I Am My Father's Hat

Over the last few weeks, I've been putting together my course for the University of Hawaii. I'm thrilled to have two sections of Eng 200 - an academic research class - for the spring semester. So, in the last month, I've been lightly working on my syllabus and my course outline. Although I taught Academic Writing I (UH's version of the prerequisite to Eng 200) when I was part of the TC3 faculty, I was feeling fully prepared to tackle the Academic Research class given that it is an extension of the academic writing coursework. 


This afternoon, I was scheduled to observe an Eng 200 course as well as meet with my mentor, drop off some paperwork and pick up my course textbook. And thus I was reminded that teaching at LCC will be ever-so-far from teaching in New York.


I'm going to set up a scene for you. So take a deep breath and begin painting my illustration now:


I set my travel coffee mug on top of my car as I adjust my khaki pencil skirt and my black blouse. I pull my oversized purse from the backseat and check -one more time- to ensure my paperwork, the copy of the text book and my identification documents are all safely filed inside (along with some mints, my chapstick and a couple of pens-black ink). I silence my cell phone, toss my keys into my wallet, manually secure the lock and hip-check the car door as I grab my  coffee -- three sugars, two creams.


I slump into my teacher strut in my four-inch black pumps. I walk with purpose, no smiling, someone once warned me. New teachers shouldn't smile when they walk. Half way through the parking lot, I slow down my stomp to pull my skirt back into place, which I do in a less than graceful manor (my heel slips out of my pump; my coffee spills just a little; my hand bag slips off my shoulder). But then I'm back.  I check my watch and realize I'm perfectly on time. It's my best impression of the New York working girl I once dreamed of being. In my mind, I'm sure it looked something like this:

I step onto campus and head straight for the language arts building, bursting with confidence on my first day. When I readjust my lenses and transition from my vein, little world, I glance around at the faculty and staff weaving through the students around the concrete campus quad. I open the door to the language arts division. The array of fashion makes my nerves sweat.

• Hawaiian Tshirts
• Jean
• "Slippers" (Hawaiian for flip flops)

The causal attire of the division reminded me that this ain't New York, Sweety. My professional outfit that, five minutes prior, ignited confidence and swagger suddenly isolated me on my own island. I looked a little broken and lost in those black pumps. Like I was trying on my mother's shoes, and they were still too big. Damn yesterday's conclusion that I have not grown "up" yet.

The day proceeded with more causalness and informality that clashed loudly, like cymbals in a small room. I was introduced to students with only my first name. I had conversations with faculty who sat slipper-less in their classrooms. More floral shirts. Not one more pencil skirt and certainly not another pair of pumps anywhere. 

I'm not sure what to do with today's moment of misfit clarity. I just thought I'd share how loudly fashionably discordant I was among my faculty peers. Perhaps my individuality is something that is of a signature odd, like my father's hat. Maybe I will be known for my ridiculous outfits. I suppose that would be the optimum outcome of all of this. I certainly don't want my dream of being a New York working girl--played out in what little fashion sense I cling to--to detrimentally affect my ability to connect with my students and peers. 

It's been a long day, and it's late over here on the Island of Misfit Toys... Time to retire the pumps to the closet and call it a day of experiences worth pondering. 

Cheers to my father's hat!

Me ke aloha

M.