A Merry Christmas in Spite of Pureed Food Restriction and Peripheral Neuropathy

We had a very nice Christmas in spite of David's problems.  Because of his problem swallowing, all the food he ate had to be pureed, so Jonathan pureed the paella I made.  David ate two bowls.  He was able to eat the flan without any conversion, and he ate two bowls. 

It was hard for him to get up and down the steps because he's lost sensation in his legs, apparently from too many years of dilantin, which causes peripheral neuropathy. 

He was much more interested in discussing Rose in the Titanic--and her red hair--than in the clothes Suzy and bought him, but while I was getting dessert, Suzy and Jonathan got David to try them on. 

Everything was really nice until Suzy told David, who'd wanted to listent ot the Beatles instead of to Christmas music, "The Beatles are waiting for you in the car," which meant that the CD was there for him to listent to all the way back to Oakland.  But David verbally attacked Suzy for trying to deceive him, "You asshole!  They aren't in the car." 

I'm sleepy.  I've been up since 4:00 AM, and Jonathan and I took a wlak along the train at Lands End in the morning.

Merry Christmas. 

City College Outreach at Christmas--Her Token Gesture

Outreach at Christmas

I like to write in the third-person just to get some distance from myself!

 

            A little before 3:00 am, Tina rolled up the down comforter she was sleeping with on the sofa and went softly into her room, where her son Jonathan, in SF from Manhattan for the holidays, was sleeping.  He lifted his head as she entered.

            “I can’t find my Literary Christmas,” she said.

            “Oh,” he replied, his voice kind but scratchy.  “You can take mine.”

            “Is it all right if I write in it?” she asked.  She couldn’t read without talking back, underlining, or taking notes.  She’d learned from the Midnight Disease, a book by a neurologist, that she was a hypergraphiac.  She couldn’t not write.

            “Sure,” he said.  He knew about her affliction.

            So she took his book, returned to the living room, and lit the votive candle she used in memory of her sister, her father, her mother, her aunt, and now a friend who’d just died, and she settled down in the recliner, where she took in her minimalist effort at Christmas.   She and her son had gone to the Emerald Forest  on Sloat, across from Stern Grove and a block from their Nineteenth  Avenue home, right after they’d had a late lunch at the Indian Clay Oven on West Portal, his treat, “Since you’re hosting me.”  That was on Wednesday, right after she’d picked him up at the Glen Park BART station, where he’d come from the San Francisco Airport.  For years she’d picked him up at the airport, a straight drive from their freeway home, but it had usually been with the help of the man in her life (sort of), who  would bring his four-door car but was now feeling tired and anxious about traffic.  When they had anticipated a big Thanksgiving rush, she’d suggested that Jonathan  take BART to their favorite station, and he’d agreed good-naturedly.  They’d tried that a second time a month later.

            So there it was, the tree, somewhere, she felt sure, under all the ornaments that hung like charms on the chain of a charm bracelet—each ornament full of meaning.  Her son’s paternal grandmother had crocheted the red and white bells, and her  own mother had made the gingerbread man whose missing eye Tina and Jonathan had replaced with a white circle she’d shaken out of a hole-puncher and glued on with Elmer’s stick glue.  There were also ceramic bells his godmother had gotten for them in Mexico.  And on the top of the tree stood the antique doll Tina’s sister Dana had gotten at a garage sale because she thought it looked like their mother during the period when she had a perm framing her round face.  She couldn’t remember the year, but searching for the history of the diminishing tree, she’d looked through old albums and found a picture of the angel on a tree in a home they’d left when she’d married a second time in the summer of 1990, so it went back at least as far as 1989.  This year they had put the angel up so high on the tree that the wire hoop was showing under her white satin gown, so Tina had moved her down and placed her facing the sign on the window:  “CITY COLLEGE IS OPEN ENROLL NOW  CCSF.EDU  The letter was in all caps first in yellow and then in red, and in the middle there was a yellow circle with a red heart and white letters saying, “We are all City College.”    

            That was what she was supposed to get to today—to doing  outreach at local book stores. 

            But first a little bit more of Christmas.

            The Advent wreath with purple candles left over from the previous year was on the coffee table along with the ceramic blue and white nativity scene Jonathan’s godmother had brought back from Mexico.  Every other year Tina had waited until Christmas Day to put the figure of Jesus in the manger, and she had waited until January 6 to put the wise men there because she’d read somewhere that that was the tradition in Mexico.  But this year, she’d put everything in the manger the same day.  There would be no more waiting now that classes were out and exams were over. 

            She opened A Literary Christmas and began with the story her son had been reading aloud when she fell asleep on the sofa, Ann Beattie’s “That’s Where You’ll Find Me,” which had a sister-in-law resembling Tina much too much for her comfort.  She read Raymond Carver’s “Put Yourself In My Shoes,” which reminded her only a little bit of the Christmas a year earlier when she and Jonathan had, on the spur of the moment, decided to visit his first home and had been let in by the present owners, who gave them a tour before mother and child went next door to see Jonathan's first baby sitter.  She then read Leo Rosten’s "Night of the Magi,” which would have resonated with her more if she had still been teaching non-credit ESL, where gifts for the teachers ranged from a size DD bra with a bar of soap in each cup to a ceramic statue although close to the end of her non-credit years they’d started giving gift certificates instead.

            But—and this was the thing—she had to get on with the day.  She had to accomplish her mission, which—even before writing Christmas letters or creating a year-end collage—was to do outreach for City College.    She had picked up the material and gotten the orientation a day early—on a Friday-- so that she would be able to visit a friend just back from the hospital, this time with hospice, on Saturday.  The great organizer of the outreach had come in early and explained just what each book store might be willing to put up a poster or take cards for a book graphics class at City College.  After the 8:30 AM briefilng Tina had gone to a 9:30 appointment with a retirement counselor, who asked her to sit down just as Tina’s cell phone, which never rang, rang.  It was Bill, a good friend, who asked her “Are you sitting down?  Karen died last night.” 

            Tina, still in the two layers of pajamas she wore, moved into the study, which had clutter instead of the earlier squalor--the closest she'd come to getting the place in shape.  There were Christmas letters from people who sent out such things before Christmas, Jonathan’s daily plans for the days he would be in San Francisco—an average of two-to three reunions a day—and not quite tucked away the remnants of the semester.  The waste paper basket held the student information forms. 

            Before attending to the business from City College, she needed to contact a friend visiting from Oregon, so she turned on her computer and went into her Outlook inbox, where there was a Jackie Lawson greeting card from this friend.  Tina responded and got a “Failed” message, so she tried again in the time-honored but now obsolete e-mail way that had been replaced by Facebook and maybe now by Wechat.com 

            Then…then…she looked at the two boxes full of CCSF-related material.    One was for her to take to  community based organizations and one was for book stores.  She would go first to the book stores so that Christmas shoppers would be likelier to see the material and she would be able to see the books.  She had a green and white brochure saying “Build your future/study English” from the ESL Department which was already diminished because of the cuts and dropped enrollment once the ACCJC had threatened the accreditation of the city college that had been part of the community since 1935.  But this was a day for looking forward even though she wasn’t looking forward to it.  She had to get started, take that first step that begins “a journey of a thousand miles.”

            The organizer was a brilliant woman who had sued the school district the year that Tina and another teacher had gotten full-time positions over her.  There had been no hard feelings on either side, and years later Tina had realized just how articulate and bright this woman was—though she’d learned from a recent Audible recording of Mindset that she should think not in terms of brilliance, which was a fixed mind-set, but of effort, which showed a growth mindset.  (She noted this with a smirk.)

            Tina would make an effort to get out this material. 

            “And the Transitional Studies Department at City College has free non-credit classes to help students pass the GED at four campuses including John Adams,” she would tell the book store managers.

            There were yellow schedules for the day foreign language classes and blue for the night ones, and the languages included American Sign Language, Chinese, French, German, Italian, Japanese, Filipino (why not Tagalog?  Tina wondered), Russian and Spanish.  (Why not Arabic?) 

            The organizer was a realistic person, so she’d given Tina only one copy of each schedule per bookstore.  They could post it, tape it down for people to see. 

            The poster for  “Bookbinding” was prominent with its GRPH 153 tear-off complete with e-mail contact and 1125 Valencia Street Mission Campus address.  There were beautiful cards also promoting Book Structures, Boxes,  Bindings, a two-unit short course running for 10 weeks starting January 25 and meeting from 10 to 3 in the Mission Campus Basement, room 012.  There were twelve colorful (as opposed to last semester’s black-and-white) schedule of classes , and twelve flyers saying “CCSF only $46/unit  Fees waived for those who qualify for BOG waiver.  Noncredit classes free.”  It gave the start date and the website with the plea “Don’t delay!” 

            That was advice that she’d have to heed. 

Imagined Audience

Facebook overseers are studying what people are writing but not posting and think that when people don't send what they write, it's because they fear disapproval by the "imagined audience."  I can't imagine an audience.  When I write, I think that maybe Linda, my friend who suggested it in July 2011, will read it from time to time, and that's it.  But last night at a Christmas party, a colleague I like a lot (Hey, now you can be my imagine audience, L. !) told me she'd found it.  I asked her how, and she said something about looking up something to see how people felt about City College and then finding someone talking about ESL 140 or ESL 142 and noticed my name in tiny print somewhere at the bottom.  Hmm.  So now there are two L's who've seen it at least once, and I occasionally read what I write myself--and I guess I  mean that I myself sometimes read what I write and that I occasionally read what I write myself.  I feel that I'm writing to myself but with caution if not with proof-reading.

Last Day of Finals

It's so hard to balance things, and I'm tipping over.  I'm giving an exam at 8:00 sharp this morning--still more presentations and a T-F quiz to remind them of what they've learned.

This morning I organized all this and read late reports.  One student writes in his self-evaluation "I began feel relas.  I introduced my sleep.  I think my sound wsn't loudly.  I will change it for next presentation.  I think I said every words clearly about presentain.  I proud of this.  I standed the center of class.

Another student wrote as part of her self-evaluation, "I stammered to my 23," which I interpreted as until she was twenty-three years old?  "At present I speak ok but in my memory still is a trace this of fact.  (of this fact?)  Therefore, I avoid every public speeches and I'm very scared when I have to do it.  This feeling paralyse me.  Another story is that I work as caregiver 24 hors 3-4 days per week.  My charge is her 87, she is nice and smart (God thank) but she is owner only 2 teeth in front of her mouth and a little deaf.  Can one practice English with her?  I decided to finish my work as caregiver because this work except not bad salary nothing give me."

An End-of-the-Semester Day

I spent an hour and a half getting some documents--e-exchanges, reports, grade calculations--ready for an appointment to help a DSPS (Disabled Students Services and Programs)  student I like a lot.  Then we spent more than the planned 45 minutes with him in his DSPS counselor's office.  I hope it will help direct him to a path where he can be successful.  I gave him three class pictures including one where he's facing the Diego Rivera Mural being described by the student docent while one student has completely turned his back to it, and another student is using her iPhone.

I also announced to credit and non-credit ESL faculty that a teacher we know and love is in the hospital and hopes to return home for Christmas with her family.

I picked up the reading and grammar scores, which were pretty good, all things considered.  I took Laura and Susan a canister of nuts to enerize them as they continue this end-of-the semester scoring tests ritual.

Tomorrow I'll be back with a summary of the essays, but for now...

An Interview on the Heart of the Campus CCSF

Exam week:  I got to class early to give a make-up test to a student who was absent, and I stayed after the two-hour exam to give an early test to a student who's leaving to go back to her country for the first time in six years.  Then I went back to campus to meet with a student with a tale to tell, and the tale makes CCSF sound as good as it gets, as did the taping itself..  It was only on the spur of the moment that I suggested a recording with  Dmitry discussing his last-minute effort to get help with an assignment involving the recording of a song for speech and listening class.  More on that later.  But when we got to the library to look for a room, Cyrus (one of the librarians) told us all rooms were reserved but that he thought they could help us in Audio Visual, downstairs.  Raymond and Jeremy both greeted us in a very welcoming way and immediately set us up in a quiet room where we could record.  Later I saw Jill, who manages that office, and she said, "We want to help.  That's why we're here."  When she said she was looking for models of how to do things, I told her, "You're a model.  Look no further."

Give a Grade for Following Directions

I sometimes say we instead of you when talking about who should follow directions.  I sometimes skip them too, guessing, thinking I'm saving time.  Some students told me at midterm that they don't like reading out loud, but if they don't read out loud, they don't read the directions at all.    One of the most recent assignments was to draw (not on the blackboard) a question and then prepare to present the question and the answer to the class. 

So here are the directions:

Write your name after “The speaker’s name.”  (Don’t write anything else on this paper.)

The speaker’s name:_____________________________

Question:__________________________________________________

  And of course, the student who was absent when we read these directions out loud has filled it out with both her name and the question.  In her absence, we discussed the reason for not writing the question:  The speaker needs to make it so clear orally that the evaluator can  pick it up from the speaker. 

I need to add a category in grading and have a percentage of their grade based on following directions.  After all this is a speaking-listening class.  I even give them visuals for their listening.

We'll talk about defects in my listening skills another time.