My Cardboard Balcony

So a lot happened since my last introspection. I got to meet a wonderful author whose debut novel I loved. I delved further into the madness that is PACT (Performance Assessment for California Teachers; basically what I need to pass in order to get my teaching credential). I saw my staff at Fusion work valiantly to maintain order despite some departures. And I officially completed my first self-written English unit at a public high school. A lot's been finished and accomplished, but a whole lot more's on the way. And as much as my anxiety tries to convince me otherwise, I know I can do this. In the meantime, I've tried to maintain as robust of a social life as I can. Just tonight, I got to catch up with a buddy of mine and have some good food and drinks (while playing a mean game of skeeball; we're working on it). We're both teachers (he teaches piano), so I loved being able to open up about my teaching experiences and the pros and cons I see of both the public ...

How to Know the Light by Belinda Roddie "Failure," said the philosopher, "will help you understand the darkness."

I didn't mind the accusations of adultery at first, but they really started to get on my nerves after seeing my husband's anxiety spike. He never outright questioned me on my faithfulness, but whenever I went out, even if it were on the most mundane errand, he demanded endless details. Where was I going? What was I doing? Who would I be with? It didn't matter if I was having with the damn pope, I thought to myself, but I sure as Hell wasn't fucking him!

My Broken Violin by Belinda Roddie My broken violin still played a tune, even when the bow barely touched its strings, sort of like if a nymph in a lagoon loses her voice, but her body still sings, lissome and quivering. One day, I picked up my poor instrument and let the wood caress my fingers, cold and hard and slick, and I began to play a song that would only be heard by me. The snapped strings sprang up as if on command, the melody harsh yet unyielding as each sharp note rang and rattled the window panes. I finished the piece by giving my dear friend a kiss.

The teacher tried to take attendance, but it didn't help that half of her class was running late. Little did she know that a massive accident had blocked both sides of the road leading to the high school, so everything was backed up. As the police cars and paramedics trucks, with their sirens screeching and their lights blazing, tried to snake their way along the madness of honking automobiles and roaring motorcycles, Shawn, desperate to get to class, craned her head over her steering wheel to see the wreckage on full display.

Barbecue Brawl by Belinda Roddie A flip-out at a cook-out with a high turn-out sends the patties flying like frisbees and the sausages spiraling like the footballs at the Super Bowl. One drunk bastard gets a faceful of hot spatula, and soon, it's an all-out, full-out coliseum scene where even the gladiators would cast down their tridents in confusion and disgust. The girls kick off their flip-flops and use them as slapping bludgeons against the bellowing beasts of brothers and boyfriends. The fathers and uncles squirt condiments into each others' eyes. The mothers don't cry over the mess because they're fighting, too, striking at throats with long nails and folded paper plates because no one actually wants to wield a sharp weapon. And throughout the melee, I sit on my stained and rusty lawn chair, quietly munching on an overcooked mish-mash of blackened beef with just the right amount of ketchup.

"What am I going to tell the families?" I demanded, the phone receiver shaking in my sweaty hand. "What am I going to tell the city?" The voice on the other end was raspy, and bloated with tears as wet as winter static. "I suppose that's your question to answer," said my informant, "as you are the mayor, and I am not."