Oh Labor Day, How do I Hate Thee?

I'm a teacher.  I've been teaching a long time.  This will mark the start of my 25th year as an educator.  (Only 7 more to go!)  And I think I can speak for every teacher in America whose school year starts after Labor Day when I say, boy do I hate Labor Day.  It's not that I hate my job, or the kids, or paper work, or the Common Core, or getting up early, or that school smell, or cafeteria duty.  Well, to be honest, I do hate cafeteria duty.  But I really have nothing to be depressed about.  The kids have always been pretty good to me, and since I teach 11th and 12th graders, they kind of get me, and discipline isn't that much of an issue.  I love my subject matter (Social Studies), and I rarely get any hassle from the Administration who treat me quite well.  Soooo, what's my friggin' problem?

Well that's a good question.  It might just be the change in routine.  If your like me, (and for your sake I sure hope so) any change in routine can cause me great stress.  I have a very tight routine in the morning that cannot withstand any variance.  Sometimes my wife or kids will change their routine and run into my designated "spots" in the morning, this totally disorients me.  If my wife comes downstairs and stands in my "lunch making station" for more than lets say, a minute, it can potentially result in me going to work without my pants on.   Once my routine  makes the adjustment from summer leisure,  to work intensity, I usually go about my business without an inordinate amount of stress.  This doesn't mean however that it's some sort of  a cakewalk to June.  I still need to maintain my edge throughout the school year.  How do I do this you ask?

• Never go out of the house after 8pm Sunday-Thursday.  For any reason.  Sit home, stare at the wall, think about all of the terrible things that can happen, that way if something terrible does happen, you can say, "I knew that was going to happen".
• Have the coffee made at night, your clothes laid out for the morning, (Especially if you are a fashionista like myself.  So many tough choices....let's see, red shirt with Khakis, blue shirt with khakis, white shirt with blue pants...what to wear, what to wear?) be in bed by 11, watch 20 minutes of "The Daily Show",  go to sleep, if you wake up in the morning, start it all over again.
• Hope the Jets win, this makes going to work on Monday far more palatable.  Unfortunately, given the Jets track record, this is a frustratingly rare occurrence.

When I think back to the beginning of my career, It's  really absurd that I should have any concerns at all regarding the new school year.  When I first broke into  teaching back in 1989 in good old J.H.S. 204 in Long Island City, better known as Oliver Wendell Holmes, I had never even student taught.  I don't want to say the city wasn't too particular in those days, but apparently they hired me based on my pulse and my ability to walk upright.  I interviewed in May, never heard another word until the last week in August when they told me that if I wanted the job, I would be starting the day after Labor Day, and that I wouldn't be paid for six weeks.  When I asked why, the Principal, Dr. Zill, who had just turned 107 said, "You must understand Mr. Hoffman, at the Board of Ed., the wheels grind slowly".  I hoped my landlord could relate to this concept.  

My first three classes on opening day went pretty well, although the flop-sweat was literally dripping down my back.  One young man during homeroom asked me if I was new, when I said yes he said, "Don't worry, we're nice".  He was right, what a great kid.  The afternoon classes however were lower functioning groups, and they weren't what I or anyone would call, "academically oriented".  I couldn't even get them line up to come into the room, and I could barely keep them in their seats.  As I was walking through the rows trying to show them I wasn't intimidated, they started grabbing my pants as I walked by.    Yes...my pants!!!!  The icing on the cake though was when I was standing in the hallway in between classes and a young "lady" and I locked eyes, a rookie mistake for an experienced subway rider like myself.  All of sudden as she walked past she said in her fawn like manner, "What the Fuck are you lookin' at"?  My comeback consisted of scraping my jaw off the floor, walking back into my room,   and collapsing into the fetal position.

In many ways, teachers never stop being that first year teacher, trying to survive and keep the command of the class without losing who you are.  When you're a first year teacher, a successful week can be defined as leaving on a  Friday, and showing up on Monday the following week.  As long as you keep coming back, you're doing alright.  I've heard some teacher's say (half-kiddingly) that this would be a good job if it wasn't for the kids.  I don't agree with that sentiment, however, it would be nice if my students could just appreciate how interesting the "Grange Movement" was!

Dear God(less)

I know what I am.  I was raised Jewish, and that's what I am.  I'm not, how do you say...a follower.  But, you know, a little Passover Seder here, a little Menorah there, just the basics.   I try to fast on Yom Kippur, but I start getting a headache right after 12m, so that plan usually turns out to be ill-fated.  But follower or not, I'm a Jew.  It's a state of mind, an appreciation for schmaltz (Chicken fat), understanding the concept of gefilte fish, justifying everything Israel does, your kind of born with these things.  It's evolutionary, just ask Darwin-a-witz.

But while I consider myself Jewish culturally, I don't really buy into the concept of a great power that either guides us, or is judging us, or lives inside us, or cares about us, or loves us, or is seeking to punish us, etc...

 My wife loves to pronounce me an Atheist whenever the subject comes up.  I don't really enjoy that because I get looks like I just broke wind at the Vatican.  Sometimes I think I could announce myself a level three sex offender and get less judge-mental looks then when people hear that I do not "believe".

Maybe my lack of faith has to do with being born a Jew.  Being Jewish makes me a minority almost everywhere I go.  I haven't been to Israel, but I think it would be cool to step off the plane and be in the majority just once.  I guess I could trek down to certain parts of Brooklyn or Queens, or New Jersey, and at least for a block or two, be part of the swelling masses, but other than that, Jews make up a tiny minority of the world's population.  There are only 15 million Jews in the whole world.  I think 97% of them live in New York, Los Angeles, and Israel.  Sometimes I'll sit down for a meal with my Christian family or friends and they will say grace.  Everyone kind of looks at me like they're expecting my head to swivel around like the girl from "The Exorcist".  People will often say to me, it doesn't matter that your Jewish, as long as you believe in something.  That always perplexes me.  Why is it so important to believe in something?  A lot of people have said that to me over the years, that I should believe in something.  If only it was that easy?

Don't get me wrong, I would love to be a believer, I just can't seem to.  I envy those people who can say things like, "My faith sustains me", or "I have a personal relationship with Jesus", or "Vishnu is my wingman".  Perhaps it is the cynic in me who thinks that the majority of people who believe, do so in order to be comforted by the idea that there is an afterlife, and that the only ticket to a pleasant afterlife lies in the acceptance of a higher power.  The concept of heaven is a fascinating one.  It has no scientific validity or common sense to its existence, and yet a vast majority of people believe that they get to go.  You don't hear as much about Hell anymore.  Perhaps people think the idea of Hell is silly.   The idea that there's a very hot place to torment those who have not lived by the rules set down by their religious teachings seems antiquated.  And, if you believe in Heaven, does that mean you have to believe in Hell?  It would seem you would have to, otherwise it's like double-dipping.  Also, if there were no Hell, what would happen to bad people?  They can't be allowed into Heaven?  It's bad enough we're stuck with them here on Earth.  There must be some retribution...right?

I often wonder what Heaven would look like?  Would it be all clouds?  Would our pets get to go?  They say that you are reunited with all of your loved ones in Heaven for eternity, does that mean an eternity with my mother?  I mean, I miss her and all, but an eternity??  That doesn't sound so heavenly to me!  As for our pets, people will say that when your dog dies, it goes to doggie heaven.  What would that consist of?  Bones, a comfy pillow, multiple places to take a leak?  They have that on earth.  Earth is doggie heaven!  What about other animals?  Do insects get to go to Heaven?  What about mosquitos?  If they get to go to Heaven, can we swat them?  If so, what happens to them?  It would be like dying twice, that doesn't seem right, even for mosquitos.

How about our bodies?  Our earthly vessels? Would we have our bodies in Heaven, or is it just our soul?  Is our soul just our personality in some gaseous cloud?  If we keep our bodies, at what age are we when we reach heaven?  Would my father if he's in Heaven still have varicose veins?  That seems grossly unfair!  I've been stuck with this body for 50+ years, what would be so heavenly about having it for an eternity??

Hell perplexes me even more.  If you are to be tortured, what is it that they would torture?  Our souls?  Can they feel physical pain, or  is it just mental anguish?  And who really has to go to Hell? I assume we start with Hitler, and Stalin, perhaps Mao?  What about Pol Pot?  Everybody hated him!  The list is practically endless.  Think of all the people you've hated since you were a kid.  You don't want to see them in Heaven?  Do You??  Should they go to Hell just because you didn't like them?  Is there a Heaven for Nerds, Jocks, Potheads, Jugheads, Snapper Heads, Dirt-bags, Bikers, booger eaters?  Where does it end????

Whenever people claim that they were dead, but came back, they always talk about a bright light.  I think they got that from the movie Poltergeist.  Now don't get me wrong, I liked Poltergeist as much as the next person, but I don't think we should be taking spiritual guidance from it. (No offense to Craig T. Nelson)  As I think about all of this, I'm not really sure I'm an atheist as much as an agnostic.  (An Agnostic for those of you who don't know is an Atheist with insurance...bah-dam...chissshhh)  Whatever is in store for all of us, one thing is certain above all else, we will all find out.  And remember, if non-existence scares you, just think back to before you were born.  That wasn't that bad...was it?

FRANCE VS. THE UNITED STATES! This time it's personal

I just returned from my second trip across the Atlantic.  Three years ago my wife and I took our kids to London, and did a one day trip to Paris.  The trouble was we had to get up at 4am just to get to Paris in a timely fashion, and we were basically the walking dead the whole day.  My wife also had a breakdown in the Louvre near the Mummy exhibit which seemed to contain more mummies then all the Pyramids of Egypt and the Luxor in Las Vegas combined.    The Louvre for those of you who haven't been there is about the size of the Louisiana Territory, which may be France's  payback to Americans for buying it so cheap from Napoleon all those years ago.

While I was excited about our upcoming trip to Paris, (This time sans children) I was also nervous.  You hear all these horror stories about gypsy children stealing your jewelry, that the locals won't speak English and snicker at you in the cutting way only a French person can, or that they will smell, or that their skunks sexually harass their cats, or that they're all closeted Nazi collaborators, or any of the other dozens of stereotypes that I've heard or added to over the years.  I myself, during my 10 hour jaunt into Paris three years ago was the victim of a cleaver little French confidence game.  A lovely young Parisian claiming to be from the school of the Mute came up to me asking for a donation.  How did I know she was mute you say?  Well that's what she told me.....with her eyes.  20 euros later she blew me a kiss and was chased away by the local "Jean d'arm"  Which is French for Police, or frog's legs, or something, either way, I felt like, how do you say? Le' Stooge?

I am proud to announce however that none of my above fears came to fruition.  No gypsies, no snickering, no Collaborators, (except in the museums), and overall, a very welcoming and wonderful group of people, in what has to be the most beautiful and unique city in the world.  It got me thinking how different Paris was then let's say New York City, or Chicago, or Los Angeles, or even Utica!  I started to think about how France differed from the U.S., and well, this is what I came up with:

1. The Pace of Life:  Nobody seems to be in too much of a rush.  Nobody seems to be working....at all.  We were there in August, and the whole city was on Vacation.  Restaurants were closed for the whole month.  In America, we are outraged that every drug store, fast-food joint, and diner isn't open 24 hours-a-day.  Speaking of eating, most of them don't eat dinner until like 10pm!  Considering all of the "Fromage" or Cheese that they eat, that's got to reek havoc on their digestive tracks.
2. They also seem to be eating all of the time.  And if they're not eating, it's only because they're drinking wine.  The French love to walk around with a bag of baguettes and just tear off hunks and gnaw away.  But shockingly, almost none of them are fat...at least not by American proportions.  There are more obese people in any neighborhood Walmart (I don't care where you live) then in the entire city of Paris.  There were a lot of McDonald's though, so they better watch their tiny little behinds, lest they become "super-sized".
3. Their cafes are all sidewalk cafes.  But the weird part is that all the chairs face out!  We tried to sit with one of us having our back to the street, and you would have thought we'd cited the virtues of American wines?   Their waiters also take breaks in the middle of serving you to have a cigarette which may explain why they are so thin.  The entire pace of dinner is un-American. They seat you quickly enough, but then they just forget about you?  In American, if they don't ask you if you want a drink in the first 10 seconds, we're ready to call "911"!  Besides, how many people do you find yourself dining with that you don't need to get a jump on your buzz just to survive the encounter.   Then, when they take your order, you hardly blink, and they serve you your meal.  Then, when that's done...you sit.  They'll ask you if you want dessert, but if you say no, then you can kiss your waiter goodbye for the foreseeable future.  You have a better chance of spotting the Yeti before you see your waiter appear with a bill.   They think you want to sit and talk with your dinner companions.  In America we know better.   Buffett's were invented so you could keep getting up to eat and therefore,  not talk to your dinner companion(s).  Perhaps we could learn from their slower pace?  But that would mean Socialism, which leads to Obama Care! 
4. France is old...very old.  When the French say a place is old, they mean 900 years old.  Here if it goes back to 1950, we place a "Historical" sign in front of it. France has Napoleon's tomb, we have Martin van Buren's house.  France has Notre Dame, we have Notre Dame....University.  France has the Arc de' Triumph, we have the band "Triumph".  (Actually "Triumph" is Canadian so we can't even claim them as our own)

Soooo, is France really better than the U.S.?  Of course not.  We have Football, the kind you hardly use your feet for, and Doritos, and the Simpsons, and suburbs, and tons of Nuclear bombs, and Breaking Bad, and our original Constitution (if you don't count the Articles of Confederation), and men who don't wear Capri pants, and better mustaches... and, and

Better than the Alternative?

I recently turned 50 which really isn't a milestone or much of an accomplishment.  Lots of people make it to 50, and unless you get hit by a bus, or volunteer to aid victims of the Ebola virus, you're probably going to make to 50, especially if you are a white suburbanite.  I used to ask my father what it was like to get older, and he said it was better than the alternative.  Now that's he's been dead for almost 10 years, he's truly an expert on the subject,  the problem is, his expertise is being kept close to the vest if you know what I mean?  My brother who is 12 years older than me tries to give me glimpses into my future.  He states that it's not bad, and that if he could stay the same age he is now, everything would be fine.  The problem  as he himself points out, is that in the time it takes him to make the statement about how wonderful he feels at THIS age, he's already aged past that age, so I guess it's all moot.

So as I reflect upon  my 50 odd years, I started thinking about what I like and what I don't like about being 50.  So since I'm an American, I thought I'd make a list.  Americans love lists.   We rank everything.  The top 25 College Football Teams, the top 40 countdown, 5 best recreational drugs to experiment with when visiting Epcot, etc... First, the negatives about being 50.

1. I'm 50!  That means I'm well into the 2nd half of my life.  Not only am I well into the 2nd half, I've already burned a couple of timeouts!  I'm like that quarterback who goes under center, looks at the defense, doesn't like what he sees, and quickly burns a timeout.  "Hey, I might need that timeout later in the game".  Too late. People refer to you as middle age, but that's only if I make it to 100, and that's a big "if"?  I'm not sure I want to do that anyway, but still, the clock is running.

2. I'm bald.......ing.  I didn't see this coming.  I've seen pictures of myself when I was in my 30s, I had a nice head of hair.  What the hell happened?  Nothing else physically about aging bothers me.  Yes I'm fat, but I've always been,  so no big deal there.  Besides, as America has gotten fatter, I'm no longer an outcast, I'm downright average.  Sometimes in order to build up my self-esteem, I walk into Walmarts, or the County Fair.  The people turn while scootering around on their Powered Motoring Devices and say, "Oh look at him...he must of just come from a refugee camp!" So, as the country waddles past me, my weight has become less of an issue.  That doesn't mean however that all is well.   I have noticed that things are starting to drop.  Gravity is winning, as it always does.  I watched "Cosmos", and Neil deGrasse Tyson said that there's another element in the universe called "Dark Matter' which is supposedly battling gravity for control of the universe. That's what I need, "Dark Matter" to counter-balance gravities effect on me.  I guess I knew my hair line was in trouble over 10 years ago.  I used to part my hair in the middle until I noticed that the distance between the two sides of the part had grown so vast, you would need a Trip-Tik from AAA to get from one side to another.  (If you don't know what a Trip-Tik is, then either:
A - Your Younger than 40
B - Your father wasn't a lifelong member of AAA like my father was, and my father would have then pronounced your father a Schmuck

Going bald is not one of those things you feel, but it's literally the first thing people notice about you.  And of course it's a crap-shoot, you don't know what your scalp is going to look like.  You could have a Gorbachev-like Topographical map on your head that by all rights should have been covered up for your entire existence, only to be exposed to all man-kind like some sort of man-made deforestation that just eradicated the proverbial "rain-forest" that used to be your hair.

3. Snap-Chat, Twitter, Instagram, Hash-Tag, Tweeting, Twatting etc... I used to include texting, but I've conquered that one.  In fact, like all people, I now prefer that to actually talking to people, which is sad.  That can't be good for our society.  My kids never, ever call their friends.  That was half the fun about making plans, calling your friends, and making fun of the other guys, now that would be considered bullying!  I'm not sure what Snap-Chat is, but I think that Instagram is a picture you send people that fades after a few seconds.  I'm not sure I get the point of that, or the advantage.  If it's a good picture, why wouldn't you want it to last?  I have pictures in shoeboxes stored in our basement  in  since the flood, I'm glad they didn't "fade-away".   I think when you get to a certain point in life, you have amassed all the technology you need.  My aforementioned brother doesn't have an i-pad, i-pod, i-phone, smart-phone, lap-top, microwave oven...that's right, you read that last one correctly, and while he has a cell-phone, he doesn't text, or receive phone calls on it.  He shuts it off unless he is calling someone.   I think he uses his telegraph when he's in a pinch, but as he likes to say, "....----....".  I know what you're thinking, but like Yiddish, it's not as funny when you translate it into English.

So, what's good about turning 50, your kids are just about grown, and you start to see the fruits of your labor. (For me personally, labor was a bitch, there wasn't even a TV in the room, unless you count the monitors.  You can send food back at restaurants, because let's face it, it's never hot enough.  You can argue with your Doctor's office staff, the bank teller, the lady in the hotel lobby, the post-office, and pretty much all people in any service industry.  People like to say that you can stop worrying about what other people think, but I don't think anyone ever stops caring about that.   I was once at the barber, and I saw a 500 lb. guy getting his haircut, and he was indecisive about how he wanted it done.  Considering he was pretty much wearing over-alls and burlap sack for an ensemble, I'm not sure what his consternation was regarding his coif, but still, as a balding man north of 50, in many ways, his full head of hair leaves me thinking how lucky that guy truly was, and that's the wisdom that comes with being 50.