Entitled.

And then this entitled bitch in front of me on the coffee line starts complaining into her fucking blue tooth. Her coworker has a problem keeping the zipper on his pants up–she calls it his xyz problem–and she has had enough. She’s reporting him to her boss. What an asshole.

Religion.

I believe in remembering who I was, before anyone told me I was flawed.

Because I miss my best friend

I Hate the Word PEDAGOGY

When I was five-years-old, I set up a classroom in my bedroom and taught my three-year-old brother how to read and write. They were the sweetest moments of my life. I’ve been chasing that feeling all my life. It’s  my drug. In fact, come to think of it, all of my true friendships–my long-term relationships and inappropriate love affairs–have all been about educating and being sensually educated.

I never heard the word “pedagogy” until I hit the back porch of academics. That’s where all the smart people hang out and talk about smart and scientific ways of teaching. They speak of assignments and rubrics and encoding forms of plagiarism. It is fascinating bullshit. Talking about educational dogma makes my brain feel like it’s being massaged. I do like to think. I do like to read books about pedagogical theories. I do like to discover the labels for how I’ve always been. So, I read and read and read but take none of it seriously. None of it has ever helped me teach anything. Sorry.

What has helped me is my long history of highly stimulating relationships. The yoga masters I studied with, the shamans I danced with, the Tibetan monks I sat in silence with for eight hours a day–that was some weekend–all of them have taught me the value of openness, acceptance, and most importantly for a teacher–egolessness.

Hmmmm. Nothing else to say.

The End