I’m Probably Going To Hell

woman hypnotist (1)

There is a 90% chance I’m going to hell. A few years ago it might have been closer to an 80% chance but it’s been a rough patch recently. Easter is usually a time when my heathenistic nature is made clear as the appearance of eggs, bunnies and crucifixes tends to spur familiar conversations between the Turk and I.

“I never get it, why bunny? Did Jesus turn into bunny?”

“No. That’s just stupid.”

“Is it? Every year I ask and every year no one can explain.”

“Oh I explain it, you just never listen.”

“And does rabbit come from egg? No. So why eggs?”

It usually goes on and on like this until I hide away like a mole rat in a dark, secluded area far from my husband who was raised in a Muslim country completely void of gummy eggs and chocolate bunnies. We’ve been doing this for a ridiculously long time so when this year’s round started I didn’t think much of it.

On a rainy Sunday, we drove past the local Catholic Church over-flowing with cars. I should probably note, this is the same Catholic Church I weaseled my way into a couple years ago for Number 1 Son to make his first communion. Though I’m a card carrying heathen, I’m also aware that mistakes can be made and if this whole Jesus thing pans out, I don’t want to have sacrificed the souls of my offspring, so I like to cover my bases. Every month the Church sends us requests for money with our names horrifically misspelled. We laugh manically while shredding the request and the Church keeps a family of ethnically diverse names on the registry amid the thousands of Smiths and Johnsons. It’s a symbiotic relationship.

Seeing the crowded parking lot reminded me to ask the Turk, “Do you have Good Friday off?”

To which he replied, “Every Friday is good. Why is one more good than the others?”

Just as I was about to give myself a stroke from rolling my eyes back in my head, Number 1 chimed up from the backseat. “Baba, that’s the day Jesus died.”

The Turk searched for clarity, “But he come back again later?”

“Yes,” I chimed in. “He rolled up on the crowd a few days later and needless to say, they were a bit shocked. I guess it’s like when you think your boss is out of town and he comes back early. I mean, on a big scale.” (Sister Nora would be so proud.)

I thought that would end it but no. From the backseat Number 1 asked, “Wait, if Jesus died then got out of his grave later, doesn’t that make him a zombie?”

Being a long-time fan of all things zombie (old school Night of the Living Dead not this new school Walking Dead crap) I was more than proud that my little cherub had somehow taken in zombie science by osmosis from his mother.

We debated the concept for a while until Number 1 added, “So if we take communion then don’t we technically become zombies too?”

Kid, you spent one freaking year in Catechism and somehow you managed to pay attention to the one part of the whole doctrine that most find pretty creepy. Nice. Not wanting to get further into a theological debate with either Number 1 nor his father, I tried to shut it down by throwing my attention to the Nugget. However, Nugget was elbow deep in a bag of animal crackers and had nothing to say except, “Wook Mom, I ate dis guy’s head off.” He proudly held up a decapitated pachyderm. Nugget often chooses to utilizes the fact that he only has one ear to find a little peace in our nut-job family.

Fast forward to yesterday and me chasing a naked Nugget around the house trying to get him into the shower. In desperation, I tried a conversation technique to distract him long enough to cleanse.

“So how was school today?”

I expected a generic, “Good,” maybe peppered with a bit of “I had fun.” But no.

Instead he said, “Today at thool, I told da kids about Jesus.”

Noooooooooooooo!  “Um, you told the kids what honey?”

“First, I told dem dat Jesus died on de cross.” He stated.

Relieved I continued, “Really?” I wasn’t impressed that my kid was preaching the gospel in preK but since he’d only started talking a year ago and he’s still not a fan of interacting with same age peers, I was just happy he was having a conversation.

“What else did you talk about Nugs?”

By this point he was shimmying in the shower covered in bubbles tossing out information between dance moves. “Den I told dem Jesus is a zombie.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Jesus is a zombie. Dat’s what you said.”

Panic overtook me. Do they call CPS for training one’s children as  a heathen? Was there a red button on the desk for teachers to press in a religious emergency? This is Indiana and they take their religion seriously here. For the love of God, they made Mike Pence.

“So….” I ventured carefully, “what did your friends say to the news of zombie Jesus?”

“Nuffing. Michael said Jesus is in your heart so it’s ok if he’s a zombie.”

And there you have it. So on this Easter weekend just remember…If Jesus is in your heart, he might be a zombie…and clearly, I am going to hell.

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Please, Let Me Teach You…

old-classroom

“Girl, you have orchestrated some serious BS in all the years I’ve known you but this just might be your best work yet. Don’t they know you’re just makin’ this crap up as you go?” My dearest friend, as southern women do, has an amazing ability to make what might seem like an insult sound like a compliment (Bless her heart.) Since she’s been my cohort for the past 100 years and has used her Mississippi charm to get our asses out of numerous jams, I knew she meant it with only the highest regard. “Do ya’ll think they’d let me fly in and be a fly on the wall?  I might need to see this in person.”

The Thelma to my Lousie was accurate. I’ve long been a master of BS, a skill I credit to my genetic linage of cattle traders. However, every good BS artist eventually hits something she cannot talk her way out of and I worried I was about to hit mine. I’d spent a couple weeks preparing for one of my biggest acts of BS to date and if I fell on my face it would totally be worthy of pointed laughter and mocking in a thick southern drawl. After all, I’d done the same to her on too many occasions. That’s true friendship.

So what was this situation I’d gotten myself into? Money laundering? Organ trafficking? Mercenary work on a remote island nation? Nah. Far bigger. Dear readers, I had agreed to present at the Hoosier of Association of Science Teachers convention. I was slated to teach science teachers how to teach science better. Mercenary work looked more enjoyable.

If you’re a regular reader of this fine work of literary genius, you might have read an earlier blog  in which I explained how I started as an art teacher and ended up as a science teacher. (Here it is if you’re dying to know more.) In terms of my career path the phrase, “What a long strange trip it’s been” has never been more accurate. That being said, of all the subjects I’ve taught, science, wins as favorite. But in the back of my mind, I’m always weary that someone will figure out I’m BSing my way through it.

Last year, it was suggested I attend the same gathering of science teaching professionals. Since I already have an unreasonable fear of Hoosiers (Why are they all so tall?) and at that point was suffering from an even more intense case of Imposter Syndrome, I was  hesitant. Would the Hoosier teachers demand credentials upon entry then admonish me upon learning I wasn’t one of them? I mean I didn’t go to IU or Purdue, I wasn’t a Hoosier and I didn’t even have a degree in science. I was ripe for victimization. But because I knew, if I was to remain in the science field, I’d need to stop fearing Hoosier hostility so I reluctantly agreed.

The sensible shoes and lack of discernable fashion within the overall crowd did not make it easy for me to blend in. I’m no trend-setter but I looked like Naomi Campbell’s short sister milling around a convention center full of science teachers. I watched enough Cagney and Lacey to know that if one wants to make it out alive, it’s best to keep her head down and blend. So I stuck to the back row in most sessions and left the questions to the legitimate scientists. I made it out unscathed, save for the one AP Chemistry session that left me staring at the presenter while a droplet of shame-drool tumbled down my chin. (I barely passed chemistry in 1988. In 30 years my comprehension has remained constant.)

Having gone in undercover last year I noticed something – the type of science these people were teacher was bore-ass. Perhaps in the eyes of the presenters arguing biological classification and exploring chemical equations on a whiteboard was a gas, but to we lesser-nerds, their methods weren’t grabbing anybody, especially not kids. And for kids like those in my classes who don’t always learn in the old schools ways, they were shut out completely. When the call for submissions came out last November searching for presenters for the 2018 conference, this Norma Rae couldn’t resist. I determined it was up to me to lead the charge for all of those not born with a scientific mind. In my clouded mind (perhaps due to age, perhaps due to a misspent youth) I rationalized that who could better teach science teachers how to teach science than an art teacher-turned-theater teacher-turned-writing teacher-turned-ESL teacher-turned-science teacher…right? The connection is obvi.

I dashed off a stunning proposal full of big, nerdy words and educational catch phrases. While my proposal was solid, I secretly hoped they would sense my illegitimacy and squash my dream before I had the opportunity to humiliate myself in front of a group of Hoosiers who might assault me using pocket protectors like ninja stars. However, the league of science teachers on the selection committee did not have a fine nose for BS because not only was I selected, I was also given an ideal time slot. I was screwed.

In the weeks leading up to my presentation I changed direction at least 50 times. While I am highly skilled at the art of BS, my medium is usually rooted in full confidence or complete ignorance. In this case, I had neither. I knew too much to feign ignorance and too little to be confident. Though I’ve taught for over 15 years, I’ve been teaching science less than 2 years so I had a solid fear of a legit science teacher shiving me with a broken test tube for lecturing them on something I knew little about.

Hours before my presentation with my epic doom looming on the horizon, I sat through a series of painfully boring presentations including one which caused me to consider gnawing off my own foot to escape. The presentation should’ve been cool. It promised to teach us how to use sci-fi movies to teach science. It sounded amazing and my initial excitement was shared with the 65 other people in the room. But by the end only two of us remained and we only stayed because we were blocked in by a projector cart. Upon browsing the presenter’s credentials, I learned he is a professor of science methods – this crap show was led by the dude who teaches science teachers how to teach science. It was like the Bat-symbol glared upon the wall calling me. I’m coming Commissioner Gordon and I’m bringin’ my BS to save the day!

A few hours later, I wowed my own packed house with my crazy playdough cell models, digestive tracts made out of gummy worms and pantyhose, and dramatic tales of droplets named Phil cruising through the water cycle. Best of all, no one gnawed off their own foot to leave early. (No one even left early! ) I even had some groupies at the end and none of them tried to shiv me with a test tube. All in all, the master of BS reined supreme and I further proved to my darling friend that I still got it.