Category Archives: Young Adult

Wait, did we just fight over a light?

Confession- I’ve been seeing this man, Jack for several weeks now. Really, like a month. He’s great, he’s fun. But the dude can kinda act like a princess. For example, he kept dropping hints about how he was losing an hour of his precious sleep when he stays over at my house and how he is tired. blah blah blah.I have to wake up 1-1.5 hours before him and get ready and apparently, I am ruining his slumber. His biggest complaint was about the light from the bathroom while I drowsily get ready… IMG_6034.JPGIMG_6035.JPG

IMG_6036.JPG I just couldn’t EVEN handle it…. So ya, I went off about a light. A light.

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Dardos Award

premio-dardos

Huge shout out to TheSassyBitch for the nomination for the Dardos Award! Go follow her and discover her amazing journey as a confident, young adult as told by her blog posts at I Put The Ass in Sassy.

I am nominating one of my favorite and most genuinely authentic teacher bloggers, Chasing Piggens! She inspires me every day (or at least every few days when I sneak a moment of time away from grading or making lesson plans, to catch up on her adventurous life!

More posts to come! BRB, busy slamming my head through a wall and attempting to learn and learn how to teach Algebra simultaneously.

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Tears, Fears, and Mascara Smears

“What?!” I looked on in horror as Carey stood in the doorway of my classroom. Judging by the sight of her, it was safe to assume that someone surely had died.

Carey is another first year org-member and fellow first year, clueless math teacher at The Delta High School. I like her a lot, we get along really well, and she is what I would consider a phenomenal first year teacher. She has her shit together, she is on top of everything, and she know the content (that’s a big one that I certainly do not have). But here Carey was, standing at my door face all puffy and red with tears welling up behind her eyes.

“I–I,” she began, stammering through her hysterics. “I just had a parent-teacher conference and this mom just ripped me to shreds!”

Carey then went on to explain the whole story behind the particular student and the details of the conference itself. Basically, the student is struggling and not asking for help, not coming to tutorials, not doing his homework, and left 75 percent of his test completely blank. “And—and.. his mom said my biggest fear of all!” she now sat slumped in a desk tears streaming down her cheeks. Dear God, I thought to myself, racing over to close my door, the bell is going to ring in seven minutes get your shit together, Carey! 

“She said it’s because I’m a bad teacher!” 

Christ.

I just, emotionally do not understand how people take some of this shit so personally. No shit a mom says it’s your fault! She just cares about what is best for her kid and her kid is probably trying to cover it up and save his ass by convincing mama and daddy at home that none of it could ever be his fault. I pulled this shit only 5 years ago! I know exactly how the story goes. 

All I could say to Carey was a nicer version of…

toughenup

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Y’all are so NEEDY

Neediness. 

The one true characteristic that makes me rage with anger, fill with anxiety, and gasp desperately for air.

Needy friend who always wants to hang out or asks “what are we doing tonight?”. NOPE. Cannot handle. Needy guy who’s emotional stability somehow depends upon the number of times I replied to his texts that day or the hours that we hung out during the week. NOPE. Be gone with you. And finally, that leaves me to the neediest of all humans.

Children. 

I see the faces of 100 children a day and 96 of them are some of the neediest human beings I have ever encountered.

“Ms. Wildes!” “Ms. Wildes”, 25 voices call my name as I race frantically between partners during “buddy work”. “Ms. Wildes, my hand has been up for a long time!” “Ms. Wildes, we need help over here,” “Ms. Wildes, can I borrow your pencil sharpener again?” “Ms. Wildes, I need to go to the office to call my mom,” “Ms. Wildes, does this look right so far?”

“Ms. Wildes!” “Ms. Wildes!”

75 percent of the time, the scenario goes as follows…

“Ms. Wildes, HAAALP!” the innocent children shriek. “Yes?” I dart over from across the room, practically breaking a sweat with crazy pieces of hair falling out of my bun around my eyes. “Ms. Wildes, we don’t get it,”. “Ok… Where are you getting stuck?” “EVERYYYTHING!” the children make similar sounds to the dying mammals in the science video I saw a teacher testing during my planning period. “Alright. Well, did you read the question?” “…No,”

FACEPALM 

“Ok,” the anxiety in my voice gradually becomes audible as I signal to 3 other groups that I see their hands and will be right with them. “Start with that. Read it. Read it twice. I only help students who help themselves,” I race off almost slipping on the dirty floors to repeat the same conversation with another 4 students.

It often takes every fiber of my being not to look up to the sky and scream “Shut the fuck upppp already!!!” at the top of my lungs. In my daydreams, I have this outburst, the room goes silent, and all my students stare at me, blink twice, and turn to their assignments, reading the questions and no longer needing all this hand-holding bullshit. Instead, I reopen the wound on the inside of my cheek and tap my foot to communicate my disappointment.

By the end of the day I am exhausted, thirsty, and so overwhelmed with the anxiety of having 100 needy-as-shit kids that I can hardly handle reading and responding to any text messages that I have missed since 8:00 a.m.

I love kids. Love ’em. But this whole experience has made me seriously question if I could ever be a

  1. dog owner
  2. mother
  3. wife
  4. anyone who anyone else depends on for their own livelihood

Shit. I’m fucked.

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Solemnly Swear

I solemnly swear that I will get back into blogging and reporting on the daily adventures that is my weird, strange, and exciting life as a high school teacher and young adult in Mississippi. 

Where to begin? School has been in session for a month. It’s manageable. It’s fun. It’s frustrating. 

For one month, I have dreamt about lessons and students and tests. For one month I have been excited to get ready every morning and go to work because I like what I am doing. For a solid month I have not once dreaded or wish that I did not have to drive 15 miles and work for sometimes 13 straight hours in uncomfortable shoes. I love my kids. They crack me up. They make me proud. They piss me off. They completely amazing me with their emotional and academic intelligence. 

One day, I threw my dry erase marker clear across the classroom. Clashing against an unfinished bulletin board and plummeting to the board, the marker silenced every voice and focused every eyes on me. “Scream out an answer to me one more time without thinking it through and SEE WHAT HAPPENS!” my voice was calm and probably 20 decibels lower than my usual “teacher voice” but I spoke with urgency and seriousness. 

I’m not proud of that moment, but you better believe they haven’t told me that 1,800- 0 is 0 ever since. 

I’m aware that I am not a good teacher. I’m a first year freaking teacher. No shit I’m not God’s gift to children. I don’t expect to be. I’m trying my darn hardest and I’m doing the best I can. I think the realist in me is one of the only things keeping me afloat and happy. 

All my friends that are on the verge of having a mental breakdown, Pierce who dry heaved in a parking lot before school because he has so much anxiety associated with failing kids, Kenzie, who came into my classroom after school, closed the door and broke down into tears about picking up a note a kid was writing to the guidance counselor asking to be switched out of her class; they all are expecting perfection of themselves and perfection of their children. 

The kid wants to switch out because you are actually making kids learn and think! You cannot take things personally. 

Good thing I’m an island. Makes teaching not easy but, manageable. 

 

Careers and Tears

Moving has been a heinous, disgusting disaster. 

And I haven’t even moved in yet. 

Long story short, here is a bullet pointed list of the fuck ups and ugly run ins that I have encountered. 

  • roommate went out of town–no one was there to open the apartment 
  • apartment complex opened the door (after needing 2 phone calls, written permission, and a reminder)
  • for Cooper who had the key to my storage box 
  • the storage box that was sitting on a trailer at the Uhaul down the street 
  • waiting for the movers who showed up on time 
  • but the Uhaul people acted like my pod, which was sitting outside, didn’t exist 
  • so I had to reschedule to movers 
  • and tell Cooper to leave the apartment key and the storage key under the mat 
  • of the empty apartment 
  • where the movers would be coming to the next day, a Monday 
  • at 8:00 AM, when everyone normal works 
  • except for my mother, who now-SUPRISE! runs her own small business what the actual fuck? 
  • mom gets there by 8:00 AM and so do the movers 
  • who bring with them an empty storage box 
  • and pack my stuff and drive it back to the Uhaul place 
  • who then has to combine my two boxes because, fuck you, y’all screwed up and I’m not shipping 2 boxes… 
  • and once they get everything to fit in one box the get it set up to be shipped 
  • and it won’t be here for a week… 

What is that nonsense?!?! Ok, rant over. 

 

Isolated.

If I wasn’t outspoken about my beliefs before, seven weeks of discussing race, class, gender, equity, micro-aggressions, and being “anti-racist” has ensured that I cannot sit silently and nod to ideas and actions that I just do not agree with.

If I did, I would get a fucking ulcer. 


Backstory: Last week, I visited my grandparents. My grandfather who I adoringly call “Pappy” is a Baptist Deacon and obviously, very conservative. Because of his knowledge about Christianity, I asked him, in all seriousness, to teach me about some of the Christian denominations that believed in equality of the sexes.

I didn’t even get started about equality for LGBTQ identities… 

He then went on a tangent about how those denominations are not on “God’s path” because women are not “the same” as men, God made the sexes differently. “That’s biblical and that’s that”. 

Well,” I scoffed. “I guess I can’t be a Christian then, because I don’t believe in a religion that sees me as inferior,” which of course, horrified him.

He then sent me a pleasantly condescending email about how he will be praying for me to accept Jesus and the “teachings of Christ”. Naturally, I screen shotted the sucker and texted it to my family in our group text. Here is what happened…  

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Now, I almost see my mother’s point. Why even bother with the old fart, right?

Because the issue is worth talking about, because I have things to say, because I have the ability to argue my opinion only because of the activists that came before me argued with the “old farts” and saw their movement as “worth it” even when they thought they could not change their minds. Even when they thought they could not change the minds of a nation.

Because becoming passive to oppression and inequality is the exact same thing as doing the oppressing yourself. 

Then, for my mother (who, might I add taught me to defend myself, about gender equity, about not being a bystander to racism and hatred of ANYONE) to tell me that some things aren’t worth arguing about physically hurt. 


Dear Mom,

WHAT?! You told me these things matter?!

You modeled this for me when I was seven. You wrote a letter to a Louisiana State Senator because you believed that the use of the word “nurturing” in criteria for state teaching evaluations was sexist language that perpetuated a majority female occupation and simultaneously perpetuated a stereotypical expectation of how women should act. AND DIDN’T STOP until you were listened to. AND GOT THE LANGUAGE changed.

AND TAUGHT YOUR NINE AND SEVEN YEAR OLD DAUGHTERS ABOUT WHAT YOU WERE DOING AND WHY AND HOW. 

You modeled this for me the time I was 14 and came home to school and repeated a “funny joke” I had heard that day. “A woman just can’t be President, because then once a month the whole nation would come crashing down”. You didn’t fucking laugh. You shamed me for my ignorance, for laughing, for not realizing the offensive nature of what this boy had said. You taught me how to combat this statement next time and why it was important.

Mom, when did you get so passive?


This is an example of how I am increasingly feeling isolated from my own family. Different paths, different pages.

HELP!

XOXO,

Sara Wildes 

First of all, not happening.

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I would like to castrate the person with enough balls to think that I would EVER give my address or read any fucking letter of the one, the only, Dexter Dickwad. 

  1. I give no shits about your “closure”. No shits are given. 
  2. Your “closure” is never going to fucking happen, because you are inherently dishonest and manipulative and frankly: scary. That doesn’t go away. I’m not the last girl that you will pull bullshit with. 
  3. I will NEVVVVER give you access into my new and might I add fucking great  life that I have built here for myself. 
  4. Especially physical access by giving my ADDRESS. NOPE. NADA. NO WAY.  
  5. Get over it. 

This, officially, positively will be the last post I ever write in regards or pertaining to Dexter.

letitgo

An Extroverted Introvert

Confession: I’m secretly an introvert. 

No one would ever really know it, unless you look really close. I am outgoing, I enjoy meeting new people, I’m talkative and rather loud.

But I recharge by being alone. I love doing things by myself. I love being around people from 9-5, but after that, I love to be around  absolutely no one. In fact, I get pissed and extremely irritated if my alone time, my “me time”, my rituals of recharging are violated.

Going to the gym and exercising was my “me time” for a long time. That is until my friends began tagging along every fucking time. My room was my “me place”, until people starting coming in and coming over at their convenience. Eating breakfast alone every morning in my university’s dining hall was my “me time” until random friends began to sit with me to “catch up and chat”. Get the fuck away from me. This is my me time. Shoo. 

But I can’t say that to anyone. I can’t tell anyone that or explain myself because people do not understand an extroverted introvert. People don’t have a lot of tangible experiences with people like me. “But you’re so social!” they would exclaim, but what they don’t know is that I’m only able to be that way after I’ve had my hours and hours of independent and silent recharge time.

I have spent approximately 4 weeks surrounded by masses and masses of people. I’m bursting at my seams to get some quiet time and my own fucking space. It is exhausting. Everyone wants to talk. Everyone wants to just exist next to each other. I have no desire for either of these options… I’m around people and talking from 6:30 am until 11:00 pm every god damn day.

I went to the isolated and undiscovered second floor of the library to work and to chill. That lasted a few days before some crazy, chatty bitch followed me up there and “discovered” a great new working space. It’s now crowded with chatty bitch and her 8 chatty friends… Fuck.

I can’t go to my room because my roommate literally never leaves. I’ve never even seen her in the printing lab or copy center… I don’t know how she has been doing her lesson plans for the past 2 weeks… No idea.

That is why, I went to visit my sister this weekend. She lives 3 hours away. She is pretty damn similar to me in the sense that we both have no need to speak or socialize to feel fine about ourselves. We can literally sit and relax, watch a movie, do absolutely nothing, for hours on end with little-to-no verbal communication.

It was exactly what I needed. But still, it was too short.

Because here I came, back to campus, back to ATF social hour feeling fine and recharged. My resting bitch face was slightly less bitchy and life was ok. At least so I thought.

That was until I walk into my dorm room and my fucking roommate is cuddling her god damn boyfriend who is visiting for the weekend. I should have requested to have my own room. I thought angrily.

I fucking hate people 90% of the time. 

 

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Fairly Certain They Just Might Change the World

Confession: I have the best teaching quad and Org. Member Advisor (OMA).

Between the four of us, we (attempt to) teach 18 high school students Algebra I. Each and every one of the other teachers in my quad are the most amazing, sincere, humble, and inspirational human beings. I’m fairly certain that they just might change the world.

And my OMA, don’t even get me started! This man is insightful, caring, warm hearted, and damn good at what he does. I am so thankful. His name is Aaron and I adore him. I’ll never stop learning from him, he’s that kind of great.

Because all I have heard so far is horror stories.

Teaching quads getting into fights. Teaching quads hating each other. Teaching quads with know-it-alls. Teaching quads with lazy slackers. OMAs that undermine the whole ATF experience. OMAs that are harsh and unsupportive. OMAs that aren’t very accessible or available.

My quad however, is golden. I have Catherine, a South Louisiana corp member and a bad ass from New York City. Buddy, another bad ass from Biloxi, Mississippi. And finally, there is Kacey. Sorry quad, but Kacey is the most bad ass and I adore her. She is from the Delta. She’s back to teach and she is damn, damn, DAMN good at what she does. I learn from all three of them every day. We get along. We are real friends. And I really respect them.

Every morning, Buddy and I eat our breakfast together in the dining hall before the other org members that teach at our school get there. We both don’t like to feel late. Every morning, Buddy plays gospel music on his iPhone for us as we eat and preaches nothing but positivity. It’s our special time and it starts me off feeling like I can, we can, do anything.

It’s exhausting, don’t get me wrong. But I am so invested. We have jokingly named ourselves Team Aaron and Team Aaron is so invested. I don’t sleep a lot. I don’t blog a lot. I write a lot of lesson plans that I don’t exactly use because you cannot plan for the exact direction the kids will guide your class. But I don’t mind all the stress and late nights.

Because so far, I’m having the time of my life.

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