To my ego’s great surprise and pleasure, I have been encouraged by several
people to start writing again. I wasn’t sure, though, if I could publish
anything but objective information to a public audience since I’m currently
trying to break into adulthood. Maybe I’ll revisit the privacy settings and
restrict viewership to anyone who has full access to my Facebook…if anyone
wants to read this at all.
“Baby Teacher” was a term thrown around in the School of Education as we were instructed to approach our vocation with a large amount of humility. I began calling myself one during student teaching—most notably when one of my tenth graders would point out a typo on their assignment sheet (THE HORROR!). The kids, who were only five, six, or seven, years younger than myself, adopted the label when I asked them for some feedback at the end of the semester. Luckily, most of those comments began with “Even though you’re a baby teacher” (and sometimes “your a baby teacher”) and ended with a compliment I couldn’t have deserved.
I’ll provide full disclosure here, I started writing this post after watching an episode of that HBO show Girls. I read up on the creator, Lena Dunham, after seeing a blurb about the show in Rolling Stone and immediately identified with her. The show, if you’ve seen it, is more or less based on her post-college life—a period of time that offers the everyday anguish of a first-world Caucasian woman who has been brought up with the luxury of choice. NPR summarized the criticism of the show perfectly saying that it’s “narcissistic, lacks racial diversity and showcases whiny, privileged millennials complaining about topics only relevant to whiny, privileged millennials.”
But that’s most of us.
This blog won’t just be about “recognizing my white privilege”; I tried the whole third-wave feminist blogging thing and decided it was too revealing. It’ll mostly be about this weird time in life. Where you’re either over or under-qualified for the jobs available to you (i.e. not many), needing to be on your own, but—in many instances—still desperate for the support and advice of your parents.
For the record, my life isn't nearly as raunchy or scandalous as Girls. Just wanted to make that obvious.
I finally have an abundance of time to do things like this. The spring was full of life lessons, but no time to record them between a full-time unpaid internship, RA obligations, classes, and a relentless case of mononucleosis that I’m still trying to shake. I prefer the routine of this summer: occasional photo shoots, sporadic babysitting, subbing and paper-correcting for money, and dinners made with Mr. Street that all share a base of either rice or pasta.
Unlike Dunham’s character on Girls, I can afford my North Portland rent. But similarly to her (specifically in episode six or seven), I see the appeal of home with its supportive community, full fridge, and clean living. Nevertheless, I have chosen a dank basement near UP for the summer and will try my hardest to entertain the anonymous eyes on the internet through this blogging attempt.
More soon, I’m sure. Thanks for reading.
“Baby Teacher” was a term thrown around in the School of Education as we were instructed to approach our vocation with a large amount of humility. I began calling myself one during student teaching—most notably when one of my tenth graders would point out a typo on their assignment sheet (THE HORROR!). The kids, who were only five, six, or seven, years younger than myself, adopted the label when I asked them for some feedback at the end of the semester. Luckily, most of those comments began with “Even though you’re a baby teacher” (and sometimes “your a baby teacher”) and ended with a compliment I couldn’t have deserved.
I’ll provide full disclosure here, I started writing this post after watching an episode of that HBO show Girls. I read up on the creator, Lena Dunham, after seeing a blurb about the show in Rolling Stone and immediately identified with her. The show, if you’ve seen it, is more or less based on her post-college life—a period of time that offers the everyday anguish of a first-world Caucasian woman who has been brought up with the luxury of choice. NPR summarized the criticism of the show perfectly saying that it’s “narcissistic, lacks racial diversity and showcases whiny, privileged millennials complaining about topics only relevant to whiny, privileged millennials.”
But that’s most of us.
This blog won’t just be about “recognizing my white privilege”; I tried the whole third-wave feminist blogging thing and decided it was too revealing. It’ll mostly be about this weird time in life. Where you’re either over or under-qualified for the jobs available to you (i.e. not many), needing to be on your own, but—in many instances—still desperate for the support and advice of your parents.
For the record, my life isn't nearly as raunchy or scandalous as Girls. Just wanted to make that obvious.
I finally have an abundance of time to do things like this. The spring was full of life lessons, but no time to record them between a full-time unpaid internship, RA obligations, classes, and a relentless case of mononucleosis that I’m still trying to shake. I prefer the routine of this summer: occasional photo shoots, sporadic babysitting, subbing and paper-correcting for money, and dinners made with Mr. Street that all share a base of either rice or pasta.
Unlike Dunham’s character on Girls, I can afford my North Portland rent. But similarly to her (specifically in episode six or seven), I see the appeal of home with its supportive community, full fridge, and clean living. Nevertheless, I have chosen a dank basement near UP for the summer and will try my hardest to entertain the anonymous eyes on the internet through this blogging attempt.
More soon, I’m sure. Thanks for reading.
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