Let it Snow

"Hey. Lindsey says the Hale girls are going to beat her up after school."  a co-worker told me.

I looked back at her.  I was waiting with my dismissal line of walkers.  What the fuck was I supposed to do about that?

We walked up the hill.  I saw all three Hale girls surround Lindsey, but when they saw me see them, they disbursed.  

"Get up here."  I hissed at Lindsey.

"I'm afraid to walk home."  she responded, once she was by my side.

"Hey!"  Demetrius yelled.

"They sayin' they going to beat her up, they're going to wait until they get around the corner so you can't see."  he continued.

I kept walking.  I got them to the corner and turned around.  One of my bosses had explicitly told me to let this shit lie, that what happens after the corner is their parents' problem.  I caught Mr. C two minutes later.

"The Hale girls are going to jump Lindsey.  I don't know what to do."

"I'm going over there."  he answered, pulling his keys from his pocket and walking to his car.  

"They were in her driveway!"  he announced, as soon as he pulled back in.

"And you know, they live the other way.  You should have seen their faces when I pulled up.  I told them they better not be doing what I know they were doing and they left."

Donor's Choose was matching donations for "equity schools", aka, schools like mine that are majority minority and poor.  I quickly launched my project, asking for hundreds of dollars of new books for my classroom library and a new bookshelf to hold them.  Then, I turned my Facebook into a beggar's station, repeatedly re-posting my project and soliciting my friends to throw me a few bucks.  I threw myself a few bucks, more than I would like to say, mainly to get the funds matched before they ran out.  Alec shucked in, too.  

My school has adopted a reading focus this year, which I think is great.  They have been conducting PLs on how to do guided reading and remarkably, bought each teacher a classroom library of diverse books.  I attended my collaborative planning when they unleashed the books.  I watched the overview that entailed the diversity of the new books highlighting Black and Hispanic children.  I started shifting around a little.  Where were the diverse books about Asian kids?  They are one of the largest rising minorities in my school and the group receiving the most hate.  And no, they aren't Chinese or Japanese.  They are refugees.  Burmese, Karen, even Khmer.  The kids yell "ching chong" at them and the girls even face additional sexual harassment.  IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.  

I helped unload the boxes of books into the various classrooms.  At least five boxes each, phonics books, literary texts and even little bins to hold them in.
"Man, this must of cost a small fortune."  I muttered to the admin helping us.
"Girl, yes.  This is thirty thousand dollars worth of books."  she answered.  

And...you know how many books were allotted to me, to my classroom?  Zero.  Not one.  

"Ms. Wagner....can you help me with my homework?"  

I looked at my phone to see who was texting me.   It said "Paw Ku's mom" from my contacts.

"BTW, this is Paw Ku."  the second text read.

We texted back and forth, with her sending pictures of this brutal 6th grade math homework.  Alec and I were trying to figure it out until after nine one night and the next night, I even enlisted Mr. Warren.

"I think the answer to number two is four."  he texted back.

"But I got a buddy who teaches 11th grade math, let me get him in on this."

Finally, Paw Ku face-timed me.  It was so good to see her.

"Ms. Wagner!"  she said, as she usually starts sentences.  

"I miss elementary school.  But middle school, it's okay."

I smiled into the phone.

"How is Kaw, is he doing okay?"

"Yes, he is."  she answered.

"But, he might move where his niece moved.  And, there is a girl that's like way taller than him that likes him."  she continued.

I burst out laughing.  

She put her little brother on the call, the one I now teach with my kindergarten group.  We talked a long time.  It is really hard letting them go.  

 

A torrent of Michoacan Spanish poured from the mother's mouth.  Jaime's mom was pissed.  

"Those girls!  They follow Jaime and yell groserías at him and one of them hit him in the head last week!  There are three of them and one of them is grandote!  They bang on our door, begging for snacks, like I would give them anything!"  

It was one day after the Lindsey incident.

"Mire, esas chicas son locas.  La mamá, también."  I answered.

I didn't even tell her that mom nearly got in a fight with another mom in the front office last week.

"Es ridículo.  No sé que decir.  Voy a contarles a mis jefas.  Pero si no puede venir Ud. a caminar con él, lo haré.  Voy a llevarle a casa."  I continued.

"Oye?" she asked Jaime.  

"Espera la maestra.   She is going to take you home tomorrow." 

I walked through the neighborhood the following afternoon, not because of Jaime, but because of a different situation with a child.  She held my hand and trotted along, with a lollipop sticking out of her mouth.  

It was a really pretty afternoon.  

Verde y Malverde

"Ms. Wagner....that kid of yours, Hot Rod, he touching people's butts again."  an administrator announced while I walked through the door after dismissal.  
"Yeah, I'm sorry.  I keep telling him to stop."
"He called another kid the N word, too."
"What?!"  I exclaimed.
"He said that the other kid said something anti-Asian, so, you know."  she said with a shrug.  
"Hey, wait... "  she continued.
"It wasn't Hot Rod, it was that other kid you have...Adam that said it."  

"I'm sorry."  I responded.  

"I'm gonna get Ms. Wagner to call your mama!"  the second meanest teacher in the school screamed at a Hispanic kid while I fled her classroom to go to my next class.  

It really didn't matter that he wasn't one of my students.  Or that his mom speaks English.  He was Hispanic-y looking, so, you know, must not speak English!

I had to go to court the other day.  It's kind of a long story that I might tell you one day.  Or maybe not.  At the courthouse, we ended up watching a series of criminal trials that were scheduled before ours.  All of the defendants were walked into the courtroom via a side door.  They wore jail jumpsuits.  Their feet were shackled and their arms attached to a chain that encircled their waists.  I felt grotesque sitting in the back of the courtroom, watching what was none of my business and probably one of the least pleasant days of their lives.  

In the hallway during dismissal, one teacher started beatboxing and a second followed.  I spun around to see Mauricio, dancing and shaking it in the middle of both lines of walkers.  Everyone was cheering and I could not stop laughing.  
Ku turned and shrieked.

"Hey, we got a social work referral to the county 'cuz of Hot Rod.  He grabbed a girl's butt and mom said it was sexual harassment."
I stared back.
"Yeah, I know it's stupid."  she responded.
He's five.  He grabs everyone's ass.  I think he touched mine, too.  It is not right, but it is not sexual.  

I watched a co-worker tiptoe around the corner, eyes wide as if in a horror movie.  She froze and pointed at the parents we were meeting from approximately twenty feet away.  I glanced over at the couple, wondering if one of them had sprouted a third head that I hadn't noticed.  No, they didn't, I verified.  They were just well, a different ethnicity than my co-worker.  I really can't say much else.  But I can say that I was ashamed, ashamed of her and mortified to be working with someone who feels this way and has no qualms about broadcasting it.  If there had been a "NOT WITH HER" sign I could have hung around my neck, I would have.  

"Hey, open that little red box on my desk."  I instructed Muriel.
"You might like what is in there."
She opened it up and looked at the candy and Halloween spider-rings inside.  She walked back with three.
"One if for you."  she announced, as if I couldn't take any of the ones I wanted.  
"And this one if for your dog."

"And this one is for me."

*Title, José Cota

No lo entiendo

"What is that in your pocket, Adrian?"  I only asked because my little kids get in trouble for bringing toys to school and I wanted to help him hide them somewhere else before anyone saw.

"They're for us!"  he hiss-whispered, eyes darting from side to side as he clandestinely shoved the brightly colored objects into his pocket before raking the zipper shut.  

Later, myself and the rest of my now first grade, ESOL Good Men sported matching pipe-cleaner bracelets.  Just us. 

I glanced over at Hot Rod while I tried to collect the walkers during my afternoon duty.  Both of his hands were pulling his shorts straight up over his crotch, kind of like a front-wedgie.  His mouth dragged horizontally into a wide snarl, silver teeth gleaming. 

"Booty!"  he growled with delight.

"BOOOTY"

A friend from my former school district retired and donated boxes of books and school supplies to my classroom.  Really nice stuff, glittery pencils, multi-colored erasers, fidget spinners, high-end folders, just opening that box filled me with delight.  I decided to show it to Muriel, it was just her and me in the trailer and I really wanted one of the kids to see it.  I planned to put it all in school supply pouches and give each kid a bag, but hadn't gotten to it yet.  I really wanted to show someone.  Her eyes widened when the lid came off of the box.  

"Why don't you pick out some things?"  I asked.

"I was going to give you some later, but why don't you take some stuff that you like now?"  I asked excitedly.

She ran her hand lightly over the supplies in the box, eyes glowing.

"No." she answered.  

I looked at her with confusion.

"I think....I think you should save them for the kids, you know, the kids that really need them...."

The kids that really need them.....I looked at her worn, donated clothes.   I remembered her "All About Me" first grade project that she tried to hide from the rest of the class.  I worked on it with her, hoping we could make something that she would be proud of.  When I asked her what she wanted to do when she was older, I know, weird question for a first grader but we were using a template, she said "Work with the guys".  I was baffled until I found out that her father, a refugee, worked with newly arrived refugees.  The guys.  I looked at her clumpy hair, unadorned with cute braids and beads. But Muriel has something invaluable,  something that can't be given or taught, something better than a hot pink eraser.   

I had a moment the other day.  Work has been hard, harder than it should be this early in the school year.  I came home and went into our room and closed the doors and sat on our bed.  I thought of the teachers that don't want to teach my students.  They look at my them with narrow, suspicious eyes and pursed lips, while stating in hushed, harsh whispers I don't think she speaks English, eyes darting around as if a ship full of extraterrestrials just landed on the playground.  

You think they don't speak English, but you haven't actually....spoken to them?  A kid in your class?  A kid on your caseload?

She needs some kind of special school...we can't serve her here.....wait, how do you say her name again, wait, how?

I repeat myself, though the names aren't difficult.

I don't think I can say that...how?

I see the paperwork and the names are wrong.  All Hispanic children do not have the last name 'Lopez'. 

"Oh Ms. Wagner....is that little Asian boy really covered in ....pox?"  I was asked.

"No.  NO!  He is home because of an allergic reaction, he has a bug bite on his lip and it swelled.  HE DOES NOT HAVE ANY TYPE OF POX."

"But I heard it was all over him....all over his face....."

"It's not.  It is one bite.  There is a picture.  IT IS NOT POX."

I started thinking about the day I walked past the pre-k line and heard a teacher calling to me, jogging up to me.  "Are you taking them?" she asked, breathlessly.  I turned in confusion and saw a Hispanic child and an Asian child standing there, children I have never met. Clearly must not speak English!

"What happened to Mya?"  I asked one of the counselors.

"She was being harassed, it was pretty bad."  she answered.  

"Racist stuff?"  I responded.

"Yeah, the Asian stuff but sexual, too.  Really vile.  She was so embarrassed she wouldn't even repeat what he said.  We had to get other kids to tell us."

Mya usually waves at me from the bus while I walk back to school from my afternoon duty.  I watched her bus go by that afternoon.  Her head was lowered and pressed to the seat in front of her.  No one was sitting beside her.  

I thought about the second meanest teacher in the whole school yelling at one of my new students for not raising his hand before getting up and asking her a question.  At the end of her commentary, she leaned in an inch from his face.

"COMPRENDE?"  she screamed.  

I was crying a lot.  I know it's stupid.  I would try to stop thinking about it and only think of it again.  I know what you might say.  That place is horrible.  You should quit.  But what good would that do?  How would it help?  Would it really change anything if I just wasn't there?

You Make Me Feel Like Dancing

As I walked toward the market after parking the car, I noticed a man sort of hanging out of the window of the car next to mine.  I thought he might be about to ask directions.

"Hey!"  he called.

"Next time park slower!"

Park....slower?  I mentally asked myself.  How do you park slow?

"I got two kids in the car!"

"Okay."  I responded and continued walking.

"AFTER YOU TWO GET DONE SCISSOR FUCKING!!!!"  he shrieked, face red with rage while he tore away in his minivan.  

"What was that?" my sister asked, walking up beside me.

"I think it's a reference to lesbian sex."  I responded.

"Men always trying to get us to do that."  she commented, and we continued walking toward the store.   

"How long should I wait until I walk or move furniture onto the new floor?"  I asked the man that had been repairing the trailer floor for most of the morning.   I asked him in Spanish, telling him apologetically that I was trying to get a little practice in.  He actually seemed happy to not have to wrestle with English and engaged in a lengthy conversation that ended with him telling me that he was undocumented and from Honduras.  Only his wife and kids were here in Georgia; the rest of his family was still back there.  Then, he told me that he will probably never be able to see them again.  

"I don't have a driver's license,"  he mentioned.

"I can't get one in Georgia, but I am very careful.  It's the bad people that give all of us a bad name, make people want us to leave."

No, I thought, it's pure xenophobia.  And, a complete lack of appreciation for what you do for this country.  The school district couldn't find enough workers to repair our buildings and started hiring contractors.  From what I am seeing, the contractors are predominately men like the guy that fixed my trailer floor:  hard working and undocumented.  I thanked him when he was leaving and then put my face flat down on my desk the minute after he closed the door.  

"Have you seen this?"  the text from my neighbor questioned, accompanied by a picture of one of the limbs on our massive oak tree, split and hanging by a thread.

"No!  It must have just happened!"  I scream-texted.

"It just fell."  he answered, accompanied by a picture of the giant limb spiked right in the middle of the street.

We started driving home.  As I got to the street behind my house, I saw firetrucks pulling up and blocking the street off.  We drove around the block.  The limb was huge and resting on the power lines in front of the house on the other side of the street.  I sat there in the pouring rain staring at it, unsure what to do.  

"If you could be eating your favorite food right now, what would it be?"  I asked Yaaz as part of my beginning of the year icebreakers.

"Nachos and scrambled eggs."  he answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  

"Hey, that new kid of yours, the one who barely speaks English?"  Ms. Kent began.

Hot Rod, I thought.

"Yeah?"  I answered.

"Well, he let off some words when he was leaving school, cursing."  

I laughed a little.

"Like what, ass or something?  Poop?"

"BITCH.  MOTHER FUCKER.  You should have heard him, screaming it right in front of the front door during dismissal."

Great.  

I walked out of the back door and toward the trailer.  A Spanish-speaking couple that had been power washing the school was outside, painting the exterior doors.   Their elementary-age daughter was with them, in the middle of the school day, painting a door.  

*Photo, Doll's Head Trail

*Title, Leo Sayer

Socorro

I opened the back door of the house, tired, and the whole yard was wet with rain.  Lola darted out.  I heard the birds that live in the bushes squawking and started running.  Lola had one of the birds in her mouth.  A baby.  I screamed for her to drop it and she stood there, confused.  I brought her back inside and sat inside myself, afraid to go out and see what was happening.  I finally went out there and saw a baby bird, dead, with its mouth open and clouded eyes staring toward the sky.  I had to pick it up.  I was freaking out.  I got a file folder and closed my eyes while I drove it up under the bird's dead body.  I stared upward, so I wouldn't have to see it crumble. I looked at our fence line, where all the other birds were staring at me, hoping to peck my eyes out.  

"Your pulses seem great!"  the guy that gives me acupuncture exclaimed. 
"I'm sorry, that's impossible.  They should be screaming HELP ME."

I'd been painting our kitchen.  I had a ten week summer break this year.  I wanted some sort of balance between enjoying myself and getting things done.  And then, in late June, I put painting the kitchen on my docket.  I thought it might take a week.  It took a week to clear out every dish and piece of food, shelf and blind, as well as scrub everything down.  The rest is a blur.  Scrubbing, painting, contact paper.  Laying on my stomach painting woodwork.  Watching Alec and my sister precariously balanced on books and counter tops, trying to get a clean line of paint on the ceiling.  I honestly don't even want to talk about it because it was so horrible.  I would open my eyes in the morning and want to climb under the bed.  The whole house was a disaster.  If we wanted a fork we'd have to walk through multiple rooms, looking for it.  Our coffee maker was balanced on a chair by the TV.  I forbad any type of cooking in the kitchen after I went through the horror of scrubbing grease.  For approximately four weeks, I did nothing but scrub and paint the kitchen.  I remember taking one day off.  When it was finally done, and again, I can' t even talk about the details without freaking out, I only recall tip toeing through the kitchen and marveling at pulling open a door and seeing exactly what I needed laying inside.  I only recently allowed hot food to be prepared in there, after we got a new hood installed.

And then, one week later, school started.  I felt sort of chill.  I came in, pretty cool.  I picked up my badge and my key to the trailer and walked out back, greeting co-workers.  I unlocked the door to the trailer and hesitated, because where I was about to put my foot had no floor, just joists.  I jumped over the floor-less area and surveyed the situation:  all of the classroom furniture and my boxes of stuff were crammed in one corner.  Multiple parts of the floor were missing, as was part of the wall, that had been replaced with plywood.  I walked through and dragged a paint bucket to a safe part of the floor and turned it upside down so that I could sit on it.  I dragged the internet stuff around, wifi was out, and got it up and running.  I put my computer on top of an upside down trashcan and tried to figure out what to do.  

I let the school year begin.  

*Photo, Doll's Head Trail 

Roe

"I really hope my mom's not out there with a sign."  my friend said sardonically while we pulled into the medical complex.  It was cloudy and we were teenagers.

"You are in your second trimester and will require the two-day method." the doctor told us bluntly.

We had borrowed the money and she made the appointment.  She had skipped periods, but didn't know she was pregnant.  It's normal for teenage girls to skip periods.  I skipped almost a year of periods when I was in my late twenties while we were traveling in Asia.  It happens.  

She made me stay in the room while he inserted something to dilate her.  She was horribly ill all night.  We went back the next day and they did it.  She asked me to stay in the room with her and I did.  They gave her a shot of Valium before they started and when I watched her get woozy, I really wondered if I asked nicely if they would give me one, too.  Watching an abortion isn't pretty.  There was a lot of blood and when the doctor and nurse left the room, my friend freaked out and jumped off of the table, spewing more blood.  

"We can't leave it like this, we have to clean it up...."  she muttered, still jacked up on Valium.  

"Sit down,"  I told her.

"I've got this." 

"You didn't see like, fingers or toes, did you?  Fingers or toes?"  she repeated.

"No." I responded while I cleaned up blood with paper towels that I ripped from a dispenser on the wall.  

I saw something the size of bait shrimp that shouldn't ruin a teenage girl's life.  Especially one that had no family support, a family that thought sex was evil, left her unequipped and would have sent her off to the leper colony forever.  

We went back to my family's place.  She recovered.  Our correspondence wained for a few weeks until I couldn't get any response at all.  Her dad finally answered my calls and said that she had tried to kill herself.  She was in the hospital, recovering.  They ended up sending her to a state home for drug abuse, never knowing the real reason that she did what she did.  She knew they would hate her, never forgive her, for having sex and getting pregnant and having an abortion.  It wan't drugs.

Years later, I was sitting on the floor of our five hundred dollar a month apartment.  I had only been teaching a year or so, and one of my high school students was calling me, one of the few that I would give my real phone number.

"So Ms. Wagner....I went out of town and...something happened.  I'm pregnant and they won't let me get the abortion unless someone comes with me to give me a ride."

"Tell me when and where."  I responded.

She came from a disadvantaged background.  We were working on college applications  This was the last thing that could derail her.  

I remember picking her up the morning of the procedure.  I had a lot of cash on me, because I wasn't sure if she would need more money.  She made me drive by a shop, where she went in and got a bunch of money they owed her for work.  We drove to the other side of town.  The abortion clinic had cameras and heavy security.  It was different than the one decades ago.  We had to show ID just to get past a guard.  She handed them a wad of cash and they took her back.  They told me it would be a couple of hours.  I drove to Target and bought her a bunch of thick pads, a fluffy robe and slippers.  I was scared.  I returned to the clinic and waited.  They took my bag back and she came out, wobbly.  I told her she could stay at my apartment, but she insisted on being taken to a friend's house.  Her family had already exploited her enough, that is another story, but I hated watching her bang on the door of another house, in a robe, begging for someone to let her in.  

It happened again about a decade ago.  I prefer not to say the origin of this, but it was another teenager that we had to drive out west, because by then, it was parental consent for girls under eighteen in Georgia.  Protestors were out front, with huge ugly images.  They had to stay away a certain distance, but they came right at you within that distance.  I wanted to kill them.  Another teenage girl, with no family support.  By now, I was older and ready to beat someday's ass.  

All of these situations have been difficult, more for them than for me.  It shouldn't be that way.  Abortion access should be expanded, not restricted, so that women don't have to go through this in this way.  Birth control access should be expanded, too.  I could go into the ins and outs, explain all of my positions, but I won't.  Women and girls deserve bodily autonomy.  That's it.  

I'm still ready to beat someday's ass.  Politicians won't do anything for us.   If you know someone that needs an abortion, contact me.  If you are reading this you know how to contact me.  I will do anything within my power to make sure that they are safe and get what they need.  

Thunder Always Happens When it's Raining

I went to the beach.  To Tybee.  It's weird, when I was in middle school I didn't like that beach.  I was always glad to go, but it did not meet up to my movie image of what a beach should be.  It's the closest to Atlanta but has a lot of sea grass in the dunes and not exactly clear water.  Now, I love it.  I've been to beaches in Thailand, Malaysia and Indonesia but for some reason, Tybee warms my heart.  I love the old fifties cottages we rent, the unimaginative fried shrimp places and the back river where I can see the lighthouse light from all of the way across the island.  I like Chu's, where I buy a six pack while walking to the beach and admiring all the houses on Chatham.  Then, I sit.  And look at the sea and swim in it.  

Texts started coming in two days ago.  Paw Ku and Kaw had "failed" Milestones for the second time and were going to be retained.  I was horrified. I love those kids and will miss them, but they should not live in elementary school.  I am a 190 day employee and don't work during the summer, but this was bullshit.  I was in the sweltering back yard, turning my phone into a hot spot so that I could request interpreters.  I was not giving up on them.  It turns out I didn't have to do a lot, they already had it in hand and my boos are going to sixth grade.  But lord, why freak me out like this?  And, them.  

I was listening to "Mexican Radio" on my phone.  I thing that song is really misunderstood.  I love Mexican radio.  I love being on the border.  I love picking up the signals that seem so far away, though it is a matter of miles.  I love not knowing but wanting to know "what did he say?".   And, there are a lot of hot winds on my shoulder right now.  The song is referring to the Santa Anas, but jesus, Atlanta is boiling alive right now.  

It is seriously like hot breath in here.  

*Title, Fleetwood Mack, duh