You Are the One

"You are the one, the one in my heart...you're my darling, my life's greatest thrill...."
I couldn't stop humming it.  Or singing it.  It finally replaced "Dynamite".

I planted some things today.  A week ago, I was in full on garden-mode.  I remember loading up the top of my cart with pretty things, the bottom, scorched earth napalm death.  Spray for fruit killing, tree eating mites.  Spray for ants that are massive and try to get in the house.  Agent Orange for the hideous ivy from the vacant lots beside us that desperately want in.  Round Up. 

I was sick of the Galapagos next door.  The vacant lot.  I have seen every type of species running wild and crazy over there.  Squirrels ten times their normal size.  Predatory birds.  Snakes.  A beaver dam. 

I was excited when I rolled my backseat garden wagon toward the house.  And the poison I had put in the trunk. 

And then darkness hit in a way that I couldn't imagine or apparently deal with.  I have been in a fog.   I can't really teach right now, as much as I try.  I want to give my lovelies a good send off.  But I am scorched earth.  Hours of testing every morning and then, the wildness and worry.   I am barely there. 

"Got some room in your Herbie?"  my across the street neighbor asked.
"Yeah, sure, they just picked up today" I answered.  I was on my attempted renewal, arms full of marigolds and desert-like flowers.  That guy has always been nice to us.  He walked over the minute we started moving in, one of the few people in this area that has lived in his house for thirty years.  Even brought us cookies.  It baffled me.  I have lived a lot of places, but have never received the welcome mat like that. 

"Mary Ellen died on Monday" he called.
"What?"
"Mary Ellen, my wife.  She died on Monday". 
I put everything down. 
I was stunned.
"I am so sorry," I stammered "I am speechless".
"She had cancer for seven years.  She went into hospice two weeks ago...but still...."
"Are you holding up okay?"
"No" he responded, with a sideways look.
"I'm sorry, of course not".

I walked back up to the front of the house, carrying my renewal, my flowers of the dead.  As shitty as it is, I felt like a self appreciating asshole for being so absorbed in what has been happening to me and the fact that I kept planting.   I didn't know what else to do.  But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I am funny about death.  I remember the night a girl that lived upstairs in an apartment building that Alec and I had lived in for nearly ten years committed suicide.  We pulled up in our car and cops and ambulances were everywhere.  She had hung herself, which seemed even worse than any other way to die.  And I was horrified, that this person that I didn't even know was so miserable, living right beside us. 

And I didn't know our neighbor was dying.  Or that she had died.

"...for you are the one in my heart and I know that I love you and I always will....". 


*Carl Smith, You Are the One

Balls

I stood in my wet yard, wavering in the twilight and staring at the huge pile of shingles piled in front of me, awaiting their role in my $8000 roof job.  And I started to cry.

What a time to eliminate Spanish in the elementary school.  And, my job. 

I was afraid I would fall asleep as I gazed at the kids.  One child rolled aimlessly on an exercise ball, sometimes rolling all the way under the table on his back, then up-righting himself to bubble in another question.  Another child laid stomach down on a music bench, arms, legs and head dangling.  An Aspie whipped his pencil back and forth like a conductor, his chin lifted high.  Certain kids read their test through colored viewers.  One student would only walk on specific carpet squares whenever she exited or entered the room.  My darling Aggie stared out of the window, eyelids heavy and wrapped my sweater tightly around her body.  She had been on the same question for ten minutes.  It was silent in the room.  It had been for hours, while another teacher and I proctored the CRCT to eight kids that had accommodations for small group testing and extended time on standardized tests.  The kids looked completely unfazed by the odd behavior their peers exhibited.
It was only the first day of testing. 

I came in bleary eyed, with little sleep and settled myself in the same chair from the day before.  Each day my affection for the kids taking that test grew. I don't know how they can take it.  It is just such an awful thing to do to a kid - hours of silence, days on end, staring at this test, surrounded by upright file folders to block their view of anything distracting.  On the first day, they had started wiggling seven minutes into the test.  By the third day, I watched a child slowly pull pieces of her hair out.

A lot of the kids have accommodations that call for a scribe - basically they mark the answer in the test book and we transfer their answers to a scan tron.  As I sat at a table near the front door of the school scribing a test, I saw a delivery man walk by.  He was staring at me and at the roomful of teachers that were doing the same thing I was doing.  I smiled.  In a district known nationally for cheating on this test, I could only imagine what he was thinking:  "BLATANT!  I mean, BLATANT!  The teachers were just sitting there, loads of them, in plain view, doing the test for those kids!".

"Oh my God..." a teacher muttered.  "Balls!  Motherfucker!".
"What happened?"
"Freddy free-styled the test.  He didn't even just mark more than one answer or skip questions, he created an 'E' option and wrote next to it what he thought should be an option".
Damn.  That's thinking outside the box.

"Hey babe" my main roofer, Merle, greeted me.
"Leave her alone, she's having a bad day" he instructed the other roofers.
"You look just like your mama!" one of them commented.
"She pretty, ain't she?" Merle finished.  I knew right then that my mom had told them I lost my job.

I was stunned by how country their accents were.  And how friendly.  I stood around talking to them while they ate lunch, unable to extricate myself and really wanting to be alone.

I noticed a broken marigold.  No big deal.  And then I saw my babies.  My succulents.  I had carefully weighed transferring them to the yard.  I did it, determined to watch them and make sure they were okay.  They were pulverized and stepped on.  Ground down.  I don't think they even knew that they were flowers.  My babies. 

"My great grand baby got born" Merle stated wryly.
"I told her not to drink the water" another commented, "My wife's pregnant too.  She's a teacher like you.  Man, those kids are assholes.  Sometimes I have to go down there, just to make my presence known."
"I kept my wife away from the water" Merle commented, referring to what I assume is a woman completely beyond child-bearing age.  "I been fixed but God can do anything".
"It's that water at Party City.  Genie over there's pregnant too".  
"Mary got pregnant without even having sex.  God does what he wants" another roofer added.  
They were making their God sound like some kind of honey badger. 
"Jimbo there is single and he likes yer coffee shop" Merle continued, referring to a guy up high on the roof, huge mustache almost covering the cigarette dangling from his mouth while both hands carried shingles. 
"Lot a purty women up there" he called, "Got me a scone".
As much as I hated to think it, I believe the majority of women in this neighborhood would scream and run if they knew that guy was eyeballing them.
"I get gift certificates all the time from the school for that place," I called, "I'll give them to you".

I rubbed my eyes that were still swollen and red from crying all night and watched a the roofer spread mayonnaise and mustard over white bread, top it with a layer of Fritos and add the second piece of bread, then eat it. 

"Why don't you get you a Mountain Dew out of our cooler?" Merle asked.
"Thanks, but I have to get back to work".
"Babe" Merle said insistently, "get you a Mountain Dew".

I did.  And walked slowly back up the hill to finish the day. 

Dynamite

"I'm glad I wasn't in Spanish today!" cutey pie Jarred announced cheerfully.
"Why would you say that?" I howled back.

"Are you trying to break my heart?"
"I went to my Group!" he announced, smiling broadly and doing the little dancing wiggle break dance thing that he can't seem to control.
Ahh.  The Group.  Group therapy for kids.  I smiled back at him.  I'm glad he likes it.

"¿Cómo estás?" I asked for the millionth time.  "¿Qué tal el descanso?".
"Estoy mal" pale, eccentric Aaron answered.
I was surprised.  Most talked of beaches and pools and wonderful Spring Breaks.
"¿Por qué?".
"My dad grew a goatee over the break.  It gives me the creeps". 
That will probably make two of us.

"Hi, Hilary." the email began.  "Can you meet with me and the Executive Director today at 1:30?".
"I'm teaching during that time" I responded, and added a few alternative time slots.
"Am I in trouble?" I wrote at the end of the email.

I don't like it.  'See me' emails from the principal are never good, and I have never been invited to an audience of two of them.  I just signed my contract and have been getting a lot of compliments lately.  For some reason, my already sad Monday mood got bleaker. 

"Parents have commented on the vast number of beer bottles in your recycling...you do live right behind the school.  Do I smell alcohol right now?  From last night?!".

"You need to get back earlier from your trips.  We know the last few have ended mere hours before school began and you come in jet-lagged".

"Can you really speak Spanish?  Because, you know, you are American?".

"Parents are complaining.  Your clothes and your hair are weird".

"You are consistently five minutes late, everyday".

"Why do you wear the same clothes to school so often?  I mean, they seem clean, but so much repetition?".

"Students are complaining.  They say your class is too hard and that you get in their faces.  Parents are upset too".

"We want to pay you half of your salary, because, you know, you only teach Spanish, which isn't real teaching".

"You've really put on a lot of weight.  Are you unhappy?  Maybe you shouldn't be here".

"We found your blog.  Our lawyer will be contacting you".  

"You smell bad".

Even though I felt awful and fearful, I found myself humming the Dynamite song my hard working, Bruce Springsteen-style first grader had sung in the meeting we have in the mornings.

I throw my hands up in the air sometimes.  Saying ayo....

"We are amazed by how much the Spanish the students know and it is all due to you.  You ought to know that.  You are the most amazing Spanish teacher ever!".

I'm Smiling at You

I watched the people running through the terminal.  And through the tubes.  Yes, the tubes.  The multitude of tubes that make up Heathrow.  Out of every window, I could see tubes.  And people running through them.  We had tried to run through the tubes, but didn't make it.
We had already missed our plane.

England looked like England should from the plane.  Green.  Little stone houses.  Farm lands with distinct borders.  Heathrow looked like England too.  Orwell's England. 

We had to wait five more hours to get to Ireland.  We all laid on the expansive couches that lined the tube, an obvious sign that no one made their flight there.  I slept quite well.  I had left my house an hour after leaving school on Friday to board a plane to Boston.  I spent the morning eating lobster and looking at old things, then flew overnight to London, sure that the connection would be flawless, even though we only had an hour layover after our plane sat on the runway for an hour in Boston. 

I was becoming complacent at Heathrow, feeling way too at home.  I woke up on the couch, desperate to piss.  As I walked bleary eyed to the bathroom, the bathroom that I knew how to find as if it was in my own home, I realized I was unzipping my pants as I walked, though I was in public.  Then I went back to sleep. 

It was still daylight when we got there.  We drove out in to the country and stayed at a lovely place with dogs and horses.  Time was blurring.

It's pretty there.  Really green.  Normally, many countries look just like the U.S. from the air.  It's disappointing.  There are exceptions.  The minarets in Istanbul pierce the sky as you land.  And Ireland is very green and pretty.

"The cavers had to tunnel turdy or farty meters before they found the stalagmite" the cave guide informed us.  I felt about five when I found myself giggling.  I don't want to be in some turdy or farty ass tunnel.

It was coming to an end too fast.  Left hand driving, exploring, Guinness drinking.  We stayed in castle our last night in Dublin, just for fun.  I was polite and refined as I signed the paperwork and carefully fielded the big question.

"So, as it is Good Friday, will the bars be open at six, or not at all?" I asked kindly. 
"Madame" the concierge answered, "the rules apply for the public, residents can...."
"Do whatever they want?" I finished.
"This is your castle" he answered.
Damn.  I need to hear that more often.

After enjoying our castle, we geared up for another connection in Heathrow.  We barely made our plane, but skillfully handled the connection, buses, trains and tube running inside the airport, even having time to spare for drinks.  And then the plane was delayed.

And then, it was cancelled.

Two hours later, after re-claiming our bags, multiple retinal checks and suffering through offiicial UK entry, the place we really had no intention of going to, we made it to the re-booking desk.

"I can get you on the 11:00AM tomorrow" the agent informed me.
"What time does that arrive in Boston, Eastern?"
"1:30"
"We'll miss our connection"
"Well... you'll have to call Delta and hash that out with them when you arrive".
"Listen.  I pre-paid a hotel in Boston that I won't be in and am going to get jacked by Delta.  I am losing a lot of money.  BA needs to step up".
I was surprised when the hamster wheels of Heathrow started turning.
"I can put you straight through to Atlanta at three, arriving at seven turdy Eastern and put you up in our best hotel, meals included".

Emma and I ran through London the next morning.  Fuck the meals.  As we played around, looking at the Thames and houses of parliament and ran through the official Tube, checking out Queenie's place and that big eye Ferris wheel, it seemed odd that I was actually supposed to be at work the next day at seven turdy, Eastern.  

And I was there this morning.

All Summer in a Day

I drove down the pollen covered streets with a hundred pounds of cow shit weighing down the trunk of my car.  Well, composted manure.  Poo.  A trunk full of poo.

I walked through the dark, foreign home and back to the "bird room" of my neighbor.  I dodged attic stairs and boxes, but didn't want to turn the lights on, though I had never been in her house before.  We have a bird room too.  Momo's cage is in there, some of Alec's guitars and his desk.  As I approached the back of the dark house, the room came into view.  A large, white bird stood on top of its cage, wings spread, in a rather Christ-like, yet intimidating, pose.   I stepped into the room.  Several huge birds stared at me from atop the twenty-odd empty cages of birds that were being taken care of in others' homes.  The "amazon", a large green parrot thing clutched the top of the cage with his human size talons.  This was not a bird room.  It was a pet store.

"You're a hybrid!" one the kids exclaimed.
"What do you mean?"
"You're English and Spanish" he beamed back.
I liked that.  I am actually neither, but it sounded nice.

My sister and I stared out at the trimmed and poo covered flower beds.  It was twilight and I was pretty proud of the homeowner-style work I had done in the yard.  A women with a large butcher knife crept through the weeds and beside the fence of the condos next door.
"Just checking things out" she called to us, casually.
The knife shined in the moonlight.

"You have to pick the color of shingle you want" our roofer informed us.
"They come in different colors?" I asked.
"Oh yeah" he said, producing a huge book of various colored shingles.
I have no idea how to pick a shingle.  

"I have something serious to tell you." kinder Serena said solemnly.
I braced myself.  Death.  Divorce.  Molestation.  Or something I couldn't imagine.
"Last night, I almost threw up in the shower" she continued, eyes wide. 
"You know what, Serena, I actually did that once.  Cheetos, so the, you know, was orange" I laughed.
Multiple hands shot up.
"I threw up in my mom's car!"
"I threw up on my mom!" another kinder added.
"I saw a baby throw up.  It was white".
"Sometimes I throw up and swallow it".
"In your mouth?" I asked.
"Yeah"
"I threw up in the middle of a restaurant once".
"So did I!  Golden Corral!"

They left fifteen minutes later, after exploring every possible way to throw up.

I love my job. 





*Title lifted from Ray Bradbury. 

Green Grass

I sat on the floor of my classroom at seven at night, watching fifty-odd kids rampage through my room.  I was surprised that I was enjoying myself.  George read Green Eggs and Ham out loud to me and to his little brother, in Spanish.  It calmed his little brother down, who had been screaming for his mom.  It calmed me down too.  I saw Emily walk in, trailed by her mother.  Her mom had a concerned look on her face.  There was a lot of action in there, a lot of chaos.  I called to Emily to sit by me and she came.  I was happy that her mom looked relieved.  And I was thrilled to have thirty whole minutes to play with Emily, unobstructed.  She looked a little anxious.  I set her up with a clipboard and paper and she feverishly started drawing.

"Excuse me," another teacher said impatiently.  Emily's clipboard was on top of a board game that no one was playing.  Emily didn't even look up.  It's hard to get her to move once she has found a spot.  And it's her nature.  And her disability.   I was just glad that she wasn't hustling people out of her two reserved seats that she sits in everyday in Spanish.  That was a huge step.

"Emily's in the zone" I said, laughing, in an attempt to soften the situation. 
"Well she needs to take the zone somewhere else" she responded, curtly.

I grabbed her by the throat.
"Don't you EVER speak to her that way again, you silly old cunt" I hissed, inches from her face.
"Get away from her".
People stopped and stared.  It got quiet.  Suddenly, a crumpled up piece of paper flew at the wicked one.  There was more where that came from.
Stuffed animals, puzzle pieces, finger puppets.  Pencils.
"Get out!  Get out!  Get out!" they chanted, lifting Emily on their shoulders and chasing the mean old thing out.   Emily's eyes gazed at the thing, not even knowing that someone had been awful to her. 
We slammed the door behind the witch, and celebrated our success.  

"Come here, lovely," I said in reality, picking up her clipboard and moving her to the rug.  "Let's draw here".  She came.  And we played, and other kids joined us.

"I think there's going to be a lot of changes next year" I said to Ms. Super Lovely, my confidant. 
"Yeah....I'm afraid to leave though.  You know how the grass always looks greener from the other side....then you go over there and find out it's brown".

I laughed.  She had that right.

I've been in so many shitbox schools that I don't even know what's right.  They're all right, in one way or another, or so wrong, in  a million ways.  

It is just how it is.

Oz

The brown men are back.  They tore the Boo Radley house completely down to its foundation and then disappeared for a few days.  Early in the week, the Norteño music returned and the house had brand new beams to hold a floor within a day. The walls took an additional day to be framed in.  After one more day, men were yelling to each other in Spanish from the second floor.

"¿Cómo estás Harry?" I asked the the quiet boy that endeared himself to me when he started wearing sweatbands on his head like a seventies tennis star.
"How do you say nervous in Spanish?"  he responded.
"Nervioso"
"Estoy nervioso because tomorrow I'm doing my first reconciliation".
 The kids looked at him blankly.  I knew what he was talking about.  When I was little, it was called our first confession. 
"What is that?" Christy asked, confused.
"Well, I sit in the back of the church with Father Jenkins and confess my sins".
Hmmm.  They do it in the back of the church now.  Not in a closed room, alone?
"Your what?" she asked. 
"Sins" Harry answered.
"What's that?" Christy asked, incredulous.
"Bad things I have done".
"What if you haven't done any?"
"Oh I have," Harry answered solemnly "I have".

"We call that the doll house" a weedy, blond southern man that I had seen around my street told me.  I was speaking to my across the street neighbor and the guy fixing the next door fence.
 "Really!" I exclaimed, "I call it my princess house!"
"I lived there a while and helped restore it.  It's solid, you got a great deal, I looked it up on the internet" he told me.
"Everything seems great, no surprises" I responded.
"I painted it two years ago," he continued "Victorian".
"I love it".
"There's some extra trim paint in there, you should re-do the dark touches on the porch.  Realtor made them cover it up, said it was too much".
"There is no such thing as too much" I responded.
"I think I still have keys to your house," my across the street neighbor interjected "I'll give you keys to mine".
"I've got some too...." the blond man continued. 

I remember my first confession.  I racked my brain trying to figure out what to say and worried that I would never be able to remember the order of the prayers and things you had to say to the priest to get things rolling.  I remembered them at the time, but feared my future as an old, decrepit, church-less sinner that would see the light and want to confess, wander into the church bent over like a witch, but couldn't remember the order of the things you had to say to get in the door. It didn't take long as child Catholic to decide I was already wrecked.  Going to hell.  I had done bad shit, like not cleaning up after myself or fighting with my siblings.  Actually, that was the stuff I told the priest about.  I could never say the real things that worried me.  It was too embarrassing.  And I was going to hell anyway. 

I emerged, green faced and carrying my home-made flying monkey.  I have always gone to the auction that benefits my job, first as an auntie and now, as a worker.  A costumed worker.  That is the main reason why I do it.  All you have to say is 'costumes' and I am there.  I was wasted.  For some reason, it has been an annual event for me to be an absolute mess at this auction.  For like, nine years.  A sinner.  I heckled the parents and stuffed money into my Home Depot belt, then dumped it into a large paper bag.  Our luck bag.  Our no job cuts bag?

"Don't be nervous, Harry.  As long as you haven't killed anybody, I bet you have never done anything that even qualifies as a sin".

He smiled.