Goodbye and...

Today I said goodbye to a friend I met in my very first university tutorial four years ago. He's moving to England. For good. Don't get me wrong, he's not my long lost love, he is not my bestest friend in the whole wide world ever, he's a friend. A good friend. One of the few friends I made at uni with whom I would like to stay in touch. One of those people with whom you always have a quality conversation; none of this discussing the weather or how uni's going or other superficial stuff - those meaty conversations that make you think, question yourself and leave you feeling like you've really had a conversation. The conversations and time spent with him have never been wasted; I always walk away feeling slightly more intelligent than when I arrived. I will miss him, but I know that I will see him again. In a few years or so, but we will be able to pick up where we left off.

I also recently said goodbye to university. I submitted my final assignment on Monday the 27th of October, 2014. I then had to rush off to photograph (with my husband - really I was just assisting) the wedding of friends of ours over in WA. The wedding was beautiful, completely them and it looked exactly like everything M had dreamed about with me over the preceding months; I was delighted for them. We then spent two nights meandering around the Margaret River region (I had never been), which was simply delightful. There may have been a couple of baths. When we returned I found I had been recommended for a job by my English tutor, which was very gratifying, so I set to applying for the position. I submitted that application on Monday. Since then I have finally settled down to doing what needs to be done for the next two and a bit months: nothing.

As I write this I am starting my second glass of wine. Before dinner! My grandmother would be horrified. I am halfway through my third novel and, as I wrote in a text message to my cousin earlier today, I am feeling pretty damn good. I'm in that happy limbo where I have no obligations and am earning just enough money to pay all the bills so that I don't need to pick up any extra work over the holidays, which affords me the precious luxury of spending my days however I please. Life is grand.

It is raining. Right now. And it is warm enough for me to leave the balcony door open. A rare occurrence here in Melbourne town. There is also a pile of dishes on the sink with groceries unpacked on the bench next to them. Things need tidying, dinner probably needs making. So I am going to go back to my novel and my glass of wine and enjoy the rest of the daylight before...

Ancora imparo

I am a very reflective person, often detrimentally so. In Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett (my very favourite author), he calls it (and this is only from memory here) first thoughts and second thoughts. And then third thoughts and fourth thoughts, fifth thoughts and sixth thoughts. And so on. Essentially, thinking about thinking, and then thinking about thinking about thinking... I'll stop now so nobody gets a headache trying to figure out who's doing the thinking about thinking about thinking. In an education context (which is MY context right now and also so my lecturers and tutors know I've been paying attention), this is called metacognition - basically an awareness of your own learning which in turn improves your learning because you're aware of it.

On a moment to moment basis I am constantly and consistently at the third or fourth thoughts level. At least. Before I had ever heard about metacognition, I was already there. This is quite possibly probably the main reason I am such a ditherer*.

For my first assignment for English this semester I have to (essentially) think - and then write - about an event from my own school experience that was something of a catalyst for me wanting to become and English teacher. The thing is, as I've mentioned before, wanting to be an English teacher sort of crept up on me. Not to mention, my high school experiences have almost completely faded into the annals of time. Nor were they anything I would file under 'inspiring' for the most part.

I remember a few relatively vivid moments over the years where I have found myself teaching or being taught. None of them in a formal school context, but all very influential on my desire to teach. And, I think more importantly, to learn. I have a voracious appetite for learning; I need to learn. I also have what could conservatively be called a fairly large and eclectic range of interests. Basically, I want to learn everything. I love the process of learning, the conversation, the communication, the connection, the "wow!" moments, the thinking, the thinking about thinking (etc.), the wonder of the new, sometimes (only very occasionally) even the struggle of assignments. I would suggest that this desire to learn goes hand in hand with my desire to teach, to impart my learning to others is merely a byproduct of my unquenchable addiction to learning. In helping other people learn I get to share my thrill of comprehension. I suppose I feel like there is no point in me filling myself up with knowledge if I'm just going to keep it to myself.

I want to be a teacher because I love learning. Hence, as Michelangelo said at some famously advanced age, ancora imparo, I am still learning. And I will never stop. So I guess, in some form or another, I already am a teacher and I always will be a teacher.



* On a side note, is it just me or are words** that end in -erer just wonderful? Wanderer, wonderer (a good synonym for ditherer perhaps)... I digress.
** Yes, I am a word nerd. More on that another time.

Second guessing

Just about everybody knew before I did. When I announced, some time in my late 20s, that I wanted to be a high school teacher - of English no less - there was not one raised eyebrow, no exclamation of surprise or even dismay. The only one who was amazed at my discovery was me.

Because I hated school. With a passion. People say they are the best years of your life; I still disagree. I was an angry, self loathing whirlpool of emotions as a teenager (sometimes I fear not a lot has changed since then). The world was against me; life was unfair. I wanted nothing more than to travel the world and be a photographer and writer for National Geographic. Anything that didn't directly lead me down that path was irrelevant minutia and therefore not worth my time.

I enjoyed learning about art and photography - the theory and history as well as the practical - as I thrived and excelled in such a creative environment. I enjoyed German to an extent as I could see it as a means to an end of travelling Europe and thus being endlessly cool and carefree. I hated English.

While I read to the detriment of all else (to the point of having books confiscated) and thoroughly enjoyed the enchanting worlds of words enclosed between unassuming covers, I found that not once were any of the sorts of books I even remotely enjoyed prescribed for the school curriculum. No, the dreary books prescribed were always depressing stories where at least one person died and some sort of moral yet painful lesson was learned by those surrounding the now deceased. And not only were these dreadful books required reading, we then had to analyse them! Why couldn't you simply read a book and enjoy the damn thing? Why did we have to explore the dark and depressing themes of racial prejudice or suicide? I can see now that these are globally important themes for society as a whole to explore (if only they did), however I do not once remember any English teacher (even my favourite Mr C) telling me that the point of English as a subject is to learn how to think, how to make up your own mind, how to figure the world out, in every aspect of life, not just in the classroom.

So now, in my final (thank all the gods) year at uni, thinking about and discussing strategies for student engagement all while covering the curriculum and meeting the thousand and one other requirements of a teacher, I am thrust back down memory lane to my tumultuous high school experience. It doesn't help that I am finding that the conflicting emotions that plagued me as a teenager are at times coming back to haunt me. I still believe the entire education system is flawed. I no longer wish to the play the game that is pandering to the academic rigours of university. I know that my final mark still depends on whether I can write a coherent essay which will prove nothing as to my actual teaching ability. I also know that this massive political tangle of curriculum, pedagogy and day-to-day teaching will still only get me one step forward for every three that I take. And that I will encounter many, many students with attitudes like my own who will bluntly refuse to engage in any class, no matter what course of action I take; knowing I was not the only angry, disenchanted teenager at school I wonder exactly how I will manage to teach my poor students anything at all.

And yet, I am still here. Stubbornly refusing to let university get the better of me. I have to constantly remind myself that the reasons I wanted to be a teacher in the first place have not changed. I chose to become an English teacher and not an art or photography teacher because I wanted to reach more people. I wanted to be able to tell them that the number you get at the end of your school career does not define who you are, or who you will become; that school success, failure or mediocrity does not mean that you are or will always be a success, failure or mediocrity.

I have to reming myself that in four years at university I have not changed my initial idealistic principles: make it relevant and (to achieve that) get to know your students. For me so much of school was irrelevant and I feel like that was largely due to the fact that the vast majority of my teachers didn't care one jot about me as a person - because for them, I wasn't a person. I need to remember that as I go into my first week of full time placement in two weeks time; that my students are people and that by getting to know them I will then be able to make school relevant.

At least sometimes. Maybe.

Highlights

The dearth of social media today means that we are more connected than ever before. What with Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Foursquare, Tumblr, Google+, Pinterest, LinkdIn and at least five new options since I started writing this post we get to publicise our lives in seemingly limitless ways for all and sundry to see. I have many problems with this (while of course still using five of the aforementioned platforms). 

One of the main issues I have with our internet obsession is that very often what we see of peoples' lives is their highlight reel. You know, all the awesome bits about their lives wrapped up in one smartly worded tweet or totes hipster square framed image, complete with clever caption and a few hashtags thrown in for good measure. I am not the first to write about this and I'm sure I won't be the last, but the whole thing really depresses me. To get all Fight Club about it, we are not our highlight reels. 

Another issue I have with this interconnectedness is that, inherent in it, is that old chestnut keeping up with the Joneses. His highlight reel is more attractive/more fulfilling/more expensive than mine; her's is more intellectual/more fun/more politically relevant than mine. I can't possibly post about my exciting/life changing/hilarious news because it simply doesn't compare to his or hers.

Last week I went and saw the amazing Alison Bechdel talk (I felt very literary and intelligent, I hope it showed) and she said two things (alright, there were plenty of incredible and well articulated things she said, I'm just talking about two of them right now) that really struck me (and here I'm paraphrasing in the extreme).

The first thing was that she started writing her comic strip, Dykes to Watch Out For, because she wanted to see her reality - her life and that of her friends and family - reflected somewhere 'out there'. Because she figured if she wanted to see it out there, she probably wasn't the only one.

The second thing she said was that we are all the same really. We might see ourselves as an aside to the rest of humanity, but really, when it all comes down to it, we're all the same. We have the same hopes and dreams, we get worried, stressed and scared - just like everyone else.

These things stuck with me because I've been wanting to start a blog for a while but have been holding back because I don't really see my life reflected 'out there' and therefore feel that if it's not already out there, then I guess nobody else is like me - and who wants to read about my life between the highlights? Because really, right now, my life has very few highlights. I avoid checking social media regularly because I feel like just about everyone I know is living a better life than me - travelling, buying houses, having kids, getting fit and healthy, being awesomely creative/entrepreneurial/hipster/intellectual on a level that I simply am not. 

But then I also know that that's not entirely true. I'm not trying to make out that my life is one dismal moment after another. It's not. It's just that my highlight reel doesn't look like anyone else's I know. So, wanting to see my reality reflected somewhere, I thought I'd get mine 'out there' - as well as all of those in between moments that make my life my journey and no one else's.

Going from hither to thither

I frequently find myself waiting for a beginning. You know, when you start something new and exciting and big. However when there are any beginnings in my life I tend to be either focussing on the next beginning or too busy beginning things to enjoy the beginning I'm currently experiencing.

So I came up with this inspired blog name (if I say so myself) a week ago and am only now getting around to starting it. Once, many years ago, I worked with an hilarious scotsman whose name I have since forgotten. The one thing I do remember was one of his (many) throwaway comments talking about another colleague of ours who was heading somewhere on request of the manager. He said (and here you'll have to imagine a thick Scottish accent):

He's going from hither to thither; and if he takes his time, he's dithering.

Said in such an offhand manner but with that cheeky half grin that only those with such dry, rapier wits are able to achieve. I found this absolutely hysterical (don't worry if you don't, I can appreciate that you had to be there and perhaps be me) and had to somehow contain my mirth until I could control myself some 15 minutes later.

It is from that one remembered pithy comment that I have called this blog/brain dump/journal/whatever it evolves into 'The Dithering.' Because that is what I do. More than anything else, I dither. And I dither well.

And so. Onward and upward!