the paradox of perspective

Sometimes when students asked how old I was
(after I gave them a silent raised eyebrow to remind them that not everyone loves this question since guesses about age usually skew to elderly, and no one wants to be associated with that too soon)
I presented historical math problems by way of answer:

I was born the year before Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.
I was born a few months after Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy were assassinated.
I was almost a year old when Woodstock happened. (No, I did not go)

Some searched their brains for these facts, eyes squeezed shut for maximum thinking power.
Many grabbed their smartphones to plug in keywords and triumphantly shout the year
then consult their calculators for the final answer.
Others blinked slowly or looked away, uninterested in history & math,
knowing my age was not worth effort since
obviously I was born a long time ago, probably before their parents who were old and boring.

Whenever I went through this exercise I was reminded
of how many things that the whole world knows
sees
feels
will happen at the same exact time
as tiny personal miracles and/or tragedies.

Other people were born when men were walking the moon -
those mothers' labors overshadowed by the constant coverage
of guys kicking around space dust.

Other people died on days great men were murdered -
those families doubly gutted, having to divide their grief
and weigh the value of different lives.

Thousands left Woodstock early, cold & muddy, hungry & tired,
bleary-eyed back at desk jobs or slumped in classrooms,
while Hendrix solemnly unwound the anthem onstage.

Perspective.

****
I remember being home from school on March 30, 1981, foggily watching TV on the couch when breaking news announced President Reagan had been shot.
I sat up, feeling hollow, the hair on my arms shivering,
thought of my mom recalling when the president of her adolescence was shot.
But then, I remember my increasing aggravation
that the coverage was going to interrupt General Hospital,
a bright spot on sick days.
7th grade Me dismissing the possible death of a world leader
in favor of catching my favorite soap opera.
****
For a few days at the end of September 1998, the entire planet disappeared from my periphery.
My son had been born
early
quickening labor
fetal distress
please sign this release with your right hand because we put the pen on your wrong side
emergency Cesarean
too small
jaundiced
transferring
miles away.
On that day there were discoveries and catastrophes, victories and defeats elsewhere
significant to hundredsthousandsmillions
but I
only knew
one thing one thing one thing

Perspective.
****

It is a strange thing
astonishing comfort
deliciously peculiar
to understand
the world is so vast and full
yet still fits
right in your hands.

50+ things before 50

I will have lived half a century by next August and would like to diminish the societal weirdness of being 50 - having to check a new demographic box on forms, knowing most women begin to be dismissed at this age - by mindfully engaging in activities that bring me joy, magnify the wonder of our world, show myself and any doubters that I do indeed still have relevancy & usefulness & vibrancy. I started this process last fall when I requested a sabbatical for the 2017-18 school year, to have 180 days to freely manage my time, being available for my graduating daughter and exploring different kinds of opportunities.

Here I'll record the unique things I do during this year, to remind me in my old age (many decades from now) that I loved life, that I came to live out loud and did.

Day 1, August 23, 2017 : Dinner at Le Pigeon featuring grilled skate + foie gras sorbet

2, August 24 :  Poetry reading with secret boyfriends Anis Mojgani & Derrick Brown

Precious Anis Mojgani

Darling Derrick Brown

3 + 4, August 26 & 27 : Iggy Pop, Spoon, and Beck in concert

5, September 8-10 : Assistant to Tom Kenny, voice of SpongeBob Squarepants et al, at Rose City Comic Con

Marvelousness

6, September 11-19 : MVHS band fundraiser

7, September 15 : Miller's Crossing at Reader's Theatre Repertory

8, September 22 : Alison Moyet at a tiny theater with my college bestie

9, September 24 : Wine tasting + vineyard tour with friends in the Gorge

10, September 28 : Begin weekly volunteering at p:ear, a program for homeless & transitional youth

11, September 29 : MVHS band social

12, September 30 : Pullman for Mason's 19th birthday

13, October 5 : Answer phones for OPB fall pledge drive

14, October 5 : Cobra to Seattle, train home

15, October 6 : MVHS Homecoming football game

16, October 12 : Happy Hour gathering with colleagues

17 + 18, October 13 : Greek dinner + The Turn of the Screw at Readers Theatre Rep

19, October 20 : Fun Home at Portland Center Stage

20, October 21 : Burlescape show at Crush Bar

21, October 23 : Depeche Mode in concert

22 + 23, October 27 : Train to Seattle for Tegan & Sara concert + overnight with high school friends

24, October 30 : Mary Lambert concert, meet Mal Blum

25, October 31 : Halloween party + face painting at p:ear

26, November 1 & 2 : Check in filmmakers/actors/guests at Portland Film Festival

27, November 3-5 : Dad's Weekend at WSU, Seth Meyers performance + Stanford football game

28, November 6 : First meeting of Citizens Advisory Committee 

29, November 11 : MVHS Holiday Bazaar prize table

30, November 12 : Extra on the digital series, The Musicianer; meet Beth Harrington & Lowell Deo

31, November 14 : David Sedaris reading

32, November 15 : Design giving tree tags for p:ear

33, November 17 : Paula Poundstone, front row at the Aladdin

34, November 25 : Tailgate at Apple Cup in Seattle

....stay tuned...

in the presence of royalty

I have no idea how I got Prince's 1999 cassette, but I do know that it immediately became my favorite album. Favorite very secret album, playing directly only into my ears through the headphones of my knock-off Walkman whenever I strolled to the beach, mowed the lawn, or tried desperately to get a tan lying in my backyard. 

I felt subversive listening to it; for 1983 small town me the songs were unbelievably naughty. But for all its overt sexiness, Prince never made me feel uncomfortable [except when I thought about my parents hearing the lyrics]. So I knew then for sure that sex was supposed to be a good, fun thing [that I would never ever discuss with my parents]. A couple years later I spent my babysitting money on the Purple Rain LP and fell in love.

Riding the bus home Valentine's Day in 1985, I heard on the radio that they had added another Prince concert for the next night at the Tacoma Dome, and there were still tickets available. I bolted from my bus stop to the kitchen phone, frantically found the number for our local ticket shop/t-shirt printer and called. They said one of their employees might have a couple of tickets to sell, check back in 15 minutes. My heart was pounding - the possibility of seeing Prince was 15 minutes away. Fifteen minutes plus whatever the cost was, a desperate phone call to my mom asking not only for permission but for her to drive me and my best friend 2 1/2 hours each way on a school night, and my best friend's ability to come with me away. I don't think I have ever been so blindly optimistic again in my life.

The tickets were $25 each. They were front row. My parents said okay. My best friend's parents said okay. It was a miracle.

Regardless of our love for Prince, my bff and I were hardcore stereotypical teacher's pet-type girls. So naturally we wore our purple sweatshirts. Over purple polo shirts. With our Normandy Rose jeans and loafers. I am not making this up; I feel slightly embarrassed and very sweaty just remembering our outfits.

It didn't matter how out of place we looked (seriously, no one else was wearing a sweatshirt. Of course.) - WE WERE GOING TO SEE PRINCE FROM THE FRONT ROW. Sheila E opened like a goddess, tied an audience member to a chair and danced & drummed around him in her sheer bodysuit, then it was time. Purple smoke covered the stage and filled my unsuspecting, willing lungs. I have a memory of Prince crawling across the stage at some point but I'm not sure when that happened. He changed clothes a few times, and I'm pretty sure he was shirtless at one point. My stomach felt wiggly, my breathing shallow, and not just because I was on the verge of heat stroke. We were pushed against the barrier fencing for two hours and I thought many times I would lose one of my shoes (honestly, what was I thinking? Loafers.) but didn't really care. It was the best night of my 16-year old life.

For the past 31 years, I have felt like I actually know Prince because of that concert. I believe he made everyone in that arena feel like they knew him. Each time I saw Prince in an interview, on an awards show, with The Muppets, I believed we had a connection. 

Because he was miraculous. 

new year sky

"I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me." ~ Anaïs Nin

Start a marvelous 2015, friends

bucking up

I do not jest when I say there are days that I awaken desperate to do anything other than teach teenagers. Some days I stay in bed until the last possible ridiculous moment; I groggily consider what I could do from the comfort of my pajamas that would pay for a few summer nights in NYC; I mentally map out our budget and decide where I could scrimp to account for a few thousand less. But I always trudge downstairs, make some tea, eat cake if I'm lucky, nag my kids into semi-meaningful conversation while they have breakfast, and imagine telling my principal (who also, mercifully & thankfully, is a friend) that I cannot do my job anymore. First, in my imaginary scenario, I see her jaw set in a way that makes me want to run, and then I see her squinting, trying to listen to my reasons. Which are, honestly, stupid.

Managing my time is hard.
Coming up with interesting, relevant, useful lessons is hard.
Going to meetings is hard.
Filling out paperwork is hard.
I want to do something easier.

I never get to the place where I articulate these things because scary principal friend just thinking about them while I shower and blow dry my hair and do my makeup remind me that they are truly stupid. Of course my job is hard - I am helping new people navigate the world in meaningful ways. Yet that includes my own people, the ones I birthed and am raising but somehow inexplicably still do dumb things amidst the cool things. Plus I want to spend time with my husband, that isn't always centered around wine & The Walking Dead after the kids are in bed (though these moments are golden, yo). And I have friends whom I'd also like to see occasionally for a few hours, without having to compromise lesson plans or meeting notes or grading.

So yes, all of the parts of my job make living life hard - as do many parts of many people's jobs. I think it's a sign that something is truly worth doing if it is difficult and we do it anyway, with pride; if we care enough to put in the time it takes to make our jobs satisfying to ourselves and meaningful to others, that is valuable.

And here's the cool thing about those few days when I wake up in a state like this: At least one student somehow rocks my teacher world within a few hours. I've found an anonymous note saying my hair & smiley faces are awesome and that the writer admires my wit. A very reluctant/borderline contentious poetry student got engrossed in putting together a presentation of his Where I'm From poem, asking excitedly if he could use as background the picture of his house he got from Google Earth. A quiet girl made a point of telling me Technology is now her favorite class because I'm teaching it. Another girl whom I had reprimanded for stirring up drama later brought me a Keep Calm button for my bulletin board.

Then today, this exchange happened with a boy who loves the Philadelphia Eagles:

Him - Hey! The Cowboys won yesterday! [pause] I watched the game; I think the Giants are pretty crappy.

Me - I KNOW! It was a terrible game, but it was a win. Now we're tied with the Eagles' record!

Him - Yeah.

Me - But I wore green today, just for you. [I wear black if my team loses]

Him - Oh, and I'm wearing blue! Cool!

....then we have to start class, but that. It's exactly why I get out of bed, and forget about the stupid stuff.

reentry

My counselor turned me loose a couple of weeks (16 days) ago. She said she was very impressed with how I had worked so deliberately & diligently to change the way I thought about things and talked to myself; I agreed and felt pretty proud but also had a tiny twinge of panic about giving up a regular appointment to check in. She reminded me of all the strategies I've practiced this past year that have helped me stay focused & balanced, and she asked me to plan some next steps - I thought I should get back to yoga & gym/readingonastationarybike time, and writing regularly on my blog. The yoga part has not yet rematerialized but let's get this party started again here, shall we?

It is Sensational Haiku Wednesday at my friend Jenn's You Know...that Blog? and the theme is SENSATIONAL, which is perfect because it's how I'm beginning to feel now that my brain isn't trying to suffocate me.

 

My gentler mind is

Making some sweet small talk with

My bruised subconscious 

 

 

Now you go, here or there.

 



sound & fury

Living this day of my life:

• Spent lunch time in my classroom with a former student preparing to leave for college this weekend. He tried hard to look all "I've got it handled" while his pacing said "I'm nervous," then when we were parting he blurted out, "It's terrifying." I told him I know. And that's what makes it the best move he's ever made. [He has my cell number; we'll keep in touch.]
• Spent an hour after school visiting with a couple of 2010 graduates who kept marveling at how much easier life was in high school. I did not say "duh." I was only a little bit smug. I assured them we know they couldn't help but be self-absorbed know-it-alls; they are forgiven and all is forgotten. [Sort of.]
• Spent 2 1/2 hours in the corner of a cramped conference room listening to a first read-through of Macbeth the Scottish play by some pretty extraordinary local thespians. There were some laughs amidst the professional approach, the Lady Macbeth chilled even in this very raw rehearsal, then the previously unassuming Macduff brought a haunted reverence to the table with his anguish upon hearing of the murder of his family [oh, SPOILER ALERT for those not in the know but really, get thee to a production]. Afterward, one of the actors read a piece he had written reflecting on the value & need for theater in such sad & despairing times as we've experienced lately in our nation; it was beautiful in its intimacy and conviction, and I told him so.

I sometimes feel, as most of us do, that what I'm 'doing' in my life is of little consequence - when people are starving & hurting & killing, when cities are destroyed, when governments are indifferent, when so many things seem far more significant than a group of teenagers struggling through a poem or a play - but the simple truth is, everything matters in its own way. Everything has the power to affect change, if only in perspective. And for something to matter it needs to be noticed.

So I notice.

let me write a thank you on my palm

Welcome Morning


There is joy

in all:

in the hair I brush each morning,

in the Cannon towel, newly washed,

that I rub my body with each morning,

in the chapel of eggs I cook

each morning,

in the outcry from the kettle

that heats my coffee

each morning,

in the spoon and the chair

that cry "hello there, Anne"

each morning,

in the godhead of the table

that I set my silver, plate, cup upon

each morning.



All this is God,

right here in my pea-green house

each morning

and I mean,

though often forget,

to give thanks,

to faint down by the kitchen table

in a prayer of rejoicing

as the holy birds at the kitchen window

peck into their marriage of seeds.



So while I think of it,

let me paint a thank-you on my palm

for this God, this laughter of the morning,

lest it go unspoken.



The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,

dies young.

                                       ~ Anne Sexton

I am so thankful for my place at my school, with these kids. Let me paint a thank-you on my palm...

Customize your own slideshow design

gold medal delusionist

I have a new secret Olympian boyfriend. Actually, it's not so secret considering I have very publicly stalked him in a mildly embarrassing Ellen Barkin-Cougarish way via Twitter and Facebook.

Anyway.

I will not attempt to convey the depth of my reasoning because everyone to whom I've tried to explain how I appreciate his journey & dedication & philosophy has given me a patronizing raised eyebrow and condescending nod, so forget it. Let's just say I think he's intelligent and thoughtful...and hottastic.

But once I discovered that he diligently responds to his Twitter followers, I became determined to make an impression. Partly out of a middle-aged-woman attempt to feel less than ancient & irrelevant, and partly because I do truly believe he has wisdom to offer my students (and most teenagers) who are often floundering & uncertain about how to keep moving in life. Anthony Ervin has told his story in Rolling Stone and has put himself on the world's stage in ways that are both self-promoting & altruistic; neither is a negative thing, frankly.

I am not quite old enough to be his mother yet enough years ahead to be his capable babysitter. Plus, I am happily married 19 years to a fantastic guy. Yet, I am not blind nor dead. I am beyond caring whether people believe my intentions, and am not too proud to admit one of them is the hopeful hope that he will appear at my school in the flesh for a commencement speech. And allow me to gently touch his forearm at least once. I have a strange thing for swimmers' arms.

Anyway, again.

He's a good guy, Anthony Ervin, even if all he ever does for me is Tweet some inspirational quotes for my wayward students and feign interest in visiting Portland (done). He has gone astray in his life, experimented in ways that he is not proud of [raise your hand if you can identify], and has made efforts to seek inspiration & redemption.

If he hadn't already earned a gold medal, I'd offer one for that.

And for his arms.

bitten

I finally got to go to New York City, and it was better than I expected. I realize that might sound crazy to some because why wouldn't I expect NYC to be anything but amazing? But I am the kind of nut who is wary of hype & awe: I wouldn't watch Survivor until the second season; I didn't start reading Harry Potter until the 5th book was released; I still haven't seen The Avengers. I think it's a control freak thing - I'll do things when I choose, not when the mindless masses flock like sheep to them. Also maybe an elitist snob thing, too. Anyway.

When I applied to volunteer at BlogHer this year in New York I figured if the conference didn't rock my world, I could 'fall back' on tourism. Conversely, if I felt too overwhelmed to even begin sightseeing, the magnificence of workshops, swag, and guest speakers would make up for it. Yeah. It sounds dumb to me, too, now.

I was nervous about visiting the Big Apple. The City that Never Sleeps. The Empire City. City So Nice They Named It Twice. Gotham. Mainly because I was afraid I would call it one of these weird nicknames out loud and be instantly labeled a lame tourist [my Pacific Northwest non-accent and supersuburban hairdo and lack of dramatic makeup would not give me away, of course]. More honestly, my need-to-be-right-the-first-time mania caused me to worry about getting lost, wearing unfashionable outfits, getting lost, not knowing which Very Famous Landmark I'm looking at without consulting a guidebook, being randomly swindled in some way. And getting lost. So I mapped out my conference schedule and told myself "If I have time, I'll wander around." Three marginally useful sessions, one volunteer shift, and 9 hours later I hit the streets of ... Hymie Town? What? No.

In two & a half days and three nights, I :
Perused the gift shop and gazed longingly into the foyer of MoMa, sat at the Time-Life fountain across from Radio City Music hall amongst lunching real-life New Yorkers, stepped into the Ferrari store (to get a photo for my man + breathe delicious 60 degree air for a minute), ate a street vendor's delectable mustard-soaked hot dog in the shade of Park Tower, peeked through the closed doors of Carnegie Hall, enjoyed an early birthday dinner at Russian Tea Room, strolled around the Empire State Building at midnight.
and
Watched a traffic cop at work on 42nd Street, marveled at every.single.inch of the NY Public Library (except the room housing works of "Shelley and his circle" which I desperately wanted to see but was gently turned away from by the adorable monitor because people were actually doing research inside; what.ever), considered eating at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central but decided instead on Junior's [and the integrity of my children's college accounts], rode the subway after being kindly shown the right way to swipe my Metro card, walked an obscene distance in the wrong shoes, smelled Central Park Zoo, cabbed to the Met because I grossly misjudged its distance from the south end of the park, almost threw a punch at the first (and only) rude resident who I hope will soon be fired from her fantastic museum job for being a sassy-faced bitch, raced through Egypt, the Medieval room, & Contemporary Art, cabbed back to our hotel where I submerged my blistered feet in icy bath water while devouring Junior's cheesecake, trekked to Studio 54 to see Harvey, got scolded for taking a photo in the 'copywritten' theater, paid $13 for a 2-shot vodka/cranberry served in a sippy cup, strolled down Broadway, inhaled a late dinner at Sardi's amongst caricatured celebrities, wandered through Times Square where it appears to be daylight at all hours & people behave as though life is a constant cabaret.
and
Walked against running & cycling traffic through most of Central Park West, watched a few hits in a morning softball game where New Yawk accents were flying with the pitches, perused heartwarming & wrenching memorial benchplates, bought John Lennon pins from a park vendor & cried my eyes out from The Dakota past the Imagine mosaic, took dozens of photos of tangible serenity, listened to gospel singers and a tin pan alley trio, imagined Holden Caulfield, took the E line to World Trade Center, nearly melted from the sun-drenched line and unmanageable emotions, composed myself during a 9/11 survivor's stunningly beautiful story, found a tasty Philly cheesesteak in the Essex World Cafe where victims of the attack sought refuge for weeks, impulsively jumped off the subway to wander around Penn Station seeking the spirit of Holden again (not realizing until too late his version was demolished 45 years ago), discovered a lovely tribute to New Jersey poets in the train service hallway, got on the wrong subway in attempt to head back uptown but realized before we got to Queens, cabbed four blocks to our luggage, headed to JFK early enough to enjoy a leisurely dinner & series of chats with delightful waiter Duane before waiting 4 extra hours to take off due to lightning.

But it was all okay,
because I truly heart New York.

Want photos? Go here.

72/365 "really"

In My Room

I got this fabulous poster from my favorite snarksters/societal vanguards at Regretsy. Please read the stories about the trials of Atlanta artist Tori LaConsay that led to her getting not only recognition and an apology from retail giant H & M but also a donation to animal rescue organizations in her city. Because her plight was publicized & promoted and eventually resolved largely through Regretsy reader support, Ms. LaConsay offered to send signed posters to those who donated to the assistance fund for her sweet rescued dog-friend Fred who needed surgery. [Fred is recovering well and enjoying celebrity on Facebook; Ms. LaConsay is no longer sending posters and I cannot for the life of me find any place online to get hold of her lovely works right now. Bummer]

So. To make a short story a tad long, I gave a bit and got a lot. When meeting with the architects of our school, we teachers specifically requested these cozy corners in each classroom where a student can go when he/she needs a quiet place not-too-far from the madding crowd, or where a small group can spread out a project, or where I can offer easily-distracted individuals a calm reprieve from my otherwise visually overstimulating classroom; in any case, I want whomever lands there to know: You look nice today.

It's something we all like to hear, no? Well, you do.

66/365 "rebloom"

Let us try this again.
As my girl Emily Dickinson said, 'Forever is composed of Nows.'

10/365 "bright"

A touch of yellow
Does a body (and brain) good
Bring on the bouquets

5/365 "beginnings"

bloom







photo by my girl

give it up

My wildly ambitious intention was to write a blog post every day (seriously?) about the gifts I receive and give. I have coerced my Advocacy class into thinking about how they give & receive gifts each day during December; my thought is that this moves people to be mindful about positive moments in their days, to start noticing what kinds of delightfulness swirls around them even if most of their lives are nonsensical and perhaps generally crummy. Not to diminish the awfulness that might be present, but to remind everyone that regardless of the same old sh*t, there is usually something worth giving a little thanks for, even if it is as simple as sunshine on a 40 degree morning or a few cookies in the middle of a food-free day. Some of my students have such horrible lives that I often feel a little ridiculous asking them to acknowledge small favors, but honestly - what good does it do anyone to dwell on the garbage when you're a kid and have no say in most of the insanity of your existence? Why not focus on the pleasant stuff - especially what they can create & control- at least for 30 minutes of the day?

So. It was nice to hear on Thursday that many of my kids could list ways of giving non-materially: offering compliments, smiling, holding doors, giving advice, sharing a table at lunch, writing poems or singing songs or making music in the hallway. If I weren't a trained & highly skilled professional, I would have fallen on the floor and wept for their selfless, youthful beauty & optimism. Many of these children (teenagers are, truly, still children, people) live with unemployed parents, single and struggling moms & dads, parents who suffer addictions or diseases (or both), and occasionally well-meaning but tired or clueless grandparents and even great-grandparents; some know abuse most of us cannot and would rather not fathom; some have changed homes in one decade more times than most adults have ever considered; they do not think twice about selling, purchasing, or using one or more drugs to get by; they desperately want to grow up and be "successful" but have no idea how to do so in real life, legally.

I printed calendars for them to record the gifts they give & receive this month. I do not tell them that what I consider a gift given is my assertion that they are invaluable members of this world; I also do not mention that a gift to me is their presence in my classroom every. single. day. For now, it is enough that we greet each other sincerely every morning and that they feel smart raising their hands to answer a question in history class.

Those are things worth giving, and getting.

Happy holidays ~ pass it on.

lucky thirteen



Saucy boy




Sassy young man

Happy 13th birthday to my Boon.

wait a minute

When I was pregnant with my son, I decided I would no longer say "I can't wait." After the hundredth person remarked "I bet you can't wait for that baby to be born!" I realized that was not necessarily true. Of course I was excited to have my child out in the world with me, but I also genuinely relished my time before he arrived - feeling a human growing & grooving inside my body, appreciating all of the enhanced sensory experiences that came with hormones in overdrive, enjoying multiple naps every day, looking forward to meeting this person no one else knew yet savoring those final days of simple couplehood with my husband. I felt like if I gave in to the "I can't wait!" mindset, I would be cheating the now out of its potential for specialness, and maybe even exaggerating the specialness of what was coming, making it anticlimatic. That was the beginning of my commitment to mindfulness.

Since then, if I catch myself saying or even thinking "I can't wait until...," I will stop and look around. Sometimes it seems perfectly justified - in the midst of a mammogram or pap smear, for example, or during hot f*cking yoga. But for the most part, I want to keep reminding myself that life is indeed short and we don't get many do-overs. Things can change in the proverbial blink of an eye, or if we're not paying attention to even the most seemingly mundane moments, passing years can start to feel like the blink of an eye.

Obviously I have known that my daughter was starting middle school today, but what I forgot about was the fact that no one would be watching for me to wave at the bus anymore, because instead of it rolling past the house, it picked up on the corner down the street (and also because, GAH, MOM, we're in MIDDLE SCHOOL). Since my son started kindergarten and through my daughter's 5th grade year, I have had the privilege of being home most mornings when the elementary bus came by; I always waved from the porch, the front door, or my bedroom window (depending on my state of readiness for the day) but every time I had a kid or two peering out of a sweaty window, waving back. This morning I drove by their bus stop, ready to not make a spectacle and embarrass my preteens with a sappy mom display but secretly hoping there might be some tiny acknowledgement.

Both of my big kids waved from the midst of a gangly crowd and yelled "BYE MOM!"

I did not blink.

the girl goes to 11

My spunky baby girl

My stunning young beauty

Happy 11th birthday to bad mom's good peach.

in the blink of an eye

Every graduation day, I am genuinely proud of all our students; I know I will truly miss having most of those Seniors around the hallways and in the Commons every day. And though I always freak out about what to wear, how to do my makeup & hair, if I'm going to get all the names right, and whether or not I can avoid crying, it is one of my favorite series of moments as a teacher.

In less than two hours, I go from seeing these kids as children who seem to need me to remind them every hour how we use our time wisely and engage in rational discussions and stop throwing shit across classrooms to seeing them as grown-up people who really don't need me to give them directions or define respectful behavior or explain the value of education. It is moving and miraculous and marvelous.

Today there are a few students graduating whom I have known throughout their high school careers. They were in Freshman English with me during my first year at Hayes Freedom. I've seen their baby faces mature; I've watched them make friends and lose friends and make friends again; I've heard them build opinions and craft dreams and take charge of their lives. I am so proud of the young adults they have become, I look forward to witnessing their successes in the world. I just wish they didn't have to leave us.

If you have a moment at 2:00 PST today, click to watch our Renegades step out in the world. It is a magnificent transformation.

angell food

So I got an e-mail from Chris Angell at the beginning of the month.



Not this one. He spells his name differently and kind of creeps me out.



Actually, it was Christopher Angell who very well may be a magician too since he (along with his wife Suzanne) has created the most delicious AND eco-friendly/organic/fair trade chocolate bars I have ever encountered. They sent me a sample of their wares asking that I give a review and after much soul searching, I agreed.



The goods before I devoured them. Then wept.



There is Angell Crisp which is milk chocolate with a crispy rice crunch; Snow Angell, a white chocolate-coconut confection; and Dark Angell which is frankly like David Boreanaz in candy bar form [okay, it's actually dark chocolate, creamy cocoa, and almonds but it definitely made me want to be bitten by a vampire with a good heart].

It was immensely difficult to choose a favorite as each was like a choir of angels in my mouth. I cut them up and shared (I know, I'm a saint) to get a round of opinions, which only made things more difficult. Everyone loved all of them but we were able to articulate, between yummy sounds, what made each flavor delightful.

The Angell Crisp is indeed as simple as it sounds - milk chocolate + that fun old candy bar staple, crispy rice - but the way they have blended everything (with magic?), it is somehow smooth and slightly crunchy at the same time. It melts in the mouth and tastes like childhood.

Snow Angell is the one we all expected to like the least (white chocolate can be a hard sell, and two out of four family members don't normally like coconut) but it seduced us all with its impossibly creamy texture and soft, sweet tropical center.

The Dark Angell tastes like something that should be sold for a great deal of money in a hipster restaurant where it would be presented on a fancy blown-glass plate and eaten with a fork. And some wine. It has depth, like a truffle, and is so rich. Its flavor haunts me.

Christopher & Suzanne's story is sweet (ha!) and inspiring. Everything they are doing with their business speaks to my mom/teacher/citizen/romantic values and I wish them tremendous success. If I could get our local grocery stores to carry Angell bars (my solitary complaint), I might singlehandedly provide the Angells with funding for their kids' college educations. Because I am all about chocolate that is good for everyone - inside & out, from beginning to the most delicious end.