May 16, 2010
Fourteen years ago, I was teaching English for three classes and physical education for two when at the end of the school year I was told that I would be a full-time physical education teacher for the upcoming year.
I could have been upset. Teaching middle school physical education was very close to my idea of career hell. The boys never took their P.E. clothes home for a washing and were so spazzed out with hormones that they were basically smelly Tasmanian devils who wanted to argue with me about the rules of soccer.
“That was off-sides!”
I was thinking, who cares - this is a freakin P.E. class, not the World Cup, but had to maintain my authority. “No, your angle is all wrong for making that kind of call.”
The girls, on the other hand, were just as bad. More interested in their hair and picking clover flowers to make necklaces than participating in Ultimate Frisbee (and who could blame them), I spent most of the time yelling at them to watch out or they’d get hit with the ball or frisbee or the boys who were actually participating and not watching out for them.
Then there were my esteemed colleagues who thought it was fine to teach the girls self-defense while the boys learned wrestling. Oh, and who called me to tell me that even though it was 24 degrees outside, if the students didn’t have grey sweats, they could only wear their P.E. shorts and shirts.
So, you would think that being told I was going to get to teach five classes of physical education, I would have contemplated a flying leap off some close by cliff.
Instead, I was very Zen about the whole thing. When concerned colleagues asked me about it, I responded so sweetly, “Everything happens for a reason. It may be awhile before I figure it out, but there has to be a good reason for it.”
I remembered being so wise this week when I was wondering why it seems no matter what I try, it goes wrong, at least wrong by my standards.
I started the week with a rejection from a literary magazine for a piece I submitted. I want to mention here that my reading group thought the piece was great. I want to suggest that my reading group start their own literary magazine so they could accept all my pieces they think are great and publish them.
The rejection is just one small failure in three years worth of failures, and maybe the straw that broke the camel’s back. Really, how much rejection and failure can one person take, especially if that one person is me? I’m thinking I’m glad the camel’s back is broke (metaphorical camel, I love me some animals even smelly, lumpy ones that spit) because now maybe I can get a new and improved camel that isn’t even going to haul all the straws of my failures, but gallop me to some luxurious oasis so I can be fed grapes, fanned and take naps whenever I feel like it.
Yes, I have been telling myself with all these failures that I am learning and growing. Mr. Magana used to tell us in Spanish class that failure builds character. I wonder, does character grow in your butt and thighs, because they’ve grown quite a bit over the last few years, too.
But I am ready for the big reveal, what was all this failure really about? I’m ready to find out what the good reason for it was. Because if things don’t start actually working out, at least once in awhile, I may just stop trying at all.
But wait, isn’t that true Zen?
This week I will remember that good things happen in good time, and remind the universe that this time is as good as any.
