All the Eternal Love I Have

"Do you have any resume paper?"
The sound of the text from a former co-worker woke me up.  It was 6:15 in the morning.

I jumped in the car at 4:45 in the morning and drove to my mom's house.  She was having knee replacement surgery and needed to be at the hospital by 5:30.  We arrived on time.  The waiting room was dingy and the fluorescent lights flickered.  Someone had carved their initials (P.J.) in the wood column in the middle of the room.  Someone else added "BLOOD" to the column.  I felt nervous while they wheeled my mom to the back.  I left and drove back to my mom's house to let her dogs out.  One sat by her bedroom door, refusing to move.

"We would like to offer you a position!"  the email read.  I was back at the hospital, in the recovery room with my mom.   I had been unemployed one day.
"Thanks, but I'm good."  I responded.
My phone started blowing up with calls from two other districts.  I felt flattered, but overwhelmed.  I ended up with job interviews scattered throughout my first week out of work, woven between visits to my mom's house to take care of her dogs.  I felt like I had to strike when the iron was hot, but felt like screaming CAN'T YOU ALL JUST GIVE ME A MINUTE???

I sat in the front office of the school, watching a Sheriff deliver papers and parents pick up kids that were being sent home for bad behavior.  A social worker was walking around.
"WHENEVER the doctor makes me take an antibiotic...."  the woman next to me said loudly into her phone.
"He gives me the pill AND the cream.  THAT did not happen.  And NOW, I must see him immediately."
I had never heard a person so publicly discuss a yeast infection in my life.

I sat outside on the patio of a bar with friends, on a school night.  I did not have another interview until 1:30 the next day.  It was nice to be out, to not have to think of teaching school the next day.  To not have to put on my monkey suit job interview costume until later.

I saw a boy riding up in the distance, a boy with cornrows.  I taught him years ago, and several other members of his family.  It was late, but his dad wasn't really known for supervision.

I extended my hand and he stretched out his as he rode by, touching for a second, then he continued into the night.

*Title, derivative of Yayoi Kusama

The Obliteration Room

"When would you be able to start?"  the principal asked me from her perch across the table in the rather dingy room.
"Uhhh...um, I don't know.  Maybe two weeks...."  I responded, eyes on the ground.

My last day of work was last Friday.  I began the process of requesting to be released from my contract two and a half weeks into the school year.  Kitty, I knew I should have told you, but I had to be quiet about it.  And, I'm not sure if I'm even ready to tell you yet.  Less than seventy hours later, I was sitting in front of another principal on a job interview.

I tried to drive back home, but my brain was in a fog.  I was weird on the interview, too.  Mind wandering, kept just answering "Right..." or "I don't know" to questions. I think the word "fuck" mixed in with a couple of my responses.  I was close to my house, then suddenly I was lost, I was on the west side of town instead of my neighborhood.

"Yayoi Kusama lived through the second World War in Japan...."  Lois Reitzes informed me.
"She hallucinated from an early age, her fields of flowers were not a happy memory."
"She tried to kill herself by jumping out of a window...she returned to Japan and still resides in a psychiatric hospital."
The sun was bright.  I kept looping and driving down roads I didn't know, unclear about how I had ended up on Abernathy in the first place.
"We have to give her mother a break, even though she was incredibly violent."
"Her first time at the Venice Biennale, Kusama crashed it by setting up her own exhibit on the lawn outside."

"How did it go?"  my mom's text message asked.
"I don't know...." I said when I called her.
"Pros and cons, I mean, I could work there, it'd be alright."
"Hilary....." my mom started.
I started crying.
"I just want to be an Infinity Room attendant.  I just want to stand there for two months inside of one of Yayoi Kusama's rooms and not say anything.  Just stand there."

"Then," my mom answered, "that is what you should do.".

*Title, Yayoi Kusama

Closer to Heaven

"Mamaaaaa.....bring me some shoes!"  Taisha screamed.  It was 6:50 in the morning and we were walking through the apartments.
"Grandamaaaaa!!!!"  she howled.

Our school has a parent initiated attempt to get the students to walk or ride their bikes to school, instead of taking the bus or riding in a car.  Our district is only four miles wide.  One parent really wants to make sure the children of the Housing Authority are included and arrives at school around 6:30 in the morning, picks up teachers that are willing to be there, and drives us over to the apartments to walk with them to school.

I've been meeting her for over a year.  She ran up to me and hugged me.
"Hey...", I said, putting my coffee cup in the holder of her car, "um, Friday is my last day...I'm leaving....".

Taisha had on cute flats.
"Why didn't you wear tennis shoes?  It's Walk and Roll?"  some of the muslim girls asked.

I work with Taisha after school.  She's in my group.  My fucked up giant group of sixteen.  She's a star.  Immaculate, clothes and hair clean, presenting in the best way.  No one has to know she lives in the projects, because her parents have made sure they don't know.  And, she works and acts accordingly.  Until, Tuesday morning.

"BUY ME SOME FOOD!" Myla screamed as we walked past the gas station.  Another boy grabbed a gas pump and threw it on the ground.

They yelled.  They screamed.  The walked in people's yards.  They talked about the bikes that were unsecured, the houses they would rob.

I worked.  Taught my classes, attended meetings, packed my things.  Felt sweaty and gross all day.  Graded papers. Went back to the Housing Authority that night to tutor.

"They went fucking crazy on the visitors last Friday... screaming, demanding food, grabbing shit.  Their names are on the board."
Out of the sixteen students in my group, ten of their names were on the board.  The ones that were not on the board had been absent.

"You all have debased yourselves."  I said quietly.
"You have acted under what you are."
"No one bangs on the table and begs for food."
"I didn't do that!  It wasn't me!" Zoey and Tamira screamed.
"Did I say Zoey or Tamira?  Whoever did it, I don't want to know.  I don't want to know because I don't want to think of you that way and you're better than that."

I left, feeling tired, dirty and defeated.  Laaida jumped out from behind a neighboring car, all sixth grade of her burka wearing self.
"Hey!  I thought this was your car!" she laughed, even though she was by the wrong car.  The other white teacher's car.
"I wanted to surprise you!"

I watched my students jump on top of a utility box and do our school's chant.  They saw me, and did it louder.  I wanted to film them, send it to my boss, show how great they were.  But, she's a dick and doesn't deserve to see it.

I smiled and clapped, phone in my pocket, and got in Alec's car and drove away.

Ms. Petosa

You better THINK, think
Think about what you're trying to do to me
THINK, think think think

"After everyone figures out how to open his or her lock, Ms. FELICIA"  Aazim hissed, in place of the character's real name, "explains that she used to work for Wall Street but quit her job because it was her lifelong dream to be a teacher."
The sound whistling through the place where his front teeth should have been as he glared at the rest of the group.  The kids eyeballed him, while he smirked at giving them all the Felicia.  And, he was a year younger than all of the kids in my after-school group. 

"Is there any pig or cow in the sausage today?"  a student asked me in the lunch line.
"I don't know, why don't you eat pig or cow?" I responded, curious.
"I feel bad for the animals.  I went to this place, a burger place, and everyone sat around eating hamburgers.  They had pictures on the walls of happy cows and I couldn't believe anyone could sit there and eat them with those pictures in front of them."
"Thank you for letting me know.  I'm like you, too." I answered.

"¿Qué vas a hacer este fin de semana?" I asked my wild-ass, last class of the day on a Friday.  The rough girl, the one that makes everyone cry, the one that is rude to me for fun and pisses me off, Mikayla, raised her hand.
"I'm getting my ears pierced and my hair professionally done."
"I can't wait to see it," I responded "I'll look for you on Monday."

"Let's take a walk... so we can sit and talk...."  the band thundered in my ears as I stood in the park in the night, watching the moon rise with a red planet beside it.  A child ran by, and wrapped a glow band around my wrist.

"We have moved to Dubai!  We re-homed most of our dogs, but Lola's dad is the only one left.  He's eight and no one wants him.  Can you help us find him a home?"
"Of course!"  I answered.
I hugged Lola and told her over and over in my head that I would never leave her.  She would never be without our home.  She would never have to know new people, or a new place without us.

Mikayla passed through the lunch line early in the week.  Her ears weren't pierced and her hair was the same.
"Hey... what happened?"  I asked her.
She shrugged.
"Didn't work out."

I love it when children's authors visit our school.  I watched the guy entertain the kids and read from his book.  My class was enraptured, I didn't have to bitch at them once.  The author asked for a selfie with the kids and the kids went wild, running toward the stage.  We got all four hundred and fifty of them basically under control.  And then, he raised his phone and he asked for another from the kids.
"What an asshole." the fourth grade teacher to my left muttered.

"See, I'm not so good at Spanish... when I was at Whitford, my teacher, he uh, left, then I was at Trinity, and we had Chinese....".
Three schools by the beginning of fourth grade.
"Well, I'm not going anywhere, I'll be here...."  I almost said.

But, I didn't want to lie.

* Aretha Franklin, Think
**R.J. Palacio, Wonder
***The Rock-A-Teens

Fall

"Summer", as teachers call it, came and went, and by late July, "Fall" began, or, our return to school.  It was hot.  It was ridiculous.  But, I was determined to have a good year, as it would be my last before searching for a new school or a new opportunity within my district, which would be re-configured for the 2019-20 school year.

I started my work at the Center as well.  Our leader is gone and things are...difficult.  I was assigned a group of twelve, though the cap was supposed to be eight-ish.  And, an additional four third graders, making it a group of sixteen, "small group tutoring", below grade level children that are living in poverty.  A fellow teacher was assigned to co-teach, though we had no time to organize any sort of arrangement, as the children sat in front of us.

During the first weeks of normal school, a fellow teacher arrived early, which means really early as our report time is 7:15 in the morning, to find a naked man sleeping on the basketball court behind the trailer where his classroom is located.  He calmly told him to put his pants on, which laid beside him on said basketball court, and called the police.

As parents drove up to drop their children off, and teachers and administrators tried to find parking spots, a half naked man stood ranting, as the small town police triangulated, taking a really long time to haul him off.

"What was your favorite part of your day?" I asked the massive group of children at the Center, while they slapped each other and fucked around.

"I saw you.  I saw you in the hall.  I saw Miss Wagner at school."

I was happy to see you, too.  I was happy that you were there.  I thought it was sweet that you hugged me.  I have your back.  I will take care of you.

Summertime

Lola and I sat in the living room in the middle of the sunny summer afternoon, both doors closed and the blinds drawn.  Men had our house encircled, scrapping, spraying, climbing on ladders, crawling on hands and knees.  Soccer played on an endless loop.  I have never had house painters before and had not anticipated how the event would play out.  Lola was not pleased.  We spent six days locked in, me trying to keep her calm and away from the windows, watching every World Cup game.

I emerged nearly a week later, feel pale and atrophied, shielding my eyes from the sun.  As I jogged through the park, I heard the whistling, the man that whistles so loudly I can hear him while inside my house as he rides his bike down the street.  And, he doesn't just whistle, he is like a one man symphony, a literal symphony.  He stood, his back to the path I was on, staring up at the trees, serenading them with his orchestra. The trees and the birds and the early morning sun enveloped him as one of their own.

I returned home, tingling from being outside again.  Fire trucks tore past, barreling toward the Capitol, racing to put out the man that had deliberately set himself on fire, just hoping to get someone's attention that he needed help. 

The Not So Quiet American

I awoke to the sounds of footsteps on our roof and chainsaws blaring.  Instead of being on red-alert, Lola rose her head slowly and sleepily, giving me her version of a smile.

The tree men were here.

I gathered her up and went where the tree men were not.  I pulled up the newspaper on my laptop.  Anthony Bourdain was dead.

I worked in restaurants, mostly as a cook, for around ten years.  I culminated my experience with a brief stint as an assistant pastry chef in a French restaurant where I met one of the owners, Eric Ripert, shortly before Alec and I left on a nearly year long trip through Asia.

I read Kitchen Confidential shortly after it came out and devoured Bourdain's stories.  The pirate brigade ferociousness of the line cooks.  The lifestyle. I vicariously relished the sight of a dinner service beginning with the line doused in brandy and set aflame to the sounds of Flight of the Valkyries.  A mad scientist, pastry "terror dome" filled with gallons of molten seafood stew, conceived while fucked up and served to unsuspecting guests, with hopes that it didn't spring a lava-spurting leak.  My experience was never quite as intense as his, but I did enjoy reading the ride.

Later, he would talk about The Quiet American and show the world Hanoi.  All you have to say is 'Hanoi' to me and it invokes memories; I found it one of the most beautiful places I had ever been.  It holds a place in my heart that is bigger than New Orleans, larger than Havana, it's Hanoi.  I read the The Quiet American while in Vietnam, and was entranced by the mystery of Indochina, the roots of war, the opium and the decaying splendor.  He went to Hanoi for the first time the same year Alec and I did, the year 2000.

We are all friends here, right?  I've got my demons.  You've probably got yours, too.  But Anthony Bourdain seemed to have slayed the beast, whether it was worries of an unaccomplished life, the slavish life of a restaurant worker, addiction, mental illness.  He went on to craft a life of anyone's dreams well past the point when, in his own words, he should have been sent to the glue factory.  Extensive travel, exotic food, basically doing whatever the fuck he wanted.

But, it looks like you can never really slay the beast.  It lays and it waits.