The sweetness of a carefree summer lasted only until about mid July for me. Summer vacation was halfway over and I began have nightmares about the school year to come. In one scenario I showed up late to the first day of school because I had lost track of time while on a date. I crashed my car across the campus frantically trying to drive right up to my classroom door. In another dream it was the first day of school and I didn’t have any of my handouts prepared. I stood there exposed, a fraud pretending to be a responsible teacher, in front of 35 expectant, overachieving honors students. Worst though, was the nightmare in which the guy I’ve been seeing filmed us having raunchy sex and posted it on the Internet with my name as the tagline for Google searches. Needless to say this horror of a dream did not end well; I lost my job and my teaching career was destroyed.
Whoa, I guess I have some anxiety about returning to the classroom. Last spring was rough, and I succumbed to depression. Being laid off, toiling on my thesis, my grandmother’s illness and death; it was all bad. Having to perform for students, putting on my teacher face day after day felt oppressive. I am scared of feeling that way again this year; more scared of that feeling than I am of actually teaching another school year.
This, then, is a little feel-good motivation. These are some gems from the end of last school year that I’ve kept tucked away for a moment such as this one to remind myself why I teach. I only hope I can recreate some of this magic again next year!
“This Feeling for You”:
This is a poem written by a tall, soulful, Dumbo-eared boy from marching band. His previous credits include a short story about his numerous crushes and unrequited loves. In that story, the names of his crushes were anagrams of many girls from our class, eg Stephanie became Epishtiane in. Tim read this poem, though, as part of our open mic at the end of the year.
This feeling for you is something I can’t explain,
sometimes it’s fantastic, sometimes it’s horrid.
It’s horrible when I’m not with you,
And it turns terrific when I see your face the next day.
This patience for you is something I can’t explain,
waiting 30-40 minutes after school for you,
to say hello and goodbye to almost everyone you see,
just to spend 25 minutes walking you home.
But that’s ok,
because 25 minutes can feel like a lifetime with you,
it just depends on what I make of those minutes.
This way I act around you is something I can’t explain,
doing crazy things,
from swallowing the legs off of gumbas,
to licking tampons with fake blood on it…
don’t ask,
But it’s all just to make you smile,
and to make you feel better when your [sic] down.
This feeling for you is something I can’t explain,
sometimes it’s marvelous, sometimes it’s detestable.
It’s awful when I’m not with you,
and it turns amazing when I see your face the next day.
You can imagine the uproar when Tim came to the tampon line in his reading. It was difficult to quell the pandemonium in the room, but luckily everyone was curious to hear what outrageousness would emerge from his mouth next. I’m choosing to overlook the fact that Tim clearly took nothing away from my lesson on run-on sentences and the use of the semi-colon to separate independent clauses.
Another Romantic Moment from the Poetry Unit:
On the final day of class, I asked my students to write anonymous appreciations on slips of paper that I would then read for the entire class (ie, “I appreciate (insert a classmate’s name here), because (give a heart-warming reason here)…)
Rowan, a kid who’d almost failed freshman English, but had shown dramatic growth and elected to go into junior honors next year, wrote this in his anonymous appreciation: “To Adrienne: my last poem was about you.” Rowan had sat opposite Adrienne for most of the year, though I had never witnessed any interaction between them. When it came time for me to read and grade Rowan’s poetry portfolio, I eagerly flipped to the final poem:
Words Never Said
I look at you everyday
Never having anything to say
So I play it off
And keep it cool
And not act like that big of a fool
But what can I do
When I think I might be
In love with you
Added now to my list of goals for the next school year: orchestrate an encounter between Rowan and Adrienne. Perhaps I can pair them together for groupwork…
And Finally… The End of Year Familial Drama that both Broke and Gave Faith to My Heart:
Charlotte and Maria were two sisters both enrolled in my fourth period sophomore class. Both were quick learners, articulate writers, and eager for an adult mentor. They came from a family of three girls, all in attendance at El Camino High School. Charlotte was actually concurrently enrolled in both my sophomore and freshman classes, having failed English the previous year. Maria applied to be my TA for next year. Thus, I spent much time with both girls, and being one of three sisters myself, I felt a special kinship with them.
They’d emigrated with their mother from the Philippines to the US about ten years previous. A single mom, their mother worked two fulltime jobs from 8:00 am to 12 midnight daily to support her family. This toil and sacrifice bespoke her love and dedication to her daughters, but it also meant that the girls were expected to raise themselves. This was a tall order, and might have worked out better in the Philippines where sucking it up and working hard, supporting the collective family unit were the values in the dominant culture. But Charlotte was an American girl now, and this was a lot to ask. She roamed the streets with her friends after school, experimented with drugs, explored her sexuality, fought fiercely with her family and got in lots of trouble. Mom decided, “I can’t deal with this unreasonable, wayward daughter anymore,” and sent her to live with Grandma.
Spring semester, Charlotte seemed to fall to pieces. She cut my fourth period class every day and came tardy to fifth period an emotional wreck. Usually, she’d then ask to see the counselor or school nurse or excuse herself for a 20 minute trip to the restroom. When I confronted her about this pattern, she tearfully explained her situation and told me she could not stand to sit in fourth period across the room from her sister. “I feel like my family doesn’t want me anymore. We never talk. I can’t stand to sit here and see my sister looking at me. She doesn’t care about me.” I doubted this very much, and told Charlotte so. The counselor spent a couple sessions working with all three sisters, but Charlotte was defiantly silent. The counselor advised me to just try and hang on with Charlotte till the end of the school year. She’d likely get shipped off to the continuation high school soon enough anyway. Charlotte was now failing every single class. One day, she fled the classroom in tears. I teach in the portable that time forgot in a far corner of campus, so it was okay for her to hang out on the blacktop outside for a few minutes. Suddenly, though, a booming crash like a minor temblor shook the room. Startled students looked up from their group work alarmed. Hurrying outside to investigate, I found Charlotte nursing some bloody knuckles and heaving in sobs. She said Maria’d been mugging at her. I began to think the end of the year could not come soon enough for Charlotte.
As previously recounted, there were some pretty cute appreciations written on the final day of school. As I sat on my stool in the center of a horseshoe of desks reading them aloud for my rapt teenagers, Maria warned me, “Be careful, Ms. Sterling, some people wrote their names on the backs of the slips of paper.” So far, I had not encountered any appreciations signed in this fashion, but I diligently cradled each in my hands thereafter. And when I came to Maria’s appreciation, I understood her fear of exposure, for she had indeed signed her own appreciation in this way. She wrote, “I appreciate Charlotte for being the strong girl that she is. I appreciate her as a person.”
A few minutes later, I came to Charlotte’s appreciation. She had written, “I appreciate Maria because no matter what happens I’ll love her till the day I die because she’s been with me my whole life.” It killed me that they had written these sentiments for me to read aloud anonymously, but they could not openly share their feelings with one another. But then again, maybe they knew each other’s voices. Sisters can tell. Despite everything, I think they’re going to be okay.
As a teacher, I am a witness and a rock. I witness my students’ joy and suffering, and I am a rock in their lives. Always there. I bear witness and I stand by consistently. It is worth it, and I’ll keep coming back no matter how hard it gets.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Female Bonding
dedicated to my Grandma Helen
Because I’m still in love with you,
I wanna see you dance again.
Because I’m still in love with you.
On this harvest moon,
I can see you dancing
Sweating cocktail glass in hand
Soft skin pouching at the crease of
Your Hawaiian floral swimsuit
Feet shuffle in a hula sway.
Because I’m still in love with you
I wanna hear you say again,
“Well bless your heart!”
When I climb into your lap
Strong bony legs
Roped in varicose veins
Because I’m still in love with you
I wanna feel you braid my hair again
Forehead stretched tight
Tears spring between my lashes
You’d pull and twist and bind
My frizzy hair and it keeps for days
Because I’m still in love with you
I wanna roast in the sun again
Splashing through laps
Escaping the pool sweep
And testing the pH.
Let’s lay in the prickly, itchy lawn
Drink diet cokes and play us some gin.
Because I’m still in love with you
I wanna know
What made you fierce?
What made you strong?
Purple feet plant and plough
Through Montana farms
Berkeley hills and radio reports
Of bombings in the pacific
Woman of contradictions
You loved so easily, so fiercely
What made you guarded against those
Who loved you best?
I can see you now:
Ramrod spine, unflinching fingers
Carrying a grimy water glass to bed
Warm bosom and coral lipstick
Lavender hairs stretched
Round and round curlers
Oversized tee-shirt as a nightgown
Puff-painted scrawl reads:
“We love you, grandma.”
Gift of the three weird, squawking, bickering, elbowing, tickling, giggling, hollering sisters.
Warm, pink bodies splashing and writhing through the chlorinated blue.
Itching, sweating knobby knees lined up in the back seat,
Heads rest on shoulders, and we dream.
Because I’m still in love with you
I wanna say to you what
I’ve never said before
Men may run the world and steal our hearts
But trust in sisterhood
Because we are strong enough to
Stand side by side
share a little strength with mankind,
and fortify this world.
Because I’m still in love with you,
I wanna see you dance again.
Push the switches on your mint-green
Tape recorder, tell stories and
Listen to me laugh,
Learn through the world
Learn through the stories
Learn to love and then leave this life.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
On Marijuana
As a teacher, I often find myself thinking to my students, “Do as I say, not as I do.”
The first time I smoked weed, I was fifteen years old, hanging out at my friend’s party. Her parents were out of town for the weekend and she had a fully-stocked kitchen and a hot tub. Perfect party recipe. Two of my guy friends packed a bowl and taught me how to smoke. And I smoked and smoked, bowl after bowl. Because, you know that first time you’re high, you don’t realize you’re high. Afterwards, my guy friends who’d supplied the goods encouraged me to take off my top. That seemed like a great idea, too. Hanging out in my undies felt nice and free. I felt special upon receiving the compliment that I “had a nice rack.”
Now, having spent years in a relationship with a daily smoker, I have mixed feelings about marijuana use. I have plenty of friends and family who smoke. Yet, there is nothing I hate more than a “weed super-nerd.” You know the type: can reel off the specs of a particularly chronic harvest of herb, knows precisely how to calculate the desired air pressure in a water bong, and the chemical reaction involved in how THC affects the body. These weed super-nerds are fantastic at baking brownies, and understand precisely how the THC separates from the plant and will bond to the nearest fat molecules (such as butter) at high temperatures. This extensive knowledge and fascination with marijuana is obsessive—fanatical, and strikes me as particularly pathetic. Please do not worship at the shrine of weed. It’s just a plant, a drug, like any other.
Thus, I was particularly dismayed by a recent poem written by my student. In my sophomore classes, we have been reading and writing poetry in different forms. We study poets’ use of figurative language, sensory detail and concrete imagery, and try to employ these techniques in our own writing. Today’s lesson was the ode. Jake turned in a poem titled “Ode to Grapes”:
They taste so good
whenever I eat them.
Some are sweet
others are sour.
The green ones are
as green as a $100 bill.
and the purple ones are
like Barney.
It’s even better
to eat them both at the same time.
I feel like I’m on a cloud when I eat them.
The smell is so strong
you can smell them from a mile away.
The fragrance is one
of a kind.
While reading this poem, I was initially pleased that Jake included simile and detail appealing to the senses of sight, touch, and smell. But wait, I seemed to remember my ex telling me “grapes” was slang for purple weed. Urban Dictionary confirmed my suspicions. I like the fruit grapes pretty well myself, but I’ve certainly never enjoyed them so much I felt like I was on a cloud, and I wouldn’t say their smell is particularly strong. I’ve got a weed super-nerd for a student! So devoted is he to pot that he has written an ode singing its praises.
My first reaction was one of annoyance: he thinks he can get away with this and pull one over on me! He thinks he can turn in a poem about weed for credit and I won’t even realize! I’ll set him straight. However, as I told this story to more and more people, most didn’t seem to know that “grapes” is a euphemism for purple marijuana. Turns out this is pretty much an insider, street term. I realized that if I don’t handle this situation carefully, I could come out looking like the stoner. If I confront my student the wrong way, I could come off as knowing too much about weed and its related terminology.
I struggle to define what my student has done wrong, and what an appropriate consequence should be. Of course, marijuana is an illegal substance and my school’s line is one of zero tolerance. But that’s not me, and I have to teach in a way that encourages my students to make healthy decisions and think for themselves, yet without undermining my school’s policies.
I believe weed should be legalized. It is one of the biggest sources of revenue for the state of California, but right now this is all under the table and uncontrolled. College students regularly drink themselves to death, since somehow alcohol consumption has become a competitive sport and the ability to imbibe copious amounts has become a point of pride among youth. Alcohol-related car accidents are one of the leading causes of death in the country, and drinking causes belligerence in many and quite violent bar fights. I’ve never known anyone to die of a marijuana overdose, and I’ve yet to meet a belligerent stoner.
However, this is not to say that smoking weed is particularly healthy. Certainly, inhaling smoke and carbon monoxide is damaging to the lungs, THC impairs judgment and clouds the mind, and marijuana has been proven to cause short term memory loss. I will never buy the bullshit line, “I’m a better driver when I’m high,” because weed is a depressant, slowing the nervous system, potentially impairing vision and slowing one’s response time and ability to think clearly. Finally, I have seen plenty of friends become psychologically dependent upon marijuana, perhaps even physiologically addicted.
Yet, cigarettes, alcohol, and coffee remain legal substances. In America, the land of the free and home of the brave, one is free to drink oneself to death, perhaps even encouraged to eat oneself to death (thanks to the government’s support of an agricultural industry that relies on our continued consumption of processed foods). Shouldn’t we have the right to smoke ourselves to death, if we so choose?
So where does that leave me? Here’s what I know: Many friends and I smoked weed throughout high school, and for us it was not a gateway drug. We were bound for success and did not have addictive personalities. We knew how to handle ourselves. However, many people I know have also pissed away their potential smoking weed, literally playing out the lines of the song by Afroman: “I was gonna go to class before I got high/ I coulda cheated and I coulda passed/ but I got high/ I am taking it next semester and I know why/ - cause I got high.” Jake is in danger of doing just that. A strong writer and the rare student who enjoys reading outside of class, Jake never does his homework and will probably squeak by with a D this semester. Is it because he gets high? Maybe. My responsibility as his teacher is to help him learn as much as possible and help him make healthy decisions. Right now, weed isn’t looking like the healthiest choice for him.
Friday, May 7, 2010
This One's in Honor of the Mothers
This is a piece I wrote almost two years ago in honor of my grandmother, Nora, who passed away in January 2008. My maternal grandmother recently passed away, too, in March, but I have yet to write her something. I will when I have the time and space to process her death. For now, this one's for all the mothers on Mother's Day (sorry folks, it's a long one):
My grandma Nora had a plaque hanging in the guest bedroom of her house, which said, “I love my friend and the reason why is he is he and I am I.” Sweaty summer nights I’d lie awake in the back of Nora’s Davis home, sheets kicked off, staring at those words. They marched across my eyes like sheep over a fence as my breathing slowed and my body slackened with sleep. Those summers in Davis, Nora played games like memory and Candyland out of her living room game cupboard with me and my sisters. Hunched over the wheel of her extra-long Ford Taurus wagon (space for my grandpa’s wheelchair in the back), she drove us to the Avid Reader, a local bookstore, to pick up shiny, crisp picture books and chapter books, and she bought us back-to-school outfits at Gottschalks in the Woodland mall. When we departed for the sticky, cramped car ride home to Oregon, Nora packed us gummi worms in plastic sandwich bags as a treat for the road.
In second grade, I interviewed Nora about her parents’ immigration and wrote a report for school. Nora’s mother and father met in Poland, in a region occupied by the Russian czar at the time. Her father and his brothers printed subversive literature criticizing the czar, which her mother distributed on the streets. Nora’s mother was captured and thrown in prison one day while passing out pamphlets, and her father fled the country. Eventually, her mother escaped jail and joined her father in Austria, then together they moved to the United States. In the US, her father continued to work as a printer at the Yiddish language Jewish Daily Forward. They held steadfast to their socialist views, and my grandmother gave speeches on street corners in support of labor unions and workers’ rights. This report earned me a privileged visit to the principal’s office, where I read it aloud to her face-to-face. Proudly, I mailed a copy to Nora. When my dad and his siblings scoured her home years later in preparation to sell it, they discovered this paper tucked neatly away, saved for years and annotated with her comments and corrections.
The last time I saw Nora, it was Thanksgiving—an annual family reunion feast at my uncle’s home in Palo Alto. Nora is the matriarch of the family, seated in a throne-like position, wheelchair pushed handily to the side, at the sunny dining room table, rather than at one of the myriad lesser tables nonetheless lavishly set with silver and cloth napkins scattered throughout my uncle’s generous home. My aunt will fetch her a selection of the Thanksgiving dishes.
Nora’s knees bow in and knock together, feet splayed awkwardly shuffling when she walks. The effects of her childhood polio have returned to her in old age. Nora’s a good head shorter than me, now; her back has doubled over on itself and the vertebrae have collapsed together with osteoporosis. No need to rise or walk, though. We all come to her. Indeed, at her memorial, the head of her assisted living home remarked that Nora had more visitors and telephone calls than any other resident.
Anyhow, at Thanksgiving, I somehow scoot in between all the aunts, uncles, cousins, and great grandkids to secure a seat by Nora’s side. The conversation does not flag with her at the table, as it would with my mom’s parents, who require an ongoing enunciated, higher decibel translation of all utterances. No, Nora always wears her hearing aid. She doesn’t miss a thing.
“So, Annie,” she gets right to the point, “I hear you just broke up with Andres last week? What happened?”
I don’t feel intruded upon by my grandmother’s directness. Really, small talk bores and frustrates me. Nora knows what she wants to say and what she needs people to hear. She tells me softly, kindly yet forcefully, “You know, I could see you weren’t well matched when the two of you came and visited me back in September. You were really the leader, while he hung back a bit.”
…………….
I remember a conversation from that visit back in September, when Nora, Andres and I went to eat at Baker’s Square:
“Did you hear your cousin Isaac is going to bring his girlfriend to Thanksgiving this year?” Nora asks.
I gossip, “Well, last year, he told me, ‘I’ve been dating this girl for six months and there’s no way in hell I’d bring her to meet the family.’ I wonder what’s changed…is this a new girlfriend?”
“Well, in all those years, you never brought Patrick to Thanksgiving,”
I clamp down my urge to tell her that that doesn’t have anything to do with anything. Patrick, my boyfriend for four years, came to plenty of other family events. Why am I drawn to defend him now, with Andres, who performs so reliably well for family, sitting right across from me? I’m like a kid caught chomping on a wad of chewing gum. I want to blow it into a huge bubble and let it splatter gloriously all over my cheeks, but instead I swallow the thought down with a determined gulp.
Nora forges blithely onward, though: “So, what’s Patrick doing these days, anyway?”
“I dunno, same thing, I guess. Work, school—you know.” What’s Andres thinking right now? He’s inscrutable, but I bet he’s squirming on the inside. This thrills me a little—when will he crack and what will it look like?
“I never cared for him too much, but he was okay, I guess.” Nora trails off.
Gosh, Nora, I think, tell me how you really feel!
Should I trust this judgment of hers? Sometimes, she’s right on the mark, but how well did she really know me and Pat together? We were so immature; she hasn’t gotten to see his growth like she’s seen mine. When Nora died, Pat was the first person I called. And he understood me and my relationship to Nora so much better than Andres did. I wish she had known him better, so she could understand him.
“How’s your hamburger, Andres?” I ask feebly.
…………
Ignoring the aromatic Thanksgiving platter my aunt places before her, Nora continues, “Annie, you’re very strong, and you attract these men who are inspired by you, because of your strength. You’re powerful and you motivate them. But, you need someone who can balance you and support you, too.”
Damn! I feel like she’s hit the nail on the head, looked through my eyes into all those memory shards of frustrated relationship vignettes and pieced them together, giving me a solved jigsaw puzzle, a beacon of light, some picture of what I really want and need, which I can now work towards. I wish this moment would hang in the air for a while longer with some mood music—maybe piano—to highlight its significance. Instead, the chatter of relatives catching up envelopes it. But, I hold onto it, like a charm in my palm to rub over till its worn smooth. The last thing I remember her telling me. Nora has got five children and as many in-laws, 12 grandchildren, 3 step-grandchildren, and I-don’t-know-how-many great-grandchildren, yet somehow she knows me and knows how to make me feel special.
Now, I can’t even recall how I answered her—it must have been something simply along the lines of, “You know what, you’re right!” or “Thank you.” Maybe someone else drew her attention away before I could respond.
…………
Two months prior to Thanksgiving, before I moved out of the stifling studio apartment I shared with Andres and our little tabbie/tortoiseshell kitten, Mocha; before I realized I went to the gym after work not primarily for exercise, but to avoid going home, I dragged Andres into the car to make that hectic grind of tires and metal glinting sun down I-80 from Oakland to Davis. I’d never visited Nora before in her new assisted living home, just down the street from my aunt’s house in Davis.
We rang the doorbell at “My Parent’s House”, Nora’s new home, and a college-age girl in jeans showed us into Nora’s spartan single room—wood floor and a twin bed. Nora looked up from her hulking desktop computer to greet me with a fuzzy kiss on the cheek. She was all dressed in old-lady slacks and a quilted blouse to go out.
I had assumed Andres and I would get some take-out for lunch, which we’d have for a picnic in Nora’s room. She wanted an outing though, and she suggested lunch at Baker’s Square, which I guess is sort of like Denny’s for the elderly. She rang a tinkling bell sitting on her desk for one of the young attendants to come show me how to load her in and out of her wheelchair and the car.
I was worried. What if Nora had to go to the bathroom while we were out? Would she feel comfortable letting me help her? Would I feel comfortable helping her? Would she feel awkward or lose some dignity or pride by allowing me to lift her out of her wheelchair and maneuver her into the car?
Nora was fine, though, of course. Dignity is something you choose to have, and carry inside. You let yourself lose it. Once, when she still lived alone at home, Nora fell in the shower. She was half-dressed, naked from the bottom down, and managed to drag herself across the entire house to telephone the neighbor, who came over with his “big, strong boys” (her words) to lift her and call an ambulance. She chose not to be embarrassed by the experience.
My reluctance or hesitation to care for my grandma—was I afraid?—played itself out in my dreams. What was I willing to do for her? Is it wrong for a family to put an elder in a nursing home or assisted living? Grandparents care for their families for so long; shouldn’t we take care of them, too?
I dreamt that Nora was ready to die. In life, she was always a great supporter of “death with dignity” and the “right to die.” She had commented before that she’d been saving up her pills in case she ever needed them. The bookshelves of her study waved winking spring-like post-its—flags marking the books she had urged family members to claim. (In her honor, after she died, I took A History of the Russian Revolution, The Speeches of Eugene Debs, Lenin’s writings, and the biography of Trotsky. I will probably never read them, but I like to feel their presence.)
In my dream, Nora had summoned me to help her die. I brought her home to an old apartment. Gathered the final cocktail of assorted white pills. A glass of tepid, metallic tap water and an accordion straw. I gently lifted her blouse over her steely curled hair. Nora’s skin was so soft and pale, folded over and over in sags down her chest. So downy and squishy and crinkly like tissue paper. The vulnerability and experience in it. This is a dream, though; it’s so surreal, unreal and clichéd all at once. I dressed her in a pink princess party dress with taffeta and netting ruffles—the kind of thing I might have worn for my fifth birthday party or to dance class. I folded back the cushiony bedcovers—sheets and quilt. It feels so cool and inviting—I could almost crawl in, away from the monotony of calendars and telephones and swiveling desk chairs, myself. Tenderly, I tuck my grandma in her celebratory dress into bed and say “good night, good bye.” I smooth the covers over her with a caress, tiptoeing out the room like a parent sending a child off to dreamland. Would I really be capable of this adult task in real life? Am I strong enough?
In my battered Honda Civic on the drive over to Baker’s Square, Nora details a long, involved drama/love story between Miriam, a Muslim Palestinian girl who works at her home, and the house director’s adopted Egyptian son. “Is Miriam one of your caretakers?” I inquire. “Yes, but she’s really my friend.” Would Nora consider me a friend, too? She surely could not narrate so exhaustively the minutiae of my love life. For a moment, I’m jealous of Miriam.
Arriving at Baker’s Square, I cautiously inch into the disabled spot and gingerly muscle Nora from car to wheelchair to restaurant table. Seated around Baker’s Square in the beige, plastic booths are more senior citizens than I’ve seen in a while. They’re smacking over their bland tuna melts and meatloaf. Flies hover in circles around Nora’s head, occasionally landing on her like they would a horse or cow, crawling at wet eyes and musty ears. Sometimes she brushes at them, but mostly she does not notice. I have a horrible morbid thought that they can smell death on her, but I guiltily push it away. My revulsion is fearful, and feels evil. Who knows, maybe I’m an oblivious harborer of flies, too. At that time, I certainly harbored in willful oblivion plenty of other persistent dissatisfactions with my job and relationship, which I worked hard to keep at bay.
…………..
During a cold snap in January, there was a two-day power outage in Davis. Nora developed bronchitis and one of her lungs collapsed. She was in the hospital for a couple days, and her body was weakened and old, and she was ready to go.
As soon as my dad emailed to me that she was in the hospital, I understood, with this firm knowledge—more than intuition; more like an acceptance of what already is, that this was it. Nora was 88 years old and she had lived a very full life. She accomplished so much and she had given life and care to so many. Nora had cared for my grandfather throughout his 20 year illness, until he died about 11 years before. And she didn't want her life prolonged like that. She was practical and accepting of death. She faced it unafraid. She made great efforts to get all her affairs and will in order for her family. She felt her life complete, and she was prepared for the next step.
Nora took a turn for the worse on a Friday afternoon, and my parents and sister drove out to go see her at the Kaiser hospital in Sacramento. All afternoon and evening, she had been nonresponsive, and when my dad got there, she was still taking heaving, labored breaths, eyes closed, on 100% oxygen and a morphine drip. My dad took her hand and talked to her for a couple minutes, told her he was there. For the first time in several hours, she opened her eyes and made clear contact with my dad, almost lifting her head off the pillow to see him. Then she just shut her eyes again, relaxed and stopped struggling. A moment later, her machine started beeping a rapid alarm, and it was all over only five minutes after my parents had arrived at the hospital. That was her final gift to my dad, to wait until he arrived.
On a heavy, misty day in January, I bombed solo down I-80 for Nora’s memorial at Davis Parent Nursery School, a cooperative she founded back in the 1950s with a few other teachers and parents. The sky was grey and the vast verdant lawn of the schoolyard was littered with tricycles and sandcastle tools. The sight of the miniature toilets inside the bathroom triggered my memory of visiting this sanctuary of Nora’s before. My grey, balding uncle, who’s a slightly smaller, more serious version of my dad, somehow quavers determinedly through a complete read aloud of the Mary Oliver poem Nora had selected for her memorial. The ending persistently hums, inscribed within me… “I don’t know exactly what a prayer is/ I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down/ into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,/ how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,/ which is what I have been doing all day./ Tell me, what else should I have done?/ Doesn’t everything die at last and too soon?/ Tell me, what is it you plan to do/ with your one wild and precious life?”
There’s an open mic, and many of the parents of Nora’s former nursery school students speak, recalling her wisdom, kindness, generosity, open heart and open mind. Their children, who were toddlers when they knew Nora, are now middle aged. Most of my cousins and I don’t say anything. We have too much to say. I want to say… Nora had a weakness for chocolate. She played classical music on the radio while she cooked, but she also enjoyed my Bob Marley. She sent away for every dinky mail-order trinket offered her, and sometimes gave them to me as gifts later. When I was little, I’d wake up early in the morning to do chair aerobics with her, seated in front of the TV with little knobs and dials in the dark, leathery den. A former nursery school student of hers made it into the NFL, and she watched all his games. In fact, every time I came to visit, she bored me with her proud stories about what her former students were now doing. She was inquisitive and read voraciously; I loved to discuss novels with her. She was very active politically, and steadfast in her views and principles without ever being pushy or preachy. She earned her MSW from UC Berkeley back in the 1940s, when she already had a child. The City of Davis is filled with her students and friends. Indeed, she made friends everywhere. Nora also found time to mother five children, and traveled with my grandfather, a UCD professor. She kept a candy jar in her living room. She funded my college education. She never disengaged from current events and her community. She was a teacher, and her life was filled with love. Nora showed me the kind of person I want to be.
We stopped off to say goodbye to Nora’s home, too, after the memorial. With housing prices going down the drain, we planned to put it on the market ASAP. While everyone else slumped in the living room, I browsed Nora’s bookshelves aimlessly, neck tilted in a crick to decipher the titles, till catching sight of a yellowing, tattered copy of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran—identical to the brand new volume she had given me upon my high school graduation. Intrigued, I flipped open the cover and read the inscription. It was a gift from her cousin, also named Nora, upon my grandmother’s college graduation in 1942. I felt a sublime little chill trickle down my spine and the hairs on my arms stood up.
I heard the words of Mary Oliver’s poem echoing in Nora’s voice, “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” I know I must actively choose and forge my life to live it fully, consciously, mindfully, like Nora did. Life is both too short and too long to just float through. I felt all bruised and worn down after this break up, but still hopeful about love. I don’t know exactly how to pray, but I do know how to love. Kahlil Gibran writes of love and relationships: “Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone…Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.” I want to find that balance, that give and take, which characterizes two individuals coming together in love. Now, Nora’s gone. And I’m here, piecing together her teachings still. This philosophy expressed in The Prophet, which Nora gave me as I transitioned into adulthood, picks me up, cycling round and depositing me back to my childhood insomniac nights in her house, where like a mantra, I read essentially the same truism in the plaque on her wall, “I love my friend and the reason why is he is he and I am I.”
My grandma Nora had a plaque hanging in the guest bedroom of her house, which said, “I love my friend and the reason why is he is he and I am I.” Sweaty summer nights I’d lie awake in the back of Nora’s Davis home, sheets kicked off, staring at those words. They marched across my eyes like sheep over a fence as my breathing slowed and my body slackened with sleep. Those summers in Davis, Nora played games like memory and Candyland out of her living room game cupboard with me and my sisters. Hunched over the wheel of her extra-long Ford Taurus wagon (space for my grandpa’s wheelchair in the back), she drove us to the Avid Reader, a local bookstore, to pick up shiny, crisp picture books and chapter books, and she bought us back-to-school outfits at Gottschalks in the Woodland mall. When we departed for the sticky, cramped car ride home to Oregon, Nora packed us gummi worms in plastic sandwich bags as a treat for the road.
In second grade, I interviewed Nora about her parents’ immigration and wrote a report for school. Nora’s mother and father met in Poland, in a region occupied by the Russian czar at the time. Her father and his brothers printed subversive literature criticizing the czar, which her mother distributed on the streets. Nora’s mother was captured and thrown in prison one day while passing out pamphlets, and her father fled the country. Eventually, her mother escaped jail and joined her father in Austria, then together they moved to the United States. In the US, her father continued to work as a printer at the Yiddish language Jewish Daily Forward. They held steadfast to their socialist views, and my grandmother gave speeches on street corners in support of labor unions and workers’ rights. This report earned me a privileged visit to the principal’s office, where I read it aloud to her face-to-face. Proudly, I mailed a copy to Nora. When my dad and his siblings scoured her home years later in preparation to sell it, they discovered this paper tucked neatly away, saved for years and annotated with her comments and corrections.
The last time I saw Nora, it was Thanksgiving—an annual family reunion feast at my uncle’s home in Palo Alto. Nora is the matriarch of the family, seated in a throne-like position, wheelchair pushed handily to the side, at the sunny dining room table, rather than at one of the myriad lesser tables nonetheless lavishly set with silver and cloth napkins scattered throughout my uncle’s generous home. My aunt will fetch her a selection of the Thanksgiving dishes.
Nora’s knees bow in and knock together, feet splayed awkwardly shuffling when she walks. The effects of her childhood polio have returned to her in old age. Nora’s a good head shorter than me, now; her back has doubled over on itself and the vertebrae have collapsed together with osteoporosis. No need to rise or walk, though. We all come to her. Indeed, at her memorial, the head of her assisted living home remarked that Nora had more visitors and telephone calls than any other resident.
Anyhow, at Thanksgiving, I somehow scoot in between all the aunts, uncles, cousins, and great grandkids to secure a seat by Nora’s side. The conversation does not flag with her at the table, as it would with my mom’s parents, who require an ongoing enunciated, higher decibel translation of all utterances. No, Nora always wears her hearing aid. She doesn’t miss a thing.
“So, Annie,” she gets right to the point, “I hear you just broke up with Andres last week? What happened?”
I don’t feel intruded upon by my grandmother’s directness. Really, small talk bores and frustrates me. Nora knows what she wants to say and what she needs people to hear. She tells me softly, kindly yet forcefully, “You know, I could see you weren’t well matched when the two of you came and visited me back in September. You were really the leader, while he hung back a bit.”
…………….
I remember a conversation from that visit back in September, when Nora, Andres and I went to eat at Baker’s Square:
“Did you hear your cousin Isaac is going to bring his girlfriend to Thanksgiving this year?” Nora asks.
I gossip, “Well, last year, he told me, ‘I’ve been dating this girl for six months and there’s no way in hell I’d bring her to meet the family.’ I wonder what’s changed…is this a new girlfriend?”
“Well, in all those years, you never brought Patrick to Thanksgiving,”
I clamp down my urge to tell her that that doesn’t have anything to do with anything. Patrick, my boyfriend for four years, came to plenty of other family events. Why am I drawn to defend him now, with Andres, who performs so reliably well for family, sitting right across from me? I’m like a kid caught chomping on a wad of chewing gum. I want to blow it into a huge bubble and let it splatter gloriously all over my cheeks, but instead I swallow the thought down with a determined gulp.
Nora forges blithely onward, though: “So, what’s Patrick doing these days, anyway?”
“I dunno, same thing, I guess. Work, school—you know.” What’s Andres thinking right now? He’s inscrutable, but I bet he’s squirming on the inside. This thrills me a little—when will he crack and what will it look like?
“I never cared for him too much, but he was okay, I guess.” Nora trails off.
Gosh, Nora, I think, tell me how you really feel!
Should I trust this judgment of hers? Sometimes, she’s right on the mark, but how well did she really know me and Pat together? We were so immature; she hasn’t gotten to see his growth like she’s seen mine. When Nora died, Pat was the first person I called. And he understood me and my relationship to Nora so much better than Andres did. I wish she had known him better, so she could understand him.
“How’s your hamburger, Andres?” I ask feebly.
…………
Ignoring the aromatic Thanksgiving platter my aunt places before her, Nora continues, “Annie, you’re very strong, and you attract these men who are inspired by you, because of your strength. You’re powerful and you motivate them. But, you need someone who can balance you and support you, too.”
Damn! I feel like she’s hit the nail on the head, looked through my eyes into all those memory shards of frustrated relationship vignettes and pieced them together, giving me a solved jigsaw puzzle, a beacon of light, some picture of what I really want and need, which I can now work towards. I wish this moment would hang in the air for a while longer with some mood music—maybe piano—to highlight its significance. Instead, the chatter of relatives catching up envelopes it. But, I hold onto it, like a charm in my palm to rub over till its worn smooth. The last thing I remember her telling me. Nora has got five children and as many in-laws, 12 grandchildren, 3 step-grandchildren, and I-don’t-know-how-many great-grandchildren, yet somehow she knows me and knows how to make me feel special.
Now, I can’t even recall how I answered her—it must have been something simply along the lines of, “You know what, you’re right!” or “Thank you.” Maybe someone else drew her attention away before I could respond.
…………
Two months prior to Thanksgiving, before I moved out of the stifling studio apartment I shared with Andres and our little tabbie/tortoiseshell kitten, Mocha; before I realized I went to the gym after work not primarily for exercise, but to avoid going home, I dragged Andres into the car to make that hectic grind of tires and metal glinting sun down I-80 from Oakland to Davis. I’d never visited Nora before in her new assisted living home, just down the street from my aunt’s house in Davis.
We rang the doorbell at “My Parent’s House”, Nora’s new home, and a college-age girl in jeans showed us into Nora’s spartan single room—wood floor and a twin bed. Nora looked up from her hulking desktop computer to greet me with a fuzzy kiss on the cheek. She was all dressed in old-lady slacks and a quilted blouse to go out.
I had assumed Andres and I would get some take-out for lunch, which we’d have for a picnic in Nora’s room. She wanted an outing though, and she suggested lunch at Baker’s Square, which I guess is sort of like Denny’s for the elderly. She rang a tinkling bell sitting on her desk for one of the young attendants to come show me how to load her in and out of her wheelchair and the car.
I was worried. What if Nora had to go to the bathroom while we were out? Would she feel comfortable letting me help her? Would I feel comfortable helping her? Would she feel awkward or lose some dignity or pride by allowing me to lift her out of her wheelchair and maneuver her into the car?
Nora was fine, though, of course. Dignity is something you choose to have, and carry inside. You let yourself lose it. Once, when she still lived alone at home, Nora fell in the shower. She was half-dressed, naked from the bottom down, and managed to drag herself across the entire house to telephone the neighbor, who came over with his “big, strong boys” (her words) to lift her and call an ambulance. She chose not to be embarrassed by the experience.
My reluctance or hesitation to care for my grandma—was I afraid?—played itself out in my dreams. What was I willing to do for her? Is it wrong for a family to put an elder in a nursing home or assisted living? Grandparents care for their families for so long; shouldn’t we take care of them, too?
I dreamt that Nora was ready to die. In life, she was always a great supporter of “death with dignity” and the “right to die.” She had commented before that she’d been saving up her pills in case she ever needed them. The bookshelves of her study waved winking spring-like post-its—flags marking the books she had urged family members to claim. (In her honor, after she died, I took A History of the Russian Revolution, The Speeches of Eugene Debs, Lenin’s writings, and the biography of Trotsky. I will probably never read them, but I like to feel their presence.)
In my dream, Nora had summoned me to help her die. I brought her home to an old apartment. Gathered the final cocktail of assorted white pills. A glass of tepid, metallic tap water and an accordion straw. I gently lifted her blouse over her steely curled hair. Nora’s skin was so soft and pale, folded over and over in sags down her chest. So downy and squishy and crinkly like tissue paper. The vulnerability and experience in it. This is a dream, though; it’s so surreal, unreal and clichéd all at once. I dressed her in a pink princess party dress with taffeta and netting ruffles—the kind of thing I might have worn for my fifth birthday party or to dance class. I folded back the cushiony bedcovers—sheets and quilt. It feels so cool and inviting—I could almost crawl in, away from the monotony of calendars and telephones and swiveling desk chairs, myself. Tenderly, I tuck my grandma in her celebratory dress into bed and say “good night, good bye.” I smooth the covers over her with a caress, tiptoeing out the room like a parent sending a child off to dreamland. Would I really be capable of this adult task in real life? Am I strong enough?
In my battered Honda Civic on the drive over to Baker’s Square, Nora details a long, involved drama/love story between Miriam, a Muslim Palestinian girl who works at her home, and the house director’s adopted Egyptian son. “Is Miriam one of your caretakers?” I inquire. “Yes, but she’s really my friend.” Would Nora consider me a friend, too? She surely could not narrate so exhaustively the minutiae of my love life. For a moment, I’m jealous of Miriam.
Arriving at Baker’s Square, I cautiously inch into the disabled spot and gingerly muscle Nora from car to wheelchair to restaurant table. Seated around Baker’s Square in the beige, plastic booths are more senior citizens than I’ve seen in a while. They’re smacking over their bland tuna melts and meatloaf. Flies hover in circles around Nora’s head, occasionally landing on her like they would a horse or cow, crawling at wet eyes and musty ears. Sometimes she brushes at them, but mostly she does not notice. I have a horrible morbid thought that they can smell death on her, but I guiltily push it away. My revulsion is fearful, and feels evil. Who knows, maybe I’m an oblivious harborer of flies, too. At that time, I certainly harbored in willful oblivion plenty of other persistent dissatisfactions with my job and relationship, which I worked hard to keep at bay.
…………..
During a cold snap in January, there was a two-day power outage in Davis. Nora developed bronchitis and one of her lungs collapsed. She was in the hospital for a couple days, and her body was weakened and old, and she was ready to go.
As soon as my dad emailed to me that she was in the hospital, I understood, with this firm knowledge—more than intuition; more like an acceptance of what already is, that this was it. Nora was 88 years old and she had lived a very full life. She accomplished so much and she had given life and care to so many. Nora had cared for my grandfather throughout his 20 year illness, until he died about 11 years before. And she didn't want her life prolonged like that. She was practical and accepting of death. She faced it unafraid. She made great efforts to get all her affairs and will in order for her family. She felt her life complete, and she was prepared for the next step.
Nora took a turn for the worse on a Friday afternoon, and my parents and sister drove out to go see her at the Kaiser hospital in Sacramento. All afternoon and evening, she had been nonresponsive, and when my dad got there, she was still taking heaving, labored breaths, eyes closed, on 100% oxygen and a morphine drip. My dad took her hand and talked to her for a couple minutes, told her he was there. For the first time in several hours, she opened her eyes and made clear contact with my dad, almost lifting her head off the pillow to see him. Then she just shut her eyes again, relaxed and stopped struggling. A moment later, her machine started beeping a rapid alarm, and it was all over only five minutes after my parents had arrived at the hospital. That was her final gift to my dad, to wait until he arrived.
On a heavy, misty day in January, I bombed solo down I-80 for Nora’s memorial at Davis Parent Nursery School, a cooperative she founded back in the 1950s with a few other teachers and parents. The sky was grey and the vast verdant lawn of the schoolyard was littered with tricycles and sandcastle tools. The sight of the miniature toilets inside the bathroom triggered my memory of visiting this sanctuary of Nora’s before. My grey, balding uncle, who’s a slightly smaller, more serious version of my dad, somehow quavers determinedly through a complete read aloud of the Mary Oliver poem Nora had selected for her memorial. The ending persistently hums, inscribed within me… “I don’t know exactly what a prayer is/ I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down/ into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,/ how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,/ which is what I have been doing all day./ Tell me, what else should I have done?/ Doesn’t everything die at last and too soon?/ Tell me, what is it you plan to do/ with your one wild and precious life?”
There’s an open mic, and many of the parents of Nora’s former nursery school students speak, recalling her wisdom, kindness, generosity, open heart and open mind. Their children, who were toddlers when they knew Nora, are now middle aged. Most of my cousins and I don’t say anything. We have too much to say. I want to say… Nora had a weakness for chocolate. She played classical music on the radio while she cooked, but she also enjoyed my Bob Marley. She sent away for every dinky mail-order trinket offered her, and sometimes gave them to me as gifts later. When I was little, I’d wake up early in the morning to do chair aerobics with her, seated in front of the TV with little knobs and dials in the dark, leathery den. A former nursery school student of hers made it into the NFL, and she watched all his games. In fact, every time I came to visit, she bored me with her proud stories about what her former students were now doing. She was inquisitive and read voraciously; I loved to discuss novels with her. She was very active politically, and steadfast in her views and principles without ever being pushy or preachy. She earned her MSW from UC Berkeley back in the 1940s, when she already had a child. The City of Davis is filled with her students and friends. Indeed, she made friends everywhere. Nora also found time to mother five children, and traveled with my grandfather, a UCD professor. She kept a candy jar in her living room. She funded my college education. She never disengaged from current events and her community. She was a teacher, and her life was filled with love. Nora showed me the kind of person I want to be.
We stopped off to say goodbye to Nora’s home, too, after the memorial. With housing prices going down the drain, we planned to put it on the market ASAP. While everyone else slumped in the living room, I browsed Nora’s bookshelves aimlessly, neck tilted in a crick to decipher the titles, till catching sight of a yellowing, tattered copy of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran—identical to the brand new volume she had given me upon my high school graduation. Intrigued, I flipped open the cover and read the inscription. It was a gift from her cousin, also named Nora, upon my grandmother’s college graduation in 1942. I felt a sublime little chill trickle down my spine and the hairs on my arms stood up.
I heard the words of Mary Oliver’s poem echoing in Nora’s voice, “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” I know I must actively choose and forge my life to live it fully, consciously, mindfully, like Nora did. Life is both too short and too long to just float through. I felt all bruised and worn down after this break up, but still hopeful about love. I don’t know exactly how to pray, but I do know how to love. Kahlil Gibran writes of love and relationships: “Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone…Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.” I want to find that balance, that give and take, which characterizes two individuals coming together in love. Now, Nora’s gone. And I’m here, piecing together her teachings still. This philosophy expressed in The Prophet, which Nora gave me as I transitioned into adulthood, picks me up, cycling round and depositing me back to my childhood insomniac nights in her house, where like a mantra, I read essentially the same truism in the plaque on her wall, “I love my friend and the reason why is he is he and I am I.”
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Stereotyping
At some point, I believe almost all people (besides those lacking any self awareness or healthy self-doubt) have felt some insecurity about how others see them, or perhaps wondered about what kind of first impression they give. We all stereotype each other. As I explain to my students, stereotypes, though they can be harmful or inaccurate, serve a very important purpose for us mentally. They allow us to categorize and draw conclusions. If we didn’t do this automatically in most situations, life would become quite agonizing. At every turn we would have to carefully deliberate upon all the factors and carefully arrive at decisions and judgments. “Hmmm… this piece of fruit smells like a grape, it’s got a squishy skin that separates from the juicy soft interior, however it is a different color than any grape I’ve previously experienced. Yet, all other signs point to its belonging in the grape family. Yes, despite my hesitations, I must conclude that it is a grape.” Such would be the tedium of one’s life if one did not have the capacity to stereotype. The danger arises when we jump to conclusions too quickly without enough information, especially about people.
I caught a glimpse yesterday of how my students view me. In the midst of what in retrospect must have been a lecture that to my students seemed to lengthen every minute of the last period on Friday afternoon, I subconsciously decided to inject a tiny bit of excitement into my classroom. While attempting to explain to a bunch of 14 year olds why print sources such as books and major newspapers are generally more credible than websites, I remarked, “Publishers of books and newspapers have to cover their asses so they don’t get sued or lose credibility. So, they have fact-checkers and editors.” Half the class was titillated by my use of the term “ass” while half the class was so deep in oblivion that it slid right over their heads. No worries though, those who caught my comment did their best to wake those up who had missed it.
“Ms. Sterling said ass!”
“What, what did she say???”
“She just swore! She said ass.”
“Ms. Sterling, you never cuss!”
I did my best to ignore the uproar and redirect their awakened attention toward the topic at hand.
Finally, Ashley, a precocious girl, decided it was time to put the class in check: “Well, what did you think, guys?! She’s got a nose ring.” I guess having a nose ring and a potty mouth go hand in hand for some kids. For others, being a teacher and having a potty mouth are totally incongruent—how can both traits simultaneously exist in the same person? What other assumptions have my nose ring and my profession led my students to believe about me?
In dating, especially, first impressions can lead to stereotyping. While leafing through a Cosmo at the nail salon today, I encountered this piece of wisdom about dating: “In the early stages of a relationship everything you do seems amplified to your guy. If you text him twice, to him it may feel like 10 times and he may feel like you’re clingy.” Hmmm, what to do with this sage advice?
When you’re first getting to know someone, it’s hard to know what is actually indicative of his or her character and what is simply an offhand remark or nervous tic. I’ve been guilty of writing guys off for wearing sandals (I’m sorry, but men’s feet can be so unattractive) or saying annoying things like “parm” short for parmesan. Yes, I am superficial, okay? Clearly, unfortunate traits like poor choice of footwear or use of obnoxious abbreviations can’t tell me if a guy is a good man or not; all I know is they turn me off.
This is what makes dating so nerve-wracking. How do you know what is going to strike a chord with another person? And in a good or a bad way? I guess the best you can do is keep an open mind, withhold judgment, trust that good feeling you get when someone just makes you feel at ease, and hope that your date will give you the same courtesy and respect.
I caught a glimpse yesterday of how my students view me. In the midst of what in retrospect must have been a lecture that to my students seemed to lengthen every minute of the last period on Friday afternoon, I subconsciously decided to inject a tiny bit of excitement into my classroom. While attempting to explain to a bunch of 14 year olds why print sources such as books and major newspapers are generally more credible than websites, I remarked, “Publishers of books and newspapers have to cover their asses so they don’t get sued or lose credibility. So, they have fact-checkers and editors.” Half the class was titillated by my use of the term “ass” while half the class was so deep in oblivion that it slid right over their heads. No worries though, those who caught my comment did their best to wake those up who had missed it.
“Ms. Sterling said ass!”
“What, what did she say???”
“She just swore! She said ass.”
“Ms. Sterling, you never cuss!”
I did my best to ignore the uproar and redirect their awakened attention toward the topic at hand.
Finally, Ashley, a precocious girl, decided it was time to put the class in check: “Well, what did you think, guys?! She’s got a nose ring.” I guess having a nose ring and a potty mouth go hand in hand for some kids. For others, being a teacher and having a potty mouth are totally incongruent—how can both traits simultaneously exist in the same person? What other assumptions have my nose ring and my profession led my students to believe about me?
In dating, especially, first impressions can lead to stereotyping. While leafing through a Cosmo at the nail salon today, I encountered this piece of wisdom about dating: “In the early stages of a relationship everything you do seems amplified to your guy. If you text him twice, to him it may feel like 10 times and he may feel like you’re clingy.” Hmmm, what to do with this sage advice?
When you’re first getting to know someone, it’s hard to know what is actually indicative of his or her character and what is simply an offhand remark or nervous tic. I’ve been guilty of writing guys off for wearing sandals (I’m sorry, but men’s feet can be so unattractive) or saying annoying things like “parm” short for parmesan. Yes, I am superficial, okay? Clearly, unfortunate traits like poor choice of footwear or use of obnoxious abbreviations can’t tell me if a guy is a good man or not; all I know is they turn me off.
This is what makes dating so nerve-wracking. How do you know what is going to strike a chord with another person? And in a good or a bad way? I guess the best you can do is keep an open mind, withhold judgment, trust that good feeling you get when someone just makes you feel at ease, and hope that your date will give you the same courtesy and respect.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Are All Men Dogs?
For months, friends have been telling me I should start a dating blog because I have so many dating stories. However, I resented that my achy heartbreak was fodder for their enjoyment; I felt that some of my smug coupley friends loved to ask me about my love life just so they could live vicariously through me and reap the excitement of first time sexual experiences without the precarious uncertainty of “will he call me again?” and “was I good in bed?” and “what did he think of my body?” I, paranoid I know, was grudgingly accusatory. My stories were reinforcement for my smug coupled friends that they had indeed made the right decisions to remain in the warm comfort of their relationships. For, though the sex might be routine, and maybe this wasn’t the person they saw themselves marrying, it is rough out there in the world of dating. It’s not for the faint of heart. Unfortunately for me, I am rather faint of heart. I am, as Maya Angelou also characterized herself, “tender-hearted.” I am sensitive. I dislike superficial exchanges. I tend to take things at face value, and I don’t play games. These are not desirable qualities in the dating world. Thus, my many dating stories. So, I guess I’ve accumulated a few lemons. Let’s make some lemonade, y’all!*
The first question I shall tackle: have I-- and all those other smart, adorable single gals out there like me-- been dating dogs?
Most would acknowledge that I’ve encountered a long string of bad dating juju since breaking off my last long-term relationship about a year ago. I fell hard for my first date back in the game—tall, dark, handsome, and sensitive; he was totally my type. Unfortunately, I never saw him again after our first date, despite many reneged upon promises of further dates. Hmmm. No worries on my part yet; it was all clear skies for me at this point.
The disappointments continued to pile up though, as 20-something-year-old-boy after 20-something-year-old-boy failed to follow through. One, thank god, was up front with me. “I’m really not looking to rush into anything serious or exclusive,” he informed me on our third date. Why oh why didn’t I believe him? I suppose it was because of a linguistic nuance—he said “rush.” Hence, I thought perhaps he might like to slowly mosey into something exclusive. O, what fools these mortals be!
Others though, have exhibited true lameness. There was Aaron who slept with me, then facebook-messaged me a month later to apologize for being so out of touch. There were also a multitude I dated who then faded away and flaked. A classic example of douche-dom was Darren. I went on three dates with Darren. He pursued me. I thought I was way cooler than him. He invited me over to his place to bake eggplant parmesan together. He tried to sleep with me (of course), but we arranged to get together again a week later. I texted him to figure out where and when to meet up, and got a very jovial email in response informing me that he’d decided to “try and make a go at it” with someone he’d been seeing. Did she know this same guy had been actively pursuing me until two days before?
Proof that not only 20-somethings can be lame, but also 30-somethings can: A 35 year old baby whom I was supposed to meet for drinks, texted me moments before to say, “The game’s still going, but the bigger issue is I’m all out of cash.” Moments like when I received this text make me think I’m crazy. Whoa. On what planet is this acceptable-- let alone gentlemanly-- behavior?
Or what about Mark? He said he “[had] a lot of respect” for me. He would lose respect for me if he had sex for me. So, he wanted to keep me on a pedestal; he wanted to preserve this untainted image by not fucking me. That would be wrong. I was that nice Jewish girl he wanted to introduce to his parents. I dunno, I think sex is beautiful and vital. Disappearing and not ever calling someone again (which is what Mark did): now that’s disrespectful.
Do I sound bitter? I guess so. But here’s the thing. Most of the guys I’ve dated over the past year are nice guys. They were respectful and kind and interesting. They were guys I could imagine having as friends or cousins; guys I would want to have as friends or cousins. I know that many of my own cousins and guy friends have exhibited douchey-ness upon occasion. Up until the point where they turned lame, I thought almost all my dates were awesome. Open communication is difficult. I have a hard time handling it with my own roommate and my sisters, let alone near strangers in whom I have a sexual interest. Still, I believe it is kinder and stronger to be honest and straightforward.
Finally, I know I can be lame, too. I just returned from a “re-run” date today. He was a nice Jewish boy I met six months ago. Smart, goofy, good-looking. I had a great time on our first date. He kissed me goodnight and asked me if I’d like to hang out again. I said yes. Then, when he texted me about getting together again, I freaked out because I was already somewhat wrapped up in one of the afore-mentioned lame-o’s. I said something to the effect of, “I’m really busy and don’t have much of myself to give right now. I’d like to just be friends.” If that had been true, it would have been alright. But, given my earlier behavior and the fact that I did honestly like him, it was totally LAME. I’m lucky to have run into my re-run out on the town, and I’m extra lucky that, despite my lameness, he agreed to go out with me again.
So, boys and girls, what do you say? Why don’t we stop being such cowards? Why don’t we start being kinder and more honest with one another? What’s so scary about being kind and honest?
*All resemblances to real people... are not coincidental! But, take comfort in the fact that all names have been changed to protect your anonymity. And who knows, maybe when I'm a famous published author, you'll brag about how lame you acted towards me :)
The first question I shall tackle: have I-- and all those other smart, adorable single gals out there like me-- been dating dogs?
Most would acknowledge that I’ve encountered a long string of bad dating juju since breaking off my last long-term relationship about a year ago. I fell hard for my first date back in the game—tall, dark, handsome, and sensitive; he was totally my type. Unfortunately, I never saw him again after our first date, despite many reneged upon promises of further dates. Hmmm. No worries on my part yet; it was all clear skies for me at this point.
The disappointments continued to pile up though, as 20-something-year-old-boy after 20-something-year-old-boy failed to follow through. One, thank god, was up front with me. “I’m really not looking to rush into anything serious or exclusive,” he informed me on our third date. Why oh why didn’t I believe him? I suppose it was because of a linguistic nuance—he said “rush.” Hence, I thought perhaps he might like to slowly mosey into something exclusive. O, what fools these mortals be!
Others though, have exhibited true lameness. There was Aaron who slept with me, then facebook-messaged me a month later to apologize for being so out of touch. There were also a multitude I dated who then faded away and flaked. A classic example of douche-dom was Darren. I went on three dates with Darren. He pursued me. I thought I was way cooler than him. He invited me over to his place to bake eggplant parmesan together. He tried to sleep with me (of course), but we arranged to get together again a week later. I texted him to figure out where and when to meet up, and got a very jovial email in response informing me that he’d decided to “try and make a go at it” with someone he’d been seeing. Did she know this same guy had been actively pursuing me until two days before?
Proof that not only 20-somethings can be lame, but also 30-somethings can: A 35 year old baby whom I was supposed to meet for drinks, texted me moments before to say, “The game’s still going, but the bigger issue is I’m all out of cash.” Moments like when I received this text make me think I’m crazy. Whoa. On what planet is this acceptable-- let alone gentlemanly-- behavior?
Or what about Mark? He said he “[had] a lot of respect” for me. He would lose respect for me if he had sex for me. So, he wanted to keep me on a pedestal; he wanted to preserve this untainted image by not fucking me. That would be wrong. I was that nice Jewish girl he wanted to introduce to his parents. I dunno, I think sex is beautiful and vital. Disappearing and not ever calling someone again (which is what Mark did): now that’s disrespectful.
Do I sound bitter? I guess so. But here’s the thing. Most of the guys I’ve dated over the past year are nice guys. They were respectful and kind and interesting. They were guys I could imagine having as friends or cousins; guys I would want to have as friends or cousins. I know that many of my own cousins and guy friends have exhibited douchey-ness upon occasion. Up until the point where they turned lame, I thought almost all my dates were awesome. Open communication is difficult. I have a hard time handling it with my own roommate and my sisters, let alone near strangers in whom I have a sexual interest. Still, I believe it is kinder and stronger to be honest and straightforward.
Finally, I know I can be lame, too. I just returned from a “re-run” date today. He was a nice Jewish boy I met six months ago. Smart, goofy, good-looking. I had a great time on our first date. He kissed me goodnight and asked me if I’d like to hang out again. I said yes. Then, when he texted me about getting together again, I freaked out because I was already somewhat wrapped up in one of the afore-mentioned lame-o’s. I said something to the effect of, “I’m really busy and don’t have much of myself to give right now. I’d like to just be friends.” If that had been true, it would have been alright. But, given my earlier behavior and the fact that I did honestly like him, it was totally LAME. I’m lucky to have run into my re-run out on the town, and I’m extra lucky that, despite my lameness, he agreed to go out with me again.
So, boys and girls, what do you say? Why don’t we stop being such cowards? Why don’t we start being kinder and more honest with one another? What’s so scary about being kind and honest?
*All resemblances to real people... are not coincidental! But, take comfort in the fact that all names have been changed to protect your anonymity. And who knows, maybe when I'm a famous published author, you'll brag about how lame you acted towards me :)
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Knocked Up
18 years old, full of spring fever, college fever, senioritis, probably all hickeyed up, I received the call from Ms. (let’s call her) “Smith”: “Annie, can I see you for a moment.” I loved her and hated her. She was so intense, smart, academic and opinionated, though she herself told us on the first day of class, “Opinions are like assholes [dramatic pause, eye contact, and circulation of the room]… Everybody has one.” She had a white Cruella DeVil like stripe of hair running from her forehead through the length of her bristly hair.
What could she want to discuss with me? Foucault? Feminist theory? Said’s criticism in Orientalism? It was kind of exciting to get called aside by Ms. Smith. “Can I ask you a question?” she asked me. Of course. Anything.
“Are you pregnant?”
Whoa. That one certainly caught my attention. “No,” I giggled nervously. “Do I look like it?” I smoothed down my shirt. I still remember what I was wearing that day. In fact, I think if I think hard, I could remember every outfit from every important memory of my life. But probably I remember this outfit, a simple tanktop and jeans, because I decided that day that it made me look horribly fat and I would never wear it again.
Ms. Smith went on to explain, without apology, that she merely asked because of some other student she’d had, smart, full of potential, who also had a tendency to embarrass others with her and her boyfriend’s hallway displays of affection. That student got knocked up and didn’t go to college, I guess.
“Oh no,” I reassured her. “I’m on the pill.” I said it without thinking. Instinctually, I trusted her. She was an adult, a representative of the school, my teacher, and she did not communicate with my parents.
“Great!” Smith breathed a sigh of relief. “It makes your period so regular doesn’t it, and it clears up your skin—at least it did mine.”
I smiled uncomfortably, happy she wondered, happy she cared, happy she noticed my life.
****
In retrospect, I wonder at this memory. What gave Ms. Smith the cojones to ask me this intrusive, personal question out of nowhere? Was the question really warranted? Did Ms. Smith think it over carefully before confronting me? If she weighed the options, how did she reach her decision?
I know that I now am many students’ Ms. Smith. I challenge my students intellectually and sometimes I don’t feel like I’m very nice about it, yet they mostly seem to trust me unquestioningly. Ricardo is so relieved to unburden to me the stress of having a 12 month old daughter and another one on the way, simply because I take the time to ask him, “How are you?” Karina told me before writing her own autobiographical short story, “I think I feel comfortable writing something a bit more edgy, risky, and personal.” Indeed she did, writing me the story of discovering she was pregnant while locked in Juvenile Hall. She was transported involuntarily to an abortion clinic where she compliantly signed the paperwork and submitted herself for the procedure. Karen showed me her hickeys, given her by my other student, Cole, and told me about the techniques she’d been using to try and get rid of them. “I’m so sick of wearing scarves!” she said.
What is my responsibility in these cases? Where do I draw the line about what students may share with me? Is there even a line? Perhaps my job is really to mentor kids through these rocky stages of adolescence and sexual experimentation, while also doing my best to teach them a little something about writing along the way. I don’t think I would ever ask a student point blank if he or she was pregnant, though. To me, that seems inappropriate, potentially offensive.
I did have a student last quarter who I suspected was pregnant, but I never considered asking her straight out. That seemed rude and random, grounds for a lawsuit by her parents. But the thought of Mary dealing with this big, real-life stuff as her failure to complete homework assignments caused her grades to dip lower and lower made me wonder a couple of things. What is the real value and purpose behind every piece of work students do for my class? What exactly is my job, and what are my responsibilities toward others, both as a teacher and as a human being?
What could she want to discuss with me? Foucault? Feminist theory? Said’s criticism in Orientalism? It was kind of exciting to get called aside by Ms. Smith. “Can I ask you a question?” she asked me. Of course. Anything.
“Are you pregnant?”
Whoa. That one certainly caught my attention. “No,” I giggled nervously. “Do I look like it?” I smoothed down my shirt. I still remember what I was wearing that day. In fact, I think if I think hard, I could remember every outfit from every important memory of my life. But probably I remember this outfit, a simple tanktop and jeans, because I decided that day that it made me look horribly fat and I would never wear it again.
Ms. Smith went on to explain, without apology, that she merely asked because of some other student she’d had, smart, full of potential, who also had a tendency to embarrass others with her and her boyfriend’s hallway displays of affection. That student got knocked up and didn’t go to college, I guess.
“Oh no,” I reassured her. “I’m on the pill.” I said it without thinking. Instinctually, I trusted her. She was an adult, a representative of the school, my teacher, and she did not communicate with my parents.
“Great!” Smith breathed a sigh of relief. “It makes your period so regular doesn’t it, and it clears up your skin—at least it did mine.”
I smiled uncomfortably, happy she wondered, happy she cared, happy she noticed my life.
****
In retrospect, I wonder at this memory. What gave Ms. Smith the cojones to ask me this intrusive, personal question out of nowhere? Was the question really warranted? Did Ms. Smith think it over carefully before confronting me? If she weighed the options, how did she reach her decision?
I know that I now am many students’ Ms. Smith. I challenge my students intellectually and sometimes I don’t feel like I’m very nice about it, yet they mostly seem to trust me unquestioningly. Ricardo is so relieved to unburden to me the stress of having a 12 month old daughter and another one on the way, simply because I take the time to ask him, “How are you?” Karina told me before writing her own autobiographical short story, “I think I feel comfortable writing something a bit more edgy, risky, and personal.” Indeed she did, writing me the story of discovering she was pregnant while locked in Juvenile Hall. She was transported involuntarily to an abortion clinic where she compliantly signed the paperwork and submitted herself for the procedure. Karen showed me her hickeys, given her by my other student, Cole, and told me about the techniques she’d been using to try and get rid of them. “I’m so sick of wearing scarves!” she said.
What is my responsibility in these cases? Where do I draw the line about what students may share with me? Is there even a line? Perhaps my job is really to mentor kids through these rocky stages of adolescence and sexual experimentation, while also doing my best to teach them a little something about writing along the way. I don’t think I would ever ask a student point blank if he or she was pregnant, though. To me, that seems inappropriate, potentially offensive.
I did have a student last quarter who I suspected was pregnant, but I never considered asking her straight out. That seemed rude and random, grounds for a lawsuit by her parents. But the thought of Mary dealing with this big, real-life stuff as her failure to complete homework assignments caused her grades to dip lower and lower made me wonder a couple of things. What is the real value and purpose behind every piece of work students do for my class? What exactly is my job, and what are my responsibilities toward others, both as a teacher and as a human being?
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