compartmentalizing

I am nothing if not a supreme organizer, from my unending list-making to an unnatural love for bullet points. I like to think it's a simple sign of intelligence & efficiency but if I'm being honest, I'm pretty sure it comes from my desperate need to [pretend to] Control Things. At first glance over my life, it doesn't look like much was out of control - I only have 1 point for ACEs - but I've come to realize that even a single event in childhood can color the world going forward, and I have long had a stay-in-the-lines attitude that ended up being a hindrance, frankly; when getting hung up on How Things Look and How Things Should Be more than What Things Could Be, we miss a lot of exquisite little details. I still get hung up sometimes but I work harder at looking around corners and in the cracks, too. I'm working on crying out loud more, too, but in a controlled cute Rachel McAdams way as much as possible (it's never possible). 

On that note, here's a thing I wrote from a series of observations I was making when trying not to directly look an uncontrollable thing in the eyes. 

_________________________________________________________

I Practice Believing My Son Has Cancer

I sit in the hospital room on a dumbly comfortable recliner,

consolation gift for the parent who finds herself

in a foul game of fighting

disease by picking poisons that might or might not make him sicker today or later, really

nobody knows.

Don’t worry.

I’m offered a discounted lunch delivered with his free meal,
cheer the salad with salmon and blackberries, as if I’ve won a significant award.

My boy pores over his two-page paper menu with excited eyes vowing to try everything by the time he is done

in the fall, as if
that will be the bigger prize than
life past 19.

Don’t worry.

There is so much sun streaming onto my exposed neck, 

wrapping itself first around idiot yellow flowers staring over my shoulder at the magazine I took from the absurdly welcoming waiting room.

Everything a flavorless joke
reminding us that life goes fucking on outside of here.

Don’t worry.

I brought a book I will neglect in a bag full of other website-suggested things,

because mothering instincts say that if I have 

everything we need we will not need anything:

Not the extra soft socks or the unscented lotions or powerful sunscreens 

or ginger-infused organic candies meant to quell
toxic nausea. We are 

prepared and prepared and prepared
and...

Don’t worry.

a calling recalled

This week, I submitted my resignation from teaching.

I can't remember not wanting to be a teacher. I was an only child for nine years, playing School most of that time with a makeshift classroom of stuffed animals arranged in relentlessly neat rows, each assigned a name in an old ledger from my grandpa's business. Occasionally I roped my younger cousin into joining me but only as a student, never the teacher. If he thinks of those days fondly, he's being kind; I was a rigid taskmaster in my early days, assigning him (and the hostage toys) leftover handouts my former-teacher uncle gave me in an old briefcase. I also remember conjuring infractions to punish him for, as I hadn't yet learned the art of positive behavior reinforcement. Later, I divided my time between torturing my cousin with math & spelling worksheets and preparing 'lessons' for my baby sister, using Sesame Street, Mr. Rogers, and Captain Kangaroo as inspiration. As I got older and better at interacting with others not as a tyrant, I found myself seeking out other broader, more finessed ways of sharing information I learned from my constant reading and TV-watching.

All through real school, my favorite parts of the day were staring at cute boys, reading, and writing (order may vary); on the best days, I helped cute boys with their reading and writing. The one time I skipped class in high school was to finish an English paper due later that day. I admired most of my teachers, especially the English teachers, and those I didn't served as examples of What Not To Do when I got their job. I also babysat a lot and spent most of that time reading to and interacting with the kids before watching TV and eating snacks; I felt like I was a natural.

In college I fell in love with Thirtysomething and the idea of becoming an Advertising Executive (never mind that I was unclear on what that actually meant), but really I was only in love with the cool houses and wardrobes that apparently came with working as an Advertising Executive (maybe?). Teaching was still in my periphery but I knew it wouldn't pay well and in the late '80s, making money was The Goal. In my junior year, an honest professor mentioned that anyone not willing to sell every awful product being sold would never make it in advertising; I dropped the class and promptly enrolled in the School of Education. I relished the Literature classes directed at future teachers; I tutored other students in writing; I spent time working at the campus preschool and babysitting for graduate students. During student teaching, I surprised myself with instinctual moves like bonding with an otherwise difficult kid through our mutual love of football, and gently redirecting the teen who earnestly asked me to prom. I also incorporated Wayne's World and an SNL skit into lessons. Rock star.

I cherish the highlights of my time in classrooms: from the middle school where I designed curricula from scratch and helped 8th graders plan community projects to the GED prep work in a group home with adjudicated youth to the substitute teaching where I perfected my Love & Logic techniques, to these past 12 years at my favorite place outside of my own home. Despite the sometimes long hours and occasional emotional beatings, I continually felt called to teaching.

Until this year. When I signed my intent to return last spring, toward the end of my sabbatical, I didn't think twice. Why wouldn't I go back? I had gladly dedicated most of that time off to my daughter and she was graduating; I'd pursued some Fun Things but none of them had specifically offered me a new career. I put my classroom back together, planned some fresh lessons for different classes, made connections with my students, as usual. Yet, it felt different. My boy continued his monthly chemotherapy treatments; my girl marched alone in football games 450 miles away; I kept comparing my hours of preparing lessons to the hours I'd spent volunteering with homeless youth and at film festivals and with public radio pledge drives, and I longed for that freedom to use my time as I wanted. And, I realized, as I needed.

I knew what I was accepting when I chose to be a teacher. I have loved even the hardest, most mentally trying moments of all of my experiences as an educator. I consider every instance a gem in my crown - I couldn't have become the wife, mother, friend, or woman I am without having absorbed the digs and disappointments along with the praise for and pride in my classroom time.

It is strange now to be at the half-century point of my life deciding to change direction, to alter my identity, to become Something Else. More than strange to not even be able to name the Something Else I'm becoming - I might write, I might be a professional volunteer, I might be the substitute teacher some people love and others think is weird. Yet all of these things feel more acceptable than staying in a position where I ought to be uplifting but am instead feeling like a slow drain of inspiration & joy.

I hope that those coming into my place are feeling how I did for a couple of decades - excited about designing ways to engage sometimes-surly teens, energetic in their desire to instill a love of learning - and that they are open to embracing the unknowns of classroom life, the demands of loving other people's children, the challenges of balancing dedication to teaching with necessary self-care.

I don't think I failed, but I am exhausted and ready to move on.
Here's to a new calling.

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. 

reflection

Having lived almost a half century now (THAT'S FUN TO SAY), I'm a little surprised at how many things I'm just coming to terms with. Letting prepositions land at the end of sentences is one thing, but here is another.

Dropping my husband off at the airport for a business trip will never really be fun.
First of all, a shocking number of people wonder why I 'even bother' and whenever they express this I consider why I do it. Obviously (I hope? I guess the Potential 2nd Husbands list seems a little suspect to some...), I like my husband and want to spend as much time with him as possible [except during football season, because a) he would rather be in the garage and b) he doesn't fully appreciate how passionate I am about my team. I digress]. But I sometimes wonder if I insist on taking him because of a subconscious concern about our relationship; I have strongly identified with When Harry Met Sally... since its release - am I worried that not taking him to the airport will say something about us?

Anyway.

Every time I do it, I focus on the fact that PDX has great shops (Powell's!) and a beloved Coffee People so after he leaves I can get fun gifts and books and sit with a delicious non-Starbucks latte in blissful peace. But really what I do each time is have a pastry with my man, staring & talking about anything inane until 15 minutes before his boarding time, not-awkwardly walk parallel to him as far as I can while he goes through security, try not to cry or take 100 weird blurry photos, then wander through the stores feeling melancholy and spending far more money than I should even at Christmastime. "Coming to terms" with this so far simply means admitting to myself that I am sad when he leaves, no matter how many clever things I buy, and avoiding looking directly at any other people dropping off or picking up loved ones; airports are drowning in tears and I am not yet old enough to fully immerse myself in the poetry of this.

Maybe when I hit that century mark.

lucky? or, in the presence of decent humans

This morning I stood next to my 14-year old daughter in the kitchen. She blithely dismantled a pomegranate while I read the Rolling Stone article about campus rape. Every few paragraphs I reached out to stroke her back and hair, grounding her here in her footie pajamas and innocent teen girl bedhead. I wondered if my own mother ever worried like this about what might happen to me at college; we never talked about boys, really, much less what kinds of situations I could find myself in with them. I considered what kind of conversations I should have with my daughter now.

Of course there is the "Avoid ____________________" [fill in the blank with sketchy scenarios like Frat Parties, Secluded Areas, or Anyplace After Dark] mantra repeated to girls whenever they are sent out into the world. This seems like common sense for an intelligent person, which my daughter has shown herself to be. But I was (am) an intelligent person, and I found myself in these scenarios during my years at Washington State University. Often. Even (especially) when drunk and sometimes (frequently) alone. And I was never sexually assaulted. According to the statistics, 1 in 5 women will be at some point in their lives and according to some points of view, it is more likely to happen when a woman places herself in those sketchy scenarios that most with so-called common sense avoid.

So what kind of an example can I provide? Was I just a lucky idiot?

Maybe yes - because I should take responsibility for my actions, and if I were to fall off of a cliff because I stepped too close to the edge, no one would blame the rocks for slipping out from under me.

But more emphatically no - because rocks are not sentient beings deciding to slide under my foolishly placed feet to teach me a lesson. People who deliberately take advantage of others - whether or not they walked into ill-advised situations - are jerks at best. At worst, they are never ending nightmares.

I specifically remember two encounters from my freshman year at WSU that I have shared with my daughter - and my son too because, according to those damned statistics again, he will likely find himself positioned to either participate in or stop an assault during his lifetime. During the telling I fully admit that I made poor choices - underage drinking, getting separated from friends, walking alone in the dark. But I also point out the people I remember who chose to help me instead of harming me.

At a fraternity party, I innocently followed a polite young man into the basement to see their house dog. There really was a dog in the basement, and I petted his sweet head for at least 10 minutes of meandering small talk before realizing Polite Young Man had slowly moved his face to within an inch of mine. When I turned toward him, this boy I'd known for about 20 minutes, I immediately felt sick and told him so. Polite Young Man backed off and escorted me to the bathroom.

At another party, I could not find my friends after a couple hours of drinking and was being followed around by a mammoth guy, who was undeterred when I explained my type was a more wiry, funny nerd. I finally ditched him and wandered through a surprisingly dark number of blocks before stumbling into the parking lot by my dorm. I realized then that I had no key and no way to contact my roommate. As I considered my very bleak options, I realized someone I knew was listening to Paul Simon in his car nearby. I knocked on his window and waved; he was an upperclassman from the men's dorm next to mine. He waved, turned down the radio, reached across to open the passenger door for me. I told him my situation and he said he would let me stay in his room for the night. We listened to the rest of the songs on the tape before Nice Guy led me to his room, put out a blanket and pillow on his bed, then woke up his neighbor so he could sleep there and give me privacy. "Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard" always reminds me of Nice Guy and that safe feeling I had after making a series of stupid decisions one night.

We can shake our heads now, almost 30 years later, at my naïveté or what my kids perceive as my inherent "confident/scary" demeanor but the simple fact of the matter is this : in those scenarios, the men around me decided to behave like decent people. Of course they had hormonal desires, most certainly they considered at least for a moment what they could do to me for their own gratification. But they also overrode those desires and chose to see me as a fellow human who needed help, and they understood that meant more than satisfying urges.

I don't like thinking of myself as "lucky" to have avoided sexual assaults in college. Saying I was "lucky" promotes the idea that most men simply cannot control themselves in the presence of a vulnerable woman. Or it might tempt people to believe the men in my situations were gay, excusing them from the overwhelming impulses of heterosexual males. This is all nonsense - just like discussing what a person is wearing when attacked. Luck should have nothing to do with it.

I hope I am teaching my children to be smart in the world, to make safe choices. But we all make foolish decisions, for a variety of reasons, and nothing should excuse us from decent behavior toward each other. Otherwise we are all just as dumb as rocks.

it's only kind of funny

I watched the movie version of It's Kind of A Funny Story a few years ago and loved it - the characters seemed real & relatable, and it felt hopeful in a not-treacly After-school Special way. I wanted to get the novel then, and especially after a student - who had experienced a startling variety of mental health issues in the few years I'd known him - mentioned it was his favorite book. I finally remembered to look for it a couple of months ago while shopping at Powell's in Portland; as I browsed and tried to remember every title I wanted in the history of publishing, this cover caught my eye, a stack of copies facing outward on the shelf. I vaguely registered the Staff Recommendation card tucked under the stack but as I stepped away, pleased with myself and considering how soon I could start reading, I noticed this written on the bottom of the recommendation card: "RIP Ned" 

Wait, what?

I knew the story was semi-autobiographical but it had ended well; Ned survived adolescence and a troubled young adulthood. I set the book in my basket and shakily Googled Ned Vizzini on my phone. My stomach lurched as I tried not to see the ugly words: "dead at 32"  "blunt force trauma"  "suicide."  I wanted to not read entire sentences, as if that would make the facts untrue, as if I could bring him back by sheer force of willful disassociation.

It took me a few weeks to start reading this book. I was angry at the author - for taking his own life, for doing so in a particularly brutal manner, for leaving his parents and wife and child with questioning despair, for abandoning fans - I felt he had betrayed people like my former student who were inspired to stay alive by his once-positive outlook. I didn't want to read about his journey to a happy ending knowing the real ending was actually so awful.

But, I wanted to revisit those characters who had captivated me in the movie version. I also thought reading about his experiences, even fictionalized, would help me understand him better. And, I guess, if this makes any sense, forgive him. I know, intellectually, that mental illness is terribly complicated. I know it takes over all rational thought with cruel resolve, that even when people are conscious of their mental illness they still feel powerless over its demands. Emotionally, though, I just want people to keep fighting. I want them to fight and fight and fight until they win. I want them to believe that I will help them fight. I, selfishly, want them to just keep living.

I read it. I loved it even more than the movie, which was itself satisfying with a soul-stunningly joyful additional scene of patients singing 'Under Pressure' together. It took me longer to finish than most books because I kept setting it aside, postponing the end of my only connection to its author.

Every word felt authentic - because essentially, it was - and that anguished but hopeful teen boy voice haunts me. I want everyone's children to read it (especially sons), to see how other kids their age have the same overwhelming, terrifying, hopeless feelings they have; I want them to know how others deal with those thoughts, how they laugh at them, and how they find ways to live through them.

Yet.

Some people don't, no matter how much we wish they would.
No matter how much they wish they could.

Do, please, RIP Ned.

sad mad sad

This may come as a surprise to anyone who has never read or met me before, but I have a pretty active fantasy life in which I pretend to not only know celebrities but consider them friends and/or potential future spouses. Having such an [imaginary] intimate connection can make their unfortunate choices or untimely demises especially difficult for me; after I feel the basic human empathy, I start to experience weirdly personal reactions, as if their actions reflect on me somehow. Like they were rejecting my [unknown] allegiance, snubbing my telepathic attempts to offer them loving devotion.

I remember feeling this way about James Dean when I discovered him in college - I developed an odd adoration that was tinged with a melancholy annoyance at his early death three decades earlier. Every time I read about him or watched a movie, I wondered why no one could keep him from acting so reckless and dying so young. Repeat 20 years later with Heath Ledger, and every time I teach Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton, and today with Philip Seymour Hoffman.

Of course these feelings do not only apply to celebrities but they are spotlighted and magnified by them - my first thought is often WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE THAT F*CKING HARD ABOUT YOUR LIFE? I compare their supposedly blissful swag-filled LA mansion/Manhattan flat lives to my mundanely satisfactory thrift store-filled suburban neighborhood life and imagine them chuckling at our blandness. But one minute later I think of how irritating it would feel to know someone is always waiting to snap a picture as I wave my kids to school or grab personal hygiene items at the store. To know that all of their very human fears and anxieties will be dismissed because they are presumed to have reached a state of superhuman perfection due to their fame + fortune. When people think you're amazing, you let them down when you are a mere mortal - unless you look sweaty after the gym or buy lattes at Starbucks Just Like Us, because THAT'S FUN! Otherwise, don't let your issues cloud our shining vision of you.

I am sad when people die. Period. I am especially sad about the death of people who have shown so much promise in their given area because I selfishly want more of what they were bringing - performances, writings, general good will in the world. When their deaths seem preventable, I feel mad. Why not seek help? Why hurt your family with this final act replaying in their minds? Why leave everyone asking, helplessly, why? And then I'm back to sad.

living in fear

For the last 22 hours, I have had a hard time enjoying the moments. A thought keeps poking at my brain: I want to live somewhere else. Like, a different country. Or planet. My 14-year old son says this regularly in his indignant teenage angst, and I remember that feeling. I listened to Cronkite, snuck notorious books from the library, and subscribed to Rolling Stone so I became well informed about Charles Manson's family and the Jonestown massacre, about apartheid and Stephen Biko, about energy crises and hostage situations. It seemed like everything I read or heard indicated a doomed future world. I felt so helpless being able to only fume over the nightly news, join Amnesty International, commiserate with The Smiths.

Then I got older, did a little bit of letter-writing & fist-waving in college, spoke out in PTA & at school board meetings, then settled into adulthood and considered myself Doing My Best by teaching open-mindedness, critical thinking, and questioning to teenagers and being properly outraged on social media regarding timely topics. This is the approach I've encouraged with my children, after acknowledging that things seem bleak but pointing out that there is always hope.

This week has tested my silver linings outlook.

I will not now get into the arguments people have about marriage and sexuality and abortion and guns and self-defense and race but just say this: I want so much for the citizens of my country to just have a heart for each other. To simply say "Hello" before any other words. To ask questions when we're confused, or suspicious. Or maybe even just walk the other direction if we feel we cannot have a rationale discussion.

Live and let live.

Because if we can't do these things, I'm afraid to stay here much longer.

truths

Because there are no other good words right now...I want us to do as many loving, kind things as we can think of in the next few days. Then do some more, for a few more days. Then start over. Again, and again. Please.

**********

The World is Too Much With Us by William Wordsworth, c. 1802 

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

heroism

Every year, our Advocacy classes spend four days before winter break putting together creative & thoughtful & school-appropriate recycled art masterpieces on a particular theme to display for community members and district office workers to admire. This activity serves to keep our students' minds off the excitement (or unfortunate dread) of the impending holidays, give us all a sense of frantic camaraderie, and remind people outside our building, and some inside, how brilliant kids can be.

This year we decided on the theme of Famous Renegades, making sure whomever we chose represented our school motto: Be Kind, Be Proud, Be Fearless. Each class came up with a different idea - ours was Robin Hood, other classes went with classic historical figures (Sir Isaac Newton, Gandhi) and modern leaders (Steve Jobs, Mandela), one group crafted a bust of a vibrant classmate while another made a mobile characterizing our principal, who has led our school since developing it a decade ago. As always, we marveled at the clever divergences that serve to highlight our collective ingeniousness.

By lunchtime we had all heard the horrifying news of the elementary school shooting. There are no words to make sense of such actions; we quietly, gently went on.

At the end of the day, our principal forwarded this message from the deputy superintendant:

Mrs. Holmes,

I learned about the shooting this morning in Connecticut and was really struggling to make sense of this world. When I walked from my office to Hayes, I couldn't stop thinking about the heartache in that community. As I started to look at the art created in Hayes my spirit was rejuvenated by the community demonstrated in each of the advisory presentations. Each one was unique and captured the idea of heroism perfectly. I loved that they recognized heroes on a global level and also heroes within the walls of Hayes. Thanks to you and your staff for creating a community of hope and learning at Hayes.
Sincerely,
Jeff


If only we could spread this across the country.

just us

I was born a middle-class white child.

As a girl growing up in the 1970s, I was lucky to have had a generation of pants-wearing, bra-burning, whistle-blowing, union organizing women pave the ERA way for me & my sparkling red banana-seated bike.

As a teen in the 80s, I was placed in advanced math and never made to set foot in Home Ec. I was encouraged in my bid for ASB VP and weird desire to run track. No doors closed in my face when I applied to colleges and jobs and volunteer positions.

I cannot remember a time when I missed a meal, couldn't replace worn shoes or jeans, opened no presents on a birthday, wasn't able to pay a school fee. My parents gave each other the silent treatment now and then but no one ended up with bruises or scars, physical or mental. We went to Texas every summer, stopping all over the nation to visit tourist attractions & amusement parks.

And since falling in love with 6th grader Jimmy Hendricks (swear) on my bus when I was six, I have never questioned my sexuality nor the guarantee that I could legally marry any of the subsequent boys/men on my Potential Husband list.

In short, I have no real idea what it means to be a minority. To be discriminated against. To be degraded or discounted as a valuable member of society. As a teacher (and reasonably sensitive person), I wince when I notice these things happening to students and their families; I am dedicated to resolving these situations but ultimately feel overwhelmed because it is unbelievably rampant. I feel naive saying it's unbelievable, and disgusted that it is rampant.

I spent yesterday at the Teaching for Social Justice conference in Portland, hoping to find a useful balance between misplaced raging against relatively small machines and real sensitivity to differences & acting on injusitices. The conference has been hit & miss the last few years; one year I took home a lot of helpful tips but the next I was glared at for mentioning that stereotypes come from legitimate observation and are sometimes accurate descriptions (specifically "scream like a girl").

This time, I learned more about effective strategies & programs for my students. But more importantly, I learned to remind myself of where I come from and understand how that shadows any conversations I have with kids. I saw how I tend to project my own experiences as a How To [DO ANYTHING YOU WANT]. I know I do this with positive Pollyannaish intentions - Yes You Can! - but I see how it cannot possibly resonate when students see a wealthy, white, educated, well-dressed, happily married homeowning woman who has never known real hunger or want or cold or terror. No matter how often I tell them about my college hardships and that most of my wardrobe is from clearance racks & Goodwill and that I'm lucky to have an engineer husband + lots of bargains to afford vacations, the fact remains that my whiteness, social status, and even sexual identity give me a free pass in this world. I don't believe I need to feel guilty or ashamed about these advantages but I do need to acknowledge them, and not overlook their absence for many of our students.

In the midst of a workshop, I remembered a conversation I had this week with a student after school. He was telling me about his life as part of a gang in his former town and how he was so glad to be with us now, then he mentioned how he's still in touch with a friend who wishes he could get out. I stupidly asked, "Why doesn't he just stop, or leave?" I knew the instant my mouth opened that this was the most ignorant privileged-white-person thing to say yet I couldn't stop it; as soon as it was in the air between us, this sweet boy graciously did not laugh in my face but he did smile before telling me that was not possible. I said, "But you did it!" He told me he was lucky his mom wanted to move and had a place to go, but he is still afraid of that gang because even from hundreds of miles away, they could still decide to 'get him' for 'acting white.' I wanted to cry - for this boy, his friends, all of the kids out there like them, and our world when it misses out on the potential words & music & dancing & inventions & cures & joy & genius they could leave for us, if we could only provide the social justice, and future, they deserve.

I still want to cry, but more than that I want to rage. And act. Please help - seek brilliance, practice equity, recognize intolerance and crush it with ferocity.

the humanity

I, like everyone with a heart & soul, am horrified by Friday's shootings at the Aurora, Colorado theater. Loss of life is always sad but losses due to violence are particularly troubling; I have a measure of expectation that people will be killed by accidents or diseases or old age, but these kinds of seemingly preventable deaths shake my faith. Not my faith in God but my hope that people will always choose goodness over wickedness. And I am not talking about the gunman - I strongly believe he is afflicated with mental illness and that often leaves people without a true sense of personal choice. I am instead considering those who, in their grief and horror and confusion, are directing hate & violent wishes toward this man.

I thoroughly understand wanting someone to 'pay' for pain that they cause others. It is natural for people to feel this way - if we didn't have powerfully emotional reactions like this, we would not be human. We tend to find satisfaction in witnessing an eye for an eye. But my belief in a loving merciful God and remembering that the one who perpetrated this violence is still a human being makes me set this aside. Make no mistake - I do feel terrifically angry about the senselessness of his actions, about all of those who simply wanted entertainment that night and whose lives are now either ended or significantly altered. My heart breaks for them and their families, but it also breaks for the person the gunman was before he made this fateful decision. For the people who know him and are now doubly traumatized being profoundly sad for the victims yet bereft of their friend & loved one, feeling utterly betrayed and somehow guilty for what happened.

It is a difficult thing to see a nightmarish situation like this one from the other side because we identify most with the victims; we think we are more like them than the criminal. Yet all of us have been faced many times with the choice between reacting the way we feel like and doing what we morally should. Everyone has said I could kill him! in a fit of anger; of course no one means it literally. Until something like this happens.

I do not advocate allowing anyone to escape reasonable punishment for crimes committed. Evil behavior is not excused by mental illness; people must be held accountable by our justice system for their actions. But as a civilized & just society I hope we can find compassion in our hearts for all affected by violence, including those causing it. It is tremendously difficult, like most important things are, yet so worth it.

I am not so naive as to believe simply feeling more loving or showing kindness toward the ill or wicked will prevent all tragedies like this one. I do, however, believe that if we allow ourselves to hatefully dismiss those committing these crimes we will never have peace.

We're only human, for better or worse.

everything makes me cry

Neglecting my blog
Trying to keep up with my blog
Going to the gym
Not going to the gym
A perfect martini
A terrible martini
Believing I am entering menopause 
Being told I am not
People losing their homes
Other people helping those who lose their homes
Going back to school in 8 short weeks
The idea of not having a classroom to go back to
Students who tell me I've helped them
Students too damaged to accept help
Students who are apparently just a**holes
Las Vegas
Anyone singing Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah
Watching my kids grow up
The possibility of not watching my kids grow up
Remembering
Forgetting
Walking through the gates of Disneyland
Really good chocolate
Nora Ephron's writing 
Me not coming remotely close to Nora Ephron's writing
Nora Ephron not writing anymore
Thankfulness

fool hearted

Cleaning instead of crying
Dusting every surface including those no one sees unless they're moving out
Scrubbing sinks and cursing at toilet bowls
Instead of sobbing
Over the loss of children I didn't birth
haven't known more than a handful of years
children who've never lived in my home or even seen
My house
Children who are no longer children, really.

Why
invite people into your
roomlifeworldmindheart
Only to send them away
Without you?

Because
someone might come alive out there
someone might send a note
someone might come back
Someday

And because
my house will get cleaner
Every June

challenged

Two of our students chose to bring Challenge Day to our school as their Senior Project. If you're not familiar with the project, it is a way to build community amongst teens and the adults in their lives - to bring people together by talking about experiences and sharing understanding. Trained individuals run the event during which strong issues & emotions are often revealed. It is supposed to be powerful & moving.

I love my job and this school. I love my students; I look forward to talking with them and getting to know them. I even enjoy seeing them outside of the classroom.
I would rather not, however, break down and cry around them. So while I was being the encouraging educator and supporting our Seniors, I was feeling increasingly concerned about how I personally might handle the day.

A lot of students, who clearly know me better than I like to admit, teased me beforehand about potentially being made to actually cry (I have, sadly, been asked a few times if I EVER cry; apparently I am *that* steely-looking). I gave them my best eyebrow raise, resisted punching them, and said I would try getting all my sobs out privately the night before so nobody would have to be subjected to it at Challenge Day. In reality, I took lots of deep breaths and kept a reserve of non-sad thoughts on tap (memories of boring teachers, irritating ex-boyfriends, times I got speeding tickets, etc).

The best moment of the morning came when a facilitator gaily mentioned that it is good for people's health to give at least 12 hugs every day. AT LEAST 12. I could not hide my mixed feelings of incredulity & horror at this thought and when I looked left, one of my Seniors was giggling at me; he popped over to hug me during the next session.

My first share was to explain that I frequently feel guilty about having had no major problems in my life - I have never been beaten, told I'm stupid, or kicked out of my home; I have no addictions nor does anyone I've lived with; nobody I've been extremely close to has died suddenly or violently; I've not gone hungry, been homeless, or truly feared for my life. I do not want any of this to happen to me but the more I work with kids who have dealt with these things before their 18th birthday, the more I wish I could just take that piece on for them. It is not that I don't believe these kids can handle what they've been through, that they can't survive - they have, so far. But so many struggle with traumas they just should not have to.

We did an activity called "Cross the Line" in which the facilitator announced various ordeals people face and those who had experienced them walked across a line then turned toward the rest of the group. The last call was for people to cross if they had ever been a child. The number of my students who stayed behind broke my heart. Keeps on breaking my heart.

In the end, the event was fine. Better than fine - magical. People talked about real thoughts & feelings; everyone followed directions, participated, opened up, listened. Kids hoped for the closeness to continue; one asked that we move the lunchroom tables at our school together so everyone can sit closer, like a family.

I cried, for the things these kids have been through and are still facing, and for the things they've missed. About the possibility that my own children might someday endure similar trials. But I also felt relieved, because they can all now trust that there is someone near them to offer love & support, no matter what.

Plus I got - and gave - some really good hugs.

memory, loss

It's strange to me how we sometimes hold on to childhood memories as though they are absolute truths.

I reconnected with a classmate from 6th grade last year, and the first thing I thought of was how his desk was dumped nearly every week for being messy. That has been stuck in my mind for 30 years - the image of this shy kid sitting next to me with his desk crammed full of crumpled papers, resignedly waiting for our teacher to walk down the aisle and tip everything out; I was traumatized by this and certain he had been, too. Yet when I e-mailed John and relayed my story, he didn't recall any such travesty. In fact, he went on about how much he liked our 6th grade teacher because he was an outdoorsman and encouraged my classmate in running & hiking. Of course, I specifically did not like our 6th grade teacher for that reason (Run? Hike? I don't get it.) AND because he would humiliate (so I believed) kids for their lack of organizational skills. Not to mention he was so into nutrition that he called to chastise my mom when I said I had a Pop-Tart and orange juice for breakfast most mornings. The audacity, I'm sure.

Mr. Kloke died last month while rock climbing. My friend from 6th grade - the one who remembered that year far differently, and more fondly, than I did - had gotten in touch with him over the summer and encouraged me to do the same. But I couldn't shake those perceptions from my silly 11-year-old self and put it off, and now it's too late.

Clearly Mr. Kloke was not hurt by my ignorance - he passionately lived a full, adventurous life - but I am.

tilt

everything feels wrong.
our world
has tipped off its axis.
we push and pull in opposite directions,
forgetting we're on the same side.

what we thought was real
exploded
what we knew was real
disappeared
our guides have been taken away,
and it's hard to think
with our hearts torn out.

I would pull our world back
singlehandedly
but I'd rather do it
with you.

for the man I cherish,
on the occasion of my most recent mental breakdown

loss

one week of sadness

another student and my

father-in-law ~ gone

malevolence

Though I was once told by a so-called [self-appointed] Writing Expert that posting everyday is "Bullshit," I want to do it anyway. This is for yesterday; pretend you saw it then.

I entered midterm grades for my classes last night. Sometimes grading makes me feel grouchy - it can remind me of poorly designed and/or executed lessons, it can make me indignant about superbly designed and/or executed lessons that many students ignored or missed, it makes me want to tear my hair out about kids who choose to skip class [either physically or mentally] but mostly the grouchy comes from feeling sad & helpless about the kids who are at the mercy of their checked-out, hostile, and overall dysfunctional families. While I am a firmish believer that people can make their own choices and rise above nonsense in their lives, it is also clear that so many of our students - still children - have not been taught how to do that and when we try, it is scary and takes them a long time to get comfortable doing it. And once they get comfortable, someone might decide to sabotage those efforts.

When I enter grades - the failing ones and the succeeding ones - I am faced with the fact that too many parents just don't care about their children. The alert calls & e-mails are met with hostility toward me (Why can't I teach the kid? What do I expect them to do?), indifference, promises to punish, or silence. And when making the 'happy calls' letting them know how improved or plain brilliant their kids are, I'm crushed by those who are dubious and cynical and dismissive.

Nothing I do every day feels like bullshit, and I hate when someone tries to prove me wrong.

hopeful but helpless

Following my silly state of paralysis over nothing of substance, I am now finding myself in a constant state of Being Busy. Certainly I actually have tasks to complete, but Being Busy also keeps me from thinking too long and hard about difficult situations. Before last week I was Being Busy not worrying about the upcoming deadline for our [notveryfaralong] yearbook, an unstartedfinished online class, and renewing my teaching certificate on time. Then came Monday, with news of a student critically injured in a car accident over the weekend.

Even as my principal relayed the details I was already Being Busy, physically & mentally - furrowing my brow, clenching my jaw, nodding my head, asking about the student's brother who is in my freshman English class, and preparing what to say to that class later in the day. I could not let my mind linger over the facts that this boy is only 16; that he was alone in the wreckage for at least an hour before discovery; that no one knows what damage to his body is permanent.

A week later I have accomplished numerous little chores - sorting books in my classroom, planning a popcorn day for students, starting that online course, buying new underwear & socks for my kids, readying the house for my Oscar party. If I am not in motion or keeping my brain moving forward, I will collapse from the unbearable sadness for our boy.