Wind? Still no.

Despite restoring the box kite (this time with the Education section of the NY Times), the second flight attempt failed -- I think that flying a kite of this weight will require more wind than I'd planned on.

Updates on other discarded badges: I still need to run 2 miles to pass the Army Physical Fitness test and, therefore, to earn the Athletics badge. A blend of colder weather, personal laziness, and a soul-draining job have kept me exercise-free lately, but I joined the Park Slope YMCA this morning (making use of John's faculty discount!), and so I can promise (or nearly so) a solid badge-finishing effort this very week. Hooray!

This week was a long one, and not entirely in the best of ways. I knew going in that it was going to be my final week teaching at the public school of despair, but I'd thought my last day would be Friday. Until Tuesday night, when my principal asked me to shift my final day to Thursday instead. This was kind of great (hey, extra day off!), but also meant that I had to spring into action-Emily mode, finishing all kinds of project grading, summarizing of student progress, etc. a day ahead of time for the hand-off to the new science teacher. Things went a little bonkers then, and it's hard to feel like you're doing a good job when you're in a great huge rush all the time.

Somehow, all my students found out by Wednesday that I was on my way out (I didn't tell them, I swear), and they were apologetic and guilty about it, though my leaving actually had very, very little to do with them. I told them so, again and again, but reasoning with 13 year olds is tough, especially when you're trying to do it while remaining reticent about your actual motivations, and there were a lot of tears from the girls. (One, though, took me aside and, hilariously, asked "Why is it that people are nice to you when they think you're leaving or dying? I'm not going to change, though. I'm just a bad kid. It's who I am." I have to respect that self-awareness.)

In good news, I'm employed again -- I start on Monday at a private school, teaching elementary school science in Manhattan. Wish me luck! I feel a little social-justice weird about it (is the message I'm sending "yo former students, I'm going to go teach rich kids instead!"), but that's not the point, I promise. The school is gorgeous, and I'm going to have a lot of freedom to design the curriculum, so I'm feeling good about things.

Tonight: Halloween parade in Manhattan. John and I are both going as Philly aspiring celebrity blogger Arthur Kade. We've even got the hats.

Flying a kite: one thing missing

I realized recently that, since moving to New York in July, I've turned into the sort of person I hate -- the kind who never leaves the city. It's easy not to, of course, especially without a car, but still it's not exactly a desirable condition.

So, whatever problems I have, personally or otherwise, with my job (my last week starts tomorrow!), I've got to give them credit: they do the right thing by taking the students up to hike in Rockland County. We went on Friday, and while it wasn't the most rural undertaking (heck, you could pretty much see the Tappan Zee Bridge from the parking lot), it was still worthwhile. The leaves had just reached that yellowy-changed stage, and the quiet made some of the girls downright nervous. I taught a few of them how to make whistles out of acorn caps, which would pretty much be the worst idea ever if they had regular access to acorn caps in Brooklyn.

It was funny to see some of the students out in the woods -- while they're, in many ways, more equipped for life in the city than I am, they're at a total loss in a less-urban environment. Many of them worried that the earthworms we saw would bite them, and one girl in particular told me she was worried about getting eaten by a deer. (No amount of reassurance from me had any effect.) That said, they also appreciated a lot of woodsy things I forget. Every leaf was a source of excitement, and while they worried that pretty much everything might be poison ivy (or just plain poison), they also wanted to know what everything was. What's its name? How does it grow? How many are there? I know I didn't ask those questions when I was growing up, though we could dither about how much that was my regular exposure to things a little outdoorsier and how much was my being a total indoor kid.

Next up, today, was flying last week's box kite, which had been languising on the highest shelf in my house in order to avoid the advances of Charlie the cat. Keys in hand (this time), we got to Prospect Park only to realize we'd forgotten one critical thing.

Wind.

Despite our best efforts (and despite taking up a field that may well have been better used by the high school boys nearby who were totally trying to play football right on top of us, I would describe the kite flying as . . . spotty. Also, as you can see from the picture, I'm kind of a spazzy runner.

I'm pretty sure, honest, that the kite would have flown if there were even the tiniest bit of a breeze. On the few occasions there was the faintest rustling of leaves, I managed to get the kite to take off a little bit, but I think it would require what one might call a blustery sort of day to get in much really good flying. Besides, it's made of dowels and twine, neither of which are known for their lightness/gravity-defying properties, so it's possible that even a lighter kite would have had more success today.

In one last-ditch effort, we went up to our building's roof, where disaster struck. The kite finally remembered, hey, I'm made out of wood, string, and waxed paper, and I've spent the afternoon falling down to the ground. And, in one soul-stirring moment, the paper ripped and the kite was done for the day. (I've left out the photographic evidence of this very moment -- it's far, far too heartbreaking.)

I do think the kite will be flyable, with a few minor repairs. Right now, it's time to focus on replacing the waxed paper. Some kitemakers recommend newsprint or even garbage bags instead, but I'm not sure. Any experts? I'm hoping to make a final kite-flying expedition by Tuesday. (Dear Tuesday, Please, please, please be windy. Love, Emily.)

On being prepared

So, my kite may or may not fly (I still don't know), but it is definitely difficult to break into my apartment.

See, I got home from work raring to finish assembling and begin flying the box kite I started yesterday. Within ten or fifteen minutes (post-snack, of course), John was helping me add waxed paper to the dowel-and-twine armature. We used paper and tape rather than nylon or muslin or some other thin fabric, which may not have led to the most durable kite ever, but probably a reasonably effective one.

(It's worth noting that this is a major advantage of having given notice at my job: for the school year up 'til now, I've been getting home miserable and doing nothing but watching the entire series run of "The Hills" online. Seriously. It's the point where I have strong, strong opinions on Justin Bobby and Audrina's relationship. (Justin Bobby, the "we were never really together" line is beyond lame. I saw you two in Cabo! I saw all the Tammy Faye mascara tears!))

We never made it to the park -- immediately upon walking out the door (which locked behind us, of course) we each realized we'd left our keys inside. Oops.

This was followed by a panicky trip up to the roof (for both of us), down the fire escape to our window (for John), and back up again (John, still) with the news that it's really, really hard to get into our locked, fire-escape window. Ultimately, of course, this is good news, but for this particularly moment it was non-ideal.

Long story short, we made a bunch of phone calls to the super (to no avail), and decided it was time to call the locksmith. And so, instead of spending the evening flying the kite in the park, we spent the evening sitting on the porch waiting for the locksmith to arrive. This was roughly an hour or more, for what it's worth.

By the time things were resolved, we'd learned three things. 1) Our door is really, really hard to break into. So hard, in fact, that the locksmith had to drill out the lock, then replace it with a new one. 2) Calling a locksmith (or this locksmith in particular) would be a great way to break into an apartment, if necessary, because he asked for no ID whatsoever and accepted payment in cash. 3) I will never lock myself out again, because doing so is crazy expensive.

By the time things were resolved, it was also totally dark out. This was an evening-long pursuit. Seriously, dudes, streetlights were on and everything.

First, of course, this means no luck with flying the kite tonight, and I don't know if I'll be able to 'til Sunday, which is kind of a bummer. But second, there's a reason I've gone into all this.

I've kind of failed, a little, at the Boy Scout business tonight. Because, ultimately, I was not (even a little bit) prepared. This is just as much a living-in-the-world issue as a Handbook issue, yeah, but still. I'm not sure what the solution is. Utility belt? Bandolier? Checklist? Signs all over my house? I'm not sure. But there's got to be something.

Box kite frame is a go!

I went to the hardware store on the way home this afternoon to pick up some dowels. A little time spent lashing 'em together (and cheating with the occasional dab of hot glue) later, and I've made a kite frame. This is the handiest I've felt in weeks.

Charlie the cat has been mistaking it for his favorite household appliance, the drying rack, and trying the same things with it (namely, sitting on top of it) that usually bust the drying rack. You are not getting your little paws all over this, Charlie, I swear!

Also, please excuse the Photobooth pictures. John just got home and I don't have the heart to make him photograph my dowel-and-twine project right now. (What am I, five?)

Box kite

I find kite flying oddly stressful.

This says more about me, I think, than about the actual activity. But flying a kite has always felt kind of fraught with peril. Think about it! One minor mistake, and your kite is gone, you've somehow contributed to awful airborne pollution and you're going to wind up killing some albatross somewhere.

But, I've just purchased a little handsaw. And tomorrow, I'm going to build a box kite.

Handbook book club, #3

I begin with a life lesson: never, ever, ever get cranky at the world and decide to cut yourself bangs, vaguely based on those you've seen on one or two particularly hip girls on the train. It will not work out well. Tomorrow will be a day of bobby pins and of a hair-fixing appointment with, um, anyone who'll take me in. Geez.

This week's Book Club selection deals with the outfitting necessary for a scout. This is surprisingly intense, buddies.

So, the equipment. Man, the Boy Scouts were taking things seriously. This section reads more like a catalog than anything else, with the advice that "considerable difficulty has been experienced in the selection of the material used in making coats, breeches, and shirts," including sun tests, acid tests, and unspecified tests of colorfastness and durability. At the prices they're charging -- on the order of 75 cents per shirt -- you're not going to do much better. Would you, young sir, prefer to make your own Boy Scout uniform? No problem. You can procure branded Boy Scout logo buttons for only fifteen cents for a coat-sized set.

What's really interesting is just the focus the Handbook has on the importance of using only official Boy Scout items. I'd be unsurprised now, of course, but the notion that this concern was so prominent a hundred years ago is interesting to me. While earlier sections of the Handbook focus on the virtues of the ideal Scout, his sense of community above self, his total competence in even the most unpleasant situations, and his pride in good behavior, this section reminds us that the Boy Scouts were still a commercial enterprise, and they would sue you if you used the Boy Scout seal without authorization.

I guess we all like to think of times before right now as being somehow purer, or hell, maybe just realer. But today, Lord Baden-Powell and co. would like to remind you otherwise.

Update: Life lesson #2. Don't make an unfortunate hair decision, then post to your blog about it. You'll get an anxious call from your mother asking if you shouldn't have learned to avoid self-directed haircutting by age 12 or so. And she, of course, will be right. Love you, mom.

Radio silence

I haven't posted for a week, but there's a good reason.

I did what is, arguably, the dumbest thing a person can do, especially right now and especially in New York.

I quit my job.

I know, I know. All that stuff I said a few weeks ago, about how a rough beginning to a job does not mean you'll be unsuccessful, about how teachers build up a constantly-evolving skill set and so on and so forth. Clearly, it was kind of a lie.

I knew it would be a big change, moving from a suburban school to an urban one, and I knew that I would need to expect differences. I just wasn't prepared for how much. See, I'm a politeness kind of girl. Yes ma'am, no ma'am, please, thank you, all that. My students don't have that same background as I do. They're punch your face in, I'm not doing this shit kinds of girls. And that, at a very superficial level, is hard for me.

More profoundly, though, is another issue, one that I think isn't uncommon with teachers. I take it very, very personally. There's no better moment than when a kid struggles with a problem, really engages with it, and works and works and works until she finally gets it. That moment of triumph is what I'm there for. However, if you're going to take credit (in some small way) for a kid's successes, you also have to be there for the failures. You have to be right there alongside the kids who don't give a damn exactly as much as you're alongside the kids who want nothing more than to succeed. That's the difficulty of teaching, and it's a difficulty I didn't encounter much at my last school, where the assumption that everyone would graduate and go to college was not a difficult one to make.

Here, though, it's hard. The kids arrive at school with much more difficulty in their homelives than I can begin to address. It's a struggle to get to school each day, and while that means that, ideally, their classroom should be their oasis, it's hard to make that happen. Because, really, if you grow up in an environment in which punching someone else is an acceptable response to frustration, how do you know to leave that at the door when you get to school? And even if you do know, what incentive do you have to act on that knowledge? My students struggle with this, and with the need to balance going to school with taking care of siblings, cousins, parents.

I'm not Sidney Poitier. I'm not Michelle Pfeiffer. I'm not a savior. I'm just a science teacher (and, technically, only that for another two weeks). This is more than I can handle.

I've been meeting with my administration and with other teachers, trying to find a way to make changes in my classroom that really work for my students and for me, but things have just fallen flat. And it was time to get out. My staying wasn't good for my own sanity, nor was it helping my students -- my teaching and their learning just weren't jibing, and it was time to admit it and move along.

So what's next? I have no idea. I'm looking for work (not necessarily in teaching, though that may be nice). Any ideas?

And on your end, if you're a NY certified science teacher? Let me know. I think I've heard rumors of a job opening.

Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

Poor SassyCat! (or, "got a kiln?")

So the sculpting badge set off with great potential -- I had the help of my mother-in-law, Linda, who is not only a regular art teacher but also a deeply talented one. There was no way for this to fail, right?

The sculpture badge is one of the easiest, in theory. There are just two requirements: to sculpt (the medium is not specified) a replica of an object from the vast annals of art and to sculpt (and sketch) an object from nature. While I'd originally planned that my object-from-nature would be a leaf or something equally immobile, Linda had a great suggestion: try for a (somewhat artistically interpreted) Maisie the cat, who is immobile for hours at a time (or at least is asleep for hours at a time) and is also someone I know quite well. Plied with kibble, Maisie agreed to be thus immortalized, and with a few minutes to mix up some of the classic flour-salt-and-water clay, we were on our way.

Clay-Maisie started out pink and round, with big green eyes, an alert pose, and (in what I thought was a particularly good detail) a little white tail tip. Clay-Maisie (henceforth referred to as SassyCat because her little carved-in mouth gave a look full of, well, sass) is also heavy, maybe half a pound. (This is roughly 1/16 the size of Maisie.) While Linda did most of the actual art involved and I giggled and made wry remarks, I was feeling pretty good about it.

Then, tragedy.

We left SassyCat out to dry overnight, expecting to wake to a sturdy pink kitty. Instead we found nothing so much as a patty of cat. (If you reached this site via a Google search for "patty of cat," go away. You are not welcome here, you sick dude. Yeah, I'm talking to you.) SassyCat had shrunk to roughly half of her original height, but her diameter, well, you be the judge.

Clearly, SassyCat had collapsed under the weight of her own sass.

And do not get me started on the scupting from the art canon component of the badge, in which Chinese terracotta horse travelled from, well, yeah.

A timeline below will give you the idea.










Exactly.

SassyCat

Meet SassyCat, pre-drying.

And yet, I did not earn my sculpting badge.

You don't even want to know.

Disaster

So, I'll admit that most of my Hindenburg-related research has consisted of watching clips from the 1975 disaster movie on YouTube. You know. The one with George C. Scott, where a German rigger who died in the crash is the saboteur/bad guy, probably because he will never, ever be able to defend himself (what with being dead and all).

The real Hindenburg crash was far more complex, and so complex that I don't even know if I can really handle writing about it (which is a large part of why it's taken so long!).

The day the Hindenburg crashed, things were already going wrong -- there were thunderstorms in the area, the landing was delayed on several occasions, and the ship, too stern-heavy to land, made multiple sharp turns and dropped ballast in order to even out. After a sharp report (a pistol shot?) and a bright light (a flashbulb?), the passengers felt a small vibration and saw a fire begin on the upper fin. Within minutes, the ship was engulfed in flames. Within 30 seconds, the Hindenburg was destroyed.

Honestly, no one really knows why it crashed. The conspiracy theorists and movie fans like sabotage, because it's clearly the most exciting. That there is no proof means nothing -- after all, they argue, the Germans wouldn't admit it because it would be embarrassing to, well, admit to having sabotaged something, and the Americans wouldn't admit it because it would be embarrassing to have been the victims of sabotage. I suppose you can extend this argument to almost anything, though, and then need proof for nothing. (The heat in my apartment isn't working because of German sabotage, but no one will ever admit it. Damn them!)

If you have a good enough conspiracy, you don't need proof.

The view I like the most is sort of a mess of electricity and weather -- it's the idea that, since the Hindenburg flew through several thunderstorms, and since the outer coating was wet, and since the outer coating (or skin) was connected to the inner coating by nonconductive frames, an electrical charge could have build up, only to ignite when ropes, lowered for landing, grounded the whole shebang. Add to this the idea that the skin was coated in a highly flammable varnish, and we have a hell of a conflaguration.

There are some others, sure, suggesting that the ship was hit by lightning and lots of it, or that the sharp pre-landing turns punctured some of the hydrogen tanks, thereby releasing the flammable gas.

In all, there's no actual conclusion. I think I bit off more than I could chew with this one, dudes.