Enjoy the following transcript from my sit-down with this one-of-a-kind human, Jewels.
I've written about her before, detailing the many shenanigans we've gotten into. She is my partner in crime, and also a member of Teach for 'Murica. And partially because of our shared experiences, our bond has been forged from piping hot magma, and has cooled into the crust of true companionship. Nothing is off-limits between us. Nothing is off-limits in this interview.
Max: Are you engaged?
Jewels: Excuse me?
M: Do you have plans to marry?
J: No.
M: Then why are you frantically searching for friends? I thought it was because you needed bridesmaids.
J: I’m not getting married–there's no baby in this oven. And frantic? I wouldn't say I'm frantic. It’s more in the sense that I’m a mole, and I know other moles are out there. I just need to do some digging to find some.
M: Can you elaborate?
J: Sure. So in college I had friends that were right there next to me, literally banging on my door to wake me up so we could walk to class together, or turning Moseley Center into Pride Rock when I'd pick up my smallest friend, hold her out in front of me and chant, "Ahhhhhhh seeevetmahhh babbadee cheetah bohhhh, sitteee bohhhh, mayyy yahh moh," or stealing bricks from campus pathways because we liked playing cutthroat jenga.
M: I understand completely. True friends. So what have you done to find more people like that in this declining tundra of a city that you were unfortunately placed in by the program we both loathe?
J: Well Max, it begins with a phone call to a potential new friend. Usually I do this around eight p.m. because that’s when most other teachers get home from school, even though I leave no later than three because I believe in the power of getting the fuck out before my head explodes.
M: I believe in that same power.
J: Good. I’m glad fellow pirate. And can we actually hurry? I have a friend date in thirty minutes.
M: Oh sure. What's the craziest thing you've done as a teacher?
J: Covered my windows so students couldn't look out and get distracted.
M: That's the single most radical thing you've done as a teacher?
J: It's either that or the time I stayed up all night to enter 987 grades into OSAT, which is Teach for America's data-tracking system to help corps members like me achieve transformational change, but ironically only added to my extensive to-do list, thereby causing me to come to school the next morning without a prepared lesson, and, fearing the backlash from my students, forcing me to hide by wearing scrubs [her students' uniform] and sitting, secluded, in a corner of the classroom, occasionally joining in with their raucous fist-pumping and belligerent insults directed at me, their ostensibly absent teacher.
M: Yea I think the window thing was crazier.
J: Me too.
M: I know you have a friend date soon, so I have just one final, pressing question. If you had to do it all over again–applying to Teach for 'Murica, learning that the program is not what its propaganda claims it to be, dealing with the near-debilitating crush that is the first months of teaching in an inner city sans support from that 'laudable' program, and the dawning realization that, despite all of that, there is a small chance that you love your students and, by the transitive property, your job–would you?
J: I guess so.
M: ...
J: No.
M: ...
J: Maybe.
M: I agree completely.
I've written about her before, detailing the many shenanigans we've gotten into. She is my partner in crime, and also a member of Teach for 'Murica. And partially because of our shared experiences, our bond has been forged from piping hot magma, and has cooled into the crust of true companionship. Nothing is off-limits between us. Nothing is off-limits in this interview.
Max: Are you engaged?
Jewels: Excuse me?
M: Do you have plans to marry?
J: No.
M: Then why are you frantically searching for friends? I thought it was because you needed bridesmaids.
J: I’m not getting married–there's no baby in this oven. And frantic? I wouldn't say I'm frantic. It’s more in the sense that I’m a mole, and I know other moles are out there. I just need to do some digging to find some.
M: Can you elaborate?
J: Sure. So in college I had friends that were right there next to me, literally banging on my door to wake me up so we could walk to class together, or turning Moseley Center into Pride Rock when I'd pick up my smallest friend, hold her out in front of me and chant, "Ahhhhhhh seeevetmahhh babbadee cheetah bohhhh, sitteee bohhhh, mayyy yahh moh," or stealing bricks from campus pathways because we liked playing cutthroat jenga.
M: I understand completely. True friends. So what have you done to find more people like that in this declining tundra of a city that you were unfortunately placed in by the program we both loathe?
J: Well Max, it begins with a phone call to a potential new friend. Usually I do this around eight p.m. because that’s when most other teachers get home from school, even though I leave no later than three because I believe in the power of getting the fuck out before my head explodes.
M: I believe in that same power.
J: Good. I’m glad fellow pirate. And can we actually hurry? I have a friend date in thirty minutes.
M: Oh sure. What's the craziest thing you've done as a teacher?
J: Covered my windows so students couldn't look out and get distracted.
M: That's the single most radical thing you've done as a teacher?
J: It's either that or the time I stayed up all night to enter 987 grades into OSAT, which is Teach for America's data-tracking system to help corps members like me achieve transformational change, but ironically only added to my extensive to-do list, thereby causing me to come to school the next morning without a prepared lesson, and, fearing the backlash from my students, forcing me to hide by wearing scrubs [her students' uniform] and sitting, secluded, in a corner of the classroom, occasionally joining in with their raucous fist-pumping and belligerent insults directed at me, their ostensibly absent teacher.
M: Yea I think the window thing was crazier.
J: Me too.
M: I know you have a friend date soon, so I have just one final, pressing question. If you had to do it all over again–applying to Teach for 'Murica, learning that the program is not what its propaganda claims it to be, dealing with the near-debilitating crush that is the first months of teaching in an inner city sans support from that 'laudable' program, and the dawning realization that, despite all of that, there is a small chance that you love your students and, by the transitive property, your job–would you?
J: I guess so.
M: ...
J: No.
M: ...
J: Maybe.
M: I agree completely.