Holiday Manifesto

Who-Whatever you believe in, I think we can all agree that Christmas is an out of control holiday of materialism. I'm sitting here stressing that I didn't get my mom a present although the cost of us flying to NC to be with her is absurd and way out of our current budget. Why should I stress? My family (specifically my daughter) is the present, but why do I feel like that's not enough? What does that say about our culture (or maybe just my family...or me?)?

Can we break from the insanity and redefine this gig?

Last night when we exchanged gifts in a late-night rush Adam and I promised each other that next year we're doing a simple Christmas at home. Small tree, homemade gifts, good food, good wine, long winter walks in the park, and whomever wants to come. Simplify it. Anyone is welcome so make your plans now to come to Brooklyn. We'll be happy to have you.

Baby Band

Photo one: This one's my favorite. Attitude.

Photo two: Rockin' out.

Photo three: Luca waves his arms in the air (gets the audience going)


Last weekend Kat and Diane came over for a playdate with Luca and Ima. At one delirious point, we stuck all three babies in Alexandra's crib and they went buck wild--jumping up and down, throwing their heads back, screaming--it was a riot. Being newish parents, the camera were whipped out and the entire event documented.

What came out reminded me of a band photo shoot. Around the end of college, my friends and I used to pretend to be a band and take group photos. The results were always hilarious--us staring intently at tree bark & trying to look tragically hip: me slightly goofy, Lisa puckering her lips, Erin smirking, Julia batting her eyelashes. I'm sure if you could have stuck us all in a crib together back in 1974 our little personalities would have emerged even then.

Here are some favorites from last weekend. Any baby band name suggestions?

Relive One Moment (TMI)

Since I mentioned my old student Vaughn in my last post, I had to share one piece of his writing that I saved from teaching him. I have a folder of kids' writing from over the years that has made me laugh, moved me, or was sweet. I keep this folder in my file drawer at home and refer to it on the days I want to quit and make pretty milk-froth designs on cappucinos for a living.

The assignment was to write a page on one moment of your life that you'd relive over and over again for eternity. Vaughn's response was:

"If I had to relive one moment over again it would be the first time I had sex. It was magical. Me a young stallion, her a beautiful princess, rolling around in each others love and sweat on that hot summer day when school was out and my mom was at work. It was fun. A LOT (capitalized and underlined) of fun. I relive that moment all over and over again and again and again."

My comments: 65%, Too much information!,nice use of metaphor, NOT a whole page....

white people & wet dogs

Today, as I walked to the train in the pouring rain, I couldn't help but think of my old student, Vaughn, who once asked amid a lesson on racial stereotypes, "Miss--why do white people smell like wet dogs?"

My initial response to this was to tease him a little for being a racist, tell him that white people don't smell like wet dogs, that I don't smell like a wet dog, but to every one of my retorts he insisted, "No, Miss, no disrespect or nothin', but white people smell like wet dogs."

"Ok, Vaughn, they do." Whatever. We went on with the lesson.

BUT.........................(and believe me, this isn't the only time I have been wrong in teaching).......that night I had class at Teachers College. I schlepped up to Harlem from Brooklyn, in the pouring rain, in February (because God forbid it snow in this friggin' city anymore),and when I sat down in class and disrobed my layers of wool coat, wool scarf, cashmere hat, down to my clothing of wool sweater, wool pants, and leather shoes (can you see where this is going?), I noticed that I completely, undeniably, 100% smelled like a wet dog.

Wool clothes + rain = smell of wet dog

The next day I came into class, called Vaughn to the room, formally apologized for teasing him about being a racist, and told him that he was right: when wearing wool in the rain, white people (or any person for that matter) smell like wet dogs. The class cracked up. What a teachable moment.

Gone from my Sight

My friend Kathi's dad, Gerry, who was mentioned in my last blog post, died early this morning. She posted this on her blog, and it touched me so I wanted to share.

Gone From My Sight

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?"

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!" there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!"

And that is dying.

-Henry Van Dyke

Drowning in Empathy

On Friday I received an email from one of my oldest friends, Kathi, that explained to me how her dad had just decided to withhold kidney dialysis treatment and, in turn, end the life of his that diabetes has severely compromised.

I was surprised by the visceral reaction I had to this email. I was reading it in my classroom with several students around and I immediately started weeping. Two girl students came over to hug me and hand me tissues, the two boy students looked on slightly horrified and scared. After about five minutes I got it together, apologized, and the rest of the period the kids tried to cheer me up by showing me the new Brittney Spears video.

The email overwhelmed me with emotions b/c Kathi's dad has finally hit the wall my dad hit 12 1/2 years ago. While my dad's body made the choice for him--he went into the hospital for a blister on his heel and never came out--their lives were both dictated by diabetes. They both lost extremities due to lack of circulation, their eyesight had been compromised, their kidneys had failed...and a host of other issues. Diabetes isn't as vilified as cancer or heart disease, but let me assure you that it is a slower, more methodical way of tearing your body(and often spirit) to pieces.

Right now in Virginia, my friend is spending as much time with her dad until he slips into an unconsciousness from which he'll never wake up. For all of us who have lost a parent, we know the years of hurt that await her and the constant reminder that this parent missed out on the many milestones of life that lay ahead for Kathi and her two year old daughter. I literally ache for her right now. The empathy I feel is palpable; I am swimming in it and reliving the loss of my dad whenever I think of her.

And I find myself repeatedly so astounded by the brevity of each life. I mean, doesn't it just blow your mind when you contemplate that this gig we have going here isn't forever? I completely understand this fact and still cannot fathom my own life ending and leaving everyone I love, especially my daughter, behind. Too huge and too much to grasp.

If you have a moment in your thoughts, please send some comforting prayers, energy, whatever you believe in to Kathi and her family.

my first glimpse at the recession

A few weeks ago, a kid set fire to a bulletin board in the main hallway of the third floor. we scoffed at it because frankly, the rising number of crazy fights seemed more important.

Then yesterday some kids set fire to three separate bulletin boards in our school on two different floors. One that was in front of a classroom, trapping all the kids in. Our school building is over 100 years old. It is in the shape of an H, and one of these fires was at the top corner of the H. The teacher had to make the decision as to whether to keep the kids in the room and hope the fire wouldn't rage out of control, or have the kids run THROUGH the fire to get out. He did the latter. Everyone was fine. The fire was put out in a matter of minutes, as where the others, but scary nonetheless.

A colleague and I were talking about WHY this is happening. Amid the school discussion of installing metal detectors and surveillance cameras, Louise and I sat for a brief chat this AM wondering aloud if it was the recession. The holidays typically stress our students out. The lack of family, lack of money, and increase in materialism is just a toxic combination in a low-income urban environment. Then add the recession to this equation (ie: make money tighter for folks for whom it was already as tight as possible) and we have a disaster. Anger, fear, sadness all manifest in behavior issues at school, and we're stuck trying to keep the kids from beating each other up or setting us all on fire when the real problem is much, much deeper.

My friend Lisa is moving back to the USA from Serbia next month and she keeps asking me about the economy. I keep telling her that I'm not feeling the recession (safe teacher job, we rent, no uncontrollable debt...), but I actually think I am--indirectly--at work.

If you're someone like me who is not struggling amid this recession, please consider giving money or time to organizations that are helping those who are hurting. There was an article in NY Mag that outlined the many non-profits who lost money b/c they were mainly funded by Wall Street banks/firms that have gone under. I'm about to write a check to the NY Food Bank now.

Hair(s)

Something strange is happening around here.

Since I had baby girl, my hair is totally different. And I don't mean "I-stopped-coloring-it-because-daycare-costs-so-much" different, I mean that ALL BY ITSELF it has changed. Hear me out:

Pre-pregnancy my hair went through many a metamorphosis of colors, but since pregnancy number one I have left the hair dye on the sidelines (crazy the small things you can blame a miscarriage on), therefore I have been 100% au natural since spring of 2006. Osa was born June 2007. I had that gorgeous pregnancy hair--my fine hair literally doubled in thickness but then, around Osa's third month of life, it all fell out. It was like a horror movie--those clumps of hair in "The Grudge" gurgling out the of drain--yeah, THAT much hair. We had to invest in Drano. Even my eyelashes fell out in clumps.

Then this fall my hair got darker. Now I am a rich brown, whereas I was unhappily labeled "dishwater blonde" before. Everyone at work keeps asking if I have dyed my hair. Nope. They ask, "Is it thicker?" Then I started noticing, grabbing it, seeing how many times I could wrap a ponytail holder around my ponytail and yes, it is thicker once again. (No, readers, I am not pregnant, FYI.)

Why? Lately, I have been pulling many a wire-y white hair out. These white hairs are not like my regular hair. They are course, and kinky, and resemble a pubic hair but are long. There's some of the thickness; those imposing white hairs are adding to my mane. Then, a few weekends ago, I looked in the mirror and found a pitch black wire-y kinky full-length hair. I pulled it out and showed my wicked witch hair to Adam. His curt reply, "If all your hair starts to look like that, you'll be gross." Thanks, babe. There's some more thickness and darkness. But how is this happening?

Then last week while Xmas shopping I looked over at Adam and found a 2 inch (no exaggeration) eyebrow hair sticking out perpendicular to his face. It was like a wolf eyebrow; it was so long and thick I thought it was an animal hair of sorts that got stuck in his unibrow, but no, it was 100% his. Looks like we'll be growing old and disgustingly hairy together(and keeping those Russian lady waxers in business).

PS: While writing this post, Adam, unbeknownst to its content, came over and showed me a five of his crazy long nose hairs he just pulled out. Hawt.

The Great Gatsby redux

I am currently teaching The Great Gatsby to my honors class. I haven't taught it in years and I am thrown by the beauty of its pages, but my students loathe it. The vocabulary is throwing them off, "There's too much description!," and there is general malaise in my class. I keep pep-talking them about how this is a canonical of American Literature, the penultimate book on the American Dream, that smart people know and have read this book and you like being considered smart! But the last couple of days I have felt like Sarah Palin in a room of rabid liberals. No trick, wink, jig or colloquialism can convince them that this book is worth reading.

Today I had to call upon the words of old students to get through to the disgruntled crowd of my 5th/6th period class. The last time I taught this book, with my friend and then colleague Caroline, we created a lesson on character dynamics and had the students write out a conversation between two of the characters in the book that dealt with the characters' personalities and the plot. One looked something like this:

Nick: Yo, what are you doing with Myrtle?
Tom: Son, Daisy frontin' with the booty but Myrtle drop it like it's hot.
Nick: Fo' sure, fo' sure.

In describing the difference between Daisy and Myrtle today, I quoted these past students. THAT got their attention. At least they laughed. I gave credit to the old student, and they seemed to grasp the Daisy:Myrtle dichotomy.

Teaching...What I resort to on some days is definitely questionable...

Thankful

Our beloved doula, Jocelyn, made a post like this a few days ago, sparked by another blogess' post, from another's, etc, and I am following her lead. It seems like an appropriate post pre-Thanksgiving.

The gist is to figure out six unimportant things that make you happy and/or--in light of the approaching holiday--that you are thankful for. The word unimportant is the tricky part here. I have had a hard time coming up with my list, b/c all the first ideas are obviously the things that are important...but here is my attempt:

1. Coffee: I know, I know, what 30-something newish mom doesn't love her coffee? My day begins the moment I get my cup at Colson on my way to school. But coffee also has a lot of memories for me. My dad used to drink coffee (granted, it was instant, but still); it can conjure up nostalgia for my childhood and my dad's breath of coffee and cigarettes. I started my coffee habit senior year in high school when a group of us cool kids would hit Cup-a-Joe on Hillsborough Street in Raleigh and hang out, smoking cigarettes and critiquing music, books,and who knows what. I am a hunter/gatherer of coffee: espresso from a vending machine on campus in France, cafe au lait in iced bottles in Japan, cafe americana across the street from my flat in London, instant Nescafe savored in India. It's more than just a morning buzz for me; it's a narrative of my life.

2. Mascara & various forms of chapstick/lipcare/lipgloss: One day I am really going to learn how to put on a palette of makeup, but all I have managed to gain control over in my 34 years of life is mascara and various lip products. These two lifesavers liberate me. Even if I am covered in toddler vomit, if I put on some good mascara and a light coat of tinted lip gloss, I feel ready to face the world (or at least the video store and the Korean grocery).

3. My new Italian Boots: Confessions of a consumerita: I bought $300 Italian brown boots during the recession. Let me explain! My foot is very unique. I am a 10.5/11 narrow. WTF? It is my crucible in life. It seems shoe companies agree that if your foot is that long you are obviously Andre the Giant and it must be equally as fat. Sigh. Before pregnancy, I was a solid 10. After baby, my feet changed and never went back. I had to get rid of my ENTIRE SHOE COLLECTION (insert trauma here). When I tried on these babies at a new store in my 'hood, I couldn't resist. I belabored the decision, but in the end they went on the credit card and I am putting part of my weekly allowance aside to pay them back. So. Worth. It. They make me so happy and fit perfectly.

4. NPR: I can't even list all the NPR I listen to because I can't keep track. It's sick. It makes me feel connected and smart and like I am around intelligent adults when Alexandra is throwing a tantrum in the other room. Yes, I give money to it, too. But I wish I didn't so that Ira Glass would personally call me to chide me for cheapness. My listening skills have improved hundred-fold since this addiction kicked in. Tonight I listened to a show on the Tibet/China issue. I learned so much. Seriously.

5. Public Transportation: I guess many of you might argue that this is an important thing, and it is, but I know that many folks don't have it and it doesn't bother them. The thing is, it is seen as unimportant and unnecessary in many places which is why it went on this list. I sold my car when I moved to NYC in 1999 and am disgustingly proud to say that I have not and have no plans to ever own another car as long as I am in NY (and I'd like to stay here forever, universe willing). I shun SUV folks, support higher gas prices, rally for tolls/fines to enter Manhattan...I am unabashedly self-righteous when it comes to cars in the city and car overuse everywhere. Call me a Republican of anti-car ideology. I am all about what serves me, and since I don't have a car, I want to tax the hell out of you! But seriously, my zeal really is rooted in the environmental argument behind foreign oil, etc, that I support here. Therefore, public transportation makes me happy. Even when it's stinky, or hot, or crowded, or late, or all four.

6. Blogs: I started reading blogs when I had my miscarriage and they gave me more comfort than almost any real life person. Since then I have become an avid blogger and have found a new and inspired love for writing out my random thoughts--something I normally only do when traveling b/c who has the time to keep a journal amid work, life, school? I read many blogs of wonderful people that, in some strange post-postmodern way, I feel more connected to humanity via this virtual reality. I wish all my friends had blogs so I could know what's on their mind, from the silly to the serious. Start one! It's easy and surprisingly satisfying.

With that, all my bloggers whom I read, try this exercise.

Happy Thanksgiving.

A Sign

As much as I share my reasons for being a teacher, there are many days that I leave school feeling defeated on many levels. There is just too much to deal with: the poverty, the abuse, the neglect, the ignorance...these issues spiral out of control in the classroom. Like two weeks ago when a 6-month pregnant girl jumped another girl in the hall in front of my room. Kids were standing on the radiators cheering them on, and my 11th grade honors class and I got locked in my classroom with four security guards headlock-ing and cuff-ing an out of control 15 year old female. Those things bother me on a deep level. I can call upon child development and social theories and all that graduate school knowledge that I have acquired, but I still have a heavy feeling inside from the sheer impossibility of my job some days.

Friday I had one of those "eff it" days. We went to the Brooklyn Academy of Music on a field trip--my class and another class of seniors, many of whom I don't know. It was a modern dance performance by the Urban Bush Women, a New York-based dance group of women from the African diaspora and Jant-Bi, a company of male dancers from Senegal. It was beautiful. Sometimes I don't get modern dance, but this piece was completely captivating--minus our students who screamed curses the whole time.

Things such as: "What the fuck?" "Speak fuckin' English!" "That bald bitch needs some fuckin' hair!" "She's blowin' him!" "Awww, shit, shorty's got some ass!"

Oh, yes, these comments were said OUT LOUD during moments of SILENCE and we were in the 8th row. It was awful. It was humiliating. I tried to get the kids (who weren't mine) to be quiet, and they then cursed AT ME. "No, YOU fuckin' shhhh." I was about to piss fire after 90 minutes of this. I wanted to hurt those kids. HURT them.

After the trip we were supposed to go to McDonald's, but I dismissed my students, told them to go home because I couldn't stand to be with teenagers anymore that day. I sent them home at 1pm. Screw it. I was literally going to say/do something I'd regret.

And when I got home and checked my email, some kind couple had fully funded my DonorsChoose project and bought me 30 copies of the novel Bodega Dreams for my students. After a day like that, when I just wanted to tell them all to go to H-E-double hockey sticks, I get hundreds of dollars from strangers so that I can teach a book I feel the students will relate to and enjoy.

Sometimes a sign like that is all you need. Thank god it came on that day.

my next life

in between periods at school, i have several students who'll hang out in my room to avoid the horrors of the high school cafeteria. one showed me the new beyonce video below. oh, my my. in my next life i want to be beyonce. i not only want that figure, but i want to be able to shake that figure, too. is that too much to ask? seriously, i'm a good person. if karma exists, i think i have thus far earned at least those legs. i have the rest of my life to earn her torso, face, and those moves. unfortunately, i think my moves in this life more resemble those guys in the saturday night live parody of the music video...

i might be practicing some dance moves to youtube during adam's late work meetings this week...

Veteran's Day & my Grandma

When I was home last September (2007) after having just given birth, my Grandma told me the story of giving birth to her first baby, my mom, three days before D-Day while my Grandpa, who was in the military, was deployed overseas.

My Grandma was alone in the hospital. Estranged from her family and my Grandpa away, she went into the hospital to give birth to my mom by herself. The hospital was incredibly short-staffed because many doctors and nurses had been sent overseas to help tend to the men fighting in the Allied Forces. My Grandma was left alone in a hospital room with a nurse or two who'd check in periodically to see how she was. As my mom crowned, the nurses yelled at my Grandma to "keep the baby in" because the one doctor on staff "was in the middle of surgery and wouldn't be able to deliver the baby now!" So, my poor grandma was asked to do the impossible: hold back that baby that's coming out of you-know-where. Can you imagine?

The doctor arrived, my mom was born, and all was okay (believe it or not), but when I try to envision myself in a similar circumstance I get all twisty and uncomfortable inside. I know that in 1944 a husband would not have been in the delivery room and that natural birth, etc, had yet to have its renaissance, but even after my mom was born, there was my Grandma, alone in the U.S. with her brand new baby.

While the veterans of this country deserve to be celebrated on this day, it's essential to remember that these men and women don't exist as islands in this world. They're connected to families back home, and those families are also "serving" their country in myriad, bizarre ways that we can't even fathom. So today I'm thinking of you, Grandma, and the sacrifices you made for our country by being married to a man who served in the military for a large part of your marriage.

No wonder you're such a tough one!

2008 Election Moments

W-O-W.
I have had the chills off and on all day.
I have never felt this proud to be an American.

On election day, we took baby girl to vote with us en route to work. We got there around 7:20, strong coffee and muffins in hand, and waited. This wait was accompanied by tag team walks to the swings, the playground, the dog run, and many pick up-put down sequences. When we entered the school Alexandra couldn't roam free, and the wrestling match began, replete with multiple trips to the water fountain for entertainment. Finally, at 9am we exited the school building, having voted. Amid all the toddler agony, we're both glad we dragged her along so that she was with each of us as we voted for Obama. Here's my self-portrait from the voting booth:



The day DRAGGED, but soon we were upstairs at our neighbors (our baby video monitor stretches through four floors of brownstone and our house alarm was on) with my Obama cupcakes. Our neighbors Jen and Mary have friends that are exhaustingly funny. My most lucid memory of the pre-Obama mania was critiquing Tim Russert's son's man-bangs, or, as Jen called them, "mangs." Mangs...my new favorite word. Here's a photo of the mangs. Men should not, I repeat, should not, have mangs. Embrace your receding hairline; mangs are not the answer.



I made Obama cupcakes for our gathering, but we had a dozen leftover. In an attempt to keep myself from eating all of them and passing out from a sugar overdose, I brought them to school in my handy-dandy cupcake carrier. As I was exiting the F train, the train conductor (who was leaning out the window to make sure everyone was in before closing the doors) yelled to me, "Are those cupcakes?" I was late for work and walking at full speed (which is damn fast), but I turned and replied in my best June Cleaver voice, "Why, yes, would you like one?" I walked back to his window, set my coffee and cupcake carrier on the platform, opened it, and grabbed a cupcake for him. "Gobama!" he hollered to me, as he saw my tiny photo of Obama running topless in the Hawaii surf atop the cake. "Gobama!" I replied with a smile. He closed the F train doors and it lumbered out of the station. I love that a cupcake stopped the F train during rush hour. Here are the photos of my cupcakes for unity:

So emotional, baby.

Two photos of Alexandra Osa illustrate how I'm feeling right now.


I have such excitement about Obama as a candidate. I haven't felt enthusiastic about a democratic candidate, ever? Clinton? Did I know what I was talking about when 18? I don't think so...With that said, I have no shame in pimping out my toddler in her I heart Obama shirt. Regardless of the race's outcome, what a historical race this has been. I hope she keep this shirt as a relic of the early 21st century and can talk to her kids about it one day. Hopefully positive stories will accompany the little lavender shirt I bought in Union Square for five bucks.


Adam snapped this other photo of her at the Y's gym class on Saturday. She's very into hanging right now. This photo (and her insanely adorable facial expression) is how I feel. I am questioning if I can hang on until this is over. I have the jitters, I feel wired, and I kinda want to go run a million miles or do rabid aerobics and jump on a trampoline or run screaming through the street....I don't know.

Off to vote early tomorrow. And then the waiting begins...

Run for your life!

self-portrait in Gatorade cups

Yes, someone ran 26.2 miles in THIS.

Vaseline anyone?

Sunday we bundled up to go cheer the NYC marathon as the runners passed through our neighborhood. This year approx 40,000 runners ran, and for the first time they implemented a staggered start. When my friend Julia and I ran it in 2002, we spent the first 12ish miles weaving our way through the crowds and trying not to lose each other. This time there was plenty of elbow room for all, a beautiful sunny and cool day, and the race seemed to spread out FOREVER. But the cheerleader in me waits for this one day per year, and Adam and I managed to rally our 16 month old to stay out for almost four hours cheering. Incredible.

Our first position was right after a hydration station (H20 & Gatorade)and a Red Cross Station (volunteers handing out gobs of Vaseline on tongue depressors). This made for quite an interesting morning. First of all, if you have run a marathon, you know that after you drink fluid, you THROW the cup to the side of the road. This resulted in us getting splashed by lots liquid and baby girl desperately trying to pick up and drink the cups of thousands of runners. She was successful on several attempts. We're awaiting the onset of multiple diseases. Glad we vaccinated.

But the best part was the Vaseline. Chaffing is the worst part of running, esp. when you chafe in those regions that are most delicate (yes, THOSE parts). Many employ the use of Body Glide b/c it will wash out of your clothes, but Vaseline does the job, too. We unabashedly watched runners of all ages, both genders, and different sizes remove clothes and shove hands into bodily cracks and crevices loaded up with petroleum goo to prevent that horrid burning sensation when you get in the shower post-race. It was slightly perv-y, but also fascinating.

The crazies we saw: a man dressed as Marilyn Monroe, a fish, the same old Asian guy we see every year that runs with bells on his ankles (it was his 70th marathon!), a juggler, and, last but not least, a guy running in the infamous Borat bathing suit!

The poor Borat man didn't stop for Vaseline. I can't bear to imagine the chaffing of his man parts after 26.2 miles of running in that....ouch!

Bodega Dreams for Brooklyn Students

Ahhhh....teaching in the NYC DOE is always an adventure.

As much as you might plan curriculum, give your administrators the lists of the books you need months in advance, etc., there is always an excuse as to why those books can't be ordered: budget cuts, waiting for another teacher/subject to get their lists in b/c they're a higher priority than you, oh--yes, we said we had $8K and wanted to buy books, but then the history teachers needed textbooks and they're $90 a pop,` sorry....

So, I am left to my own devices.

Besides my students begging me to buy the Twilight series as well as The Coldest Winter Ever for my classroom library (my husband refuses to let me spend our budgeted money on my classroom), I am in need of a class set of Bodega Dreams for my 11th grade curriculum.

I have posted a grant proposal on Donors Choose in an attempt to get these books myself. If you can even buy ONE book, that'd be super helpful. Or, if you need a tax deduction , shoot, buy me all 30 of 'em!

And, if you're a fan of The Great Gatsby and like an urban setting, you should read Bodega Dreams. It's a fantastic book to teach.

You'll get a handwritten thank you from one of my lovely kids. Promise.

Gracias!

(Self portrait of me and my 8th grade ESL kids on my first field trip ever as a teacher, spring 2001. I took them to Central Park and we had a picnic. They had never been, and their highlights of the day were making fun of the joggers, picking up men twice their age, and riding the carousel...Good times.)

Wassup

i am so obsessed with this election.
this made me happy today. minus the white power asshole on youtube who commented on it calling for obama's assination. W!T!F?!

Race and the Race

Listening to NPR last night (no surprise there), I was saddened by some comments made by Virginians regarding Obama--as a Black man--running for president. The moderator was asking a small focus group of individuals what they thought might happen if Obama were to be elected. One woman, a teacher, talked about the profound affect it would have on youth of all races to see a Black man as president and how that visual representation might spark hope, or ideological shifts regarding race, from a young age onwards. Then the moderator asked her sister what she thought.

This woman stated that although she "was not racist," she felt if Obama were to be elected that Black people all over America would seek revenge for past wrongs. She gave the example of how Black people used to have to get out of the way of a White person if they were walking down the street and expressed fears on how--if Obama were elected--the situation would be reversed. How "those people" would want pay back. How Obama would listen to "his people" only. It went on...

When I hear statements like this, I am not surprised. I'm from the South (VA & NC), and believe me, I know how certain groups of people think down there, but it makes me sad nonetheless. For your typical White girl, I feel I know a large amount of Black people of all ethnicities--African American, Caribbean, African--it comes with working in a public school in New York. And let me honestly say that not ONE person of any age or political persuasion, even the most radical and disgruntled and "White people suck!" student or co-worker that I know, has EVER mentioned that Obama = payback time. That is simply ludicrous.

The vilification of Black people of all backgrounds in this country is surprisingly alive and well. Though not a religious person, I fervently pray that Obama will get into office so that perhaps some folks might see that regardless of our skin color and our political parties there is quite simply more to us as people that we can unite beneath.

Clip from "Bowling for Columbine" that parodies the White man's fear of Black people in a historical context.

Updos for Obama

I have never before donated money to a political campaign nor have I ever attended a political fundraiser, so Saturday night's festivities were a first for me. My fabulous hairdresser suggested the Updos idea back in September, after the RNC, when Sarah Palin seemed to be lighting the GOP on fuego and we were all terrified. Thankfully (and hopefully), it seems like things have taken a turn for the better, but we gathered regardless in our attempt to be ever vigilant.

The premise was to come and pay $75, get your hair done in one of three Palin-inspired updos (the maverick, the reformer, or the huntress), drink wine, eat cookies made from scratch, hear some good music and writing---all the money goes to the Obama campaign. The best Sarah Palin won a basket of goodies (hair products, gift certificates from local venues, and a free haircut!), and I WON!

Now, let me be the first to admit that I was not the best Palin look alike. Yvonne, my runner up, had her cheekbones and jaw line and physically looked more like Palin. So much that some teens who obviously didn't understand irony came in, handed her a plastic moose,and thought she was the REAL Sarah Palin. But ladies and gents, this is story about props.

My costume = business attire, Republican pearls, a baby bjorn with Trig (baby doll) in it, a recorder (flute unavailable), my Bible (with passages conveniently marked about women being silent and the apocalypse from my undergrad papers), God stickers for my fans, binoculars and a map of Russia. It was a lot of work carrying all this crap around--especially while drinking vino. But in the end, it came down to a rough and tough game of paper:scissors:rock which sealed my victory.

Overall, what a hilarious night. Almost $2000 raised for the campaign. Woot!

The Crucible Essay Concluding Paragraph

This just gave me a giggle:

In the play The Crucible by Arthur Miller, the story of the Salem Witch Trials was told. The author uses setting and tone, theme, and conflict to tell this complicated tale. Abigail was a real hoe, and she caused many people to die, including the one she loved dearly.

Fear of a Barack Planet

Since school reopened, my students and I have had many conversations about Obama. These conversations range greatly, but one thing the majority of my students agree upon is that if Obama were to become our next president, that he will be assassinated.

At the beginning of the school year when they spat out this idea, I poo-poo-ed it. What, are you crazy? Nobody is going to assassinate Obama! I wrote it off as a fear that was partially substantiated from being part of one or many disinfranchised groups in America (all my students are Black, Hispanic, or Arab and 80% of our student body lives below the poverty level). Their skepticism and fear seemed fueled by their complete distrust in government, period, and I didn't take their statements seriously. (Nor, did I take their "We're going to die by 2012" kick seriously, either.)

But now, six weeks later, with Palin urging folks to believe that Obama is a terrorist and McCain rallies chanting, "Kill him! Kill him!" I am beginning to feel my students' fear. What is happening? WHEN has this EVER happened before in an election--when has one party's people rallied the crowd to chant for the MURDER of the opposing party's candidate? Why aren't more people outraged by this? As much as McCain seems to be trying to set the record straight by claiming Obama is a "decent man" and "not an Arab," isn't the damage already done? There are groups of individuals out there who actually believe a presidential candidate is DANGEROUS and a TERRORIST, and while some of these people may have believed this before the Mrs. McCain and Sarah Palin smear campaign went into motion, I feel a great number of these haters (or their intensity of hate) are recent recruits.

How can everyone not see that this is totally absurd?!?!

And, again, I can't help but pull the race card again here. If Barack Obama were some White dude, would he be receiving this fear and hatred? Would people be so quick to believe that a Senator could be a terrorist? That a presidential candidate could be dangerous? Or does this just go back to White America's fear of Black men?

Where are people's critical thinking skills?!

Dreaming of the Dead

Last night I had my first dream about Eric in our new--their old--apartment. For those of you who don't know the entire story, about a month ago we moved into the garden apartment of our brownstone which was inhabited by our dear friend Kat, who moved out to Long Island to be across the street from her sister. Kat and Eric used to live downstairs from us; they were our close friends and closer neighbors. At the end of May, 2007, Eric died unexpectedly of a heart attack. Kat had a baby 9 months later. It's a story that makes me shiver each time I retell it, and I'm still in shock that it even happened.

I have sensed Eric's presence in this apartment, but Kat assures me that he came to Long Island with them. I know he did, but I think he still comes back to visit. Regardless, last night I dreamed that I found him in a secret room in the basement of our apartment. It surprisingly wasn't creepy or scary at all. I dreamed that I found this room, and it was full of all of Eric's toys from his childhood that Kat had forgotten to move. I was looking at the toys, and when I turned around and Eric was standing there. Afraid that he'd disappear before I could do anything, I ran over and hugged him with as much force and love and emotion as possible. Then he disappeared.

I repeatedly have a similar dream about a childhood friend, Heidi, who died in a car accident my junior year in high school. This dream, in various forms, comes about 2-3 times per year and always leaves me unsettled. In the dream Heidi shows up somewhere, and I ask, "Wait, I thought you were dead...where have you been?!" And it turns out she didn't die, but we just hadn't seen her since 11th grade. I always hug her continuously, cry, and try to catch her up on our lives since November 1990, but when I awake a sadness always lingers.

I guess that's just what some of us want when we lose someone so quickly--one last connection to make sure they know how much we loved them during their lives.

a safe-haven of friends

For those who know me, you know that i come from a familial stronghold of religous ferver. When growing up, I had to answer the phone, "Praise the Lord, Lori speaking." I went to many Aglow meetings with my mom in which the entire room of women would break into speaking in tongues. I had to read the Bible before school and at dinner each night, attend a multitude of Bible schools and classes, and all this was on top of every Catholic girl's upbringing of CCD and Religious Education.

I think I clocked enough religion in my first 18 years to last a lifetime. No exaggeration.

With this in mind, my wildly liberal ideologies do not sit well with my family. My mom calls me about once a year, honestly crying b/c she has had some dream that I am burning in hell. Many a phone conversation disintegrates into her asking about my salvation. On my latest visits home, she gave me the garage door code so that after they are raptured, I can get down to NC and salvage their valuables to barter with Satan during the seven years of trial and tribulation. Again, I am not exaggerating.

During such political times, it is difficult to talk to my mom. I love her, I really do, but politics is the white elephant looming in our conversations now. I can't even ask her about Palin, the election, etc, b/c we differ so greatly that I get angry and she gets frustrated. We have an unspoken agreement that we just don't talk about these things. But, being the child and her being the mom, I always start to feel bad about this, even though there really is no compromise available here.

Which is why I love my friends. I know surrounding yourself by like-minded people doesn't challenge you in some ways, but it is incredibly reassuring in others. And, I take great solace in knowing that if by some wild stretch of the imagination my mom is right, that I'll be facing the apocalypse and/or going to hell with my favorite people.

Some political fun from some great folks.

GREAT POLITICAL BLOG by an old coworker...

funny video post snagged from my super-smart hairdresser:

I like violence, sex, and drugs...

Every Monday, in my 90-minute 11th grade English classes, we have independent reading. I have been pleasantly surprised at how much the students actually enjoy this time to read to themselves in a quiet (somewhat) environment. The only rule is that you have to read a book (no daily newspapers or magazines allowed), but any type of book is okay: manga, graphic novels, urban fiction, Moby Dick...it's all valid for independent reading.

After six weeks of independent reading, I had the students write a summary of what they have read as well as a note to me about what they'd like to see in my measly classroom library which is mostly composed of books people in my neighborhood put on their stoops. All the good books I find (books in urban settings, with characters that are teens of color, that might have some mild drug dealing, etc. within their pages) are snatched up and passed around immediately, leaving the less desirable books on my shelf. I'd like to supplement my library, but I want to make sure I buy things the kids will read.

Some responses from Monday's assignment =

"I like books about violence, drugs, and sex. Action books really."
"I like to read about kids being abused, killing, things related to teens, and action."
"The book I'm reading is Tasting Cindy. I'ts about a married housewife that has sex with other men when her husband is away. She was blackmailed by her husband's brother. He forced her to have sex with him and his mistress. She does it because she don't want her husband or her mother to know about her secret sex life."

WOW.

I am still constantly surprised by my students desire to read such pornographic books. I read some of this smut over their shoulders and I blush. It poses a hard question as to what we can allow in school. We certainly would not show a pornographic film in class (even if it could potentially supplement a lesson!), so should we allow such books in school? How can we police this work? What actually constitutes the crap from the plain, old urban fiction that might have some cursing and drugs but is still far from a porno?

Above is my fave student book from a few years back: Homo Thug. A man gets sent to prison and has to find love in the arms of another man.

The people who write this "shit lit" are rich, fo' sure.

Informality from Hell

I am sure most of you reading this watched the vice-presidential debate last week between Joe Biden and Sarah Palin. If you didn't, you should. Even though Palin disappointed by not being quite as inarticulate as she was with Katie Couric, she still provided enough fodder for another good Saturday Night Live skit (Tina Fey is a genius, btw...).

As much as I pretty much disagree with Palin's orthodoxy--both political and religious--what I mainly took issue with was her colloquial language last Thursday. Let me preface this:

As an English teacher, I spend an amazing amount of time tying to explain the need to be able to code-switch between colloquial slanguage and academic, standard English. This is a difficult subject to bridge as a White girl working in an urban setting. I am cautious not to make my students' language seem "incorrect" and my English seem "proper." I ardently praise the effectiveness and artistry of slanguage when doing creative writing, when writing dialogue, or when talking to friends; it has an important place in society--no doubt. BUT (and this BUT cannot be emphasized enough), a research paper, the SAT essay, a job interview, and the vice presidential debate are NOT such places.

Additionally, I feel she played the gender card with this "down-home" hodge-podge of language. The winking, the body language, the colloquialisms of being "blessed" and "having a special place in heaven" are not expressions that a male candidate could toss out with the same reaction. It reminds me of the time my advisor at Teachers College, LB, took a group of us women doctoral students aside and gave us a pep talk on the dangers of informal speech when trying to be considered an academic. The warnings I remember were: No intonation at the end of the sentence unless it is a bonifide question. No "like" at all, anywhere. No cliches. No being cute, be formal--this might be a school of education, but they will still rip you to shreds if they feel you are not a valid researcher.

This is what Palin deserves. Send those pitbulls that she mentions--lipsticked and all--after her for grammatical negligence. She might think she has a place in heaven, but her language use is certainly going to burn in hell.

No Bail-Out on 8th Street

This week's discussion of the bail-out has provoked many a discussion at work, home, with friends...it seems we're all confused, intrigued, and concerned about what is happening with our economy. And then, of course, there's the debate between who is the bail-out really looking out for--Main Street or Wall Street--as if the two were not intimately interconnected.

But one thing that has gotten my goat is the need to bail out the many Americans who have taken out mortgages that they could not afford, in good or bad financial times. Adam and I have typed our annual joint income into Chase's mortgage calculator many times in the past few years, and we have realized repeatedly that even if some miracle occurred and we were able to get a significant amount of money down, that we could not afford a mortgage with our other expenses of college loans and daycare. Impossible. We have resolved that we will rent until the loans are paid the the babe(s) are in public school. That'll be at least 6-7 more years! Then we'll see...

Why is that a difficult concept to grasp?

I understand the desire to own. Renting sucks. Especially when you're our age and you really want your home to reflect your life and your want to put down stable roots for your kids. Damn it, I'm a cancer--I nest with vigor 24/7. Renting irks me. But what choice to we have?

Slight Coffee Addiction?

This morning started like every other. Alexandra woke at 3am, which facilitated a mid-night bottle feed b/c she was coughing and wheezing like an 80-year old with emphysema. Due to this, we all got started a bit late. I rushed out the door, backpack, lunch, and extra bag of papers graded in tow, only to land at the doorstep of my coffee place to find it was....closed!

At this point my knees got weak, I almost withered into myself, and I stood there reading the signs and peering into the windows in total denial--hoping for some sign of life. Once I accepted that it was indeed closed, my brain went into race mode, scouting all the coffee spots I knew between my house and the doors to my school. Which could I get to the quickest (I was running a little late) who had the best coffee? Should I take the subway or bus to land myself at this new destination? My blood pressure was rising. I was getting frantic. Could I call the school and tell them I'd be late? (Yes, all for coffee).

You see, I teach 1st, 2nd, and 3rd period in a row, so if I don't get coffee before school I can't get it until 11am, which is WAY too late for this gal.

As you might guess, since I live in Park Slope and teach in Cobble Hill, there were a million and one places for an over-caffeinated white person like myself (that's my favorite line from the movie "Crash") to get her fix. It all ended up okay, but man, for a second there I thought I was going to have to go back home, crawl into bed, and wait for the apocalypse.

Caffeine anyone?

Sarah Palin Bingo

Something to spice up your debate watching tonight = Sarah Palin bingo!
(who has the time to sit down and make these things?!)

Go to www.palinbingo.com for fun.

Can't wait to see what Tina Fey comes up with after tonight. Her parodies are just making me even more excited for the season premiere of 30 Rock...

the reproduction production

Last Friday I went to try on my fave pair of pre-pregnancy designer jeans. I try them on periodically to measure my body shifting, but last week they fit! Albeit not exactly the same as they did before my pregnancy, but they no longer made me feel like a sausage and I could wear them out in public without feeling like my circulation would be cut off from my waist down.

Seems like small scale apartment renovation, packing, moving, and unpacking have facilitated a weight loss in both Adam and myself. Thank god. We had grown very accustomed to hanging on our couch, watching downloaded TV series, and eating organic cookies since Alexandra came around that we'd both managed to maintain a certain baby flab. But now it's gone and we have emerged out of the cocoon of chub victorious!

But, of course, the discussions re: baby #2 have now begun.

One of the many things I appreciate about my New York peers is that many of us agonize over if we should kids, when we should have them, how many to have, the impact of our reproduction on the world at large, on the environment, zero population growth, urban living and city finances, etc, etc, etc. There is no mindless reproduction here (for the most part). We are all very critical thinkers (as well as slightly cynical) about many issues, and this trickles down into our reproduction practices as well.

So Adam and I have been belaboring the one kid versus two agenda. Neither of us is BFF with our siblings, but we are both certainly glad to have them and couldn't imagine growing up and/or being an adult without them. We recognize that the cost of daycare, the space issue in small apartments, the looming cost of a college education, our desire to stay in Brooklyn, the challenge of public schools, my inner fears of getting fat all over again and giving birth to another ginormous babe, our goals of international travel....all these things get increasingly complicated with a second child. One kid = we can negotiate all this quite easily. Two kids = a whole different kettle of fish.

But how do you measure--financially or otherwise--the life of a second child? All our reasons for having only one child reflect, for the most part, our desires for an easier financial future; one child allows us to maintain our relatively posh life. But how can we explain to Alexandra, when she's older, that we didn't think a sibling for her was worth giving up our ability to go to Europe, to eat organic meat, and to rent in a nice neighborhood? It's a hard thing to reconcile.

(photo of my belly the night my water broke: june 23, 2007)

shameless marketing

i have been at ikea a lot lately.
i am such the evident marketing demographic that it is actually a trifle embarassing. I almost want to disguise myself when i go there so that the ikea secret agents that roam the store or watch me on video camera as i agonize over a beige or olive throw pillow won't feel so smug in their effectiveness.

here is how i know they're out to get me--the music.

in my last two trips to ikea, it is as if they have hijacked all my mix tapes from high school. remember those? mix tapes. so beloved. i have held onto a few of mine; they were representative of so much effort! and it was as if ikea found them and broadcast them, on a low-medium volume, throughout the whole store.

some highlights:
"in between days" the cure
"lips like sugar" echo and the bunnymen
"hysteria" def leppard
"bizarre love triangle" new order
"i want candy" ?
"get outta my dreams, get into my car" ?
"patience" guns and roses
"enjoy the silence" depeche mode

IKEA!!!!!!!! i hate you for having me so figured out! you make me feel so unoriginal, especially when i am surrounded by other 30-somethings all singing under our breath, pushing our strangely-named cheap furniture around. dammit ikea! you're too good at what you do. you win. now give me my svan chair and billy bookshelves and let me take the free shuttle bus home in peace (minus that cure song now stuck in my head).

Bristol, the Preggo Teen

I have been incensed by how easily Bristol Palin's teen pregnancy has been poopoo-ed by the media. Palin's comment that,"Our beautiful daughter Bristol came to us with news that as parents we knew would make her grow up faster than we had ever planned," made me want to scream. Does nobody out there know the realities of teenage pregnancy? Popping a baby out of your vagina does not = instant maturity!

I heard the reports of those rallying around her, saying that they know how Sarah Palin feels and that they, too, have had knocked up teenage daughters. I have read of the pro-life groups that are celebrating Palin's ability to put her money where her mouth is in terms of her conservative/religious stance on abortion. But come on...Does nobody see the bigger issue here? Teenagers are having sex! Not only are they having sex, but they're having UNPROTECTED sex! How can the Republican Party rally around Bristol and then argue that sex education does not need to happen in schools? That, "If you hand out condoms, they'll have sex."

Idiots...they're having sex anyways.

After 10 years of teaching high school, as one whose younger sister had two kids before she was 18, and as the product of a teenage pregnancy that ended in adoption, I feel I have an inch of a platform to stand on here.

A large percentage of teens are sexually active. Period. Some are smarter about it than others, but many embark on this intimacy with little to no true knowledge of their bodies, pregnancy, STDs, HIV, and so forth. The lack of information that I have encountered as a teacher astounds me routinely. A co-worker of mine had a student ask her if girls had hearts in their vaginas because when she made out with her boyfriend she could feel hers beating. A had a random student ask me in the hallway, "Miss, how many holes do we have?" After I figured out what she was asking, I replied that women had three holes--the urethra, the vagina, and the anus. She said, "No, my mom told me we had only two holes down there." "Ummmm....sweetie....your mom was wrong."

I am not advocating or encouraging teenage promiscuity here. I say repeatedly in my classes that I don't think that high school students should be having sex because they are not mature enough to deal with the real life consequences of pregnancy, disease, and illness. But I do think that there needs to be real place and curriculum for sex education in our schools. If the schools don't discuss it, then the government ends up paying for it later in welfare, in health care, in Head Start. And you know Republicans don't want that.

And I can't help but bring up the race card here. If Obama's daughters were older, and one were pregnant, I can't imagine the stereotypes that would arise. Why is it so acceptable for Bristol--who is white and wealthy--to be 17 years old and pregnant, but my if my poor, Mexican or Black student were she would be shunned? Can you only be a pregnant teen if you have rich parents to raise your baby?

WTF?

the poo cat

alexandra has been very excited and curious about her vagina lately. when her diaper is off, she plucks at her part like a banjo. when i'm out of the shower or using the toilet, she points at mine and says, "that!" yes honey, it's all about "that."

this leads to the awkward crossroads as to what we are going to call the anatomical parts of our bodies with her. we have deliberated and talked about this, and we have decided to keep my dear friend amy's family name alive: the poo cat. (still undecided on male part's name).

i met amy freshman year in high school when she transfered to our school from a private christian school. her and her sister shannon just blew us all away: they were funny, they lived in a big house with new, mauve furniture and a pool table in the basement, her parents let us all hang out there, and these parents (fred and scarlet--i love you!) openly talked about the poo cat. coming from a house of sexually repressed christian rhetoric, this really blew my mind and made me slightly uncomfortable at first. but soon it became normal, and fun, to use this word to talk about boys, sex, teenage life and all the drama that goes with it openly and honestly, with adults...the poo cat was always present in our teen prattle.

so while i am defying my demographic of the liberal yuppie parent who uses the anatomically correct words for everything, i feel totally happy when i hear alexandra refer to her "ooo at." i hope we can provide an open space for her to talk about her poo cat throughout her life, the challenges having this said body part bring, and how having a poo cat and being a women is a much more defining experience as you get older than you ever thought it could be.

now if she would only stop thinking that xena--our cat--is also a poo cat. oops.

ps: photo of a vagina halloween costume. you can wear it over your suit to work! any takers?

group work : parenting

We've been in school for a week, and I just had my students do group work for the first time yesterday. We're doing background knowledge work in order to read "The Crucible" and I had the students look at political cartoon depicting the McCarthy Era in order to understand the idea of scapegoating, mass hysteria, etc. Unfortunately, due to our current political climate, I have never had an easier time explaining this phenomenon to a group of youth. They totally get it. But that's not the point of my post today.

Of course, the usual roles emerge in group work: the girl who will write but won't talk, the boy who stands up and explains perfectly the entire exercise after screwing around the whole period, the group that doesn't complete it, the group that completes it in five minutes and is bored...You probably remember these exercises.

I always found group work so useless. Being the control freak that I am, I just wanted to do it all so that it was done right. I wanted to write in marker b/c I have always had nice handwriting. I would bite my tongue from telling others, "No, don't say that, that sounds stupid." I'd try not to wince as a not-so-eloquent group member explained our work and missed the whole point. You wouldn't believe how much group work is involved in the doctoral process. I am so thankful to be done with coursework and hope I never have to do group work again as long as I live.

And then we had a baby. Our marriage was literally smooth like butter until our little baby girl came along. Then it was constant negotiation. Bedtimes, what to eat, when to start solids, when to wean, how to travel, who to travel to see, money, money, money! Ahhhhh! It's like group work hell all over again. And even though my husband Adam is competent and loving and the best dad, group work is never a 50-50 split.

I couldn't help but see our marriage staring me in the face as I walked around the room, group to group, yesterday. I wish I could tell the kids to work on compromise in group work b/c one day it might help them in parenting (although a handful are parents already), but they wouldn't get me. They'd think I was some crazy old lady.

Maybe I am.

Moving Moodiness

Somebody told me the other day that moving is ranked up there with death in terms of the emotional stress it causes individuals. I couldn't agree more. There is something so unsettling about uprooting your home. No matter how tiny or overstuffed our apartment is, the act of trying to condense it all into meticulously labeled boxes and canvas bags--even just to move downstairs into the garden apartment--just makes me want to curl into the fetal position and cry silently to myself until i can go to sleep and wake up magically moved.

The trauma of moving for me involves the endless memories that resurface when I am forced to catalog all the beautiful crap I have collected throughout my life. The very first roses a boy gave me at 16 as well as the first rose Adam gave me--their petals all sickeningly smelly in a Bonne Maman jar. Valentines from the college boyfriend singing sweetly of my attributes when I was 20 years old. Polaroid of my old, lost friend Kendall, shit-faced drunk and wrapped in our sea-motif shower curtain, obviously saying something really deep into the camera but I can't remember what. Postcards I sent my family while I lived in France, each word heavy with the tension of our relationships. The box of my dad's life that I salvaged from my mom. A seemingly lost sympathy note from our miscarriage. It just goes on and on.

I think I save these objects that are so saturated in emotion tucked in secret places throughout my apartment (books, jelly jars, pottery pieces) so that I don't have one massive trunk of baggage staring me in the face. Instead I have it sprinkled all over my house. When I come upon a piece of it, I usually find it endearing and it gives me pause, but coming across a tsunami of memorabilia is amazingly overwhelming.

And while I truly feel so blessed it's just sick (I adore my husband, my daughter, my job, I'm healthy and so are those I love...how many people have that?), I am feeling a bit mournful for parts of my life as I move forward.

Lessons from my Dad

Painting always reminds me of my Dad. When I was little, my dad worked at the CIA by day as a research librarian, but during his nights and weekends he moonlighted as a house painter. Him and this guy named Clyde had a small business and did interior and exterior house painting. I don't remember much of this second job, except that it kept him away from home a bit, required a lot of long ladders, and that Clyde had a truck and a big smile. Dad would come home covered with dots of paint.

My dad's health got worse and worse, and by the middle of my elementary school life the side painting job had to go b/c he started losing control over his legs from diabetes complications (which is not a good thing when climbing high ladders). That is when I became his painting apprentice. This usually involved dad sitting in a chair with his cane yelling at me to cut in better, roll differently, tape more effectively, etc. Let's just say, it was not a bonding moment. It was like paint boot camp and usually resulted in me screaming at him to get out or me dramatically exiting the scene of the painting with tween and/or teen flair.

So last night when I was painting, Adam came over to help so that we could get to bed. Suddenly I started nagging him to cut in better..."Why aren't you rolling that part?" "You're leaving brush strokes!" Wow...I had--for a skinny minute--become my father.

I don't see my dad a lot in myself; I see more of my mom. But this moment stunned me. My dad passed away 12 years ago. He hasn't seen me grow into a woman, marry my husband, have my first baby...He didn't witness my move to NYC or know of my career of as a teacher or my doctorate work. I don't really believe in a heaven, but if there is one, or if he's out there, I know that last night when I rabidly critiqued Adam's painting skills he would have said, "That's my girl."

Why I Teach, Part 2

Adam just got home and asked how my first day was. After mumbling something about how I should have kept my posh job as the school's Literacy Coach (b/c teaching is so much damn work in comparison!), I remembered my best moment from the day, so I thought I'd share.

In my AP class, we had an awkward amount of minutes before the bell, so I had the students go around and introduce themselves and say something that we didn't already know about them. These honors kids have been traveling together for four years now and they know each other well. They know whose parents have died, who immigrated from where and when, who everyone has dated, and so on.

Of course, everyone moaned and sucked their teeth at me, but I still made them do it. Most said really banal stuff, like "I'm addicted to texting" (which is a veritable problem that I will have to post on later) and then we got to one student, and he blew us away.

Let me preface this by saying that this one student is known for rambling a lot in class about random topics. He is super skinny and tall. He draws science-fiction-y/fantasy-esque characters all over his notebook and is an amazing artist. He does not wear uber fashionable clothes; he just comes as he is.

So it's his turn. He starts to ramble. Everyone is trying to get him to cut to the chase and spit it out when he says, "I used to have cancer."

At first we're all incredulous. "Shut up," "No you didn't," "That's not funny," the kids (and I) said. He stood firm. He had some kind of nasal carcen...blahblahblah. He said he had to memorize the name of it b/c it was so long and hard to pronounce. It was a tumor behind the nasal plate in his skull. He had to do chemo and radiation, lost his long dreads (he has short natural hair now) and half his body weight. The class was stunned. Then someone clapped and the whole class burst into applause. It was an intense moment. He smiled shyly, accepting the applause.

As I thanked him for being so candid, I reminded him: "You have one heck of a college essay to write..."

DAMN.

melancholy

i am feeling blue.

i was cleaning tonight, and i came across our nanny's clipboard that documented all that alexandra ate, slept, and poo-ed for the past 10 months. friday was nicole's last day as alexandra's nanny. we decided to put alexandra into daycare for several reasons. one, because we truly cannot afford to keep the nanny situation. two, because i will hopefully be home next spring writing my dissertation, and, as this summer bore testament to, i cannot get work done when i know my sweet baby is around. three, alexandra loves other kids and we thought the socialization would be good for her.

we felt the financial tightness last january and put her on a waitlist for the daycare on our street. it has a great reputation and it's literally one block from our door. we found out in may that we'd have a spot for september. last week we did transition (which was really hard for both her and me) and on tuesday she starts full-time daycare.

but i'm sad. i already miss nicole. she's so happy, so determined in her life, so loving to our daughter, so easy to talk to about life, love, etc...i feel like she was truly a part of our family and our friend. there's just that small part about paying her that complicates that idea of friendship...

a few years ago, i took my students to see a play called "living out" about a Hispanic woman who was nanny-ing for a family that was a clone of us (NPR in the morning, liberal White folks, etc.) and how no matter how "close" you feel with your "hired help", that there are seas of difference that separate you. i think we were all cognizant of this, but we still found common ground. maybe i am delusional in my soft socialism, but as much as nicole was in our employ, i feel we all still liked each other and respected each other as people.

and now she's just gone. i hope we will keep in touch, and i know i will try, but i'm sad. it's like i broke up with a friend i didn't want to break up with. i want her to ring our bell on tuesday, have baby girl smile and rush for the door to let her in, and leave alexandra with a woman i happily considered her second mom. i'm scared about daycare--will they love her and praise her as unique in a room full of other kids? ugh...i'm just so weighed down by all this.

why i teach...

As i was setting up my classroom this afternoon (which already looks great; i think i should be a professional classroom decorator--no lie.), i came across all these old photos of students and projects of theirs that i keep from year to year. I found a project from an previous student of mine, Kashmil. He created a product and an advertisement for this product. The product was cat shampoo. The advertisement slogan was, "Is your pussy dirty?" Yeah, that's Kashmill.

Kashmill recently friended me on Facebook and I felt honored. While he was by far the most crass young man I have ever encountered, he was also the most talented and crazily self-schooled individual I have ever come across in my teaching career. When I could him to stop referencing that me and my husband had been "knocking some boots" (complete with singing the song--he has a great voice) which had resulted in my pregnancy, Kashmill could school the entire class on the history of Sudan and how that history has led to the current genocide. The boy is wicked smart and sassy.

On his facebook page, he has filled out a VERY long questionnaire on himself and I have to share some of his answers b/c they cracked me up:

Religious Views: jesus is my nigga

Favorite Childhood Memory: the summer of '97 when i got my first super soaker and chased bitches down putnam ave....aw, them bed-stuy days

Speak Multiple Languages: i speak pimpish and i'm learning hoinese, i gotta to keep up with these hoes

Been Drunk Before Noon: i've been tipsy before noon, but not drunk, that's so unclassy

Describe Yourself In One Word: splendiferous

Biggest Fear: that they'll stop making skittles

Special Talents: well i have quite a few, but i can't describe them, they have to be witnessed

Where Are You Right Now: rolling with the homies

Wished You Were Someone Else: hell no, somebody better get the marcal and wipe me up, because i'm the shit!!!!!!!!!

Yes, Kashmill, you are the shit. Where else do you meet characters like Kashmill except when teaching? You can't make this stuff up friends.

Here's to my 9th year teaching...Bring it!

(PS: Photo is of Remo, another student, not Kashmill. But I thought Kash would appreciate the thong action.)

Paradise in Massachusetts

Before my life gets sucked into the vortex of school, I have to post about our incredible time at Cape Cod last week. Our friends Susannah & Brian invited us up to Susla's mom's house in Truro, close to the tip of Cape Cod, for not quite a week of heaven. Alexandra had never made a car trip that long, and while she did scream for almost 3 hours of the drive up (1am-3:30am), when we woke the next morning to views of Cape Cod Bay...sigh. Let's just say that my eardrums recovered almost instantaneously.

I was born and bred on Southern beaches. In fact, I have a hard time getting in the water north of the Mason Dixon line--too cold! I'll lay in the beach, get hot, and wade in up to my knees before retreating to the sand and being the Southern Belle Punk. I'll wish I was at the Outer Banks and silently curse the North under my breath.

But the Cape was different. With a few days of perspective now, I have decided that it's magic. I actually swam in the ocean and the bay--the water was temperate. The light there...it's like you're in another dimension. It's warm and makes every photograph you take look perfect. The stars were outlandish; it's hard to believe that they're out there all the time, but we just can't see them in NYC. The air smelled so good; it was like rehab for my lungs. Amazing.

Our kids, Ezra & Alexandra, loved all over each other, had stroller races on the deck, played in the sand and water of the bay, a pond, the tidepools, and the ocean. They had love fests in the kitchen, quarreled a bit over the strollers, bathed in the same tub, and fed each other food during mealtimes. It was too cute. They slept like logs after days in the sun, and we ate, drank, and caught up during those night hours.

Even though we were gone for less than a week, it felt like longer. When we got back to Brooklyn, before rejoining the pulse of city life, we noted the grey/blue sky, the dirtiness, and the smogg-y air in contrast to the Cape, and then slipped effortlessly back into city life.

Thanks Susannah, Brian, Ezra (and Polly!) for such a great conclusion to the summer!

what did i accomplish this summer?

this is my last week of "summer." and it's not really a full week, it's only a few days, and all three of those days i have to come home from working on my dissertation, bring my daughter to daycare for her transition days, and then give her back to the nanny. so....it's not going to be a wildly productive last week.

as the summer closes and i reflect on what i accomplished these 9 weeks, i find myself beating myself up over not having gotten enough done on my research, my book ideas, my baby books, blah blah blah. the list could go on forever.

and then i had to stop myself and reassess. we have had a great summer. it flew by with a speed that is simply mind-blowing, and i swear that is because of the baby time warp we live in since alexandra was born. but here is what i did accomplish:

1. i typed up almost all my observations from my research last semester (almost 40)
2. i read the twilight series of YA books and a couple other memoirs
3. i am caught up on writing in my baby books (just need to add photos)
4. i have routinely posted on my blog (which i have really enjoyed)and found many great blogs to read (i heart blogging!)
5. i have packed up about 1/8 of our apt to move on sept 13th
6. we went on three great mini-vacations to ct, long island, and cape cod
7. alexandra and i have gone to the zoo, aquarium, library, pool, and every playground in the park slope vicinity many times
8. i got alexandra on a solid napping and sleeping schedule
9. i have lost the last of my baby weight through jump-starting my yoga practice(although my body is still oddly shaped!)
10. adam and i have gone on a few dates sans baby and decided we still like each other enough to stay married!

not bad, eh?
(photo from our stroll in prospect park last night. that long end of summer light!)

lol bush

our days to mock George W are limited, but it seems like he's happy to give us fodder up until the last, grizzy moment of his 8 year rule.

click here for more hilarious photos and captions.

tree goddess

my green-thumbed friend, erin, was featured on this girl's blog (?) for being a superwoman.

the blog's name is skirt. i love that. of all the deragatory names a woman can be called, i think "a skirt" is the best one. maybe b/c i have always liked skirts, or because my legs are my only body part i haven't wanted to subject to unnatural procedures, but i think if someone called me a "skirt" i'd feel kinda sexy.

and i call myself a feminist. sheesh.

like when my friend andrea and i went to see naomi wolf sophomore year in college, and naomi asked the women in the audience to tell everyone what they wanted to be before male white corporate oppression squashed their dreams. andrea begged me to tell the overpacked memorial hall that i had wanted, desperately, to be a maid. i'm not sure if a black and white outfit was part of my child fantasy for my future, but right about now i'm making the connection between my maid aspirations and liking being called a skirt.

but i digress.

check out my dear friend erin's five minutes of internet fame here!

what's in a name?

naming a baby is hard.

we knew that osa would be our middle name for a girl forever. we both adored it, it was adam's grandmother's name, and the fact that it means "girl bear" in spanish is too damn cute.

alexandra came to us out of nowhere at the 20 week ultrasound when we found out we were having a girl. we looked it up and it means "defender of humanity." beautiful. the two together worked--they had a nice cadence when said aloud and honestly, if you're going to defend humanity today, you've gotta be a bit of a bear.

we thought this through. or, we thought we did, but we didn't take into account the lovely brooklyn and long island accents that are pervasive in our neck of the woods.

for some reason, folks here CANNOT say alexandra. it becomes some mess that sounds like alexander, but with an "a" and a "rer" sound at the end. like "alexandraer." it bugs the crap out of me.

i heart brooklyn. i truly do. why else would i continue to be shoved into an apartment that resembles a clown car if i wasn't happy here? but this mispronciation of such a simple name is driving me looney.

it seems that the linguistic rule here is that words that end in "a" = "er"; words that end in "er" = "a". here are some examples:

jupiter = ju-pi-tah
mirror = mire-rah
lisa = lise-er
alexandra = al-lex-an-drer
idea = i-dee-er

with a last name like mine (ungemah), i honestly tried to find a name that was impossible to screw up. obviously, my efforts were futile!

vacation moochers, chapter 1

this summer we are vacation moochers.

i'm not sure how dictionary.com would define mooching, but here is what we are doing: we have generous friends who either rent or have good beach real estate, they invite us to come along, and we unabashedly squeal, "Hell to the YES!" and we're there. we show up with baby in tow, buy groceries and stuff to help out, and pray that our charm doesn't wear off.

our first vacation mooching (of only two--we're not that out of control) was a visit to sound beach, on the north shore of strong---ahem, long---island to hang with amy, james, and sammy. the house was great, the view better, and james' cooking, as always, was the best. i felt like i needed to go to fat camp after our 3 days there.

some highlights of our trip =
soft shell crabs
drinking multiple drinks while watching the sun set
stories of amy in africa
babies kissing
beach glass
jared, the 9 year old stalker
pork chops, portabellos, and peaches
the color survey

THANKS amy, james, and sammy!
smooches.