Molly’s Weblog

 Friday, May 8, 2009

Waiting Room

It’s almost one in the afternoon, but it feels to me like seven in the evening, or perhaps ten is a better estimate. I have been up since 4:35 this morning, which in short means that I’ve now been awake for double the time I was asleep last night. Beside me are the two people who share this situation with me; Clay and Maureen look nothing like me, but we are alike in all the ways that matter. At the moment they’re both dozing, my sister folded in on herself, using her purse and jacket as a makeshift pillow, while Clay is open, head leaning on the wall, feet propped on the table in front of us. He is breathing like Darth Vader because of how he is leaning, attempting to find enough comfort for sleep. At this thought a line from a song begins to play over and over in my mind; “There’s no comfort in the waiting room.”

            It’s one in the afternoon and this room is filled with artificial light, stiff chairs, and a large print of Jesus. I can see three fake plants but no real flowers and two elderly women who appear to be unconcerned; in fact they seem rather happy. They seem to me to be the brightest things in the room.

            By nature I am understanding, but in exhaustion I am impatient and easily frustrated. I do not enjoy sitting idly and worrying, however in this situation I do not have a choice. A nurse has been by twice to tell us how this six-hour operation is going; from what she’s said it seems to be going well. More than almost anything in the world, I hate sitting here feeling useless. With Mo and Clay both sleeping I’m left with my thoughts to occupy me, and they fly in all directions. I suppose I should realize that this won’t be the last time I’ll have to sit in the waiting room of a hospital; after this surgery, my dad’s troubles are not over. And of course, one day others I know will probably need help of some sort or another. Which means that sooner or later, I will have to learn how to be patient.

Friday, March 27, 2009

Delivering Boxes

            There’s a group of five girls who I went to Stargate with. The six of us rarely see each other, as we are spread between five different schools; Horizon, Mountain Range, Northglenn, Smoky Hill, and Legacy, and so the time we do spend together is precious. A few of these girls I’ve known since elementary school, the rest since middle school. There is little they don’t know about me, and I about them—even the things we don’t tell most of our friends at our own schools, we share with each other. Over spring break, one of the girls, Tia—who I have known since before Stargate—and I decided to show our appreciation for our friends in a unique way. On Wednesday we got together, found four boxes, and compiled the addresses of the other four girls in the group—two live in Thornton, one lives in Northglenn, and the other lives in Centennial, thirty-two miles and forty-five minutes from Tia’s house. We then went to the dollar store and Big Lots and bought random items that could only be appreciated when given with love. We bought cheap plastic kites, Easter eggs, milk-chocolate rabbits, packages of instant noodles, sippy cups, and tangerine-flavored gum. We tried the thrift store for shirts for each of them, but found nothing to our liking and so decided against it. We returned to Tia’s and made friendship bracelets—bracelets out of colored floss or thread, usually just a series of knots that looks neat. We loaded the items into the boxes and printed out notes to place on top of the boxes. They read things like “For Ali Baba…Open me! From, your Stalker,” and “To Poofy-Hair…Open me! From, your mum.” To anyone but us, the notes were utter nonsense.

            We printed off mapquest directions to Centennial and made a plan of who to deliver to first. Over the course of two and a half hours we dropped off all four boxes, leaving them on the door step and driving away quickly. At one house a dog started barking when I was leaving the anonymous gift; we had a moment of fear that the door would be opened and we would be recognized, our plan foiled, but I got back in the car and Tia hit the gas before we could be spotted. It was close to seven when we finally got back to my house and Tia returned home. But less than two hours later, the texts began arriving. “Did you get a box?” one read. “Did you leave Sofia a box?” read another. “Do you know who sent the boxes?” On Facebook, the debate continues, two days later. Tia and I pretended that we received boxes as well, and I don’t know when we’re going to reveal that it was us. There’s something fun about being the anonymous gift-sender; we played a good joke, but no one is the butt of it. What our friends don’t know is who sent the boxes; but what they do know is that someone in our group cares enough to spend her money and time just to give the rest a good chuckle. It’s not a sentimental gift, and it’s not expensive, but in a way it’s something more than that, because it couldn’t be appreciated by everyone.

            There’s a reason I consider this an educational experience. In driving to Centennial and back, I learned something about physical distance; the girl who lives up there has been left out a lot since she moved after eighth grade, but since I’ve done the drive once, I wouldn’t mind doing it again to see her. But more importantly, the entire scheme was Tia’s idea. It’s not something I would have thought of, although I did convince her to make a couple changes to the original plan. I learned that it might be worth it to spend all day making a gift for someone who doesn’t know who it’s from; there’s a satisfaction in knowing that they enjoyed it, even though it was small. None of them have thanked me, since they’re not sure that I gave it to them. But I know they ate some chocolate that I gave them, and found a hand-made bracelet, and chewed some tasty gum. I know they have a kite of their own to fly when the weather turns nice, and a mystery to solve in the meantime, and some instant noodles for when they have nothing else to snack on. And most importantly, I know that they know their loved and appreciated; they don’t need to know it was me. There’s something wonderful about that that’s difficult to describe. 

Wednesday, February 18th, 2009

Math

For the last month and a half, I have been spending my fourth period in a Math II class, taught by Ms. Villani. I’m not being a Teacher’s Assistant, exactly, though I do grade papers for her occasionally. What I’m really doing is trying to see if I’d like to be a math teacher. In March I will be shadowing a math professor at CU for Legacy 2000—but this is something I’m doing on my own so that I can compare. Since I’ve already learned all the material that she teaches in class, Ms. Villani lets me walk around and help students when they need help, or sit with a student that needs additional help or encouragement. However, this only happens very occasionally, so I usually just help the kids who raise their hands.

            What I’ve found is that I really enjoy this period when I’m able to actually help a student. For example, there was a day that Ms. Villani had me sit with a boy whose name I won’t mention. He was pretty behind, so she had him sit away from his group and just talk to me. I did my best to walk him through the steps he had to take to complete the problems without just telling him the answers, and I think I must have helped him some because he seemed more sure of himself by the time the period was over. Working with him was very interesting for me, because I have never had any difficulty understanding math. I’m not trying to sound conceited—it’s just always been my best subject and I’ve always loved it. Unsurprisingly, most of the kids in Ms. Villani’s fourth period do not love math the way I do, and this kid didn’t seem to be any exception. I remember thinking that I wished I could give him my love of math, not just an understanding of how it works. I wished I could make him see why it’s interesting—even slopes of lines and intercepts.

            Even though this was just a single period that I’m referring to, I feel that it counts as an educational experience because of what I took from it. I enjoyed helping this kid, and I feel like I did something. I’m aware that I sound like nerd when I say that I love math; it doesn’t matter. I would gladly spend the rest of my life doing or teaching math, but what helping this kid made me realize something more. If I did research for the rest of my life, I would find that fascinating. I would love it. But I have the option of doing more than that. I walked away from Ms. Villani’s class that day feeling like I might have actually helped someone; sure, any math decent teacher could have helped him—but on that day, it was me. What I’ve learned, from experience, is that if a teacher is extraordinary, a subject that was previously disliked might come to be enjoyable—and vice versa. If I could be the teacher who makes a student like math, or even just see that math isn’t so bad, then I would feel my time well spent, no matter how frustrating I know it can—and at some point, probably will—become.