We had spent lunch over crepes and coffee. The Creperie was about as tall as it was wide. A shelf with bottles--Glenlivet, Chimay, Bombay gin--crowned the walls, under which was rose-colored wallpaper. We sat at a small table, white linen under glass, in the corner. We had cleaned our plates and were drinking our second cups of coffee--water too, with lemon.
"We had a dog, when M. and I got married, a toy dachshund named Mary Collins" R.D. told me.
"Growing up we couldn't have a dog (and we tried three times) because my father was so unpleasant with them. He was gone most of the time, but when he came home he was so grumpy that we had to get rid of each.
"My father had an airplane, so when M. and I moved he picked us up in it. I didn't think about it before hand, and I brought Mary Collins with us, if I had thought of it.... No, I would have brought her anyway.
"When we were packing to move we couldn't find her. We called her name and looked all over the house. We finally found her already in the car. She was not going to be left behind. Smart girl.
"In the cabin of the plane there were four seats that narrowed towards the front where there was a ledge and a shelf. Mary Collins, before we did anything, went pip pip pip and curled up beneath the shelf. She stayed there the whole flight on her own accord. She didn't yelp or anything. By the time we got to Florida, my father had undergone a complete transformation. He had Mary Collins sit on his lap--and I had never seen him let a dog sit on his lap before. Because Mary Collins knew how to fly, he figured she was alright with him.
"He liked her so much that when we moved to Italy my parents offered to keep her because she was too old to move with us."
We talked about other things, but before we left I prompted R.D. to talk about her childhood some more.
"Everything was different then," R.D. said.
"Like what?"
"Everything," she shook her head.
Silence.
"I was a little girl on an oil field in East Texas. We were a minority numerically, a part of the population. There were mostly blacks, and all the blacks were servants, and we didn't call them blacks."
She looked at me.
"I was just a little girl on an oil field in Texas," she said. "I didn't know to dream. If you had told me then that my life would be what it was and is, I--"
She didn't finish. And if there is, somewhere, a congregation of our younger selves, I wonder what they are thinking.
12.22.2010
12.19.2010
a christmas rambling.
I know
Where to find cookie cutters
in the shapes of:
pigs, ducks, cowboy boots, and sunglasses.
The shepherd who watches his flock by night,
is not watched by anyone
except for a few, brief glances
from oblivious sheep.
After the drive-by shooting,
Erika watched her cousin die.
Mary was young and hopeful.
Joseph planned to leave her.
Erika was nine years old.
A sixty-year-old woman roller blades
and glides about in neon colors.
The old widow Anna prayed her lifetime
to see the son of man.
Black watches White chase the sunset.
Sonya wept.
Joy to the Word, the Lord has come.
Let Earth receive her King.
Where to find cookie cutters
in the shapes of:
pigs, ducks, cowboy boots, and sunglasses.
The shepherd who watches his flock by night,
is not watched by anyone
except for a few, brief glances
from oblivious sheep.
After the drive-by shooting,
Erika watched her cousin die.
Mary was young and hopeful.
Joseph planned to leave her.
Erika was nine years old.
A sixty-year-old woman roller blades
and glides about in neon colors.
The old widow Anna prayed her lifetime
to see the son of man.
Black watches White chase the sunset.
Sonya wept.
Joy to the Word, the Lord has come.
Let Earth receive her King.
12.15.2010
The S-Word
I help/observe a classroom for Mrs. B, a five foot tall (and that is probably being generous, I'm taller) Canadian woman with a loud voice, a very pregnant belly, and a spunky personality. The ratio between her small stature and her bursting stomach makes you feel as if you should stand next to her at all times in case she tips over. She is a great teacher. We have the same Uggs. (The blackish/greyish knitted kind, not the obnoxiously bland, beige ones.)
Yesterday she had a substitute, Mr. Griffin. I walk into the classroom and introduce myself. I told him I help run the after-school program for the Bellevue Boys and Girls Club at the middle school, blah blah blah. He took one look at me, saw a young Jr. higher and dismissed everything I said. I sat down and snickered. If he can't have a conversation with an older person who resembles a jr. higher, he'll be dominated by the real ones.
The kids see Mr. Griffin, ignore the seating arrangement, and talk with their friends. Their confidence level escalates. The last bell rings, no one has taken a seat except for me.
"Class, please stop talking."
.....
"Class, please stop talking."
"Hello class, shhhh, I have some advice for you. Shhh..."
The noise has died down at this point. He's an older, white American male who lives in Bellevue. As far as the students can tell, his entire life has surmounted to substitute teaching. They already have little respect for the guy. But they are all excited. What he mentions in the next few minutes might provide them with a chance to say some wise-ass comment. This unique accomplishment would crown them the god of the classroom.
He takes the silence as an encouragement.
"Class, I am sorry but we have to wait for everyone to be quiet in order for us to begin. Sad to say it is a requirement now. We have to wait for everyone. Class, this is why, shhh.. it is because of No Child Left Behind. My first piece of advice is to be quiet....
Hey you, please listen...
...is to be quiet in the classroom because schools have to wait for every student before they can move forward. I know it is frustrating, but it is the rule. I personally think it's a good rule."
I squirm in my chair. I have no idea why he's talking about No Child Left Behind. He is blaming his inability to start class on a policy which he eventually claims to support. Everyone including himself, I think, is confused.
Phoebe, a girl who I've never heard speak up the entire time I've worked in their classroom proudly blurts out, "Sir, what does that have to do with anything?"
(that made me happy.)
"Shhh.... please, I need to give you the second piece of advice."
"But you didn't answer my que..."
"Enough, please. The second piece of advice, and this will help you in succeeding in school, you must write everything down. Have any of you written down my name?"
His advice would have been helpful if he'd said the opposite. If I had written everything down in college my hand would no longer function. He points to the white board where he wrote, "Mr. Griffin" in small letters. Unfortunately, he wrote his name within the blue masking-tape square Mrs. B devoted to addressing information for the Period 5 Social Studies. This is a period 6 AVID class.
Andy, a very sweet kid, raises his hand and said,
"Mr. Griffin, we aren't supposed to write down what's in that box becau...."
"You are not listening to my advice. Remember the very first thing I said about being quiet and listening? Instead you were not talking."
"You are right, I wasn't talking, I don't get...."
"I mean you were talking. Shhh... I really like you kids."
Kam'Ryn laughs. She whispers in my ear, "No you don't you old fudgebag."
He looks over at Kam'Ryn and said, "You know, it's a really bad thing when the Sub knows your name."
What a sad thought.
He eventually stopped trying to be profound and gave them a worksheet that made them answer questions about an accomplishment they are proud of and a time they made a mistake and felt really bad about it.
These kids can be rude, disrespectful, and ridiculous. But they also don't want to be fed bullshit. They put up a front, duh, but adults have to see through that. We are taking them away from the really important things: their friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, drama, skating, dancing, smoking weed and we substitute all of that for politically correct ashes. What keeps adults from approaching conversations with students about things that make sense?
Yesterday she had a substitute, Mr. Griffin. I walk into the classroom and introduce myself. I told him I help run the after-school program for the Bellevue Boys and Girls Club at the middle school, blah blah blah. He took one look at me, saw a young Jr. higher and dismissed everything I said. I sat down and snickered. If he can't have a conversation with an older person who resembles a jr. higher, he'll be dominated by the real ones.
The kids see Mr. Griffin, ignore the seating arrangement, and talk with their friends. Their confidence level escalates. The last bell rings, no one has taken a seat except for me.
"Class, please stop talking."
.....
"Class, please stop talking."
"Hello class, shhhh, I have some advice for you. Shhh..."
The noise has died down at this point. He's an older, white American male who lives in Bellevue. As far as the students can tell, his entire life has surmounted to substitute teaching. They already have little respect for the guy. But they are all excited. What he mentions in the next few minutes might provide them with a chance to say some wise-ass comment. This unique accomplishment would crown them the god of the classroom.
He takes the silence as an encouragement.
"Class, I am sorry but we have to wait for everyone to be quiet in order for us to begin. Sad to say it is a requirement now. We have to wait for everyone. Class, this is why, shhh.. it is because of No Child Left Behind. My first piece of advice is to be quiet....
Hey you, please listen...
...is to be quiet in the classroom because schools have to wait for every student before they can move forward. I know it is frustrating, but it is the rule. I personally think it's a good rule."
I squirm in my chair. I have no idea why he's talking about No Child Left Behind. He is blaming his inability to start class on a policy which he eventually claims to support. Everyone including himself, I think, is confused.
Phoebe, a girl who I've never heard speak up the entire time I've worked in their classroom proudly blurts out, "Sir, what does that have to do with anything?"
(that made me happy.)
"Shhh.... please, I need to give you the second piece of advice."
"But you didn't answer my que..."
"Enough, please. The second piece of advice, and this will help you in succeeding in school, you must write everything down. Have any of you written down my name?"
His advice would have been helpful if he'd said the opposite. If I had written everything down in college my hand would no longer function. He points to the white board where he wrote, "Mr. Griffin" in small letters. Unfortunately, he wrote his name within the blue masking-tape square Mrs. B devoted to addressing information for the Period 5 Social Studies. This is a period 6 AVID class.
Andy, a very sweet kid, raises his hand and said,
"Mr. Griffin, we aren't supposed to write down what's in that box becau...."
"You are not listening to my advice. Remember the very first thing I said about being quiet and listening? Instead you were not talking."
"You are right, I wasn't talking, I don't get...."
"I mean you were talking. Shhh... I really like you kids."
Kam'Ryn laughs. She whispers in my ear, "No you don't you old fudgebag."
He looks over at Kam'Ryn and said, "You know, it's a really bad thing when the Sub knows your name."
What a sad thought.
He eventually stopped trying to be profound and gave them a worksheet that made them answer questions about an accomplishment they are proud of and a time they made a mistake and felt really bad about it.
These kids can be rude, disrespectful, and ridiculous. But they also don't want to be fed bullshit. They put up a front, duh, but adults have to see through that. We are taking them away from the really important things: their friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, drama, skating, dancing, smoking weed and we substitute all of that for politically correct ashes. What keeps adults from approaching conversations with students about things that make sense?
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