I Failed in My Face-Off With the Mouse

I have now lived in NYC for over a decade, a fact which still surprises me when it happens to arise in my awareness.

Has it really been that long? Why the hell am I still here?

Anyway, in a prior lifetime, when I lived and worked at a conference center adjoining a wilderness in South Lake Tahoe, as part of my duties then I used to kill mice. Quite a lot of them, in fact. Literally, buckets full of mice. I won’t elaborate.

When I moved to NYC and first encountered a mouse family in our living quarters, I thought, hey, no problem, I know how to deal with this. I quickly learned how naive I was.

NYC mice are not inbred country mice. They are not fooled by silly mouse traps. They are not fooled by silly buckets of water with wire hangers strung atop them and a little toilet paper roll and dab of peanut butter with a cardboard ramp leading up to it. Please.

In the apartment we live in now, fortunately mice have not been a huge issue, but ever since the super did work on our bathroom and tore up the floor we have been visited by the occasional mouse who will take up residence.

Every now and then, I do get lucky with a normal snap trap, so it’s always worth a shot, but some mice are wise to such basic contraptions and will have nothing to do with it, no matter what manner of enticement.

What It Takes to Kill a NYC Mouse

To give some context on what it takes to kill a bionic NYC mouse, the last one we had I only managed to kill through pure luck and poor decision-making on its part.

Traps were not working. And the mouse was growing increasingly brazen. I opened up my parrot’s cage floor one day to find the mouse just laying there staring up at me like, what, dude, you’re bothering me. And then he scurried away before I could gather my wits.

Finally, I got fed up, when I saw him meandering over to the sofa one evening, I told myself I would not let him get away. I turned on lights, keeping the escape routes monitored, as I grabbed the broom. I beat around the sofa like a maniac, then finally lifted up the sofa and searched underneath. He was nowhere to be found. Somehow, he had gotten away. How was this possible? I had my senses sharpened to a fine sheen of killer awareness. He had not run from the area. He had to be somewhere nearby.

I examined the insides of the sofa, I beat the cushions, I whacked the wooden frame. I scanned the room.

And then I saw it. A little lump in the rug where the sofa had been. Could it be? No, it couldn’t be. But just to make sure, I stomped around on it. It felt solid. It felt like something. I stomped and pressed hard on it again, for good measure, then lifted the rug.

I had killed the mouse through the sheer good luck that he had decided to leap into a gap in the rug as I had pulled up the sofa, then got stuck. I happily scraped his remains from the bottom of the rug.

I was pretty stoked about that. While I know that kill was primarily attributable to happenstance, I do think there was an element of will there, as well. You can’t give up when it comes to killing NYC mice. You need to be persistent, and take advantage of any opportunity that comes your way. When you see the mouse, you need to spring into action, grabbing any weapon that is near.

If there are no weapons available, you must use your hands. You must use your feet.

My Grit Is Put To the Test

Our apartment has again been occupied by a mouse for the last month or so. Yet this mouse has been extraordinarily stealthy. The only glimpses I’ve had of him have been so fleeting that I think I’m just seeing a figment of my imagination. A soaring, silent shadow that flits in the corner of your eye across the kitchen floor. Like one of those flying ninjas in a classic kung fu movie.

He also didn’t leave much evidence of his presence. There were droppings, but they were so intermittent and variable that you were never sure if they were actually droppings. I only grew sure of his presence when I heard a rustling in the recycling bag one evening and he jumped out when I went to investigate.

And mice have a certain kind of smell, a smell that becomes more defined after it rains. It’s a smell that makes you think of sewers and dark wet places. Once you smell it you know. Though you pretend. You hope, until you actually see it, and then you despair.

Like the prior mouse, traps meant nothing to him. He was not interested.

I’ve been staying up later, trying to maximize the precious work time I have after putting my son to bed and finishing up the dishes. My wife had long gone to bed. After getting a bit of writing done, I wearily trudged into the bathroom to get ready for bed. As I entered, I heard a noise, and looked, and there was the shadow, flitting away into the corner.

I had him. I had him cornered. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. There was nowhere to escape. Other than through the door, where I stood. I pushed the door closed as much as I could (it doesn’t fully close), and frantically looked about for a weapon at hand.

There was nothing. Nothing but the flip-flops on my feet.

I took up my right flip-flop and held it poised. I turned on the flashlight on my smartphone and waved it into the little alcove where the toilet and trashcan stood, where he lay pressed into a corner, listening, waiting, frightened.

He slipped out and we examined each other. He was a relatively large mouse. I waved my flip-flop at him menacingly, and he returned to behind the trash can. He was cornered. And he knew it.

I banged the trash can and out he leaped! He rushed at me to go for the door, and I panicked! I wasn’t ready to smash him with my bare foot. I swatted at him with my flip-flop. He tried wiggling into the corner of the door, but couldn’t get through. He flipped and dove into the side behind the sink cabinet.

Adrenaline coursed through my body. I’ve got you, you little shit, I thought, gritting my teeth. He leaped out again from behind the sink and again I swatted at him, missing by a mile. I wasn’t ready to stomp on him. I dodged him instead. He returned to behind the toilet.

I swatted at the trash can, and again out he scurried, and again he tried the door in fright and couldn’t get through, scraping frenziedly at it with his claws but this time instead of going behind the sink, he ran to that pipe in the corner that brings heat, a pipe that runs from the ceiling to floor. There’s a janky little loose cover around it on the floor, and he dove underneath, searching for a hole.

The cover in question. And yes, our bathroom is this hideous.

I had him! I banged at that cover like a madman, and it made a metallic ping as it bounced between my flip-flop and the tile. My son woke up and began to wail in the bedroom, and my wife yelled at me in frustration, what the hell are you doing?!, and she got up and approached the door.

Don’t open it! Don’t open the door! I yelled hoarsely, banging at the cover on the floor, making it ping, with my left foot and with my flip-flop in my hand. I banged and I banged. Ping! Ping! The mouse stopped moving, his tail dangling out from underneath the cover, I could see it getting squished underneath the cover, I must be getting him! I banged and I stomped.

My wife later told me that in that moment when I yelled out in panic not to open the door she fearfully envisioned me engaged in some strange and solitary sexual act that would make her question everything she knew about me and lead to the subsequent ruin of our marriage.

When I ceased the swatting with my flip-flop, the mouse scurried back out, apparently unphased, and most definitely unsquished. He made one last go at the door, and this time, he squeezed out through the corner, and just like that—he was gone.

My opportunity had been squandered.

In the Aftermath

I feel like I have failed to seize a defining moment in my NYC existence. I had swatted weakly at the mouse, and I flinched when it rushed me, rather than stood my ground and stomped, bare foot or no, when I had the chance.

I could have gotten him if I had not been afraid of his stinky little squishy body touching my bare feet.

I was not ready, my friends. I failed this test. I was not ready to stomp. I was not ready to do whatever it takes.

When you have cornered a mouse, you do not back down. You do not fear its touch, its smell, its eyes.

The mouse lives on. I have begun to set traps again, but without hope, more to demonstrate I am doing something than from any expectation that I will get him.

I will not get him until I have mastered my fear of all that is disgusting. This is NYC. Fear and disgust will not win you your passage.

Will I get this mouse? Will I get lucky? Will he slip-up again and provide me another opportunity?

I don’t know if I have what it takes to stomp, to block the mouse with my body. I will not know until I am faced with the mouse in the corner again—if I am ever given the chance.

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So apparently my dad is a badass

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Photo by Anthony on Pexels.com

Badass is not a term I ever would have thought to associate with my dad. Ever.

Yet at a birthday party for my niece a few months ago in San Diego, as we sat eating cake in my sister’s backyard, I was complaining about a noisy upstairs neighbor who blasts his shitty music at all hours of the day and night

My dad told a story of his college years, when he lived in an apartment below a neighbor who would similarly blast his radio. My dad, being the engineer that he is, took his oscillator—because apparently that’s something he just had laying around, as engineering students do—and matched the frequency of the guy’s radio or something, and was able to silence his speakers. And he would keep doing it every time the guy played his music. Finally, the noise stopped. My dad said, chuckling, “I don’t think the guy ever figured out what was going on.”

My dad subsequently brought his dusty old oscillator out of storage in the garage that evening and offered it to me to fly back across to NYC and try out in my own battle against my neighbor. I declined, as 1) I didn’t want to shove an old oscillator into my suitcase; 2) don’t know how to use an oscillator since I’m not an engineering student; and 3) I don’t think an oscillator can combat current music streaming style stereos. Not many listen to radios anymore.

But man, how awesome would it be if I could just short-circuit that asshole neighbor’s speakers from afar?

It was a total fantasy in my head, until I found out that my dad had done it to his neighbor, many decades before me. Hearing this off-hand little vignette gave me newfound respect for my father. Who knew he was actually kind of a geeky badass?

Where have I been? Where has the world been?

It’s been so very long since I’ve posted anything of personally substantive meaning. Where have I been? Where has my heart, my soul, my substance been?

One could easily twist that question right back around to the world wherein we live. Our world has been head suckered down to a bright lit screen. Captivated. Harvested of every life drop of data.

But that’s the world.

My heart and soul has meanwhile been loving every minute I get to spend with my son, who is nearing 7 months at this point. He is a delight to be in the presence of. I draw inward to family.

Writing is also in some ways selfish. Spending time with my son takes clear precedence. And then I’m tired at the end of a long day. Yes, I am getting older.

Complacent, though? No, I am always hungry to be better. My focus shifts from work, to music, to reading, to whatever flits in front of me that seems to be fruitful. But I also seem to be more apt to wait before expending energy on something I’m not so sure will pay off.

I’m working on not wasting my time on something if it doesn’t have any potential future payoff. And if we’re honest, this is what the world, minus the 1 percenters, also needs to work on.

 

To my future child

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It is something magical, to be able to peer inside of your mother’s tummy to see your perfectly forming outline shimmering in sepia.

The technician pressed the little ultrasound knob harder and harder, jiggling it around impatiently atop you, to try and get you to turn, as if she were trying to entice a fish, but you shrank away into the depths, as if you knew you were being looked at. She slowly took the measure of each and every one of your bones, and we could see your little feet and hands flailing, lit like candescent bulbs. You liked curling around yourself and kept turned towards your mother’s spine. We could see your brain, the flow of blood through your developing veins. We could see and hear the fluttering of your heart, still split into halves. The technician kept making your mother turn from side, to side, and back again, to try and see you in profile.

You were still sort of amphibian, a primeval force swimming in the darkness, your segmented spine twisting like a little stem.

But then, finally, there was your face, already singular, universally human, projected as an image before your mother and father and a weary technician, holding hands in this little room on the 10th floor on the east side of Manhattan.

It struck me then that I too am developing, shedding my vestigial self-involvement to become a father. I will be your father. This is no longer a thought, a hope, a fear. This is what will be. My soul grows towards the moment when I will see your face in the light of the sun, and hold you and speak to you and call your name.

A letter from beyond the walls

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It’s been a while since I’ve scribed anything of any sort over the last god-knows-how-long. I wonder sometimes if I’m experiencing the addictive satiation of social media that everyone with a smartphone seems to be so haply skewered by, whether it’s reducing my cognitive and spiritual capacity. As of late, I feel often unfocused, tired, and unwilling to engage in much beyond the reading of newsfeeds, science and education articles, because there’s always something critically important just beyond the next scroll downward.

Perhaps I’m simply getting older. It’s harder to get myself out the door for a run (it is “winter,” if you can call what NYC has been experiencing thus far as such, but still). It is harder to feel compelled to respond to emails from anyone asking for my time and energy for things that don’t relate to what I need to get done tomorrow. Or maybe I’m just simply depressed.

Full disclosure: last month I discovered myself standing in the middle of my living room weeping, not entirely certain why. When I examined the blubbering’s antecedent, I had just gotten off the phone to my parents. So I guess I realized just how much I miss my family, way out there on the West Coast. I’m not a sentimental sort of person, so this was surprising to me, this missing of family.

And maybe I just felt overwhelmed and stressed at work, because Novembers in any school year are always hard.

Or maybe I was just feeling old. I’m nearing what statistically speaking could be determined as the median of my life’s parabola.

Perhaps it was also that I realized, 8 years into living in NYC, that I’m lonely. I know people, but I don’t know people. Hell, I don’t know myself anymore.

All of those things.

So I’m growing a beard. The un-manicured kind. It now feels like a ginger mat of fur splayed out my chin, which is fun to rub.

I furthermore obtained a set of tabla drums, and assuming I can force myself to haul them downtown on a Thursday night, I’ll begin taking lessons. I’ve decided that my brain has been getting too set into narrow ways, and I need to wire some new connections.

Teaching is certainly a rewarding profession, but I’m missing having any sense of self or capacity that extends beyond the work that I do. Which brings me back to this.

Writing.

The toughest damn thing in the world.

If it was easy, I would have written that book I was supposed to write 4 years ago already. Writing a blog post that nobody ever reads is hard enough as it is.

I know enough not to make myself any promises, but it’s clear that when I fail to write regularly, I lose an essential connection to myself. It is through this mundane connection that I no longer feel alone.

Here’s to continued future scribblings of the soul.

Smoothing Out the Kinks

The Path

I’ve sustained an injury that has prevented me from running most of this summer, and in some ways, the story of that injury serves as an adept allegory for larger issues ongoing in my life.

First, for those of you (i.e. ALL of you) who haven’t been following this blog since 2005[1], I’m a runner. Not a marathon running-check-my-heart-rate[2]
kind of runner, just someone who runs. Because it brings joy and fosters well-being. I don’t run far, but I run fast, and I like running alone and somewhere peaceful, like by the water or in the woods.

I had major shin splints in high school while running track and cross-country, and discovered (thanks to a well-informed employee at my local shoe store) that I was over-pronating, so I got a shoe that fixed me right up and has served me well in the 15 or so years since, such that I haven’t ever sustained ANY injuries until now. Pretty amazing for a runner, apparently. That shoe is the Brooks Adrenaline GTS, and I highly recommend it if you are a runner and require more support in a shoe.

Two years ago, I got swept up in the barefoot running craze, as I have documented on this here blog, and shucked my ample GTS cushioning for the unsupportive, callous inducing barefoot lifestyle of running. Not completely barefoot, mind you — I’ve been running in Vibram FiveFingers. It was rough at first–it took me a whole summer to adapt– but once I broke in my feet and adjusted my form, I fell in love. Not only does barefoot running appeal to my philosophical biases for self-sufficiency and natural principles, but it also just feels really good, as it seems to better stretch and work out your feet and legs during a run.

The injury that has reared its evil head is a muscle strain in my right leg, which tells me that something has been wrong for some time in the way my right foot has been striking the ground. The symptoms are inflammation right under my kneecap and–especially–on point of my hip. When this started up, I first tried to run through it, but it only got worse. So then I gave in to the inevitable and stopped running to see if some R&R would make it go away.

It didn’t. I tried running after a break of 2 weeks and it flared right back up, as if it had never subsided. The frustrating part about this is that the summer is the one time during the year that I can finally run consistently almost every day and get myself back into shape. What happens when I don’t run? Beers go straight to my belly. It’s disconcerting how quickly my gut begins to protrude. Now, yes, I COULD go to a gym, but that goes against my aforementioned philosophical bias for self-sufficiency. Plus, I just think they are nasty and don’t want to be around a bunch of stinky strangers when I work out.

So my belly has been slowly distending as I’ve been waiting, fruitlessly, for my injury to subside. I finally realized that I had to do something about it. But I’m wary of doctors, and I’m skeptical of the ability of a doctor to tell me much that I don’t already know. I decided that I would find a good deep tissue massage therapist, instead. I like getting deep tissue massages, and I get them for myself as a treat once a year or once every 2 years, depending on my budget. I see it as a necessary “defragmenting” of my body, a way to purge built up tensions and knots that accumulate over time. But I’ve never gone specifically to a masseuse for the purpose of physical therapy for an injury, so I wanted to make sure I got one who was decent.

I found one via a quick Google Maps search for “deep tissue massage,” and after checking out her website and seeing that Trey Anastasio had given her a positive review, I figured she must be aight. She was. She pinpointed some major knots in my back I wasn’t even cognizant were there, as well as introduced me to the incredible pain that is the IT band massage.

She informed me that as an active person, I should really be getting a massage more frequently. When I delicately let her know that I can’t afford such luxuries, she charitably gave me an insider tip about using a “foam roller” to give self-massages[3].

I don’t know about you, but I’d never heard of these things (probably cuz I’ve never gone to the gym). Given my proclivity for self-sufficiency, it certainly seemed right up my alley, so I went ahead and ordered me one. They’re cheap.

I’ve started using it, and let me tell you, rolling around on your IT band is no joke. It’s incredibly painful[4]. It brings tears to my eyes. But it’s made it fairly apparent to me that my right IT band must be getting strained and perhaps at the heart of my injury, because there is major pain all along it. I’m thinking that if I continue to iron it out, it should do much to alleviate the strain keeping me from running.

So I ordered me a new pair of Brooks Adrenaline GTS 12. I’m not giving up on barefoot running completely, nor do I blame it for the injury, though I think it played its part (I’ll get more into that in a moment). I plan on easing back into running with daily foam rolling as physical therapy, and the increased cushioning of my running shoes to help to ease the strain. Once I’ve gotten back into rhythm, I want to go back to my Vibrams, though I might never go back to full-time barefooting. I’ll see how it plays out. All I care about, at the end of the day, is that I’m running.

What are the causes of the injury? Is barefoot running to blame?

There’s a number of factors that could have played into it. They are as follows:

  • During the school year, I run more and more inconsistently as the year progresses, due both the shortened days and coldness of winter, and because of an increasing exhaustion. Teaching special education in the South Bronx, in case you didn’t know, is demanding work
  • When I did go out for a run, I was most likely going out harder than I should have, given the time that might have elapsed since the last run
  • I wore old dress shoes with heels to work intermittently, and I had a bit of a walk from the train station. I generally tried to wear a barefoot style shoe that I have, but they look kinda funny, so when I wanted to look good for whatever reason, or if there was ice on the ground, I wore my dress shoes
  • I am getting older. I know 33 isn’t that old, but I ain’t no spring chicken anymore, neither. I may not be able to get away with the same level of body stress I once could
  • A few months ago, I sliced open my big toe on my right foot, had to get 7 stitches, and apparently severed some kind of nerve, because I can no longer bend the toe completely, which may have subtly altered my running form
  • I think either my legs are different lengths, or my hips are askew[5]

Any or all of these factors, combined with the reduced support of barefooting, could have easily resulted in the strain that I have incurred.

Well, OK, so now that I’ve thoroughly bored you with the details of my diagnosis, how does any of this serve as an allegory for other life issues, as I suggested at the outset of this post?

Basically, it has to do with the principles of myofascial release that I’ve learned from my massage therapist and from foam rolling. When you hit a point of stress, you press on it until it relaxes, then you iron it out through the length of the muscle, kind of like rolling out dough. It’s akin to exorcism. By calling out the point of stress that had been hitherto unnamed and stepped daintily around, you then force it to abandon its temporary abode. The longer that you’ve ignored this encroaching negative spirit, the more painful it is to dispel.

How apropo this concept is to our emotional lives, is it not? In terms of my own life, I’ve been under a lot of stress. This year in my job was easier in some ways, but harder in others. This is something I’m still trying to work through and write about. And I’ve been letting many of my feelings remain unvoiced. And over time, those feelings began to get knotted, and embedded, and tangled, and then began to seep into and infect other areas of my life, such that eventually all I knew was that I felt tired, unsuccessful, unsensual, unmotivated, and uncentered.

This dim feeling and lethargy has pervaded even my summer, and in this way, my injury serves as its allegory. As if the strain in my leg embodied the strain in my heart. I had gotten to a point where I felt as if I could no longer write, no longer run; in short, I had lost my mojo. This wasn’t any form of overt depression, by the way. It was more like something that lurked behind every day, but was easily subsumed behind the hustle and bustle of my busy mind and life. In this way, it gathered. It gathered, and I ignored it. This is how storms gather in our bodies and in our hearts.

And so the allegory of this injury is the allegory of an emotional life. We must go to our points of pain, and we must lay them bare, push them down until they run. And that alone is not enough. We must then pursue them, all the way down along the path from which they’ve mounted, until we have pushed them out, evicted them, banished them. But we must be ever vigilant, for each new day brings new barbs of tension, and the longer we ignore them and wish them away and pretend, the deeper they embed themselves. Until we find ourselves, one day, in that place of hopeless despair, and must reach for help from another, and others reach down their hands to us and help us back to our feet, and then inform us, gently, that the path to healing is our own, and we must go back to that place of darkness alone, but here is a gift of knowledge to support you on your journey.

Here, this is my gift. Thank you for following me thus far.

1 Before blogging, I sent out emails of my writing. I have most of those logged here as well, dating back to 1998

2 I did purchase a heart rate monitor recently, but I’ll post more on that later

3 Just as a side note, now that I’ve found her, I will certainly go back to her when I am able to afford it. I highly recommend her if you’re in NYC.

4 Painful doesn’t quite do this feeling justice. It’s not quite pain, so much as being extremely uncomfortable and wanting it to stop. It reminds me of the feeling of sitting in an ice bath up to your hips. Our gym at my high school had a giant ice bath, and after a few minutes, right before you go numb, the same feeling of burning discomfit hits you. You have to force yourself to stay in until it goes away.

5 Interestingly, I haven’t really thought about it until now, but when I was younger, I ran to jump over a tennis court net, and my foot got caught in it, so I landed right on my hip. I was too embarrassed to tell my parents about it, and though it hurt for a while afterwards, eventually it went away. That’s the exact hip that is hurting now. Possible I may have fucked it up that long ago and it just showed up now after moving to unsupportive shoes.

The MLK Memorial and Me

In February, I went to a conference in D.C. My wife came down to join me afterwards. We don’t get out much, and I’ve barely seen much of my East Coast environs, barring last year’s visit to Philly. At the top of our list of things to see was the Martin Luther King, Jr. memorial. It was the newest memorial, and also slightly controversial.

As we approached the memorial, we read quotations from MLK’s speeches that are engraved along a wall that leads up to his statue. We then walked around the central monument, which depicts MLK with his arms crossed, embedded in a chunk of granite mountain that appears to have slid forward from its face (Out of a mountain of despair, a stone of hope). His hands are sinewy and strong, veins bulging, and his eyes gaze stoically across the water. There is a sense of calm and might, but also a deep sense of tragedy. The unfinished look of the overall work contributes to this sense.

We took our obligatory picture, and then my wife asked if I could take her picture in front of one of the quotations we had passed earlier along the wall.

“It reminds me of you,” she said, somewhat shyly. We walked back over and I took her picture in front of the quotation, which reads:

“I have the audacity to believe that people everywhere can have three meals a day for their bodies, education for their minds, and dignity, equality, and freedom for their heads.”

She seemed to feel that the reason why I am a teacher and work hard each and every day related to something like the sentiment expressed in that quotation. I couldn’t quite see myself in it, however.

This post is my explanation of why.

A little further down the wall, I saw another quotation that did speak deeply to me and about what I am passionately committed to in my work:

“If we are to have peace on earth, our loyalty must become ecumenical rather than sectional. Our loyalties must transcend race, our tribe, our class, and our nation; and this means we must develop a world perspective.”

I took a picture of this one as well. We then walked away from the MLK memorial towards the Roosevelt memorial, which is a long, meandering wall and pathway of red stone with various niches and spaces for reflection along the way. Quotations from F.D.R. are sprinkled next to reflective pools, waterfalls, and scattered stones. But it was a quote in a little niche from his wife, Eleanor Roosevelt, that reached out most to me. And it links together in theme with that quotation from MLK:

“The structure of world peace can not be the work of one man, or one party, or one nation . . . It must be a peace that rests on the cooperative effort of the whole world.”

This theme of common purpose, of a struggle for a global, overarching vision through cooperative effort, is what drives me and motivates me to do the work that I do. I was flattered by my wife’s belief that I do what I do because of a deep-seated passion for social justice, but there was a cognitive dissonance I didn’t feel comfortable with in that first quote. I can’t quite place my finger on it, but it seems to have to do with some underlying sense of martyrdom (“I have the audacity to believe. . .”), a stance of personal virtue, nobility, and provocation that I don’t fully identify with.

A passion for a moral mission, bordering at times on the messianic, is a trait of some that enter into teaching or social service as a profession. It is common for teachers to speak of teaching as a “calling,” as if they have been drawn into the vocation by a force beyond their ken. I am frequently talked to by others who are not teachers as if I have forsaken the realm of mere mortals and ascended into an alien sainthood, given the wary respect and sympathy attributed to a monk — that is, with an incredulous, I-would-never-do-that-myself-but-god-bless-you sort of attitude.

This has always rubbed me the wrong way. Teaching is a profession. It is a career. And yes, it is a tough one, and it is especially tough when teaching special education in a high needs school in an impoverished inner city area. But I moved into this tough career not simply because I wanted to make my world a better place (yes, I am an idealist), but because I wanted — purely selfishly — to develop myself as a leader and a person, to learn firsthand the ground level effects of political and policy decisions, and become a part of something much greater than myself.

I have no illusions that I am changing the world simply because I may impact a handful of childrens’ lives in the confines of one classroom. I realize this is sacrilegious to say. This is critically important work and the impact on one child’s life cannot be diminished. But I believe strongly that the larger system within which we work impacts our nation’s future ever more greatly. We can change the world by working together with others to alter aspects of that system we work and live within. Teachers, parents, children, policymakers, state legislatures, mayors, citizens, these are the people that collectively can change the world. I want to learn to look beyond my individual self and work towards a common, global purpose.

This is why the second quotation from MLK and Eleanor Roosevelt’s quotation spoke to me. I’d like to think that I as an individual can influence great change, but realistically speaking, I know that whatever impact I can have on my own is nothing in comparison to what we can achieve when we work together.