On maelstroms, both internal and external.

Maelstrom (n): 1. a powerful often violent whirlpool sucking in objects within a given radius.  2. something resembling a maelstrom in turbulence.

I think, given the fact that we’re about to experience our first Hurricane, and that it is going to happen on my daughter’s 15^th birthday, that the experience warrants writing about. I am, if nothing else, curious about the storms that are brewing both within and around, this mortal shell I possess.

Let’s begin with the category 1 force of nature headed our way, one Hurricane Irene. While I have no doubt my fellow citizens from areas regularly visited by such pleasantries are looking at us here around the New Jersey shore with the same superiority and disdain that heavily inked folks give the tattoo neophyte when the first enter the studio, I don’t care.

I am freakin’ excited.

Not scared at all, but very excited.

And I don’t think I’m alone in this; in fact, I think the potential for disaster awakens something primitive within us that we truly dig on a subconscious level. I think that - as descendants of people that HAD to move, to hunt, to think on their feet and act with immediacy or die – that we feel, in many cases, helpless. To clarify, life has become so ridiculously convenient that we, as a species, have become pathetically dependent upon basic creature comforts such as having clean water, readily available food, constant shelter, instant light, and the ability to contact one another within seconds. Then the hurricane hits, or the earth quakes (had a little one of THOSE last week, too,) or the local weather starts calling for two feet of snow; and we are transformed.

Everybody knows the drill – Home Depot attendants gear up for the run what I affectionately call S.O.S. (shovel and other shit,) supermarket attendants start practicing new, non-offensive, ways of saying: “sorry no, we don’t HAVE any milk, eggs or bread left, perhaps you missed the fact that a Hurricane is coming and shouldn’t have waited until the winds hit 60 mph to go shopping.”  Meteorologists, those avid studiers of meteors, put on their “holy shit, I am finally the big honkin’ STAR of this production” outfits and practice sweeping hand gestures in front of the green screen, hoping simultaneously that something just short of the Apocalypse happens and that they continue to look good reporting it in HD after 72 hours with minimal sleep.

And us? The common folk? I think we thrive on the sense of purpose that preparing for disaster gives us; for a short time we feel, ironically, that our actions can somehow determine the safety of ourselves and our loved ones, that stocking up on batteries and spring water will help us wait it out in the cave while the metaphorical Tyrannosaurus prowls our pristinely manicured lawns. Of course, the T-Rex would get bored after a few minutes and move on in search of something more edible and less sheltered, Hurricanes hang around for a while.

Oh, and they f_ _ _ your cave up but GOOD before they leave.

Nonetheless, I dig the sense of community that impending disaster brings. Check out hardware stores, or the supermarket, or the bars for that matter, prior to an incoming flex of Mother Nature’s muscles. People are HAPPY, they talk to each other, nervous but clearly aroused, about the futility of their actions against the planet’s anger, but a sense of community is forged in that is clearly us versus it. It has often been said that “nothing unites like a common enemy,” and even if that emery is faceless, fierce, and as old as time, we love getting together to stare it down. We will shovel the neighbor’s car out of that two feet of snow, help the elderly lady down the street clean up the branches and damage around her house left by the Hurricane, and reach out to one another immediately upon regaining our cell phone signals after the Earthquake gently reminds us, in the middle of our busy day, of our mortality. We do all this because, at our heart, we are an empathetic species that really, desperately wants to control our fate, or at the very least, secure the health and safety of other close to us.

And hey, if Hurricane Irene can do that, then bring it on, bitch.

Of course, I promised you some pithy commentary on maelstroms of both the physical and emotional variety didn’t I? Yes, I did, check the second paragraph. Well, Hurricane Irene is due to water our plants and sway our branches with 70-100 mph winds and 5-10” of rain (in 24 hours?!?) on the same day my only daughter, and oldest of my living children, Samantha, turns 15.

Happy Birthday, hon, looks like that cookout at the Jersey Shore might have to wait, unless you want to retrieve your hot dog in, oh, Manhattan. 

All kidding about flying frankfurters aside, I am about 100% more frightened of my daughter turning 15 than I am about any stupid Hurricane. Actually, if it was a Hurrivolcanitsunami filled with rabid wolverines and great white sharks that learned to walk, I still don’t think it would be as daunting as the prospect that my daughter is taking another symbolic step toward independence and, infinitely worse, sexual activity.

NOTE: For those of you shaking your heads and saying “dude, kids a helluva lot younger than that are independent and sexually active now, wake up.” I offer the following caveat: “You don’t know me, and you don’t know my wife, and if you did, you would know that those things, while they will happen sooner than we would ideally want (that is to say, never,) they won’t happen until we’re good and f_____g  ready or the trail of destruction we will wreak will make what Irene leaves behind look like cleanup after a toddler's birthday party.

As I was saying, Sam is turning 15, and while I’m not in the habit of making my private conversations with my family publically traded stock, I’ll share this nugget with you in the hopes that it might resonate with any dads (or moms) out there that need that virtual hand on the shoulder/ I’m with you moment. Lord knows, I need them once in a while.

I told Sam that while it kills me to see her start preferring time with her friends over her family, that I am also aware that those are just the selfish wishes of a dad that wants to keep his little girl all to himself. I didn’t say it was rational, just honest. Like any kid, she’s blissfully unaware that when I look at her, I see two Sams: the one she is - that has a wicked sense of humor, an independent streak a mile long, a devastating right hook, and (God help me) boobs.

But I also see the Sam she was, just a moment ago – innocently singing along with Bear in the Big Blue House, dependent on her daddy to feed her that slimy Gerber spinach she used to love, and euphorically happy to see me when I pulled up at Children’s Academy to pick her up.

Sam from then would have cuddled with me, safe in the knowledge that I would protect her from that nasty Hurricane Irene and all her bluster. Sam now wants to stay over her cousin’s house [on her birthday] and go outside during the Hurricane.

            I miss my “Sam from then,” I really, really do.

            Maybe that’s why I’m crying a little bit while I’m typing this.

            If it’s any consolation (and it isn’t,) Mother Nature seems to have started crying whilst I was Blogging. The opening volley of  Irene’s onslaught has been launched. Maybe things will get really bad, maybe the storm will exceed even the expectations of those hyper-motivated meteorologists and fear and panic will reign as nature’s fury demands that we bow down in fear.

            That would be great.

            Then I could run, right into the eye of the storm, to my niece’s house to save my daughter and bring her to safety, seizing control of my destiny and reclaiming my daughter as my little girl. If only for a few moments, I could conquer the storms, both of them. If Hurricane Irene could do that for me, I would be eternally grateful.

            Bring it on, bitch.

You can't spell Feng Shui without the letters F U

       Feng Shui, is ancient Chinese system of aesthetics often used to orient buildings that has been, some say, corrupted into becoming an aspect of interior decorating in the Western World. Some people actually believe that where they position their furniture affects their productivity, mood, etc. The term has become popular enough in my circle of friends, (a group of people that excel at pretending to be pretentious) that we will often blame any tension, drama, or violence occurring nearby on  "the fact the the Feng Shui in the room was sooooooo non Zen, grasshopper."
        "I thought this was a Blog about teaching and stuff that pissed you off, Step," you say, with all the authority of someone that knows what they're talking about.
        "Quite correct, grasshopper." I say, establishing a connection to the opening paragraph and dropping an allusion to the 70s TV series Kung Fu with the type of literary synergy only truly great writers possess, "and so I shall enlighten you about how moving two classrooms a total of 18 feet provided me a healthy dose of rage which led to, ironically, a moment of clarity and inspiration. Very Yin and Yang, if I might continue the Asian flavored motif I seem to have developed here.
          Right. So, every year, during the dog days of Summer (you know, that time when non-teachers think we sit around sipping Pina' Coladas on the beach in Turks and Caicos) tens of thousands of teachers have to take everything they have spent a few years getting "perfect" and uproot it, lock, stock and barrel, to another room. Desks, filing cabinets big and small, podiums, posters, projects, pictures, pigs' feet (sorry, I was rolling with the "P" words) decorations, and enough paperwork to gift wrap the Great Wall of China, must be transported to another room, for no conceivable reason. Actually, that's a lie, I know the reason: because the brain surgeons who make the students' schedule don't want to put a little extra effort into trying to maintain some sense of consistency within the layout of the school; besides, THEY'RE not the ones lugging a 6' file cabinet (full of lesson plans that the same brain surgeons required be kept on hand) up a flight of steps, so why should they care? Which brings us to today, and my epissany (that's an epiphany that happens when you're pissed.) Yeah, I know you love it, and you may you use it. Free of charge. My gift to you.
          I woke up early so I could be at (insert name of my current place of work) when they opened, my youngest son Frankie, having disobeyed me about something yesterday, was up early as well, and not by choice, to go and help me, also not by choice. Sucks to be you, kid, and vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord. Come in on time and you won't have to lug around heavy stuff in the heat. And there will be some lugging of heavy stuff in the heat. Oh yes there will, because, despite having established two classrooms that worked beautifully in producing intelligent, motivated students; despite having shared those classrooms with other teachers who worked in synergy to balance the placement and display of our "stuff," despite the fact that the mandate to disrupt this educational balancing act came in around, oh, last WEEK, despite all of that, the powers-that-be pulled the pin, and rolled their metaphorical grenade right into the heart of our well organized machine. Hey "if it ain't broke, fix the living s**t out of it," they always say. Being a good soldier, I soldiered into school, which was roughly the temperature of Cambodia in mid July, to recon the situation.
        Here was the situation:
        Down in the freshman wing:
        I had previously shared room 313 in the freshmen wing with Tara G., who now had to share that room with Lauren S., who was being displaced from room 316, meaning I had to get my stuff out of 313 and into room 317 (approximately 12 feet away,) along with Lisa H., who had previously shared the room with Julie K. and Laura W., the former of which was being moved to 320, the latter of which was no longer in the services of this fine institution. The current resident of 320, who shall not be named, won't show up until the day of orientation and wonder [loudly] "How all dis stuff got up in "my" room?
       Got all that?
       Meanwhile, down in the Junior wing,
Frankie and I contemplated the stunning amount of insight that went into the room shuffling down there. I had previously been in room 113, for two whole years (!) for several reasons: One, it was right next to the internal suspension room and my, ahem, presence assisted in keeping that room somewhat under control. Two, 113 has an abundant amount of board space and I am known for going Sidewalk Chalk crazy with board notes. My students actually appreciate that my notes are time consuming, and fresh off the presses (rather than some SMARTboard stuff I just pop onto a flashdrive and re-use over and over and over and...you get the point.  Three, I CUSTOMIZED 113 to my needs - SMARTboard mounted on a wall so as not to waste board space, desks spaced to allow breathing room so 27 kids don't get hostile being piled on top of one another for 188 days, visual aids displayed for maximum effectiveness, and abundant open space so the people I shared the room with (4 different teachers in two years) could easily ingratiate themselves. Yes, my Feng Shui was on like Donkey Kong. "So what. Doesn't matter. Get your stuff out. All of it," said the brain trust in charge. OK - I'll just move all of my stuff from 113 down to 115 where Lisa H. has already established her empire of academia (and she got to stay there two whole years in a row!!) so I'm not gonna storm the castle too bad, but Joe F., moving from the 200 wing because he no longer teaches sophomores (a whole other can of worms I shan't open here, you're welcome) is joining this threesome. Threesomes are overrated, especially when two of the people involved ain't happy. I have a brunette and a redhead that used to bar tend with me that can speak with authority on this should you choose to track them down. Meanwhile, I've gotta move Elaine C's stuff outta 115 and inta 113, which she will share with, if I read the dossier properly, the entire World Language department. Lisa and I also have to dispose of the contents the 115 closet, which contains the belongings of a former colleague, Pete P., who is no longer teaching at all and, based on the contents of the closet, we know why. I'll just leave it at that. Moving Elaine to 113 from 115 and Pete to the dumpster to free up room for Joe from 201 and I from 113, respectively, to 115 (not to mention compacting Lisa's stuff) would involve moving and/or transporting 9 full filing cabinets, 4 smaller ones, 7 large wooden tables, 4 teachers' desks and all of their contents, two TVs, approximately 120 students' desks, about 10' of paperwork (which has to stay collated and organized,) three computers, and a partridge in a pear tree.
Lisa is a champ, and her adorable niece (we teachers are shameless about exploiting child labor) was very helpful, and Frankie, for the record, is a freakishly strong 12 year old, but when that much teaching tonnage has to get taken to task...
      Whattaya waitin' for Mr. 400 lb. bench press? Impress us.
       But then a funny thing happened, and the Grinch's heart grew 3 sizes that day.
       Lisa started moving tables, her niece got down to  very carefully collecting papers and shuttling them back and forth from room to room, and Frankie started pushing filing cabinets into place like a young Conan the Barbarian pushing the wheel of sorrow. Meanwhile, in between humping the heavier items about, I called/texted Lauren, Tara, Joe, Julie and company, all of whom were all very forthcoming and accommodating, all of whom offered to come in and finish anything we started. I also noticed many of my colleagues engaged in similar activity, all bitching, but all agreeing that...
              pay attention, this is important...
      if we want the kids to learn we have to be ready to rock come day one.
      Now I could go on about how this constant disturbance of the physical continuity of the education environment is bad juju, (I wrote all about disturbing the actual teaching continuity in my 2nd book, S.C.R.E.W.E.D. - but it now, why don't you) but instead, I think I'll end on a warm and ffuuzzy note. 
  Teachers (and their child laborers) everywhere are allowing their Feng Shui to be fenged with shuiamelessly in the name of making sure that their students start school in an environment conducive to maximum learning, without having to know how much fun went into getting it that way. So the next time you see a teacher with an aching back (or a 12 year old with great lat development, come to think of it) give them some love, huh?
PS - I know, I know, I spelled ffuuzy with an extra F and an extra U. That F U is for the administrators that make us move all of our stuff to accommodate their grand schemes. Hey, the Blog is called No More Mr. Nice Teacher, so that's as warm and fuzzy as you get. Until next time Stepchildren... 

...and so it begins,

     You would think, as a self-published author, 20+ year teacher/coach/loudmouth that I would be better at self promotion. I'm not. To be honest, I suck tremendously at it, mainly because I think that if you have to TELL people who or what you are...then you ain't. You know, the whole, "real tough guys don't have to tell you they're tough" phenomenon. Therefore, beyond allowing myself to approve a "Fans of the Author Frank Stepnowski" page on Facebook, I haven't done squat to promote my books.
     Well, that changes today - and I'll tell you why, becau$e it probably I$N'T for the rea$onS you think.
     Today I sat down for close to five hours with Frank Wilson of the Philadelphia Inquirer, a man with a scope of life experience and literary awareness that makes me embarrassed to call myself literate. Throughout the course of our conversation, I became aware that there is nothing wrong with wanting more and more people to be aware of the messages I'm sending, primarily because they're designed to educate people about the misconceptions and bullshit surrounding the educational system and to empower the GOOD teachers within that system. I have other motives, but none of them involving hurting or harming, only educating and entertaining, so I guess it's o.k. to get the word out to as many people as are willing to listen. And hey, if I do nothing but become a little more savvy regarding social media for my students, then that's more than enough. So here goes, a Blog, a Twitter account, and more attention paid to my Facebook account.
       My next blog will explain the genesis of both of my books, as well as the thought behind the handle No More Mr. Nice Teacher (although THAT one should be a bit self explanatory, yes?)In the meantime, I have to ask myself:  Am I, in one fell swoop,  becoming the media monster I warn my 15 year-old daughter of becoming? I really must keep an eye on myself...