There is a vase full of half blossoming, half drooping roses on my kitchen table. They appeared in the staff lounge at work on Thursday, just in time for the building staff meeting, so everyone could see my name on the card. Who are they from? Boyfriend? No. Girlfriend? No. Dad? No. Mom? No. Who? I wasn't about to tell them the flowers were from an RA in the dorms who would probably like to be my boyfriend, but never will be. Why is it the boys I have no interest in dating are the ones who do the sweet things for me, while the boys I would like to date, or even do date, never do sweet things? (well, that's not entirely fair - the last boyfriend did one or two sweet things, but in a much less spontaneous, much more I-feel-I-should-do-something kind of way) Am I destined to be that girl who always attracts guys she has no interest in having more than a platonic relationship with?
On the positive side, a boy cared enough to do something extra nice and special for me. And they are really pretty roses. In fact, my feelings on the whole rose situation are much like the roses themselves: half blossoming and cheery that someone cared enough to do something that sweet, the other half drooping and disappointed that they aren't from someone whose feelings I can reciprocate.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Quiet
#1 misconception about working at a deaf school: “That must be really quiet.”
No, it’s not quiet…ever. Some days deafness seems like a blessing. When two or three different students are yelling (not words, just yelling) for attention, the AC is blasting full tilt, and the piercing pitch of the bell goes off, I pray for quiet. Instead, the bell signals a herd of stampeding children rushing to get books. Planners belly flop onto the floor. Desks are shuffled in the mad dash out of the room. Taking my ‘post’ in the doorway I am bombarded by the sound of lockers slamming shut. Teachers are talking across the mêlée. Footsteps hurry down the hall.
The scratching, dragging noise of dancing desks starts again as a new class files into the room. Everyone who wants my attention shouts at a varying decibel and pitch level. Ever been yelled at by someone? Not a yell of anger or frustration, not a name shouted across a room – just shouting. An indistinct, uncontrolled, brief, piercing, whoop or yelp. Even teaching isn’t quiet. Someone is repeatedly clicking their pencil, trying to get the lead out. Another student is humming to themself, unaware that I can hear them. The impact of various signs sends smacks, slaps, and taps reverberating around the room.
And that’s on a normal day.
Today, they are putting a new roof on the building. Until this morning, I was unaware that sledgehammers must be used to pound on roof tiles. The throbbing noise just above my head suggests that must be the case. Either that, or they are dropping bowling balls on the roof. When even the deaf kids notice the noise, you know it is bad. Outside the tar melting machine continuously drones, and I’m reminded of standing directly next to Dad in the yard, trying to yell over the sound of the stationary lawn mower left running. All of this is in addition to the day-to-day noises.
Quiet in a deaf school? Only if you can turn your hearing aids off.
No, it’s not quiet…ever. Some days deafness seems like a blessing. When two or three different students are yelling (not words, just yelling) for attention, the AC is blasting full tilt, and the piercing pitch of the bell goes off, I pray for quiet. Instead, the bell signals a herd of stampeding children rushing to get books. Planners belly flop onto the floor. Desks are shuffled in the mad dash out of the room. Taking my ‘post’ in the doorway I am bombarded by the sound of lockers slamming shut. Teachers are talking across the mêlée. Footsteps hurry down the hall.
The scratching, dragging noise of dancing desks starts again as a new class files into the room. Everyone who wants my attention shouts at a varying decibel and pitch level. Ever been yelled at by someone? Not a yell of anger or frustration, not a name shouted across a room – just shouting. An indistinct, uncontrolled, brief, piercing, whoop or yelp. Even teaching isn’t quiet. Someone is repeatedly clicking their pencil, trying to get the lead out. Another student is humming to themself, unaware that I can hear them. The impact of various signs sends smacks, slaps, and taps reverberating around the room.
And that’s on a normal day.
Today, they are putting a new roof on the building. Until this morning, I was unaware that sledgehammers must be used to pound on roof tiles. The throbbing noise just above my head suggests that must be the case. Either that, or they are dropping bowling balls on the roof. When even the deaf kids notice the noise, you know it is bad. Outside the tar melting machine continuously drones, and I’m reminded of standing directly next to Dad in the yard, trying to yell over the sound of the stationary lawn mower left running. All of this is in addition to the day-to-day noises.
Quiet in a deaf school? Only if you can turn your hearing aids off.
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