhere and not seeing it, it makes me think I've entered a different dimension without realizing it, and that God has sneaked his hand from behind the stage curtains and decided to remind me who's boss. And this time I had my music with me, yet it was hardly medicine for the madness.
That is, until "The Only Living Boy in New York," when I decided to go up 46th street one more time. I had been walking passed the myriad pyramid tops lining gates of Astoria houses, just wanting to explode somehow, to release this anger and confusion at the infinite illusion. If only it were socially acceptable to scream at the top of your lungs on the street for a good thirty seconds or so, and then pat your chest, take a deep breath, and smile at the world with fresh glowing eyes and a satisfied soul. But no, we're not supposed to go around scaring each other like that. We're supposed to keep it inside and be good little citizens who do anything but unnerve each other. The world's unpredictable enough with real lunatics running around spreading material terror, so there's no point in rocking the societal boat over a hastily parked car, regardless of sleep deprivation, lack of nutrition and the daily cranial debate over the best ways to pursue my favorite ambitions. The least I could do would be to kick one of those pyramids, even if they always remind me that there is "nothing to fear and nothing to doubt," just like in that Radiohead song. Or I could get angry at the universe, because this was clearly between the two of us, or one of us, whichever the case may be.
I was about to curse God for stealing my car just to teach me some warped lesson, fully aware of the futile infantile nature of such an accusation, when I heard Paul Simon say, "Catch your plane right on time, I know your part will go fine..." and I got this premonition to turn around... and my car was there. I had just walked passed it a second time. I didn't recognize it without the canoe. Of course. Of course. I was so happy I hugged it. I caressed the windshield with my left arm and patted the driver's side door with my right. Then I ignored the man walking by with a smirk on his face. Yesterday I saw a couple making out on the street and I smiled wide because love was alive. Why can't I show my car similar affection, minus the tongue and reciprocation?
Well, as small an episode as this event may have been within the daily din of Astoria, New York City, and the magic spin ball, it engulfed my being for far too many hours, so there had to be a lesson. It's not bad to get angry, or to have doubt, or to feel crazy, or to feel any strong emotion. It means you're alive. It's worse to feel it halfway and pretend it doesn't exist. At the least I had the voice of the light in the back of my mind reminding me that everything was actually okay and life was great, and that this state of mind would pass no matter what the result of my search would be. I told the voice to be quiet so I could enjoy being angry, and several times I even sprinted down the street because I was so sick of walking everywhere.
I went home on the now dark streets and returned to my friend's apartment where I am lucky to be able to stay. I cooked a healthy meal, listening to Tupac and Willy Wonka to help me forget the day's events and remember that tomorrow is a new day, with a car parked on a street with no scheduled cleaning, the first day out of the way, and lessons learned to be better the next time around.
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