The Reason I Hate Lesson Plans

It turns out that there probably is no money forthcoming from my last shirt deal. Currently unknown if I can recoup my losses and make my other commitments.  It occurs to me that I now have much to write about, and as usual, I am too close to these events to properly write about them.

But back to lesson plans.

I don't dislike them per se. They represent, to me, a level of commitment and competency involved in a job that requires lesson plans. Whatever my qualifications, my gifts, it's hard to come into a job that requires commitment and competency, when the only thing I can give to said job is one of them, and that grudgingly.

My parents want me to go back to teaching. I'd hoped there would be a way around it, but given the pressing needs of the household-- with which my relationship will soon gain another complication-- I'm forced to seriously consider the option. It would be alright if I didn't feel like a total fraud, or if my previous experiences with teaching were financially fruitful and truly emotionally satisfying. It would be alright if I felt as if I took the job because I wanted to, and not because I'd had to take it to help pay for a service that was foisted on me-- the goodwill, concern and worry behind such a foisting notwithstanding. That's my central issue.

Sadly, brute economics is no great respecter of my feelings, and teaching is the only job my mother can more or less secure for me. And there lies the crux of my resigned anger and discontent. Everything--literally everything-- I'd started or tried for myself has ended in tears, shame and (currently) bankruptcy. (Or at least it certainly feels that way.) At best, I could describe my more successful endeavors as "eking." Credit or blame whatever quality or circumstance, the bottom line is that time and again "eking" has been the best I could do, even with help. And I've always needed help.

I can't live without some kind of support system, but neither can I really live knowing that my successes, meager as they are, can be credited only to the hard, hard work of my parents-- who moved heaven and earth to open doors for me, who charted everything (or tried to) and half dragged me (sometimes willy-nilly)      into insane business startup ventures because they were afraid I'd grow old without money. My part in this is patent too: someone had to get his picture taken, to sign his own papers, to go along with whatever harebrained scheme was current. (Happily, I walked into the shirt venture with my full consent and awareness. Even if it didn't pan out the way I'd wanted it to, I'm proud of it. I've little reason for regret there-- a small victory in what feels like an ocean of failure).
 
I'm angry because my talents can only flourish in a social network, and I can't really depend on social networks. When was the last time I was really paid for a major gig with my friends? Once, maybe twice. And for each of these, I was truly happy, truly alive. Again, small personal victories that don't really count for much against the power an economic recession.

C'est la vie.