A Tough Day

Yesterday, I cried while holding an unborn chick in my shaky hands.

Our campus has been abuzz with eager colleagues and students who have been watching our egg hatching livestream. They've been witnessing one newborn chick after another, pushing their cozy eggshells open with a tired and triumphant flourish. Needless to say, it's captured the rapt attention of many.

As a science teacher, I couldn't be more thrilled. Over seventeen years, it's been my professional goal to turn hearts and minds toward the wonders of the natural world. It feels amazing to hear so many people say, "I always hated science growing up, but if I'd done things like this, I would've paid more attention!"

I was exhilarated when a parent wrote to tell that her daughter's singular goal from near birth has been to become a ballerina. "But in recent months," she cheered, "Ava's been singing quite a different tune about wanting to become 'a scientist just like Mrs. Choi'."

The downside of all this happy hullaballoo is that there's been a heavy demand on my time. From the time I get to my classroom at 7:15 until 4 in the afternoon, there's a steady stream of people. I've intentionally kept my doors open, even with as many as fifty people in the room, because I believe science is for the masses.

I figured if I ever needed to get work done, I could lock the door and build in some quiet time.

Until yesterday.

There were the usual crowds of kids and I reveled in their excitement. But I was perplexed by the adults, some of whom I'd never met. They'd come into the room, look around for the incubators, and without a 'hey' or even a second glance at me, they made a beeline for the chicks. Often, they'd stand around for a few minutes to take pictures and selfies. Finally, they'd walk out - again, without a word or a glance at me.

I know just enough about Parisian culture to know that this is one of the reasons why French proprietors despise les Américains. In Paris, it's customary to greet business owners with a bonjour or a merci. But American tourists who assume they're 'just there for the goods' will enter these stores pompously, fondle a bunch of artisan goods, and walk out without a single word. David Lebovitz, consummate baker-cum-aspiring Parisian, openly wrote about his embarrassment of fellow Americans who did as such. "It's like entering someone's home and openly giving yourself a self-tour without acknowledging a homeowner's presence," he warned.

My classroom isn't really a store (if it was, I'd happily accept some solid croissants as currency). But to flounce into a space as a total stranger and not even greet the teacher who practically birthed the very chicks they'd come to see? Miss Manners would be in a tizzy.

I was irked, but chalked it up to sheer excitement and went on with my day.

A few hours later, some students had come into the room to see the chicks while I was taking a bathroom break. While poking around the incubator, they inadvertently jostled something on our livestream setup so I locked the door behind me to try and get things fixed. Just then, a colleague came by, wanting to see the chicks. She knocked and tried the door handle. Finding it locked, she opened the door with her own key and waltzed in.

I was astonished. I hadn't waved her in. I was clearly entangled with a frazzled mess of wires. But she came in with four kids trailing in after her, even though I'd held a finger up to the door.

After that encounter, I was baffled. I could understand students barging in. They were children, gripped with the thrill of watching a miracle from nature. What was it with these adults? I was deeply puzzled and annoyed.

Then, a chick died.

It was a gorgeous pale blue egg that had partly hatched, then stopped. As scientists, we learn to avoid interfering with nature, but it'd been nearly three days since its first pip. With worry expediting my texting thumbs, I got in touch the farmer, who gave me the go-ahead to check on things. Once I'd painstakingly removed a few shells, I could see why. I'd rather avoid sharing all the gory details, so I can simply assure you this chick was never bound to make it.

But I still cried.

Maybe it's because of my years of heartache with infertility that couldn't take seeing a stillborn chick.

Or maybe it was because I'd been wanting to cry all day and it was only coming out now.

Whatever it was, I sure was glad I had the door locked while I was performing this tearful and delicate egg surgery. That is, until that same colleague let herself into the room. Again. While tears were still wet on my cheeks.

This time, I couldn't take it. I furtively brushed away the tears and spoke firmly. "Jess, I need a minute. I'm busy taking care of some things."

She didn't get it. "Oh, I know. I can just imagine how crazy your schedule is. Mine is too." (It's not.) She proceeded to ramble about her perceived wild schedule for a few minutes, not seeming to notice my gaping expression at her cluelessness.

When she finally stopped her monologue to take a breath, I took my chance. "Jess, I'm going to need some peace and quiet to take care of something important. Would you mind...?"I glanced at the door meaningfully.

She took the hint then, but continued to chatter as she left, still not noticing that I'd stopped speaking.

That was it. I knew it was time to go home. I never leave right at dismissal, but there was nothing left in me for any living being - chick, human, or otherwise.

Halfway to my car, I realized I'd left my planner at my desk so I headed back into the building, only to catch one of our administrators opening the door for a gaggle of kids, even though the room was locked and the lights turned off. She started guiltily when she caught sight of me gawping behind her, which was possibly more telling than anything else.

I don't remember what I said. I don't even remember if I said anything. But I'd never felt so small, my work so openly exploited, and my personal space so violated.

So it's quite possible that I just turned on my heels and walked away.

---

I think it's time for me to make a confession. It's going to seem unrelated, but I promise there's a point.

I'm a terrible bowler.

Credits: Eva Andria @evavisicrea

I've had dozens of patient, well-meaning friends who've tried to teach me how to grip, launch, and release a bowling ball so that it'd make an unimpeded roll towards the pins. I've tried twisting. I've tried turning. I've curled my arm into all kinds of configurations that would make Cirque du Soleil artists proud. No matter what I do, it's such established fact that my turns will be gutter-bound that any team I play on will automatically accept a 'Jane handicap'.

A friend who knew how much I hated being a failed bowler decided to introduce me to something beautiful.

Gutter guards. Also known as The Magical Tubes that make Jane feel like a champion bowler. If your bowling confidence has been shaken by a string of ineffectual plays in the lane, set yourself up with a set of these babies, and you'll be right as rain. With these in place, I was able to garner scores from even the most awkward, waywardly rolls.

Credits: Carla Rivera

Philosophically, I don't believe in using such fallbacks on a regular basis - in sports or life. Incidentally, Amy L. Freeman, a parent and essayist, wrote a light and humorous post titled Gutter Guards are the Sign of our Failure about this very subject. I wholeheartedly agree - it's healthy and even helpful to allow children to experience failure.

But on a day like today, when so many of my inner pillars were crumbling - my sense of belonging, my identity, and the privilege of being seen, heard, and respected - I needed to quickly commandeer some heart guards to keep my soul from becoming an irreversible gutter ball.

• I met with my therapist, who helped by co-processing a lot of the hurt and pain I was feeling from the day. This has been my first time in therapy, and as a second generation Korean-American, I've often struggled with the implicit cultural stigma of asking for help. But I'm learning it's okay to seek support and it was enormously helpful to sit with someone who stood ready to help carefully unbox these burdens.

• I spent the evening binge-watching the original Full House. In all the chaos of this life, I've grown incredibly nostalgic for simpler and more wholesome things. And every rousing repeat of this theme song launches me backwards to sweeter times.

• I'm installing kinder and firmer boundaries - that is kinder to myself; firmer toward others. The next morning, I let administration know that I'd be coming in a little later. I let myself linger over my morning matcha. I drove to work at a more leisurely pace. When I got to school, I kept the the door open (why close it if locks don't matter, right?), but I took my planner and laptop to an empty stairwell when I needed to work.

• Last and certainly not least, I left myself indulge in some once-in-a-lifetime-wild retail therapy. For years, I've been tinkering with my iPhone's built-in camera and having a good time of it. But as my photographic ambitions exhausted my phone's capacities, I started researching a more serious upgrade. I eventually landed on a camera that proceeded to incite drool over for months...but I couldn't fathom allowing myself to indulge in such extravagance. Well, no more. There was no better time to invest in a post-teaching hobby than now. Before leaving for work the next morning, I took a deep breath and finally, finally clicked 'Buy'. And now, I can't wait to share more vibrant pictures with the Page and Spoon community.
  

That's it for now. By the time you're reading this, I hope I'm in my happy place, unboxing some gorgeous machinery like a kid on Christmas.

And, of course, I'll be doing it in front of our ever-present Christmas/summer/retirement/camera-opening tree.