I must admit I am the type of person who thinks a million times before she makes a decision. I’ll go to a store, try the clothing on literally four times and then walk out. Think about it for a week, go back and try it on and then think about it for another week and then I won’t buy it. There are lots of reasons for that nonsense but one of them is that I like to be sure. Whatever that means.

That is not to say I haven’t made any instant decisions in my life. Actually most of the really big ones seem to have been made in a moment. But I tend to chew on it for way too long before I let it go.

I could look at that as insane and insecure or I could look at it as persistent and analytical and committed. Cause when it comes to this job, the only reason I haven’t walked away is because I am committed. So the not-making-decisions-lightly can also mean I don’t walk away.

What is comes down to, however, is that I’ve been eating my brain out for over a month now trying to find out what the right thing to do is. Obviosuly, there is no right thing. But there’s something that I can live with. And it’s not this. This state of being is a nightmare. It’s driving me insane and I need it to go away.

I guess the key is figuring out how.

My friend, Ed, sent me this link about someone else’s teaching experience and I must tell you that while my situation is quite a bit better and I have what I consider to be a much more supportive principal and other really helpful people in my school, I have had days where my students were really acting up in ways I never thought possible. And, man, am I in over my head!

Double-preps rock! Today was a better day. Not because I was able to teach better. Not because I didn’t have kids throwing stuff in my room. But only because I didn’t want to feel angry. I wanted to be happy today. And I didn’t let anything change that decision. I guess my teacher’s comments about controling what you can control stuck with me. I can control my mood. It is mine afterall, right?

Memory is selective.

There’s a reason we forget things. Human resilience has been tested millions of times in history. Tons of women have told me that if we didn’t forget, no one would have more than one child. Well, I haven’t had any babies yet and can’t tell you what labor pain feels like or how quickly I might forget it. But I do know that I’ve been known to distort the past as things change or as time passes.

The last few weeks have been so difficult that I decided, this time, I want to keep a record so that I can’t fool myself when I choose to look back upon these memories. Think of this as a time capsule. Something for me to lock up and put away, only to be opened when I begin to forget. Something for my friends to show me when I start saying things like, “Oh, it wasn’t that bad.”

The fact is, it is that bad. It’s hard. It’s frustrating. At times, it’s heart-wrenching. It’s infuriating. Sometimes it’s funny. But it’s constantly overwhelming.

When I decided to quit my six-year job and change career paths, I knew that my life wouldn’t be the same. I knew that teaching would eat more of my free time than investment banking ever did. I also knew that I’d feel it was worth it. So I assume the big question now would be: Is it?

Is it worth it?

Honestly? I can’t tell you yet. All I can say so far is that I underestimated how difficult this is. Getting up at the crack of dawn, grading on the train to school, climbing 98 steps eleven times a day, four to six of which includes leading a class of 28. Spending every moment on my feet. Having to think about what I’m saying all the time. Having my incompetence stare me so squarely in the face.

My life has changed alright: I get up when it’s dark, go to school, teach, stay after school to grade, come home when it’s dark, prepare for the next day’s lessons, call parents, eat dinner and crash in bed. Every single day. I dream about my students. I dream about photocopying onto overhead paper. I dream about lizards eating me. I spend my weekends planning for the week. Preparing charts for my room. Writing papers for my graduate classes. Buying prizes for my students. Photocopying. And sleeping.

My only moments of peace come on Sunday mornings where my amazing husband and I go to the local bagel shop at 8:30 and read the New York Times for two hours. Two hours of heaven. Two hours of not thinking about all the things that go wrong in my room. Two hours of not worrying about how the next day’s lessons will go. Two hours of not feeling so incredibly incompetent.

I do love my students. Even the most mischievous ones. I can’t help but care about them. I want to laugh at their ingenuity even when it disrupts my class. But my tolerance and patience has dwindled almost to nothing. It’s gotten so bad that when I see people chewing gum anywhere, I have to work extra hard to suppress the urge to yell, “spit it out!” I fix everyone’s grammar constantly. I can’t stand it when people are being disrespectful at a meeting by having their own side conversation. I have heard every excuse and more as to why homework is not complete. I have listened to parents hollering at their children in front of my eyes. Much to my despair, I have made students cry.

But I have also made them smile. The magic of a student understanding something I’ve taught is immeasurable. Just like the drain when a student refuses to stop calling out loud in class or refuses to stop being disruptive.

So many things happen each day. I always come home with the urge to write, knowing I’m going to want to remember these days.

But I don’t write.

Days pass, I forget. My memory knows I won’t survive it if I keep remembering, so it helps me out. Maybe it’s better that way.

Maybe some things are best forgotten.

Seven weeks and at least nineteen hours of diversity conversations later, I still don’t know what wording to use.

I was born and raised in Istanbul, Turkey, a place that lacks the racial diversity of the United States. So I apologize ahead of time if this issue is plan as day for others but it’s gotten to be extremely complicated for me.

I know that this is a sensitive issue for many, which is exactly why I need help. I apologize ahead of time if anything I write is insensitive or plain offensive. I can assure you it’s not meant to be that way. If anything it stems from lack of experience or knowledge. Not that it’s an excuse, but it is the truth.

Ok, with that disclaimer I’ll explain my dilemma. I am about to start teaching in a school where I am racially in the minority, and people seem to claim that the reference issue will come up quite often. As in, how do I refer to each racial group?

If I say African American, I’m assuming the person’s family originated in Africa. What if they are not from there? The same goes for European American. Let’s not forget Latin American or Asian American. What if the student’s not even American, like me?

I’ve been told black is offensive but white is not. Caucasian sounds way too odd to me. Latino also assumes Latin American roots. I’m not sure if Hispanic is offensive or not. Don’t even get me started on the word colored. White is the sum of all colors and black is that lack of any, so I can’t even figure out how that terminology began.

I genuinely don’t know what to do and would be open to any and all advice on this issue. I am extremely concerned that in my lack of knowledge I’m going to offend someone and that’s the last thing I want to do. I am obviously not going to refer to my students or their parents by their skin color, so that’s not the context in which I fear the issue will come up. I am thinking of a case where we’re reading a book or talking about a third party and his or her race becomes a part of conversation. I don’t want to avoid the issue because I don’t know what the right words to use, but I also don’t want to offend anyone.

So I am open to suggestions. What wording is the best? Which one would be least likely to offend anyone? What’s my safest bet?