My Relationship with Ballroom Dance

In the Spring 2006 semester of college an idea was planted into my head to take a fun class amidst the Real Analysis II, Euclidean/Non-Euclidean Geometries, and Astronomy courses I had signed up for. Well, admittedly the Astronomy class was supposed to be the "fun" class.

The idea was to take a Ballroom Dance class. "The Beginner's level course is on Monday and Advanced level course is on Wednesday," the instructor informed us, "so you can come two nights a week, and get more practice!"

My relationship with movement to music up until that point was dancing a coordinated Macarena at a family-friend's wedding, and putting together a choreographed number to *N Sync's "Bye Bye Bye" as a part of a talent show on the last day of a summer program for which I co-taught Mathematics to 8th graders. Both were fun and got me moving even though they were full of silliness. And despite the fact that I went to nearly every middle school and high school dance, what I did I wouldn't count as dancing. Just a lot of wiggling and shuffling. And knowing all the lyrics to "Love Shack."

The Ballroom Dance class was a survey of all the formal styles: waltz, foxtrot, quickstep, Viennese Waltz, swing, and then . . . LATIN DANCES! Rumba, tango, salsa, am I forgetting something? They were all amazing, a total trip, tons of fun -- soon every song I heard I wanted to partner up and grace the floor with some impressive moves. Blue October's "Ugly Side" stuck in my head for MONTHS:

I think that one would go with a nice Viennese Waltz. Thoughts?

I started watching television again, in search for more dancing. Before I discovered Dancing with the Stars, even before I happened upon So You Think You Can Dance and tortured my partner once a week with frantically postulating who would be eliminated (and why they deserved to stay), I found a ballroom dance program on PBS that included this eccentric couple:

All I need say is that it opened up a whole world of possibilities for me. I was excited to dance the Rumba to Linda Ronstadt's "Blue Bayou," but this was a riot!

This couple goes all out . . . might one say, they go . . . "Gaga?"

Having watched these all back-to-back, and following the last 8 of 10 weeks of Dancing with the Stars, I think it's time for me to put on my dancing shoes and learn some fancy footwork. Here's more inspiration:

You Spin Me Round -- Donny Osmond?!??

 Can Kirstie Tango? Oh, yes, and so much more . . .

The dance that stole the show -- of COURSE he won dwts; he's a football player! Anyway, check out the footwork, it's very admirable.

With all these videos I'm almost absolutely certain you're pondering -- "Crystal Math, through all the dancing, all the leaps and throwing and twirling, is there an all-time favorite routine you have?"

Why yes, dear readers! There most certainly is! During the last season of SYTYCD when Billy Bell and dance partner Anya Garnis danced the jive . . . to Meatloaf!

Well, fine readers, that just about wraps up the story of my relationship with ballroom dancing. With the introduction of such awesome music as Gotan Project, I feel like it's about damn time I got out there and added some timing, rhythm and structure to my wiggling and shuffling.

xo

Crystal Math

"Follow your dreams and follow my blog!"

Shameless self-promotion comprises my wishes for the Class of 2011.

I've purchased a yearbook each year I've been at my school, and let the kids go crazy writing in it. The third yearbook was placed in my hands this month, and this year as the Senior Class Advisor, I'm really tearing up at some of the stuff that's being written, some of it by the graduating class:

"I hella love you! You were honestly on of the bestest teachers I've ever had! [. . .] Goodbye for now, and I will miss you, have a great summer!"
12th grader

"I'm happy to say that you were a FUN teacher and I thank you for all the math you packed in my head."
11th grader
teehee

"Hey Miss Crystal I just want to let you know how much I'm going to miss you, a lot! [. . .] It's been fun having you as a teacher and a good friend, you always listened to me when I needed someone to talk to, you always encouraged me to reach my highest dreams. I'll miss you very much and I love you."
10th grader
(This one moved me to tears.)

". . . You always got me through Algebra with a laugh. Thank you Crystal and I love you so much!"
12th grader

"Hi Crystal! I honestly think you're the best teacher I've ever had. Not even trying to kiss up or anything. You made math bearable. So for that, I'm going to draw a bear! On a unicycle!"
12th grader

"Hey Crystal! I wish you the best along your journey as a teacher. You inspired me to go out in my community and strive for social justice!"
12th grader
(More tears. Bring the sandbags for commencement, there will be floods.)

"Crystal you are a great listener and you're a very good teacher. I always enjoy listening and talking to you. I hope you have a happy fun summer."
10th grader

Seriously -- a lot of these kids who allow themselves to freely express their emotions will break any and all stereotypes that the media tries to pin on teens. How often do you hear from a 15 year-old that you're a good listener?!??

I remember being 15 or 16 and that all I wanted from an adult was to be listened to. Aside from my immediate family members I can't recall feeling like I was being heard until I was 18, months away from graduating. My Calculus teacher and I were comparing how often we'd moved in our lifetime. He'd moved over 20 years ago to the small town where I graduated from and still didn't feel like he "fit in."

At that point I realized:
a) sometimes you will never fit in; but more importantly
b) it is ok to be a "square peg"

It was that teacher that inspired me to pursue education seriously. As far as I know, he's still teaching Geometry, Calculus, and Physics and making tons of kids laugh, cry, and feel.

Years later I have come to realize that eccentric folk, the ones that didn't fit in or have a huge group of buddies at their fingertips, or the ones that went against the current and took risks and tried something new despite the fact that they were alone in doing so, are the ones that make the world go 'round.

Keep it up, Weirdos! Rock on, Nerds! Follow your dreams and follow my blog, you Dweebs.

How Obama Got Osama, and Why Romantic Comedies/Dramas are Bad for Me.

Introduction.
The end of the school year is coming to a swift close. Although there is a lot of excitement coming from . . . well, everyone at school . . . I'm again experiencing the anxiety of the unknown. I'm applying for several jobs that exemplify my skills and experience as an educator, but as with everyone, this be tough times and I've been turned down from a couple of tutoring centers.

Cause for rejoice comes in the next three weeks: a Disneyland/Universal Studios road trip with the graduating senior class, attending "Education Day" in the South Bay, and, of course, Commencement. The class of 2011 were a bunch of great young people and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't going to miss 'em. However, I've got some great ideas for the incoming Freshmen class that I'll be advising come August.

How Obama Got Osama

This is brief: I'm watching President Obama being interviewed on 60 Minutes, a show that was prominent in my childhood, if only for the time spent making fun of Andy Rooney and his ridiculous, disconnected, irrelevant, rants.

I didn't vote for Obama -- but I also didn't vote for who you think I did, the "other guy." (Hint: She's not a dude.) At the time I had lost a lot of "trust" (if that's even the right word) in mainstream politics and still very much believe in the power of grassroots movements. It's very obvious that as I experience more and gain more knowledge of the political left, right, and radical, the areas that I believed were black & white (like international relations) are now varying shades of gray. Looking critically at Obama as a president, I think he bit off more than he could chew by implanting the ideas of universal health care and shutting down Guantanamo Bay. Don't get me started on the budget, i.e. military spending and education. President Obama is not the sole person to blame, and I'm not trying to blame him for what got done or didn't get done so far in his first term. I just think he conveyed ideas that he, working with his administration, couldn't reasonably conceive in a short four years.

With regards to the killing of Osama bin Laden, my frustrations are geared more towards the mass public -- anyone who "celebrates" another's death excessively (partying/drinking/wearing stupid t-shirts, etc). I have a lot of respect for the sincerity and seriousness with which President Obama has conveyed during this whole ordeal. Everything he's said has been very logical, matter-of-fact, and rational no matter how you vote.

Mr. Obama, I didn't vote for you, and I still won't claim ownership by referring to you as "my president," but you can be a pretty cool dude. Thanks for being an intellectual and keeping a rational head about a situation that could have been dealt with in a more juvenile fashion.

Why Romantic Comedies/Dramas are Bad for Me

It has been consistent that, whenever a TV show or movie comes along that's received well and has a romantically-driven plot line with an exceptionally good-looking cast, I experience emotional turmoil.

I have no clue how long this has been going on, but the first time I realized it was when I became OBSESSED with the show Grey's Anatomy. I saw the pilot episode and was immediately hooked. Sexy people can be doctors, too! It was exciting. I downloaded episodes so I could get caught up (TV was airing Season 3, I believe). I'd watch an episode a night, sometimes two on the weekend. Before long I realized that I was bringing drama into the relationship and my co-habitant was receiving the worst of my nagging and imaginary reasons for jealousy and deceit.  
Didn't wash the dishes? Came home late?? And, what, you didn't tell me I look sexy today?!??

I really became a wreck and immediately downsized my intake of GA to a couple of episodes a week. The less I saw, the more realistic I became about things that were said and done (or not said and not done) in the relationship. Eventually, I gave up on it altogether because there were too many new characters. Seriously, you miss one season you might as well have died. *sigh*

Earlier today I watched the 90's romantic comedy Singles. I love lazy weekends, and I love lazier Sunday mornings even more, and I even loved the grunge soundtrack the movie brought with it, but -- !

But there were some pieces of monologue/dialogue in the movie that threw me off and jump-started the same paranoia and thought process. One character's monologue involved how long to wait before calling her dude:

"If I call him now, I'll come across as desperate. I'll call in an hour. If I call in an hour it'll seem like I'm busy and it won't be as bad. . . I don't want to be desperate."


In my brain began the slippery slope of relationship dramas -- dear gawd, I've created a monster.

It's true: we DON'T want to look like the "desperate" ones (who does?). Who's supposed to call, anyway? The dude's supposed to call, or the chick? What happens with same-sex couples? Or couples without any identified sex or gender fluidity? My mom had ingrained in me from a young age that as the female in the relationship, you DON'T call the dude, for the very reason of not being desperate. At the time I felt like there was no reasoning with this kind of logic, but lo and behold, in the years I dated in college I found out quickly that dudes seemed to disappear if I called them "too much," or at all. D-:

After how long does it become OK for either partner/companion/boyfriend/girlfriend to call? Who the hell made these rules, anyway? So many unanswered questions . . . In the end it's just important to know that you're dedicated to one another. But what if you scare the other person off by your desperation?!?? :-0

I think we've gotten ourselves stuck in a time-space-gender-continuum vortex, people. :-/

Not in Berkeley anymore . . .

Amongst all the moments I've experienced in Albuquerque, New Mexico thus far, the experience of grocery shopping has been the most frustrating. (I say this lightly because I'm generally a really positive person and try to make the most of any event.)

I don't think we're in the Bay Area anymore, Toto.


In obtaining provisions for my expected day-long trip to the Petroglyph Historical Monument, I wanted to make sandwiches from the faux deli slices I've come to love so very very much, Tofurkey. So Felicia dropped me off at the local grocery store, Smith's, and I snaked through the aisles glancing at every name brand carried. They had MorningStar Chick'n patties (+10 points for Abq), and Amy's Organic foods (awesome, +15 points). At least I knew where I could go if I needed a quick dinner. But as long as there's no microwave or outlet in the middle of the desert, this made for terrible pic-a-nic food.

I grabbed some salad ingredients and a bunch of spinach before making my way to the checkout. I felt a little bit defeated but obviously the cashier would know for certain what brands were carried.

"Did you find everything alright, ma'am?" Here I go:
"No, I was looking for Tofurkey. Do you carry any?"

She looked very puzzled.

I explained: "It's like deli slices made of tofu, but it looks like turkey. Tofurkey."

She remained confused. I was beginning to think I should have stashed some of my own on the flight down.

B.Y.O.T.


"Let me see if _______ knows if we have any," she said as she called for the bag boy in the next shopping line. "Excuse me, ____ ? This woman has a question for you." He seemed more than happy to oblige, judging by the dopey smile on his face framed by a poor excuse for a goatee.

"Do you have Tofurkey?" I inquired.

The smile faded. "What is it?" he asked.

"It's like turkey. Made of tofu. For vegetarians," I clarified.

With each additional sentence I felt like I was digging my own grave with my own soy shovel. He looked confused as to whether I should be taken seriously or not. So I carried on:

"That's why it's called Tofurkey. It's turkey, made of tofu. Tofurkey. Get it? Wokka, wokka, wokka!" (I figured this was turning into a spectacle, I might as well add the icing.)

He burst out laughing. I gave them my money and left, but not before recognizing the privilege I have of living meat-free in the Bay Area and laughed at myself.

With the ubiquity of hot-air balloons so ingrained into the Abq culture and mindset you'd think that by simply clicking my shoes three times, SOMEONE would take up the hint.

Heavy

A year ago I was in Monterey, California for a math teachers conference. My high school had paid for my registration and I was excited to learn all that I could out of this conference and get some discussion generated with other math teachers.

I had rented a car, got a hotel room overlooking the ocean. Dressed professionally, and at night went shopping by myself in Carmel. For the first time I had money to do this and for the first time I felt like I was settling in to something that would count as a career and for the first time I realized I was growing, this was the adult thing, that adults did. It was the first time in a really long time that I felt like I was allowing myself to be alone and do what I wanted. It felt like I didn't need anyone's permission to do what I felt like and I didn't need to justify what I was doing -- buying things, eating out, driving around aimlessly (er, I mean "cruising").

I had felt trapped for the the better part of eight months, under another person's watch. I had felt pressure to justify the things that I had done out of whim, and "because I felt like it" wasn't good enough. I felt the pressure and obligation of allowing another person to do things that would later hurt me and cut me deeply that I'm still repairing from. I felt free in Monterey. And I felt like contacting you.

I remember sitting alone, in the king size bed of my hotel room and hating the polyester bedsheets but at the same time taking in their warmth. After the sun went down, the beautiful view of the ocean disappeared and chill ensued. There was shit on the tv and I knew I couldn't contact home because nobody would pick up. Contacting home and getting an away message would only make me feel lonelier; but somehow I knew that if I called you that you would pick up. A cockiness in me knew that you would answer because it was me, and knew that you still loved me despite all that had been said and done. I started dialing your number after rehearsing it several times in my brain, and perfectly every time as if tattooed into my psyche.

But the fear of the unexpected stopped me. I didn't want to hear another voice answering. I didn't want to deal with any negative emotions that could have arisen if any heavy shit was brought up.

Then the same cockiness that had assumed you would still love me was overcome with humility. This was just not the right thing to do. It had been the better part of eight months and the only reasonable thing for both of us to have done was move on. I had tried my best to move on and it would only make sense that you would have moved on, too. Perhaps my assumption was wrong; perhaps you didn't love me anymore and I was only thinking these things to make myself feel better in this moment of loneliness. Perhaps I never even entered your mind because it was a passing phase. Then I realized that I didn't know what I was thinking, or whom I was loving, or where the direction my life was going anymore. I had felt full with ambition to contact you but was left feeling emptier than before.

After a few moments I realized I didn't want to deal with you. Then I realized I didn't want to deal with anybody. It had all just become too much. I fell asleep in the hotel room with shit on television and five different sizes of towels and an insufficient amount of shampoo/conditioner blend in the shower.

Less than a month after that you contacted me, and my entire world spun upside down yet again. I was ecstatic, angry, confused, ambivalent, amused, and grateful.

Chapter 2: Don't Call Her Rosy

Whew! It's been awhile since my last post regarding Women's Herstory Month. Since our last excursion into achievements of women in math and science, I have been bogged down with grading papers, outlining and executing sufficiently engaging lessons to teenagers, completing my final Teaching Performance Assessment (TPA; or Total Pain in the A_ _) for my credential program, and not getting enough sleep.

Just to give you an idea of how unkempt this has made me, I had to refer to a facebook post to see the last time I showered. My optimistic guess was Wednesday. It was Tuesday evening. (It is now Friday; not to worry, dear Boyfriend, I did shower this morning.) I stand by the claim that can only be indicative of pure genius. Case in point:

What does all of this have to do with Herstory Month? Well it is indeed my own story, but it is also a story common amongst many geniuses or achievers that our work supercedes cleanliness. Who wants to shower everyday, anyways?

This entry is dedicated to one of those hard-working women, whose hours spent working in a dark and poorly-ventilated university laboratory should have been rewarded with a weekend spa getaway (and a Nobel Prize) -- instead she was only rewarded with obscurity. The stolen work of Rosalind Franklin made a name for James Watson and Francis Crick, and only recently have people begun to pay her lip service for her contribution to molecular science and DNA:

Chapter 2: Don't Call her Rosy

Rosalind Elsie Franklin came from London and was a very strange child. She did not express a creative side and was only interested in that which was empirical and logical; in school she excelled in math, science and sports. She was like a little adult, and did NOT enjoy being called nicknames like Rosy. It was probably not known at the time but Franklin was most certainly half-Vulcan, too.

As a university student, Franklin studied chemistry and quickly became an expert in the field of x-ray crystallography. Upon receiving her PhD from Cambridge in 1945 for her work on the porosity of coal, she continued research in France where she was treated as an equal amongst male colleagues, something that she rarely experienced in England.

When opportunity struck to do research on the structure of DNA at King's College, she leapt at the opportunity but also realized it would mean she would not be working under the best conditions. Her laboratory was set up in a leaky basement in the Biophysics department and despite her credentials and meticulousness at working under a microscope, she was given only one assistant, Maurice Wilkins. Franklin and Wilkins worked many hours interpreting the crystallography of the structure of DNA, but they were not the only ones seeking the secrets of its structure. Over at Cambridge, James Watson and Francis Crick were using models and their knowledge of molecular cell biology to attempt a replica of DNA. There was no friendly collaboration between the two institutions as the field was very competitive -- whoever discovered the structure of DNA would surely attain fame and a place among other science immortals like Galileo, Newton, and Einstein.


As time wore on and Franklin continued her research with her assistant, Wilkins grew weary. He felt that they had surely acquired an accurate picture of the structure of DNA implying a double-helix, but Franklin wanted more research to solidify their hypotheses. Crick knew that they were working in the same area he and his partner were, and inquired them about it. While Franklin was hesitant to share much with him -- she either wanted to be certain of her claims, or Crick had rubbed her the wrong way upon their first encounter (the whole "Rosy" thing) -- Wilkins willingly shared the image. He did this without her permission or knowledge after the fact and this remains a topic of controversy in the science community.


The rest is pretty much history: Franklin returned to her work without viewing it as a great loss -- so long as the knowledge had been uncovered she felt she had done her part (but for the sake of argument I'm certain she was just a *little bit* pissed). She used her knowledge of x-ray crystallography and experience examining the structure of DNA to study the structure of the Tobacco Mosaic Virus, and RNA.

Francis, Crick and Wilkins jointly won the Nobel Prize for discovering the structure of DNA a few years after Franklin died of ovarian cancer at the age of 37. Watson penned an account of his and Crick's "discovery" of the structure of DNA entitled The Double Helix. In 1987 a film version was made, "The Race for the Double Helix," which contains a scene of Wilkins giving Crick the well-known Photo 51 indicating the double helix structure.


So, how do I feel about all of this? The angry Feminazi in me wants to go on a tirade about how MEN have the need to control everything and MEN are responsible for this figurative weight on our shoulders and MEN just need to be a little more open to collaboration and consent, dammit.


But there is another voice in me that says that people's shit gets stolen all the time. Who invented Calculus -- Newton or Leibniz? Who created pyramids first -- Aztecs or Egyptians? In "Race for the Double Helix" there is a poignant moment after Photo 51 has been taken and Francis and Crick have made their DNA model, and Franklin is examining it. The look on her face is not one of spite but of engaged curiosity and recognition.

Recognition that they have finally created a visual structure for that which cannot be seen. They have finally placed names and chemicals and combinations for that which makes every living organism unique as well as a part of something whole.


They have finally created another way for me to fail that Chemistry test!


Celebrating the [too-short] life and amazing work of Rosalind Franklin is just one facet of Women's History Month and the greater subject of feminism. To take a step back and not be angry, or lose sleep over disadvantages that have occurred in the past to women making a name for themselves amongst male colleagues is the right path towards striving for equality.


(I know this ended abruptly but I have a yoga class to get to!)

Introduction & Chapter 1: Sophie Germain

Introduction: (Holy crap, March is here already!)
One important reason to love this in-between seasons, almost-Spring month of March is that it is a time to celebrate Women's History.

Something you all should know about me is that I love talking about women. I love talking about the roles they play in their lives. I love talking about their strength, their perseverance, and the crap they've had to endure to get to where they are now. And I love saying all this wearing a skirt and make-up.

Since the beginning of time, these double x-chromosomed creatures have birthed new beings and raised posterity for generations and generations. But, they have also developed similar mental and physical capacity as their male counterparts, too! Indeed, the role of women has diversified itself through the ages, evolving from gatherer and homemaker to Computer Scientist Barbie.

Regardless of one's own opinion of how this progress helps or hinders the meaning of a female-bodied persyn's worth, the meanings behind the struggles endured to attain equal rights should still be noted and celebrated.

Chapter 1: Sophie Germain

Germain grew up in 18th century France to a very traditional bourgeois family -- her father worked as a silk merchant and little is known about her mother or her interests. Sophie and her father held very different opinions about what women should be doing with their time. Sophie would plow through the books in her father's library, absorbing all information like a sponge and craving more. She took a liking to mathematics, particularly Calculus and Number Theory, and would study the works of Newton and Euler by candlelight.

Her father caught her studying at night many times and often confiscated her materials, leaving her body cold and her mind hungry. When she did not have a secret stash of papers and writing utensils to fall back on, the nights were long and torturous. After finding her asleep at her desk on more than a few occasions, her slumbering face set atop of papers with equations and calculations, her mother secretly supported her educational endeavor.

Germain finally got the opportunity to exchange correspondence with Adrien-Marie Legendre, who was lecturing on number theory at the Ecole Polytechnique. She had no choice but to write letters as a man, and they soon became distant colleagues working to solve Fermat's Last Theorem.

Over the years Germain collaborated with Friedrich Gauss on the [in]famous Last Theorem, finally revealing her true identity and gender, to his amazement and awe. Although their correspondence ceased as their areas of study shifted, it is a pivotal point in women's history (and the history of mathematics) that Germain was considered an equal colleague of so many influential mathematicians.

Sophie Germain was one of the first female mathematicians that I learned of once I began pursuing the subject as an avid 7th grader. To me, mathematics and the patterns found therein gave the secrets to some kind of magic. Math was something a lot of peers my age, a lot of female peers, would typically dismiss as "too hard" and I found myself enjoying the challenge rather than despising it. The curiosity and the risk-taking involved at getting an answer "wrong" is the good-stuff in life: it gives us feedback that we can use to make things better, gives us evidence with which to predict what will occur next, and it gives us the faith to know that we can always give ourselves another chance to make something perfect.