Matty and I were invited to a dinner/fundraiser by my only non-TFA friend this weekend. I really wanted to stay home on Saturday night, I didn’t really want to shell out $30 a ticket, and I didn’t really have any idea what Junior Auxiliary was about, but I want to be friends with Sarah because she’s really cool (also married, also a teacher . . . very cute, etc.). So we got dressed up and went to the country club on Saturday night. oh. man.

I now know that the annual “JA Ball” is a big deal. All of Clarksdale society was there, drinking heavily and being seen (and of course Matty knew tons of people there . . .). Aside from raising money, this was a chance for the Lee Academy (the main private school [white kid school] in town) JA senior girls to be recognized for their service (? what service they’d rendered was unclear). In other words, lots of Southern white girls with teased hair were dressed up in poofy, sequined gowns, escorted by boys in tuxedos, and presented to all of said Clarksdale society. (I don’t mean to sound overly critical, but it was a little bit ridiculous.)

???

Not really what I had in mind. So I’m trying to drink my wine quickly, hoping to soon be less cognizant of the goings on around me and awkwardly shaking hands with all the people Matty is introducing me to. I start looking around, and I realize that this is an exclusively rich-white-people kind of event. And of course the only people of color are the wait staff. (sigh) So then I get really bummed out about the state of the world, my being a part of the mess, and life in general. I’m ready to eat and leave.

As I’m strategically piling my plate high at the buffet, I look up to see Mrs. Walker serving me shrimp and grits in a martini glass. damn. damn. damn. She is the PTO president at my school, and her daughter is wonderful and bright (one of 2 students in the whole grade to score advanced on the state test). I had spent the morning with Mrs. Walker at our school basketball game as I took money at the door and she ran around overseeing the concession stand and helping me out. And now she was serving my food. She greeted me graciously and asked what I was doing there. I answered sincerely, “I have no idea.” She told me that I looked great, and I was doing just fine, then I introduced her to Matty with as many gushing adjectives about her and her daughter as I could think of.

But I mostly wanted to crawl under a rock. It felt like telling your parents you’re staying over at a friend’s house and then running into them at the movies with a boyfriend on your arm. Caught. Called out. Held accountable. all of those no-good feelings.

That’s not who I am or who I want to be. It was an exclusive thing, and I was one of the excluders. I’m worried I’ve lost all credibility with Mrs. Walker. I’ll have to start proving my self all over again.

segregation is tricky. add this to the list of Delta lessons learned.

This weekend Matty and I celebrated our first year together. He planned the whole thing — luxury hotel & spa in Greenwood, delicious food, quality time — it was great. And I should blog something about our first year of marriage, blah blah blah, but it is still too close to be analyzed and too perplexing to be understood.

But let me tell you about something that happened. I’ve gotten massages before, but this was different — maybe because I was a little drunk on champagne, or because my masseuse was excellent,  or maybe because I’m growing more comfortable with myself — it was nearly an out of body experience.

So I’m lying there (naked) in a dark room between warm, silky sheets, and a young woman I’ve never met is rubbing nearly every inch of my skin with oils and hot river rocks. and I was so at ease. she, a total stranger, was taking such good care of my body, that I didn’t need to be there. or maybe I was more there than ever before? and I could only think in images and warmth. and she could have taken my sheets away, and I wouldn’t have given a damn. for 60 minutes, self-consciousness was forgotten, and I was a queen.

And when it was all over, I wanted to hug her, or cry with her and talk about how we connected, but instead I put my robe and slippers back on and sipped cucumber water in the “tranquility room” until I regained self-consciousness and was able to re-enter the world. somehow new.

Today was good. A real, true, good day. My students mostly did what I asked them to do, they stayed mostly quiet, and I even laughed with some of them over lunch. This may sound like a lame day to anyone else, but it may well have been my most successful day of teaching so far. I was so energized by this goodness that I got right to work after the kids left and prepped nearly everything I will need  for a smooth day tomorrow.

Then, THEN, I came home to find a package of the most beautiful treats! Things almost too beautiful to eat (but I am eating them now) and made with love by a dear friend. (Thank you, A.L.)

A real, true, good day.

2010 has come bearing gifts.

1. My parents came to MS to help us ring in the new year, which was fun. My step dad kept looking around our house and telling us that he is proud of us. He is a man of few words, and I think he didn’t really know what to do with teenage daughters, but in these more grown up years, we are getting to know each other. I think he and I are realizing this at the same time; I think “proud” is his way of acknowledging that I’ve made it to adulthood and turned in to someone he would like to know. And this feels like a very nice compliment.

And we have a lot in common, as it turns out. He’s the kind of guy who could live alone in the woods with his dog and be  sublimely happy — except that he loves my mom a lot and wants her to come too. Their marriage has always been back and forth between trying to live in the middle of nowhere and then my mom going crazy and convincing him to move back into civilization. In middle and high school I took her side, and we moved to town. My mom dug in and started collecting stuff. A few years ago, they bought a piece of property in the middle of nowhere Kansas to camp, hike, cookout, etc. on weekends. Then they decided to build a small cabin for weekend use, but now the cabin (in the process of being built) has become small house sized, and they are trying to figure out if they should downsize and move there. Of course, Mandy and I knew it was coming, and we laugh about it, but we’ve changed sides. Michael has come to a place in life where he realizes the virtue of a small, sustainable life — working the land and living in quiet peace. He’s 12 years older than my mom and thinking about all the things we wanted to do with his life. and death. My mom is in a panic about not having enough room for storage.

In the spirit of promoting lifestyle changes, I bought them a copy of Food, Inc. for Christmas. We watched it while they were here and had hours of discussion about health, government, sustainability — it was great. (Michael’s  not much of a reader, but I’m going to try to hook him up with Wendell Berry). I feel sad that he has spent 55 years working at something he doesn’t love in order to live a life that wasn’t his dream, but I also feel very hopeful about the possibilities before him, now. I’m working with my mom on the value of owning less and being free, and I think she’ll be alright. There is so much room, still, for healing and healthy living, and I want these things for our family.

The whole thing has reminded me that one day (I’m not sure when), I will need to live somewhere on a small piece of land that will let me grow my own vegetables, pick my own apples, raise my own chickens, and want less of what I don’t need. As soon as I get over being creeped out about “settling down”, we will do this (because I married a gardener on purpose).

2. A few days ago, I randomly realized that I haven’t been fitting in with my colleagues like I want because we value different things — not in a bad way — just a way I didn’t pick up on until now. I think ( . . . know) I’ve been trying to win them over with my version of kindness — making muffins, volunteering for things, working around their schedules, etc. — thinking they would see that I respect them and want to be friends. But it hasn’t really worked.

Toughness. Decisiveness. Confidence. These are the things that would make me equal and respectable, here. These are the traits that are most valuable here, even for my kids. Unfortunately, these things don’t come naturally for me, but at least now I know, and I can start cultivating them. So this is a gift, too.

3. On Thursday, even though the ground was only lightly dusted, we had a snow day.

This morning was cheerleading practice (I know, I know. . .). Lydia, one of my 5th graders, is among them (I have her sister in 6th grade, too), and today I took her home. Her mom died at age 26 of heart disease, leaving behind eight children who now live with their grandma in a tiny apartment. She seems like a very nice woman (every time I see her, she is wearing a huge fur hat), but she’s in poor health & in no place to be raising a second round of kids (6 are still in elementary school — plus 1 year-old twins). Lydia normally sasses me a little in class & sometimes gets in fights, but if my childhood was that tumultuous, I would be the same way. I have been meaning to find a way to speak with her in a quiet moment, so on a whim, I decided that we should have lunch together before I took her to back.

I was nervous for a minute that shouldn’t wouldn’t want to eat with me (weird how I get self-conscious still — like choosing where to sit in the lunchroom and maybe being rejected), but I got over it, and when I asked, her eyes lit up. We stopped at sonic, and with glee she ordered a huge, strawberry, lemon, blue slush (we couldn’t figure out what flavor the blue is) while we jammed out to Beyonce. Over burgers & fries I finally got up the courage to ask about her family, and we ended up talking honestly– like I’d hoped–about losing loved ones and making it through hard times. She said the doctors told them that part of the reason her mom died is that she had too many children, and it weakened her organs. I’m worried that she’s internalized that to mean  she is part of the reason her mom died? how awful.

Anyway, the point is that I wanted to take her home with me, but instead I’ve got to do my best during the few hours a day that I see her to love her up (and teach her) really well so that she can make it through all the crap life is dealing her. I am slowly realizing that too many of my other students have similar stories. During training, we heard a lot of stories about the things our kids might be dealing with, but it’s different in the flesh — darker, sadder, and often obscured under all sorts of disguises like toughness, ambivalence, and downright meanness. And sometimes I let myself be fooled by the games and disguises, and I get angry and frustrated with the kids. But there is always more to the story than what is seen. I mean to be better at remembering that in the new year. Not that it makes trying to teach in the face of constant defiance, disrespect, and attention-getting shenanigans any easier, but maybe this knowledge, always at the front of my mind, will give me the grace and patience I so need but usually lack. perspective is key.

For now, though, Matty and I are going to secret santa Lydia’s family, and I’m totally stoked about it. This is my favorite kind of gift-giving. If you’re reading this, you probably won’t get a Christmas gift from me . . . but I figured you’d all approve of this alternate use of funds

Peace to you.

I’m always thinking about hours now. If I stay two extra at school, I have about six left by the time I get home and a little over six for sleeping. And right now I am sitting here trying to unwind over a glass of pinot noir, but I’m thinking about the hours left before I need to go to bed to be ready for the six hours of professional development tomorrow, plus 1-2 hours hanging out with people I’ve neglected and the hour it will take me to get back home. On Sunday, Matty and I will have our weekly lunch date, and then I will have eleven hours (two and a half will be spent at school) before it is time to get my a-little-over-six-hours of sleep and start the whole mess over again.

Part of me thinks it is good to be so aware of using my time, my life, purposefully, but another (perhaps lazier) part of me wonders when/if there will ever be a time when I won’t feel Time always ten steps ahead of me. Heck, I’m already thinking of my 2 months off this summer (I feel like it was 3 months when I was in school?) and making a list of things I want to read, paint, sew, plan and prepare for next year. I think soon I will be at the end of my life, and there is so much to do.

But I least when I do get my a-little-over-six hours of sleep at night, it is genuine, purposeful sleeping — not the kind of sleeping that bored people do. I am thankful for this, and at least for today, the things that don’t get done can wait for that magical day when there is enough time.

Now I have about five hours.

I started this day back with a district Science meeting. A really enthusiastic lady talked to us about inquiry based Science and the all new curriculum that will be introduced next year. Our county curriculum director (a really nice lady) openly admitted that we’ve been way overlooking Science for a long time and teachers don’t have the supplies they need to actually do it in the classroom. This somehow made me feel slightly justified, or at least less insane.

When I got back to school, surprise! I have a new student. Most of the kids referred to him as “that newboy” all afternoon, but his name is actually Trevion Toovarius Terrell Ross. He’s bright, but also very chatty. hoping for the best.

After school today, I was approached in the library by Christopher Craig. Normally he is very whiny and opposed to doing anything I ask, and he sasses me like he’s getting paid for it. Last time he was in my class, I told him to spit out the peppermint he was eating. He refused, so I took him to the trash can and I squeezed his cheeks together with my hand (in true mom fashion . . .). He still wouldn’t do it, so I sent him to wait in the hall. When I got out to him a few minutes later, he had tried to swallow the damn thing whole, gagged himself, and barfed on the floor. I called it karma.

BUT today in the library we had a real conversation — about thanksgiving, family, the tundra . . . and he hugged me. Then he said goodbye & hugged me again. Then, a few minutes later, he wandered to my classroom, said goodbye again, and hugged me again.

I nearly cried. I think I’m going to work on relationship building — as a practice of love and (rather conveniently) as a preventative classroom management strategy.

Tomorrow is Thursday, and the day after is Friday. A whole week — A WHOLE WEEK — off.

Yesterday I got the worst haircut of my life (and I’ve had some doosies). I said, “trim and shape; sleek.” She heard, “Make short layers, fluff, feather, and make an old lady mullet.” Thanks, Judy.

Today after school I was playfully (?) picked on by the other teachers for being too quiet. Apparently that’s why my students don’t listen to me. Except that at the end of every day I am nearly hoarse from shouting and talking loud over all the nonsense. But next week I am resting my vocal chords & getting myself together. I am reading wonderful things from RH & AL, spending time with my family, and putting together a kick ass plan to get my kids in line and on track. And I am going to see my husband.

The Writer’s Almanac warmed my soul today. Have a listen:  http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2009/11/18

Expect a letter back . . . soon.

Dear Friends,

I want you to know that the cotton has been harvested. After it was baled, a huge gin getter packed it all up and hauled it to places that will make it into our t-shirts. Now, the fields are all bare and stubbly, and all that’s left is the most wonderful roadside litter — fluffy cotton balls and tufts for ten miles. It occurred to me as I drove to work this morning with the sun shining bright in my eyes (SO nice to not drive to work in morning-dark) that the world’s largest pillow fight may well have taken place here last night while I was sound asleep. This poem came to mind, and it was a good way to start the day.

Unharvested

A scent of ripeness from over a wall.
And come to leave the routine road
And look for what had made me stall,
There sure enough was an apple tree
That had eased itself of its summer load,
And of all but its trivial foliage free,
Now breathed as light as a lady’s fan.
For there had been an apple fall
As complete as the apple had given man.
The ground was one circle of solid red.

May something go always unharvested!
May much stay out of our stated plan,
Apples or something forgotten and left,
So smelling their sweetness would be no theft.

(R. Frost)

I heard this woman on Fresh Air one day, and I had to sit in the driveway for about 30 minutes so I could listen to the rest of the interview. This poem is from her 1st collection, Slamming Open the Door, about her only daughter’s murder (an exboyfriend and a telephone cord), the trial, grief, and life going on somehow. It is both chilling & beautiful (even better if you listen to her read it around minute 43: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=111218053 )

Poem About Light

Kathleen Sheeder Bonanno

 

You can try to strangle light:
use your hands and think
you’ve found the throat of it,
but you haven’t.
You could use a rope or a garrote
or a telephone cord,
but the light, amorphous, implacable,
will make a fool of you in the end.

You could make it your mission
to shut it out forever,
to crouch in the dark,
the blinds pulled tight—

still, in the morning,
a gleaming little ray will betray you, poking
its optimistic finger
through a corner of the blind,
and then more light,
clever, nervy, impossible,
spilling out from the crevices
warming the shade.

This is the stubborn sun,
choosing to rise,
like it did yesterday,
like it will tomorrow.
You have nothing to do with it.
The sun makes its own history;
light has its way.