One teacher's voice

I spent much of my Wednesday at work writing this story, and I think it came out great. Certainly on par with anything I've done in Nashua since I started last month. The story will probably run on the front of tomorrow's paper, but I wanted it to be available NOW, since I'm not a patient person, so I decided to copy and paste it here. Enjoy.


Nashua Superintendent Mark Conrad said he’d never seen anything like it. He wasn’t alone.

It’s not every day that fashion sparks an important issue at a Board of Education meeting.

Katherine Evans, 29, of Hudson, stepped to the microphone Monday night to speak about her struggles to find a job in education since 2008. For emphasis, she wore a white T-shirt with the words “HIRE ME!” inked in large green letters on the front. The shirt said, in smaller letters, “(See back for details)” under the hiring plea. A copy of her resume was printed on the back.

Evans said she wanted to be a voice for all the good teachers who are out of work and unable to land a job in the tough economic conditions. She said her speech was “out of character,” but she wasn’t sure how else to be heard.

“I wanted to express myself and network a little,” she said after the meeting.

Evans graduated from Keene State University in 2003 with a bachelor’s degree in elementary education and also completed a year-long extended education program at Southern Maine University, which she called “very intense” and difficult to get into.

“I thought that program would be the hardest part,” she said. “It really prepares you. I just wish I could use it.”

Evans said she has applied for “hundreds” of jobs since 2008 with no luck and even sent out 60 resumes last month to every school from Nashua to Concord. She received two responses.

“I don’t know if it’s what you know or who you know at this point,” she said.

Evans is hardly alone, and she knows it. The labor market in education has been flooded with teachers searching for jobs, but the positions just aren’t there.

“I think there’s a lot of good talent out there that we’re not able to take advantage of because of the lack of positions open,” Conrad said. “We’re finding many more resumes coming in than in the past from both new teachers and veteran teachers.”

Hudson Superintendent Randy Bell has seen a similar trend.

“Two years ago, we had a very large number, something like 40 vacancies,” he said. “But last year, they dwindled probably in half, and this year, at this point, it’s running a little less than that. So we do have vacancies, but nowhere near what we had two years ago.”

Mary Frazzetta, a human resources assistant for the Merrimack School District, said they have filled 12 positions this summer and three more are still available.

For those 15 teaching jobs, Frazzetta said the district received almost 1,000 resumes and applications.

“As high as that seems,” she said, “it’s not as abnormal as it sounds.”

Dana O’Gara, the director of human resources in the Nashua School District, said there were 954 applications for 87 jobs this year, 40 of which have already been filled.

“With the wealth of applications, many people do not get interviews,” O’Gara said.

But all of these schools are still hiring. Conrad and Bell said they are not cutting jobs from the budget, and they always have positions open up when teachers leave at the end of the school year. The difficulty comes from the abundance of people who want those jobs.

“There’s a lot more teachers out there in the waiver market,” Conrad said.

Most of the open positions vary across subject and age fields, but Bell said in Hudson there have been more middle school and high school positions available than in the elementary schools.

With no pattern forming in the job market, it means teachers like Evans have to stay on their toes.

“I love fourth grade, but beggars can’t be choosers,” Evans said. “I’ll get my Praxis in anything at this point.”

Evans is certified to teach kindergarten through eighth grade and has picked up anything she can get her hands on for experience. Right now, she receives wages from the federally funded Title I teaching program as a reading interventionist in Manchester – where she works one-on-one with children to help them learn to read – but is only paid for 30 hours per week even if she works more.

“If I could live off Title I pay, I would,” Evans said. “I just can’t.”

Her husband of four years, Josh Evans, landed a job as a teacher in the Litchfield School District, but Katherine Evans said money is still tight. The couple used much of their savings to pay back her college loans in 2008.

Evans said she has felt doubts about studying for a teaching degree since she’s been unemployed, but other jobs don’t have the same gratification.

“I’ve had jobs that had a potential for nice paychecks, but I just wasn’t satisfied at the end of the day,” she said. “In this job, you don’t do it for the paycheck.”

Multiple board members wished Evans good luck and commented on her “chutzpah” to get up in front of the board on Monday night and fight for teachers in New Hampshire.

Still, there was little Conrad could do except put her resume on file in the school district, something Evans said has already been done “multiple times” since her unemployment began.

But even if her attempt fails, Evans said she knows it will happen. In the meantime, she’s just trying to keep a positive attitude in mind.

“I like to think I have a good sense of humor about things, so why not have a little fun with this?” Evans said. “It looks a lot better than puffy paint would have.”

My Dorothy Moment

Tonight, I took the painful, nostalgic plunge into uncharted territory.

I drove through campus as an alumnus.

It was quick, like a shot at the doctor’s office. I drove straight through and into Newmarket for a round of golf and a burger at Rocky’s with Mom. On my way out, the doctor pricked me again. Except this time, the needle stuck.

The familiar has never felt so strange.

I will never be in Durham the same way I once was. Not if I go to graduate school, not if I become a professor, not even if I take over Huddleston’s cushy job.

I’m a permanent visitor. The road team.

So many of my favorite places are no longer mine: The clocktower. The dorms. The luxurious lawn begging to be laid on in the breezy sunshine. The Whitt. The tennis courts. Ham Smith. The MUB. Pauly’s. Ballard’s. Wing’s. That center spot in front of the library.

I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t ask to go. My four years came and went. I didn’t realize what I had until it was gone. Time didn’t ask my permission. If it had, I would’ve begged: Please don’t make me go out there! I’m not ready! The real world has work! Bills! Taxes! Responsibility!

But I am ready. Other than a few forms I can’t begin to comprehend – I have enough trouble with a W2, don’t even try me on health care terminology or insurance or leasing agreements – I know what I’m doing out here. I have a job. I have an apartment. I have bills and I have paychecks. I am responsible. Sustainably independent.

But here’s the thing: it fucking sucks.

Not the way the Buckeyes or Rosby or the Blackhawks do. Not the way disease or death rips apart your life. But it’s the only way I can think to describe the change in lifestyle between a student in college and a young adult in life. It fucking sucks.

And I’m not trying to complain. Honest. The fact is that the change is jarring.

It doesn’t matter if you’re doing what you love, working a shit job, or struggling to find one at all. It just hits you all of a sudden. The Dorothy Moment:

I’m not in college anymore.

I’m not in the mood to preach. If you’ve got years left at school, do what you want with them. But know this: whether or not you want to, whether or not you’re ready, you’ll be leaving someday. You’ll be an alumnus.

And the transition’s not an easy one.

The British is coming! The British is coming!

In honor of the British Open at St. Andrews, which starts tomorrow, and my still favorite golfer, Tiger Woods, I've decided to post the op-ed I wrote back in April about Tiger's impending return to golf, "I am still Tiger Woods."

The Open at the Old Course at St. Andrews is special because it's one of the world's best golf tournaments at the game's most historic course. I've been lucky enough to walk the Old Course twice, and it's quite a sight. I can't wait for an exciting week of championship golf, culminating in what I hope will be Tiger's third British Open victory. Here's what I wrote about the loved and hated man back in April:

When I was five years old, my dad sawed off the end of a rusty MacGregor five-iron, popped off the worn black rubber from the useless end, refastened it to the jagged top of my new club, and led me out to my backyard in Canton, Mich. to smack my first golf ball. The second those Top Flite dimples whisked into the high grass behind our house, I was hooked for life.

I practiced putting with my Papa’s trusty old 10-iron on his muddy orange carpet every time we visited them in Oregon. The ball would roll into a tiny blue cup time after time again, each plop of the ball hitting the plastic producing a cheery “Oh!” from my proud grandmother. I spent hours putting on that carpet as a hopeful young 10-year-old and begged Papa for daily trips to the driving range downtown.

My parents have spent thousands of dollars on me for golf clubs, golf balls and greens fees. I’ve played in rain, snow, wind, hail, and sun. I remember putts like the 60-foot miracle that curved and dropped for birdie on No. 2 at North Conway Country Club; I remember shots like the 135-yard pitching wedge on No. 9 that bounced once on the green and sunk in for a birdie 3 and a front-nine 39; I remember my best score (72) and my worst (119); I remember mornings golfing across Ireland and Scotland with my dad and rainy afternoon rounds with my grandparents in Oregon.

You pick a year in my life, and I can tell you where I was golfing and how well I was playing. I am a golfer. And, in line with every young golfer of this generation, I loved Tiger Woods.

I had a poster of Tiger in my room. I went through a period where I would hit, wear and play with nothing but Nike equipment. I wore my “I am Tiger Woods” t-shirt so much as a pre-teen that it nearly disintegrated. I watched Tiger win and sulked when Tiger lost. I admired every stroke, every putt, every fist pump. Tiger was my golf hero.

And guess what? He still is.

Tiger will tee it up on Thursday for the most prestigious tournament in golf: The Masters at Augusta National. It’s his first tournament in 144 days, since he declared an indefinite leave from golf to fix marital troubles stemming from infidelities to his wife, Elin.

It’s the media storm of the year. The best player in golf history, in sports history, is nothing more than your everyday, professional sleazeball.

Many fans feel betrayed. They feel angry, let down, disappointed, and appalled. Not me. I hold Tiger in the same regard as I once did.

Why? He’s an athlete. I look up to him for his unmatched talent in golf. What he does in his personal life is none of my business.

If I want lessons on strong disposition, I remember afternoons with my late grandfathers, who served proudly in World War II and the Korean War. If my moral compass needs direction, I talk to my parents: successful, smart and happily married for 25 years. I have a collection of relatives, friends, coworkers, coaches, and teachers from my past who have all shown me virtuous traits in different forms.

With the support system around me, why would I hold the character of a professional athlete with much regard, given the incredible track record of failures?

Sure, there are athletes that give as much of their hearts off the field as they do on, but those stories don’t make headlines on page one. That space is reserved for the seemingly endless list of rapists, liars, womanizers, and drug abusers. Criminal acts of athletes point out the fatal flaw in our media-crazed environment: we worship these men and women and expect them to soar above standards that no one can possibly fulfill. And when they inevitably fail, the world ignites in fury.

Tiger Woods’ legacy as a man is tarnished but his reign over the golf world remains strongly intact. And when Tiger plants a wooden tee in the firm Augusta ground, locks his chiseled hands gently around his Tour Velvet grip and fires a dimpled Nike swoosh into the dazzling green distance, I’ll be the same pre-teen adolescent I once was: wishing that for just one day on the golf course I could say, “I am Tiger Woods.”

MEXICAN STANDOFF!

Looking for a story that will lead you on and let you down? Then read ahead, bored web crawler.

Today I spent six hours in a real-life standoff.

I wasn't one of the cool guys holding the gun and calling it a MEXICAN STANDOFF! in the blog title is completely just to catch your eye, but I was there.

Where? New Hampshire. Nashua. Downtown. Morningside Drive. No, the standoff wasn't between old people.

I wake up at 7:30. I shave. I shower. I sit down for a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. My phone rings. It's my boss.

"CAM! YOU AWAKE? WE NEED YOU! THERE'S SO MUCH BLOOD!"

*actual conversation not recorded and therefore cannot be claimed to be entirely accurate

"Yes, I'm awake. I'm eating Cheerios."

"GOOD CHOICE FOR YOUR HEART! NOW DRIVE TO NASHUA! BLOOD!"

"I will be there in minutes."

I hang up. I finish my Cheerios. I move to the kitchen. Must think ahead. I pack lunch: four slices of turkey sandwich with honey mustard and lettuce on whole wheat bread, a granny-smith apple, Sweet and Spicy Doritos, a handful of baby carrots, and a Coke.

I check out Morningside Drive on Google Maps. Straight-left-roundaboutstraight-right-right. I'm ready for said blood.

I jump inside Blue Charlize. The Mini roars to life.

I'm there. The intersection of Taft and Clement is blocked off by police cruisers and armored cars. Two S.W.A.T. teams assemble. It's now 8:30.

Nothing happens for almost an hour. Then two deafening flash-bang grenades. Then another hour. Then 21 softer explosions said later to be tear gas.

I touch the police tape. Feels like yellow. News stations crowd around me. I talk to neighbors.

"HOLY BALLS! THERE'S GUNS AND SHIT!"

*again, conversation not recorded and only estimated for accuracy

I write. I approach another neighbor.

"I SEE POLICE! SCARY SCARY MORE NONDESCRIPT FEELINGS!"

I write. A suited bald policeman comes forward.

"I can't tell you anything I know and I really can't answer any specific questions."

I write. The story is coming together nicely.

An hour passes. I sweat. Black polo in 92-degree heat was a bad choice. Another hour passes. I eat my lunch in Charlize with my newly appreciated friend, AC. I chew chew choose the turkey sandwich. It's warm. So is everything else, boiled in the hot sun. I finish the hot mess and step outside when the policeman reappears.

"I will tell you what I told you before, but this time I'll say it differently."

I lick my pen and write, just like a cool newspaperman should. Boom. Words.

The night reporter shows up. He'll take over, he says. I do not argue. My eyes have seen enough bloodshed. I drive back the newsroom.

I sit. I write my story. My shift ends. The night reporter will add his tidbits and we will share the front page tomorrow. Success.

This partly fictional story is brought to you by news stories that sound really exciting when you hear about them but are actually mostly boring to cover because everyone says the same things and the cops rarely give out pertinent information. If you are more into facts and less into prose, visit this website.

Holdin' out for a home life

Winding down another great weekend with a bad romantic comedy on the couch by myself in my apartment (this Sunday's selection: I'm Reed Fish - it's pretty lame, even as far as romantic comedies go, and I'm about as lenient a judge on movies as it gets), I'm struck for the second time in a week with a bout of homesickness.

Now, I've got myself a great life. I drive my dream car to work every day. I somehow picked up a full-time job at one of the state's most well respected newspapers right out of school. I have the best girl by my side. I have a nice apartment with a great friend fully furnished with gifts from my parents - a huge leather couch, a soft comfy queen bed, a kitchen table, chairs, and the like. I'm truly happy, and I don't take it for granted. As MGMT says, I'm in the prime of my life.

But every once in a while I really pine for my dad's mashed potatoes, my mom's grilled chicken, my sister's Risotto. The couch in my kitchen: a perfect spot for reading, even if it's too short to completely lay down. My energetic Corgi, aged Golden Retriever, and the affectionate but insane cats. Family movie nights. The view of my backyard. Walks around the neighborhood.

I don't want you to get the idea that I'm turning my Blogspot into a Livejournal. Most of these types of posts are reserved for my real journal each day or night. Recaps of the day, life's aspirations and goals. That stuff's not often necessary for public viewing, even on the Internet.

But since my mind's been racing a bit tonight, I thought I'd do some writing to clear my head and send a message.

If you're young and living at home, be it that you're out of school and unhappily unemployed or still a student and working your summer break at a life-sucking job, enjoy the home life. Push for new opportunities and work toward the excitement of an independent life, but don't throw away your time at home. It's worth more than you think.

TONIGHT: The LeBrongest hour of TV....ever

In light of the most anticipated sports announcement since Brett Lebda's signing with the Toronto Maple Leafs (ha!), I must weigh in on LeBron James' egomaniacal one-hour special set to air tonight on ESPN.

First, let me say that I once had respect for BronBron. I thought he was one of the gentle giants, a modest NBA star (comparatively, of course). But since the "Chosen One" tattoo surfaced on his back, I've been suspicious that he really is entirely obsessed with his own greatness. And this week, when the news broke that he would announce what team he would sign with during a one-hour-long "special" on ESPN, I lost it. Any respect he once had is now gone.

Let me just put this in perspective. He's a free agent about to sign with a basketball team. He's not the only one this summer, not the only one ever, not special at all. The guy doesn't even have any championships. And while I understand that his signing is big news, especially because whatever team gets him will immediately be better, one piece of big news does not merit an hour of live television airtime.

So, I've compiled a short list of things I'd rather see get an hour special on TV than LeBron James' free-agent signing announcement.

• A Day in the Life of an Earwig: Yes, I'd rather watch these disgusting little critters crawling in and about someone's ear canals for an hour than catch a second of LeBron Mania.
  

• The Making of Gigli with special commentary from Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck: Yep, bring on the fake laughs and stupid inside jokes from two annoying ex-lovers as they talk about one of the worst movies ever made before I watch tonight's announcement.
  

• Behind the Scenes of Toddlers & Tiaras: I would love to get up close and personal with this reality show and watch how insane mothers put "flippers" (fake teeth) in their infants' mouths before tuning into ESPN tonight.

• American Idol Sings the Beatles: Please Please (give) Me the worst voices in the country and let them Maxwell Silver Hammer my favorite songs for an hour before I give any of my loving to LeBronberry Fields Forever.

• The NASCAR Sprint Cup Racing Series: I would even watch stock cars do 500 laps around a circular track in front of thousands of screaming redneck hillbillies before buckling down on the couch for LeBron. AND I'd do it sober.

Feel free to leave any hour specials you'd rather see than LeBron's self-love fest.

Commercialization to the extreme

It's so hot that I just walked down the hall past my only roommate to use the bathroom, saw the door was closed and proceeded to wait two or three minutes before realizing the light was off, no one was in there and I'm simply losing my mind.

But I've been able to keep the heat somewhat at bay thanks to two new fans from Wal-Mart, which segues perfectly into Tim King's choice for my next blog post (he won the caption contest with the only entry, therefore I must give him his due for such loyalty): The incredibly over-commercialization of my "neighborhood" in South Nashua.

From my window I can see McDonald's through the trees. From that McDonald's, looking up and down the street I can see Guitar Center, Toys R Us, Market Basket, Starbucks, Sports Authority, Best Buy, Staples, The Post Office, Pizza Hut, Modell's, Walgreen's, Bernie and Phyl's Furniture, Barnes and Noble, Panera, and more bright signs that squeeze your head. Within a five-minute drive I can go to a different Market Basket, or Shaw's or Hannaford or Stop and Shop if I prefer, any New England regional bank, Wal-Mart, Target, UNO's, Burger King, a UHaul center, Rite Aid, Jordan's Furniture, and an entire mall full of more brand-names like the Apple Store or Claire's (in case I finally decide to splurge on those faux diamond earrings that are just so fetch - yes, it's happening).

So on any given night with an unlimited credit card, I could be strumming a new guitar with a Pokemon lunchbox, gnawing on some store-brand chicken sauteed in Venti Chai Latte, slapping a 'Kazaam' DVD around with a set of Atomic Race 7s, printing off some personalized stationary to mail, and cooking some Asiago bagels in an Easy Bake Oven all from a reclined position in a blue suede love seat. Sounds like my own little slice of heaven, doesn't it?

There are so many things wrong with society today, you've really got to pick your battles. I don't have quite the historical background to properly take on this commercial giant and talk about the good ol' days when there was a milkman and payphones and plain old 2-D television, but this really has to stop. Or at least slow down.

Example: I shouldn't be able to go work out at Planet Fitness at three in the morning. Those people working that shift should be sleeping. There's truly no need for any store to have 24-hour service except the occasional gas station for late-night drivers. I mean, I appreciate the fact that if I wake up at three and find the energy to drive 15 minutes to work those glutes, I can. But it's not exactly a membership deal-breaker if I can't.

It's so hot that I'm barely able to string two thoughts together, but I think my general message is this:

While convenience is, well, convenient, it's also terrifying for the future. There are too many stores and too many people buying too much plastic shit. There's not enough education and not enough originality or authenticity. I say close down the stores in my area and send all the employees off to join the Peace Corps. Then people might start to understand how morally bankrupt our country has become.