Snowman, Why Are You Here?

"Pablo, are you excited about Christmas?"  I whispered.
"Yes...." he answered.
"What did you ask for?"
"An iPhone." all six years of him answered, definitely.

"Nunca he visto nieve...."  Rosa informed me while we ran to the trailer.
"Oh, Rosa.  I really hope it snows this year." I answered, knowing every time I see that snowflake on my weather app I would think of her.
"Voy al gimnasio los miércoles ahora.....¡y le entiendo todo!"  she whispered dramatically.
"I am so proud of you, Rosa."  I answered, struggling to make myself speak English instead of Spanish.
"You have been working so hard."

"Hey, Alejandro's brothers are in your classes and they don't celebrate Christmas, so we'll be hanging out in the trailer during the holiday parties.  You can send his brothers to me, if you want."  I emailed various teachers.
No one answered.
"Our mom is picking us up before the parties..."  Gustavo mentioned one day, randomly.  It figured.  Their mom is no fool and would never want her children to be uncomfortable.
"Hey, Alejandro's probably not going to have to go to the trailer on the holiday party day, his mom is coming to pick them up." I informed the second meanest teacher in the school.
"Uh, okay, well, I'm going to send some other kids with you, you know kids that I haven't been able to make parental contact with...."
I don't know why she was so determined to not let me in that room during the party.  Did she want to send the kids with me that she had barred from the party for behavior?  Turn my trailer into a little mini-jail?  Or the kids that didn't pay the eight dollar fee for admission?

"Ms. Q said that all the kids that don't celebrate Christmas are going to the trailer with you."  Veronica whispered, later in the day.
"What!?"  I whispered back, furiously.
I was getting pissed off.  Can't answer an email but can send me fifty kids no one wants to my trailer.  Kids I don't even know.
On the day of the parties, I spirited Gustavo and another little boy from his class out of the classroom before the parties began.  I had my Scrabble game in the trailer and a bunch of candy, in anticipation.  We booked toward Alejandro's classroom.
"His mom is picking him up."  the second meanest teacher in the school informed me, as if I hadn't mentioned this fun fact to her a few days ago.
"Okay, have them buzz the trailer when she comes."  I answered.
"No, she'll be here any minute, you should take them to the Media Center, I told them that's where you'd be."
We collected the third brother and the four of us sat in the Media Center.  It is open at the top and sits in the center of the school.  We could hear the parties all around.  I set up my work laptop and let the other boy and Gustavo play math games on it.  Alejandro and his other brother and I sat around and talked.  Teachers came in with plates full of food and fraternized.  We sat and waited while the clock ticked.  An administrator came in.  She didn't ask me why I wasn't wearing our mandated Christmas clothes or why I was sitting with students in the Media Center during the parties.
Their mom arrived an hour later.

"Snow..ow...ow man!  Why are you here?"  the kids sang, hauntingly.  I locked eyes with Alejandra, who flattered me by looking thrilled when she saw me in the audience. 
"Snow...ow...ow man, why are you here?  You are just a little snowman with your little twig hands.. why would anyone want to talk to you....?"
She saw me wincing at the lyrics and nodded.  And continued to sing, staring at me with a distaste on her face while she sang the mean lyrics.

"Hey...." one of the volunteer mentors at the Housing Authority said in greeting.
"I can't find my girl and her dad said she was here....but I know something happened...."
"Yeah, she's been suspended." another teacher responded.
I looked at Habiba.
"They jumped that girl, the one that was in your class last year at school.  All four of them...."  Four girls I taught at The Center last year and one that I taught at school.
"Her mom came up here and wanted to know what happened to her face."
"But...you know.. the other three didn't hit her...just jumped on her jacket and spit on her...." Habiba said lowly, knowing what they did was just as bad.

"I saw what she was doing!"  the kindergarten teacher said with surprise.  She was talking about Helina, my non-verbal girl.
"Wait, you mean when she tried to poke my eyes out with a pencil?"
"Yeah!  She almost got you!"
"Yeah, I have to watch her.  She tries to stab me."  I answered.  Or rip my finger nails off.  Or tear holes in my clothes.

I crowd-sourced a book buy so that each of my students would have a brand new book to take home and keep and read over the two week, end of the year break.  I told myself not to get too excited, not to be disappointed if they didn't react with glee, but honestly, they were marvelous.  It was more that I could have ever hoped for.

I walked up the hill into the neighborhood with the kids that walk home from school.  Adriana always walks by my side and we talk.
"My mom bought them presents.  They're coming over on Christmas."  she whispered, referring to Juan and Alberto, who her mom also always gives a ride home.
"Oh my god, I am so glad.  Your mom is so nice, you all are so nice."  I responded, relieved.
"Their dad is trying to take them, take them away from her....from their mom."  she responded, with a much more serious look than any ten year old should have.

I entered the kindergarten classroom the day after the the book give away.  I was shocked when Helina set up a chair for me, like the autistic girl usually does who was absent, and sat next to me, resting her elbow on my knee.  I held onto the tiny kindergarten chair while I sat down, afraid she would rip it out from under me and I'd fall on my ass.  I told her how pretty her hijab was and praised her for mouthing sounds that she refuses to vocalize.

About twenty minutes in, she shoved the eraser end of her pencil into my mouth, just when I got complacent.
I swatted it away and laughed.
"Oh, Helina.  No one gets one over on you."  I said and hugged her.  And she hugged me back, her eyes batting and mischievous.

Santa Goes Straight to the Ghetto

I walked from my kindergarten class to my first grade class, around 8:45 in the morning.  I noticed Chance the Rapper.  He is always flattered and grins when I call him by the nickname that his all-day teacher calls him.
He was wandering in the hall, all six years old of him, with a late slip in his hand.
"Chance the Rapper!"  I called out.
He half smiled.
"Chance...are you okay?"
He broke into hysterical crying, his words spilling from his mouth in a way that I could barely understand.
"The car, what happened in the car?"  I asked.
"Did she yell at you?"
He shook his head, hiccuping and crying.
"Did she hit?"
"Yes!" he screamed.
"Where?"
"Across my face!"  he screamed and cried.  I hugged him.  And he cried low, feral cries from the bottom of his soul.

I really hate Mondays.  And there is just so much pain, so much abject pain in every corner of the place where I work.  It's deep and dark and way down in the recesses where no one needs to go.

"I have a low...." Adriana whispered, while I set up her computer for small group MAP testing.  She and Veronica were absent on Monday and I had hoped they were doing something fun.  I always do "highs and lows" at the beginning of my lessons, but I was still surprised that it had infiltrated our normal conversations.
"My mom's in the hospital..."
"Her diabetes?"  I asked.
"We didn't buy the $300 stuff from Kroger.  We got the $10 stuff...."

I went to check on the Martínez family again, a family who normally is never absent, trying to find out if they were there for testing.   I found Alberto, a member of a different family, who came in late though he normally doesn't.
He reeked of urine.
I pretended not to notice, and brought him to the testing room.  He has been under a lot of stress, his dad left for another woman, leaving his mom with four kids to care for.  And she won't update her phone numbers for us, no matter how many notes I send home.  And Alberto, my tough little dude, has started peeing his pants, even though he's in third grade.  This was the first time I had known him to arrive in school in that condition.

I walked through the Cafetorium with Veronica and Prem, on the look out for Faba and Juan that are in the Band class, whom we watch, pick up and then, run out to the trailer and do our thing.
Juan was shaking and his head was down.  Faba hovered nearby.
"He had to sit out...."  Faba whispered.
"He doesn't know his notes... his mom won't let him practice at home...."  the Band teacher said, exasperated, knowing that I had gotten him his trumpet so that he could participate and worried what I would think, though I wished he wouldn't worry about that.
I put my arm around Juan and he started to shake.  And then, he cried.
"I'll call her!"  the Band teacher said, but I knew none of the phone numbers worked.
I knew I was going to cry, too.  I pulled Juan to my side and asked him if he wanted to go get a drink of water or stay with us.
"Stay with you." he responded, and we went to the trailer.
"Adult problems,"  I said over and over.
"We are going to solve this, Juan, because we are adults and we've got this."

I sat with third grade, during the last hour of the day.  Alberto still smelled terrible.
"Juan, he's been hurting me...." he said, his strong Mexican accent dragging out his vowels.
"What did he do?"
"He hit me, he hit me a lot...."
"Why?"
"I don't know why.... I just cried and grabbed the puppy and went in my bed, under the covers...."
"I am so sorry, Alberto.  This should not be happening.  I'll talk to Juan.  I will talk to him about this..."

I stood in the Cafetorium, watching kids eat lunch while people yelled at them.  The nicest teacher at the school took over the "silent music" that was supposed to signify silence, and played "Santa Goes Straight to the Ghetto", loud as hell.

Children snickered and shoulders grooved.
And the nicest teacher at the school danced for them, right up on the stage of the Cafetorium.

Up In Here

I walked behind the school toward my trailer.  It was dark.  I heard weird howling sounds, sounds that really didn't sound normal, in the woods.  The woods behind our trailers.  I paused.  Miss W. was out there, our head custodian.
"What the fuck is that?"  I whispered.
"I think it's the kids...." she answered.
The yelps and howls continued.
"It might be animals killing something...." she continued, in a suddenly hushed voice.
"Miss W., this is the part where both of us die in the horror movie.  I'm going to the trailer.  You should go inside."  I responded.

"You're gonna make me lose my mind!  Up in here!  Up in here!  Habiba's gonna make me lose my mind!"
"Up in here, up in here!"  the Center kids echoed.
"Ms. Wagner's gonna make me lose my mind!"
"Up in here! Up in here!" Habiba vocalized.
"Habiba gonna make me kiss my hand!"
"Up in here, up in here!"  we all laughed and sang.
"Bud, Not Buddy" had suddenly turned romantic, and even when I drove out of the apartments, I rolled down the window and tooted my car's horn, or Alec's car's horn, at Habiba and kissed my hand, while she kissed her own and ran, laughing.

"How was your break?"  I asked various students.
"We ate goat." Prem informed me.
"Really?  That's nice."  I continued, about to pontificate how goat is not a common American food choice but is well regarded throughout the rest of the world.
"My dad got it.  He slit its throat."
I love Prem.  He is one of the most interesting and spry kids I have taught in years.  I tried to distract myself from what they did. 
"I had a devil egg."  Robert informed us.  My big boy.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  And, he has been difficult, lately.
"Wait, you mean deviled eggs!"  I finally responded.
"I love those, I eat them for breakfast, right here in the trailer, every morning."
"It is the best thing I have ever eaten."  he responded.

"Things got crazy this morning"  Aazim informed me, at The Center, after school.
"Someone tore all the underwear out of the drawer, and the socks, too, and threw them all over our room."
"Wait, who did it, Mahja, Suleymann, Jabez?  Or the little boy I don't know yet?  Wait, or the girl baby?"
"No.  Mahja discovered it and started screaming, it wasn't him.  Suleymann was putting on cologne in the bathroom....Abdarahim was sleeping....the baby can't walk, Jabez, I don't know what he was doing...."
"So, um, that leaves you right, Aazim?  Did you tear the drawer apart, with all of the underwear?  or...Jabez?"
"I don't trust that Suleymann was putting on cologne in the bathroom, that really only takes a second."  Yami stated.
"I have to agree, Yami.  Suleymann, I think you are a suspect."
"No!  I was putting on deodorant!"  Suleymann replied, eyes wide.
"Now Suleymann, I am confused.  Is there a difference between deodorant and cologne?  Or are we just...you know spray spraying our underarms and necks and wrists with the same thing?"  I replied.
He looked perplexed.
"I believe we have two mysteries to solve now,"  I continued.
"Who threw the underwear and socks all over the Abduhalli household and whether deodorant and cologne are the same things.  I would like to table this discussion until our next meeting and would like to request that you pull out your copy of Smile and turn to the appropriate page."

"So the Kamikazes weren't regular soldiers...they went down with the plane....the used the plane as a weapon,"  the nicest teacher in our school instructed, because one of the meanest teachers in the school had to leave, unexpectedly, and he took over.
"Man, when I started teaching, down in Miami, we had a lot of kids coming in from El Salvador...." he continued.
I felt myself stiffen.
"Kids, thirteen, twelve, kinda hard kids.  They had been soldiers...."
Adriana's mom is from El Salvador.
I sat next to Nsimba and started trying to help her with her work.
"Ms. Wagner, you know that thing, that thing Mr. Walker was talking about?"  she asked.
"Yeah, the kids with guns...." I whispered back.
"They do that in Africa too....."
"Central African Republic is still in a war, isn't it?"
"Yeah....my brothers didn't want to come here....."  I never knew she had brothers.  All the girls are here.
"Are they safe?"
"Yes... they left...."
"To the Congo?"
"Yes, to the Congo..." she answered.

I walked into my daily lunch duty and made I high pitched squeak at a kid who likes to communicate with me in that way.  He squeaked back and smiled. 

"Do you want to dig in the box or wait in the classroom?"  I asked Prem while we stood outside of our push-in classroom.  There has been a large box of hundreds of dollars of discarded instructional items in the hall for months.
"Dig in the box...." he sang lowly, yet in a high pitched song.  He does it when we talk in secret.
We entered the room a few minutes later, hiding the things we had taken from the box.
"Come and get paper!"  the general ed. teacher screamed out at him.
"I already have paper." he sang to me, in his little high pitched song, without answering the teacher.    We got to work.

"So during the holiday party,"  the second meanest teacher in the school said, loudly.
"You should just take Alejandro to your trailer.  His family's religion doesn't allow holiday celebrations so you two should just go there."
"Okay."  I answered immediately.  We'll go to the fucking woodshed.
I have four other students in that class.  Their parents might be there.  It will be fun, there'll be snacks.  And she will smile and wave and pretend like she's actually nice and does this whole operation by herself while I am in the woodshed.

It's fine.  I'll invite his brothers.  The woodshed is the place to be, anyway.

Thanks

"Um, Hilary, the oven is not heating up......"  Alec said lowly, while pushing all of the buttons over and over.  

I looked at the million dollars worth of food lined up on the table, ready to be put in the oven in waves before my family and their boos arrived for Thanksgiving in a matter of hours.

"I'm going to take a shower."  

I have a lot of faith in Alec.  After a long shower, I crept out, hoping he would say it was all fixed.  And, it was.   Or, at least the oven was shooting between one hundred and three hundred degrees, randomly, but it was better than nothing.   

"You have dense breasts." the letter and email from my doctor and the dear people at the mammogram place at Emory let me know.

Hmmmm.  Dense.  Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

"Your mammogram was normal, but you should get an MRI."  it informed me.

An MRI.  The five hundred dollar option that can only occur in the mornings, Monday through Friday, as opposed to after work and covered as preventative by my insurance. I made the appointment on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, because I get the whole week off.  

I took my rock-hard, dense tits to Emory.  Paid up the $525 on my credit card.

"Have you had an MRI before?"  the nurse asked, while running the IV for the contrast stuff.

"Yeah," I responded, unworried.  It was on my neck.  I had to lay on my back and roll in barely beyond my shoulders while some guy spoke to me through some kind of speaker, informing what was going on, every step of the way.  

"You have to take off all your clothes, except your underwear.  Here are two robes.  You can keep your shoes on."

"On the breast is kind of different...." she continued, her accent kind of heavy and for the first time, I felt like she might be at a loss for words.

"You are on your stomach....in a weird position...." her nose crinkled up a little.

"You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

"No." I answered.

"If you have to throw up, tell us.  But don't move."

We walked down the hall, where other people were dressed and I was walking around in two robes, my underwear and shoes.

"You're going to be in there about thirty minutes." I heard some medical person tell a guy in a wheelchair.

Thirty minutes?  That sounded long.  Maybe he was having some other test.  They opened the door and I realized I gasped, the machine looked kind of monstrous and it barely fit in the room.  The other place had the MRI thing in a giant room, this one was stuffed in a closet.  

They hustled me onto my stomach with my rock hard tits sort of hanging through some weird device.  They told me to grip something, which I did, white knuckle.  They put something under my knees and my feet were sort of up, like some sort of hog-tied animal.  

"Squeeze the ball in your hand if you need anything.  You can't move, don't move at all, or they will make us do it again."

I gripped harder and they rolled me in and left.  

It was radio silent.  No one said anything.  The machine started clanging and making that outer space sound.  I gripped harder.  I opened my eyes, they were about two inches above some sort of plastic bottom of the machine.  I realized I had no idea how long I would be in there.  I could not figure out spatially what was going on.  I felt nauseas.  I realized pretty early on I was in trouble, but I had to make it.  It was stupid.  The clanging started and stopped.  I jumped when it began again and feared I had already ruined the image.  No one said anything.  It wasn't like before when they would warn me, warn me when the scary noises would start, when the contrast would start, how much longer I had to go.  I felt the contrast shooting into my arm and no one said anything.  I tasted it in my mouth and my scalp felt like it was on fire.  I remembered climbing in a cave in Laos, clandestinely, no ropes no guides, and told myself not to think it.  The machine stopped.  Was I done?  I laid in silence, in terror, more uncomfortable than I could ever imagine being.  The clanging started again.   I could feel my brain vibrating inside of my skull.  Esther the Wonder Pig had an MRI.  I pictured pig heads with dead eyes, it was flashing in front of me.  Lola has had an MRI.  What if she was dead, what if Alec was dead, my mind was racing.  I remembered the part in the Exorcist with Reagan screaming in pain while she was in some machine.  How much longer, what if I was going to be in this thing for six hours, what if it would be four in the afternoon and I was still there...

I squeezed the thing.  

"Let me out of here....."

No one said anything.

"LET ME OUT OF HERE!"  I started screaming.

"LET ME OUT!  LET ME OUT!  LET ME OUT!!!!!!"

"I AM BEGGING YOU!!!!!"

And then, I started moving myself out, backwards.

I heard the door swing open and felt them rolling the thing backwards.

"Close the door!" one of the people yelled to the other.  

I sat up while they tried to get the IV out.  I clutched my chest, a strong hard pain on my left side.

"You had an anxiety attack.   We were almost done.  You will have to come back, talk to your doctor, and we will give you a sedative beforehand."

I just sat there, numb but half crying, dazed, clutching my chest.  They took me where my clothes were, I changed and drove home, taking a random route that didn't make any sense.  

Might Need a New Life

I routinely have to dig through the files of my students.  It's a big pain in the ass.  I have to stand in this weird closet and balance my stuff on whatever is there.  Computer, pen, clipboard, all of it.  I have left my coffee cup in there, by accident.  It's like the closet from the movie Carrie, lacking the mirrors.

But the files.  That's when I see the parents that say there are from Mexico and have ID cards on record from El Salvador or Honduras or Guatemala.  When I see refugee identification.  My Burmese babies that have been mostly born in Thailand, or anywhere through hell's half acre but still identify as BURMESE.  Or Karen.  When I see African children that have moved from Central African Republic, to the Congo, to Sierra Leon, my babies, my children that sit in front of me everyday and I see this photo of them, as a child, as a real baby, running, hustling, fleeing.  They are these haunting little black and white passport photos, smeared and ghosty.

I never know what to do.  How I can do anything.  How I can fix this shit.  And sometimes, I go to my knees in that little closet and thank the monkey Jesus god that I don't even believe in for these children and ask for help.  Beg for it.

I slept walked last night.  I've only done it once, when I was on Chantix, and some other time, that I clearly can't remember, but Alec told me about it.  He told me about last night, too.

Thanksgiving is coming.  And I miss them.  We have been on break for three days.  I know they are okay but I hope, I hope in this new year that I can do everything, everything I can for them.

Proud Mary

I stood in the middle of chaos.  It was my daily lunch duty, but on the day when kids could invite their parents to eat with them when the cafeteria made a Thanksgiving-style dinner.  In the true style of my school, it was a massive, disorganized mess.  I didn't really care and decided to just free-style it.  Flats upon flats upon flats of yogurt were on the stage, our cafeteria and auditorium share a space, and parents and employees were filling their arms with them.  It was a donation from one of the dollar stores.  We ended up passing out the remainders in the carpool line, later in the afternoon.

Music rang out of my grandmotherly morning duty partner's phone, as she hustled her way into duty, late. 
"Lawd, that's the Sugar Hill Gang," she said, wrestling with her phone.
"Had to pump myself up this morning."

"There are only seventy-two hours left until our vacation.  They have this hot pool with bubbles in it."  little Gustavo informed me, his eyes aglow as they always are, with serene light.
"Boo, you are down to thirty-six hours." I reminded him.  They were driving to the beach.  The family I love, though Alejandro has started hating me.  And that I dislike their practice of beating the shit out of them and denying them blood infusions. 
"I have been in a Jacuzzi before,"  the kid next to Gustavo said.
"I ate hot dogs in it."
"Living large." I responded, and really meant it. 

"This is our monthly fellowship meeting!"  our principal announced, eyeballing the County observer that was evaluating her.
"Get into groups by the color of your lollipop, and think of an elementary-appropriate song you can perform together."
I was horrified.  And glad that she doesn't make us actually do forced fellowship too often.
"Greatest Love of All." someone suggested.  Barf.
"What about that rollin' down the river song?"  someone else asked.
"Wait, Proud Mary?"  I asked.
"We are going to sing a song about quitting our jobs, after working for the man, in front of the whole school?"
And, we did.  I was an Ikette.  Ike, or I mean Mr. Flanders, the special ed teacher, even took his tie off.  Everyone thought I would have no idea who Tina Turner was.  It bothered me.  At least I knew the real title of the song. 
Later, in a different team building exercise which involved joining hands, the County observer recoiled when I tried to touch hers, and I ended up holding hands with one of the only white people I work with. 

The kids at The Center really wanted to read "Smile".  So, we did.  Even on the day before Thanksgiving break, while all of the Housing Authority parents picked up the boxes of food donations the community donates every year. 
"Just take it!"  Miss Evelyn yelled at a couple of Somali moms, when they would open the box first to see if there was a better one near by.  It was a joyless affair, and I blamed myself later for contributing to that. 
I went out to my car, or Alec's car because I don't have my own anymore, and noticed the older sister of one of my former Center/school students walking through the parking lot.  She kind of intimidates me, even when she was only thirteen.
"Hey!"  I called out.
"Have you gotten your family's box yet?"
Her face spread into a broad smile.
"Yeah, those..."  she responded and I felt like I had seen her for the first time ever.  Beautiful.  Happy.  And awfully, in need.   Of all the nice things, of all the things and choices people get all of the time.

Patricia did this weird thing she can do with her eyes, where she drags them down and only the white parts show.  It's pretty creepy.   She is one of the smallest, yet oldest children I have.  And she chased Robert, my giant Nigerian boy, behind the school where we take our "nature walk" to return them to their Terrordome classrooms.  He shrieks and screams, twice her size, and Patricia chases him, giggling. 

Fun Facts

I stared at the student-made anchor charts about World War II displayed around the classroom.  I have never seen descriptions of the Holocaust followed up by a couple of "fun facts" before, but, to each his own I guess.

"I just take it when she does it."  Alejandro said, shaking his head.
"I cry, because I'm weak, but I just get it over with."
"Yeah...." the other kids seconded, while speaking of their parents' corporal punishment practices.  I was surprised that all of their parents do it, but I guess I shouldn't have been.
"Does your mom do it, or your dad, or both?"  I asked them.
All said mom, except one, who said both.
"Gustavo runs away.  He makes her chase him through the house and climbs under the bed.  He snatches the belt away from under there."
I couldn't help but smile.
"There is this thing, this thing that Spanish moms do...." Patricia began and the other Mexican kids started laughing, knowingly.
"Let me guess, la chancla?" I asked.
"How did you know that?!"  Patricia howled and what was a somber conversation changed to a funny one.

Every time I look at Gustavo, I can't help but laugh, interiorly, at his badness.  I picture his little self whipping through the hallway of a house I've never visited, too fast for his mom, thinking hell no, I'm not just going to let you fucking smack me with a belt.  You're going to have to work for it.
"Jaime is sick."Alejandro continued.
"We went outside to feed the dog with our hair wet and now he doesn't feel well....."
"Your dog stays outside?"
We have been experiencing a cold snap and it was been in the twenties at night.
"Yeah, it used to come inside, but my mom didn't want him to come in anymore....."
I cringed.
"Does he have a little house, a blanket?"
"Yeah....he has a house, but he ripped up his blanket and his bed."
"Do you guys play with him a lot?"
"No....we are too busy." he responded.
I tried to tell myself it was cultural and not to judge, but I can't stop thinking about that dog.  And the beatings.  I don't like the way I am feeling about the parents of a family that I have admired since I started teaching their kids.

Bugs have been seeking refuge in the trailer from the cold.  They're gross.  One landed in my hair.  The little gecko lizards that usually hang out outside have been visiting indoors as well.  Them, I like.  Sometimes when I sit in the trailer and the rain beats on the cloudy windows and I see little geckos on the walls or camouflaging on a table, I feel like I am in a surreal submarine.
The life aquatic. 

Inquiry

"So, I need to know about this impeachment thing." Aazim informed me.
"What do you want to know?" I asked, weary of the whole Housing Authority group I have this year and how out of control I might get explaining this political situation.
"How does it work?"
"Let me give you the fast version," I responded, before drawing all over the white board.
"The House of Representatives gets to decide if the President has broken the laws of the Constitution.  They don't just get to say, 'We don't like you', they have to be specific about what he did that was against the Constitution.  The laws of our country.  They have to lay it out."
"Alright." Aazim responded.
"So then, the House of Representatives gets to vote on the charges against the President and decided if they are true or not."
It became abundantly clear they didn't know who the House of Representatives were.  Or, their role in government.  More drawing on the board.
"Look, you guys will learn about this in school, soon. But, we have the President."  circle around name, orange pumpkin, lines drawn.
"Congress. Equal part."  circle, lines drawn.
"But, confusing, there are two parts of Congress, House and Senate."
"House, depends on population, representation upon how many people live in your state.  We've got a lot in Georgia, but like, I don't know Montana, they've got hardly any."
"Senate, you get two, no matter what."  circles, lines.
I never even mentioned the Supreme Court.
"The House is the only part that can begin Impeachment."
"Why can't I?"
"You can't.  I can't.  It's how it is. It's their job."
"So, they vote."
"Does everyone have to vote the same way?"
"No.  It's majority rules."
"What's majority?"  Then, I explained what majority means.  I couldn't remember if the House rules were simple majority or more, so I just showed them simple majority.
"So, if the House says yes, the vote goes to the Senate, the other half of Congress."
"Wait, who is my Representative?"
"Mine is John Lewis.  Yours might be Hank Johnson, but I'm not sure."
"Why don't you know?"
"I don't live here.  It depends on where you live.  We can look it up."
"If the House says yes, it moves to the Senate.  And then they vote.  If they say no, it's over.  It's done."
"But, what if they just vote with their friends...."  Aazim asked, eyebrow knitted together.
My heart stopped.
"Well, that's what everyone worries about...the House has a Democrat majority.  People think that's why they brought up the impeachment inquiry.  Who do you think has the majority in the Senate?"
"Democrats?"  Aazim asked, hopefully.
"Think again."
"Republicans....." he replied, and put his head in his hands.
"How do people get this job?!" Suleymann asked/screamed.
"Well, buddy, that's where you put your sign in someone's yard, give speeches, talk to the people, and WE DECIDE, if we want to vote for you or not."
"Who's we?"
"US!  That's our part!  That is the part we get to play!"  I responded.
"And, what if the Senate votes with their friends, and he robs someone, robs them again?" Suleymann continued, his mind not really getting high crimes and misdemeanors, more robbery and murder.  My mind flashed back to sitting on the rug at The Center with his older brother Mahja, when he was only in fourth grade.
"So, can they put Trump out if he kills someone?  Even his own wife?"  Mahja had asked me.
I remember laughing and telling him that it didn't have to come to that, that simply violating the Constitution was enough.  Boy, was I wrong.
"So, if he breaks the Constitution after the Senate says no, yeah...they have the opportunity to do it all over agin...."  I responded.
"Again!?"  Suleymann, asked, sighing.
"Yes, again." I responded, sighing.

Mon frere

"You are the one, you're the one in my heart, you're my darlin' my life's greatest thrill...."
I sing softly to Lola.
"Yes, you are the one, you're the one in my heart and I love you and I always will...."
I sing the Carl Smith song at a slower tempo than he did, but I've sung it to Lola since she was a baby.  It's our jam.  Or mine, at least. 

"Alright, mon frere, you have a good weekend!" the nicest teacher at my school called to Alejandro, as he got in his mom's car.  Alejandro's face spread in a huge smile. 

I drove from school to the Housing Authority, on Halloween.
"And I, I..... will always, love you!!!!" I howled, with Dolly Parton.
That is one of the few songs that has always brought me to tears.
I sing that to Lola lately, too.

"Goodbye, Jennifer Faulkner." Alejandro said jokingly, as he snipped a small piece of his cut and paste worksheet into little pieces as we worked in a small group.  This was not my class.  It was when I push-in to his big class and cluster them and try to make it work. 
"Wait, who is Jennifer Faulkner?"  I asked.
"Her name is at the bottom of all the worksheets she gives us," Alejandro stated, cutting Jennifer's name in two again, while motioning slightly, ever so slightly, at his teacher.
"I hate Jennifer Faulkner."
It's weird, ever since he showed me, I have noticed that his teacher must be caught on some Teachers Pay Teachers fetish worksheet thing with this one author.  Jennifer.  Jennifer Faulkner.  And every time Alejandro sees Jennifer's name at the bottom of one of those worksheets, he snips it into little pieces. 

We joke about it.  I see it in the recycle bin.  I ask him where her name is and he has it snipped apart in his desk.  It's everywhere. 

We have a new student coming.  He is a big boy, though he is only ten. Our grade level group is tight knit and we are very bonded together.  We've suffered losses and we've tightened up with who is left.  We look out for each other. 

I can't wait to meet him. 

Nobody Knows It

Mornings are weird.
I drive to an area I am still unfamiliar with, in the dark, setting the cruise control so that I will arrive on time.  I put on makeup at strategic stoplights.  And chap stick.  And eye drops.  And I clean my glasses.  I gather my shit and recheck several times that I have not left the keys in the car before locking it.  For some reason, my fork keeps flying out of a hole in my lunch box and I have had to drag it out from under the car.  Then, I run in the front door to arrive at my 7:00AM start time, dodging cars and buses to get into the school.  I go directly to duty in the Media Center.  After, I walk to the trailer in the dark, behind the school.  I leave the door open until I turn the lights on and make sure a murderer isn't in there, then close it and turn on the heat or air, whichever is necessary.  I unpack my things, including jugs of water from home and coffee, and have a seat.  I usually am not quite ready to work, so I read the newspaper while I eat a hard boiled, slaughter-free egg with Valentina hot sauce and a Wasa cracker and drink my black coffee.  Sometimes, I take some water from my thermos and mix it with Emergen-C.

I sort of like my routine until the announcements come on.  They blare through the intercom that only seems to work for the announcements, but not for tornado, fire or intruder drills.  Our librarian instructs us to stand and face a flag for the pledge and after, a horrible, pre-canned most-awful shrill version of the national anthem blares through the intercom.  I sit and eat my egg under the fluorescent lights of the trailer and imagine someone watching me, wondering which alternative universe I live in.  This strange woman, sitting in a strange place, with strange music playing, in the dark.  Is it hell?  Has she been sent to hell?

I stood at my post in the cafeteria, watching the kids eat.  The instrumental version of "Sexual Healing" played loudly.  The kids are not allowed to speak while the music is on.

"I wonder which is farther away from here, South Africa or Burma...." I pondered, as I walked with some of my students to the trailer.
"But I'm not from Burma, I'm from Thailand." Prem responded, yanking on the trailer door.
"But your family is really from Burma, right?  And you just spent some time in Thailand....?"  I asked carefully, trying to figure out how to mention a refugee camp in a casual way.
"Yes.  They were murdering Karen." he responded, swinging the door open and shooting inside.

"Don't go breakin' my heart!"  we sang, showing off our best dance moves.
"I couldn't if I tried!"  Faba continued.
Juan and Prem didn't know the words as well as Faba and me, but they still danced furiously around the trailer, screaming out "Wooooo hoo!" at all the appropriate parts.
Halloween always makes a day feel good.

*Lyrics, Elton John

J

A Murder of Crows

As I walk from the school building out to the trailer, I've been noticing some big fat crows flying overhead.  The weather has finally decreased from the high nineties of early October to something somewhat resembling fall.  It no longer feels like the surface of the sun as I walk over the blacktop to my metal-clad school home.  I like the crows.  They, along with the pine trees that circle the back of the school, make things feel like Halloween. 

The trailer is showing some signs of Halloween as well.  Rain appeared after weeks of dryness, and the walls of the trailer don't seem especially water proof.  The adorable, "All About Me" posters the kids made about themselves at the beginning of the school year seem to be absorbing moisture from the walls, transforming their hand drawn faces into something quite speckled and ghoulish. 

There is also a strange smell.  I've gone to great pains to clean the tables and chairs weekly with lemon scented, disease killing wet wipes.  I also clean the board and my desk and antiquated computer and phone.  I spray the trailer with a natural orange spray that the kids say smells like a mix of the counselor's office and candy.  I keep my dry snacks in a sealed plastic box in order to not attract rats.  I deny residence to large cockroaches by chasing them from the trailer.  Most have declined to return. 

"Ewwww...." one of the kindergartners commented, scrunching her nose and waving her hand in front of her face.
It was only their second visit to the coveted trailer, the desired destination of all of my ESOL kids. 
"It smells like fish!"  another exclaimed.
My trailer.  My beautiful trailer.  FISH.  They might as well have told me it smelled like B.O.  I was horrified. 

"Agnieszka, the kindergartners said the trailer smells." I whispered to one of my first graders.
"Really?" she whispered back, perplexed.
"Maybe it's me, do I smell?" I responded, pretending to sniff myself.
She drew her nose closer and took a careful whiff.
"No, you don't smell.  You smell good. "  she paused for a minute, before exclaiming in a moment of realization,
"You smell like white people!  I smelled one before on the playground!" 
I thought of the lone white girl in the school, who happened to be in her class, and burst out laughing. 
We both did. 

Mudo

"Shift" Mr. Warner repeated, over and over.
"Shift to the left."
I watched my student carefully write "shit" on her spelling test.
"Oh man, you should have seen what Ja'quon put as his name on Kahoot...."  he said lowly, after seeing me look at her quiz.
"LOIN KING" he wrote on the board, before quickly erasing it with his hand.

I sat in the Media Center, my morning duty post, monitoring the kids in the lower grades that don't eat breakfast at school.
"A minute is sixty seconds.  An hour is sixty minutes.  A week is seven days...." a little boy prattled off.
"You really know your time segments." I responded.
"Yeah, but he can't make the errr sound." his fellow Speech classmate said dismissively, her own stutter surprisingly absent for a second.

"Both of my parents' birthdays are on January 1st."  Aazim mentioned randomly, as he worked on his math problems.
"My mom's birthday is on January 1st too!"  Habiba commented.
I've heard that refugees are often assigned January 1st as their birthday if there is ambiguity about their actual birth date when they arrive in the United States.  I've had a number of refugee students with the tell tale birthday.  I was surprised they didn't know this but didn't say anything, just marveled at the coincidence.

"I'm taking it!" I heard an unfamiliar voice utter, before Helina grabbed crayons from another child.
"She talked...." Ana said quietly, eyes wide.
"I think she just did...."
She has never done that before.
We all stared at Helina.
She looked back at us, a mischievous look in her eyes, before climbing on the table and drawing on it.

Heaven Only Knows

Heaven only knows just why... 
loving you should make me cry
Make me feel like I could die
That's the way it goes...

"I spoke to my doctor.  We're doing thirty-six weeks."  the radiant, yet wildly pregnant pre-K teacher informed us.
"She said it was supposed to be thirty-nine, but I said, no.  Not this time.  We are doing it differently."

"Get out of the car!  I'm going to fight you!"  the woman who had roared up beside my car screamed.
"Are you fucking crazy?"  I responded.
"You're lucky I don't have my gun.  I'd shoot you!" she screamed, before roaring off in front of me.
Good to know.
I am actually a very careful and conscientious driver, but, you can't win them all.

"The mandamus went through, they filed it Monday."  the text rang through moments after my driver friend threatened to shoot me, while I was pulled off on the side of the road calling 911.
"I am so glad," I responded.
"Wish they had filed it three weeks ago, but at this rate, we might have him by New Year's!"
One man, out of Afghanistan. 
Please pray that it works. 

*Lyrics and title, Emmylou Harris

érase una vez

I really couldn't get out of bed.  It was Friday night and honestly, I had had quite a few beers.  Lola needed to go out.  Alec went outside with her.  The first time.  Then, the second time, third and fourth.  I laid on the couch the last time and realized Alec had left her outside the last time, with the owls howling, and went back to bed.  I let her back in.

I drove into school, thinking how happy I was that I hadn't seen another dead animal in the road lately.  Right as I thought it, I saw a large cat, or possibly raccoon, dead in the middle of the road.  I averted my eyes and swerved to miss it.

I noticed the bruise on the arm of one of my Karen girls.
"What's that?" I asked.  She started giggling, suspiciously.
"A hickie!" she howled and my other student lifted up her wrist to show me a commiserate mark.
"We gave them to ourselves!"  she shrieked, then updated the mark with her mouth.

Lola threw up again, a lot of bile.
"Let's put her on chicken and rice, that's what the vet always says to do."
Alec drove to the store and bought the supplies.  We cooked it and gave Lola.  She threw up the whole meal, undigested, within minutes.
"I guess we have to do the twenty-four hour fast."

"I don't want to walk home.  I don't want to see that dead cat.  I try not to look but I look anyway and now I can see its bones...."  Alberto informed me.
"That cat is still there?"  I asked, incredulous.
"YES!  It used to come into my backyard.  A squirrel, a possum, I don't know, it doesn't bother me so much.  But a cat...."
"I feel the same way, Alberto.  I am so sorry.  If you don't mind, I am going to email someone right now about this...."
I opened my laptop and emailed the sanitation department, the same place I emailed when I couldn't look at the dog that looked like Lola laying in the street a minute longer.

Lola's vomiting was increasing.  I walked outside and found her in the bushes, snout pushed to the ground, violently dry heaving right next to an old pile of poop.  She would never come that close to poop if she was okay.  I was horrified and brought her inside.  And for some reason, I left for about forty-five minutes.  Or maybe I didn't leave then, because the day is becoming a blur to me.  But, I did leave while she was sick. 

"This thing keeps going up like a vampire..."  Angel mentioned, randomly, pointing to the collar on his shirt.
"Or romantic movies...." Alejandro finished intently, reading a definition out loud to the class, carefully.
"Alejandro!"  one of the only nice teachers in my school called out. 
"Step back from those romantic movies!  Te quiero!!!"
Alejandro smiled and turned bright red.

I came home and found four piles of bile-vomit on the floor.  One of them was tinted with blood.  I cleaned it up and tried to call the vet.  They were closed.  Lola vomited again, and it was clear of blood.  I paced and waited.  She wanted to go outside.  I kept her in, deciding that anything that was going to happen was going to happen right where I could see it.  She crouched, like she was going to poop.  I hovered.  Blood sprayed from her bottom.  A lot of blood.  I put her leash on and raced her to the emergency vet.

We arrived at the vet and they took us to a room. Lola crouched and blood sprayed from her again.  I started screaming and crying and waving for someone to help us.

We stayed several hours.  They took her to the back and pumped her with fluids.  Then, they recommended taking Lola home, along with a bag of medicine and a lot of things to watch for.  We drove slowly down Abernathy and onto Georgia Avenue.  She looked solemn.  I thought about riding back from Mexico with her.  My warrior.  My valiant dog.  I clenched my fists on the steering wheel, but started to relax near Summerhill.  H. Johnson was on the radio, and I turned it up a little, hoping it would sooth her.

She violently vomited multiple times when we got home, the one thing they said I should be worried about.  She paced, visibly uncomfortable, clawing the furniture and driving her face into the couch and chair corners.  It was misery.  Finally, she laid between my legs on the bed and fell asleep, her head in her paws.  I watched her sleep for three hours.  In the morning, I took her back to the vet and they admitted her, without asking me or trying to talk me into it.  Sunday was a bad day.  Monday was too.  They were doing tests and warned of emergency surgery.  Alec and I could only visit her.  She was on intravenous medicine and food.  She was lethargic and dirty.  She was horribly ill.  Every minute I was away from her I wondered if my dog was dead and they hadn't told me yet.  I couldn't sleep or think.  My stomach was raw.  My thoughts were dark.  Very dark.

I went to work Tuesday morning.  A co-worker instructed me to wash my face, though I had just arrived.
"It's in the eyes, you can tell something is wrong...." she said lowly.
I felt sicker and sicker.  I called the vet on my first break.
"She started eating on her own.  The blockage we thought we saw isn't visible anymore, she can go home."
I asked a lot of questions.  Then, I packed up all of my things and stacked them on my desk so that I could drive to the vet the minute I was allowed to leave.

"Soooo, my dad came to visit and I have one more high, my sister is gay....!"  Alberto continued, his Mexican accent extending all of his vowels.
"What, um, your sister is...?"
"Gay" he said happily.  He shrugged.
"It's fine.  She told us.  She has a crush on a girl."
"Okay.  But, is the cat gone?"  Angel asked.
"YES!"  he answered.
"Yes it is!"

Strange Magic

"I'm done with fruit punch."  Alberto informed me, solemnly. 
"It's over between you two?"  I responded.
"Yes." he answered firmly and continued working.

"If the seizure lasts more than five minutes, you will have to administer Diastat.  Roll the child on their side, grab the lubricant...."
Lubricant?  I inadvertently sat up straighter.  I didn't like where this was headed.
"After the K-Y, plunge the medication in the rectum."
She spoke with such authority.

"We have to do a cross-curricular task even though it's our Reading time," I informed my fourth grade group.  They weren't pleased.  It meant that we would remain in their classroom with the rest of the students, instead of going to the trailer. 
"Have you heard of the Boston Massacre?"  I continued, whispering, trying to give them a little pre-knowledge while the general education teacher warmed up her spiel.
"Is it like a purge?"  my new student, Prem, asked.
"How do you define purge?"
"When men rush in and kill everyone."
"Yeah, that's pretty much it...." I answered, looking down at his maimed limb that I have never had the heart to ask about.  It's probably a birth defect, I repeated over and over in my mind. 
"Stand in a circle and and grab your neighbor's hand!"  the general ed teacher commanded.  I jumped up and made sure I was on the side of Prem's gnarled limb, and grabbed it and held it. 

"Habiba, why do you only have one buck?"  I asked.  The Housing Authority has started an extrinsic reward system that allows students to receive "bucks" for good behavior. They use them to buy things, stuff we get from Dollar Tree. 
"I spent all my money on ring pops and popcorn." she announced, spinning and smiling.
"Are you satisfied with your decision?" I responded.
"YES I AM." she answered definitively, hijab swinging as she skipped out the door. 

"Do you have a printer in here?"  the elderly woman that works at my school asked me, after pounding on the door of my trailer.
I paused.  I have the one I bought myself, that is hidden under my desk, but I wasn't sure what she was asking about.
"No, I don't know if any of the trailers have printers." I responded. 
"This used to be the Art trailer," she responded.  I already knew that, after I stole half of the stuff both for my students, and, myself. 
"There used to be a Promethian board in here.  One night, people broke in. They took the board, but no one really needs that in their house, so they smashed it on the blacktop.  Smashed all her pencil sharpeners, too."
She had a strange smile on her face.
"I hope that doesn't happen to me."  I responded. 

"What happened to your face?"  Prem asked me, his eyebrows knitting together in the middle.
"Oh, I got burned and now it is totally peeling off.  It's annoying!"  I responded, pretending to scratch my face off.
He didn't laugh.
"Are you going to die?"  he asked, face still covered with worry.
"No Prem.  I'm not going to die."  I responded gently. 
He didn't seem convinced.

Born to Run

I felt something strange on my leg.  I looked down and saw the feral child, the one that clearly has problems, the one that climbs under her desk and stays there during the first days of kindergarten.  Her tongue was out, connected to my shin.  She screams.  If you ask her to do the slightest thing, she refuses.
I laughed in my head at a professor I had recently that didn't know what EBD meant, but pretended to.  I was looking at it. Then, I wiped hand sanitizer all over my leg.  I'm already sick.

"Do the owls still come to your back yard?"  one of Karen students whispered to me.  I have to push-in to a lot of my classes now.
"Yes...they came this summer...." I whispered back.

I heard a growling noise, like the devil.  It was coming from the kindergartener in front of me.

I drove to school in the beginning morning light.  I saw a dog, dead, lying next to the road.  Its chest was white and its sides were medium brown.  It was dead.  She was dead.  He was dead.  I tried to re-direct my thoughts.  I tried to think to heaven and hope that whatever happened to him was quick and painless.

"Do you ever hear Ms. Patrick screaming?" my students asked me.
"No, and I'm surprised by that.  I have seen students crying outside her trailer, though."  I responded.

Hiccuping, chocking, bawling.  Feral, hollow screams.  Back by the woods where the trailers are, where the snakes come out of the creek and lie on the black top.  While she screamed 'crybaby' at them and demeaned them.  Called them 'boy', asked if they were 'man enough' fight her.  I saw that.  And, I will never let that happen to you.  I'll fight her myself if I have to.

"Ms. Wagner, I know you don't want to hear this...."
"It's okay, mami, tell me...."
"I saw a dog that looks like yours, looks like Lola, on the side of the road today...."

"I saw her too, Patricia.  It was a sad thing.  Let's hope the best for her..., we have to think of other things."

I watched people washing the ancient "warrior" Native American mascot painting off of the front of the school window.

"Why do you think they are doing that?"  Alejandro asked me.
"Why do you?" I questioned back.
"I have no idea."
"I might be wrong, but, I guess that a lot of people find using humans as mascots inappropriate.  But again, I might be wrong."
"Yeah, " he answered,
"who knows?"

Love is Strange

"When I saw the pool, I thought it would be cold. But Vaaman told me it was heated.  I am upper middle class.  From India.  And I felt guilty.  Later, I decided I would own that pool."

I am back in school.  I try to keep my heart and mind high.  I sat down for the first faculty meeting breakfast, after getting the only rudimentary vegan food available, which I am not asshole about because thankfully something was there, when our principal instructed us to pray.  That, I will not do.  I'll take your milk-fat laden watered down grits, a piece of bread and a cup of black coffee, but I will not pray to god. Or do the pledge, either.  

I got a trailer.  It has a metal outer-casing and walls made of cardboard.  I have not had my own teaching space in eight years.  I was thrilled.  It was everything I wanted.  I ripped the old butcher paper off of the walls, knowing that there would be holes underneath.  I scrubbed the white board, though permanent marker never comes off. I dragged 1950s school furniture all over the place until the custodians got mad.  I put it all back because they have a harder job than I do. I scrubbed and scrubbed.  And then, a random county worker showed up and fixed the hole in the floor.  And a second man walked in, Vietnamese, saw me with my international students, and repaired all of the fucked up lights in the ceiling and put covers on them, so that none of the kids would be hit by falling tubes.

"My dad....isn't a criminal...." the sobbing child stammered, face red and covered in tears.  I looked at the T.V. and wondered for a minute why Maria was on it, then realized the terrorized girl wasn't my student.  

I was pretty jazzed about the trailer and put a picture of it up online.  A girl I've known, for really a lot of my life, responded to my picture of the trailer:  That looks like my elementary school.

Back in the way back days, the 80s, every middle class parent locked up their kids into "rehabs" if they were struggling.  It happened to my sister.  My first boyfriend, when I was in tenth grade, had gone through more than one.  And this nice lady, the girl that I've known, that is the same age as I am, was put in one of those "rehabs" when she was twelve.  It's a long story.  It's going to take me a minute to explain it to you, Kitty.  

And, she recognized the beat up trailer.  It must be at least forty years old.  And she was snatched from there soon after.  A child. 

I am struggling with my work load.  I sat in the kindergarten classroom, watching a boy who is not on my caseload.  His hair was tied up tight, and he pulled up his alphabet strip and bit it.  He looked like the Grinch.  

I cleaned the trailer.  I store snacks in there, because I am sort of trying to work on myself.  I put them in a plastic box, fearing rats. 

"You're in the trailer now?"  a co-worker asked me.

"Yaaas.  It the bomb."  I responded.

'What do ya think about snakes?'

I stopped.  What the fuck are you talking about?  Our principal took the stage.  There is a creek behind the trailers.  We have snakes.

"So I  ran behind the whole place and put snake be gone all over, but,  be careful!"

I can't do this.  

I tip toed through the Cafetorium, trying not to fuck up the custodians' work.  I saw my main man, Carl.  

"Gosh, this it the calm before the storm," I mentioned in passing.

"You just gotta learn to dance in the rain."  he responded,

And I will.  I will.  I will.  I will.

Don't Bring Me Down

My cart's wheels scraped the floor as I curbed it hard around a corner in the low-rent grocery store in southern Mississippi.  The radio sounded so good.

"You got me runnin' goin' out of my mind
You got me thinkin' that I'm wastin' my time"

I skidded around another corner.  
I had never felt better in my life.  

I collectively spun a little tray with candles on it, kind of like manipulating a ouja board, with other females as part of a Hindu wedding ceremony.   We all had our hands on it, while we watched Alec's sister get married.  

I drove to my mom's to take her south to the beach.  Little kids sold bottled water in the street, while their dad sat in the MARTA bus shelter.  

"Here comes the story of the Hurricane.
The man the authorities came to blame.
For something that he never done.
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could a been,
the champion of the world."

I pushed the gas. 

The Mississippi radio hated Kaepernick and loved Jesus.  I looked for some more old Rod Stewart on the radio, the good ones, those old romantic songs. 

"I need your help.  Do you remember me?  I was your student." 
I flew south from Connecticut. 
We sat at Refuge Coffee, rain pouring down outside while I tried to fix everything that I knew I could not.  It rained really hard. 

"You thick!" 
I smiled and nodded.
"You sweet too!" 
"You just have to pull your butt cheeks apart, sand won't go up there!"  the lady to my right let me know as I sat at the shore of the Georgian Atlantic. 

Alec's brother showed up with pounds of chanterelles he had picked from a swamp full of alligators and snakes, a bottle of nice olive oil and a baguette.  We ate the feast at a log cabin on the ocean, surrounded by oaks whose branches reached toward the ground instead of the sky, some clinging with Spanish moss. 

"I'm not having a mid-life crisis, I already had that, the rental people gave me that car!" he exclaimed, motioning to the rental Charger beside the log cabin. 

He gunned the engine and tore out, just to make us laugh. 



*Lyrics, Don't Bring Me Down, ELO
**Lyrics, The Hurricane, Bob Dylan

The Man in the Mirror

I can hear lions from my back yard.  Owls roost and howl, creating a cacophony of noise that belongs in National Geographic.  I am lucky.  Luckier than most.  I live in a magical place.

"I'm looking at the man in the mirror!" the kids sang, at one of many awards ceremonies that accompanied various grades.  I stood there, waiting for my part, my uncomfortable part. They were going to make me come up there, with a microphone, and address everyone to give out ESOL awards.  I watched the Asian moms come in, they caught my eye because they stand out racially and I knew who they were there for some of my students.  I was surprised and glad that they came.

I always picture my Karen students among large leaves of green, in beautiful jungles, the ones Alec and I hiked in in northern Thailand and Laos, surrounded by beauty, dressed in white, climbing gracefully through beautiful areas.

"You can't just stand here, go in or go out."  one of the para-pros instructed harshly, when one of the Asian moms stepped outside to take a phone call.
The mom was dressed in winter clothing, a large puffy coat, in mid-May.  Her face was stretched and worn, beat down.  She quickly came back in.  Nothing about her reflected those beautiful tribal girls I saw twenty years ago, and she might have been one of them.  Her babies still looked like the rich green plants I saw in Thailand, even though they live in a broke-down, semi-suburban sprawl, the place where I spend my time, too.  The place that was supposed to be better.

I watched the Vazquez family, a family facing stress beyond normal measures. I watched the mom watch her son give the introduction to the assembly, dressed in a suit, his feet not touching the floor before he stood up and charmed everyone with his eloquence.  Another of her sons played the violin with the strings assemble.  When the older son crossed behind the adults, she made him give her his dress shoes and shoved them into a Kroger bag, while she in return gave him his tennis shoes.  And hugged him and kissed him. The father had been there the day before, for Field Day.  Ate lunch with his sons, helped out the PTA.  The only man I saw doing that, even when the ambulance pulled up to to take a chid away in the bus line and my teacher roommate broke her foot and we dragged her out of that place, that place where we work.  Where one man, a teacher, kicked the feet out from under a child and smiled.

We had Field Day at the Housing Authority, too.  It was one of the most fun times of the year.  We chased them, threw water balloons, played tug of war all while some of our "bosses" joyously sprayed the kids from a balcony with a giant hose.  It was a wildly toned-down version of what went on at my school for Field Day, which kept it in the safe parameters of old school fun and joy.

"Will you be here before I get here?"  LeGary asked me desperately, in the hallway.
"Yes.  I will be in the science room before you are released and I'll be waiting for you."
I rushed to be at my duty station after my last class, the room where I monitor the homeless kids, so that I would be there before he got there.  He came in crying.  His brother Lonnie always cries, but LeGary does not.
"I don't want to ride that bus." he stated.
"She's here, my mom is here.  She came for Lonnie's award ceremony."
"We are going to find her.  You have to help me, there are a lot of adults here, I haven't met your mom, what does she look like?"
"Well, she's wearin' a little wig...." he answered, lowly, with eyes wide.  That could have been eighty percent of the women in that building.
We looked all over for her.  But she had taken Lonnie and gone home, on MARTA.  The other two kids rode the giant school bus to the shelter, alone for hours.

"Do you know what you are looking at?"  Carl, the custodian, asked me.  He used to work at my former establishment, and I don't know why I qualify him as 'custodian'.  He's a comrade.
I looked over at the Cafetorium, and saw children dancing and singing to Old Town Road.
"That's pure joy." he told me.
"That's why I work with kids," I answered.
"They still have what we don't."

The last day of school happened.  The end of a strange year.  My school has the same tradition my old school had of going outside and waving to the kids as the buses pulled off.  I like it.  I took the homeless kids and we went out there, even though their bus wouldn't be there for a while.  The librarian had her karaoke machine out, blasting rap.  And the teachers line danced in the carpool line, long after the buses pulled off and the parents' cars stopped coming.

I finished up my work at the Housing Authority a week after I was out of official school, because my former district cannot manage a school calendar.  I dressed up, and stood with a microphone in my hand, determined to sort of own it since I had spoken to so many large groups of people in the last few weeks, clutching said microphone and staring at the ground.  We stacked the chairs and the teachers went out after for drinks, like we have for the past three years on our last night.  I left my car, or I mean Alec's car, parked in the apartments, as did two of my co-workers.  We walked back in the dark to get them, through the bougie area of my former district and into the projects.  I heard a thumping sound.  I quickened my step.  Multiple kids, middle schoolers that I know, were punching a boy.  His arms we extended vertically, as if he was hanging from monkey bars, and they were punching him in the ribs, in the back, on the front porch of one of the apartments. 

"They're fighting... we have to stop them...."
"I can call 911....." one answered.
The kids stopped and stared at us.  I locked eyes with a little girl that I taught three years ago and I think I saw shame.
"Is everyone okay here?"  Ms. Henry asked, authoritatively.
"Yeah, it's good!" the boy that was getting beaten responded.  I knew him, too.  He is mentally unstable.  He probably asked them to do it.  And unfortunately, when he decides to turn it around on them, he will probably kill someone.
"Hi Ms. Henry!"  a group of kindergarteners yelled, from their spectator's perch of the fight.  They didn't even know they weren't supposed to be there.

I drove Alec's car back out of the apartments and off to my summer break.  As I glanced to my left, I saw a boy being helped by two other people, one on each side, back to his apartment.

Can't Nobody Tell Me Nothin'

"FOCUS...." I instructed my four-student, third grade team.
"Chili cheese fry brain," I mumbled, looking sideways, undercutting my previous warning.  They started giggling.
"Rat smell..." I continued.
I can't even remember where the ongoing, chili-cheese-fry-rat-smell inside joke started, but the last hour of the school day is a constant mix of sternness and delirium.

I looked over at Faba.  The students had been instructed to wear their teacher's favorite color to school that day.  His too-small, tight green t-shirt had obviously been dug from the bottom of a drawer, with care.

"Are you worried about something?' a little girl asked me.  I smiled and asked her what she meant.
"You just like you're worried about something." she said and smiled, touching my hand.

Alec read over the New York Times article about humanitarians in various stages of legal trouble for trying to help migrants survive their trek across the southwestern United States.
"That's what you used to do..." he kind of asked-stated.
My mind's eye flashed backwards to the men in the back of my car, to the medical helicopter flying into the desert sky with one man while the Border Patrol handcuffed another, to the men splayed out on the dirt road, eyes red and Mexican ID cards laid in front of them.
"Yeah." I answered.

I walked through the cafeteria to the place where my desk is located.  A hand extended, the little girl in the same sweater, the one that was worried that I was worried.

Gabriel swept the floor of the lab where I sit with the homeless kids, waiting for their special bus.  He is on the school's Safety Patrol.  I teach a number of his four siblings, they are pretty widely regarded as probably the most awesome family in the school:  smart, respectful, sweet.  All of them.  Everyone even knows their parents, a rarity at my school, because they escort their children to and from our establishment everyday.
"Gabriel, were you ever in ESOL?"  I asked in English, though I usually force him to practice Spanish with me.
"No, they gave me the test though when we moved to this school from Silver Hill."
Remarkable, I thought.  Neither parent speaks English as a first language, yet they were able to raise their son to be bilingual enough to not qualify for English services.
"I didn't know that you had gone to another school before here." I responded.
"Well, my mom doesn't have a driver's license...."
I felt the hair on my arms stand up.
"So we needed to move closer so that she wouldn't have to drive far to bring us to school." he continued.
"My dad works all the time." he added, still sweeping the floor.
The dad, the same dad that still finds time to accompany his children to school every morning.  They chase each other up the front sidewalk, all laughter and smiles.  A man that truly enjoys his children.
"One day he got pulled over and he gave them his Mexican driver's license and they took him to jail.  It took a long time to get him out."
I noticed an almost electrical smell, emanating from the sweat accumulating at the roots of my hair.
"So, he has a trial coming to decide if he will be sent back to Mexico.  My mom is from a town called Honduras."
"I am so sorry, Gabriel.  That must be so stressful for your family." I said, hunting for the right thing to say.
"It is.  It is very stressful.  We have to rely on our faith." he responded solemnly, like a person well beyond his eleven years.

"I still think you're worried," she told me again, one of the following mornings of many mornings.
"You need to think of happy things." she advised me, and walked away.

"Highs and lows?"  I asked my Housing Authority group.
"HIGH...."  Aazim answered, eyes aglow.
"My parents, both of them, left us, all of us, alone in the apartment on Saturday....."
"ALL of you?  You, Mahja, Suleymann.....wait, who am I forgetting?"
"Jabez!  Yes, all of us...." he said, sighing contently.
"Is the apartment still standing?  Does it have walls still?"
"It does, it does," he answered.
"I drank soda until my heart was content."

*Title, Old Town Road, Lil Nas X

Don't Go Breaking My Heart

David looked at his paper and gave himself an 'A'.  Written in red, it looked like the anarchy symbol my little punk rock friends used to write on everything when we were in high school.

"You a judge?"
I turned slowly, realizing the man on the sidewalk in front of my house was talking to me.
"What...?" I said, trying to be pleasant.
"You a judge?"
"No..." I answered and tried to smile.
At that moment, we locked eyes.  His were red rimmed and hostile, it was a violent, horrible stare.  I turned slowly, trying to look casual and walked up the steps to my front porch.
"You fine...." he hissed.
"Look at you....you look good...ummm...you tight....." he continued.
My hands were shaking while I fumbled with my keys, trying to get through that door before he ran up behind me.
"You so fine...."
I knew he was going to be on me in seconds.
The door opened and I shot through and closed it behind me, locking it quickly.  I spun around and watched him trot down the sidewalk, still talking.

"Can you make sure LeGary gets a Kona Ice?"  I asked the kindergarten teacher, handing her four dollars.
"Don't tell him it's from me, if you he asks just say there was extra money or something."
She smiled and started saying something about me being nice.  I abruptly turned and walked away.

I walked through the hallway around lunch time and saw the teachers lining up the kids with money for ices in the front of the line and those that did not, in the back.
"I tried to get treats from Dollar Tree for the kids without any money, but they didn't have anything..." one mumbled to me while lining up the haves at the front of the line.
I walked through the cafeteria to the room where my desk is.  A festive truck was parked outside, outfitted like a tiki bar with signs advertising exotic flavors of ice like Tiger's Blood and mango.  Smiling children stood in a line, waiting their turn to buy a fancy ice.  The rest sat in the cafeteria, staring at the truck.
I saw LeGary across the cafeteria happily eating with his class, a giant, bright red ice in front of him.

"Don't go breaking my heart......" sailed out from the tiny speakers on my phone.
"I couldn't if I tried......"
"OOOOH hooo!  Nobody knows it!"  Faba and I sang together while he finished writing his El Deafo narrative.

"Wagner, did you get yourself an ice?" my principal inquired, in front of everyone, at the faculty meeting.
"Um, no I didn't make it out there...."  I didn't know how to tell her that though it was generous that all of the teachers were offered a free ice, I would never walk out there and get it in front of all of those kids.  And I was mad at myself that I hadn't secured enough cash the night before to get the other four homeless kids in my duty group ices.  I was tired and decided to go home instead of drive around town trying to get four piles of single dollar bills.

We watched the motivational speaker begin his peppy talk.  He had the same last name as I do.  The second and third graders started to wiggle within thirty seconds.   A first grade teacher cruised by, holding her phone up where I could see it.

"Your husband's boring" it said.  I could not agree more.

*Title, Elton John