Nearly two years ago, I joined a professional writing group, which had the main objective of fostering the talents of writers who were serious about persuing a romance writing career. My first novel, Tribe of One, is about 30-something, single, Black woman looking for Mr. Right; so I thought perhaps I was a budding romance writer.

I learned a lot about craft, the publishing industry, agents, filing taxes as a small business and many other things that I had been previously ignorant about. Each month, I’ve eagerly looked forward to every meeting (and so far, I’ve not missed a single one!) because I always walk away more informed than when I came.

A few months ago, I entered my current work-in-progress (WIP), The Adventures of Infinity and Negativa, into three different contests, all sponsored by various chapters of the professional writing group of which I was a member. My scores were in no danger of winning, as I knew they would not be. I’d only entered them for the critiques that I’d receive. The most hostile judges’ opinions were the best.

All the critiques about punctuation, grammar and the such I can pay a professional editor to help me clear up. The most hostile contest judges helped clarify the biggest obstacle that had produced near writer’s block symptoms: I am not a romance writer. Once that conclusion was brought to my attention, I knew I would not renew my membership. I got a good night’s sleep and woke up knowing exactly what needed to happen to transform Adventures into what it needed to be.

I felt free and rejuvenated. Once I abandoned how I thought the story should be written in order to fit within the romance genre, I dedicated myself to making Adventures into the math-based, action-packed story it is. Thanks to the months of craft that I’ve learned, I see all the errors of fakery that had weakened my WIP.

Some of the most painful revisions have involved deleting several paragraphs in a row. I cheer myself up, knowing that I’m strengthening my WIP by getting rid of what does not belong in the story. Plus, it’s always a good exercise to write up things about the characters so that I know their history even if the reader will never know.

Now, every morning when I sit down to write while drinking my smoothie, my cursor hovers over what will become the day’s casualty that makes room for the additional paragraphs that should be there. Next time I think I’ve come down with writer’s block, I’ll have to take a long look at what I’m attempting to do to make sure it is inline with the story I’m writing. For this latest enlightenment, I thank the two contest judges who hated my unromantic WIP, but thought my writing skills showed promise.

Frederick Douglass believed that with literacy, one would forever be free. So, how is it I, a highly educated and avid reader, have managed to feel trapped?

I just lived through another aniety-filled week where I may have slept well for two nights, but not in a row.  I used to be able to exercise my way through stress, but I believe my middle-aged onset sentiment is causing me to take things, both good and bad, more to heart.

I know the pitfalls of thinking that I can only employ one strategy to remedy a situation. As much as I want to explore my options, I am still  limited by time. I’ve recently changed my schedule in order to do different things, meet new people and have more meaningful conversations with some of my closest friends.

At some point, inspiration hits out of nowhere and I suddenly know how to edit and advance the story that I’m working on. By chance, I hear on the wind an idea that I need to try to improve the event I organize, the Austin Writers Roulette. And I germinate the seed of a creative lesson that I’ll have to find the time to write and by some miracle implement even though I’m behind in going over the scripted lessons and obligatory assessments.

In addition to literacy, I believe creative expansion will help me to be free. As long as my mind can think its way out of situations, then I won’t be trapped for long. The trick is not to simply deliver myself from undesirable circumstances, but to land myself in more fertile grounds.

After teaching public school in Texas for three years, I now realize that although slavery has been outlawed for over a century, it didn’t cease to exist. It merely transformed itself first into the plantation-style management of Texas prisons and then infected the public school system with the implementation of No Child Left Behind in 2001.

Creative, experienced teachers such as myself were deemed no longer qualified to teach subjects we had been teaching for over years if we did not have a university degree in that subject. I managed to escape the initial wrath of NCLB for a few years by accepting a math position at a school in Egypt. After teaching two years there, I taught math and science at two Mexican schools for three years.

By the time I attended another international teaching job fair in February 2006, the NCLB infection had finally spread to foreign private American schools and international schools that were accredited through American agencies. Although the accreditation process is voluntary, schools with the best reputations are accredited to show that their educational program and facilities meet a certain standard, which becomes a matter of public record. In order to charge rich parents top dollar, and pay foreign teachers competitive salaries, private schools outside the States must be accredited and maintain their status.

Therefore, heads of schools and principals were reluctant to interview me for math positions since I was a licensed science teacher who had taught science for only three out of eleven years. Fortunately, I had learned of this bias before going to the job fair and knew to market myself as a HS science teacher.

Although a principal at a school in Colombia had contacted me to schedule an interview for a middle school math position, I had made up my mind to retire from teaching MS since I could not visualize myself going through puberty with middle school students another school year. Nonetheless, I interviewed with that school since I’d only arranged three other interviews–the fewest number of interviews I’d attending international teaching job fairs.

With a tremendous stroke of good luck, the first offer I got was the one I wanted: the IB Biology position at an American school in Honduras. Not only would that position give me current HS science experience, but the school would pay to send me to IB training in New Mexico prior to the upcoming school year. I was in heaven! (Of course, my ego was further inflated by receiving job offers from the other three interviews as well.)

I taught in Honduras for three years during which time, the American economy had started its downward spiral. Yet, after eight years of teaching outside of the States, I was ready to return. Plus, my family had pretty much ordered me back now that we’d just elected our first Black president; so, in their eyes, my self-imposed exile of Dubya’s reign was over.

Realizing that I’d return to the States as a virtual foreigner no matter where I set roots, I researched the best cities for jobs, housing and singles. I narrowed my choices to three cities: Chicago, Boston and Austin. After further research, Austin looked like my best chance to set down roots. I moved to Austin in July 2009 and although I didn’t have a job, I was optimistic and used the unstructured time to work on three paintings in rotation along with three novels.

By mid-August, I started to feel disappointed that I was missing the sweet first week of school when everything was shiny and new. By the middle of that week, I interviewed and accepted a HS science position with the Austin Independent School District. By the end of my first week on the job, I seriously questioned how in the hell I could have overlooked the fact that this wonderful city was a part of Texas.

For the first time in my 14 years of teaching, I did not have the creative freedom to teach the way I wanted. I had to abandon most of the wonderful things that I’d done at other schools, which had made me such a hot commodity in the international teaching market.

To my horror, we science teachers had to use the exact same lessons for 80% of the time, which did not include all the assessments, each with their own acronym. So, for less than 20% of the time, I could teach lessons that I had created or as I referred to it “go off script.” In reality, I hardly ever took the time to write my own lessons since I would not have had the time to use them between the common scripted lessons and the constant pressure to assess the students.

The first year at any new school always puts me in survival mode. So my second year at an AISD HS, things were marginally better. At least I knew all the assessment acronyms. And unlike my first year, I did not have to teach my classes in two different rooms, shared with three other teachers. Although my teaching creativity was still bound by 80% of scripted lessons and invasive assessments, I had the pleasure of decorating my classroom with the cloth from the different countries where I’d taught or traveled through. It was only a small window of freedom, but I took it.

After my second year, I realized that although I felt very controlled, my students were just a technological breath and a few civil liberties away from being enslaved.

Imagine, if you will, a system that regularly judges if students meet a certain standard. If enough students fail to meet the standard, then resources are taken away from a school rather than augmented. With fewer resources and viable alternatives, these students become disenfranchised and eventually find themselves entangled with the judicial system.

Yet kiddie jail is the old model. The new and improved model, which I predict is only a few generations away, won’t need to sequester nonviolent youth. Once the efficiency of the never-ending cycle of assessments improves, resources can be channeled to nurture those youths who have the academic aptitude to succeed while spending less on those who show no promise for higher learning. In this case, higher learning means beyond an elementary education.

Both groups of students can be tracked and when the inevitable happens to the lower tracked students, they can only bargain for shorter incarceration time by agreeing to have a chip implanted. No more ankle bracelets! Chip implantation is the wave of the future. With an embedded chip, the troublesome  youth will no longer be visually stigmatized, but still be monitored.

Before you can say “invasion of privacy,” chip implantation will be touted as the efficient means to keep track of adult criminals, criminalized students and any other undesirables in our society. A few generations will pass and soon, the innocent will also be implanted for their own well-being just like receiving vaccines. At any time, those same chips that keep Americans safe and criminals tracked, can be used to prevent individuals from entering certain places or even crossing borders.

Neo-slavery will not rely on the color of one’s skin, but rather the content of one’s character. And the horror will start from the systemic assessment and data collection of public school students with the system’s arbitrary determination of how high the score must be in order to pass. We’ve already begun the process of putting young people on the auction block. Their collective test scores are reported publicly. The only thing that remains is to evolutionize the old “playground to prison pipeline” into the “crib to chip cyberhighway.” 

Try as I might, I cannot rid myself of all superstitous beliefs. This past week, my reoccurring superstitous belief of bad things happening in threes manifested itself. In actuality, there were four things, but one has already been remedied while the other three remain.

The excited energy of returning to school has been drained, dealing with physical, emotional and situational stresses. I’m amazed at how so few things can redirect my optimistic, creative energy and seep into the recesses of my mind when I’m asleep and bring me back to a waking, unrested state.

The first stressor came as soon as I attended my first meeting with a new group of colleagues. Although I’m teaching at the same high school this year, it’ll be a radically different job description.  I was very excited about the opportunity to do something different for my fourth year at the school. Again, I don’t want to believe in “signs,” but as soon as I entered the room, but before being seated, I felt a sharp pinch on my right foot.  I looked down and saw a small black speck, which I assumed to be an ant, but in retrospect, could have been a tiny spider.  Either way, I slapped it, killing it, but my foot itched and swelled around the bite. Such a tiny, pervasive annoyance that was temporarily relieved when I when home and put a topical solution for bites on it.

The second stressor came Tuesday when the man who I was absolutely crazy about turned down yet another invitation to hang out with me. At that point, there was no mistaking the writing on the wall. I’d felt recently that things had been lopsided in terms of attraction.  Instead of suggesting a “raincheck” date, I just fell on my sword and texted him that I’d see him when our paths crossed again. He reminded me that he didn’t sit still in one place for very long. Ha! I’m a busybody too; so I know how convenient it is to hide behind a busy schedule and secret my free time.

The third stressor came Wednesday after the first science department meeting. I discovered that the teacher who’d been hired for my old teaching position, had broke her contract and accepted another position at a different school. In a logical world, that should not have affected me. At my school, however, the powers that be decided that I would temporarily resume my old position until a suitable replacement was found and that my new positition would be temporarily filled by its former teacher! I still prepped feverishly for my new five different classes, but I was furious that I would probably not be the teacher greeting my students on the first day and perhaps the first week of school.

So, later that day, with an inflamed itchy foot, slightly broken heart and angry mind, I attended my usual bikram yoga class. I usually appreciate the intensity of the heat helping to relax my muscles for a deeper stretch and sweating out toxins, but with as much physical and mental stress that I’d walked in, I especially needed to purge my body of poisons.

Two years ago when I’d resumed my bikram yoga practice, I’d agonize nearly the whole 90 minutes and there were postures I absolutely hated. I’ve come to enjoy the experience and Wednesday’s class proved to me how three different ailments, one physical and two mental, could be alleviated. I emerged from class feeling sensational–my optimism had returned and no itchy, swollen foot!

Friday, after finishing the last of the five sets of lesson plans, moving furniture around, and jettisoning unneeded things from my classroom, I received a call from the woman who I’d been hired to replace, telling me that she was ordered to report to my new classroom and I was to report to my old classroom. This time around, I walked into bikram with sore muscles and an agitated mind. Once again, I reemerged with such a big smile on my face that a fellow yogi commented at how good a practice I must have had.

The next stressor came Saturday. I’d been having a very good day with a basic capoeira class in the morning and then two tango classes in the afternoon.  I make it a point to work my butt off at school Monday-Friday and take the weekend off.  The only school-related thing I chose was buy some highlighters. In the parking lot, I was in line, waiting for a car to finish parking when the heavily tinted station wagon in front of me suddenly backed out and slammed into my car.  I was stunned and had unfortunately hit the horn too late.

We got out of our perspective cars and my heart sank to see such a young adult behind the wheel. I had the right state of mind to take a picture of her temporary tags, which included the VIN and I took a picture of the make of the car.  Unfortunately, I didn’t take a picture of her driver’s license.  She wrote down her name, phone number and told me that her insurance was State Farms, but she didn’t have the insurance card in her car.  I was so discombobulated that I gave her my card and asked her to email me her insurance information, but I didn’t get her email address in return.

After talking with my insurance, I was informed that not all the information that the young woman had given me matched.  In other words, State Farms wasn’t going to pay for a claim if I couldn’t get the correct information.  I just hope that that young woman taps into whatever sense of budding adulthood and take responsibility for her actions. At this point, my insurance is going to run down the VIN, but I don’t know what else can be done.

Two ironies here: 1) her temporary license expires on my next birthday and; 2) I’m a week away from paying my car off.

Thank goodness I made a commitment to continue attending bikram three times a week when school starts. I original felt that I needed that to heal my lower back. Now I know I need to heal my spirit as well.