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...