"Please verify your panel and when you are holding interviews" the Fulbright email said. I was excited about assembling my own panel to help select who would go on exchange next year. But THAT would happen after my week-long, late November break.
"So, how much of an offer do you want to put in?" the realtor asked us. I felt my stomach churning. I wasn't exactly sure if I was actually going to shit my pants or if it just felt like it. That house was cute. I've seen lots of cute houses in my nearly twenty years of renting. Unfortunately, I really liked this one. But the cage was coming down on me, the one that makes you get grown up and act like an old person, the one that kills your ambition, the one that guarantees that you never do anything interesting again. "Low ball or legitimate?" she asked. "Legitimate".
I watched Charlie in class, this super smart kid that always seems so reserved. He was smiling and interacting with his friends. I'm glad he likes being in there. I remember the first few times I saw his mom. So familiar she looked. Great kids, who was she? Then I remembered that she was a shrink doctoral student that I went to when I was losing my mind as an undergrad. I watched Charlie. I'm glad he feels comfortable. I'm glad that I have something to offer him.
We accepted the seller's offer, finally. I hadn't been sleeping well, was behind at work and blood had been coming out of strange parts of me. Nose, and other non-mentionables, accompanied by insane stomach cramps. I got zits. And a migraine.
The kids were practicing for their annual, winter recital. At the end, they all held hands and raised them. "That's the part that will make the parents cry" I whispered to a co-worker "but not my dry-eyed, childless heart". She laughed.
Emma and I were walking over the splintery path to the beach. She had been rollerskating and I had been watching. We wanted to look at the sea. "You almost hit me, bitch" an unknown voice called to a lady riding her baby on the back of a bike. Emma and I looked at each other. A dad emerged, with two teenage sons and a pre-teen daughter. We looked down. As we passed, the pre-teen called out: "Like your hair," in response to Emma's hot pink do. "Thank you" Emma responded courteously, without a hint of sarcasm. We kept walking. "And your bodies". Emma and I looked back, a little stunned. "And your pink flowers..." the girl continued. We were baffled. I was baffled. Were we being, um, harassed by a thirteen year old redneck with her dad standing by? As an adult, should I do something or avoid confrontation? We walked to the sea. And started laughing.
I watched the kids sing during their recital, remembering last year. So exhausted after driving half the night to the detention center and back. Half drunk and running through the King Center with a parking ticket in my hand. Things were so different this year. The kids finished their song and lifted their little candles while holding hands. I saw Emily, waving her candle and playing with the other kids. And I started crying.
"Do you think the Randolphs will get matched?" Terry asked me, after we completed our fifth interview of the day. "I hope so," I responded, "they would be perfect".
"My name is Frank and I have autism" the tall seventeen year old said to our kids during our morning meeting. I still felt blurry eyed and frankly, rosy and filled with love after the beautiful display the kids had put on during their recital the night before. He pulled out a piece of paper and slowly tried to adjust himself and started reading. Tears flooded my eyes. Not normal, misty tears but full on crying. "How many of you know someone who is autistic?". Hands went up. "Yeahhh..," he said quietly, "there's a lot of us". "In Kindergarten, I couldn't speak. I wanted to, but no one could understand me. I wanted to play and talk to the other kids, but I couldn't". EMILY. EMILY. EMILY. Is it what I had hoped for? That she is in there, just waiting to come out? "In third grade, I couldn't read. Ms. Zalero helped me. Good job, Ms. Zalero" he said, motioning to our principal. She burst into tears. He continued and I tried harder and harder to not make a scene. Would Emily be able to get up one day and speak like he was? "I may be a big guy, but I feel like a kid inside" Frank ended.
And I ran to my room. And cried and hiccuped and panted. Every time I tried to calm myself, thinking of the twenty-odd kids that would be busting through the door at any minute, I just started crying again.
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