I find myself doing like back in the day
looking for answers
between pages of poetry books.

I grabbed as many from the library
as my arms could carry
and I'm approaching them slowly...
shyly.
First because I haven't been there
for a while
Then because I'm not sure
what I'd do if I found
what I didn't even know
I was looking for.

If I find the answer
and the search is gone
what would be left?

My mama's voice echoes:
"Read the Bible, hija."
 Yeah, I know...
 but I've had better luck
 with poetry.

R.I.P. Ms. Rose

I.

     It was a typical morning. The kids and I burst in the office at Lad 'n Lassie, running late as usual. I finished signing Savvy in and looked up, right into the eyes of Ms. Rose...a picture of her, that is. It was attached to the donation box that had been sitting on the counter since she went through chemotherapy for the first time. It had been collecting dust lately, but now it was right smack in the middle. Good news, I thought. Maybe she's a candidate for another kind of treatment.

     I asked the the directors how she was doing, then glanced at the clock, instantly regretted starting the conversation when I was running so late.

     "Any day now," Doris said. 

     "...she'll be going into treatment?" I answered. But then I saw the look on her face and the numb poured over me. I felt cemented to the ground. The clock stopped ticking. Suddenly it wasn't that important if I was late to work.

     The horror of it framed my entire day.
     She is one year older than me.
      I thought of her 2-year old daughter and hoped someone had taken lots of pictures of them together...and that Ms. Rose had taken a lot of pictures before she'd gotten sick. Had I taken any pictures lately?

     From then on the donation box was a reminder to stop the madness. It made me ask myself: OK...is this a big deal? Is it worth yelling over?

     Any day now.

II.

     It was Valentine's day but you wouldn't know it walking into Lad 'n Lassie. For the first time  I could remember, the place hadn't been transformed into a red heart and cupid wonderland.
     In the office, images of Ms. Rose covered a poster board. There were pictures of her with her signature curls pinned on top and tumbling over her shoulders. That glossy smile.

     A wedding picture

     Pictures with every one of the L 'n L teachers. 

     posing with kids she'd taught throughout the years.

     and then ones of her when she'd lost her hair and wore a page boy hat. Her glossy smile strained.

     

     Next to the poster was a flyer for her memorial. 

     I gasped but the tears came anyway. Lupe (one of the directors) and the mom she'd been talking to came over and hugged me.  Lupe had been with her when she passed away. 

     Lupe's eyes shone with tears, but her smile was serene and wide.

     "You should have seen her," she said, "she was beautiful. I pressed my cheek against hers and she asked me to help her pray. She said, 'I'll miss you but I'm ready to go home.'"
She died in her sleep not too long after.

     When I got home, a bouquet of flowers sat on the table for Valentine's day. They were all my favorite flowers in all my favorite colors. Paul had also gotten Savvy two white roses. I decided not to tell him about Ms. Rose until that night.

III.

     What got me was when a little girl wearing a purple Tshirt and leggings, (her diaper giving her the precious baby bubble butt) walked down the aisle towards the easled poster filled with pictures memorializing her mother. She ran past it and the flowers, to an Elmo helium balloon that was attached to one bouqet. Somebody untied it and gave it to her. She turned and walked back to her seat with a grin on her face to where daddy sat. People smiled and cooed at her as she passed them, then burst into tears as soon as she was gone. I hoped that for the rest of her life people would not look at her and see loss death. 

     It took every muscle in my body to keep from crying. I was amazed at the force of grief.
     I was rocked with guilt.

     I'd thought of visiting her in the hospice since it was so close to where I work. I'd wanted to thank her and tell her how exceptional she'd been in the lives of Eli and Savvy...and mine. But I could never conjure the nerve. No matter what I said to her, it would be a good bye. Wouldn't that be insulting to someone who was going to live?

     I tried to focus on the purple. Many people wore purple, obviously her favorite color. Sprays of it everywhere: Tshirts, flowers...her husband wore a purple tie. 

     She'd planned her own funeral. Every speaker and singer said she'd asked them to participate in her funeral. She'd choreographed the order of events and had even helped put the video of her own life together.  

     I needed air. I needed to write. At the lobby of the place, someone had put out index cards, pens and boxes for guests to write letters that her daughter could read much later, when she was older. I wrote:

               

     Dear Lilly,

         Your mommy was soooo special. She was my son and daughter's teacher. Her smile helped me through tough times, especially when my son was in her class. It was during the hardest times when her smile would soothe me. Nothing could be that bad if she could smile like that after dealing with my darling all day. 

          She did the best impression of my son I've ever seen...the way he pokes his tongue against his cheek and looks down at the floor when he's embarrassed or has gotten caught. I hadn't even noticed the tongue thing until she did the impression for me the first time. 

          But while she touched me so much when she was alive, I just want you to know how her being gone has helped me... just as much as when she was alive. Every time I am losing control or perspective as a mother, your mommy's face pops into my head. I remember how hard she fought to concieve you, and then stay in your life. How could I take this for granted?

          You will always be in my prayers.

     Love,

     Eli and Savvy's mommy

IV.

     I'd decided not to write this. 

     But then I had to find a baby picture of Eli for a school project. I came across Ms. Rose again. She was in pictures with both my kids at the Halloween parades, Cinco de Mayo dances, class photos...there was the program of her memorial service a month ago. I'd put it way in the bottom of the red silk box of stray photos.

     Then there was the note scrawled quickly on a teddy bear memo pad.

     "Dear mom and dad," it said, "I just wanted to share with you something that Savvy said today. All day long, her response to anything I said was, 'praise be to God!' It was precious and I knew you'd love hearing about it. Love, Ms. Rose."

     It has been the first and last time a teacher has ever given me the gift of a glimpse inside allllll I miss when I am away from my children.

     I knew this would be hard
     but she's worth every tear.

    

Finally. Spring...

It's been a long, cold winter my friends.
Never quite recovered from Christmas. We went out to South Carolina and stayed with Paul's parents. While I was relieved that a KKK squadron did not meet us at the airport when our flight arrived, I was welcomed by worse when we finally made it to the house:
Zorro. The 100 lb. evil Ukrainian mop of a cat.
He fixed me with an amused look in his eyes the minute I stepped in the door.
I tried to look away but the power of his stare seemed to burn my throat. My eyes. My everything. Soon I learned the the heat was allergies...the worse I'd ever experienced. No longer will I roll my eyes when people whine about debilatating allergies. Now I know. Drugs were powerless to the strength of Zorro.
It didn't help that Zorro was out to get me. Once, I found him all cozied up inside my purse. He reacted to my screams with the same cool amused look in his eyes as the first time we met. He wouldn't budge and someone had to pick him up and out.

I was sequestered the majority of the time in the little room upstairs, with an air purifier on one side, a fan on the other. Every once in a while I peeked down to see what everyone was up to. As soon as I saw the furball, I'd slip back into my room, itchy tail between my legs.

When we finally got home (two days early), we had to take a shuttle home when our ride never materialized and the airport closed.
"See! I told you no one would pick us up!" Eli said. Over and over. and over.
I'll stop here because the mere memory is making my neck break out.
In all fairness, the kids had a blast hanging out with their many cousins. Savvy cried when she had to finally disengage from hug after hug after hug. And yeah, I felt like an ass. An itchy, miserable, drippy ass.

Savvy's 5th bday party kicked off Spring. Finally. Spring.
It was a Barbie themed party, and I got all creative and bought gold and silver beaded necklaces, and feather boas in varying shades of pink and purple to use instead of streamers. I think the result looked more like burlesque, strip joint (Oops...I-just-stripped-and-my-boa-landed-over-there-big-boy sort of thing) than Barbie. Nobody seemed to notice any of it any way.

...and so a toast! To Spring and the shedding of jackets and rainboots and nightmares of Zorro's eyes.
Ching!Ching!

Avatar-bound

Watched Avatar tonight.
The main character in the movie, Jake, is participating in some kind of top military project where he penetrates a virtual world for the mission. I don't know a lot more than that about the plot...wasn't really interested until the part where...
Jake is assigned an Avatar (this hybrid human, animal alien entity) that would enable him to penetrate this other "world." Jake is wheelchair bound, and his Avatar can walk, run, leap.

My Avatar would be able to see without glasses or contacts.
My Avatar would not get depressed
or compare herself to other mothers
and then get more depressed.
My Avatar could sit through a mind-numbing, soul killing, Thanksgiving-week ruining, meeting and walk out, unscathed.
My Avatar's daughter would look up at her: "Play with me, mommy?" And my Avatar would smile and nod and reach out her hand to her, every. time. They'd disappear into the rainbow.
My Avatar's son would never tell her he wished she weren't his mommy
and she'd never fail her husband
or sister
or mother.
or herself.

At the end of the movie, after the war between the "sky people" (humans) and the Avatars, Jake's soul is transferred from his human body to his Avatar's.
Of course he chooses the virtual world, right? I mean... he could WALK now.
It's only a matter a time before we really could escape permanently into a virtual world.
Sometimes I think the real reality has lost it's worth.

The first half of my creative writing class (which started in September), is now over and the next half is about to begin next week. It was a big class: 28 students, when usually it ends up being a core group of 15-20.

Among the highlights was the student who came to class loaded on those caffeinated alcohol drinks that are the rage apparently. I finally managed to get her escorted out of my room and into the main office...only she somehow (in her state) kept escaping the counselor and the security guards, and finding her way back to my classroom where she'd bang the door, demanding to get back in. First she said she'd left her stuff there. When I finally opened the door, she stood in front of the class, wobbling, pointing a finger in my face. "You're a BAAAAAD Lady," she said, before sliding onto the floor.

After like the third time she came back, I gave up and tossed the poems I was still trying to read.
"OK," I sighed, "I was gonna ignore it and go on but let's talk about what just happened..." Teenagers being teenagers, some said they thought it was funny. But most sat shuddering in their seats. There were several who had just finished stints in rehab, jail, even. Those students said there was nothing funny about it, and it served as a stark (broad daylight) reminder of how stupid they look when intoxicated like that.

And then there was what I now refer to as "The Factioning." I've taught the class for so long and this is one of the few times this has happened. I vaguely noticed the two groups forming as the class progressed, but it's natural for people to gravitate to people with whom they are more compatible with, in high school and IN LIFE. I didn't give it another thought until I got a call from the counselor. The two groups had gotten in an argument which had escalated and had all ended up in the counseling office.
Later, one of the students told me she wanted to drop the class. She said that what I'd said about the class was not true. It was NOT a safe place to be honest and free to write what you want, and not be judged. The argument she'd gotten into had revolved largely around stuff she had read in class. The opposing group had done just that: judged her by her stories.

It is the most important thing I try to drill into the students (and myself): treat the writing as just that: the writing. Once it is on paper, it is just a story, subject to faulty memory. DON'T JUDGE THE PERSON, JUDGE THE WRITING. If they can grasp this complex concept, then they could gain enough distance to write the hard stuff, the deep stuff of the heart, the REAL and ultimately, most touching stuff effectively. As for me, I have to remember this concept so that I can read their work and not fall apart. So that I can cope with such hard core stuff and continue to do this. It's worked for the most part, for the 8 years I've been teaching the class.

No one had ever said to me that it was not true. That really, there could be no such thing as this safe bubble I'd tried to create. It was hard to hear and I had no idea how to handle it.
A good friend who also teaches writing told me, "There are bone heads every where! Boneheads in high schools and boneheads in 'advanced' workshops! Boneheads in life!'"
It was a good reminder to get off it! Why would I think my class would be so flawless?  I decided all I could do is be honest with the students, as I ask them to be in their writing.
Thanks, Chi.

And so the second part of the class starts this week. Hopefully I can find a way to save some of my creative energy to write another blog before January, when the second half of the class ends...

Just Enough

Just enough so their stomachs don't growl
Just enough for him to tell the truth when he tells teacher he did his reading
Just enough so that they don't look at my sandaled toes and cringe
Just enough so that my hair and my smell don't scream "homeless lady."
Just enough so that my friends know I love them.
Just enough so that Savvy will someday have something good to say about her mommy when sitting around talking to her girlfriends
Just enough so that they walk into their classrooms clean, even though most times wrinkled
Just enough so that they remember the holidays at home
Just enough so they know I'm serious
Just enough so that they know I'm not always serious
Just enough so that I don't get called into the boss' office--again
Just enough so that I can still fit into my clothes
Just enough so my husband knows he now calms me throughout my day
Just enough to remember to ask my mom about the first night of her new class
Just enough so that she knows she'll always have big sister to fly home to
Just enough to keep the lids on
                                 the jackets zipped
                                 dreaming eye lids kissed
Just enough sleep
Just enough late nights to hear the house breathe
Just enough late nights to hear myself breathe.

I hope
when all is said and done
it will end up that
it was just enough.

10 G's For Some Double D's

     "So did you finally decide what you're gonna do with the money?" I asked when she walked into my classroom.
     It was the same question I'd asked her countless times in the last two years. The other teachers and I had had fun trying to guess what she'd decide to do with the $10,000 she'd be inheriting on her 18th birthday from her deceased father.
     We'd made sure she had our input.
     "College?" one of us had suggested.
     "Savings?"
     "I know, a trust fund for Nikki! She's only two, by the time she's 18 interest will accrue and..."
     We had all learned to expect her 16 (and then 17) year-old eye roll.
     "Nope. A car! A month long cruise! Another car!" she'd counter.

     Finally, her birthday was a few weeks away.
     "Guess," she said.
     "The Land Cruiser?"
     "Nope."
     "The cruise..."
     "Nope, give up?" she asked. I said I did because it was obvious she wanted me to.
     She drew in a long dramatic breath. "A boob job and a tummy tuck."
     "Ha!" Typical of her sense of humor, I thought.
     She seemed confused at my response.
     She wasn't joking.
     "But...you just had a baby. You're 18!!! I-I-It'll all bounce back!" I stuttered.
     "Nope, nope. I've tried everything. Sit-ups, diets.  I want to look like a normal teenager again. I'm sick of my belly ring jiggling way after the rest of me has stopped moving," she said with a set jaw.
     "But you're not a normal teenager. You're the mom of beautiful Nikki..." I said with a sigh. Because of course, she wasn't listening. She had whipped out a stack of brochures and I found myself staring at a bunch of glossy before and after pictures of boob jobs and tummy tucks.
     "See, these are the ones I'm getting: The Teardrop Shaped Ones," she said, as if we were chit-chatting about earrings. "Oh, and I'm getting double D's," she added.

     I called her mom.
     "Oh, yeah, so she told you, huh? Were you shocked?" she chuckled. "I think it's a smart decision. It's like an investment," her mom explained. "A car will eventually go out of style, with a trip all you have left is pictures...but I told her, 'if you look good, mija, you could get a man. A good one.' And then she and Nikki won't have to worry about nothing."

     Soon after, the newly minted 18 year-old walked into the classroom with her tear-drops threatening to burst out of a stretchy tank top...one that stopped in the nick of time to show off the taut new navel. She had apparently had enough bling left over for a new belly ring...and a tan.
     "Wow," I said.
     "I know, huh? You can't even tell I had a baby," she beamed. "I think my dad would be proud."