Doesn’t that sound arrogant and pretentious of me? Not to mention unChristian. Thing is, it’s a huge church, the median income is somewhere north of six figures, and let’s face it, I fit in about as well as a mixed breed hound in the middle of a cat show.

Still, I go with my family every week, sit in a seat near the front (it’s easier to pretend the auditorium sanctuary isn’t the size of a stadium when there are only two or three rows of seats ahead of you), I try to keep my mind from wandering during the singing, try not to be distracted/offended by the smoke machines and fancy stage lighting, and I obediently take notes on the outline provided within the full-color high-gloss bulletin.

The saving grace of this church (pun not intended) is its pastor. He’s a straight-up, authentic guy, transplanted from the midwest via the south, and I kind of feel sorry for the guy. He’s so not SoCal. Which, combined with the depth of his scriptural knowledge and his honest enthusiasm, makes him worth hearing every Sunday. Even if I have to put up with the massive video monitors on each end of the stage.

This Sunday was like every other Sunday (inanely theatrical worship bracketing a solid sermon), up until I left the building with my family. At the foot of the sidewalk leading from the building’s side entrance (as befits its size it has at least five entrances, but I digress) to the parking lot, I encountered a young woman holding a little girl by the hand. The woman had a handwritten note in her other hand, which she was trying to show to the people passing her.

And they were passing her. Most (including my husband) completely ignored her. Many (including him) were probably focused on where they were going next (grocery store? restaurant? beach?). Some however (including myself and Youngest Daughter) heard her soft voice saying “Can you help me?” Many chose to walk past without acknowledging her. I know this because I watched them. I watched their eyes skitter over her and then look studiously away. I watched them shake their heads “No” and increase their pace, the quicker to put her behind them.

Eventually my steps brought me face to face with her. I stopped, listened to her brief plea, and I told her the truth: I have no job, I have no money with me, I’m sorry.

And then I hurried to catch up to my family, who had reached our car. Youngest Daughter asked me what the woman wanted. I told her, and then I made a quick decision. I simply could not just get in the car and drive away. It felt flat out wrong. For God’s sake (no pun intended) this is a church. With a woman asking for help–no matter the reason, no matter the authenticity of her need–a few dozen feet from the front door. And NOBODY thus far is helping her.

I’m not a member of this church (for all that I’ve attended services for two years) and I can count the number of people I know amidst it’s 2000-some member congregation on one hand. Literally. But I knew that someone inside that building on a Sunday morning just after services ought to be able to help an apparently destitute woman.

So I told Youngest Daughter to clue in Mr Random Thoughts (who was already in the car and ready to head for Costco) that I was going back to get the woman some help.

The woman wouldn’t come inside the church with me. In very halting English she said “No, no, thank you,” and held out the paper clutched in her hand. It said that she’d lost her job, and needed help for herself and her two children. As I decided what to do next, a young couple with two small children walked by. The husband saw the paper she held out, and shook his head “No;” they kept on walking.

That did it. I headed back into the building, looking for someone who could help her. Within 30 seconds I ran across two of the handful of people I actually know, both of whom have unofficial leadership positions (i.e. they’re not paid for the vast amount of work they do and they don’t wear pretty nametags on Sunday but they know a lot of people and they are very well respected). I quickly told them about the young woman. They immediately directed me to one of the executive pastors who was standing a few feet away.

Feeling awkward but still determined, I introduced myself to the man, told him about the young woman and her daughter, and he said he and his wife would go see if they could help her. I asked if he wanted me to wait and go with him; he said no.

I hope he did what he’d said and that other people wanting to talk with him, or the need to be somewhere else didn’t interfere. I left the building, and the woman was still standing with her daughter at the end of the sidewalk. Someone else had paused to respond to her request, and as I walked past I overheard him say “Maybe you could get some help inside,” just before continuing on his way.

Seriously people. It’s a church, and you just came out of a worship service. Mere minutes ago you were talking to God (or at least pretending to do so).  Is there some sort of invisible device that scrapes off everything you’ve heard and seen as you go out through the doors?

To be very fair, this church has a food pantry. It serves meals to the homeless on-site once a week all winter long. It has sent teams to Haiti and elsewhere–doctors with badly needed medicine after the big Haiti quake, for example. The church itself has various outreaches in place. It’s the people attending who seemed not only clueless but utterly indifferent to the woman in need.

I felt like I was in the middle of an episode of What Would You Do, and I didn’t like it at all. I didn’t like what it said about the Mothership church (so freakin’ big, sitting there in the middle of a huge lawn like a landed spacecraft). In my opinion, there ought to have been a group of people immediately gathering around the woman and her daughter trying to figure out and solve her situation.

Yeah, right, I live in a fantasy world.

I miss my old church. A lot. I miss the people that made up that congregation and the small size that didn’t permit anonymous indifference.

My mother forbade me to bring him in the house, and I wasn’t about to repeat what had been done to him earlier that day, so in the growing dusk of the summer night, I took him door to door through my neighborhood, asking if anyone would like a free kitten. After about two blocks night had fallen, and the kitten had grown tired of being carried. Struggling, he dug his tiny claws into my wrist, and I reflexively dropped him. He dashed off into the darkness, and I never saw him again.

I spent the rest of my childhood petting neighbor’s cats, secretly feeding the gray shorthair who lived across the street, and playing with another neighbor’s pitch black feline aptly named “My Sin” (for his owner’s favorite perfume, as I recall) who ordinarily shied away from everyone but inexplicably allowed me to handle him. My mother’s hatred of cats was reinforced when My Sin took a swipe at a strand of my waist-length brown hair, inadvertently raking a claw across my left eye.

One emergency visit to the eye surgeon and a number of stitches later, I was forbidden from touching that cat again. Or any other cat, as far as my mother was concerned. I forgave the cat (who could blame him for instinctively swatting at something dangling in his face?) but reluctantly obeyed the parental edict.

It wasn’t until I had daughters of my own that I thought again of owning a cat. Eldest Daughter (all of 6 years old) was fascinated by kittens, and she wanted one. And I–willing to adopt almost any creature except those of the reptilian species–agreed.

We found a kitten at a local animal shelter. “Sunny” came with his name and a habit of chewing mercilessly on every single wooden corner in the house. Nothing was safe: The mantel, the banister, the corners of all our tables, dressers and cabinets, the dining room buffet, the ledge by our front door. He gnawed on them all. The vet said he’d probably been weaned too young.

Eldest Daughter adored him, and apart from the structural damage he caused, he was adorable.

He died suddenly, barely two years later. I have no idea why; after dropping my children off at school, I rushed his shaking body to the vet, but he was gone before we reached the parking lot. I cried all the way to work.

Hearing about the abrupt loss of our cat, one of my colleagues approached me later that afternoon. She was sensitive to the fact that you can’t simply replace one beloved pet with another, but she also wanted me to know that she had two half grown kittens who needed a home as she’d proven to be allergic to them.

And so, the next day, I drove home from my office with two kittens in Sunny’s old cat carrier, a calico for Youngest Daughter, and another ginger tabby for Eldest Daughter.

Eldest Daughter was ecstatic. Youngest Daughter had not particularly wanted a cat, but she was happy too. They named their new pets “Thomas” and “Angelina” (after Disney’s Thomasina and a classmate of Youngest Daughter, NOT the actress; this was 1994).

Another year passed, and Youngest Daughter’s affection turned to horses (that’s a subject for another post…or twenty), while her cat proved to be “difficult.” Angelina really wanted to be an only cat, and the presence of her brother Thomas in her space pissed her off, which she demonstrated by pissing on anything left on the floors of our home. Nothing was safe, not stuffed animals, nor shoes, nor gym bags.

Eventually we found a new home for her with a vet’s assistant, who knew exactly how to deal with her attitude. Eldest Daughter and Thomas became inseparable though. That cat knew who loved him best, and he fully returned her affection. He never scratched, never hissed, and tolerated everything from monthly baths to daily use as a snuggling toy with unusual patience.

More years passed. Eldest Daughter grew up, and Thomas grew older. When Eldest Daughter graduated from high school and moved first to Scottsdale for culinary school and then to Seattle to start her career, her cat stayed behind, king of his little realm. Despite the fact that we live in a hilly area near a canyon where coyotes prowl, Thomas was as protected as a cat could be. By feeding him only at night I ensured he spent his nights indoors, and our three dogs ensured no coyote would be foolish enough to invade our yard. More than one neighborhood cat met an untimely end (the sound of several coyotes howling in nighttime chorus is all too common in our area) but not Thomas. He remained smart and safe.

As he aged, Thomas’ love for prowling the neighborhood, catching rodents and leaving them in awkward places (like the nextdoor neighbor’s basketball court), climbing to the top of various neighbor’s chimneys to perch in the sun, and in general doing what he pleased wherever he pleased, became more circumscribed. Eventually he no longer roamed further than our backyard, and spent his days alternating between pillows in our house and a shady spot on the redwood bark next to our chimney.

In the absence of Eldest Daughter, he chose Youngest Son as his preferred cuddler and would not take “No” for an answer when he wanted attention. Every evening he assumed ownership of any pillow near me, and thought nothing of shoving our dogs out of the way. Or lying on them, if they refused to move.

Whenever Eldest Daughter came home for a visit, Thomas immediately switched his allegiance back to her. She was his girl, and he spent hours purring on her lap. He never grew fat, his eyes never dimmed, and other than spending the better part of every day and night sleeping, he remained the same fit, furry fellow he’d been all his life.

Last Wednesday morning, Thomas went outside and curled up on the bark next to our chimney. It was an unusually hot day, but the area is shaded by rose bushes and lavender. Spotting him there as I headed for our recycling bin, I paused and rubbed his chin for a moment. He stretched and rolled over, the picture of feline contentment.

Midafternoon I walked past the chimney again, and noted that Thomas wasn’t lying there anymore.

He did not come in the house that afternoon, nor that evening. Nor the next day, nor the day after that. By Saturday, I began to ask the neighbors if they’d seen him. Nobody had. Monday I put fliers in the mailboxes on my street and the streets above and below mine.

It’s Wednesday night again. Thomas has been missing for a week. He’s over 15 years old. I’m not naive, I know what that means.

He was the best cat. And he was a big part of Eldest Daughter’s childhood…which is also only a memory now.

“A home without a cat — and a well-fed, well-petted and properly revered cat — may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?” Mark Twain, Pudd’nhead Wilson

I’ve learned that the most recent job I applied for which appeared to have been a perfect fit for me (teaching 5 periods of 7th grade English), was filled by someone already hired in the district, moved from another school because of “a shifting population.” Basically, I’ve been trying to get jobs that aren’t really available at all.

Well gee, at least now I know it’s not my age. Or the color of my slacks. Or the fact that I got my degree during the era of deconstructionism. Or anything of any relevance whatsoever–there’s just no job available for a newly credentialed English teacher. No matter how well educated she might be.

Meanwhile, more US companies face obliteration, guaranteeing fewer jobs for Americans in general.

How’s that “hope and change” working out for you?

Despite the fact that I’m unemployed, and therefore can’t really call myself a “teacher” now–I have no students, no classroom, nothing but this little blog and whomever I happen to converse with in the 3-D world–I am still educating myself.

One of the best books I’ve read in months:

Written by two teenage brothers, Alex and Brett Harris, it tackles head on the contemporary concept that teens are immature and incapable of handling serious responsibility. The boys point out that “teenager” is a 20th century construct. Throughout history up until the early 20th century, you were considered either a child or an adult; there was no decade of transition between the two. Now, they argue compellingly, we have a significant span of years where children are capable of mature behavior but treated like they’re not. Society sets low expectations for teens, resulting in laziness and self-centered (often self destructive as well) behavior.

In their words, it’s time for a “rebelution.”

When you look around today, in terms of godly character and practical competence, our culture does not expect much of us young people. We are not only expected to do very little that is wise or good, but we’re expected to do the opposite. Our media-saturated youth culture is constantly reinforcing lower and lower standards and expectations.

The word ‘rebelution’ is a combination of the words “rebellion” and “revolution.” So it carries a sense of an uprising against social norms. But in this case, it’s not a rebellion against God-established authority, but against the low expectations of our society. It’s a refusal to be defined by our ungodly, rebellious culture. Actually, we like to think of it as rebelling against rebellion.

The boys have a website too, The Rebelution.

If I ever get a classroom of my own, I’m having my students read that book. Even if I’m teaching in a public school. Especially if I’m teaching in a public school. I’ll probably get fired, unless I wait for three years to implement the book, then I’ll have tenure permanent employee status and they won’t be able to touch me. Ironic, as that’s one of the worst aspects of public school education, and directly responsible for the deplorable state of far too many schools.

Sometimes I really do feel like a chef trying to get work in a restaurant that’s been given a failing rating by the health department. And then I think about the kids whom I could help…

I’m imagining smashing the crap out of both of them, while yelling “What the f—ing good are these anyway?! Nobody CARES if I have two degrees; they STILL won’t hire me.”

And then I remember how much I paid to have them professionally framed, and that I’d have to clean up the mess afterward, and that whenever glass breaks anywhere near me I invariably manage to cut myself on it.

So basically, thrift, laziness and fear of injury are balancing out anger.

See, life really is all about balance, Mom.

Great, I’m not just talking to a dead person, I’m blogging to her too now.

After a ridiculous amount of education, and at least four different career paths, I finally realized that I want to be a teacher. And I want to teach junior high or high school kids English literature and writing.

I have a Bachelor’s degree in English Lit.

I have a Master’s degree in English Lit.

I have a preliminary California teaching credential.

I can’t seem to get a job.

It is disheartening to send out applications, complete with all kinds of documentation and references, only to get no response.

It is disheartening to go on interviews, only to hear nothing back from the prospective employer.

It is so disheartening to interview for jobs you really want–not just any job, a job you truly would love to have–only to have the school hire someone else instead of you.

There was a time when I would have been happy to work at Starbucks. Even now, that seems like a reasonable option. As long as I don’t think about how much I want to teach kids. That’s when I feel like crying.

Imponderable questions…my life is full of them.

I’ve spent all summer hunting for a teaching job. Thus far, I’ve submitted about a dozen applications, and had three interviews. The first one, Job #1 was for a job I really, really wanted.

I have two English degrees, a teaching credential, and Eldest Son graduated from the private school in question, so I thought I would have a shot at the open teaching position.  I may have had a shot at it, but Job #1 hired someone else. Probably someone with more experience. Mr. Random Thoughts thinks that they probably hired someone younger, but he’s that way.

There’s nothing I can do about my age, or my level of experience. I yam what I yam.

Job #2 involved a more traditional interview given by a principal who looked like he was one step away from a heart attack, and not at all enjoying the hiring process. His questions were about my teaching style, my perspective on discipline, and how I would prepare students for STAR testing. I was the first of a string of interviews he had scheduled, and as soon as the alloted 1/2 hour was up he was done with me, onto the next, “We will call you, we may have you go through a second interview,” etc. etc. thank you goodbye.

On the way out I passed the next interviewee, a perspiring, stressed out young man. Impulsively I stuck out my hand and shook his, telling him “Good luck.” His hand was cold and clammy. Poor guy. He looked so desperate and so despondent even I, his competition, felt sorry for him. He probably needs the job even worse than I do.

Job #3 is a position teaching honors English, Debate, and Drama. The interview call came very unexpectedly (I had not submitted an application except to the district in general) from a school that suddenly has a teacher not returning, and needs to fill that hole immediately.

I don’t do Drama though. I don’t teach it either. Do you want me to learn on the job? Do I want to learn on the job? Do I really want this job?

Heck yes, so I did my best to wow them with all I have to offer, pulling out the “attended law school” card I normally bury deep in the pack–it intimidates people–to demonstrate that I could handle teaching Debate, and would be willing to tackle Drama.

Why did I ever think having an MA in English Lit was going to help me get a job teaching English? Obviously it’s not enough. I need to have minored in History Social Science, or Theatre. Or be 23 years old and far more attractive than I was when I was 23 years old. That is, if Mr. Random Thoughts is to be believed. He hires people. I haven’t been hired yet. So maybe he’s right.

I hate this part most of all though: Waiting for the phone call. The phone call that never seems to come, because they’re calling someone else.

This is the first time in my entire adult life that I haven’t been able to get a job simply by wanting it and presenting myself as fully capable of doing it. Oh, there was that one time an employer wanted to hire me away from a temp agency, but the negative reaction from her other employees (two of whom threatened to quit) made her back out of the deal. The temp agency told me I’d come across as “too capable.”

Somehow I don’t think that’s the problem now, but then what do I know?

All I know for certain is that I picked the worst time to enter the teaching profession in California.

I am certainly not the only one going through this sort of thing. Beyond the Pale has had an experience eerily similar to mine. And of all things, she wants to teach Drama! Maybe she could qualify for Job #3.

I’m trying to keep a sense of humor about the whole thing. This is me on the inside:

Okay, I am a woman not a man, and I will never see 35–or 45–again, and I am the mother doing the laundry, and the loans are about twice that much (thanks to the abortive attempt at law school), but otherwise it’s pretty accurate.

In fact, many of Kerry Soper’s cartoons describe my internal thought process about interviewing. On the outside, I’m smiling, answering questions ranging from “What Bible character do you think you most resemble” to “How would you teach writing using Bloom’s Taxonomy?” without breaking a sweat. On the inside, I’m wanting to say something like this:

Maybe I should teach Drama after all…so much of getting hired seems to involve acting.

Maybe I need to put my mind on other things. Things that are both simpler and weightier.

Like Crosscribe’s Ripples.

And I Was Just Thinking’s Challenging Words.

Anything to get my mind of the futile-thus-far job hunt.

I could blame my silence on the frenzy of wrapping up my college courses and student teaching classes, and the labor of finishing the credentialing process, and the traveling and excitement of Eldest Son’s college graduation/commissioning followed immediately by entertaining inlaws followed by an ongoing series of ridiculously futile attempts including one particularly heartbreaking interviewed-but-not-hired episode to find a teaching position in a state that is laying off teachers right and left.

You get the picture. I clearly lack dedication to my writing. Or something.

Speaking of pictures, this one is a keeper:

Eldest Son (first man on left) has been commissioned as a Second Lieutenant in the United States Air Force. My baby boy, who entered the world 22 years ago a whopping 4 lbs. 6 oz. preemie, is now a man ready and willing to serve his country.

Along with all the discussions we’ve had lately, we’ve talked about his Commander in Chief. Eldest Son reminded me that Obama IS his boss–which ironically makes ME Eldest Son’s boss, as theoretically our elected officials including the President work for us, the voting citizenry (yes, I know, you can stop the cynical laughter, I said “theoretically”).

Eldest Son reminded me of the oath of enlistment that he swore:

I, (NAME), do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.

It’s worth remembering that our soldiers swear first and foremost, above all else, to defend the U.S. Constitution. This does not change, regardless of the current president’s views on that document. While he has agreed to obey the orders of the President, Eldest Son’s loyalty is not to Obama, it is to the U.S> Constitution. That really is a marvelous fact.

Eldest Son also pointed out that he and his fellow soldiers give up their Constitutionally granted right to free speech in order to defend that right for the rest of our country. Obviously that’s something a certain general forgot. Eldest Son has not though, and regardless of what his opinions might be he refuses to engage in dialogue that might be construed as disrespectful to his CINC.

Good man. I could not be more proud of him.

I am not so constrained in my speech however, and I’m frustrated by the willful ignorance that seems to increasingly characterize this administration.

There’s stupid, and then there’s stupid. During his speech on immigration today, President Obama misquoted a line from Emma Lazarus‘ poem “The New Colossus” that appears on a bronze plaque in the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty. (H/T Gateway Pundit)

I don’t expect Obama to know the poem. I do expect him to have people intelligent enough to look it up and provide the accurate text for him to read off his teleprompter. Obviously they’re neither capable nor concerned about little details like that.

Tunku Varadarajan at The Daily Beast comments  that the entire speech sounded like something penned by an overeager 18 year old:

…one is inclined to conclude that his speech was written by someone who has just graduated from high school and has a young head brimming with social studies. This being President Obama, however, one can conclude that he will have written a fair portion of the speech himself, and, in so concluding, one would be struck forcefully by how banal the speech was. It was, if one can say such a thing, the acme of boilerplate, so utterly conventional was it in its narrative of American immigration.

I’ve taught high school students, and most of the ones I taught were capable of better rhetoric than that speech. They also would quote the Lazarus poem correctly. This administration makes Clinton’s look like Mensa candidates.

What really caught my attention though was this line (see the 16th paragraph) Obama spouted:

…being an American is not a matter of blood or birth.  It’s a matter of faith.  It’s a matter of fidelity to the shared values that we all hold so dear.

Excuse me? Being an American most certainly IS a matter of birth when it comes to citizenship. You aren’t born here, you aren’t an American citizen until you apply for and are given that status. Being an American is spelled out explicitly in the United States Constitution’s 14th Amendment:

1. All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside.

I would bet real money that neither Obama nor his people are concerned with the 14th Amendment except insofar as they can completely avoid dealing with it on any level.

Days like this I want to wake up and find it’s 2012 already. I’m just thankful that the people actually running the USAF (and all other branches of the military) aren’t Obama cronies, but rather people who will continue to do their jobs long after this administration is only a bad memory.