Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Cake

There was a kid, Javier, in my English class. Quiet, with the shaved head, numerous facial piercings, and sullen expression in vogue for young people, he exuded a message of "leave me alone." I bumped into him once late at night, at the midway at the State Fair, an uncharacteristic place for me to be, but, you know, my kids dragged me there for one more ride on the bumper boats. In his leather apparel, including leather pants, with the pierced face, and within a group of other young sulking men, Javier did not cut a welcoming image, and I would have avoided him, if he had not called out, "Hi Teacher!" with a boyish wave.

He did not offer much information about his life, and I didn't ask. When the class completed this inane exercise in the textbook on a topic of cooking lessons, he did respond aloud to the question: "What was the first meal you ever cooked?" He said when he was a boy in a little Mexican village, he had roasted a chicken. He caught the chicken in his yard and killed it himself, he said, by swinging it by the neck. File that under odd questions, odd answers.

A custom for these classes, I found out, is to have a potluck on the last day of class. Not wanting a big production, I passed out a sign up sheet and advised the students to write down their names and what they wanted to bring, if they did want to bring food or drink, but not to feel obligated to bring something. Javier put his name down and wrote "Cake."

Last day of class, I wonder if Javier is going to show up at all. He does, tardy, but treat in hand, and he does not just have a Pepperidge Farms frozen edible with him, nor is it a predictable concoction from a mix. He carries in this big three layer pink cake, with a tri-colored marshmallow design on top, bursting with fresh, pastel shaded, whipped cream, the kind of thing you would expect at your wedding.

The class sighs at the cake. This is a surprise. "Javier, did you make that?" I asked.

"Yes, Teacher."

"You must be a really good cook."

"Yes, Teacher."

I guess the killing and roasting of the chicken was a formative experience for this young chef, which is why he had told the story. File this under hot water bottles: cold on the outside and warm on the inside. The teddy bear inside the pitbull costume.

I think there are more people, more young males, like Javier out there than we realize: Sweet.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Mr. Manners

There are signs of progress here. The baboons whom we formerly hired to teach the children some manners are slacking off. Birdie has been refusing to go to sleep without resting his soft little head on my arm. Now isn't that cute and snuggly? Sure, except when I'd rather not lie there with a light blaring in my eyes, indefinitely, the evening ticking away, while he burrows around and jabbers himself to sleep. There are still a few things I would rather be doing, and that is besides scrubbing the squalid kitchen. Birdie demands, "Arm," or he says plaintively, "I need your arm."

Last night he was almost asleep and I tried to ease his head onto the pillow. Almost asleep, he said, "May I please have my arm?" Of course this was not his own arm a chainsaw had dropped on, but last time I checked, this arm was still attached to my body. At some point children develop personal boundaries, but evidently we are not there yet. At least there was a "please," so the baboons did teach him some human words.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Bunco Night

"Hey Birdie's mom, I'm going to my grandpa's," Birdie's friend at kindergarten tells me. "It's Bunco Night."

Oh so that was it. "That sounds like fun," I tell Jaron.

That morning I had walked into school with Jaron and his mom Cheryl, as I do many mornings. I have made some new friends with the parents at the elementary school, and I see them every day. They are cheerful people who tell jokes, share stories about their kids or their former lives without childcare duty, and swap recipes. I look forward to hanging out with them; they are the happy people who make my life happier. We have exchanged phone numbers, taken our kids trick or treating together, and had some play dates. We are the over-40 parents as distinguished from the teenage parents who look like they are 12, have lots of tattoos, and wear pajamas and slippers to drop-off.

So when we were walking into the school, Cheryl called out to another one of the mothers, "Hey are you going to make it tonight at 6:30?" I wandered purposefully toward the kindergarten, not wanting to seem like I was asking to be invited, too. Ouch: junior high school all over again.

Jaron asks if he could come over for a sleepover. "Sure, you are always welcome to come over," I tell him. "How many sleepovers has Birdie been to?" Jaron asks, and Birdie holds up a fist with no fingers showing and scowls meaningfully at Mean Mom. "ZERO". Chip off the old block.

"I have been to---oh so many I can't even count," the five year old friend goes on, wiggling his fingers. Oh boy, just like his social mom.

Bunco is a card game, I found out, but also a really carefree all-girls get together. Maybe the next year the fun parents will learn how fun I am and invite me to bunco night, too!

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Why I Love My Job

It is exciting: it keeps me guessing about what the student with the ankle bracelet, who is on house arrest, was in the Big House for; and also whether it would be wise to inform him he has not attained the standards necessary to pass my English class this semester. No, using the phrase "titty bar" in his paper was not the only reason he is failing. Are there bulletproof vests made in some stylish material for the anxious paraprofessional?

My students are nice to me. They don't yell, "You're a Big Meanie!" , talk down to me and say "duuuuh, Mom.." Sometimes they bring me sodas or trinkets as peace offerings.

My students respect physical boundaries. I don't get pawed, trampled, my hair pulled, snuggled by youngsters who act like they would rather still be breastfeeding than eating solids at the ages of 5 and 8.

I get to do something I know how to do. I know how to analyze prose and diagram a sentence. How do you wake up sleeping kids who are sleeping like rocks when there are only twenty minutes before the first school bell rings? What is the proper grip to force a small, clenched mouth open to brush the teeth inside? How do you control two beings SCREAMING at each other at the top of their lungs over who gets to hold the cat. How do you protect the cat? What do you say to a little person who pleads, "I'm hungry, I'm cold, and lonely." If you have also failed this quiz, the correct answer to the last question is hot chocolate, but it has to be sugary, preferably hfcs and non-nutritious so don't dare try to sneak in extra milk.

I don't have to ASK Dad, could he please be ever so nice and read a kid a bedtime story? Would he mind chasing his darling child down and scrubbing his face if he happens to have a chance to take a tiny break from answering pressing listserve questions about grasshoppers? Isn't there an amazing recipe for soft boiled eggs that he used to make, and wouldn't he like to possibly please FEED THE KIDS who are screaming I'M HUNGRY! instead of downloading photos right now? I get home really late and everyone is asleep and I do not care whose teeth were brushed, and whether they had Cocoa Crispies for dinner. At least I didn't have to cook it.

My students have problems. They are poor, badly educated, single parents, runaways, survivors of abuse, but they are trying to improve themselves and I am trying to help them. I used to want to be a counselor, but I did not want the big responsibility for someone I barely knew's well-being. Now I hear about so many problems---the evictions, the addictions, the sick kids, the violence, the untimely deaths, and I have a little beam of hope to offer, I hope, in education. Maybe the students can even get out of their own heads for a while, too, while reading the Declaration of Independence.

Wi-fi! I do not want it in my home since I would never see my family again; they would be abducted by computer games and bug guide searches. BUT, that is like not wanting potato chips in the house when I would also have my hand deep in the bag. I'd be addicted too, but I am holding out, still trying to put stock in simpler activities. Cranberry chains for the Christmas tree, anyone?

The semester comes to an end, like it is now, and then another comes as a fresh start with new faces and new challenges. I wish someone would let me know what the prison release guys had been in for, though.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

Sim City

Dylan took his saved allowance (about $50) to the school book fair and spent it on computer software. He was trembling with anticipation to play Sim City 4, in which he could "build and magnage huge cities, establish vast transportations networks, keep Sims on the go by road and rail, airways and waterways," and so forth as the mayor of Sim City. But first he had to build the city.

He was busy at the computer for an hour, during which time he uttered comments like, "Awesooooooooooooome," and "Holy Mother of God!" so I knew he was engaged. After another hour, he wanted to show me the city, and so I received a guided tour by the 8 year old mayor.

There was a jutting cliff on the side of which is an active volcano, surrounded by water. A robot walks up and down the cliff, throwing plates into the abyss of the volcano.

I asked, "Where are the Sims going to live? Where is the city?"

"Oh, who wants to build that?" he said.

So this is what the world would be like if eight year old boys were in charge. The robot is still flinging plates; I guess the simulated world is functional, so maybe he did not do so badly!

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Things I Am Thankful for Today

I am thankful that I live in what is still the free world.

I am thankful my material needs are met.

I am thankful that my kids are healthy and (when not having tantrums) happy.

I am thankful for my membership at the JCC, and the positivity of the trainers at the gym there.

I am thankful for chocolate, fresh cranberry sauce, and the occassional good night's sleep!

I am thankful that my husband and I are employed in the public sector, and seem (seem!) to have secure jobs.

I am thankful for the solar system, and that I can see stars at night and learn about constellations.

I am thankful for seasons and weather, so every day does not look the same. Sweaters. Wool hats.

I am thankful for birds, since they can fly and sing--

oh no, now I will feel guilty for also EATING a bird today!

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Dreams from MY Father

I just finished reading Barack Obama's first memoir, Dreams from My Father. As you may know, Obama saw his Kenyan father when he was a baby, then his father (who already had a wife and two children abroad) abandoned him to pursue an advanced degree at Harvard. The next, and last, time Obama saw his father, a decade later, he came for a month-long, awkward visit. Nevertheless Barack's father wrote occasional warm, welcoming letters, urging Barack to come to Africa to be with his other (half-) brothers and sisters whom he had never met. Barack's young mother, Ann, maintained a legend of her ex-husband as a brilliant, inspired leader, downplaying his obvious absence in his son's life.

Barack believes in the myth, looks up to his dad, and then finally goes to Africa for the first time when he is in his mid-twenties. Amazingly, most of the many half-siblings and their mothers COMPLETELY embrace Barack as a wayward son who has come home. And Barack graciously accepts the hospitality and outpourings of love.

Since I was raised for the most part by a single mother also, I could not help comparing Barack's attitude toward his father with my own. During the first ten years of my life, my father was tenuously connected to the rest of our distressed household. I rarely saw him; he was at work seven days a week until late at night. The times I did spend with him I remember his pointed wit which seemed cruel. When my parents officially separated, my father moved several hundred miles away, and I saw him only a handful of times after that. We spoke on the phone and exchanged letters occasionally. At these times, he would often offer paternal advice, and provide verbal or written outpourings of support.

The letters were sincere and I appreciated the sentiment they held. Yet I wish I had the goodwill of the president-elect to put aside the resentment I felt at being abandoned. It occurred to me that if I were more charitable at heart, I would have a more positive take on my early years. We are what we are, however. My father passed away four years ago. Years before he died, I had let go and stopped feeling resentful, but then I never have been able to laud the heritage from my father.

In short, this is a good book which reveals exceptional (and enviable) character.

Monday, November 17, 2008

How I Spent Our Economic Stimulus Payment

The payment arrived surreptitiously in the middle of October, deposited automatically in our checking account. Usually we get several notices that a tax payment has been sent, but this time, there was no notice. We had, since May, been getting promises of the check, several notices that it was on the way, that the amount had been adjusted, but no money. I finally called the toll free number and found out the check was deposted, along with our 2007 tax refund, in October.

The timing made me uncomfortable; it seemed like a loan that is paid back the night before the depressed relative commits suicide, settling debts before the ship sinks. So while we are bailing out Wall Street with money that could be spent on public issues like affordable education, or decent health care--don't get us started here, right?-- taxpayers are getting their tiny refund, without interest for the delay. Hey, is it just me?

Well, to get back to accounting:

$759.00 to NM Propane for 250 gallons of propane (for heat)
$500.00 2 years' neighborhood association dues
$250.00 10 days' worth of groceries
$149.00 to PNM for electricity (2 months)
$139.00 blue jeans, socks, underwear, gloves, hats in little boy sizes
$3.00 at Bargain Square for a Captain Underpants book, a stuffed Cheetah, and a real redneck baseball cap that says "I'm So Broke I Can't Even Pay Attention"; these were all Dylan's choices and the cap largely suits him. Bargain Square, a thrift store, supports people who have disabilities, so some of that money will be contributed to a good cause. The other $1797, I cannot say as much; have I stimulated the economy?

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Pine Cone Craft

When I am stressed out, or feel the hours slipping away unproductively, I feel driven to make something. Crafty, eh? I guess the mindless repetition of making a knicknack helps people unwind. Last night I came across a flyer for a craft show at Dylan's school, and I decided we would gather pine cones and greenery from our yard and make crafts out of them to sell at the elementary school. My kids were excited as we got out wire, ribbon, scissors, and dove in. So we wound some of the greenery around a pine cone or two. And this is? A bumpy monk with a green Afro? Dylan bent coat hangers into circles and we wound juniper branches into wreath shapes. I felt more focused and productive once I got into bending the twigs and tying them with ribbons. The result was anything but professional looking, nor was it something anyone would buy. But it was suitable for hanging on the front door, even if the mail carrier ends up chuckling at our efforts. With Sunday ahead, I am looking for advice on making raccoons (or porcupines) out of the pine cones.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Upward Mobility at Kindergarten

A lot of times I get choked up when I take Birdie to his Kindergarten. The teachers seem so patient and good, tirelessly tying shoelaces and wiping chins. The ABC's and colorful pictures of seasons taped on the walls look vivid and cheerful. It is early in the morning, and I am still sleepy and feeling sensitive as the five year old students start bustling to attention, sorting out puzzles, marking their own attendance, ordering their lunches with color-coded popsicle sticks. From my perspective this looks like an orderly, sweet, productive and tolerant world.

What gets to me is the memory of when I was five. Since I was left alone so much, I already had a sharp survival instinct. My brother and I would wake ourselves in the cold house, make our breakfasts, and walk separately the mile to our school. I was so shy and uncomfortable with the other kindergarteners. I would have rather been at home by myself, although I did not feel safe at home either. My kindergarten teacher offered to drive me to school in the mornings so I would not be late all the time, and I guess my mother agreed, since there was a period of time when the teacher would stop by the house to pick me up, and drive me from one confusing, lonely spot to the other.

Birdie is also shy at school. Although I struggle with the effort of raising my kids in a loving environment, at least I am there for them and at least I know I am doing better than my parents did with me.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Food Schism

What is a corn dog? Is there actual food in a corn dog? After school, I thawed out some Edamame beans for snack. (The lightly salted ones from Trader Joe's taste really good.) Birdie is screaming, "I want a corn dog! Where is my CORN DOG!?" Then he is shrieking as though someone is torturing him. Dylan has already fished a Coke from the fridge. He has been hoarding the Coke since the Defenders of Wildlife picnic/rally, which supplied the sodas. His dad let him bring one home. I have a sinking feeling in my stomache as I look in the cupboard at the plastic bags containing organic split peas, nutrional yeast from the Co-op. There is no way my kids are going to eat this stuff. Especially not when Dad supplies them with Ding-dongs (a chocolate version of Twinkies) and Cocoa-Crispies on the sly. The colors of some junk foods alarm me--why are Sno-Balls SO pink? The generic Hawaiin Punch Birdie snuck into the shopping cart looks like it will glow in the dark. I am dismayed that my kids are putting these virtual nonfood items, plus chemicals, into their healthy little bodies. How am I going to make peace with the Nutritional Yeast/Ding Dong Schism?

lost my keys

D drove to work with my car keys, leaving me rifling through drawers trying to find a spare set to get my youngest to kindergarten on time. I was mean, yelling at my kids for minor infractions of not eating breakfast, refusing to wear socks, squeezing the cat too hard. The spare keys, it turns out, are locked inside my car; meanwhile the window of opportunity for getting to school on time has passed. DS comments, "Actually, I am feeling kind of sick," hoping the lost keys will give him a day off from school. I call D to drive back and bring me my keys, and then proceed to walk with ds to his school.

I don't like to be late often; but it is really hard to get clothing, lunches, backpacks ready; kids out of beds, hair combed, and make it to the school by 8:25. Then I rush to the bus stop to be there by 8:45 so my third grader can get the school bus to his highly gifted and talented program at another school. The nongifted parents, some of whom are half my age, are neatly dressed, as are their children, bright eyed and ready to start their work days, it seems, and dropping off their obedient children, without yelling at them, before the bell rings. Well it is a minor goal but tomorrow we will be all ready to go, bookbags packed, shoes tied, and so on, EARLY.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Cash n' Carry

One of my English language students worked at a Phillips 66 station right off of the interstate, in a seedy part of the city. Aside from ringing up gas purchases, she was responsible for filling gas tanks for commercial truckers. She is a petite young woman, slight and maybe 5'1". She is 22 and has been working (in Mexico, where I guess there are not labor laws) since she was seven years old. She helps her parents and younger sister with the rent. I was surprised she held this physical job, at which there was some heavy lifting, not to mention the risk of ringing up the purchases at the self-service and convenience store. Well, the station was privately owned and the owners were going out of business, so she was going to be out of a job. She asked me to write her a recommendation for a job, which I was glad to do: I knew from her writing that she was a hard working and enterprising person.

She sent me a thank-you note, which did not mention whether she got a new job, and which included a gift certificate for a store called "Phil's". I wondered if she was now working there. Recently I had a chance to drive to Phil's. Not surprisingly, it too was located in a part of town I would not like to be hanging around in after dark. It turned out to be a cash n' carry discount liquor store. There were some closed-down gas pumps in front, so I figured this was a renovated gas station, or previously a drive-through liquor store.

I went in and asked the young woman behind the counter if she knew if my former student worked there (she didn't). Well I don't usually drink except wine and this place did not seem to carry wine, so I used the gift card for a bottle of Kahlua. I did appreciate my student's thought, though the choice of store was unusual. I hope she improves her English and work options.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Blackout

The electricity in our rural house came back on this morning. There was a big cheer, and our 8 year old ran to the computer looking for his skateboarding game and our five year old rushed to the TV to find "Revenge of the Sith", in which both of them had been happily absorbed yesterday afternoon when the power went out. No power means no water, too, since our pump runs on electricity. Coincidentally the phone was also out. The sun was still up, so we played checkers for a while, until the sunlight in the house started to fade.

Secretly I welcomed the break from the electronic devices, and thought sitting around in the dark would be fun. DH got panicky about "wasting" an evening away from the Internet. Eager to take action, we went out to the car to plug in the cell phone and started calling the electric company, the phone company. Once the sun went down, the darkness was deeper than usual, since there were no lights from our few and distant neighbors. The moon was almost full and there was a warm glow to the windy, silver land outside the car windows.

Inside the house was less pleasant initially. B is still afraid of the dark, so he clung to my elbow while I fumbled with the flashlights, matches, candles. We got a little oil lantern lit and decided to tell ghost stories. I started off with, "Do you know the story of Rip Van Winkle?" Too literary. Trash that. "Have you heard about the headless horseman?" B's eyes got BIG and he hid his face. Too scary, just the title. I did remember a fun ghost story that I had heard at a slumber party in the fourth grade: the story of the vinda viper. (I remembered the giggly girls sitting around in our pajama's in my friend Barbara's den, spinning hair-raising tales. Do girls still do that?)

If you want to know the whole story of the vinda viper, check back later.

We piled into bed without even having to brush our teeth! The kids fell asleep right away. I lay there for a while in the dark, trying to discern something about the quality of my life, whether being there in the very dark house in the middle of nowhere sharing twisted up blankets with sweet little kids was a good place to be. I decided it was ok.

Then I was up at four, antsy, wanting some time to myself and to get some things done.

One thing I learned is to prepare a little blackout kit, with matches, candles, water to drink, maybe even something fun like glow in the dark paint, for the next time.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Styrofoam house

Look out, big bad wolf. We just built our haunted house out of styrofoam, complete with gravestones ("Rest in Pieces"), bats, cobwebs, AND shingles on the leaky roof. Completing it was a big deal, very Zen, very of the Moment: it mattered how that the little fence around it was appropriately skewed.

There were contingencies galore: --I am not going to say how many-- years of unfiled tax returns, missed deadlines for job applications, too...But for now I am going to let that slide.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

learning curve

I have a really mysterious funky picture I am trying to post here. So I cannot drag the picture over from my desktop. Don't worry, it is not a picture of me, nor a picture of the 44 cats. I am geared up about getting this page going: make way for Goody 2 Shoes to rest here feet here. Meanwhile my Mommy self is building a haunted house out of styrofoam, scraping melted crayon spots off the laundry; my bring home the bacon self is trying to upload my resume for an overdue job application; the fry it up in the pan self is peeling avocados for guacamole. How far does multitasking go?