September 11th

"Where are you?"  I asked my sister, emphatically.
"We are running late, I'm stuck in traffic....almost there."
"Do you know what is happening?"  I asked slowly.
"What do you mean?" she responded.
"We.... we are being attacked.  Terrorists are attacking the United States.  They have already hit the World Trade Center and the Pentagon....".
"Get here.  Get here fast.  I am afraid they are going to impose martial law.  They don't know if the attacks are finished....".
Images of blocked roads and military police filled my head.  My three year old niece was in the car with my sister. 

Alec and I spent the majority of the year 2000 traveling.  We started in Nepal, spent time in India, flew to Thailand, checked out the majority of Southeast Asia and ended our trip on an archipelago east of Flores in Indonesia, after passing through Malaysia and Singapore.  I was often asked "How was your trip?" and could never really muster an adequate answer.  I do remember mentioning once that I had been unaware that the whole world hated us.  Though it didn't define the trip, I noticed it and felt it, especially in Malaysia and in Java.  Sure, I knew that Americans aren't the most loved nationality around, but it was different experiencing it face to face when you are going out of your way to be as nice and polite as possible.

We stayed in New York a little while so that Alec could visit his family.  Shortly after our return to Atlanta, my mom offered me a secretarial job in early 2001.  I spent a lot of time reading the New York Times on the internet when I wasn't busy, which was a lot of the time.  On that pretty, clear-blue sky morning, I recall seeing a little sentence in the rolling news portion at the bottom of the Times' internet page.
"Plane hits World Trade Center"
I didn't even click the link.  I assumed it was some small plane that had basically bounced off of one of the formidable towers. Strange, a curiosity, but I had read that little planes had been known to hit the Empire State Building, too.

I kept working.  I don't remember how I heard about the second plane, but I do remember clustering with my mom in her office, hovering around the radio dialed to an AM station.  At the time, that seemed more up to date than the internet.  People were calling in, some from the actual towers.  There wasn't really a lot of reporting, but more a crowd-sourced telling of events from people on the ground or in contact with someone on the ground in New York.  Or better said, in the towers, high above New York City.

A women called, talking of her son that was trapped in one of the towers.  Somehow, his voice came on and he spoke of smoke and fire.  Caller after caller spoke through the radio.  As alarming as it was, I still somehow pictured a long day for those people and an eventual rescue.  Suddenly, things got very quiet.  The tower collapsed.

I looked at my mom and sputtered.
"But...but..they have to, they have to have evacuated those people....they have to have rescued them....., right?  They were always ugly buildings anyway...."
"Are those people we just heard dead?"
I thought of that woman, calling about her son.
"They need to get in those fighter planes and head the fuck to Afghanistan, NOW, because everyone knows who did this and they need to fucking pay."
I wanted it.  Right then and there, even while the smoke still filled the air.

My step-dad brought in a television and we hovered around it the rest of the day.  The phones didn't even ring.  Everyone had stopped everything.

Details trickled out that day and the following days and months, some that would hold a principal role in the memory of the events and some that would disappear.  How many more cities would be hit?  Every plane in the air could be a weapon.  Fighter jets threatened to shoot down commercial airliners that did not respond to radio contact.  Hospitals braced for the injured that would never come.  They all died.  People lined up to give blood that wasn't needed.  A plane crashed in Pennsylvania, what was its destination?  Where would the next plane hit?  Was it over, were the attacks over?  Crude box cutters became the worst weapon anyone could think of.  Tales of men that went to flying classes but never wanted to learn how to land the plane.  The horror of the jumpers, people faced with the decision to be burned alive or crushed, or to jump from one of the tallest buildings in the world.  The images of them and the apocalyptic sounds they made when they landed.  Our president was circling the country in the air, because it was not safe for him to land on U.S. soil.   There was talk of whether or not to rebuild, if they did rebuild would anyone rent office space on the tallest floors?  Should office workers in skyscrapers be equipped with parachutes?  American airspace was closed, indefinitely.  I looked at my passport and felt trapped, I couldn't leave even if I tried.  Much of the government was in an "undisclosed location".  The subsequent demands that everyone be vigilant and go back to work; Osama bin Laden wanted to destroy our economy and it wouldn't happen if we got back to work.  A fire like the core of the earth raged where the towers once were.  It would take months to put out. 

I finally went home and waited for Alec.  The restaurant he worked at had stayed open all day.  Neither of us used cell phones at the time and when he came in, I wanted to know what he knew.
"We listened on the radio.  They attacked the World Trade Center."
"Alec, the towers are gone....they collapsed."
A look of shock crossed his face.
"Have you considered calling your family?"

Two days later, we "celebrated" our fifth anniversary.  As we sat outside at a normally busy restaurant, the silence induced by the lack of planes in the sky seemed deafening.  My back hurt from sitting without moving in front of the television for days.

One afternoon in the days following the attacks, I stood in the street with several other people, staring at the sky.  Low flying Blackhawk helicopters flew lowly over the neighborhood.
"I think it's a presence, a show of force to make us feel protected...." one guy said skeptically.
"Those bombs hanging off of the bottom of the thing don't make me feel so protected."  another responded.

In a matter on months we would be back in New York for another heartbreaking event.  As our plane banked Lower Manhattan, the area where the towers once stood was vacant, save for flood lights and a massive cloud of smoke.  

In the Shadow of a Steeple

Lola and I made it to Atlanta before nightfall on the third day, effectively driving from the Pacific coast of Mexico to Georgia in seventy-eight hours, including sleep time.  She was never sedated during the ride home. 

I wanted to see Alec.  I wanted to see my plants under at least a shred of light.  I didn't want to come in at three in the morning, blurry-eyed, and sneak into bed.  We dodged floods coming and going, and social unrest that we didn't have any inkling was coming.  We made it.

I sat at the kitchen table, high-alcohol American beer in hand, chatting with Alec and marveling at my big, air-conditioned home while Lola galloped through our fenced-in yard.

Within days of returning, two unarmed black men would be killed by the police.  Days later, another man would open fire on the Dallas police force.  A summer filled with news of unpunished college rapes, massacres at nightclubs and violence within my own family would spill wide open.  Cities would ignite in flames while floods drowned the citizens.  One of the candidates for president would fuel and fan the flames at a convention that threatened to tear another city to shreds and instigate the worst tendencies of many Americans. 

I watched my Facebook feed. 
"I can't be calm, I have a black son." a friend posted.
"Stop putting up beach pictures," another implored, "they are killing our kids."
I could feel the stress, the tension, the fear.  And I felt powerless. 

As the days grew nearer to my school's summer retreat, our official start of the new school year, I feared the stress that a lot of our students would carry into the school after the long, hot, violent summer.  The legitimate fears of their families that they would carry, the things that they had heard, the relatives they knew, the things they had experienced.

"The community is under stress."  one teacher said.
"This has been hard on us." another added.

"Iris, I'm sorry.  I am off topic and I am asking you this question because you are black.  Yes, congratulations, you get to be my window into the black world.  Iris, what are we going to do?  How can we effectively deal with the trauma these kids are bringing with them through the doors of the school house in a matter of weeks?  I know they feel it, what can we do?"

I stared at her, in the conference room at Agnes Scott.  My friend, Iris.  We were supposed to be talking about what we liked about the teaching profession.

"Hilary," she said slowly, and with a smile.  "This summer hasn't been any different than any other summer for us.  We're used to it.  It's more of the same."

Oliver's Army

We were driving, passing through endless Mexican towns and desert on our quest to reach the border.  We scuttled through several military and federal checkpoints where Lola threatened to rip the faces off of men with massive guns as they questioned me about my presence in Mexico.  Thankfully, I avoided secondary inspections and most of the heavily-armed men thought Lola was funny.

Overall, there were less checkpoints and convoys of ski-masked men with giant firearms than in previous trips. No tanks, either. 

In the late afternoon, Lola and I arrived in Nuevo Laredo.  Again, I got lost trying to find the road that leads to the bridge that serves as an international port of entry to the United States.  We cruised by the Rio Grande, where Mexicans fished and swam on one side and the U.S. Border Patrol sat in trucks on the other side, staring at them.  Finally, I made it to the line to exit Mexico, located where to turn-in our temporary vehicle import permit and tipped a guy that had waived me to the correct lane where I could turn in the permit, though I could tell by then where I needed to go.  Lola and I cruised forward, toward the small no-man's land area between Mexico and the United States. One last Mexican check point came into view.  I had not remembered that from the year before.  It was charging twenty pesos simply to leave and I had given away the rest of my pesos.  I dug through change, scrounging up pesos and American quarters to pay the fee.  The guy finally let me through and I entered the massive, uncoordinated, thirty lane-wide mess that constitutes "the line" to enter the United States.

After driving over the strange marker on the bridge that serves as the official border between the U.S. and Mexico, we finally made it to the last American checkpoint.  Agents waived mirrors under the car and sneakily assessed the weight I might be carrying by the level of the car's tires.

"How long have you been in Mexico?"  the Border Patrol guy asked.
"About a month."  I saw an eyebrow raise. 
"What do you do for a living....." he asked slowly.
"I'm a teacher." I answered, while Lola barked viciously at him. 
"What do you teach?"
"Spanish." I responded, afraid that I had inadvertently sounded sarcastic.
"You go to Mexico alone?"
"My partner came for half of the trip but had to return to work."
"Whose car is this?"
"His."
"Where were you?"
"Oh you know, hanging with El Chapo's crew in Sinaloa...."  I thought.  
"I spent most of the time on a town on the Pacific coast, kind of by Puerto Vallarta...."  I felt like I was lying, even though I knew I wasn't.
"Are you bringing any cigarettes, alcohol, plants, fruit, blah blah, er blah blah, bluh blah blah?"
"No." I answered, thinking of the pile of prescriptions laying on the passenger side floor of the car and the trunk full of Cuban rum, covered in underwear that I had pulled from the dryer in La Cruz shortly before leaving. 
"Open the trunk."

Another Migra came up to the window and good-copped me, making small talk about teaching and asking questions about Pit Bulls, while the other guy dug through the trunk.  After a few minutes, he closed it.
"Yeah, they're good dogs, don't believe that stuff you read about them." the original Migra said to the Good Cop.
"You can go."
"THANKS!" I blurted and sped off on the large open highway, glancing back over the massive bottleneck that the border created.

The landscape felt different, though we were only a matter of miles over the border.  We crept through the speed trap town, literally without touching the gas in order to NOT exceed the speed limit. I had one thing on my mind:  Whataburger.

And one came into view, its orange sign a beacon in an otherwise unexceptional town.  There was even a gas station next door.  All of my needs would be met in one stop.  We exited the drive-thru with a bag of deliciousness waiting to be eaten and scooted over to the pump to fill up.  I fed Lola her celebration, good girl made it over the border Whataburger through an open window of the car while I filled the tank.

I hopped back in, eager to mow through my food and get back on the road. But....I turned the key in the ignition and nothing happened.  My brain filled with dread.  If I was alone it would be merely inconvenient, but it was over a hundred degrees and I couldn't turn on the air-conditioning on for Lola.  Standing next to the car, waiting for help at a gas station with her on her leash wasn't really appealing either.

"Hey Alec?"
"Yeah, what's up?  Where are you?"
"We are across the border..."
"Great!"
"But.... does your car ever glitch out and sound like it has a dead battery when it really doesn't?  I mean, is there some way that I just hit some switch by accident that makes it, uh, do that?"
"WHAT?  The battery is dead?!"
"Yeah, and it's hot as hell."
"I'll call triple A, find out where you are, what's your address."
"No, hold on.  I'll call you back.  Someone here has to have jumper cables."

I opened the hood of the car, eyeballing all the men in cowboy hats with giant trucks, mentally encouraging one of them to glance over and say:
"Hey little lady in your wimpy hybrid, you look like you need a hand! Let me fix her right up for ya!"

I noticed that one of the cables was completely off of the battery.  I shoved it back on and jumped in the car.  It started. Air-conditioning blasting, Lola and I drove off, Whataburger in hand.

Later in the night, we arrived at our Motel 6 in Ganado.  It felt like the Ritz.  Lola walked around the grounds and hotel like it was her second home, showing a strange memory for places that I didn't think dogs had.

I popped the trunk to grab some things and was surprised to see the oldest bottle of Cuban rum prominently displayed on top of all of my things.  I certainly did not put it there and the only other person that had been in that trunk was the Migra.

I closed the trunk, went back to the hotel and crashed with Lola in the loveliness of our ice-cold room.  

That Endless Skyway

I sat in very early morning traffic in Aguascalientes, watching the men that swill gas, only to light it and blow fire from their mouths for money.  At six-thirty AM, I wasn't sure how they managed it.

It had been a long night.  I left La Cruz de Huancaxtle around three PM the previous afternoon.  It was time to go, though I had paid to stay in our rental for several more days.  I needed to head back, or I knew my mind might cave in on itself .  I had a goal of driving about six hours, so that I could make it to Texas the following day and to Atlanta the next.  I launched out, without a map or any kind of real directions, showing my first mistake of complacency and getting too used to Mexico being my own backyard.  I packed up the house, packed up Lola and headed out, rigging the doors shut on the rental and putting the key in a weird slot in the wall.   I almost left clothes in the dryer.

I was making good time, until hitting major traffic while trying to surpass Guadalajara, Mexico's second largest city, which is saying a lot because Mexico's largest city is one of the biggest cities in the world.  I was bored, frustrated, tapping on the gas while Lola waited patiently in the back seat.  The sun was going down.  I watched a Disney- Cinderella style horse and carriage pass by on the side of the congested road, filled with some sort of green hay instead of a princess or corny couple.  I tapped my phone for directions to by-pass the traffic.  It wouldn't work.  I had a signal, but Google Maps couldn't find a server.  I was worried I had gone over my data amount and finally called my mom.  I didn't want to, she divorced my step-dad in April and I knew this was supposed to be the day he moved out.

"Mom?" I asked.
"How are you?"
"Oh my God, this day has been exhausting....".
"I hate to ask you this but can you call AT&T for me?  I have tried direct dialing them and it won't go through and my data has been cut off and I am stuck in Guadalajara and don't know where to go.....".
As I sat in traffic while my mom texted me, asking my social security number and various other details to get my data back on.
"You have plenty of data!" she told me.  "They said it was a 'glitch' that your phone wasn't working....".

So, my mom fixed it and it worked and I got out of Guadalajara.  I drove smoothly on the highway, relieved to be moving again.  I followed Google maps.  Suddenly, things started looking familiar again.  Why was I back in Tonalá?   Why was I back in Guadalajara?  An hour after exiting, I was thrust into the city center of Guadalajara again.  I studied there one summer more than a decade ago, but was not too keen on reminiscing as I drove past my old university and favorite taco stands in the dark, trying to get the fuck back on the road.  I was stuck in the myriad of streets, completely clueless as to how to get back to the northern highway.  And, there was more traffic.  I was completely reliant on street signs, as Google Maps had dipped out again.  It was getting later, pushing eleven.

As I sat at a traffic light, several men infiltrated the road, spraying dirty water on windshields and "cleaning them off" for money.  People used to do this in Atlanta during the early nineties.  I watched one man eyeball and run straight for the gringo-lady car.  I would gladly give them money just to leave me alone, mainly because Lola goes psycho if anyone goes near the car or touches the windshield.  As soon as I saw him coming, I rolled down the window and started imploring in Spanish that he not touch the car.  Being a misogynistic shit face, he did what ever he wanted.  Lola went insane.  Now, I was screaming in Spanish and in English for him to get the fuck away, before Lola broke a window and ate his face off.  He kept doing what he was doing.  I turned on the windshield wipers.  That stopped him.

He stood by the driver's side of the car, instructing me to to roll the window down.  Obviously, he hadn't understood yet that I don't just take directions from weird men on the street, even though I have a vagina.  He upped his voice as I watched him through the window, yelling in perfect English:
"FUCK YOU.  FUCK YOU.  GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY.  GET OUT."
I smiled at him.  That was actually my goal.

I drove through the night, finally exiting Guadalajara and driving on the same northern highway I had been on hours earlier and toward the dog friendly hotel where I had a reservation.  Alec started calling.
"Yes.  I am still driving."
"Hilary, you are being stupid.  You are going to get kidnapped.  Even those super gringo expatriates don't drive around at night."
"I am doing my best."
He started texting me names of hotels.  Alec doesn't usually text and I thought his concern was sweet.  But I kept driving.
I passed through a toll booth.  I was surprised at the fond look of the young woman working the booth, grinning, asking about Lola.  I was still rattled by the guy in Guadalajara and appreciated someone that seemed to approve of what I was doing - strange gringo woman alone with dog in a Honda on a dangerous highway in the middle of the night, acting pretty natural and innocuous.  Clueless might be the better word.  The second toll booth was similar, this time a male that appreciated Lola as my "guardian".

I knew I would never make it to my destination and pulled into one of the towns Alec recommended.  I stopped at an OXXO and bought water for Lola and me and proceeded inward.  It was a strangely medieval town with a massive church in the middle; it reminded me more of France than of Spain or Mexico.  As I drove through the town looking for the pet friendly hotel that Alec had found on the internet, a noticed a few men on motorcycles following us.  I ignored them, but every time I made a turn they were on our bumper.  Lola didn't like it.  I didn't like it either.  Finally, I exited the town.  As I came up to the last red light, one of the motorcycle men pulled up beside me, and I lowered the window.
"No, I'm good, I don't need to hire your as a guide." I stated, as Lola went feral.
I turned to the right, just to get rid of him and drove back on the highway out of the town.  I saw a small hotel with the lights on and pulled off.  The entire family, complete with elementary age children, was sitting in the lobby.
"Do you have any rooms?"  I asked. "And, do you allow dogs?"
"How big of a dog?"
"A very large dog."
"As long as it doesn't bark all night."
"She won't."
The woman looked to her husband.
"Charge her 250." he stated, asking fifty peso below the rate the was published on a little board with white, stick on letters. 
They helped me carry my bag and all of Lola's stuff upstairs, even though the wife was terrified of Lola.
Lola and I took a quick walk around the area to let her pee, while I looked over my shoulder for the motorcycle men.  I would find out in the morning that I had inadvertently dropped the car keys and my iPhone brick next to the driver's side door.  Lola and I went upstairs.

I set up the fan in front of the bed and Lola and I jumped in.   Lola cemented herself next to my side.  Both girls on the run slept like we were dead for almost five hours.  

The Rowers Kept on Rowing

We woke and drove south, receiving a two hundred dollar ticket in a Texas speed trap before hitting the Mexican border.  As usual, the gates to Mexico were wide open and people were waving us in.  If we had tried to back out, the spikes in the road would have ripped up our tires.

Nuevo Laredo went much smoother than the year before and we passed through, got our paperwork and made our way to Saltillo, again staying in the same hotel as the year before and even getting tacos from the same awesome taco stand at the end of the driving day.  It was reassuring and delicious.   It was Mexico, and we were back.

We took an alternative route the third day through the "Devil's Backbone", a newly constructed series of roads, tunnels and bridges that cut from Saltillo to Mazatlán on a renovated donkey trail that only drug smugglers used to use.  We wanted to visit Durango and ride over the highest suspension bridge around, and well, try a new route.  We arrived at our small room in Mazatlán that night and made it to our house rental in La Cruz de Huanacaxtle the following day.

The time flew quickly.  We went to the beaches and ate at the restaurants in our sleepy town.  We played with Lola in the walled in yard of our luxurious yet flawed rental home.  We made margaritas and read books by our incredible pool.  I re-read "The Goldfinch" and talked Alec and a friend from school into reading it with my simultaneously.  As much as I loved the pool and being in Mexico, some of my happiest times were spent cuddled with Alec and Lola in our bed in the air-conditioned room of the house, watching Chef's Table on Netflix, knowing that we could stay up as late as we wanted and sleep as late as we wanted the next morning.

During the first week of our stay in La Cruz, the Orlando massacre occurred.  I woke the next morning to find a series of texts on my phone; my niece had also been violently attacked the same night by someone that was supposed to care about her.  My niece, Emma.  The child I saw born and who has been at my side ever since, whether she liked it or not.  The one that just graduated from high school.  The one that should have the world at her fingertips, as her oyster.  The beginning of everything.  The excitement of everything.  Something no one or thing should get to damper or shit on. 

He knocked her front teeth out.
It would set the tone for the summer. 

Thorazine on the Bayou

The first Saturday of June, the car was packed, Lola was buckled in, the new tires shined on the car, and we pulled out of the driveway and headed west, Mexican car permit and Lola's International Travel document safely tucked into the pocket on the passenger side door.

There was a sense of deja vu as we pulled onto the same highway on a similar looking day almost a year to the date later, just days after the school year ended, the plastic Virgin of Guadalupe medallion swinging from the rear view mirror on its dental floss string in the same familiar motion.

Things quickly changed.

The first day should be a "manageable" twelve hours, but the previous year we hit horrendous road work and traffic and twelve hours quickly changed to eighteen.  A different problem presented itself this time when as soon as Alabama, rain clouds appeared.  Being adults, we are versed in driving in the rain, but Lola has an almost violent reaction to windshield wipers.  Soon their use was necessary and Lola became so hysterical that she managed to pull loose from her seat belt and breach the barrier her crate created between the front and back seats.  We pulled off onto the side of the highway, cars whipping beside us from the narrow shoulder and a frightened Pit Bull scrambling over both occupants of the front seats.  It was pouring rain. 

I moved to the backseat and managed to get Lola back there with me.  I tried to calm her, but she continued barking for a solid ten minutes.  Violently.  The whites of her eyes were turning red.

"Look, if you can stay back there with her and keep her from getting up front, I say we just drive and she'll bark herself out."
"Okay." I responded, wrapping my arms tightly around Lola in both a hug and a hold.

Alec pulled onto the highway, windshield wipers flapping in the heavy rain.  Lola was barking hysterically and jumping all over me, the long bony legs that support her ninety-five pound body digging and bruising my legs and arms, her toenails tearing holes in my shorts.  It hurt, but I was more upset by how unhappy and afraid she was.  It was not subsiding.  Then I saw the blood.  It coated her teeth and coagulated at the side of her mouth.  It was on the back of the seat.

"Pull over!  She's hurt!!  She's hurting herself!!!"  I screamed.
Alec got us off the highway and into a gas station parking lot.  I pulled out the sedative the vet had given us for the trip.  We had never tried one before, but I knew from experience how Lola is with certain situations and I had asked the vet for something to calm her anxieties, but only when necessary, not some sort of doggie Prozac for the long term.  Slowly she calmed down and began to slump onto my lap and lay her head on my arms. After a half an hour, Alec carefully crept out onto the road again, turning on the windshield wipers.  Lola didn't react, but laid heavily in my arms, eyes blinking.

We rode like that most of the day until somewhere in Louisiana, Lola re-positioned herself, pressing her butt toward me and her head in the opposite direction. Her eyes remained fluttery.  I reluctantly looked up the medicine I had given Lola, knowing I was not going to like what I saw.  I was surprised that I hadn't read up on it before asking for a sedative from the vet, maybe a willful dissonance on my part or that things were busy and I thought the whole thing was pretty standard.

I discovered I had basically given my dog Thorazine, a One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest-type type tranquilizer commonly used and abused on psychotics in the fifties.  I glanced at Lola's half-cast eyes as the late afternoon sun reappeared over the Louisiana bayou.
"Don't freak out, Hilary,"  I reprimanded myself mentally.
"People use this drug all the time, vets prescribe it, you are neurotic and overly protective of your dog."
I glanced back at my phone.
"The drug actually doesn't sedate the dog...."  I read.
"But makes the dog unable to move its body while the mind remains perfectly aware of what is happening.  The dog is simply physically unable to respond to the fear it feels.  Often, the dog will become more fearful after the event because of the experience."
Wonderful.

As darkness arrived in Texas, Lola began to stir, rising up unsteadily on her feet.  We were both glad to see her.  She wore her "Scott Walker Face", or a Forest Gump-like look of dim eyes and a slight tongue protrusion that we assume someone that had experienced shock therapy or some sort of cognitive impairment might exhibit.  We pulled into the hotel, the same one as last year, and carefully exited the car with Lola.

She seemed more cognizant of the notion of a hotel than the year before and jumped up on the big bed, without the questioning look of "Why did we trade in a whole house and a yard for just one room?" and sprawled out.  At least the twelve hour drive was only a sixteen this year instead of an eighteen.

We climbed in the bed on either side of her.  Lola pressed herself toward me and lay glued to my side throughout the night, only shifting to make sure her head was laying squarely in my arms.  

When Doves Cry

I sat at my kitchen table, glasses off, cocktail sword in my hand.  I had emptied the contents of the gel capsule into a ramekin and carefully counted each little micro bead, one by one, moving each to the other side of the ramekin with the sword as I counted.  Three hundred, seventy-seven.  I was going to figure out how to taper off this happy pill.

One of the K-3 kids jumped off of the school bus and skipped toward me.  They change buses at our school, we are sort of like the Grand Central Station of my district, younger kids come and switch buses to ride with some slightly older kids to reduce the mileage and time that the buses have to endure.  She was cute and blond.
"I love your hair!" she exclaimed.
"Oh thank you!"
"Do you know Mark?"
"Mark who?"
"Mark Stewart".
"Yes!  I am his Spanish teacher!"
"I am his sister!" 
She hugged me.
"You are fun!" she continued.
"Here, wait with me, we will wait for Mark to come out..." I said, smiling.  She grabbed my hand and gazed up at me, smiling.
"Mark says you are the worst Spanish teacher ever.....".

"I cannot take it.  The children cannot take it.  It is too much!".
Suddenly, the hands started flying, the voice started rising and the tears began flowing.  He was on his feet, lips sputtering, weird gesturing.  My co-worker was going Jersey again.  I slowly turned toward my computer.  I wasn't going to ride the crazy train today over something so minor. 

After the end of year hall monitor party, I was flattered to find plates full of cookies and brownies with my name on them in our office.  I didn't want to eat them, but was flattered that so many students had wanted to share them with me.  

Mark ran out of the school and saw his little sister standing with me. 
"Come on," he instructed with a quick nod and smile in my direction.
"But I like her!" she screamed.
"I like her!".

I piled the cookies and brownies on a plate far from the edge of the counter so that Lola could not get to them.   I returned to the kitchen a few minutes later to see the empty plate laying on the floor.  CHOCOLATE. Lola had eaten CHOCOLATE. 

"Holly!" I pleaded into the phone.
"Lola ate some brownies with cocoa in them and chocolate chip cookies.  What should I do?  Should I take her to the vet?  She is acting okay....".
"Don't worry," she advised me.
"Lola is big enough to handle a little chocolate."
"Are you sure.....?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"I am thinking of getting off the happy pills, but I can't figure out how to do it, they are gel caps, you can't split them in half."
"Have you looked online?".
"Yeah...." I answered, my voice dropping to a whisper.
"But those people are CRAZY."
"I think I am going to do it halfie halfie, you know, open the capsule and divide the little pills between the two sides, halfie halfie."

Alec and I entered the vet's office with Lola. She needed her annual check up and shots, just because, and to go to Mexico.
"Do you have a stool sample?" the habitually bitchy receptionist asked.
"No wait, she is just here for her annual shots..." I answered, thinking she was confused with some sick dog.
"YES.  Do you have a stool sample?"
"I don't get it, what are you talking about?  I have never been asked to bring one for something like this....".
"It is just less intrusive, is all I am saying.  Take her for a walk, see if you can get one" she responded, as if I didn't give a shit about my dog. 
"Fucking cunt," I sputtered, as Alec and I walked Lola around the block. 
"I am so sick of this shit, sick of her fucking attitude.....my dog has been coming here for four years and I have never brought a piece of shit in with her for her shots....cock sucking bitch....."
We returned.  Without shit.  Crazy receptionist was bitching out Lola's main man with the pick, her favorite vet tech. 
"I can't take anymore!  We already have one emergency back there and a room full of appointments!  I can't do this!  Lifeline always does this.  Tell them no.   Tell them we cannot take the cat!  They always leave them wide open!".
"The man is on his way" the tech responded calmly.
I looked at the other woman in the waiting room, her cat in a crate and hands over her daughter's ears. 
I walked over to Richie. 
"We can reschedule.  I do not want some open cat out in the world."
I noticed the other woman from the waiting room behind me.
"We feel the same way."
"It's okay..." he muttered.
"We got this."
I sat back down.  A man burst through the door with a cat in a carrier.
"I need help." he said to me.
Cunt face spoke up.
"We can't take her!  Take her to St. Francis hospital on the highway, we can't help!"
I was furious.   There is an emergency vet less than fifteen minutes away.  She was sending him forty-five and the cat's spay incisions were open. 
"It's serious!" she called after him.
"Nothing to play with!  You better go now!"
I scratched my palms until I thought blood would come out.  

My niece graduated from high school.  It was strangely touching and a long, stressful, emotional night for a million events and reasons that cannot be written.  A few days after the graduation, the school hosted a funeral for a student that graduated a year ago.   He overdosed a day before Emma's graduation.  A sad waste.  Though I taught at Emma's school, I didn't know that student.  The ripeness of summer had begun and he had expired.  It made me think of how flowers smell near the end of the hot season, overly fragrant and slightly rotten. 

"That's the guy that nearly made me cry" my sister mentioned as we decompressed a day or so after the graduation.
It was the guy who rides his bike and whistles really loud and in perfect tune.  I can hear him from inside my house.
"He was whistling 'When Doves Cry' the day after Prince died."

"I am going to miss you, Miss Wagner." Janie announced randomly in the hallway.
"I mean, you've been my teacher for two years.  I have never had a teacher like you.   You make me want to ask questions, you don't just tell us what to do.  My class complains about everything.  They complain about Social Studies, they complain about Math.  But they never complain about Spanish....you just make it so fun."

I looked into her clear blue eyes and thanked her.  I really needed that.