El Camino a Santiago

"Turn right on five de mayo."  Google Maps voice instructed.  Five de mayo.  She tried her hand at "caballo" too, saying the double L like an L instead of a Y.  I kept praying a street name with Jesús would come up, but no luck.  
"Take a left after the O-X-X-O."  The Oxxo?  Just say Oxxo!  Google Maps lady was doing a number on the Spanish.  

"Level 3 has arrived in 25."  the disembodied voice announced while we followed my mom through the cavernous hallways of Grady's emergency area.  My mom was Level 3, arriving in 25.  I remember being nervous that they were taking so much care.  Nurses and doctors started asking a lot of questions.  My sister and I helped answer them and then, while we stood next to our mom's gurney, a stern looking nurse came over and said that though they had asked both of us to come to the back with my mom, only one of us could remain back there with her.  I went up front.  Horrible things were happening there but I just sat in a fog, staring forward.  Patients that required police intervention, street people in horrible states, I can keep going but I don't want to.  As much as I appreciated their care with my mom, Grady looked like what I imagine a field hospital in Iraq must have been like.  I found myself thinking over and over, people should not die in a place like this.  

We left for Mexico Saturday morning, my first day of Spring Break.  We made it all the way to Victoria, Texas and set out for the border on Easter Sunday.  We crossed over in McAllen/Reynosa instead of the Laredo crossing that we were more familiar with.  Though Reynosa isn't the safest city, all of the Texas crossings have issues and the McAllen/Reynosa crossing shaved off a little bit of driving time.  As we got closer, we started seeing Border Patrol trucks and got in the line for the bridge to Reynosa.  As we got closer to the painted line on the bridge delineating the end of the United States and the beginning of Mexico, the concertina wire gave away and then, we were there.  Temple bobbed around in the backseat, looking out the window.  

My mom did not have a stroke.  They weren't really sure what happened, but all of the really horrible stuff was ruled out.  My sister started going over to my mom's house daily, often bringing food.  I went by after work and on the first weekend after the incident.  We cleaned the majority of her house.  We were trying to make her environment healthier, hoping it would help her be healthier.  

We got immigration stuff taken care of and our temporary vehicle importation permit.  We drove through Reynosa and shortly after, started seeing all kinds of law enforcement - the Mexican military, the National Guard, various police types riding standing up in the back of pickup trucks with big guns and ski masks covering their faces.  A little later, we saw a large convoy of Pemex trucks, guarded front and back by the National Guard.  And then, we drove on to Santiago, a small town near Monterrey.  We found the neighborhood where our rented house was and were relieved when we realized that we initially pulled up to the wrong address, a house overflowing with junk.  A little down the street, a big nice wall surrounded the actual house we rented and the entire family who owned it sat on the front porch, keys in hand.  We are kind of used to just getting a code to get in the door when we rent a house and never meeting the people that actually own it, but this was different.  

The house has a big yard surrounding it, all encased in a sturdy wall.  Temple runs laps around the whole thing.  There is a large nice pool and a mountain view.  I am trying to coax Temple into the pool, but she's not feeling it yet.  The first day here was almost one hundred degrees.  

Yesterday, I saw a dog poking his face through a gap in the wall-gate.  He had love in his eyes.  He and Temple touched noses, then he ran away.  Minutes later, I saw him back again, nose poking through the gate.  And away he went again.  Minutes later, he came back with a second dog.  

Temple poked her face through the gap and the second dog licked her nose and ran away. 

The Birth of the Best

La vaca Lola, la vaca Lola
Tiene cabeza, tiene cola
La vaca Lola, la vaca Lola
Hace moo!

I can never tell what year it is.  Recently, our school put on a 50 years of hip-hop presentation for Black History month.  I thought about my decades.  I was born in Michigan in the early seventies.  Moved to Georgia by the early eighties.  Atlanta Child Murders.  By the early nineties, I was at Georgia State and working in restaurants.  There was a lot of great music in Atlanta at that time.  It seemed normal, but I didn't realize it wasn't until it was gone.  By the 2000s, those were travel years.  By the 2010s, antidepressants and massive weight gain.  The 2020s, I don't know.  I just don't know.  

My mom texted me last Wednesday.  Early in the morning, which isn't unusual.  She said that she woke up on the floor of her bathroom and didn't know how she got there.  Her arm was injured and her glasses were broken.  She said she had been there for hours, trying to get up, and that her face wasn't working right.  She feared that she had had a stroke.  

I stared at the message.   It had come through about twenty minutes earlier, while I was doing morning phonics.  
"Call your doctor."  I texted back.
And then, I called her.  

"Mom, what the fuck?"

"I'll call them as soon as they open."  she responded.

"They open at eight."

"Okay," I said.

"I have to got to my first class." 

I don't know why I said that.  

I called my sister.

"You have to go to mom's house, now.  She thinks she had a stroke."  

And then, I started walking to my class.  I slowed down as soon as I made it to the cafeteria.  I went by the principal's office, but it was dark in there.  I stood in the lobby and texted the principal and vice principal and said that I needed to leave.  I saw the vice principal in a side classroom and waited in line to talk to her.  When the person before me finished, I said that I needed to go because my mom thought she had had a stroke.  

"Go now."  she responded.

"Do I sign out, what do I do?"  I asked.

"GO NOW." she repeated.

"Okay, I have to Uber, our car is in the shop, I got dropped off today."  I responded, shell shocked.  Papi and I were getting the car ready for Mexico.

"Let's go, I'll take you."  my arch nemesis responded.  

"I have to get my stuff."  I replied, and ran to the trailer to get my bag and purse.  And my lunch.  

When I came back, the safety patrol that my arch nemesis coordinates was standing at the doors, opening them for me, directing me out front to the bus lane where her car waited.  

She took me to my mom's house.  I had to use Google to get there, because I don't go over there much.  

"So Wagner, where are you from?"  she asked.

"Michigan.  But I've been here since I was ten."

"Okay, Detroit. "  she responded.

I'm not from Detroit.  

"So, we're driving toward Bouldercrest, the Flat Shoals exit."  I continued.

Yes.  My mom lives on the Crest.  And apparently, I'm from Detroit.  

She pulled into the driveway.  I tried to just jump out, but then she asked if the car in the driveway was my sister's, and I said no.

"It's my mom's.  I can drive it."

"I'm coming in."  she responded.

And came up, onto my mom's porch, that was covered in wine boxes and dog pee.  

"Do you have a key?"  she asked.

"Yes, but I don't know the alarm thing."  I responded, trying to stall for time.  I knew my mom was not on the floor at this point and I could not have her going into my mom's house.  It's a difunctional mess, to say the least.  I knocked on the door.

"Get back!"  I called to her.

"Her dog's mean!"

My mom poked her head out.  

She left.  And I went inside.  

"They said go to the emergency room."  my mom said.

My sister was there within minutes and we took my mom to Grady. Barricades blocked most of the emergency entrances.  My sister dropped us off after we finally found the entrance.  She went and parked the car.  I took my mom in, through the metal detectors and police wands and went to the desk.  They were very nice.  My mom answered all of their questions and showed her all of her insurance cards and when they asked for emergency contact information, I had to speak.  I told them my name, spelled it, and when I started saying my phone number, I started to cry.

"It's okay, it is okay."  they told me.

"We have her.  We will get her all fixed up."

Lola would have been twelve today.  She should have been twelve today.  But me, us, all of us, we are trying very hard.  

I am, I Cried

It's funny.   I never really know what I'm doing.  I am always flying by the seat of my pants.  Like, my whole life.  When we got Temple, I sort of assumed she would be like Lola, because I have never owned another dog except Lola.  And, I didn't really think.  I just needed to get her out of the shelter.  Temple doesn't cuddle like Lola.  She has separation anxiety;  I can walk out of the room for a couple of minutes and she will jump up and hug me, frantic, acting like I've been gone for ten years.  But at night, she curls up on the end of bed.   Tight, like a ball.  Lola used to push me out of the bed, pressing up to me so hard that I broke my arm once, I fell out in the night.  But Temple has extremes, heart pounding fear when we leave the room, and then independence when she knows that we are here.  

"Lista, mamá." Joya announced, slapping her hand on the table.  I burst out laughing, as she did.  I thought she was being sassy, but it turned out, she was calling me mom, by accident.

I am struggling a bit.  I want to be at my best with my students, myself and my dog and and my partner. My schedule at work is wearing me out, even though I am completely on board with teaching kids that are new to the U.S.  They are actually the ones I wanted, all along.  Maybe it's the short days.  Maybe it's gross winter.  I don't know.  Maybe I just suck ass.  I want to be the best I can be.  Maybe I am being the best I can be.  But, it's not good enough.  

I watched Jon Stewart talk about the passing of his dog.  It was so well articulated that it brought me to tears.  I watched when his dog ran in the snow, with Jon Stewart saying "Get your ball,"  over and over again, while the dog ran and played in the snow.  Alec told me that one of his best memories was one time, when he and Lola were walking together, in the snow, it was all silent and they just walked together.  And it was beautiful.  

The Flave ran up the stairs to the gym, and turned.

I was standing down below, making sure he and the Joya made it where they needed to go.  
"Ciao papa!"  he yelled.  

Groundhog's Day

My birthday was at the beginning of February.  Papí went all out and got us this pretty, historic hotel on one of the squares in Savannah for the weekend.  And, it actually allowed dogs.   Aside from rental houses, the only places we were ever able to bring Lola was La Quintas and Motel 6.  I genuinely thought these people might be crazy to let any size dog into their place with all this antique furniture, but jumped at the idea.  They even invited her to their afternoon wine receptions.  I bought her a cute robe so that she would look like a fancy lady in her fancy hotel.    

I walked through the house, doing one last check before we took off.  The car was packed and Temple and Alec were outside, waiting.  I looked at the box of Lola's ashes.  I thought of how she pushed her chin so hard on my hand while she died in the same room I was standing in.  I touched the box and realized that this time, Lola wasn't going with us.  We were leaving her behind.  

Being back at work after our weekend was a rude awakening.  I've been testing non-stop.  Testing can be boring, but this test is the one that's used to basically evaluate me and it's difficult to administer.  I feel tired.  I finished most of it, just in time for a teacher work day, followed by a three-day weekend. 

Yesterday morning, I sat with the rest of the "specials" teachers, as instructed, while the grade level teachers began a training about teaching math.  None of us sat down with the other groups during the training, because none of us teach math.  I was surprised when one of my bosses walked by and stated:  "You need to get with a grade".  Her tone was one you might use with a child that was deliberately out of his assigned seat.  I was being chastised.  She then dismissed the rest of the "specials" teachers to do whatever they needed to do.  I was embarrassed and honestly, angry.  I don't like being talked to that way.  How the fuck was I supposed to know that they wanted me in that training?  It was as though I was knowingly avoiding doing something I was supposed to do.  Which is the opposite of what I do at work.  I do a million things that are not part of my job.  I interpret whole meetings, translate documents, teach phonics and reading before school actually starts...I hate it when teachers talk like this, but I do it because I care.  I do it when I notice that their grade level, content-area teachers are going to let them slip through the cracks.  There is a short window where children can gain reading proficiency.  If they don't do it by a certain age, there can be lifelong repercussions.  I've worked with a lot of people that don't give a shit, so I have gone way outside of my teaching lane because again, I care.  I was angry at the implication that I was avoiding my job.  

Yeah, I'm triggered.  I quit my last school because I had a boss that treated me like shit.  Constantly rude to me, berating me, even though I was doing a lot of the heavy lifting for my department.  Yesterday's comment put me in a tailspin.  I was also mad that I had to sit through a training about how to teach small group math, when I had a million other things to do.  Some of the other teachers kind of laughed and asked me why I was in the training.  
"Don't you teach ELA?"  one asked.
"I don't teach content.  I teach the language that allows English learners to understand the content."  I answered, pissed off that I am still explaining my whole job to whole teachers, and bosses.  I am so tired of this willful ignorance of what ESOL is.  I don't teach multiplication.  I teach kids what the word multiplication is so that the content-area teachers can teach them HOW to multiply.  But here I was, sitting in a training about how to teach small group math.  I am not even in the classroom when math is taught.  

I know I need to blow it off, not worry, but I am super tired of being various people's bitch.

Long Long Time

I finally watched The Last of Us.  I am like that about everything.  In high school, I resisted listening to The Smiths until after everyone got refunds for the concert they cancelled before they broke up.  And then, I loved them.  I just have to think about things everyone loves before I try it out.  Because if everyone loves it, it is probably crap.  

I was working with kindergarten, while trying to juggle my third segment of Intensive English at the same time.  I have a lot of new students this year, not even counting my Intensive English kids.  I have been so distracted I haven't even mentioned it.  My kindergarten is huge, six girls and wildly diverse.  We hit every continent and I am excited about them.  Sajani stood out from the beginning.  Only four years old, wildly social and distracted, twirking in the hallways with a bindi on her forehead.  In trouble all the time.  Some of the Intensive English kids thought I was mean to her, which frustrated me, when I would make her sit at a different table when she was too distracting.  In January, she randomly grabbed my hand in class, looking serious.
"My dogs are in heaven."  she said.
I looked into her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Sajani.  My dog is in heaven too."  I responded.  We looked at each other for a long time.  After that day, everything seemed easier with her.  She also had made it through half of kindergarten and turned five.  

Cause I've done everything I know 

To try and make you mine

And I think I'm going to love you 

For a long long time....

My baby died six months ago today.  I think back on the last day and the days before, when we knew.  I wonder if I could have petted her more.  She seems so far away now and I would do anything just to know her presence again.  

And I think I'm going to love you 

For a long long time.  

Long Long Time, Gary B. Wright, popular by Linda Ronstandt 

January

"So,"  Berenice announced.

"When I'm sixteen, I'm going to have long nails and a wig."

I looked at all seven years of her and smiled.  She plucked at the skin on my hands.

"Why is it so...loose?"  she asked.

"Don't make me get you."  I responded. 

The day that Lola died, I sang "You are the One" to her.  I am not a singer, but I always sang it to her when she was a baby.  I sang it to her on the last day, too.  Three days earlier, on the Sunday night when everything went wrong, when we saw the red spot on her eye that indicated that her blood wasn't clotting, I did something selfish.  That afternoon was the day before the first day of school.  I went out with my sister and brother in-law.  We went to foot acupressure and Vietnamese lunch.  It started storming horribly, and I didn't rush home.  Normally I did, because Lola hated storms.  They scared her to death.  I didn't rush home that day.  I let her stay at home, afraid.  

"TEACHERS:  do not walk your students in front of the school until further notice."  the announcement called.

My kids and I were walking through the interior front of the school when we saw a giant racoon walking around out front.  Casually.  In the light of the day.  I took pictures of it and texted my sister.

"Poor thing is probably hungry."  she responded.  

I took my kids to the trailer.  My mind started going in circles while they practiced their phonics.  I took out some cherry tomatoes and almonds that I had packed with my lunch and put them on a paper plate.  

"Keep doing what you're doing."  I said to the kids and ran around the side of the building.  I placed the plate by the dumpsters.  I didn't want to encounter a rabid racoon, but was hoping maybe he would drift away from the front of the school and snack a little.    While I ran back, I saw all of my kids on the patio of the trailer, watching and waving. 

The day my baby died, we gave her her favorite treat, these big breath bones that we gave her to keep her fresh.  She didn't eat them.  She walked around, burying them in the yard.  She used to do that with things that she really loved.  We were so scared, so unsure of what to do that day, but every part of what she did told us that something was very wrong.  Sometimes I have dreams that I made a mistake, that I killed my dog unnecessarily, but at least, when I wake up, I know it's not true.  Two nights ago, while I slept, I woke up because I heard Lola's toenails clicking, the noise she would make when she walked around the house.  Temple was in bed with us and either way, I knew it wasn't her.  The sound was different.  I miss my baby.  

I sat at my desk, reading our weekly Monday teacher announcements.

"TEACHERS:  do not feed wild or stray animals for the safety and security of our students and staff."

I felt my face get a little red, even though no one else was there.  

And then, I thought it might be the best thing to be called out for, picturing myself as Snow White with birds on my shoulders.  I was also glad they hadn't seen the new lizard that had moved into Steve's old moss-floored box in my trailer.  

2024

New year, new me.  Maybe, maybe not.  I hosted Christmas and New Year's Day at my house.  Put up the tree, cleaned everything.  I even put bright vintage lights outside on the porch.  I bought Alec, Temple and myself matching pajamas.  It was great getting half of December, off.  

For some reason, I feel uncomfortable saying that I miss Lola.  I feel like I am not allowed, because we have Temple now.  But, I miss her terribly.  I miss her face in the mornings.  I miss the way she waited for me in the window when I would come home from work.  I miss how she took over my half of the bed, pushing against me.  I miss her chill, when we would go outside and she would lay on her outside bed and I'd sit beside her.  I miss her smell.  

I worry that it sounds like I don't love Temple, but I do.  I feel guilty when I think of Lola while I look at Temple.  I am also not sure how to refer to my dogs.  I don't like calling Lola my "old dog", as if she doesn't exist any more.  Or calling Temple my "new dog", as if she is a replacement.  I speak vaguely of "my dog" when others speak of theirs, and I know they think I'm talking about Lola, because it was too painful for me to say that she died.  I need a term for it, but there isn't one.  

Work is busy.  I lost Rafael and Arecely, and they were replaced by five other kids.  I teach seven classes a day now with only thirty minutes of planning. I have a little extra time after my afternoon duty and I try to maximize it.  I want my lessons to be good, especially Intensive English.  

It got so cold here after the MLK holiday that we got an extra day off.  But, the Wednesday after, it was twelve degrees when I left for work and they made us come in anyway, around seven in the morning.  In the south, where people don't own winter clothing.  Where poor kids stand in the dark on unlit roads in hoodies, waiting a half an hour for the school bus.  I didn't agree with it, but obviously went in to work.  I signed in, then ran to my trailer to heat it up.   My morning phonics kids didn't even come to school, so I sat in the trailer, figuring out my day.  I heard a knock at the door.

"Eduardo!"  I exclaimed, grabbing him into the trailer.
He was all bundled up.  
"I am the only one who has to go to school today!"  he howled.  His mom was letting his little sisters stay home, because it was too cold.  We talked.  How was middle school.  How were the other kids from last year.  How was he.  I showed him pictures of Temple, still thinking of the last time he stopped by when I burst into tears because Lola had just died.  

"You look happy."  he told me, and smiled.