tax time

In my heart of hearts, I am generally content with the work-related choices I've made. I chose my degrees based on interest and such-as-it-is aptitude without really any consideration for money or perhaps even job security. I have done what I wanted to do. And I do believe that in our current system teachers are partly compensated in time: I work thirty-six weeks of the year, officially, and I value the time that I seem to have paid for with a proportionally smaller paycheck. When teachers bitch about money I tend to be a little dismissive: we all knew the deal, and so many work much harder for much less. It feels wrong to complain, but I lose a little perspective when I take a hard look at my W-2. Hoo boy. The state teacher retirement fund better remain solvent; that's all I have to say. This is no way to get ahead. 

father-daughter

"I've only got a minute," says my retired father from the cellphone he uses so rarely I don't recognize the number.

I wonder, briefly and in passing, what's wrong: it's nearly the reaction inspired by a phone that rings too early or too late: "Who's in the hospital?" or, "Who died?" In a moment I am stepping into my shoes and pulling my coat, but only to meet him, as instructed, in the driveway. He doesn't negotiate the steps easily, and, as he said, he only has a minute.

As I walk out, I look to the passenger seat to confirm: he's solo. And already standing at the back of the Escape; he moves better when he's motivated.

And there it is: a duplicate of the aerobic step he'd purchased at some great discount for my mother.  "I thought it could help build up your leg."  I smile at the gesture without even trying to anticipate how or when that kind of activity will fit into my stress fracture rehab protocol. Sooner or later or never: whatever.  I'm not even faking it as I begin to express my appreciation for this unsolicited gizmo. He stops me with a raise of his hand:

He points out with ex-machinist precision the dimensions and height options. I can almost see his metal ruler; I certainly recognize the pause that precedes his inevitable, concluding warnings about the dire fates that could befall me were I to get carried away and trip over his gift. But darkness is falling and it's too cold for an extended debate on the likelihood of an ER visit.  "Okay," I concede; it's not as if grace is in the gene pool.

Mission accomplished, he's backing out almost before I've got the front door closed. I love you, too, Dad.

Yesterday

And thus the four became three, before we even met.

Standing at a conference room table, the secretary and I sort out a pile of Mexican papers that represent a new family of students.

"This is what we'd call the last name," I point out, differentiating family name from the appended mother's maiden, explaining the tradition. We agree that we like the way their culture preserves both names for the future, and I give her mental credit for recognizing that foreign ways have value: that's the level we're operating on here.

What would be, in English, a five-minute filing job expands to accommodate my not-quite-proficient Spanish; I want to say, "See what it's like?" But instead I focus on getting the documents matched up and learning what I can of the kids: nineteen year-old sister, 17 year-old brother, 16 year-old brother, each with middling bachillerato and secundaria grades from 2008. I'm unsurprised at the gap but make a note to ask after 2009 when I realize, a beat later, what I'm reading in the last folder, the one for a younger sister.

I go out to the front desk to show what I've found:

"She just turned 14 in December." I'm answered with a half-nod of comprehension. "And this. . ."

"Primary school."

"Right. She finished sixth grade in 2008. She is not a high school kid." Even though she's been trying to register here for a week. They've kept the appointments, filled out the papers, gotten the shots, and now, finally, somebody's noticed.

Given the logistics of squeezing a quartet of newcomers into my schedule, identifying one as a middle schooler is a triumph, or it should feel like one: one fewer schedule, one fewer desk, one less everything. A 25 percent-off sale. But it's also sending this girl across town to a teacher with 10 days' experience, and it's explaining to this family why suddenly this is the wrong school. For a split-second, it feels easier to skip her ahead.

But instead I close the folder and leave the secretary to her phone calls. I'll be back in the morning, to enroll and explain and do whatever I do. I am the teacher, technically. And yet.

Four

"Is that a lot of work for you?"

Is my pause perceptible?  It's not as if everything I have to do and juggle and reconfigure to fit four new students into into my more-or-less program flashed before my eyes. Instead I'm stuck mid-cringe, wedged between, "You have no idea what I do," and, "I have no idea how I'm going to do it." 

It is typical to have a new kid or two in January, at the more-or-less beginning of the semester. I know better to assume my schedule is fixed. But four? FOUR? I don't even have the desks. Let alone an all-beginner class to slip them into (none of them speak English) for even one of their eight yet-to-be-filled schedule blocks.  Wait, times four? Thirty-two. Thirty-two classes to schedule, though twelve or sixteen of them will be with me. With me in a room six or eight or twelve other kids who are doing two or three other things: nobody else will be starting at Lesson One.  Here's where my I'll-think-about-it-later starts to kick in, and oh, how later will be full of fodder.

At least I have books now, at least I have some software, at least I have some help on alternate days. At least I started to file and organize in December-- really. At least I have a day off before the new normal makes its debut. It will not be impossible, probably. But yes, my dear colleague, it's gonna be work.

Home

He is my object lesson, my there by the grace of God goes he.  Up until a month ago, not even a blink ago in geologic time, his home was an orphanage atop a fault line. But then the paperwork finally emerged from the byzantine Haitian bureacracy and his world shifted on a scale not measured by Richter. He was there, and now he is here-- except, of course, for part of his heart. 

This evening he sits in a middle American suburb where earthquakes are thus far only novelty and watches scant pictures from his home. The phones are out, of course, and all that is known-- if it is known for certain-- is that the hospital in his old neighborhood has collapsed. The fate of everyone else he knows in the world is unknown. They are all there, and he is here.  

American Red Cross  


Doctors Without Borders

Green Bay 45, Arizona 51 (OT)

Hot Stove

If the embedded video isn't working, click here.

I am deeply in football mode now (Go Pack Go!) and my only reaction to the winter free agent ridiculousness that is at the corrupted heart of baseball is a dismissive shrug of my shoulders. But this? This speaks to the Cardinal fan that will always be a part of me. And, it's funny as hell.

back at the start

Twelve hours from clean slate, from resolution, from here we go again. I'm feeling optimistically curious-- curiously optimstic? perhaps-- for what comes next: eager, rather than hopeful. Because if my 2009 demonstrated anything, it was the power of just doing. A year ago, I had no idea, no intention. But at some point I realized never had doesn't mean can't, so I did and now I do. I don't measure my achievement in miles, and I don't really think of it in past tense. I love this photo, and not just for the memories of that morning it inspires. I look at it and think, "I made that happen!" And now, whatever it is, I'll do it again.

too bad I don't write fiction

There is a story there, at the checkout in Walgreens, one that could go either way. As we both make our way to the no-waiting register, he hesitates and loiters, giving up his claim to be first. He could be half my age, but it doesn't seem he's being polite. Before I drop my armful of half-off impulses on the counter, I turn back to offer either, "Go ahead," or "Are you sure?" but his expression silences my gesture. I complete my purchase and walk out, leaving him alone to buy a pregnancy test and a Hallmark card.

Muppets!

imaginary nuts

"Is this officially an in-joke now?"

She is 12 and a half, a newish arrival to the world to having a verbal password into a group.

"It is!" I confirm, as we giggle through the aisles in search of imaginary nuts. (You had to be there.) She is, I must admit, too often too wary when I speak in exclamations. That she can't always tell when my rants are serious is not a credit to me, her mother. The stories she will tell won't be flattering.

But this one,this is a keeper, an grocery list mishap turned in to "that one time when." It is, we agree, each for her own reasons, the best trip to the grocery store ever. She couldn't explain, wouldn't guess, exactly what it meant to me, but I think the eavesdropping grandma smiling down into her cart in the baking aisle could.

closure

Hand on the doorknob, eyes down the hall: "Thanks for everything, Ms. P."

I nod, and we exchange see-ya-laters; this isn't goodbye but it is, so far, his second attempt to walk out that door. He had feared I'd try to celebrate him, so I didn't. He feared I'd try to give him something-- it's become a tradition-- so I refrained, calling him back only to hand him my card. His departure then, just like his graduation, an all-paperwork transaction with no pomp or circumstance or party. Maybe in May, maybe if he keeps his promise to me to walk through the ceremony.

I've told him (without basis) that his parents will appreciate it, that he'll someday be glad to have done it (perhaps), that two hours out of his life is not too much to give those of us who want the payoff and the photo memento (in other words, me). It's silly, I suppose. It's not like one cap-and-gown afternoon will trump nearly seven years (he was a sixth grader), but after all the laughs and the drama, the near-misses, close calls, and successes, the questions, the answers, the education in all senses, I'll take whatever closure I can get.

For now that boils down to a not-quite-casual doorway exchange and the choked-up feeling I got when he left.

Amen

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taking a break

This clip is not timely, and the song choice has nothing to do with anything I might want to say tonight. But I'm up to my ears in finals week prep, and thus especially prone to distraction. Flipping post-football channels-- which actually is unlike me-- I ran across the rerun of this. I didn't expect to like it--nobody else should sing that song-- but I enjoyed it, so here it is. Take the Japanese titles as an ESL touch (or evidence of who gets better bootlegs).

Joke of the Day, Except It's Not A Joke Edition

So the teacher e-mails the guidance counselor to confirm the origin of the new new kid.

"You said he's from Colombia. Is that right?"

"No, Hades," she types out just like that. H-a-d-e-s.

I pick up the phone.

"Hades?"

"Yeah, Hades."

(Insert pause full of furious brainstorming.)

"HAITI?!?"

She agrees that the kid is from Haiti. I, ladies and gentlemen, am the one in Hell.

and now, for my next act

To anyone and everyone who has ever said, "I don't know how you do it," when referring to my job, allow me just this once to eschew my traditional shrug of dismissal and instead offer an amen. Because me too neither, brother.

It's not that there's anything different about right now compared to always. It's not as if each individual day or hour or moment is really that hard. I throw it together and do what I can and get by, more or less or mostly. And every day something goes right, or somebody learns something, or at least I have a laugh.

But now and then I have a little out-of-body experience as I cope with some normal-for-me that becomes a periodic last straw. I hear myself, on the phone in my typical role-reversal with Guidance at the end of just another nobody-ever-told-me-the-US-constitution-graduation-requirement-was-now-my-responsibility-or-if-they-did-I-was-out-in-the-hall-with-pregnant-girl-number-four-(FOUR!)-day explaining that yes, we will take the heretofore unschooled fifteen year-old Haitian orphan just now transplanted into Missouri, and that yes, he'll be mine, and yes, we'll teach him English, and yes, I'll help you enroll him, and yes, we'll figure it out. It will be fine, I say and mean it in a code that also translates, "I'll take him off your hands."

I will, and I'm glad to, and it is, after all, my job, my ever-expanding-now-what-how-will-I-one-way-or-the-other position. It will happen, this much I can tell you. How? Well. I'll get back to you on that.

trouble

She leans forward across the desk that's shoved up next to mine, something on the tip of her tongue. She takes a breath then hesitates.

"I don't feel comfortable saying this," she says, whatever this may be. I have asked her no questions, personal or otherwise, invited no discussion. I'm just sitting at my desk finishing my lunch.

"Then you shouldn't say it," I emphasize, both sincere and relieved. "But," I add lightheartedly, "if there's something you need to ask someone, I have heard it all."

Two days later I hear it again, a different story from a different girl, unless her friend was running reconnaissance. I realize as we're talking, again out in the hall, that I had told a truth to which I've been a little oblivious: I have gotten pretty good at this. I am not indifferent to the dramas and the crises, but I am mostly unphased, at least on the surface at the moment, at least in my expression and tone.

When told about a pregnancy, a deadbeat dad, a lost job, a sudden move, a sheriff's knock upon the door, whatever else can knock a kid off-kilter in one five-day span, I can listen and I can calm. I can tell the truth as I see it and somehow reassure. Once upon a time these conversations filled me with above-my-pay-grade jitters; now I'd feel highly qualified to talk folks back in off the ledge. I don't know if word has gotten around or if they've just no where else to turn; I suspect both might be true. Regardless, I don't seek these troubles out. I just look up, and they're there.

in the hall

Once again, we're out in the hall, that public space always more private than a crowded room with three closed doors.

The convoluted details are nearly irrelevant, just one more example of life on the undocumented edge, one more object lesson on the fragility of a life not sheltered by paperwork. Many of us are one false move away from one kind of doom or another; the trip wires are just that much harder to see out in the shadows. Danger lurks everywhere. Story told and retold, he sadly spells out a conclusion that might satisfy the smug: his family figures they might as well return to South America, that for six years of hard work they have nothing to show but a family divided and a younger boy who speaks no Spanish. It's not the whole story, but for now it's the focus. I nod and consider.

Today he looks like an overgrown boy, every bit of teenager bottled up like the gel he has left on the shelf instead of sculpted into his hair. His voice is soft and stripped bare, no pretense, no bravado: "I just wanted someone to tell me it's going to be okay."

So I do.

As best I can, as honestly I can, I tell him what seems to me will happen, which worries of his are legitimate, and which are just catastrophizing. I tell him what I know and what I can guess; I tell him I understand. I hear reassurance in my voice even as I explain that I'm not sure. I feel the trust he has in me, and I try to live up to it.

For a few minutes, we talk, straightforward and seriously, until there's no more to say.

"You know where to find me," I say, and he thanks me, again. In separate directions, we each walk away.

whine

Sunday night is so Monday morning, never more so than when the Monday promises to lead off the first five-day work week in three. I'd say I'd barely remember what I need to do, but that's not true: I'm just trying to forget. Crunch time is here: paperwork deadlines and meetings, curricula to cover, big state tests, final exams. Between my shoulders I feel the tension that pulls between the three weeks remaining being too short and five days being eternity. Alas, the forecast says fifty degrees: too warm for snow.

P-T

I always work it in.

These four words are part of any initial exchange I have at my daughter's school: "I'm a teacher, too." As in, "So I know what you mean," as in, "I can relate," as in, "Don't try to pull one over on me." Except for the many for which I make an exception, I'm not a great respecter of teachers, at least without proof. Mostly it's the off-putting attitude that seems bundled with their certificates, that vague, "You're not, but I am." So my claim is some reverse psychology playing field leveler; it's likely all in my head, but I don't care. It can't hurt.

Tonight, meaningless mission accomplished, I immediately turned parent as I listened to the trio who spend near as much time with the girl as I. I smiled as I digested the praises that were sung by the Comm Arts teacher who really does seem to appreciate her. And then I laughed-- though not in disagreement-- at the former cheerleader who proclaimed the girl, "an eccentric young woman" (quirky had already been taken). "What a nice way to put it," I said, meaning, "is that the best you can do?" as I pictured what opinion I'd be putting a front on if I trotted that phrase out to a parent. It's an experience, being on the other side.

As I left I was satisfied that these strangers know my child well enough and will do all right by her; in my mind, it's mostly up to her. Of course, a glowing academic report makes it easier to assume that they'll do no harm and might help her. Flattery works even on skeptical me.