Language Investigation #2: School, Language, and Friendship

Reading and writing became my struggle for approval and acceptance during my academic years. The struggles arose from boredom and distraction in class and from argument and loss at home and fused together like two cursive letters hooked by monkey tails.

The summer before kindergarten my grandma suffered a stroke; a year later my parents divorced. I can barely remember my Grandma Dorothy’s voice, except that her pitch was low and her tone was stern. After her stroke, I mostly heard a grunt when she was hoisted from wheelchair to toilet seat. While dangling my legs from her bed in the nursing home, I doodled in a variety of kindergarten prep workbooks--the ones that had the fancy stickers inside--or copied letters onto a tablet with ruled lines eight times the width of collage ruled notebook paper.

I credit my mother--the savior to her speechless mother-in-law--for putting aside her life to care for me and place chubby Crayolas in my doll size hands. I credit her for being strong and putting aside her own ambitions to serve her immigrant parents and her alcoholic husband. Mom brought Sesame Street into the living room, Dr. Seuss into my playroom, and maintained safety in our home.

My mother’s parents came to Wisconsin from Germany in the 1950s to start a barbershop. As young entrepreneurs and witnesses to WWII, my grandparents struggled financially and psychologically. Often, their children were subject to their sarcasm and emotional neglect. I remember my grandfather’s cruel humor as he imitated Quasimodo and my grandmother’s cold demeanor--she taught me how to count to ten in German and the sensation of a wooden spoon on one‘s bottom. My mother grew up able to understand spoken German but never how to speak it. Her parents disowned her when she left my father--in any language, that was their way of saying they disapproved of her choices.

Besides the silent language of my grandparents’, I was exposed to the common language of laborers. My father, a backhoe operator, was more interested in sports, socializing, and drinking than academics. Although he was held back in Catholic grade school, he often boasted his State championship in doubles tennis during high school. My step-father Dave, now a gifted wood worker, had a similar Catholic school upbringing, except his mother happened to be both his teacher and principal at St. Al’s. During Dave’s academic career, he struggled with dyslexia and neglect--he was the second youngest of eight children. Dave has always had a colorful vocabulary; in fact, I contribute my knowledge of all swear words known to man to Dave--not to the eighth graders who sat in the back of the bus. Both my father and Dave were children of alcoholics.

In grade school, my background filtered into my relationship with language. One of the first things we learned was the D'Nealian alphabet, displayed on the walls of my classrooms through 3rd grade. Luckily Mom had prepared me for the stringent art of handwriting. Memorizing addition and subtraction facts was a breeze, too, and I soon became champion of Around the World, challenging my peers one desk at a time. Spelling was a cinch, too--I beat out a good friend for the 3rd grade bee ribbon. At that point, memorizing stuff was a snap, but there were some areas of my brain where the dendrites weren’t making any connections.

For instance, I often bombed the listening section of the standardized tests, and my comprehension skills for science and social studies were poor. I could read well and enjoyed writing and performing, but when asked what I had just read, my mind was tabula rasa. My test anxiety grew--my eyes wandered to other desks; the clock’s turning hands pulsated in my ears. And when engaged in huge group activities, I completely shut down. My lack of participation often landed me a seat out in the hall, under the coat racks. In addition, the new Macintosh computers in the library terrified me with their glowing green screens. While my peers delighted in the opportunity to use them at school, I would quietly exit the lab and vanish to the stacks in search of Bunnicula.

Then one day, things started to change.

A new teacher named Ms. Weston was hired at Wheatland Center. She was urban, progressive, and added a little spice to our little country school. For a few hours a week, some of us met in her office. We performed projects which included creating our own fun parks and learning the ancient technique of making and using chocolate. Ms Weston left and was later replaced by Ms. Turk, who was just as innovative. With Ms. Turk, we explored the Indian art of puppet making and performances behind a silk screen. By junior high, I got to coach a group of young students in the production of Goldilocks Goes To Trial. By sixth grade, I developed a love of reading and writing. I would stay up super late scripting a play or writing a short story for class. On weekends, I would hide away with copies of the Baby Sitters Club series or horror novels by R.L. Stine and V.C. Andrews.

Our sixth grade teachers were pretty awesome, too. Mrs. Foat and Mrs. Schultz helped us learn about the Renaissance age by creating our own fair, complete with costumes, food, and entertainment, while Mr. Buddy made science fun by incorporating Skip-It tournaments and Pogo Ball competitions at recess to earn money for saving the Rain Forest. I remember a real sense of camaraderie amongst my classmates. We came together to write letters to troops in the Gulf War, and we gathered on the playground in a circle to support a fellow student who was contemplating suicide.

It was difficult separating from grade school pals who didn’t live in my district when it came time for high school (consequently, I have recently connected with one of my best grade school friends on Face book--I’ve even been invited to her wedding). I had to make many new friends in a freshman class several times larger than my eighth grade class. In this environment, my test anxiety heightened and competition increased. I spent fall of freshman year on the cheer leading squad, hoping to meet some new friends, but I felt even more isolated amidst my squad which was constantly fighting.

English class freshman year really cemented my academic career. Not only did I meet my best friends (who I have kept to this day) through our English teacher’s encouragement to join Forensics, but our team won Gold at State for the Group Interpretation of The Three Faces of Eve. Shortly after, I gained the confidence to work on the school newspaper, join the video club, and work part time at the Community Library. Although I struggled with biology labs and solving geometric proofs, I had discovered the language of literature and friendship. These friends would later become like family, filling in the lost and silent voices of blood relatives. Ironically, many of these friends are now respected members of their teaching communities and are a tremendous encouragement to me as I pursue a teaching degree.

Language Investigation #1: Diaries of a Desk Goddess

Every work place is a school in its own way. And like a school, the Health District of Northern Larimer County (or HD as most insiders refer to it) contained its own language, culture, and lessons. As its pupil, I studied the office lingo, abided by the dress code and gluttoned myself at several potlucks during my 2 1/2 year term as a Support Staff Specialist. What is a "Support Staff Specialist?" Well, the euphemism "Domestic Engineer" is to "Mother" as "Support Staff Specialist" is to "Glorified Secretary." Basically, I fielded calls for a payroll of 100+ employees who worked as dentists, mental health and smoking cessation counselors, dietitians, client advocates, and various other positions in finance, administration and more for our non-profit agency serving folks in the northern 2/3 of Larimer County.
But my fellow "desk goddess" and I did more than just answer phones--we mastered the language and minute details that kept the District flowing on a daily basis, Monday through Friday, 8a.m. to 5p.m. There were many departments to keep track of, and I metered and sorted mail for all of them. With rubber bands hooked to brightly colored name tags which listed abbreviations for a plethora of departments, I sent envelopes of all shapes and sizes through the humming Pitney Bowes machine: one for EVAL (Evaluations), one for PA (Prescription Assistance), one for MH/MC (Mental Health/Primary Care), one for CIT (Community Impact Team). . . .
However, our primary posse was the Health Promotions Team (HP). The HP team (not to be confused with that computer company based out of Fort Collins), could have walked off the ark with Noah because there was a pair of staff for each program: two Smoking Cessation (SC) counselors, two Registered Dietitians (RDs), and two Registered Nurses (RNs) for cholesterol screenings, all six led by one Coordinator. I soon became part of this dysfunctional (and loving!) family.
Shortly following my initial placement date with the temp agency, I was learning the secret code words of the many databases we worked in. One of the first databases I learned was Dentrix (also used by our dental clinic, one building over, or el proximo edificio--I used and learned basic Spanish to assist some of our clients). Dentrix was like a huge calendar where I could put in codes to schedule HP team provider appointments. For instance, I learned that by selecting the code SC (along with a tone of other codes I can't fit into this investigation), I could schedule a client to meet with a Smoking Cessation counselor. If I entered the code Nut, I could schedule a client for an appointment with a Nutritionist or Registered Dietitian, and so on. After a client ended a visit, we printed out a slip called a "Walk-Out" from Dentrix. If the client was going to make a payment, we would enter the payment on our ledger in Dentrix.
The other database the "desk goddesses" used was called HD (for Health District), a royal pain in the butt because it held thousands more clients than it was originally programmed to hold; the excess clients caused a glitch in the database so that I couldn't just look a client up by last name--I had to search by first name, date of birth, client chart number, or social security number, if I was lucky. For this database, we had special codes for entering client information and recording provider visits.
In addition to using HD and Dentrix, we used specific forms to document client information and services. For instance, when a client came to visit a provider, the "desk goddesses" would prepare "Route Slips" with client information, including name, chart number, counseling session number (some of our programs came in "six packs" and "four packs"), client's level (we used a "Sliding Fee" chart based on gross monthly income and household size to determine), and if the client came for the Smoking Cessation program, how many dispensions of NRT he had (NRT stood for Nicotine Replacement Treatment--free gum, lozenges, and patches we issued with the counseling).
Another form we used and data entered was the "Lipid Panel." The Lipid Panel was a carbon copied form that clients could take with them once interpreted by a Registered Nurse at our off-site, bi-weekly cholesterol screenings using our Cholestek machines and a finger stick. I had to familiarize myself with such terminology as Total Cholesterol, Triglycerides, HDL (good cholesterol), LDL (bad cholesterol), Glucose, and Systolic and Diastolic Blood Pressure. The "goddesses" kept a roster with the names of 14 to 50 (50--if the clinic was held at the CSU Wellness Zone) people who pre-registered for the clinic. I was lucky enough to call ALL of these individuals the day before the clinic was held to provide them, robot style, with the following script:

Hello, this is Erika from the Health District.
I am calling for Johnny Depp to remind him
that he has a cholesterol screening scheduled for 9:00 a.m.
on Thursday, February 12 at the Senior Center
located at 1200 Raintree Drive.
Here are some important instructions:
Do not eat for 12 hours before the test.
Drink plenty of water but nothing else.
You can take medications and vitamins,
but do not take cough drops, cough syrups, mints or gum.
Your charge will be $15 or the sliding fee, payable by cash or check only
because we have checked you before.
If you have questions regarding this message or need to reschedule,
please contact me at 224-++++.
We are open Mon-Fri, 8:00a.m. to 5:00p.m.

Needless to say, it was quite challenging leaving my entire spiel on an answering machine that cut out, like every 2 seconds.
The HD language also extended to agencies where we referred clients who needed services we didn't provide. For instance, if a client needed a doctor, we referred him to Salud clinic or Family Medicine Center. If the client needed testing for an STD or wanted to report a case of food poisoning from McDonald's, I gave him the number to the Health Department. If he needed to apply for Medicaid or CHP+ (Child Health Plan Plus), I would give him the number to Human Services, and so forth.
Finally, an introduction to the language of the Health District would not be complete without an explanation of some terms I learned from "Camp Bristlecone" (a fun, employee training put together by HR to boost morale and team building; Bristlecone is the street the HD is located on). One thing I learned was the definition of the DISC personality profile. Each letter stands for a different workplace personality type characteristic: D=Dominance, I=Influence, S=Steadiness, and C=Conscientious. We even took a test to determine which characteristic each one of us most embodied (I was an SC combination). Months before I took the test, most of the seasoned staff walked around saying some gobbledygook like, "Well, I feel like I need to be in control because I'm a D" or "I need to work as a team because I'm an I." I quickly discovered that my boss was a D. She often used her "D-ness" to excuse her behavior for calling in sick, coming in at noon everyday, taking three hour lunches and teaching us how to "Do as I say, not as I do." It's interesting how language is manipulated. . . .

Memory Vignette: Language of Wild Things & Teaching

Rose’s comment from our Memory Vignettes handout reminds me of a time when I was a novice Early Childhood Education teacher for the two year old room at a chain Early Childhood Learning Center. Rose wrote, “Error marks the place where education begins.” With my vignette, I would like to qualify Rose’s statement by stating, “[Humility] marks the place where education begins.”

Anais Nin wrote in Children of the Albatross (p. 175), “In art, in history, man fights his fears, he wants to live forever, he is afraid of death, he wants to work with other men, he wants to live forever. He is like a child afraid of death. . .” In my vignette, I connect fear with humility. I fear beginning new things for fear of being humiliated, for being a novice. Just now I am realizing how humility transforms into experience, into learning.

September, 2004
Brandon started the mayhem first. He was a two foot terror with the charm of Dennis the Menace. And now he was weaving over and under things--the sensory tub, the science center table, and plowing into tiny towers of blocks. He was doing all this barefoot, mind you. Just when I thought I had him in the Story Time Corner, a pair of his crumpled socks in my left hand, and his elf size Nikes in my right hand, his seven pint size peers loyally followed his folly. Like one domino knocking into another, the shoes and socks were plucked off one by one and were abandoned amidst the rubble of the classroom. The barefoot babes laughed and pranced about, leaving me to play warden to a live reenactment of Where the Wild Things Are, with the veteran teachers of the three and four year old room watching the performance, shaking their heads with pity.

Although these children were in the early stages of learning the alphabet, they could easily sound together the consonants and vowels tattooed to my forehead which formed the word GULLIBLE. And while the shoe and sock fiasco was not a recurring incident for me during my first months of teaching, the incident added to a long list of humiliating learning experiences as new teacher. I felt like an alien to the rules and language of teaching. What words could I use to set boundaries, to make these children who I loved so much and who I wanted acceptance from to listen? My nature was the opposite of the Center’s director and my teaching assistant, who came in late, hung over, and whose bi-polar, burnt out, and contradictory nature barked at the children as if they were West Point cadets and shot down every creative idea I wanted to bring to class.

It was the veteran teacher Miss C, the one I met the first day I interviewed, the one who left the impression on me which made me want to work at the Center in the first place, who alleviated my worries. She said, “You’re doing a great job. Twos are hard to teach. Give yourself time and you’ll get there. I’ve been working in this field for over twenty years and I still have my crazy days.”

I guess if I could learn how to talk at age one, I could learn the language of teaching at age twenty five. And the language wasn't all about me, either. It was about those Wild Things, too.