Thanks

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

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

"I'm going to take a shower."  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

"No." I answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I gripped harder and they rolled me in and left.  

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

I squeezed the thing.  

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

No one said anything.

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

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

"I AM BEGGING YOU!!!!!"

And then, I started moving myself out, backwards.

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

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

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

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

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

Might Need a New Life

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

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

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

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

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

Proud Mary

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun Facts

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

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

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

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

Inquiry

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

Mon frere

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't wait to meet him. 

Nobody Knows It

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

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

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

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

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

*Lyrics, Elton John

J