Small_Inklings_

Sea. Or, can you tell I don't want to go to work tomorrow?

       So, why should a view with a double horizon be such a comfort?  Why should the place where sky meets water meets land like an ever-shifting ravening clockwork be the only place I feel completely at rest?  I've postulated it is because the ocean alone can drown out my internal voice.  I especially like rocky beaches, where the retreating tide drags at a thousand stones, roaring with every breath.  But then there was that beach in Juno, with no tide at all, just small lapping wavelets fingering the shore, and the rose-and-butter-tinted light over a small island, and the dolphins slipping like pinwheels through the mist.  Is that even a real memory?  I was there, but nothing real should look so like a fantasy. 

So it's the roar, but also the light, reflecting in every possible manner--glittering, harsh, glowing, rich, angled, dim.  So many surfaces to touch and none demanding.  Also the wind, which isn't shy about laying its palms against my cheeks and laughing as it steals away my clandestine songs.  Also the memories of so many days spent in companionable solitude with my brothers, sculpting sand, running until our heels wore smooth.  Also my father, ready with a camera or to snatch us from the waves, and my mother, offering a bowl of black olives, which taste wholly perfect, even gritty.  Also slick black basalt and trailing seaweed in the froth.  And the symmetry of shells and small patterns.  And white salt crusts around my ankles.  And the sun, or not, because I breathe better in the rain.

There's a man walks up and down Highway 101 carrying a full-sized wooden cross on wheels.  He bears it from Newport through Neskowin to Oceanside, maybe farther, walking slowly along the cliffside perpendicular to the sun.  I never have my camera in reach when I spot him.  I couldn't get the shot anyway--there would be no way to include the view to sea, to show the vastness against which he walks, shouldering a burden of his own construction, which he could so easily hurl to the waves at any time and send his self-incrimination bobbing out to China. 

Maybe that's also why I love it:  the ocean carries it all away and slyly deposits other gifts.  You don't need that cross:  here, have a fishhook.  An empty refrigerator.  A peice of string for your finger, to remember.  A waiting shell.

Mojo Rojo Sally Peter

 

When Metaboman was a little boy, his room was a zoo.  His dad built him a two-sided bookshelf that went down the center, and in it he kept his hamsters, guinea pigs, mice, snakes, turtles, birds, and who knows what else.  His sisters will attest to the odor of the zoo, but he apparently had very tolerant parents.  Also, he had a dachshund who slept on his feet.  When I met him, he already had three dogs.  He gave up the hostile, non-child-friendly one to marry me--the greatest sacrifice of his life, as he constantly reminds me.  I've never seen him so down as on the day he sent her to her new home--he spent it in bed, mourning.  Those of you who know him will understand the full meaning of that.  Also, he says that he misses her more than his ex-wife (who kept the second dog), and I believe him.  I am at least gratified to know that if something happens to me, he will still have three dogs to keep him from grieving.  I too was in love with small furry things as a kid, although I admit to being less responsible--I carried pet pussywillows around in my hands, named every creature I met, crocheted my puppy a sweater and sang "We Are the World" to put him to sleep (it was a very effective lullaby, and he is still probably the only sentient being who has ever enjoyed my singing!)  We hatched a duck from the incubator who imprinted on me and follwed me around on a little leash until he got his feathers.  There were two rabbits, a guinea pig, stray cats in the blackberries, stray dogs  . . . you get the idea.  Critter is experiencing a massive download of Dr. Dolittle genes, heaven help him.  He's already making plans for a bird and a snake.

Eleven

When Will Stanton turned eleven, he discovered he was a member of the Old Ones, powerful immortal beings placed on earth to fight against the powers of the Dark.  When I was eleven, my greatest wish would have been to discover that I too was an Old One with hidden powers of light.  My son, who turned eleven yesterday, does not share that wish.  He wishes, instead, to be the new Michael Jackson.

   Or maybe one of the Jonas Brothers, or Corbin Bleu.  Now, yes, I did own a shiny red zippered jacket when I was ten, and yes, I did take break-dancing lessons at the community center for six weeks and learned to do a passable back spin, but that was a brief and galloping phase.  This child is perennially hip.  He is cool as ice on a watermelon.  He is everything I never was--a fashionisto.  An athlete.  Popular.  Chased by the opposite sex.  Excelling in math (math!!).  Confident.  Loud.  I remember having him, and I certainly remember raising him, and yet . . . who is he?  Where is the nerdy book-engulfed, doodling, bespectacled boy I imagined?  This kid refuses to read for pleasure.  He doesn't like folk music.  He thinks painting is boring.  He dislikes bike rides and hiking.  There are times when he appears to be an alien in my household, an incomprehensible being sent by the fates to try my tolerance.

And yet, of course, he wears my eyes.  His hair turns to blistering black silk in the sun;  mine.  He cries when he's angry, knuckles his face, hides in his bed and gasps until the endorphins rinse his darkness away;  me.  He questions the cosmos, he can eat his half of an addict's share of caramel popcorn, he is ticklish and fickle and likes to hide behind his bangs.  He sings when he thinks no one is listening, improvises randomly.  He loves a car ride with the music up and the windows down.  He wants to inherit my jewelry, my old books, my oldest blankets and toys.  He wants to know his roots.  He sneezes in the sun.  He laughs at Danny Kaye.  He is proud of his scars.  He sleeps on his stomach.  He wants to stay up all night long.  He adores his uncles.  He thinks his grandparents' house smells much better than his own.  He gets excited about the moon.  He's afraid to try those things at which he's not certain he can excel.  All familiar as my own palms.  He was the first microscopic sea creature I cradled, the first love of my life, my sanctuary of innocence, my prize.  It amazes me how fiercely I can leap to his defense.  It saddens me how far away he already is from the tiny boy who was, for a time, my entire world. 

As I untangle my apron strings, give him little pushes onward, I feel somewhat like Peter Pan's shadow--given form because the light hits him well, waiting quietly for each return.

Day one.

When our principal told us we could dispense with the usual first day nuts and bolts--locker combinations, reviewing the school policies, the lecture on cell phones--and save them for later, the entire staffed breathed a sigh of delighted relief. We were encouraged instead to make the first day exciting for students, capture their attention, draw them in.

I chose one of my favorite Annie Dillard passages to read: the story of a Polyphemus moth hatched in a too-small jar, whose wings hardened before they were able to completely unfurl. We discussed the stages of development in butterflies as a metaphor for the stages of human life. Most students agreed that they were currently wrapped in a chrysalis: after absorbing and experiencing during their childhood years, they are now retreating into themselves to process who they want to become. They talked about their new urges to be alone, the pain involved in change, the necessity of moving forward even when life doesn’t turn out as planned. “And what do you think Dillard learned from this experience?” I asked.

One boy, long blonde curls framing his face, raised his hand and quietly said, “A person contained cannot emerge.”

His words sent a shiver through my spine. When I tell people I teach middle school, the reactions range from admiration to pity but rarely include envy. Others think I am brave; they don’t realize the rewards far outweigh the challenges. They are missing out on the view from thirteen, and I can tell you, some days it‘s the most encouraging view around.

Schoolmares

Every year, same old story.  The one about wandering in the dark with a loose tiger.  The one about the cougar who hides in my attic.  The one where the principal, vice-principal, or some senior teacher marches into my room, sweeps my work aside, and takes over the class.  The one where I have moved into the school's basement and am busy unearthing the crypt of furniture and books of teachers past.  The one where the kids are screaming out of control and I can't outshout them.  But this one is absolutely the worst, and I usually have it several times before (and during) the school year. 

I need to speak, but my mouth is sealed.  I claw it open and start dragging at whatever is clogging it--some substance like bubble gum, but also like my own gums.  I pull out handfuls but I can never clear it away, it is always full, and I remain silent.  Eghghghgh--gives me the willies just to write about it. 

I would so much prefer the tiger--I actually kind of enjoy that one, he's wandering close, my hands are out but I can't see a thing--I have no idea if he's going to pounce or purr.  I imagine he's my classroom, my collective student consciousness--exciting, full of possiblities, somewhat dangerous, waiting.

Man, I am so melodramatic.  I need to write about things like cooking more.

Metaboman on the web.

Want to see my crazy husband on youtube, courtesy my little brother?  Go here.

It's because I'm brown, part two.

Last spring I wrote a post about racism at my school, and tied in Mr. Q's experiences . . . remember?  Today he told me that his dad is reading him the book Black Like Me, which, in my opinion, is not a particularly appropriate choice for a ten-year-old, but it did lead to a discussion about true victimization vs. a victimized mentality, individual agency and accountability, and other things that I don't think ever occurred to me when I was 10.  The other night I read a portion of an article decrying any kind of institutionalized racism, no matter the intent, including affirmative action, called "Diversity Is Not a Virtue".   The author's idea put simply is that classification in a society leads to excessive governmental power and decreases overall freedom.   As a teacher, I don't think I'm allowed to say "diversity is not a virtue" without quotation marks around the words.  In a couple of days I'm going to be handed twenty new ways to categorize and divide my classroom (perhaps granting me immutable power over my students?  Ha.)  Actually, what I'm going to be instructed in is how to evaluate each of them individually, using the criteria apportioned to each label:  what can be expected of an IEP student, a poor student, a mentally imbalanced student, a stressed-out student, a shy student, a talented and gifted student.  And it seems that the trend is to compare them less and less to each other as a whole, and more and more simply to themselves and those like them.  The whole class does not compete against itself anymore.  Everyone gets some kind of exception, exemption, sometimes it feels like I'm the IRS just trying to get everyone to pay their dues, but not too much, there!  A little more here!  And I'm a compassionate, sympathetic person.  I believe that everyone's life has extenuating circumstances:  everyone is fighting his or her own battle, everyone deserves a break, and kindness, and a second chance.  I definitely err on the side of mercy in all aspects of my life (except those involving bacteria and viruses).  But I feel the diminishment of justice, and I worry.  State standards exist, but I'm not really talking about meeting test scores, I'm talking about establishing a way of life that is viable outside the insulated school system, where people might not buy your category.

And I'm talking about my son, who three times this week has told me he wishes he were black.  Firstly, so he could have an afro a la Corbin Bleu (and doesn't his name sound like cheese?  I suddenly want to make salads when he is mentioned.)  Secondly so he could play basketball better (teenage boy logic), but mostly, I think, because he has found role models in black men and a possible identity in black culture that is missing from his own heritage.  He has always been keenly aware of his different appearance.  His dad was the same way:  the only boy with dark skin in a large white high school, one of the few in our predominately white college.  His family was hispanic, but he didn't identify himself as hispanic:  he didn't learn Spanish until he was an adult, he didn't have family in Mexico, he didn't particularly like anything that was culturally hispanic, because he wasn't, really, although he had definitely had more experience than Mr. Q., who has had virtually no exposure to his hispanic heritage.  And should he?  He's as much English and Scottish, and I haven't familiarized him with kilts and afternoon tea or cricket.  He identifies with black people because he feels it is his skin color, not his ancestry, that makes him different, and because black icons are so dang cool.  He talks about "when we were slaves."  He is excited about Obama for reasons of race alone.  He wants dred locks, he wants corn rows, he wants curls.  He wants something that is hard for me to understand well.  He is not content to be just himself, a variation of the norm, living a very comfortable lifestyle in a nice part of town, doing well in school and sports and feeling loved by his family.  He senses complications.   Sometimes he creates them (an inherited trait, surely).  But often he struggles to interpret what comes from the outside.

Explain the realities of prejudice while encouraging your child to take full responsibility for his life, go on.  It's a straightforward discussion, right?  And I have this discussion with my child;  think of all the kids like him who are never able to articulate those complications. 

Unfortunately, I can't think of a way to tidy up these thoughts because I am still wading about in the mess.  I suppose if I could make sense of it I'd write a book, have my day on Oprah, and let Mr. Q. wear all the wigs he wants. 

The Evolution of Boy

    

The luxury of an empty day.

During the school year, I am wound like a clock, ticking things off my lists as I point my way around my world, arms tempted to flail, but managing to maintain  position, mostly.  Time stops for no diaper, no sticky floor, no crumbling block tower, no accumulation of lint.  Laundry, dust, and dishes are my nemeses;  if I do not sweep things into order when the opportunities present, it will be another round with the old clock before I get to them again, and the piles become oppressive in the blink of an eye.  So, during the school year, I try to make myself methodical and orderly by force.  When summer begins, I feel unleashed--so much time!  What do I do with all this time spilling out in front of me?  I rush to fill it with all that energy that has for so long been confined and narrowly directed.  Paint, clean, arrange, purchase, travel, schedule;  oh, I have VERY big plans every summer.  The state of fitness I will be in at the end of three months!  The immaculateness of my house!  The order I will have wrought!  The works of creative genius I will have produced!  My children will be closer to me than ever, and I will make up for the absence of nine months with an intensity of attention and love that will soak in so deep as to last another nine months by August. 

As summer passes, I slow.  I begin to dig in my heels, drag my fingernails along the edges of the days, procrastinate my goals.  By late August, I am kicking my failures around the cluttered floor:  no, I didn't lose the baby weight.  I am plump as ever, just a little browner.  A few closets are cleaner, but the tracks of the windowsills are still silty, the fly remains still crumbling to dust.  The slowness of the days has relaxed my housekeeping habits, and my need for order has been replaced by a sense of foreboding.  Today, it rains.  The floor is sticky and I don't mind.  The boys stay in their pajamas until 2 p.m., and I'm glad no one has come to the door to discover me in my frumpiness.  The playroom is an ocean of toys.  I do a little laundry to cross it off my list--old habits for security--and then I lie on the couch and read, and doze, and wipe a nose, and watch the sky, and listen to the hum of airplanes, lawn mowers, and refrigerators.  When my boys wander past me, they can climb up for a casual kiss and a snuggle, then slide back into their play with no sense of loss, no urgency in my grip.  That's the one goal I accomplish every summer:  by August, we are thick as thieves, these little guys and I.  I know their every look, can read their eyes, there is nearly as little distinction between us as there was when they were newborns and our hearts still ran in rhythm.  

But it's no paradise, because I have already begun to miss them.  At night, the schooldreams are creeping around my head, teasing me with my insecurities.  I find myself at the computer at 2 a.m., writing plans for the classroom that won't let me sleep.  My bones are getting jittery under my calm exterior.  I feel my losses approaching, my focus narrowing, the futility of resistance.  Fall is slipping up over the horizon.    An empty day will soon be just that:  empty, forcibly emptied so I can recover from illness or get that stack of papers graded while life at school whirls on.  These kinds of days--the kind in which we are free to exist together, to dally in idleness and affection, are always limited, which, of course, is what makes them so sweet to me.  Where the boys will be when I am not here is not something I allow myself to think about much;  they will be safe, and loved, and it may be that they hardly notice my absence.  I'm not sure how much I want them to.  I do know that my life, more than most, is hostage to the seasons, though summer is my harvest, fall my winter, and winter my desolation.  Already I'm looking forward to spring.

Lately

I'm not sure how I feel about blogging anymore.  What, exactly, is my purpose?  Originally I wanted a place to write about my reading, and about my thoughts, my questions.  My first blog became too personal and caused me some grief.  I became much more guarded in my writing.  This blog is now read more by aquaintances, local friends and family than by on-line friends, and thus has become less of a place to express myself and more of a family journal/travelogue/photo album.  I rarely write about my reading.  I rarely write about my work.  I almost never write about my questions.  I love to write about my children, but I often wonder if this is really the best venue for it.  I wonder whom I have become as a writer.  Certainly some writing is better than no writing, but this is not the writing I aspire to.  I wonder if I could ever really be the writer I imagine, because I am not sure I could ever be as honest as necessary in something that would be read by the world at large.  I don't find my position in life to be very conducive to revealing my thoughts, for various reasons.  I could write under a pseudonym, perhaps, but that would also feel dishonest, I think.  So, I'm just going to let this sit for a bit, and go some other directions.  I'm still reading and enjoying the blogs of my "regulars" and my family, and will probably return in the fall.  Just wanted to explain, in case anyone wonders what has happened to me here.