Monday, December 13, 2010

Green Rusted Doors

-childhood story-

I wish I were invisible, so that he could not get me. He drives around in a green car, with rust covering the sides of the door, like a dirty child left uncared for.

I watch for Him.

He passes my street when the sun is high set in the sky, at the time of the day when it's too hot to run to the mailbox without sandals, black concrete on my driveway melts my feet like hot lava. When the driveway begins to melt like lava,

I look for Him.

I wish I were invisible. Now, I have to look & hide. Molly lives across the street. Her mom did it. This one real hot day when were doing the slip & slide she stomped across our yellow dying grass, ringing our doorbell three times in a row, but not by mistake. With that look in her eye, that mom worried look. She told my mom all about the man who drove around, she said he stopped up the street, asked Sandra to look at his kittens in the back of his car, but she said no and ran away. Her mother taught her not to talk to strangers. I used to be jealous of Molly's mom. they would bake cookies and do crafts, because she was the oldest, and her mom wasn't tired of kids yet. But now, my throat gets all tense like like I'm swallowing a golf ball when I see her. I am mad at her.

Now I look for Him.

Before the day she marched over to my house, I didn't know that HE was alive; I was just playing slip & slide but now...

Now,

I wish I were invinsible. The other night I heard channel 11 blaring from the TV, 9 (that's how I know dad is home from work). I crawled up right next to him and slipped under his warm arm. He smiled and gave me a cheese cracker w/a spot of mustard on top, his creation. Crumbs fell from my mouth all over the bed but he doesn't care.

"Dad?"
"Yes?" he muttered, his eyes fixed on the TV.
"I don't think I'm going to be around for my high school graduation."
Tears began swelling up in my eyes; I got that choked up feeling again in my throat. He looked at me suddenly and said:

 "Don't say such a thing! You & your thoughts. You worry too much!"
 I thought-See, I will be gone by then.

Some afternoons my girlfriends & I lay in a big field across from my house. We lay on our backs in the soft green grass, (not yellow like ours. Dad doesn't water it often). Our eyes skim the clouds. We imagine they are creatures crawling across the sky. We laugh. And sometimes for a moment, I forget about Him. Other times, though, I'll hear a car drive by, and if it's that time...I will sit UP real fast to see if it's the green car. Molly will look over at me, "You act strange sometimes," she says simply unblinking. I'll lie back down, imagine myself climbing on top of a cloud & floating away. I begin mapping out which clouds I will hop on to get to the biggest one in the sky, that one that will become my own sky island. But then, the dinner bells rings, & I see my mom smiling there on my front porch, with splattered flour speckled on her cheeks. She looks silly-I wave & run inside wondering what is for dessert.

Waiting

-a poem-

he waited for a bus that never came i told him sir the bus is not coming it stopped running five years ago but he didn't move his silver hair swept across the outline of his face his eyes held gray puddles staring wondering who took the color out i waited with him he spoke only a few words i am getting married today his fingers entwined melting into one mass a ring left unpolished sat on his finger she must be a lucky lady i replied he would not look at me he watched for the bus tip tapping his foot he glanced at his watch she smells like flour&redwine he replied after what felt like 103minutesofnothingness would he wait forever for a bus that would not come i nodded and said nothing there we sat sharing fireflies&silence it was delicious i became full ohimustgo i mumbled tripping quickly over my tongue he nodded turning slightly to smile a youreafoolishyounggirl smile i sat with him every night for three months we named fireflies august 4th i ran to the bench with my apron in my hand standing there on the corner waiting impatiently for traffice to clear i memorized his wrinkles&creases sculpted under his cheeks my lost job&apartment evicted faded behind me as i began running across the intersection for him my anchor he had become saltwettears flooded painting my face silk my hand swept shattering its grace my head lifted to see it

a bus pulled up at the stop he pressed his face against dirt streaked windows

and waved

Sunday, December 12, 2010

The First Snow

When I see the first snow of the season, I think of Taylor Mali's poem, "Undivided Attention." I am reminded of the shear amazement children have for the world's small miracles & quickly I am humbled by my existence. Each year, at this time, I watch the snow fall outside my Chicago bedroom window & think about how I too, should be filled by this wonderment. When I wake up & set forth to teach my class of 9 year olds, I keep this inside my mind.

Undivided attention
By Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com
A grand piano wrapped in quilted pads by movers,
tied up with canvas straps - like classical music's
birthday gift to the insane -
is gently nudged without its legs
out an eighth-floor window on 62nd street.
It dangles in April air from the neck of the movers' crane,
Chopin-shiny black lacquer squares
and dirty white crisscross patterns hanging like the second-to-last
note of a concerto played on the edge of the seat,
the edge of tears, the edge of eight stories up going over, and
I'm trying to teach math in the building across the street.
Who can teach when there are such lessons to be learned?
All the greatest common factors are delivered by
long-necked cranes and flatbed trucks
or come through everything, even air.
Like snow.
See, snow falls for the first time every year, and every year
my students rush to the window
as if snow were more interesting than math,
which, of course, it is.
So please.
Let me teach like a Steinway,
spinning slowly in April air,
so almost-falling, so hinderingly
dangling from the neck of the movers' crane.
So on the edge of losing everything.
Let me teach like the first snow, falling.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Our Shadows

A short story from Junior year in college (2003-2004)

I told my roommate, my freshman year, that I didn’t want to lose my faith in college. Some days I’ll think of that. I went running on campus this one night. That’s when I get to thinking about things I tell people. I get to thinking about myself and its odd. I start falling into this hole as I run trying to make sense of my being: past, present, and who I want to become, simultaneously. I was thinking about college, and myself. It was one of those nights.

Its dark out & cold, fall is here and the leaves stick to my feet as I run. My thighs are pink from the air & my hair is slopping all around my head as I go. I like to watch my shadow on the sidewalk when I run at night. I’ll look at my arms aligned carefully right above my hip bones, my back straight and steady. It’s mysterious and inviting to watch. So here I'm going along & thinking about God- but not too hard. If you think about things systematically they won’t invade you so fast. It’s a hard job to think of something so carefully. That phrase I said two years ago keeps doing jumping jacks in my head. It’s frustrating, because I’m already getting consumed by it all. College moments flash in my head, flickering and numerous. So many since freshman year. So much distance from that sentiment-I think as I run.

Right as my stream of consciousness begins to run endlessly, I run down this little hill on a narrow sidewalk. Suddenly there is this old man with a small round belly & white hair walking up the hill. He doesn’t even notice me, I run past him and then stop, because I hear something. He’s either crazy or he said something to me. I literally freeze and turn around. He is pumping his arms up the little hill with his red plaid button up shirt on, slacks and pearl white sneakers. He has over sized headphones on, and a walk-man in one hand, and he’s belting out lyrics. I can’t even tell you what he was singing. Something gospel. The little old man is bellowing out this song like there is nobody around him with this half smile on his face. He just keeps trucking up the sidewalk, swinging his arms, letting his voice meet the melodies without missing a beat. I laugh then, because he is the most beautiful thing I have seen in a long time. The leaves on the trees sit above-vibrant and changing. I know then I can’t tell anyone about this moment, because they wont get it. I turn back & run in the opposite direction. His phrase in my head slips quietly into the cracks in sidewalk behind me.

Monday, November 29, 2010

I Need A Hug-A Teaching Story

May 16, 2006

I have this little boy in my class. He’s nine years old. He has deep dark skin and a
huge white smile. It takes up half his face. He is pencil thin and I can fit my thumb and
forefinger around his wrist. I think he’ll get a baseball scholarship for college. At least I
tell him that every day. He says-OK I can do that.

He’s a smart kid but when he gets upset he regresses into this hurricane. I’ll be in the middle of teaching a math lesson and he’ll be acting up. The boy says he has a demon inside him that comes out after lunch. I told him to tell the demon to go take a nap.

Anyway, sometimes this side comes out and I have to scold the boy. I’ll take his recess or say that I’m going to call the security guard (that's our form of a social worker in the inner city).

I’m trying to teach him to walk away. It’s a hard thing to teach kids who live in the inner
city. How can you walk away? If you do, you may end up beat up or dead? So when he gets upset
he’ll pick up a chair and at times throw it on the floor. Or the boy will slam open the classroom
door and throw himself down on the hallway floor and cry. The tears stream out of those
little brown eyes like there is a hidden well inside him waiting to find its way out.

It worries me seeing him cry like that. That smile is so big and to see those kinds of tears,
well it’s a strange contradictory of sorts.

Today he comes up to me and lays his body on the desk.

–Get off the desk, I tell him. –Go do your work.

He likes to be dramatic. I think the boy believes he’s on stage half of his life or something. There is an audience and he likes to entertain.

It’s the end of the school year & I’m getting tired of telling my students to go do their
work. It gets really old, especially when you can’t help but think how nice it is outside.
So I’m a little more irritable than usual.

–I’m not kidding. Go do you work. You’re driving me nuts.

I'm a first year teacher and learning how to communicate with children effectively.

He sits up, -Give me a snack MS. O, please give me one!-looking at me & blinking his long eyelash eyes.

-I don’t have snack today.

Most days I bring the kids snacks. We pass them out sometime between the first bell and lunch. They don’t get enough breakfast & it’s a quick remedy to get them motivated.

He takes his worksheet and starts shredding it. I'm not amused, instead feeling exhausted. Nothing
phases me anymore. He takes the corner of the paper and rolls it into little balls and sticks
them in his mouth and begins chewing.

–What are you doing, I ask.

I am blank and unblinking.

–I’m eating paper, he says.

I’m at my wits end and feeling much older than 22 at that moment, but he looks so tired sitting there popping those little balls of paper in his mouth. So I ask him when he last ate.

-Yesterday at lunch he, he says.
-What about dinner? I say.
-We don’t have any dinner for awhile, he says chomping close to my face.
-Mom lost her wallet. Somebody took it and she got her money in it. So we only have
fifteen bucks til pay day.

He looks at me then like I’m a kid and he’s trying to teach me something.
-Payday aint til next Friday Ms. O.

I say to him, -Well you have to have something in your fridge. Tell me exactly what you
have in your fridge and we’ll think up something you can make.

-There’s nothing. Really I gots nothing in the fridge.
He chews his paper wads slowly. The boy is very matter or fact about it all. It’s like
somebody telling me about a friend they knew who got their house caught on fire.
Tragic yet forward. It is what it is. Kind of thing.

-But don’t worry, he states- the other night I told my mom I’m taking out the garbage and I walked
down to CVS to meet my uncle. He gave me twenty bucks. I bought her a wallet. It was a dollar so I
had fifteen left.

He stops and he’s thinking -Wait no the wallet was five and so I had fifteen left..yeah…that’s right.
The boy smiles that big white smile at me then; I laugh.

-So I take that extra change & I put it in the wallet and I gives it to my mom. I give it to her on Mothers Day.


-I smile big at him and pat his head.

-I’m proud of you. I say it a few more times because this is how you have to be with these
kids. You have to say get to work ten times, but you have to say I’m proud of you twenty
more because its even harder for them to get that.

-What did she say when you gave her that, I ask.

-She says, thanks and she was happy and then she said, ' I can’t worry about always
feeding you, first I have to make sure I feed me and this baby.'

He pats his belly like so. His mom has one inside her. I don’t ask about the dad. There is no need
to.

–Yeah she does need to make sure that baby grows huh, I reply.

He nods then and smiles. He gets it- this kid. I find that teaching has humbled me.
How I admire a child of a mere nine years.

Sometimes he comes up to me and gives me a hug in the middle of my lesson.

I'm about to tell him he should sit down & keep his hands to himself in a polite teachery way.

But he hugs me so tight, right there in the middle of teaching, subtraction with regrouping, that I just let him hold onto me for a moment. Then he goes back to his desk and does his math problems.

Once in awhile I ask the boy, -Why do you hug me so much?

Because, he states with eyes deep as canyons, - I need a hug.

I nod, then.
Don’t we all.

Boys-Without Last Names

2002-2003 Short Story

When I use to be an RA I would sit up at the big front desk and watch the
freshman girls go out to the bars. They had on those hip hugger jeans that were so tight
that their love handles spilled out ungracefully over the side. They would walk out with
their girlfriends laughing- while applying watermelon lip-gloss with one hand; the other
tightly gripping their cell phone, waiting for that boy I’m sure to call. And the sad thing is
he probably would, and worse yet, she would regret him calling the next day, but instead
would laugh about it in her girlfriends dorm room next store. It’s easier that way.

So I would laugh as I watched them go, because they didn’t even realize how they looked to
the rest of us, who had more college soaked into our skin and the aftermaths of drunken
nights in our memories. But sometimes I think now they did know, at least partly, and
they just didn’t care. I have to give a person credit for that. There are only certain parts of
your life you can come so close to being that carefree even if alcohol and drugs are the
ticket to get there.

My shifts were long enough that I would get to see the girls come back
at the end of the night. At this point I had read the same magazine twelve times and caved
in and ordered pizza-with pepperoni- with the other RA. The girl would come swaying in
like a delicate kite on a spring day that gets stuck in a tree, its fringes swaying ripped and
torn in the branches too high to reach. She would wobble in with a boy on her side, his
arm wrapped around her waist firmly, keeping her afloat. The boys, or guys if you dare,
they were all the same, button up Abercrombie shirt, dark jeans, and strong cologne. Her
mascara caked under her eyelids like a sad raccoon and I thought about how carefully just
a few hours before she applied it. Her face pressed soveryclosely to the mirror blinking
quietly as her fingers probed her eyelashes thickly with Cover Girl. But the boy didn’t
care what she looked like really. And the thing is whether she was too buzzed to care that
her hair was frizzed falling flapping all over her head & her face looked like a
watercolor left out in the rain, didn’t matter. Because all that mattered is that there was a
warm arm around her. Dark sheets don’t see imperfections. She’d trip going up the three
small steps on her way to the elevator.

I would sit there and watch girl after girl come in with the boy, without last names. As he touched every inch of her body with tainted hands and hallow eyes, she foregoes herself.

Flying the 'Friendly' Skies: 101

Recently CJ & I flew to Philly for a wedding. It was Sunday night-the gloom of Monday morning lurked ahead. We go through security relatively easily-searching for lines with speedy airport travelers. You know-the business type, the ones who wear slip on shoes & minimal accessories.

Naturally we are early-because God forbid 'cut it close'- courtesy of my well meaning husband. The thing about getting to the airport early is-you end up buying airport crap-to entertain yourself on your 800 mile journey home. I finished my novel & refuse to do work while on vacation. Instead, I find myself in one of the little shops. I grab a US weekly & Time Magazine. Toss in a NY Times, a bag of gummy worms and a Coke Zero. I'm set-I think handing the airport clerk $13.

Then it happens-oh and you know exactly what I'm about to say. Yep-that. United announces we are delayed. 90 minutes-2 hours-they say. Then they mumble something about Chicago being cloudy & backed up. To this day I've never understood a delay. We check the weather on my Blackberry-its mild weather in Chicago. Isn't that the thrill of flying? A delay or a nice 5 minute pat down through security? Isn't it worth it-for a little piece of adventure?

Two hours go by-gummy bear bag empty, magazines read, Facebook statuses checked 3 times.
Finally-they say we can get on the plane. I think about how relieved I am-and the Venti Starbucks I will need in the A.M.

Then it happens. The stranger who doesn't know airport protocol 101 arrives. Right as we are about to board, this older mom, her husband and 20 yr old daughter step up with their boarding passes. This is the thing. The mom has three bags-one is particularly monstrous.

The carry on size can be a bit tricky. Is it too big-could I risk not checking my bag and get this thing on the plane? I know what goes through your head-I've done it too. But THIS bag-she looked like she was ready to go to Europe for the summer. I mean-really?! She has two over sized purses as well. The lady taking the boarding passes tells the stranger mom that she can't take this many bags on the plane. She says it politely, and I appreciate people then-the ones that try to be tactful about their jobs.

The mom is abrupt & defensive. She says her daughter will take one of the bags and off she goes. The attendant lets her go-but I know its not over yet.

The mom gets down to board onto the plane when the flight attendant, who seems to be Head Bee, stops her. She explains to the woman, in a frank tone, that the flight is packed. Her bag is too big, she will need to check it (no charge).

The mother freaks out and begins screaming. My bag is NOT too big-she hisses.
Half the plane stands behind her, bugged eyed & in utter silence- waiting to see what will happen next. The daughter gets irritated finally-because she knows her mother has crossed the line.

The flight attendant blocks the front door-all 115 pounds of her-and says -Ma'm. Please set your bags (all three!) aside THERE (then she points with her forefinger) -You can pick it up in Chicago. Please cooperate!

There's already a pile building up over there, where the woman pointed, and I know right then I'm going to be in a middle seat crunched on this plane-the whole way home.

Now we're mad-the plane community and myself-at this mother, because she's crossed the line. Everyone is thinking about how crammed the flight is & the hours of sleep we are loosing tonight. I can tell by the way the plane community are poking at their cell phones angrily & shifting weight back and forth-waiting in line behind this woman.

The mom shakes her head side to side-like a child in Pre-K. Everyone has their territory in life-and we all know better than to irritate a flight attendant like that. Yep-that did it.

The flight attendant storms off the plane informing the mother she isn't getting on this plane! We finally take our seats-as the woman and flight attendant battle it out with her manager. Who do we sit behind? -the husband-who is reading a golf magazine-with no knowledge what is going on outside the plane. A passenger whispers to him &  he reluctantly gets up to see about his wife. I feel bad for the man then-because it seems as if life's day to day protocols are not one of his wife's stronger suits.

20 minutes later the mother and daughter get on the  plane. The plane and I don't even give a damn-because we just want to get home to Chicago. And that's the thing-airports are full of ridiculous rules & inconveniences. Yet- we all have to do our part. Pack lightly-or for God's sake-check the bag. In the end-we are all just trying to get to our destination-one US Weekly or Snickers Bar at a time...

Monday, November 8, 2010

my husband & kites

When my husband was a kid, he used to hate flying kites. Most average 5 year olds marvel at new wonders of the world-such as kites, tin foil balloons, planes soaring up above-in clear blue skies.

But not him.

One summer, on vacation in Jersey, his mother bought him a kite at a beachfront shop. My husband is an only child. So naturally his mother looked forward to moments like these: Where she could teach him something new & he would be utterly fascinated-as most 5 year olds are in raw moments of life discovery.

Off they went, kite in hand, down to the beach. His mom kneels down, eye level, and explained what to do.

-Take the kite, CJ, she said, with an encouraging smile.

-Slowly begin to run down that way.

Then she pointed in the direction of the setting sun.

-As you run, let the string go until the kite climbs WAY up into the sky. When it reaches the top, you keep holding on and watch it fly!!

The boy shakes his head confused. Sighing gently, his mother takes the kite, and begins to run down the beach. He sits in the sand, a right angle, watching her go. The cookie monster kite climbs through the air until its floating above, waving hello down below.

She is grinning ear to ear and yelling at him, 10 yards away.

-SEE, she shouts. SEE how I did IT?!

I'm sure his mom is thinking that he will jump up, come running, and demand a turn.

But he didn't.

Instead CJ stands up, points his arm and forefinger in the direction of the kite and screeches:

-MA! Bring it back down! Please bring it down and out of the sky!

So she does. A few minutes later, his mom plops down next to him, kite and string jumbled together in her arms.

-Don't you want to fly the kite?-she asks exasperated.

He is again in the sand, making circles with his toe. Little does the boy know how hard & exhausting it is then, in moments like these, to be a mother.

-I don't want to fly the kite, he says.

-Because, pause (as little kids do)

-You or me might let go of the kite & it will fly away. Can't I just sit here and hold it? -He asks then.

She looks at her son then and gets it. So that's what they did. Sitting together, kite in his lap, watching the sun meet the ocean.

To this day my husband never learned to fly a kite properly. He was only five, but already afraid of loosing something that you can't get back again. And aren't we all?

Maybe one day, when we have kids, he'll take off running, down Myrtle Beach, letting the string & kite crawl up into the sky. He'll be out of breath, sprinting and hollerin', as our kid sits and watches. And as CJ shows him a new wonder of the world, my husband, too, may see-that many things we love-do in fact come back to us, after all.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

the first year: "driving the bus"

I taught in  Washington, D.C. during my first few years of teaching. My school was ranked the second poorest in D.C. Public Schools according to the Washington Post. It came with its challenges & the system in general was broken.

When I arrived to D.C., 22, with my diploma fresh in hand & my spirits high, I never imagined how touching, stressful, and exhausting my first year teaching would be. I was in a new city. My job was to educate children. I no longer was a college student. All at the same time. What a shock. To this day, I sympathize with all those twenty two year olds & the moment they will have-in which they realize life after college has begun & its a hiccup and growing pain, simultaneously. And although this feeling evolved into a new exciting phase of life, I spent many evenings, that first year, waiting for the 42 bus on the darkened corner of 16th and Upshur missing college & those now less familiar days of feeling normal (without.bags.under.my.eyes.).

Many of the teachers at my school were first years too & nobody was from D.C. We took refuge in one another. Many regards, these relationships, helped me grow and appreciate the sheer lovely moments I found within the chaos.

Each day, that first year, was this challenge-learning how to manage a classroom and meaningfully instruct a class of needy 9 year olds. I kept wondering when my mentor was going to come. I graduated from The University of Iowa and had high expectations about these kinds of things. It only made sense to me that a mentor would surface for a first year teacher like me.

I knew I was teaching in an urban school. Yet,  understanding this didn't change my feels of dismay. I was alarmed that there were no purposeful workshops for teachers. The materials were lacking for children. I had a bucket next to my rocking chair, where brown, murky water leaked from the ceiling steadily, all.day.long. My students needs weren't being met by the district. Weeks would go by, months and finally I was not dismayed anymore. I was mad. Where is my damn mentor! The district kept saying I'd get one. Soon the leaves changed, falling gradually until the trees outside my classroom window sat barren. As Christmas approached, the mild winter snow covered our school black top. Leaning back in my chair, feet resting on a pile of papers, my window cracked open, I listened to the shrieks & thrills of children at recess. Crunching on an apple, I sat there, waiting.

Finally March arrived. At this point, I knew I was going to make it. The sun had begun to emerge again. I had my routine down by now-in some form. I knew my students better than I knew myself. Their sighs, stomping feet, a surprised smile, the sagging stance of a child on a Monday morning, or the way they looked at me-squinting hard, lips pierced- when math grew confusing. I had tutored countless hours, visited their homes when phone calls were not returned. Wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry when my student brought me a Foot Locker gift card for the holidays. Later I found out she had snagged it when her mom was at check out-thinking that the card already had the $50 on it & stuffing it into her coat, because she was 8 and didn't know that it wasn't okay to take gift cards, (that you had to put money ON) even if its for your teacher on Christmas. It was the succession of these details that made me get through. Even if it was still a struggle.

So it was a typical spring day when it happened. I was teaching a lesson out of the reading basal (which I no longer philosophically believe using) and we were reading a story about a boy who goes rocking climbing. Naturally, my students, many who had never left their neighborhoods or city- looked up at me with glossy eyes, flipping the pages of the big thick green books resting before them on wobbly desks. I think we were in the middle of memorizing vocabulary terms, that they couldn't make meaningful connections with-or probably find the need to use. Words such as: descent, avalanche, fixed rope, or belay.

It was then. My mentor walked in the room. She had dark and flawless skin & perfectly set hair resting at her chin. Probably in her early 40's. She strolls in with a notebook in her hand. Sitting down in the back, she looks up and smiles big and gives me a little wink. As if we've eaten together in the teacher's lounge or shared ideas during early staff meetings. I wasn't sure whether to be angry or relieved. I was in the middle of the word belay-and my students were grappling with the story. One boy raised his hand and asked what the point of rock climbing was-and that it sounded stupid. He asked if Arkansas-where the character lived, was real close to DC? And was this place-with mountains- a different country because he didn't know such a thing existed in America? Sighing, the mentor begins scribbling down in her notebook. So many questions. Such lack of background knowledge. The book was probably 2 grades above most of my students reading ability. The words on the page running together before them in a complicated mess. I marched through the lesson, page by page. Objective by objective. We tirelessly filled out worksheets about the story that held no meaningful attachment to the student's understanding or lives.


When it was all said and done, when the bell had rung and the students were long gone; the mentor and I sat across from one another, as the sun set behind us. The mentor had a name, but I don't remember.

-I'm sorry its taken me so long to come by, she says then.

-My case load is extensive and its just been impossible trying to visit regularly with my list of first years.

I look at her then. She has pure eyes & she smiles showing off those pearly white teeth. I think about how it's really not her fault-its the system. I bet the mentor has a husband & little house and a couple kids who go to DC Public Schools. She probably feels guilty, because I imagine she likes to be home in time to make dinner-but often isn't. The mentor seems like one of those people-who would care about such things.

So then I nod at her and say, -Well do you have any suggestions for me?

I blink quickly, awaiting the answer, ready to suck up anything she had to offer.

Yes she says, glancing over her notes, chicken scratches all over her page.

Remember, Emily, she says then slowly-YOU are driving the bus. The children are the passengers.
Make sure you teach in a way that shows them this.


That is all she says. Then its time to go. The mentor came back a couple more times. But did it matter? Then she was gone, just as quickly as she came.

I did figure out how to 'drive the bus' but it was later mentors, colleagues, my personal quest, and years of experience that helped me arrive. I made it through my first year & six years later I have evolved & fallen in love with teaching 1,000 times over.

I remember sitting with one of my colleagues, Jen, from that year, & our rooftop deck, an early evening, drinking a glass of wine. We laughed at stories about our students, who had just performed in the school's end of the year talent show. Turns out they really knew how to sing. The year had come to an end.

As we overlooked Rock Creek Park, it was then, I realized-the mentor I was waiting for-was everywhere, in bits and pieces floating all around me. Laughing, we toasted our pinot noir and sat side by side in our beach chairs, looking out, beyond.

Monday, November 1, 2010

imperfections make it beautiful: a wedding story

My limo driver left me in the middle of the road on my wedding day. I got married to my husband in a huge catholic cathedral by my uncle-who is a priest. It was pretty remarkable. We vowed our lives to one another & kissed & hugged & everyone cheered as we bounced down the aisle, hand in hand. Newly married. On top of the world. Off we went, down the ascending steps of St. Mary's in Chicago. The summer breeze swept the bubbles in my face as I held my bouquet up in front of my nose. We climbed into the limo- ready to celebrate.

CJ's groomsman, John, popped open a bottle of champagne. Our bubbly flowed, the clinking of glasses & the 13 of us shouting, screaming, singing in a chaotic melody of sorts.



We headed down to North Avenue Beach-where CJ proposed. But this is the thing about us Catholics you should know. The mass always goes longer than you think. I mean my uncle married us, so do you think he's going to keep it short? Ha. Well, naturally we were behind schedule. Really I should have known better. By the time we got down to the beach-I was on a mission. The limo driver knew we were on a time crunch, we only scheduled him until 6, and it was 5. More importantly, I had 170 people awaiting us at cocktail hour & I don't miss my own happy hour. Impatiently, the man, we'll call him Jorge, he pulls the limo up to the barricades lining where the beach meets the grass. I mean, come on man, at least pull the bride up to a nice little clearing. It's not easy walking in an endless flowing dress.


The groomsmen & my new husband, sensing my hesitation to go mountain climbing over this thing, threw me up in the air, like a pizza, my wedding dress drowning me like a cocoon. I laughed-but was suffocated by tool instead. On the other side, we lifted up my never-ending train and set forth to the water. Off we charged, 4 sets of hands holding up my dress behind me.

This is the other thing you should know-about Chicagoans. Summer is treated like the last day of a person's known life. The beach was filled with hundreds, thousands of people. A beach band was playing off to the side. Volleyball players, drunk girls tanning in itty-bitty bikinis lie propped up on slim belly's-reading US Weekly. Guys sat in herds, drinking cheap beer & summer tans. Readers lounging by shaded trees. Suddenly they see us, a massive wave embarking on the beachfront.

So what do a bunch of drunk, nice Midwest people do with a sight such as us? They line the sidewalk and begin cheering wildly. It's moments like this, I realize why I endure these Chicago winters. People are high-fiving my husband of 60 minutes. We fist pump with our bouquets to the beat of Black Eyed Peas. As we neared the pier the backdrop of Chicago rises behind us. My photographer frantically snaps pictures as we jump in the air.  It's a great moment & you forget all about schedules and months of planning that went into this day. You just think about how all of your best friends & the guy you love next to you-jumping. Soon enough though, we are charging through the city sand-me in my ivory shoes- back to the limo, off to our next destination.



As we pull up to the Chicago Theatre. This is when my limo driver becomes an jerk. It's sad really, because nothing really can bother me on this day. So it's not like I was hard to please. The man is lazy & a bit unhappy with life in general and really those two things don't go well together. He was annoyed by his job from the get go-and now we were running late.

It was 5:54 and he says harshly, -You know you only have the limo until six.

Fair enough, fair enough, I think. I nod and remind him that we just need to snap one picture in front of the theatre and we are set. Of course-I say, I'll pay you extra for going 15 minutes over.

Jorge shakes his head quickly side to side-as if he's 5 years old & his mom tells him Halloween is cancelled.

-I go by the half hour, he says.

We all start chiming in because we don't even care. It's my wedding day, and honestly, money doesn't even matter at this point.  I've lost count anyway. Let's negotiate. I have a 5 pound dress on, and I just need to get to our reception.

We tell him we'll pay him for an extra hour to drive us four blocks. My friend, who is a lawyer, begins to talk slowly and clearly to him. He's not from here and our communication is somehow broken. That or he has seen enough brides to really not care. And I believe in kharma or the circle of life-of sorts-so it makes me feel less angry when encountering people such as him.

He says then, as if a light bulb pops in his head, that he wants $500 to drive us four blocks to our reception. This is how much the limo cost us for four hours. He continues to try to extort money from us & here I am standing debating with this stranger in the middle of a crazy Chicago avenue on me and CJ's wedding day. So I walk away and take some shots, leaving the groomsman to figure it out.

My bridal party of girls find their way over to the front of the theatre where they join Tina Turner impressionist for a rendition of 'what's love got to do with it'. After realizing this is going nowhere quickly, one of the groomsman takes the air cap off one of Jorge's tires-tucking it in his pocket with a smirk on his face. The limo driver drives away without an ounce of guilt. Although, the guy is a money grubbing business owner, who we later find out writes his own fake reviews & the better business bureau doesn't recognize, does it really matter? not one bit.

It's been quite the adventure, but I know I have to take control. So I herd the group together and say: -People. Let's just get going already. -Grab a cab! Then they watch me do. just. that.





 We see a checkered cabbie, and CJ and I hop in. We zipped down the street with my yellow & ivory bouquet flagging out the window CJ & And this, my friends, is how we arrive to our reception:)

When we got inside, only 9 minutes late, guests caught tail to the jerk who left a bride in the middle of the street. Well, at least I know how to hail a cab in Chicago. I guess all those years of city living paid off on my wedding day. Every one's buzzing-because who has a wedding without a bit of chaos or unplanned 'excitement.' It's really the only imperfection of the day & if anything it makes it that much better. 

Right before we sat down for dinner, CJ and I dip outside for a breather. There we watch  a sudden sheet of rain pouring down-the sun in the distant sky, setting. Just 15 minutes after I stood in the middle of  Clark street-as the Jorge-the limo driver- drove away, without his additional 500 bucks. Lucky-we both felt then, without saying a word.

Standing there-watching the ever so brief downpour that lasted five minutes and rolled away-as if it never arrived. We made it inside just in time & felt lucky to be dry, but most importantly, to be together.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

She Told me to Write

My sister called me the other day. She recently packed up and moved to Boston to start a PhD at Harvard. She left about a month after I got married. It was a bittersweet summer for us. So now I'm learning about the newly married life & she's learning how to be a student again. It's a new and thrilling venture for both of us. We also are suffering from the growing pains of being about 1,000 miles apart.

So after we talked about 126 unimportant topics, she says, "I have been meaning to tell you something really important." Of course I think it must be something serious. When you come from a big family, like ours, something 'important' could be just about anything.

"You haven't been writing on your blog," she says then. I realize in fact, she's right. I tell her that I was planning a wedding, teaching, and starting graduate school..you know-at the same time. Gulp.

"Well get on it."

In the midst of this past year's madness & because sometimes I can't write when I am in caught in the whirlwind of change-I haven't written.

Now though, the whirlwind has finally passed. I will write it down because-well she told me so. And she is still my older sister.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Facebook Status Updates-take the Heat!

Oh Facebook, how I love and hate you so. I can't help but log into my little account (almost) every day. (or multiple times a day...shhh!) There are always new and interesting surprises. Often, I find that FB has been changed its homepage or there are new 'privacy settings.'Its the 'same' facebook but just a 'newer' version. So right when you think this whole facebook thing is the same ol' same ol' it suddenly changes and throws you for a loop. Sucking us all in just a little bit more:)

So its a typical Monday night...one of those draggy winter days and Bachelor is over. Winter Olympics are over. You have to be at work early the next day. DRAG! What is there to do?! FACEBOOK! Its like a little light bulb that goes off...almost every day, and you hop on! Within 15 minutes of perusing you can get updated on 20% of your high school graduating class. You can look through detailed picture albums of someone that you haven't actually seen face to face in years. Its glorious really. How intimate we can be without real human contact...but the best part of all are the status updates. Not only can you get up on a little soap box and vent about say...traffic, or the gobs of work you have to do, how much you hate Mondays, or love Starbucks, what percentile your baby is in height and weight, how many days until your wedding, or the details of what you ate the past 8 hours...I mean honestly the world is wide open...you just log in and there it is...that rectangular white space awaiting you with that little gray writing that says "What is on your mind?" It's like a little friend there to listen to anything and everything you might want to say. How can we resist?!...Your fingers type away and you click SHARE...and there it is...for all the world to see. Well your confirmed friend world that is.

Is it ridiculous. Yes, it is. Do I love it. Yes, I do. However, I've noticed that some people are getting up on their little soap box and straying off the yellow brick road. Status updates about your hair, or working your ass off at the gym, eating chocolate, and mundane life topics are by all means welcomed. I mean not that we really need to know any of that, but sure post it, why not! It makes us all feel a little less ordinary to share it. Right? Or maybe it connects our ordinary lives together.

But some of us tend to get bored of the mundane status updates. When they see that little gray phrase: What is on your mind? Well, they say it. They post about politics, the economy, gay marriage, religion, what they hate, and who they hate, or what they believe and what they dont....Suddenly I find myself scrolling through other people's status updates on a boring weekday evening. One minute I'm reading about speech competitions, baby's first bath, tv show rants, and then BAM! I see the post: politics. religion. economy. the president. etc. etc. etc. anything worth fighting about. And I find it...well refreshing actually.

However, I find that many of the people who post controversial status updates can't take the heat. Lets say you are part of the ______ party. And you post about ________ policy. You (hate) or (love) the policy or proposed policy. So you write about it. And that's great. Freedom of speech at its finest. But realize you are posting this to a large audience. Yes you confirmed your friends on facebook. That doesn't mean you really know who your audience is or what they believe. So realizing that posting these beliefs, thoughts, or criticisms are read by all kinds of people. What bothers me is that when people disagree with status update comments or criticisms about religion, government, the economy, the war, whatever...they get defensive. Honestly! You posted the status update! So by doing this, you allow your audience to respond. Facebook is a forum really. Can we foster a productive debate on a string of status updates and comments...maybe. But at the same time, we cannot get defensive and upset when people post disagreements. Often I find that people may even offend the person who posted the status update. Well get over it. If you choose to use the Facebook status update for your own political or religious agenda, realize the consequences. People may not agree with you. And its okay. It's healthy. It's a GOOD thing to talk to each other....even if we do not share the same agenda. Those of you who can't handle it though....please just stick to Starbucks.