3/31/12
March for teachers is usually one of those months that drags on endlessly. The kids are ready for Spring Break, and you, having no vacation days during that month, would rather punch yourself in the neck than grade another essay or math problem.
This year was different. This year, March flew by so fast I barely had a chance to wave. We worked so hard on our elegies and altars this March in class when they were finished there was an audible sigh, a letting off of pressure. Those altars are now on display in the front of the school where they get the audience both the students and the people they honored deserve. The fact that this month was so painless is a testament to two things - one - I have the best job ever right now. and 2 - I have been in a state of quasi-denial about leaving my precious students. That comes to an end on Monday.
Monday will be the last day I will be in the classroom with students from the Fruitvale in Oakland. I will take roll for the last time, probably tell bad jokes like I'm wont to do, and since I can already feel the lump in my throat, tears will definitely be shed. I know that the move I am embarking on next month back to Ojai is for the best. It is absolutely the right thing to do for my family, but damn if I wasn't meant to be an urban educator. I will find a way back to this community some way or somehow.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
Year of writing 89. The Rats.
3/30/12
I've been reading a story to Isla for bedtime called Gregor the Underlander by Suzanne Collins, the mastermind behind The Hunger Games. The latter was a little too violent for a four year old, so I decided on the former, a story about a kid from the projects in NY that falls down a vent in the laundry room of his apartment building into another world called the Underland that was colonized somewhat by the Earl of Sandwich some long time ago. In said underland there are giant cockroaches, bats who live symbiotically with the now translucent-skinned humans, giant rats, and giant spiders, so far.
(spoiler alert for people that HELLA want to read this book)
Isla LOVES this story. It's the first chapter book we've read together (since she's been able to communicate clearly - as an infant I read her parts of Dante's inferno, Soul on Ice, Hitchhiker's guide, and others - yeah, I'm that guy) so it's really awesome seeing her so involved in a story that isn't nicely wrapped up every night. She basically gets a cliffhanger every bedtime.
At this point in the story, the protagonist and his two year old sister are on a quest to find his father, aided by some underlanders, a couple cockroaches and some bats. The rest of the underlanders are engaged in a bloody war with the evil rats, who hate humans for obvious reasons. These rats scare the crap out of Isla, in a thrillingly exciting way - she doesn't lose sleep over it, or complain - she just gets WIDE eyed everytime they're mentioned, and can't stop talking about them after their appearance, interrupting the story to ask questions like "Well, what happens if the rats get thumbs and can use swords too?" or "Do they have poison on their teeth, or do they just bite really hard?" The rats are constantly ambushing our heroes and in the last battle, their leader, who has a wicked scar across his face, was pushed into the river, never to be seen again.
Back to the story: The adventurers have just escaped the clutches of some pretty terrifying spiders, and had just been given the news that their fearless leader, and the only adults in the party will be leaving them, mentioning that a guide will be assigned, when they hear a voice. Gregor points his flashlight, and we see the very rat that had pushed to his watery death, and.... chapter ends.
Isla grabbed my shoulders with both hands, looked into my eyes with the amazement that only a four year old in the grips of fantasy can achieve and whispered "Daddy - The rat came back from being dead!"
"Yeah, it looks like that's what happened."
"Is he a ZOMBIE RAT?"
"I don't know, We'll have to see tomorrow"
"Tomorrow we get to read chapter 19?"
"Yup"
At this point, Isla releases my shoulders and grabs my cheeks. She plants a delicate kiss on my forehead, a kiss of gratitude. A kiss of gratitude for possibly introducing her to zombie rats.
My daughter is cooler than anybody in the entire world.
I've been reading a story to Isla for bedtime called Gregor the Underlander by Suzanne Collins, the mastermind behind The Hunger Games. The latter was a little too violent for a four year old, so I decided on the former, a story about a kid from the projects in NY that falls down a vent in the laundry room of his apartment building into another world called the Underland that was colonized somewhat by the Earl of Sandwich some long time ago. In said underland there are giant cockroaches, bats who live symbiotically with the now translucent-skinned humans, giant rats, and giant spiders, so far.
(spoiler alert for people that HELLA want to read this book)
Isla LOVES this story. It's the first chapter book we've read together (since she's been able to communicate clearly - as an infant I read her parts of Dante's inferno, Soul on Ice, Hitchhiker's guide, and others - yeah, I'm that guy) so it's really awesome seeing her so involved in a story that isn't nicely wrapped up every night. She basically gets a cliffhanger every bedtime.
At this point in the story, the protagonist and his two year old sister are on a quest to find his father, aided by some underlanders, a couple cockroaches and some bats. The rest of the underlanders are engaged in a bloody war with the evil rats, who hate humans for obvious reasons. These rats scare the crap out of Isla, in a thrillingly exciting way - she doesn't lose sleep over it, or complain - she just gets WIDE eyed everytime they're mentioned, and can't stop talking about them after their appearance, interrupting the story to ask questions like "Well, what happens if the rats get thumbs and can use swords too?" or "Do they have poison on their teeth, or do they just bite really hard?" The rats are constantly ambushing our heroes and in the last battle, their leader, who has a wicked scar across his face, was pushed into the river, never to be seen again.
Back to the story: The adventurers have just escaped the clutches of some pretty terrifying spiders, and had just been given the news that their fearless leader, and the only adults in the party will be leaving them, mentioning that a guide will be assigned, when they hear a voice. Gregor points his flashlight, and we see the very rat that had pushed to his watery death, and.... chapter ends.
Isla grabbed my shoulders with both hands, looked into my eyes with the amazement that only a four year old in the grips of fantasy can achieve and whispered "Daddy - The rat came back from being dead!"
"Yeah, it looks like that's what happened."
"Is he a ZOMBIE RAT?"
"I don't know, We'll have to see tomorrow"
"Tomorrow we get to read chapter 19?"
"Yup"
At this point, Isla releases my shoulders and grabs my cheeks. She plants a delicate kiss on my forehead, a kiss of gratitude. A kiss of gratitude for possibly introducing her to zombie rats.
My daughter is cooler than anybody in the entire world.
Year of writing 88. Why do you care edit.
3/29/12
I started this poem a while back. I really wanted to read it at my last Oakland Slam living in the Bay. It's my teaching anthem. This is the latest edit.
I started this poem a while back. I really wanted to read it at my last Oakland Slam living in the Bay. It's my teaching anthem. This is the latest edit.
“why do you care?”
The sentiment echoes from voices choked up with gunsmoke promises
gone in a flash
like lineup photographs
or fathers
or oakland kids aged seventeen to twenty one.
I watch them struggle to raise their hands
like the answer to my question about character
weighs as much as their life is worth.
Like they know
like they know
how much their life is worth.
A game of quarters
A game of time
Like each passing hour
is bringing them closer
to the statistics they're destined to become
1 in every 2 kids drop out of high school
in Oakland.
That's including the hills.
Which means this flatland debacle
of a school hands 2/3rds of its kids
over to that other venerable public institution
the one without desks in the cells
Every day my kids are
trading in pencils for ankle monitors
binders for bullet wounds
usin' that basic algebra
to calculate net profit
off that doctored up white girl.
When I stand in front of my kids
forced out of childhood by a neighborhood
paying rent with their future
I can only ask:
How can you hold someone up
when everything around them
is dominoes
set up to fall?
We're making ripcord promises
& packing anvil parachutes
I don't need a teaching credential
I need a spatula
to scrape up the mess.
This is a losing proposition
shake 'em up
rollin' kids
like dice
Sometimes they land 7s
and 11's
people raise their eyebrows
newspapers run feelgood stories
administrators pat their suited shoulders
Nas writes: I know I can
be what I wanna be
then they come up snake eyes
and we all forget the lyrics
Sometimes I don't even know
how to hold my hands right
teaching on these days
is an oil slick in the bay
when all I have is my fingers
and my words
neither of which clean up too easy
Sometimes I break things
without thinking
confidence is bold, but it has thin bones
they can be crushed in an embrace.
Sometimes I don't teach at all
I just listen
to kids speak
each word
like a door slammed shut.
Keyhole shaped aspirations
and nothing on the shoelaces
'round their necks.
But sometimes...
sometimes I get it right
sometimes the expectation I hold,
while faint,
is steady
a fetal heartbeat
a hummingbird's thrum
the click
of a lock
unlatching
And sometimes in this ocean
of failure
in this ocean
of hopelessness
it's some god damned swimming lessons
or a rope.
And I hold on until they ask
“why do you care.”
And That's
that's when we start.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Year of writing 87. Talent Show
3/28/12
I went to my school's talent show this evening - it was a solid affair. Highlights of the production included a William Hung-esque accappella rendition of a current R&B hit by possibly the cutest 7th grade kid I've ever seen, a brilliant solo acoustic uke song by our big Tongan teddy bear, clowns, original hip hop, and tons of ukeleles. It was a fun night.
The whole time I watched I was taken back to the talent shows of yore.
I even had a backup dancer at the time. Her name was Tanisha Washington, and I was scared of her, so I let her do the cabbage patch behind me while I played. Actually, as I write this it sounds way more awesome that it really was.
Fast forward half a year to the next talent show at Seward Elementary School in Seattle. I performed in the choir for this one: Woo Hoo! (I'm the 4th from the left in the top row). Tanisha is the leftmost dancer, with the bolo tie. Bolo tie, Tanisha? Really? The song we did was "Candy" by Cameo. I seriously doubt the Choir teacher knew that the song was about cocaine. That tall white kid next to me did though. We won the crap out of this talent show, but I don't really count it, because I was part of a larger group. Plus, Tanisha had a bolo tie on. A BOLO TIE.
My crowning achievement came in 1989, in 6th grade. I decided to go all out and lipsynch that new new - Biz Markie's "Just a Friend."
I had the kangol, the chain, the tracksuit, I was ready to go. This time, my friend Wiley (I think, he's the guy that always got me in trouble, so I assume it was him this time too), convinced me to steal one of my mom's bras from her drawer and carry it in my shirt until the line "9/10 pants and a very big bra." Then, I was supposed to bust it out and swing it around my head triumphantly. Unfortunately (or very fortunately, depending on how you look at it), TANISHA FREAKING WASHINGTON found out about the situation and told our teacher about it. I got a serious talking to about the use of swinging bras to degrade women, and promised to omit the line completely. However, when you omit it when you're lip synching, it's not like the music stops, so I got in trouble anyway. For the word bra. That I didn't lip synch. Oh well, at least my outfit was fresh.
To this day, every talent show I attend, I still hear "oh baby you....." in my head.
I went to my school's talent show this evening - it was a solid affair. Highlights of the production included a William Hung-esque accappella rendition of a current R&B hit by possibly the cutest 7th grade kid I've ever seen, a brilliant solo acoustic uke song by our big Tongan teddy bear, clowns, original hip hop, and tons of ukeleles. It was a fun night.
The whole time I watched I was taken back to the talent shows of yore.
Back when I was still a spring chicken, in the year 1986, I performed in my first ever talent show. I thought it would be a a really good idea to go on stage with my recorder and play the melody to the Beastie Boy's song "Girls"<------- click to listen. I had just spent my hard earned cash on both the Cassette tape version of Licensed to Ill and a stupid recorder, so it seemed perfectly rational. Now imagine that xylophone sound played over and over and over and over by a 9 year old playing one of these:
I even had a backup dancer at the time. Her name was Tanisha Washington, and I was scared of her, so I let her do the cabbage patch behind me while I played. Actually, as I write this it sounds way more awesome that it really was.
Fast forward half a year to the next talent show at Seward Elementary School in Seattle. I performed in the choir for this one: Woo Hoo! (I'm the 4th from the left in the top row). Tanisha is the leftmost dancer, with the bolo tie. Bolo tie, Tanisha? Really? The song we did was "Candy" by Cameo. I seriously doubt the Choir teacher knew that the song was about cocaine. That tall white kid next to me did though. We won the crap out of this talent show, but I don't really count it, because I was part of a larger group. Plus, Tanisha had a bolo tie on. A BOLO TIE.
My crowning achievement came in 1989, in 6th grade. I decided to go all out and lipsynch that new new - Biz Markie's "Just a Friend."
I had the kangol, the chain, the tracksuit, I was ready to go. This time, my friend Wiley (I think, he's the guy that always got me in trouble, so I assume it was him this time too), convinced me to steal one of my mom's bras from her drawer and carry it in my shirt until the line "9/10 pants and a very big bra." Then, I was supposed to bust it out and swing it around my head triumphantly. Unfortunately (or very fortunately, depending on how you look at it), TANISHA FREAKING WASHINGTON found out about the situation and told our teacher about it. I got a serious talking to about the use of swinging bras to degrade women, and promised to omit the line completely. However, when you omit it when you're lip synching, it's not like the music stops, so I got in trouble anyway. For the word bra. That I didn't lip synch. Oh well, at least my outfit was fresh.
To this day, every talent show I attend, I still hear "oh baby you....." in my head.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Year of writing 86 On Your Permanent Record 4
3/27/12
The fourth installment in the weekly examination of student hijinks and the manner in which irate teachers write them up. These are anonymized and taken straight from the student discipline screen. I, of course, add my own commentary.
Student 1
10/19
Tripped 'dramatically,' hitting another student in the shoulder with his elbow. 1st mischievious referral. 1 hour AIP.
(I'm a little speechless. Maybe it was a statement about the lack of drama classes).
11/1 Warning. Mr.______ asked _________ to remove his wig. He refused to take off the wig and then walked out of class without permission
(Never mess with another man's wig)
4/7
_________ poked a female student with a pushpin in math class. Said he was "trying to pop her." 3 hours AIP
(hahahahhahahahahhaahahaha! Wait, that's messed up.)
Student 2
2/11
_________ had a cut on his right hand. I told him to get a band aid from the office. Instead _________ wiped his blood on two student's papers and their desks, and grabbed ________'s hair, getting blood all over it.
(Middle School, the horror movie)
3/3
_________ and another student harassed a 1st grade student and caused him to drop his breakfast
(OK, that's just mean.)
11/4
_________ grabbed another student pretending to be a policeman. When handed referral, he yelled "you're under arrest" and ran out of the room. Call home.
(at least he stayed in character.)
The fourth installment in the weekly examination of student hijinks and the manner in which irate teachers write them up. These are anonymized and taken straight from the student discipline screen. I, of course, add my own commentary.
Student 1
10/19
Tripped 'dramatically,' hitting another student in the shoulder with his elbow. 1st mischievious referral. 1 hour AIP.
(I'm a little speechless. Maybe it was a statement about the lack of drama classes).
11/1 Warning. Mr.______ asked _________ to remove his wig. He refused to take off the wig and then walked out of class without permission
(Never mess with another man's wig)
4/7
_________ poked a female student with a pushpin in math class. Said he was "trying to pop her." 3 hours AIP
(hahahahhahahahahhaahahaha! Wait, that's messed up.)
Student 2
2/11
_________ had a cut on his right hand. I told him to get a band aid from the office. Instead _________ wiped his blood on two student's papers and their desks, and grabbed ________'s hair, getting blood all over it.
(Middle School, the horror movie)
3/3
_________ and another student harassed a 1st grade student and caused him to drop his breakfast
(OK, that's just mean.)
11/4
_________ grabbed another student pretending to be a policeman. When handed referral, he yelled "you're under arrest" and ran out of the room. Call home.
(at least he stayed in character.)
Monday, March 26, 2012
Year of writing 85. Oakland Unified School District Offices
3/26/12
You cracked wood and linoleum
You faded signs, peeling tape
You hiding behind protocol
You dropout machine
You molotov cocktail breath
You corner rat shit
You prepackaged microwave nutrition
You bleach panacea
I walked your cold concrete
corridors, dark wood on dark floor,
windows blacked lights flickering,
for the last time today.
You Hieronymus Bosch
You pastel layoff notices
You cut libraries
You cut nurse
You cut Art
You cut Music
You cut Shop
You elevated test scores
I heard their voices in the walls
from then and now and will be.
they sang songs of burning,
they whispered ash and dust.
You Frank Oz
You Clint Eastwood
You Rickey Henderson
You Gary Payton
You Huey P. Newton
You Gertrude Stein
You Julia Morgan
You Jack London
I walked through the frosted glass door
into the sunlight of 2nd street,
my feet sank slow into the sidewalk
I pulled a wagon of memories behind me.
You young poets
You dream living
You community minded
You hand extended
You passionate learning
You future guarding
You graduating
You purpose given
You cracked wood and linoleum
You faded signs, peeling tape
You hiding behind protocol
You dropout machine
You molotov cocktail breath
You corner rat shit
You prepackaged microwave nutrition
You bleach panacea
I walked your cold concrete
corridors, dark wood on dark floor,
windows blacked lights flickering,
for the last time today.
You Hieronymus Bosch
You pastel layoff notices
You cut libraries
You cut nurse
You cut Art
You cut Music
You cut Shop
You elevated test scores
I heard their voices in the walls
from then and now and will be.
they sang songs of burning,
they whispered ash and dust.
You Frank Oz
You Clint Eastwood
You Rickey Henderson
You Gary Payton
You Huey P. Newton
You Gertrude Stein
You Julia Morgan
You Jack London
I walked through the frosted glass door
into the sunlight of 2nd street,
my feet sank slow into the sidewalk
I pulled a wagon of memories behind me.
You young poets
You dream living
You community minded
You hand extended
You passionate learning
You future guarding
You graduating
You purpose given
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Year of writing 84. To My Students.
3/25/12
I give notice tomorrow at the school where I've taught since 2001. I've spent my entire adult life there, and to say that the children I've come across since beginning have influenced me is an extreme understatement. When you work in a place like East Oakland, with a population of kids most people believe are inherently monsters, due only to the circumstances of geography and poverty, you gain a certain perspective about humanity. I know my kids will have to work twice as hard to achieve half as much as anyone from the suburbs, and I watch them set at that task with fire and determination. Now, as I see the children I first taught becoming adults, and having families and careers of their own, I realize not only how important it was for them to have a safe, nurturing place to exist during middle school, but how important it was for me as well. Thank you to every child who allowed me into their lives for probably the longest nine months of their adolescent lives, and thank you more to each who has stayed in touch with me throughout these eleven years, you have given me insight and taught me more about life than anyone ever has.
I give notice tomorrow at the school where I've taught since 2001. I've spent my entire adult life there, and to say that the children I've come across since beginning have influenced me is an extreme understatement. When you work in a place like East Oakland, with a population of kids most people believe are inherently monsters, due only to the circumstances of geography and poverty, you gain a certain perspective about humanity. I know my kids will have to work twice as hard to achieve half as much as anyone from the suburbs, and I watch them set at that task with fire and determination. Now, as I see the children I first taught becoming adults, and having families and careers of their own, I realize not only how important it was for them to have a safe, nurturing place to exist during middle school, but how important it was for me as well. Thank you to every child who allowed me into their lives for probably the longest nine months of their adolescent lives, and thank you more to each who has stayed in touch with me throughout these eleven years, you have given me insight and taught me more about life than anyone ever has.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Year of writing 83. Edward Scissorhands
Today was a rainy, rainy day. I'm in day two of my three day just me and the kids extravaganza, and day one was really sunny - we got to do dry runs for Easter egg hunting all day in the backyard. Usually on rainy days, I have some sort of art project to do, we do "school time," have lunch & play pretend games in the down time. From the minute she woke up this morning, however, Isla decided to play "baby." This game consists of Isla pretending to be a baby and wanting to play with a toy. Then she switches back to herself and tells me not to let any babies play with her toys. Next, she reverts back to the baby, asks to play with toys again, and cries loudly in a fake baby cry when I say that Isla told me not to let babies play with her toys (if I say ok, she cries for real and throws a tantrum because I'm not playing the game right...) This lasted FOREVER. Or, at least 3 hours. Sooooo, at the three hour mark, I decided this was either going to stop, or I was going to put my head through the drywall. We tried painting - but she didn't like how the watercolors were mixed together. We tried coloring, but she said the crayons "feel like bad in my hand." We tried playing Barbies, Star Wars, Block Zoo, Catnapper, Smurfs, and probably 74 million other things, Isla becoming more and more upset at each one.
I don't really blame her though - I remember rainy days as a child sitting in my room, thinking to myself: "nothing feels fun right now. Nothing." I would try to put myself in various scenarios to test out how incredibly morose I really was - Disneyland being the ultimate test. If I asked my child-self if I wanted to go to Disneyland, and my response to myself was "naaahhh." I knew I was in for a long day. Yeah, I was a complicated kid. Whatever.
I knew this was going to take some kind of special maneuvering. "How about a movie?" I said. "I only like Bratz!" was the reply. Ugh. Ever since she watched a quarter of an episode of the most horrendous show for girls I've ever seen - BRATZ - where these horribly rendered computer graphic asshole girls run around being assholes to eachother, and I said I didn't like her watching it - she has used that to spite me. I needed some quick thinking. "I know," I said, "how about a movie about a sad, sad boy who has scissors for his hands."
"No... What? What does he have on his hands, Daddy?"
"Scissors"
"Why?"
"You'll have to watch the movie to find out."
"But how does he eat food?"
"You'll have to watch the movie to find out."
"Ok, daddy. Is it scary?"
"Probably."
"Will you sit next to me?"
"Of course! I love that movie"
"Let's DO IT!"
Phew. What transpired next was unadulterated excellence. Watching a kid watch Edward Scissorhands (except for the seduction scene in the beauty shop, which got fast forwarded - yes, we were watching a VHS - don't judge me) is like watching a puppy chase butterflies. Or a dolphin playing in the wake of a boat. Or a unicorn... you get the picture.
The best part came after the last scene, however. Isla, a little perturbed by the fact that Edward was alone at the end, wanted to play a game that revisited Edward in the future. Only this time Isla was his friend, and she knew how to make hands.
"do you think I could make Edward Scissorhands some hands out of my clay tomorrow, daddy?"
"I think he'd really like that, Isla. Thanks."
Friday, March 23, 2012
Year of writing 82. Upon finding a paper from a murdered student.
3/23/12
I found him beneath
the room's ancient radiator
all jagged edges and profanity,
covered in dust and ruin.
It wasn't all of him
to be fair -
but all that was left to me;
to this world.
His name clung gravely
to the top left margin -
white knuckle letters
scratched in so desperate
as to split the fibers of the paper.
As if it knew not to contain
something so toxic.
He told me he knew his death
shook hands with it in his mirror -
these are things I had heard before.
I let the creases in the paper
fall back to their crumple,
pushed it beneath the radiator.
Somewhere in me lives
superstition about time -
should this paper outlast
the years he breathed,
perhaps it would let go his name.
I found him beneath
the room's ancient radiator
all jagged edges and profanity,
covered in dust and ruin.
It wasn't all of him
to be fair -
but all that was left to me;
to this world.
His name clung gravely
to the top left margin -
white knuckle letters
scratched in so desperate
as to split the fibers of the paper.
As if it knew not to contain
something so toxic.
He told me he knew his death
shook hands with it in his mirror -
these are things I had heard before.
I let the creases in the paper
fall back to their crumple,
pushed it beneath the radiator.
Somewhere in me lives
superstition about time -
should this paper outlast
the years he breathed,
perhaps it would let go his name.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Year of writing 81. The Poetry Slam DJ
3/22/12
I've been the DJ for poetry slams for a long time now, ten years of finding the perfect song to go with a poem, and only having the duration of the poem to do so. It is by far my favorite type of show to DJ, I don't have to take any requests, I get to interact with a crowd through music, and basically play EXACTLY what I want to play. Since I've been doing this for so long, I definitely have go-to songs for poems that are um, cliche - here they are.
Boy dumped by girl poem:
White hip hop poem:
Girl dumped by boy poem:
Poem that nobody understands:
Sex poem:
There are many more, but I can't give away all my secrets all at once. That being said, there are always a few times in a night where I get surprised by a poem, maybe it defies a genre, has a twist, or heaven forbid, is just a good poem. This means there is a song out there (and hopefully I have it in my library) that fits exactly. Sometimes it's a word or phrase that I play off of, sometimes it's just a mood evoked by the poem. These are my favorite moments. Tonight at the Oakland Slam they were: 1 - a poem about no longer going to church = "losing my religion" by R.E.M. 2 - A poem about a horrible slum apartment = "Our House" by Crosby Stills, Nash and Young. If I didn't continue to be surprised by poems, this job would really suck - so thanks all you poets who keep changing it up on me. And, if you hear Ice Ice Baby, it's pretty safe to say that I pretty much wish you would stop reading poems. Forever.
I've been the DJ for poetry slams for a long time now, ten years of finding the perfect song to go with a poem, and only having the duration of the poem to do so. It is by far my favorite type of show to DJ, I don't have to take any requests, I get to interact with a crowd through music, and basically play EXACTLY what I want to play. Since I've been doing this for so long, I definitely have go-to songs for poems that are um, cliche - here they are.
Boy dumped by girl poem:
White hip hop poem:
Girl dumped by boy poem:
Poem that nobody understands:
Sex poem:
There are many more, but I can't give away all my secrets all at once. That being said, there are always a few times in a night where I get surprised by a poem, maybe it defies a genre, has a twist, or heaven forbid, is just a good poem. This means there is a song out there (and hopefully I have it in my library) that fits exactly. Sometimes it's a word or phrase that I play off of, sometimes it's just a mood evoked by the poem. These are my favorite moments. Tonight at the Oakland Slam they were: 1 - a poem about no longer going to church = "losing my religion" by R.E.M. 2 - A poem about a horrible slum apartment = "Our House" by Crosby Stills, Nash and Young. If I didn't continue to be surprised by poems, this job would really suck - so thanks all you poets who keep changing it up on me. And, if you hear Ice Ice Baby, it's pretty safe to say that I pretty much wish you would stop reading poems. Forever.
Year of writing 80. Isla's Birthday
3/21/12
Today was Isla's birthday. I don't have much to say about this, so I will let the picture do the speaking.
Today was Isla's birthday. I don't have much to say about this, so I will let the picture do the speaking.
There's a point at which you feel like you might be at capacity for how much pride you can feel in your child, then this happens. I sense some serious intergalactic battles in the near future.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Year of Writing 79. On your permanent record 3
3/20/12
This is the third installment of a riveting new series in which I chronicle the things middle school kids get in trouble for. They have been made anonymous to protect the teachers who write insane things when they are angry.
Student 1
9/8 ________ called a student "puto" and then put the ball in front of his private parts making obscene gestures with the ball and his body
10/30 ___A_______ was sent to the office. He refuses to do work in class. Throwing around markers in class. Continues to choke ___B_______ on a daily basis. There are several witnesses to___A_______ choking ___B______. _____B______ said that ____C____ has stopped _____A____ on several occasions from choking him. This is the first time that _____B_____ has said anything. Because _____A_____ calls him a snitch and tells him he will get him if he tells. I had Mr._________ call his home because they only speak spanish and she said his grandfather said he would come and pick him up.
(Whew! Continues to choke a kid on a daily basis? Nobody sees this kid CHOKING ANOTHER STUDENT?)
2/9 Aggressively in Mr. ____________ face, pulled down his pants, exclaiming repeatedly "you suck dick". 4th severe.
(Dang, Mr.____________, what the heck did you do?)
3/10 ________ was kissing with ____________ out on the black top at lunch time on Thursday . I called mother and talked to her about this inccident (sic). I told her next time there would be other consecuences (sic).
(at least he's turning a new leaf, "kissing with" kids instead of choking them).
Student 2
9/9 went into the teacher room during detention an showted(sic) WE OUT! than(sic) he left the room without doing the detention for the teacher
(WE OUT!)
1/17 In house suspension ________ walked into the main office, walked right by Ms. ________ (if after she asked him to stop). Asked the principal if he could use the sink, she said no. He used it anyway to wet his hair down, then left the office.
(you WET YOUR HAIR DOWN! WHAT!)
2/12 making noise with his mouth an would not stop when asked by teacher
(At least he was making them with his mouth, right? RIGHT?)
3/10 ___________brought "poppers" to school. While in Science class, they fell out of his pocket and popped in class. He completed a reflection form and an Appropriate School Behavior Essay. He needs to return the referral and essay tomorrow, signed by a parent.
(Unlucky, dude.)
I hope you enjoyed reading the misfortune of others, I know I did.
This is the third installment of a riveting new series in which I chronicle the things middle school kids get in trouble for. They have been made anonymous to protect the teachers who write insane things when they are angry.
Student 1
9/8 ________ called a student "puto" and then put the ball in front of his private parts making obscene gestures with the ball and his body
10/30 ___A_______ was sent to the office. He refuses to do work in class. Throwing around markers in class. Continues to choke ___B_______ on a daily basis. There are several witnesses to___A_______ choking ___B______. _____B______ said that ____C____ has stopped _____A____ on several occasions from choking him. This is the first time that _____B_____ has said anything. Because _____A_____ calls him a snitch and tells him he will get him if he tells. I had Mr._________ call his home because they only speak spanish and she said his grandfather said he would come and pick him up.
(Whew! Continues to choke a kid on a daily basis? Nobody sees this kid CHOKING ANOTHER STUDENT?)
2/9 Aggressively in Mr. ____________ face, pulled down his pants, exclaiming repeatedly "you suck dick". 4th severe.
(Dang, Mr.____________, what the heck did you do?)
3/10 ________ was kissing with ____________ out on the black top at lunch time on Thursday . I called mother and talked to her about this inccident (sic). I told her next time there would be other consecuences (sic).
(at least he's turning a new leaf, "kissing with" kids instead of choking them).
Student 2
9/9 went into the teacher room during detention an showted(sic) WE OUT! than(sic) he left the room without doing the detention for the teacher
(WE OUT!)
1/17 In house suspension ________ walked into the main office, walked right by Ms. ________ (if after she asked him to stop). Asked the principal if he could use the sink, she said no. He used it anyway to wet his hair down, then left the office.
(you WET YOUR HAIR DOWN! WHAT!)
2/12 making noise with his mouth an would not stop when asked by teacher
(At least he was making them with his mouth, right? RIGHT?)
3/10 ___________brought "poppers" to school. While in Science class, they fell out of his pocket and popped in class. He completed a reflection form and an Appropriate School Behavior Essay. He needs to return the referral and essay tomorrow, signed by a parent.
(Unlucky, dude.)
I hope you enjoyed reading the misfortune of others, I know I did.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Year of writing 78. When nobody you know has died.
1/19/2012
I asked kids to write an elegy awhile back, and we are finishing up the altars in class to go along with those poems that honor the dead. Every year, I have kids who (thank goodness) don't have anybody to write about, they have never experienced the death of someone close to them. This usually means that they write about a pet, or someone famous. The more poetically adventurous kids will sometimes ask: "what if I have somebody in my life who passed away, but I never knew them?" I always say to this: "that already sounds like a poem - go for it." Most times, this leads to a somewhat poetic list of questions that the child would have liked to ask the person who is no longer here. Sometimes it's deeper than that. This is one of those times.
Keep in mind, this student is 12. We've already seen what I was writing at 12: http://djmistergardner.blogspot.com/2012/03/year-of-writing-64-cow.html It's a little different. I love that this kid, over all, just wants to honor this man who is nothing but a bullet wound to her. I hope she finds him somewhere.
I asked kids to write an elegy awhile back, and we are finishing up the altars in class to go along with those poems that honor the dead. Every year, I have kids who (thank goodness) don't have anybody to write about, they have never experienced the death of someone close to them. This usually means that they write about a pet, or someone famous. The more poetically adventurous kids will sometimes ask: "what if I have somebody in my life who passed away, but I never knew them?" I always say to this: "that already sounds like a poem - go for it." Most times, this leads to a somewhat poetic list of questions that the child would have liked to ask the person who is no longer here. Sometimes it's deeper than that. This is one of those times.
I hear him speak of you
My father so strong and so brave
He loses his mind thinking of things he could do
To try and avenge you
Anger masks his pain
But he knows there is no one he can blame
He wishes he could have met you
I do too
All that I know are stories told to me
Those horrible stories of your gruesome death
Besides that I know nothing
The question that always bothers me is
Who were you?
When people ask me about my grandparents
I can say something about each one but not when it comes to you
I can only tell them what people tell me
How you died
That is what frustrates me most
I hate it when that is all people tell me
Yet that is all that I can say
You were shot in the back
Mistaken for someone else
A perfect stranger
Nothing but a breathing body with a beating heart
A stranger whose blood I carrywhose blood stained some streetsomewhereI wonder if I visited that street, would my back hurtwould I flinch, just a littlewould I have a better story to tellof you.
Keep in mind, this student is 12. We've already seen what I was writing at 12: http://djmistergardner.blogspot.com/2012/03/year-of-writing-64-cow.html It's a little different. I love that this kid, over all, just wants to honor this man who is nothing but a bullet wound to her. I hope she finds him somewhere.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Year of writing 77. Fairyland.
3/18/12
Today we got our family portraits done, like we do every year, by Anna Wu - who used to teach with me over at UFSA. She is a phenomenal photographer (go alliteration!) and you should book her. www.annawu.com We've gone to the Oakland rose garden, and Wildcat Canyon in the past - both beautiful and both very Bay Area - and since this is probably our last time doing this in the Bay, we decided to go this time to the world famous Children's Fairyland of Oakland. Ok, maybe it's not world famous, and maybe it's just a bootleg Disneyland, where nothing has been updated since 1957, but that's all part of the charm.
We began the sojourn with an all-out brawl over shoes. Now, I do like shoes, I am very particular about which ones to wear myself - so when Isla decides to wear her red maryjanes with some pink tights and a purple dress, my inner fashionista starts to rage. I tried cajoling, begging, threatening, reverse psychology, regular psychology, neurology, bribing... nothing worked. So, red shoes it was. THEN, because the wind was whipping around at about 30 miles an hour, she needed a sweater. I've gone into this before, so I'll spare you the back and forth - but I refuse to lose two battles in a row, so pink sweater was on, and we were in the car.
We got to Fairyland, met up with Anna and let Isla dictate the hour of photography... she ran from ride to dilapidated ride as we tried frantically both to catch up, and slow her down long enough for a shot of us all together - I think we may have got one with an alpaca photobomber, but with her skills on photoshop, I'm sure Anna can make that beast look something like me. Isla was not one for staying put, however. I've never seen her this excited for Fairyland - it must have been the extra attention. I think we covered the entire ten acres in less than half an hour before landing at the Western themed section. Since it's the most recognizable thing, and says Fairyland on it, we decided to try a family shot on the balcony of the Fairyland Hotel, just above the jail. Try is the operative word here. Isla decided she would be in jail instead, and we'd just have to deal with that. We did. Thanks to Anna Wu for this preview shot:
It's gonna be a great set.
Today we got our family portraits done, like we do every year, by Anna Wu - who used to teach with me over at UFSA. She is a phenomenal photographer (go alliteration!) and you should book her. www.annawu.com We've gone to the Oakland rose garden, and Wildcat Canyon in the past - both beautiful and both very Bay Area - and since this is probably our last time doing this in the Bay, we decided to go this time to the world famous Children's Fairyland of Oakland. Ok, maybe it's not world famous, and maybe it's just a bootleg Disneyland, where nothing has been updated since 1957, but that's all part of the charm.
We began the sojourn with an all-out brawl over shoes. Now, I do like shoes, I am very particular about which ones to wear myself - so when Isla decides to wear her red maryjanes with some pink tights and a purple dress, my inner fashionista starts to rage. I tried cajoling, begging, threatening, reverse psychology, regular psychology, neurology, bribing... nothing worked. So, red shoes it was. THEN, because the wind was whipping around at about 30 miles an hour, she needed a sweater. I've gone into this before, so I'll spare you the back and forth - but I refuse to lose two battles in a row, so pink sweater was on, and we were in the car.
We got to Fairyland, met up with Anna and let Isla dictate the hour of photography... she ran from ride to dilapidated ride as we tried frantically both to catch up, and slow her down long enough for a shot of us all together - I think we may have got one with an alpaca photobomber, but with her skills on photoshop, I'm sure Anna can make that beast look something like me. Isla was not one for staying put, however. I've never seen her this excited for Fairyland - it must have been the extra attention. I think we covered the entire ten acres in less than half an hour before landing at the Western themed section. Since it's the most recognizable thing, and says Fairyland on it, we decided to try a family shot on the balcony of the Fairyland Hotel, just above the jail. Try is the operative word here. Isla decided she would be in jail instead, and we'd just have to deal with that. We did. Thanks to Anna Wu for this preview shot:
It's gonna be a great set.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Year of writing 76. The birthday party
3/17/12
Today was Isla's birthday party. It started out with a 102 fever last night, we won't tell anybody though. She was still so excited that she kept waking up saying, "I have to get my rest for my party tomorrow," as if the paranoia of being too tired to enjoy the festivities was keeping her up... obsession, anyone? Anyway, she's up, we showed the house to some prospective buyers, and made a grip of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, bought some Guinness for the party (it IS St. Patrick's Day for goodness sake), and we were out to the tumbling spot.
Now Miss Ruby's is exactly what it looks like up there - a small room with some ladders and gym mats. This however, equals preschool awesomeness, because from the second she got there (and everyone else), they were jumping, leaping, rolling, and caterwauling like the WWF of old.
We had the place for 2 hours, and it was completely filled with said activities. My favorite was the red wedge mat that kids could dive into a forward roll on without knowing what that is. It's physics, yall.
coalesced into a meltdown of birthday girl proportions. It's ok, though, it's her party - she can cry... you know the rest.
After the party, we gathered up the loot (and leftover Guinness, thank you very much) and headed back home for prezzies. Isla made out like a bandit once more - with tons of gifts from all her awesome friends. (yes, that's a Darth Vader balloon too! So proud)
There were puzzles and crafts and binoculars and unicorns and magic wands and clear heels and... hold up. What? Clear heels? Oh no, some unwitting parent (must have been the parent of a boy) got my girl CLEAR HEELS? Great. Now she's gonna name herself Courvasier ... I can't deal with this.
Well, Ok, they are Belle shoes, although Belle would never EVER endorse such a travesty. She was beautiful and BOOKISH - the exact thing my little princess will be. Clear heels, COME ON.
Luckily, my concern was staved off by her insistence on wearing a fake mustache for dinner. (please note the red smear of frosting on her cheek - which I am pretty sure is still there as I write this).
Happy Birthday party, my little moustachioed belle. I can't wait until Wednesday when I get to unleash the cavalcade of StarWars toys upon your completely unprepared princesses and barbies.
I love you, and no, you may not wear your clear heels to day care. Sorry.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Year of writing 75 The rain
3/16/12
The water pools behind the house
in hard rains.
It finds cracks in the foundation;
seeps in like old friends.
There is something familiar
in the squelch underfoot,
the sodden towels.
Something comforting in this moisture;
the damp earth smell from the cellar
that welcomes me home.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
year of writing 74 X-Ray man
3/15/12
Isla brought this gem home today from daycare. When I asked her who he was, she said "x-ray man." Of course, duh. So, then I asked her what he was all about, why he was getting an x-ray. "x-ray man is looking for something inside his body."
"Oh, what's he looking for?"
"I don't know, daddy. He's just looking. Go get Mommy, so she can tell me a story."
"wait, I don't get to know what he was looking for?"
"DADDY! I WANT MOMMY!"
"Ok, ok."
Dammit. Now I have to imaginate for myself: This is Charles J. Markowski III. He had recently won a modest portion of the local lottery, and after being thoroughly impressed by the x-ray machine operated by the TSA at the Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix, decided to purchase his own machine. He quickly became addicted to seeing his insides at work - beginning with meals, then graduating to the expulsion of said meals. Every mundane aspect of life took on an exciting new glow, literally. Soon, however, the radiation caught up with Charles, and four months after buying the x-ray machine, he was found dead. His eyes were pasted open in an expression of perpetual surprise, and his hands held on to the edge like they had been glued there by a three-year-old child. His funeral was sparsely attended: an uncle, a former co-worker, and his mailman, whose daily conversations with Charles routinely made him late on the second half of his route. Prayers were said, a sad flower placed on the coffin, and his body let down. Charles would soon become the bones he loved so dearly.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Year of writing 73 When it rains...
3/14/12
Ever since my wife went back to work from maternity leave, I've been the responsible adult in the household for the morning. I get the kids up, feed them breakfast, and take them to daycare on the way to school. Most of the time it's pretty mellow and drama free. Not this morning.
To start, it has been a few days since we set the clocks forward, and today it hit all of us. Usually Miles is awake when Tegan leaves around 6:45 or so, then Isla reads him books until I get some caffeine in my system and get dressed. It's a pretty good system, I'm a big fan. Today, however, Miles didn't stir until about 8:30 or so, and we have to be out of the house by 9. This was a problem. I jumped out of bed and dunked my head in the sink to wake up - threw on my clothes, and gulped coffee straight out of the pot. Now it was 8:45, and I still had to deal with getting some clothes on Isla & Miles, as well as breakfast. I hustled the kids into their room, assembled one of my famous layering ensembles on Miles - lots of browns and greens and oranges - kind of like a kid's puke after Halloween.
This is a good time to point out that it was pouring outside, and really windy. It had been raining for the past 24 hours as well, so it's pretty sodden outside. Isla has no idea what the word "cold" means, nor "pants," or "sweater." Because of this outrageous fact, we have this dance every morning where she tries to convince me that a sleeveless pink summer dress is the best uniform to wear on the way to find the Northwest Passage, while I counter with the assertion that it's highly likely she will come down with frostbite and possibly gangrene on her legs without some sort of cloth covering. She then rebuts by crying on her bed that I am squashing her dreams because no princess would ever be caught dead in tights, or pants under her dress, or a freaking JACKET IN THE RAIN. At any rate, I rarely lose this battle, because I am the dad, and she was in a pair of pink pants and a sweater by 8:59. Sweet. Organic poptarts in the toaster (because somehow the fact that they are organic counters the frosting and sprinkles on top, right?) and we're out the door.
Remember, it's raining, really hard. I put the top over Mile's carrier, and ran out to the car, throwing Isla's door open in the process so she could climb in out of the rain. As I was fastening Mile's seat, I heard a clunking sound from the other side of the car, then a splash. Like a diving into the pool splash. I run over to the other side, where Isla is in about a foot of puddle, her Mercer Mayer book floating down toward the drain, and the poptart hanging precariously out of the door. "Daddy!" she screams, "grab the poptart!"
Nice priorities, Isla.
I get her out of the puddle, every inch of her body soaked. Now, we are late, and I face the prospect of another pants battle inside, but defying all expectations, Isla looks at me and says - "Daddy, I'm all wet and itchy. Can I wear the black pants and the strawberry shirt?" This is coupled with big doe eyes, of course.
Were those raindrops on my cheeks? who's to say.
Ever since my wife went back to work from maternity leave, I've been the responsible adult in the household for the morning. I get the kids up, feed them breakfast, and take them to daycare on the way to school. Most of the time it's pretty mellow and drama free. Not this morning.
To start, it has been a few days since we set the clocks forward, and today it hit all of us. Usually Miles is awake when Tegan leaves around 6:45 or so, then Isla reads him books until I get some caffeine in my system and get dressed. It's a pretty good system, I'm a big fan. Today, however, Miles didn't stir until about 8:30 or so, and we have to be out of the house by 9. This was a problem. I jumped out of bed and dunked my head in the sink to wake up - threw on my clothes, and gulped coffee straight out of the pot. Now it was 8:45, and I still had to deal with getting some clothes on Isla & Miles, as well as breakfast. I hustled the kids into their room, assembled one of my famous layering ensembles on Miles - lots of browns and greens and oranges - kind of like a kid's puke after Halloween.
This is a good time to point out that it was pouring outside, and really windy. It had been raining for the past 24 hours as well, so it's pretty sodden outside. Isla has no idea what the word "cold" means, nor "pants," or "sweater." Because of this outrageous fact, we have this dance every morning where she tries to convince me that a sleeveless pink summer dress is the best uniform to wear on the way to find the Northwest Passage, while I counter with the assertion that it's highly likely she will come down with frostbite and possibly gangrene on her legs without some sort of cloth covering. She then rebuts by crying on her bed that I am squashing her dreams because no princess would ever be caught dead in tights, or pants under her dress, or a freaking JACKET IN THE RAIN. At any rate, I rarely lose this battle, because I am the dad, and she was in a pair of pink pants and a sweater by 8:59. Sweet. Organic poptarts in the toaster (because somehow the fact that they are organic counters the frosting and sprinkles on top, right?) and we're out the door.
Remember, it's raining, really hard. I put the top over Mile's carrier, and ran out to the car, throwing Isla's door open in the process so she could climb in out of the rain. As I was fastening Mile's seat, I heard a clunking sound from the other side of the car, then a splash. Like a diving into the pool splash. I run over to the other side, where Isla is in about a foot of puddle, her Mercer Mayer book floating down toward the drain, and the poptart hanging precariously out of the door. "Daddy!" she screams, "grab the poptart!"
Nice priorities, Isla.
I get her out of the puddle, every inch of her body soaked. Now, we are late, and I face the prospect of another pants battle inside, but defying all expectations, Isla looks at me and says - "Daddy, I'm all wet and itchy. Can I wear the black pants and the strawberry shirt?" This is coupled with big doe eyes, of course.
Were those raindrops on my cheeks? who's to say.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Year of writing 72. On your permanent record 2
So, keeping with a new-founded tradition, here is Tuesday's "On Your Permanent Record." These are the assertive discipline screen entries, anonymously posted of course, that record verbatim what is written on a student's referral form when they get in trouble.
Student 1:
06/11 Hit another student with a whale bone on the Whale Bus day in Science class. Completed an Appropriate School Behavior and mother was notified.
1/11 students were making sexually explecit gestuers(sic) with their hands and tounge(sic) hanging out of their mouths 2days AIP
The spelling on that last one makes me wonder about the person who wrote it.
Student 2
03/12 student had a bag of chips. According to _________ another student said he could have some chips. Another girl took the bag.____________ got very upset almost got into a physical conflict over this before principal intervened.
(all that AND a bag of chips... WOMP)
01/12 writing on the teachers book. Argued that he wasn’t. Asked to stand outside the class to meet with teacher. Three students reported that he stole one girls pencil. Teacher went to retrieve pencil. He argued. When she was trying to close the door, he was holding the door not allowing her to close it. He came back into the room. Got into the girls face to to argue about pencil. Teacher repeatedly told him to get out of her face. He refused. She had to physically remove him from her face. Principal called. He became very disrespectful to principal. Telling the principal what he had to do. Brought to office. Refuse to give his last name.
(I'm super confused. He's like the best troublemaking multi-tasker I've ever heard of).
3/10 unmanageable disrespectful to teacher and other staff. Verbal sexual comments to grls in class. Threatened other student over "chips."
(OK, there's something about this kid and chips in the month of March...)
I'm sorry, but that first one is the best. A whale bone? Ingenuity.
Student 1:
06/11 Hit another student with a whale bone on the Whale Bus day in Science class. Completed an Appropriate School Behavior and mother was notified.
1/11 students were making sexually explecit gestuers(sic) with their hands and tounge(sic) hanging out of their mouths 2days AIP
The spelling on that last one makes me wonder about the person who wrote it.
Student 2
03/12 student had a bag of chips. According to _________ another student said he could have some chips. Another girl took the bag.____________ got very upset almost got into a physical conflict over this before principal intervened.
(all that AND a bag of chips... WOMP)
01/12 writing on the teachers book. Argued that he wasn’t. Asked to stand outside the class to meet with teacher. Three students reported that he stole one girls pencil. Teacher went to retrieve pencil. He argued. When she was trying to close the door, he was holding the door not allowing her to close it. He came back into the room. Got into the girls face to to argue about pencil. Teacher repeatedly told him to get out of her face. He refused. She had to physically remove him from her face. Principal called. He became very disrespectful to principal. Telling the principal what he had to do. Brought to office. Refuse to give his last name.
(I'm super confused. He's like the best troublemaking multi-tasker I've ever heard of).
3/10 unmanageable disrespectful to teacher and other staff. Verbal sexual comments to grls in class. Threatened other student over "chips."
(OK, there's something about this kid and chips in the month of March...)
I'm sorry, but that first one is the best. A whale bone? Ingenuity.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Year of writing 71. the problem kid
3/12/12
I overheard in the the teacher lounge today somebody say something I've heard many times before about that "problem" kid: "I have a referral with his name written on it before he even gets to class. That way when he cuts up I can just hand it to him."
It makes me sad. This is for that kid.
How to teach the problem kid, from a problem kid:
Listen
Don't ignore me when I mess up
Tell me when I did it right
If you say you're going to do something, do it. Every time.
Set boundaries and be calm when I approach them
Listen
Don't tell me it's easy
Don't tell me to try harder
When I say I hate your class -
I mean that this is hard, and you're embarrassing me
If I raise my voice, show me what calm looks like
be calm
be calm
be calm
The pinnacle of your escalation should be disappointment
I know how to deal with anger directed at me
I know how to shut down
Show me how to earn your trust
Give your trust
Listen
When I say I'm tired, I am.
When I say I'm hungry, I am.
Don't let me use excuses.
Listen
I will push you away
Listen
Listen
Repeat
I overheard in the the teacher lounge today somebody say something I've heard many times before about that "problem" kid: "I have a referral with his name written on it before he even gets to class. That way when he cuts up I can just hand it to him."
It makes me sad. This is for that kid.
How to teach the problem kid, from a problem kid:
Listen
Don't ignore me when I mess up
Tell me when I did it right
If you say you're going to do something, do it. Every time.
Set boundaries and be calm when I approach them
Listen
Don't tell me it's easy
Don't tell me to try harder
When I say I hate your class -
I mean that this is hard, and you're embarrassing me
If I raise my voice, show me what calm looks like
be calm
be calm
be calm
The pinnacle of your escalation should be disappointment
I know how to deal with anger directed at me
I know how to shut down
Show me how to earn your trust
Give your trust
Listen
When I say I'm tired, I am.
When I say I'm hungry, I am.
Don't let me use excuses.
Listen
I will push you away
Listen
Listen
Repeat
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Year of Writing 70. Growing up.
3/11/12
1995.
We used to talk about how fun it would be to have our own house together, our own life. I used to sleep with your scrunchie under my pillow. It was light blue & it kept your perfume for months. I used to get butterflies before I walked into school just because I knew I'd see you, same thing during 4th period right before lunch. I spent hours making mix tapes for you, agonizing over the song choice & order. During one of our marathon late night phone calls, I remember you saying that you wished we could wake up next to each other every morning. I remember that longing, how it almost hurt to think about.
2012.
I wake up next to you every morning. It does not hurt to think about, it just feels gigantic, like I can't hold it all in my arms.
We used to talk about how fun it would be to have our own house together, our own life. I used to sleep with your scrunchie under my pillow. It was light blue & it kept your perfume for months. I used to get butterflies before I walked into school just because I knew I'd see you, same thing during 4th period right before lunch. I spent hours making mix tapes for you, agonizing over the song choice & order. During one of our marathon late night phone calls, I remember you saying that you wished we could wake up next to each other every morning. I remember that longing, how it almost hurt to think about.
I wake up next to you every morning. It does not hurt to think about, it just feels gigantic, like I can't hold it all in my arms.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Year of writing 69. Date night.
3/10/12
For the first time since my son was born, Tegan and I were able to go out, alone. We went to a fairly fancy restaurant, Boulevard in San Francisco. It was awesomely delicious and I had excellent wine pairings to go along with my scallops, beet & apple salad, and Cornish game hen. Also, the waiter had some kind of strange stare down going after everything he said, but that's not what I really want to write about.
I really want to write is that there are times in my life that remind me just how excellent things are. How, no matter what trivial issues may be clouding my immediate judgement, I am in a beautiful, loving relationship and I am lucky to be here. See, I spent the day before our "date night" feeling like it was an actual date. I'm talking about 2 showers, hand-detailing the car, meticulously crafting an outfit with the Limited Blazers matching the brown in my argyle sweater. I'm talking about sweaty hands and slightly nervous conversation in the beginning. What I'm trying to say is, after being with this woman for 16 years, after growing up with her and raising kids with her - I feel fabulously lucky to be able to call her mine, and to spend a few hours alone with her on a Saturday night is perhaps the most precious thing I can think of to do.
Here's to never taking love for granted, and to a lifetime more to come.
For the first time since my son was born, Tegan and I were able to go out, alone. We went to a fairly fancy restaurant, Boulevard in San Francisco. It was awesomely delicious and I had excellent wine pairings to go along with my scallops, beet & apple salad, and Cornish game hen. Also, the waiter had some kind of strange stare down going after everything he said, but that's not what I really want to write about.
I really want to write is that there are times in my life that remind me just how excellent things are. How, no matter what trivial issues may be clouding my immediate judgement, I am in a beautiful, loving relationship and I am lucky to be here. See, I spent the day before our "date night" feeling like it was an actual date. I'm talking about 2 showers, hand-detailing the car, meticulously crafting an outfit with the Limited Blazers matching the brown in my argyle sweater. I'm talking about sweaty hands and slightly nervous conversation in the beginning. What I'm trying to say is, after being with this woman for 16 years, after growing up with her and raising kids with her - I feel fabulously lucky to be able to call her mine, and to spend a few hours alone with her on a Saturday night is perhaps the most precious thing I can think of to do.
Here's to never taking love for granted, and to a lifetime more to come.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Year of writing 68. Carrying a baby.
3/9/12
In this modern world of convenience, there are a number of ways that on-the-go parents can strap their brood to their bodies so as to maneuver more easily and accomplish normal tasks. This is nothing new, people have been doing it forever, but the sheer number of products on the market for accomplishing this are outrageous. We own several. 2 types of Moby Wrap: a single huge piece of fabric that you are supposed to wrap around you in puzzling ways, The Ergo-baby: a frontpack of sorts, The Maya Wrap: which I have dropped two babies from now, and the infamous Baby Bjorn: easily the manliest of the group.
I only know how to use the Baby Bjorn with any degree of success. It is color coded, you don't have to wrap anything, and it is black and silver - like the Raiders. It's pretty freaking cool. When I am stay-at-home-dadding, it is the only way I can go out to get shit done, like shopping, or going to the park, or anything else that involves leaving the house. Now, today - it was left at the sitter's house. I was bjornless. As you may or may not have inferred from some prior posts, I create full on hour by hour plans for my dad days - it's how I stay sane. If it's on the list I HAVE TO DO IT. Or else I go bananas. Now on my list for today was going to Costco. It's fun. They have free samples, and big jars of pickles - don't judge me. At any rate, once I realized that the Bjorn was not here, and after my panic had subsided, I attempted to use the other 4 baby cuffs to little fanfare or success. The Ergo Baby has a maddening clasp in the back that I couldn't reach once Miles was in it, so I grunted and stretched behind me like an overweight yogi for about 10 minutes, then threw it across the room, where it is even now being used as a dog bed by Sophie, who is the only one that understands me anymore. That one was out.
Next, I tried the Maya wrap, resulting in baby drop # 2, mentioned above. Luckily it was over the bed, and no harm was done, but I probably wouldn't want to be dropping babies all over Costco. It's bad for P.R.
That left the Mobys. These things have a 10 step procedure for how to tie the fabric to your body before you even attempt to put the baby in. Ridiculous. However, there is a decent photographic instruction manual featuring smiling women of various ethnicities, so I gave it a go. Whaddaya know, it worked! I was able to tie this contraption to me in a way that looked vaguely like the cheerful women in the pictures. Sweet. Now, there is another 10 step procedure for how to insert the baby into this knotted, uncomfortable web on my torso. Miles protested soundly, but I was able to slide his baby butt into position after a few failed attempts. I walked around the house with it, it felt OK, So I was ready to go to Costco - why not? In a moment of genius, I decided not to untie the wrap at all, just to drive to Costco with it pre-anchored to me. I gathered the kids and off we went.
Fast forward to the Costco parking lot, which always is horrendously packed with people. Isla is sobbing in her carseat because Miles has been screaming all the way there (most likely due to all the manhandling that happened aforehand). I have completely forgotten how to place the baby in the wrap, which is now droopy where it used to be tight, and vice versa. Miles is getting louder and louder as I attempt to force limbs through fabric loops and knots over and over again, but no matter what I do, he is supported by either no fabric at all, or by my sweatshirt pocket, which his feet keep finding their way into. It is now hot as well, the sun beating down on me as I wrestle with this demon of a baby wrap. My face is bright red, and I am sweating like Rush Limbaugh in a room full of female law students. At this point Isla looks at me through her own tears and says: "daddy, I don't want to go to Costco."
"I know, Isla, but it's on the list. it's on the list. it's on the list" I swear to God I repeated those last three lines like a sick mantra as realization of how absolutely ridiculous I was being hit me. 15 minutes later we were having an outdoor tea party in my own backyard, the Moby is in a place where it will never harm another soul, and the world is right again.
In this modern world of convenience, there are a number of ways that on-the-go parents can strap their brood to their bodies so as to maneuver more easily and accomplish normal tasks. This is nothing new, people have been doing it forever, but the sheer number of products on the market for accomplishing this are outrageous. We own several. 2 types of Moby Wrap: a single huge piece of fabric that you are supposed to wrap around you in puzzling ways, The Ergo-baby: a frontpack of sorts, The Maya Wrap: which I have dropped two babies from now, and the infamous Baby Bjorn: easily the manliest of the group.
I only know how to use the Baby Bjorn with any degree of success. It is color coded, you don't have to wrap anything, and it is black and silver - like the Raiders. It's pretty freaking cool. When I am stay-at-home-dadding, it is the only way I can go out to get shit done, like shopping, or going to the park, or anything else that involves leaving the house. Now, today - it was left at the sitter's house. I was bjornless. As you may or may not have inferred from some prior posts, I create full on hour by hour plans for my dad days - it's how I stay sane. If it's on the list I HAVE TO DO IT. Or else I go bananas. Now on my list for today was going to Costco. It's fun. They have free samples, and big jars of pickles - don't judge me. At any rate, once I realized that the Bjorn was not here, and after my panic had subsided, I attempted to use the other 4 baby cuffs to little fanfare or success. The Ergo Baby has a maddening clasp in the back that I couldn't reach once Miles was in it, so I grunted and stretched behind me like an overweight yogi for about 10 minutes, then threw it across the room, where it is even now being used as a dog bed by Sophie, who is the only one that understands me anymore. That one was out.
Next, I tried the Maya wrap, resulting in baby drop # 2, mentioned above. Luckily it was over the bed, and no harm was done, but I probably wouldn't want to be dropping babies all over Costco. It's bad for P.R.
That left the Mobys. These things have a 10 step procedure for how to tie the fabric to your body before you even attempt to put the baby in. Ridiculous. However, there is a decent photographic instruction manual featuring smiling women of various ethnicities, so I gave it a go. Whaddaya know, it worked! I was able to tie this contraption to me in a way that looked vaguely like the cheerful women in the pictures. Sweet. Now, there is another 10 step procedure for how to insert the baby into this knotted, uncomfortable web on my torso. Miles protested soundly, but I was able to slide his baby butt into position after a few failed attempts. I walked around the house with it, it felt OK, So I was ready to go to Costco - why not? In a moment of genius, I decided not to untie the wrap at all, just to drive to Costco with it pre-anchored to me. I gathered the kids and off we went.
Fast forward to the Costco parking lot, which always is horrendously packed with people. Isla is sobbing in her carseat because Miles has been screaming all the way there (most likely due to all the manhandling that happened aforehand). I have completely forgotten how to place the baby in the wrap, which is now droopy where it used to be tight, and vice versa. Miles is getting louder and louder as I attempt to force limbs through fabric loops and knots over and over again, but no matter what I do, he is supported by either no fabric at all, or by my sweatshirt pocket, which his feet keep finding their way into. It is now hot as well, the sun beating down on me as I wrestle with this demon of a baby wrap. My face is bright red, and I am sweating like Rush Limbaugh in a room full of female law students. At this point Isla looks at me through her own tears and says: "daddy, I don't want to go to Costco."
"I know, Isla, but it's on the list. it's on the list. it's on the list" I swear to God I repeated those last three lines like a sick mantra as realization of how absolutely ridiculous I was being hit me. 15 minutes later we were having an outdoor tea party in my own backyard, the Moby is in a place where it will never harm another soul, and the world is right again.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Year of writing 67
3/8/12
It's getting nearer to Isla's 4th birthday, and the preparations are being furiously pondered by Tegan and Laura, her daycare provider, who we've always partnered birthdays with, since her son's birthday is so close to hers. I have a sneaking suspicion that Laura pours all her latent girlhood fantasies into Isla, (beautiful dresses as presents, glass slippers, princesses and fairies, you know the deal...), so I self-satisfyingly chuckled out loud when I got this picture via text with the message: "out of 100 cakes, she wants the STAR WARS one." I can almost smell the disappointment. Really, who wouldn't want the Star Wars cake? I was especially elated to note that the cake has no reference of pod racers or Jar Jars anywhere as well - it's old school drama. Straight up Vader vs. Luke - the only conflict that matters. Go 'head Isla.
It's getting nearer to Isla's 4th birthday, and the preparations are being furiously pondered by Tegan and Laura, her daycare provider, who we've always partnered birthdays with, since her son's birthday is so close to hers. I have a sneaking suspicion that Laura pours all her latent girlhood fantasies into Isla, (beautiful dresses as presents, glass slippers, princesses and fairies, you know the deal...), so I self-satisfyingly chuckled out loud when I got this picture via text with the message: "out of 100 cakes, she wants the STAR WARS one." I can almost smell the disappointment. Really, who wouldn't want the Star Wars cake? I was especially elated to note that the cake has no reference of pod racers or Jar Jars anywhere as well - it's old school drama. Straight up Vader vs. Luke - the only conflict that matters. Go 'head Isla.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Year of Writing 66. Not the best artist, per se
3/7/12
In one of the earlier posts, I referenced finding my old poetry in a scrapbook my Grandma gave me about 10 years ago. I've spent a few days perusing said scrapbook and it's chock full of gems that I'm sure will be included here in the days to come. Most of the contents of the beginning of the books are drawings that my mom had written a description of in the corner or on the side. I was happily skipping down memory lane, reading these, until I actually paid attention to the dates attached to the drawings and realized that they were done at the same age Isla is now. This is disturbing. I will show you why. Here is Isla's work:
Now, note the body, the detail work in that spider and walrus. I mean, it looks like a little kid drew it and everything, but when you see what I was artistically capable of at 4, these drawings by Isla look like freaking Matisse.
Example 1:
In one of the earlier posts, I referenced finding my old poetry in a scrapbook my Grandma gave me about 10 years ago. I've spent a few days perusing said scrapbook and it's chock full of gems that I'm sure will be included here in the days to come. Most of the contents of the beginning of the books are drawings that my mom had written a description of in the corner or on the side. I was happily skipping down memory lane, reading these, until I actually paid attention to the dates attached to the drawings and realized that they were done at the same age Isla is now. This is disturbing. I will show you why. Here is Isla's work:
Now, note the body, the detail work in that spider and walrus. I mean, it looks like a little kid drew it and everything, but when you see what I was artistically capable of at 4, these drawings by Isla look like freaking Matisse.
Example 1:
Ok, I don't even know where to begin with this one. The date on the opposite page puts me at 4 years, 1 month, OLDER than Isla is now. Really, Aaron? Is that a witch? That circle with some dots and a half-assed line down the middle. Come on, dude.
Then, more than a YEAR later, I created this masterpiece.
I mean, it's got color and everything, but I was FIVE YEARS OLD! Look, five-year-old Aaron, people have bodies. It's kind of how they can digest food, poop, hold their internal organs, etc... 4 year old Isla understands this - get it together. It has to get better though, right? I mean, I can't really be that ridiculously bad of an artist for ever right? Check it - 6 years old...
And there you have it. I'm almost in elementary school at this point. Is that really a plat, Aaron? A PLAT? And dammit, if it's supposed to be a plate, could there be more than like 6 watermelon seeds on it? The edges of the circle DON'T EVEN TOUCH, Man. I don't know, if I was my mom, I would have started to get worried at this point. Especially when juxtaposed against the first drawing, 2 years earlier. My Plat looks suspiciously akin to the witch above. How far I progressed in those early years - Oh well, at least I can live vicariously through the art of my daughter.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Year of Writing 65 On your permanent record.
3/6/12
I have a bad habit of checking the kids in my class' "assertive discipline" screen in their online record. This is the place where the behavior of a child who gets a referral is logged. It is done verbatim from what is written on the referral. Now, being a teacher, I know that when one is writing a referral, one is usually so pissed off that one does not usually exude eloquence. I also know that kids do ridiculous things in middle school. In honor of that, I think I might make Tuesdays (until I stop teaching) "Assertive Discipline" days. I will keep the kid anonymous, but some of these are too good to pass up.
Student 1.
2/13 K_____ refused to pick up trash during lunch detention. Rather than follow directions, he yelled: "I am a seagull!" and threw ranch dressing on a group of students.
2/10 K_______ consistently disrupted class during Yoga. (yeah, it says yoga). He would not do the poses, and said "this shit is for white people."
10/17 A girl asked K_________ a question that I did not hear. He yelled at the top of his lungs "I don't have a COOOOOTCH!" I counseled K__________ about what was wrong with that statement.
Student 2
2/16 G________ was using inappropriate language and disrupting class. Student will serve community service by attending the Valentine's Dance. (what a tough consequence)
2/14 G_______ was sent out of class. Ripped up his referral. Said "Make it rain."
10/31 G_______ received a referral from Ms. _______'s class. Told another girl to take her mask off, when she was not in costume. She responded by cussing at him. Both students received referrals.
1/3 G______ whistled the Jeopardy song during testing. Would not stop.
These are supposed to show the behaviors a student is capable of... for the most part I just end up thinking these kids are really funny.
I have a bad habit of checking the kids in my class' "assertive discipline" screen in their online record. This is the place where the behavior of a child who gets a referral is logged. It is done verbatim from what is written on the referral. Now, being a teacher, I know that when one is writing a referral, one is usually so pissed off that one does not usually exude eloquence. I also know that kids do ridiculous things in middle school. In honor of that, I think I might make Tuesdays (until I stop teaching) "Assertive Discipline" days. I will keep the kid anonymous, but some of these are too good to pass up.
Student 1.
2/13 K_____ refused to pick up trash during lunch detention. Rather than follow directions, he yelled: "I am a seagull!" and threw ranch dressing on a group of students.
2/10 K_______ consistently disrupted class during Yoga. (yeah, it says yoga). He would not do the poses, and said "this shit is for white people."
10/17 A girl asked K_________ a question that I did not hear. He yelled at the top of his lungs "I don't have a COOOOOTCH!" I counseled K__________ about what was wrong with that statement.
Student 2
2/16 G________ was using inappropriate language and disrupting class. Student will serve community service by attending the Valentine's Dance. (what a tough consequence)
2/14 G_______ was sent out of class. Ripped up his referral. Said "Make it rain."
10/31 G_______ received a referral from Ms. _______'s class. Told another girl to take her mask off, when she was not in costume. She responded by cussing at him. Both students received referrals.
1/3 G______ whistled the Jeopardy song during testing. Would not stop.
These are supposed to show the behaviors a student is capable of... for the most part I just end up thinking these kids are really funny.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Year of Writing 64. The Cow.
3/5/12
Today in the car ride home, Tegan had the misfortune of informing Isla where hamburgers come from. I don't know how it came up, but her mom said something along the lines of "Well, we do eat cows, you know." Isla, feeling a bit of chagrin said "no, you're just kidding, mama."
This is where Tegan tactfully attempted to explain that hamburgers are actually cows, at which point Isla begins to sob. Heartily. She puts her face in her hands and wails. (this is all hearsay, by the way, but I believe every word out of my beautiful wife's mouth). So now Tegan is forced to dutifully explain that Isla didn't know those cows, and that lots of people eat animals, and lots of people choose not to because they feel like she feels in that moment. Pretty good stuff, of course I did hear this all just from her.
All this got me thinking about a poem I wrote when I was 11. Seriously. I really don't mind if Isla decides to become Vegetarian, I lived with a Vegan for most of my formative years - instead I flashed back to 6th grade, when I had to write a poem about a cow. Let me rephrase that, I wasn't assigned to write a poem about a cow, I HAD to. I remember reading some article about how veal was raised, and having this visceral reaction - so I wrote a poem. Sidenote: I still haven't eaten a bite of veal, and don't plan to.
Now, as I was recalling the poem (I really only remembered that it ended with the word "Mooooo"), I simultaneously recalled packing a box with a scrapbook my Grandma gave me before she died, that had all of the things I had sent her over the years. I also remembered that one of the last things I had sent to her, before that kind of thing was really uncool, was my 6th grade poetry portfolio. HOLY CRAP. I could totally find this thing. One hour, forty five minutes later and - Voila:
Text follows:
The Cow
The cow walks slowly back & forth
Grazing
All of her children have been used for veal
Does she care?
No.
Every day she is brought in to be milked.
Does she care?
No.
Someday she too will be made into food.
Does she care?
No.
None of these things cross her mind.
Why?
Because she is too lazy to think of them
and she'd rather not bother
How many times has she seen other cows led off to the slaughterhouse?
Many.
But still she does not care.
Why - she has no reason to
She just grazes in the field minding her own business.
Mooooo!
After analyzing my 11 year old mind, I think I may have been reading too much Nietzsche. I had no idea how much of a nihilist I was in 6th grade. Actually - I think I was romanticizing the cow way too much. I just wanted to be left alone in my own little field. Man, what a sad kid.
Either that or I just really wanted to write a poem about a cow. Whatever.
Today in the car ride home, Tegan had the misfortune of informing Isla where hamburgers come from. I don't know how it came up, but her mom said something along the lines of "Well, we do eat cows, you know." Isla, feeling a bit of chagrin said "no, you're just kidding, mama."
All this got me thinking about a poem I wrote when I was 11. Seriously. I really don't mind if Isla decides to become Vegetarian, I lived with a Vegan for most of my formative years - instead I flashed back to 6th grade, when I had to write a poem about a cow. Let me rephrase that, I wasn't assigned to write a poem about a cow, I HAD to. I remember reading some article about how veal was raised, and having this visceral reaction - so I wrote a poem. Sidenote: I still haven't eaten a bite of veal, and don't plan to.
Now, as I was recalling the poem (I really only remembered that it ended with the word "Mooooo"), I simultaneously recalled packing a box with a scrapbook my Grandma gave me before she died, that had all of the things I had sent her over the years. I also remembered that one of the last things I had sent to her, before that kind of thing was really uncool, was my 6th grade poetry portfolio. HOLY CRAP. I could totally find this thing. One hour, forty five minutes later and - Voila:
The Cow
The cow walks slowly back & forth
Grazing
All of her children have been used for veal
Does she care?
No.
Every day she is brought in to be milked.
Does she care?
No.
Someday she too will be made into food.
Does she care?
No.
None of these things cross her mind.
Why?
Because she is too lazy to think of them
and she'd rather not bother
How many times has she seen other cows led off to the slaughterhouse?
Many.
But still she does not care.
Why - she has no reason to
She just grazes in the field minding her own business.
Mooooo!
After analyzing my 11 year old mind, I think I may have been reading too much Nietzsche. I had no idea how much of a nihilist I was in 6th grade. Actually - I think I was romanticizing the cow way too much. I just wanted to be left alone in my own little field. Man, what a sad kid.
Either that or I just really wanted to write a poem about a cow. Whatever.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Year of Writing 63. On moments past.
3/4/12
I was doing a little picture clean up on the old hard drive today, and I found this gem, taken almost a year ago. This picture is a pretty good summary of my baby girl.
Messy hair, cockeyed lady gaga glasses, standing in the sun, ruffles everywhere even on a bathing suit, can't tell whether she's gonna smile or stamp her feet, chubby tummy peeking out.
I'm grateful that the picture exists, but I wish I could bottle everything about this moment - the smell of sunscreen on her shoulders and eucalyptus in the air around. The dry heat rendering every surface unwalkable in bare feet. The static electricity laden anticipation of the pool beyond the wrought iron fence. All the details come rushing at me with arms outstretched, but I know they will fade with time.
Just another reminder never to waste a moment now, to play the games, sneak the razzberries on her tummy, laugh and sing with her, calm her fears, kiss her skinned knees. I may not be able to hold on to every detail of every memory, but I sure can live them all now.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Year of writing 62 WIldcat Canyon
3/3/12
Wildcat Canyon
Two minutes from the I-80,
the trees filter everything.
Oak and Eucalyptus barriers
distilling traffic into a barely
audible thrum, like your own
blood sounds inside the ear
when silence hovers.
The light, dappled and flecked
is propitious here;
a good omen for those passing
alongside the Scotch Broom,
the wildflowers peeking
shyly from beneath.
Take your time on this path.
It will wait, whatever your
tribulation may be, it will wait
for these slow steps through
elutriated space. Hold
these minutes under the soles
of your feet, return when
you feel the drudge creep
past your ankles. Return
when you hear the traffic
louder than your own blood.
Wildcat Canyon
Two minutes from the I-80,
the trees filter everything.
Oak and Eucalyptus barriers
distilling traffic into a barely
audible thrum, like your own
blood sounds inside the ear
when silence hovers.
The light, dappled and flecked
is propitious here;
a good omen for those passing
alongside the Scotch Broom,
the wildflowers peeking
shyly from beneath.
Take your time on this path.
It will wait, whatever your
tribulation may be, it will wait
for these slow steps through
elutriated space. Hold
these minutes under the soles
of your feet, return when
you feel the drudge creep
past your ankles. Return
when you hear the traffic
louder than your own blood.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Year of Writing 61. A really long story about a blender.
3/2/12
I have idiosyncrasies like everyone else does - those things that one does that defy logic and reason, except in one's own addled head. They can sometimes be silly, quirky things that people adore: "Oh that James and his high-stepping gait," but mostly they are the darker side of an individual, no less quirky or silly, but much less endearing.
One of my poorer qualities is that my brain has convinced itself that NO MATTER WHAT, if I have made the dinner, I shall not wash the dishes. Or stated more truthfully, I may wash the dishes, but I will pout and feel sorry for myself the entire time, then spend the rest of the evening dark-eyed and moody. It is beyond dumb, I know. Regardless, it happens. It happened the night before last. My wife should have full authority to call me a baby and tell me to get a hold of myself, however, she is much too gracious a person for that, so she made certain that I knew she would wash the shit out of last night's dishes, and she did.
This has been an incredibly long buildup to what I actually have to say tonight, but it is necessary. Totally necessary. So, tonight, I decide to man the hell up and just wash the dishes, no whining. Big step for me. As anyone stuck with first world problems such as no dishwasher in the kitchen would know, you must first empty your drying rack. Cool, no problem. Usually this is where my moodiness takes hold and I crash and bang pots and plates together so everyone in the house knows how phenomenally unfair it is that I am doing this chore. Not this time, though - I've turned a new leaf. So, I begin carefully placing all of our mismatched earthenware into the cupboards, have all the silverware in the drawer with nary a clanging of metal, and all there is left is this metal disc, at the bottom of our chrome drying rack. I reach for it, and it refuses to budge.
It is one of these: --------------------------------------------------------->
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--------------------------------------------------------->
--------------------------------------------------------->
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--------------------------------------------------------->
(those arrows are completely necessary for formatting purposes, trust me)
Now, those awesome blades, which had most recently been used to puree some wonderful herbage for green mashed potatoes, were lodged between the chrome wires of the rack. If you have never washed a blender, and grazed a knuckle against one of these modern marvels, you would have no idea that they are actually made of the universe's sharpest material.
I begin to wrestle with this sharp bastard with all the caution I can muster, but the more I twist and turn, the more stuck it seems to get in this besotted drying apparatus. I now am loudly cursing the fact we have no dishwasher. This is reminding me of one of those twisted nail "get it unstuck" puzzles that grandparents inexplicably find joy in watching their grandsons have aneurysms trying to figure out.
(spoiler alert)
Truthfully, the end of this story is not nearly as triumphant as it should be - although I did manage to employ the use of a single chopstick, a pink pig spatula, and one leather gardening glove in the release of the death blades. I held it aloft in the kitchen, alone, gave the old self-satisfied grin & nod, and pretty much just put the blender away. But I REALLY put it away, if you know what I mean.
I have idiosyncrasies like everyone else does - those things that one does that defy logic and reason, except in one's own addled head. They can sometimes be silly, quirky things that people adore: "Oh that James and his high-stepping gait," but mostly they are the darker side of an individual, no less quirky or silly, but much less endearing.
One of my poorer qualities is that my brain has convinced itself that NO MATTER WHAT, if I have made the dinner, I shall not wash the dishes. Or stated more truthfully, I may wash the dishes, but I will pout and feel sorry for myself the entire time, then spend the rest of the evening dark-eyed and moody. It is beyond dumb, I know. Regardless, it happens. It happened the night before last. My wife should have full authority to call me a baby and tell me to get a hold of myself, however, she is much too gracious a person for that, so she made certain that I knew she would wash the shit out of last night's dishes, and she did.
This has been an incredibly long buildup to what I actually have to say tonight, but it is necessary. Totally necessary. So, tonight, I decide to man the hell up and just wash the dishes, no whining. Big step for me. As anyone stuck with first world problems such as no dishwasher in the kitchen would know, you must first empty your drying rack. Cool, no problem. Usually this is where my moodiness takes hold and I crash and bang pots and plates together so everyone in the house knows how phenomenally unfair it is that I am doing this chore. Not this time, though - I've turned a new leaf. So, I begin carefully placing all of our mismatched earthenware into the cupboards, have all the silverware in the drawer with nary a clanging of metal, and all there is left is this metal disc, at the bottom of our chrome drying rack. I reach for it, and it refuses to budge.
It is one of these: --------------------------------------------------------->
--------------------------------------------------------->
--------------------------------------------------------->
--------------------------------------------------------->
--------------------------------------------------------->
--------------------------------------------------------->
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(those arrows are completely necessary for formatting purposes, trust me)
Now, those awesome blades, which had most recently been used to puree some wonderful herbage for green mashed potatoes, were lodged between the chrome wires of the rack. If you have never washed a blender, and grazed a knuckle against one of these modern marvels, you would have no idea that they are actually made of the universe's sharpest material.
I begin to wrestle with this sharp bastard with all the caution I can muster, but the more I twist and turn, the more stuck it seems to get in this besotted drying apparatus. I now am loudly cursing the fact we have no dishwasher. This is reminding me of one of those twisted nail "get it unstuck" puzzles that grandparents inexplicably find joy in watching their grandsons have aneurysms trying to figure out.
(spoiler alert)
Only in this case, the nails are actually razor sharp blades designed to puree any object they come in contact with, and my grandpa is actually my own pride telling me if I don't get this mothereffer unstuck I should seriously slap myself hard.
I continue, by now my digits looking like I just completed a marathon thumb-wrestling competition with Edward Scissorhands.
Truthfully, the end of this story is not nearly as triumphant as it should be - although I did manage to employ the use of a single chopstick, a pink pig spatula, and one leather gardening glove in the release of the death blades. I held it aloft in the kitchen, alone, gave the old self-satisfied grin & nod, and pretty much just put the blender away. But I REALLY put it away, if you know what I mean.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Year of Writing 60. Afternoon.
3/1/12
I'm finding relief in the repetition;
the way mother's milk thaws
under the hot stream from the faucet,
like time slipping through fingers.
The way his eyes roll back
as he fights sleep, too enamored
with the shadows playing on the wall -
slumber has lost its appeal when
grey shades dance just so.
the warming of the bottle,
the battle for midday sleep;
these are my mantras,
echoes of humanity
in a world so fractured,
so frenetic that beauty
becomes mundane.
I'm finding relief in the repetition;
the way mother's milk thaws
under the hot stream from the faucet,
like time slipping through fingers.
The way his eyes roll back
as he fights sleep, too enamored
with the shadows playing on the wall -
slumber has lost its appeal when
grey shades dance just so.
the warming of the bottle,
the battle for midday sleep;
these are my mantras,
echoes of humanity
in a world so fractured,
so frenetic that beauty
becomes mundane.
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