(no subject)
I'm really bad at organizing thoughts into paragraphs. I've said this before, but - for some reason - reiterating it seems like a sensible sort of idea. I mean to organize them, but then I get distracted and forget and by the time I remember again, the whole thought that I wanted to write out is outdated.
I need some sort of direct filter into my brain. So that my nonsense will write itself out for me.
But, obviously, that plan is a very flawed one and I get very little done while waiting for my awesome brain powers to kick in. (They don't seem like they want to anytime soon. Which is vastly uncool of them.) So, I'm going to sit on my ass right now and write out the (not-so-)epic story of my Graduate School life.
So, basically? This time last year I was looking into graduate school for a Masters in Mental Health Counseling. And then all the programs were like, 'Blah blah, this degree will make you cry and isn't really valid and all the people with PhD's will hate you forever and you'll never get a job.' Which, thanks guys. Real encouraging.
So then I had a panic attack and started looking into Masters programs for School Counseling. Which seemed fine and dandy, until my Senior Learning Community Professor informed was all 'Yeah, all you schmos looking into School Counseling better really like paperwork. Because that's all you're going to do for the rest of your life. You're never going to see children and you're going to be miserable and want to die.' And then I had another panic attack, because I'd already applied to schools and taken stupid tests and paid money and was totally going to end up killing myself because I hate paperwork and went to college for four years because I wanted to work with kids.
During this whole fiasco, I was doing my senior internship over at the preschool on campus, working with a bunch of adorable little brats and my supervising teacher who is possibly the most badass woman ever (because she makes me corn muffins). Mrs. D - said awesome supervising teacher - convinced me to apply for an Education Masters, just in case, because she mothers me and having panic attacks is apparently bad for your health. And then my 'just in case' plan turned into getting an offer to go to grad school for free, because the preschool offered to take me in as a Graduate Assistant and nepotism is amazing.
So now I'm going to school to be a teacher. (As are a number of Psych refugees from my class last year, actually.) And - I kind of don't think that I'm going to be awful at it. (I went out and bought $20 worth of early learning workbooks and learn-to-read stories yesterday. My nerd is so huge. But they had fairies on them!) I find myself partial to the younger grades, and I really like special education. I love my preschoolers and watching them ask questions and figure things out is so incredibly exciting. Not a bad sort of deal, really.
I mean, grad school is all kind a bit of an unceremonious dump into: 'You all know what you're doing, right? Of course you do!' Land, but it's easy. It's actually a bit of an anti-climax after a psych major and an english (and almost!film) minor that consisted of so many papers that I wanted to cry and/or commit horrendous acts of murder most foul.
All the assignments are so short and fluffy. I write a lot of pointless BS about feelings and rainbows and I don't even need to pay attention to what I'm typing half the time. I mean, half of the class doesn't know how to use APA-formatting. It's like happy Bizarro World. I've felt some unreasonable paranoia for the entire marking period waiting for some terrifying twenty-page manifesto to appear - or, you know, some actual work that wasn't making telephone booths from orange juice cartons - and it's weird not to have it happen.
Basically, what they teach you is how to format a lesson plan - and, by that, I mean they all teach you seven different ways and then never tell you which one is actually correct - and not to smack kids around (Which, yeah. Got that one already guys. You don't need to keep repeating it for my benefit.) The rest of it is more of a doing activity. You can tell me how to make kids learn or pay attention til you're blue in the face, doc, but it's a totally different story being in front of a roomful of brats and getting results.
But I think that actually being a teacher is one of those things that you have to go in and look at for a while, maybe - get some idea about how it's done - but, when it comes down to it, you kind of get tossed in with the metaphorical sharks. And then hope really hard that they don't chew you up and spit you out.
That makes the fact that they all kind of barely reach up to my waist really encouraging news.
I need some sort of direct filter into my brain. So that my nonsense will write itself out for me.
But, obviously, that plan is a very flawed one and I get very little done while waiting for my awesome brain powers to kick in. (They don't seem like they want to anytime soon. Which is vastly uncool of them.) So, I'm going to sit on my ass right now and write out the (not-so-)epic story of my Graduate School life.
So, basically? This time last year I was looking into graduate school for a Masters in Mental Health Counseling. And then all the programs were like, 'Blah blah, this degree will make you cry and isn't really valid and all the people with PhD's will hate you forever and you'll never get a job.' Which, thanks guys. Real encouraging.
So then I had a panic attack and started looking into Masters programs for School Counseling. Which seemed fine and dandy, until my Senior Learning Community Professor informed was all 'Yeah, all you schmos looking into School Counseling better really like paperwork. Because that's all you're going to do for the rest of your life. You're never going to see children and you're going to be miserable and want to die.' And then I had another panic attack, because I'd already applied to schools and taken stupid tests and paid money and was totally going to end up killing myself because I hate paperwork and went to college for four years because I wanted to work with kids.
During this whole fiasco, I was doing my senior internship over at the preschool on campus, working with a bunch of adorable little brats and my supervising teacher who is possibly the most badass woman ever (because she makes me corn muffins). Mrs. D - said awesome supervising teacher - convinced me to apply for an Education Masters, just in case, because she mothers me and having panic attacks is apparently bad for your health. And then my 'just in case' plan turned into getting an offer to go to grad school for free, because the preschool offered to take me in as a Graduate Assistant and nepotism is amazing.
So now I'm going to school to be a teacher. (As are a number of Psych refugees from my class last year, actually.) And - I kind of don't think that I'm going to be awful at it. (I went out and bought $20 worth of early learning workbooks and learn-to-read stories yesterday. My nerd is so huge. But they had fairies on them!) I find myself partial to the younger grades, and I really like special education. I love my preschoolers and watching them ask questions and figure things out is so incredibly exciting. Not a bad sort of deal, really.
I mean, grad school is all kind a bit of an unceremonious dump into: 'You all know what you're doing, right? Of course you do!' Land, but it's easy. It's actually a bit of an anti-climax after a psych major and an english (and almost!film) minor that consisted of so many papers that I wanted to cry and/or commit horrendous acts of murder most foul.
All the assignments are so short and fluffy. I write a lot of pointless BS about feelings and rainbows and I don't even need to pay attention to what I'm typing half the time. I mean, half of the class doesn't know how to use APA-formatting. It's like happy Bizarro World. I've felt some unreasonable paranoia for the entire marking period waiting for some terrifying twenty-page manifesto to appear - or, you know, some actual work that wasn't making telephone booths from orange juice cartons - and it's weird not to have it happen.
Basically, what they teach you is how to format a lesson plan - and, by that, I mean they all teach you seven different ways and then never tell you which one is actually correct - and not to smack kids around (Which, yeah. Got that one already guys. You don't need to keep repeating it for my benefit.) The rest of it is more of a doing activity. You can tell me how to make kids learn or pay attention til you're blue in the face, doc, but it's a totally different story being in front of a roomful of brats and getting results.
But I think that actually being a teacher is one of those things that you have to go in and look at for a while, maybe - get some idea about how it's done - but, when it comes down to it, you kind of get tossed in with the metaphorical sharks. And then hope really hard that they don't chew you up and spit you out.
That makes the fact that they all kind of barely reach up to my waist really encouraging news.