I Wrote

Past tense.

I see things every day that are worthy of a smile, an extra thought, a pen and paper. I see famous buildings, famous bridges, famous people. I see store fronts with things I'll never afford and breathtaking apartments and gum on the sidewalk; I ignore subway performers and solicitors and people who bump my shoulder. I always make sure to sit where I can take in the view as I ride the Q train over the Manhattan Bridge. I see the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Freedom Tower, the skyline. I think how lucky I am. I think I should write about this - but it's been done before. It's been done better.

The words weave their way through my head. I see them sprawled out before me. They seem prolific and meaningful or funny and whimsical - either way worthy of a read. I stop to consider how they'll seem to the few who may actually read them. The words distort and diminish, become frivolous and stupid. Writer's block. Self doubt. And shame. Have my words always seemed like this? Did I lean too hard on the quality of my characters? They wrote for me. They made me better. Or was it that place? A community so devoid of excitement that the people themselves are what you notice.

This city full of writers and artists and individuals. That place full of history, hardship, risk and reward. The risk here has already been taken. I jumped. I left. I rejoiced and regretted. Now I just wonder - my words having fallen into the chasm between Mississippi and New York, between my kids and these kids, between who I was then, who I am now, and who I thought I'd be by now.

Nostalgia

I found this old draft tonight... total accident. Here it is.

~

I knew this time would come, but even as I made one of my final drives home today, it still seemed far away. We talked about it, my friends and I, as early as freshman year. "It's going to suck when we leave each other... good thing it's far off." But the time has finally arrived. One of us has taken the first step. She's achieved what I hope to in the next couple of months. She's moving to New York... she found a job that provides the perfect intersection of finance and fashion. Dream job. We had to celebrate.

We chose one of our favorite restaurants - the fairly tacky, fairly typical, very low-key Casa Mexicana. We've spent six years of weeknights, weekends, and Cinco de Mayos there. We know the waiters by name and even (attempt to) converse with them in Spanish because, for some reason, they think our Spanish is passable, and sorry, Sra. Morris... my Spanish is far less than passable. It all started freshman year when one of the servers approached our table, winked at me, and in a near-growl asked, "Te quieres, mi amorrrrr?" That was all it took. We were customers for life. Tonight it felt like time had never passed.

"Large cheese dip?"

"Si."

"Margarita... rocks... salt?"

*Smile and nod*

~

...That's where it stopped. For whatever reason, I stopped writing.

It made me smile this evening, the bittersweet nostalgia. The only reason I happened upon it is because I thought about reposting this one... written at exactly this time last year. As predicted, the answer to its final pondering is yes.

I also thought about sending this one to my best friend. It was written with her in mind, and she needs a little perspective right now. She needs a little laughter. She needs to know that nostalgia is wonderful, but only in small doses. She needs to know that what she's doing matters.

It's funny how life works - all of its lessons and circles, large and small. I feel blessed that at 24 I can at least appreciate some of them. A buried blog post, a full-circle moment, a realized dream.

Karma

As I approached my car this morning, my eyes were drawn away from the glaring crater in my driver's side door. For a moment, I was able to forget the scrapes and dents that trace the length of my poor little car, and ignore the fact that the doors no longer close all the way. My eyes focused instead on a purple envelope pinned under the windshield wiper, "Dre" written in familiar handwriting on the front. Guilt instantly collected, solid in my gut. I knew who the card was from. I knew I didn't deserve it.

Last night, at dinner over Mexican food with three of my best friends, I was not nice. I was impatient and exhausted, drained by two days of frustration and stress. I snapped at my friends and failed to enjoy their company. During a discussion of what they were giving up for Lent, I asked leading questions that implied my disapproval of their choices. "Did you choose that for personal gain or religious sacrifice?" I prodded with  accusing eyes, acknowledging their answers with little more than an indifferent nod. I asked very few questions about C's Fashion Week internship and even fewer about the others' impending job changes. Walking out I felt ashamed, but I said nothing, simply wanting to get home and go to sleep.

That's why the guilt formed so quickly. I didn't deserve a card. I didn't deserve anything but a swift kick.

After prying open my door and settling in for my morning commute, I opened the envelope to find a black and white card which featured a kitten, adorable even to this feline hater. It had bandages wrapped around its head, chin, and limbs. It peered at me with sad eyes, but all I could do was smile back, my own eyes watering. The card felt thick in my hands, causing the knot of guilt to move from my stomach to my throat. I blinked to focus on the words written by my best friend, holding her money in my other hand and driving with my knee. Her words turned my watering eyes into streaming tears, making me a complete driving hazard - a bad decision considering Monday's events.

I racked my brain trying to figure out why my best friend and her boyfriend had done something so nice. I thought I had been pretty calm about the situation, making sure not to show that I was stressed. I opted not to talk about it when they tried to press me or offer their sympathy. I told them that things happen. That's what insurance is for. I had expressed frustration that I'd caused a wreck, but I had joked about the fact that I'm always bragging about my driving skills. "I guess it's karma," I laughed. "That's what I get for bragging."

Recalling that conversation made me even more perplexed. Karma? I have no good karma coming my way. I used it all up a couple of months ago. I'm sure of it. Plus... I was a jerk last night. Surely I don't deserve this.


I've always believed that karma is real, but in that moment I began to question it. Good things happen to bad people all the time and vice versa. We always seem shocked when it happens the "wrong" way, yet we jump to give karma the credit when it fits. Maybe there's no rhyme or reason for why good and bad things happen to bad and good people. Maybe it's all a crap shoot or maybe it's all part of a pre-designed plan in which we're supposed to learn certain lessons at certain stages of life. For now, I'm choosing the latter. The last couple days have taught me, or rather reminded me, of a number of lessons, and maybe that's all I'm supposed to take out of this. Forget that piggy bank full of karma points because mine was undoubtedly bone dry. I'm just blessed enough to have amazing friends, and aware enough to heed the world's advice. Check your blind spot. Be nice to your friends. Do nice things because it feels good.

On Bullying

Today my students finished presenting their Writing Modes Projects. To begin the unit, I told them to pick anything as a topic because I wanted them to write about something they loved. I wanted them to get excited about writing, so the only requirement was that they take their topic and use it to write three short essays: one narrative, one persuasive, and one informative. The final product was to be a presentation where they shared all three with the class.

One of the last presentations of the day was by a girl who I haven't really gotten to know this year. She's quiet and painfully shy. She has fiery red hair and her cheeks seem to match its shade anytime I approach her for conversation. It's hard to tell whether she likes school, my class, or even me... but for Christmas she did give me a bookmark, homemade out of a popsicle stick and puff paint. Her project topic: bullying.

As she approached the front of the room, I noticed my heart beating a little faster, my cheeks surely matching hers shade for shade with each step. She's in a class with some of the school's worst behavior problems - a group of kids to whom I'm constantly saying, "be nice." This in itself would've made me nervous enough... but the fact that she'd chosen bullying as her topic, the fact that I'd read her rough drafts, made me question if I was cruel to allow her to share in front of this group.

Her back faced the room and her shoulders slouched as she sat her presentation board on the table up front. She pulled back the right flap to reveal the word "gossip" written in big bubble letters. My glare had to stifle snickers throughout the room. The rest of the board featured similar words, a set of big red lips out of which spewed various hostilities, and of course, her essays.

"I'll read my narrative first," she said, eyes focused on the floor.

"OK! Go ahead, honey!" It sounded hollow and meaningless. A meager attempt to soften the ensuing blow.

Here is what she read:
I was entering my new school with a chilling breeze when I froze still in the front door. I was greeted with a warm air brushing against my arm. That would be the last warmth I felt.


My first day they called me names and said no one loved me. That stuck with me for a while in my mind. Some of the snobby pretty girls said I'm weird and ugly. They also said I don't belong in their school. The rest of the school year I didn't feel important. For the years to come, in my depressing, dark, cold soul, I heard K and his gang of friends along with the girls who talked behind my back, wishing desperately I'd disappear. 


I ignored them whenever it was time to go outside - my time to escape the torment inside. I dashed to the fantasy of my dreams, the playground on top of a steep hill. It was simply the place where every child wanted to go. One day I was walking alone thinking of what crazy things I would do when I got home, when all of a sudden people pummeled me with rocks. A while later when it was time to go, they pushed and shoved like I wasn't there. I just told myself that bullies wanted to get in fights with me because they thought I was too nice.


For a few seconds, I, like the rest of the class, was frozen. I looked down to find my hands folded in nervous tension, knuckles white, her grading rubric blank. I couldn't write anything. Her eyes still had not left the sheet of paper in her shaking hands. I took a reluctant glance at the faces of her audience. A couple of them, literally, had dropped jaws. A few of the less mature ones tried to find the eyes of their buddies in hopes they could share a laugh. Nothing of the sort happened. One brave kid began to clap.

I winked at her and said, "All right. That was excellent, S. Which one will you read next?"

Her next two essays were equally as impressive - the informative aptly explained the different methods and effects of bullying. For her persuasive, I was proud that she chose to be more creative than simply arguing that bullying should stop. She offered various bullying solutions specific to our school.

When I finally brought myself to fill out her rubric, I found it difficult to write anything at all, let alone any constructive criticism. I wanted to be proud of her vivid language, but critique the essay's shaky transitions. I wanted to commend her on her use of "live" verbs but caution her against switching tenses. It all seemed so trivial. She had written something from her heart, something from her own inner diary, and she had read it in front of a room that would make any confident adult at least a little nervous.

Instead of writing a grade at the bottom of her rubric, I wrote, "Come see me." When I handed it to her, I assured her that it was for a good reason, but as usual she simply turned red and offered only the shadow of a grin.

To be honest, I have no idea what I'll say to her. I've already put a 100 in the grade book, because even though her essays weren't perfect, they were lightyears better than her peers'. What I really want to do is make sure she's OK. I want to make sure those things don't happen at this new school, and I want to tell her how proud she made me, that I know how hard it must have been to get up and share such personal information. What's odd is how nervous I am to have that conversation. I'm suddenly intimidated by a twelve-year-old who exudes such wisdom. I'm afraid she'll see through my shallow attempt to check on her now... after she had to slap me across the face with her struggle. I'm also afraid it's too late to make anything better for her.

A Change of (Valentine's Day) Heart

I thought about writing the obligatory single girl rant about Valentine's Day, but I think that's overdone. When it comes to being a love skeptic, I'm of the first class variety. So yes, I'm also one of those people who thinks that V-Day is a day created by Hallmark and Hershey's - a money-making ploy aimed at teenage lovers and twenty-somethings who are faking it. I've always thought that Valentine's Day was probably viewed to be pointless by those who are truly in love, because to them, isn't every day February 14th? Or do relationships like that even exist at all...? So you see my inner dilemma: I'm at the same time a hopeless romantic and a jaded skeptic. But we're a dime a dozen, I'm sure.

For the last couple years, I've done my best to ignore these couple of weeks in mid-February, throwing myself into all things devoid of romance. I've avoided the candy and card aisles at the store, read mystery novels, and chosen action movies instead of romantic comedies. I've joked about the fact that flowers and teddy bears will not be coming my way, and I've really, truly been fine with that. Really.

So today when I checked the mail and found, among bank statements and junk, a pink envelope addressed to me, the possibility that it was a Valentine's Day card did not even cross my mind. But then I realized I've done nothing to deserve a thank you note and my birthday is five months away... maybe it's S's wedding invitation. All of these thoughts occurred to me in the 10 second gap between seeing that envelope and registering the familiar, shaky handwriting scrawled on the front.

I grinned as I slit the seal with my pinky and pulled out a card which displayed a pink heart wrapped in flowers. It said simply, "Happy Valentine's Day." Inside I found a one dollar bill and a small window decal made of pastel flowers, and in that same familiar handwriting, it said, "Happy Valentine's Day Punkin. I love you, Nana."

Now... here's the point at which some of you will choose to take pity on the poor single girl who will get nothing but a card, a dollar, and a sticker from her Nana for Valentine's Day. But hopefully those who know me well can imagine how broad my smile became as I held that dainty sticker in one hand, the dollar in the other. You may also know that it sent my thoughts spinning in a million different directions as I considered any number of symbolic implications. I wondered if, despite my vocal condemnation of this holiday, I would've been happier to receive flowers from a boyfriend. That thought was quickly replaced with the knowledge that my reaction to flowers would've likely been an over-analysis in itself, complete with thoughts like, "Why can't you think to send these on a random Tuesday in May?" or "I hope you didn't overpay for these because they can charge extra this time of year."

But I soon steadied myself and chose to put aside that unbalanced stream of thoughts, choosing to focus instead on how lucky I was to have received anything... especially from someone who had not done it out of obligation or to prove some kind of superficial love. Sure, she contributed a couple bucks to the Valentine's Day machine, but maybe that's ok if it's done for the right reasons. Maybe when the day comes that I get a card from someone besides my grandmother, I'll remember today and take it a little easier on the guy who sends it. 

Impassioned

Today was an awesome day. The kids were damn near perfect. I was able to joke around and keep things light while they worked (and boy were they really working!) on their projects. I called students up one-by-one to conference and check their progress. At some point during first period I began fist bumping each child as they walked away, saying, "BOOM!" if they had all their materials. This obviously sparked some head-shaking and laughter. 

My honors class requested that I play music while they worked and, deciding that they'd earned it, I obliged and turned on Michael Jackson.

In an attempt to rouse 6th period out of their Friday afternoon stupor, I repeatedly slammed my Nerf basketball into the floor, allowing it to bounce high before catching it in any number of goofy ways while yelling, "Wake up!" Luckily it worked. 

On my drive home, I tried to pinpoint the cause of my good mood. I've been in a slump lately. I've dreaded work. I've been short on patience. My lessons have been flat despite my best efforts to energize the kids. I'm sure some of that is caused by the time of year... but I'm fully aware that a lot of it has been my attitude, my frustration with my own inability to get the kids to produce really good writing. The state writing assessment is sixteen school days from Monday, and I'm afraid they peaked too soon. We're all burned out and I've been at a loss. The real problem has been that I can't seem to explain exactly what I want out of their writing... So for today's lesson I decided to show them. In a desperate attempt to prove that I felt their pain, I decided to show them that we could turn any topic into a detailed narrative. I sat up front with my computer and asked them to choose a random topic. They came up with "Clark's"... a gas station on the corner that serves fried chicken. Ugh.

"Ok!" I said trying to hide my displeasure. "Let's write a narrative. Remember... 'live' verbs and sensory details!" I began typing.

The bell on the door rattled against the glass as I swung it open and slid in to escape the cold. My fingers were numb and I could barely feel my toes, but it was worth the walk down to Clark’s gas station. As I approached the glowing case of chicken, the feeling gradually reentered my limbs and excitement took over. My mouth was watering in anticipation.

My feet glided across the grease-coated tile floor as I licked my lips and glanced at the menu. The lady behind the counter had her hand on her hip as she barked, “What do you want?”

“Chicken...” I said as I pointed. She poked the tongs under the glass, snatched two pieces of savory, spicy chicken tenders and dropped them into the bag. Grease quickly began to seep through the white paper, but that only made me hungrier. 

When I exited through Clark’s glass door again, I barely noticed the cold that had so plagued me a few minutes prior. I was too busy gorging myself with that delectable delicacy.

Now, I know this isn't exactly a fabulous piece of writing... but as the cursor sat there blinking, silence blanketed the room, and my heart raced in nervous anticipation. Then I heard a "Woah..."

"See? We can make anything vivid!"

"No... you type FAST, Miss B!"

The class burst out in laughter...

"On the real though... that was awesome! We can do that!" said another student.

A relieved smile spread across my face. It was like inspiration had plastered itself across the board before their eyes. Light bulbs appeared and pencils furiously scratched across paper. I took a risk and probably broke some rules in terms of "good instruction." But that risk flipped this gloomy February Friday on its head and put all of us in an irreversibly good mood. It gave me a shot in the arm that my coffee cup has been failing to provide as of late, and most importantly, it helped my kids produce some really awesome writing today. Let's just hope it lasts through the weekend.

Sometimes I Forget

They laugh at my jokes and kindly oblige when I say, "Give me your eyes." They complete their assignments and read their books. They correct their grammar when I furrow my brow and they say, "Yes, ma'am," when I refuse to respond to, "Yeah." Of course some misbehave... they're pubescent teenagers after all. But for the most part, my kids are shockingly wonderful, shockingly normal.

Sometimes I forget.

I forget that S's mom is never home so her brother cooks her dinner - but only when he's not in juvenile hall. I forget that M goes home to a single-wide trailer that houses four families, a drug-addicted mother, and a slew of small children that she cares for and feeds. I forget that L lost her mom to a car wreck and J lost her dad to a gunshot... but she's considered lucky because at least she knew him... I forget that K watched both of her parents die in the same year or that N was raped by an uncle. I block out reminders that E gets abused or that A has been wearing the same faded uniform for two years. 

I forget all of these things until a child snaps at me out of the blue or refuses to accept my one-on-one attention during class. I forget until someone lashes out at a classmate in the lunchroom and then looks at me, eyes watering, body shaking. I forget until I send a kid out to the hallway to calmly discuss her attitude... and I get nothing but more attitude. Because as my blood boils and I try to steady my own frustration, I feel those reminders nagging at the back of my conscience, prodding me to be more understanding, to try a different approach. I don't like yelling and I'm fairly certain that they've learned to block it out anyway. I'm fairly certain they get enough of that at home, but they don't respond to reasoning either. I'm fairly certain they haven't been exposed to the skill. 

I often wonder what they're thinking. I've tried to ask but I usually get walls. Are they thinking that I couldn't possibly understand and that I should just leave them alone? Are they begging for someone to notice what they're going through and to just ask one more time if they're OK? Or am I simply getting all worked up over cases of middle school moodiness?

Regardless of the reason, how do I tell a child she should be concerned about her 17 average in my class when she's facing a reality that I could never imagine? How do I tell a boy that selling drugs is the wrong choice when every man he looks up to is telling him otherwise? How do I tell a student who is two grade levels behind that dropping out is not his best option when his father is at home contradicting my every word?

I wish there were an easy explanation. I wish there were a class I could take that would teach me how to help the students who need it the most. Not the ones whose test scores we need because they're on the verge of proficiency. I want to know how you convince a child that a bubble map is worthy of their time - more worthy than raising their younger siblings or avoiding conflict at home. I want to know how to sell the idea that school really is the way out. 

If I could figure out a way to do that, I'd do this job forever.