Poem to My Estranged Aunt

Dear Aunt D
You let our family fall apart
Sliced by a razor into shreds
Bleeding the life from the undead
Embittered ties stretched further still
Leaving time for all things unhealed
Gatherings of old left to rot
Rank and poisoned by a youth
Whose ungracious nature you chose to side
Letters sent to stab yet more
Blaming a woman so incredibly kind
Brats raised by your hands
What do you have to say
to a sister who lies near her grave
Will you still stay away unscathed
Will you never repent of your undoing
Time’s pendulum swings ever lower
To sever the thin cord that binds
You have barely enough time
Before it all ends

When Parent Teacher Conferences Take a Left Turn

Last Thursday I met the craziest woman in the planet, and it was due to the fact that I kicked her sleepy granddaughter out of my class and told her to go home. I had warned the class that sleeping would result in being sent home, but D did not care. And instead of signing out from the office and calling for a ride home, she decided to hoof it over to Federal Way, which was not the safest decision. Her grandma, a recovering crack addict, was non to pleased and decided to drive her back to school and scream at me.

I was sitting behind my desk watching a Shakespearean movie with my class when suddenly my classroom door flew open and I saw a mad black woman storming into the room. “I need to talk to you,” she yelled. My bored students all turned to look as she continued her rant. I told her that I was busy with my class and that I could meet with her afterwards. This seemed to appease her especially since I reminded her that she had to vacate the room asap. I’ve been attacked by parents like this before, and I’ve since learned that I do not have to endure a verbal ass chewing by an illiterate parent in front of my class. That’s what security is for.

So she left, and I sat wondering what our verbal meeting would look like. One day till the end of the year, and I was not exactly in the mood to deal with a parent. I know it’s my job, but common.

At 10:50 the grandma returned with her long pink fake nails and took a seat. She left D outside the door and began by apologizing for busting in on my class. The time a way had allowed her to reflect on her impromptu entrance. I sat in my comfy chair and listened to her talk about the reason why she was upset, which was a normal reaction. She had wanted someone to let her know that D was on her way; she had wanted to know why she was kicked out; she just wanted a phone call. Instead she had her well developed granddaughter, who has been followed by older gentlemen and harassed in the past, walking home along Pac Hwy, a dangerous road. What if she had been kidnapped? What if she had been hurt? She made valid points.

But then she decided to tell me more about D’s family because she felt it was essential that I knew. Her mother was an alcoholic, which was the reason why D lived with her grandma. Her aunt sold crack in SeaTac, and was never a good influence. Why was the family so messed up? It would take grandma a full hour to reveal the entire story.

She told me about her adoption, the abusive husband that accused her of cheating, and the crack addiction she used to struggle with. She told me how she lost her virginity. “So back to Dominique…” I would cut in, but she would ignore me. She told me how she could have cheated on her husband if she had wanted to. “It only takes 2 minutes for a man to come. I could have dropped my kids off to play in the McDonalds jungle gym while I humped him in the back of his car.” My face turned red. Then she told me about her dating life after divorce and her fear that her boyfriends would want to sleep with her daughters. “I told them they could fuck me at their place as long as I could wash my ass afterwards.” I was mortified and kept thinking, “What the hell?” My pleas to return to Dominique, the one she had wanted me to talk about, were not being answered. I tried standing up and saying, “Thank you for coming in,” but she continued. I started walking toward the door while she talked on about how she learned about menstruation. Seriously, I am not a confession booth; I’m not a female priest. While she threw in “Praise Jesus” and “Fuck” every other phrase, I kept thinking, “When will this end? How can I get her to stop talking?”

She had come in angry and left happy as a clam. I left exhausted and wondering if I should teach students and their parents about TMI, too much information!

First Day at Summer School Number 2

July 6th

This morning I got up early so that I could help Emily prepare my room for summer school. Similar to last year, it was chaotic. Students and parents lined the hallways eager to register their kids for classes. Inside the office teachers stood around looking frantic and quickly snatched up supplies as soon as they were put on the table. I was no different. After locating my room, Rogelio's old Spanish classroom, and dropping off my magazines and writer's notebook, I returned like a hungry wolf to the supply corner. I grabbed tape, a box filled with pens, a highlighter box, 26 notebooks, and a box of files. I marched them upstairs and then grabbed Emily and returned for a pad of poster paper and scissors. An older woman told me I was only allowed one pad at a time so I was resigned to the fact. Last year Erin and I had taken about six. I'm guessing the budget's a bit tighter this year. Although I can't recall her name, I knew she was in charge of the program so I asked her if I had a class list. She looked me dead in the eye and then turned away, ignoring me completely. This was not lost on Emily who commented later on how incredibly rude it was.

In the course of my 20 minutes of being there, I discovered that no one had a copy code. The minute I began making copies of my syllabus, other teachers descended upon me like I was fresh meat. "When did you get the code?" one asked. I told her that it was my old code from working here this past year, which still worked. To appease the multitude, and prevent them from maiming me, I handed out my sacred password. You cannot imagine their desperation. No one, not a single teacher, knew the time class started. There were rumors running around that it was at 7:45 and possibly ended at 10:30. Others heard 8-11. It was 7:30 when I left and no one knew when to begin or even who was going to be in their class. No one had a pass code for the printer so lessons planned were or would have crumbled if it weren't for my passing on my code. When I left I told Emily that last year we picked up our classes down in the cafeteria. As I turned to leave, I saw her run down the hall way hoping that someone, anyone was in the know.

True Poverty

What do you say to a student who asks you if you've ever been truly poor? The question caught me by surprise. "Like only havign two pair of pants and a pair of shoes poor. Like going without a meal poor," he said. I paused and thought back to the "poverty" of my youth. Growing up with a single parent busting her ass to keep me in private school. Although we had little, we did have a roof over our heads and food on our plates, even though the food was occassionally left on our doorstep. I had a grandma who bought me clothes, a father who spoiled me, and I never thought of hunger. My mother also married men that did well so I had plenty of Barbies and stuff animals to play with. "Have I ever been poor?" He told me of his life in Mexico City, of being left with relatives while his parents tried to make it in the States, "Sometimes they didn't send us money. Sometimes we didn't eat." He went on to describe his brick home with the tin roof. I had asked his class why people immigrated and whether or not they thought it was worth it. "It's better here," he ended. To him it's worth leaving Mexico in pursuit of the American Dream.

My Year In a Nut Shell

I had an interesting and eventful year as well. Like many of you I’ve been RIFed and am waiting to be called back. My original school is now full, but I’m not all together sad. For the most part my year was fine minus the first and fourth quarter. The first quarter I had a student threaten to shoot me, which I later discovered is more common place at my school than expected. Typically students receive 3 to 5 day suspensions even if they mention the day and time in which they will commit the act. Apparently this is considered venting. I was the rare teacher that pushed and succeeded in having him removed although without much support. My fourth quarter was when the gossip girls turned on me and decided to stage a rebellion. They were rude and started writing me lovely notes about how much I sucked as a human being. According to one parent, he didn’t so much care about the note but rather the fact that his little darling wrote her name on it. He told me that he had advised her to remove her name since she could be held liable with it. Therefore she took his advice and wrote a note in which she stated that she wanted to stab me to death and burn me alive. She went on to describe certain sexual acts she had had and then discussed me in that manner. Although her and her little pose were threatened with suspension nothing actually happened because she did not write her name. Off the record I was told by an administrator that since I was being laid off and had no hope in returning that it wasn’t worth pursuing. I felt special. Lastly, after packing my bags I returned later that week to discover that someone had stolen four of my boxes. According to the office it is just so sad and they will get back to me after viewing securing tapes. It’s been a week and my things are still missing. I almost want to put pictures of boxes on milk cartoons to see if that would speed up the process. But like one teacher put on my goodbye card, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince. So two facts I know for sure: 1) I do love teaching despite it all and 2) My School was definitely, between you and me, a frog. Here’s to the next school year when we’ll have jobs and hopefully ones that we love!

Sorrowful Day

Today we learned that a student has died. He was a young sophomore who suddenly fell ill the day before in gym class. He went to the bathroom and returned, letting his teacher know that he had been sick. His legs felt numb and two students took him to the office. A friend of mine later said that she saw two kids dragging a boy who looked unable to move his legs. This was the case and an ambulance was called. He went to Highline and finally at Children's. There was internal bleeding in his stomach, surgery was performed, but failed. Sixteen and now his future has disappeared suddenly; no one saw this coming.

First period I made the announcement, and throughout the day I saw students crying, some uncontrollably. They were able to go to the career center for counseling, but for some this choice was too difficult since they'd be surrounded by grief. It was difficult watching students, who didn't want to leave, with red eyes and tears streaming down their cheeks, trying to work in class. How do you comfort them? What words can make it all better? As a teacher, what is the right thing to do? We worked so their minds would be too busy; we worked so that they could get a break from the sorrow; we worked, but was that what they needed? Today we learned a boy passed away, and we will never be the same.

Mature Looking

I've recently discovered that I no longer look young. All my life people have guessed that I was three to four years younger that I actually was and, when I was twelve, it was mortifying. Understandably, older people like to be younger but always forgot that this was not a good thing for those who were actually in that state of being. Conversations always went like the following:

Stranger: How old are you?

Me: Sixteen.

Stranger: Really? I thought you were twelve.

Sadly, they always said it as if it was a compliment. The only positive that I could see out of said conversations was that I'd always look young. But now I'm 26 and already my youth has faded since no one cards me! It's a recent development that I always connected with the fact that being in Matt's company made me look older. We're married, so obviously she's over 21. But now it's happening all the time! I go to restaurants, stores, anywhere and no one asks for my ID. Aren't they supposed to check until you look 30 plus. Do I look 30 plus? I asked this question to a young checker, and he said I looked mature. What the heck does that mean? Mature as a good thing or mature as getting older? Oh, sad day!

WASL and Mixed Up Shoes

Last week a student came to class with two different shoes on his feet. On his left foot was a highly polished black dress shoe while on the right he rocked a gray and red running shoe. He chuckled and pointed it out on his way in the door, but it was I that christened it the Mullet shoes. Business in the front and party in the back. He laughed and reversed the shoes the next day. (He wanted the two pairs of shoes to receive equal wear and tear.) Unfortunately, the style has not caught on with the general public.

In other news, math WASL week has recently come to a close, which is good since I was tired of staring at the youngsters for two hours each day. The room was deathly quiet except for the sound of pencils moving against the pages. Once in a while I'd move around and see how far they were on the test, but besides that I'd watch. I had to be careful that cell phones and I-pods didn't sneak their way out of their pockets since that's grounds for disqualification. Do you know how difficult it is to tell teens that they have to be disconnected from the outside world for two hours? It's like asking them to cut off a limb, but worse! But thankfully they survived and can now live to tell the cell phoneless tell.

Lectures are Fun!!!

No, not really. This is especially true when you have to go over why their projects were horrible and why they all failed. It was funny, although, when I showed one craptastic set drawing, and one student said, "That's horrible." His group member turned and quietly informed him that it was theirs. They laughed at the gum wrapper on the paper, but were upset when they didn't do well. One girl cried and said that she wouldn't get into college because of me. Tears streamed down her cheek, making dark, smudged mascara lines that stretched from her lid all the way down to her cheeks. She and her group had worked half hazzardly on the project and, on her daily grade, she had stated her lack of effort. Yet, it was my fault that she failed. I was unclear; I was unfair; I expected too much from them. Before handing the projects out, I gave them a new copy of the instruction sheet and went through it. I had them jot down the important information and underline the key ideas. They had no issue understanding it then.

It was humorous that as we went through it I heard students whisper, "Oh." They hadn't followed the directions, they hadn't listened to instructions, and they knew the consequences would be grim. Although it was clear then, when they saw their graded project they claimed it wasn't clear in the past. How could clarity escape them so fast? Why won't they just take responsibility and say, "Hey, we screwed up." But no, blame me for everything. I just write, read, and repeat instructions for my own ears. If they choose not to listen then it's all me.

Handshakes and Hugs

The day it occurred, it appeared awkward and people were clearly not happy. Matt’s family is from England, and his mother told me how incredibly appalled she was that Michelle Obama shook hands with the Queen. Apparently, although I didn’t see it and cannot seem to find the handshake clip, the first lady pushed past her husband and extended her hand rather than curtsy as per protocol. The day it happened, the news that came out reflected a sense of anticipation, as if the whole world waited with baited breath to see what would be made of the breach of conduct.

Now when you search for news results all that surfaces are pages of links with variations of Michelle Obama charms the Queen. Charms is the key phrase and any negative reaction is buried far beyond reach. It smells fishy and I assume there are PR teams at work to spin it in a positive light. But maybe I’m wrong, maybe the Queen was charmed. Maybe she didn’t mind the tall American lady stepping past her husband, our president, and thrusting her hand out as if she were the more important of the two. Maybe she didn’t mind as this same lady, who after being briefed on English customs, chose to disregard those customs, that heritage, and to do as she saw fit. Maybe the Queen doesn’t mind; only time will tell. If the first lady receives another personal invite and hug then I’ll agree with the media. If not, well, does it really matter? So here’s to hugs, handshakes, and Ipods and the way they shake up our world.

Frustrated

I’m having issues with my unmotivated freshmen. Before the break, they turned in their Romeo and Juliet packets, which have been awful. Pages were stapled upside down, notes making fun of students were scrawled across pages, some had shiny gum wrappers stuck to the side, and it was low quality work. I gave them three full days in class. They had to annotate, which we did the to and with so long that they begged for the by and I obliged. I gave clearly written instructions with the purpose statement on the top and yet they didn’t follow it. When I had them grade their work ethic, one student said that she did the bare minimum because she just didn’t care. I get that vibe from many of them, and it’s something I want to address. I’ve been thinking about showing them a project that was done well and one that wasn’t, not from their class, and having them discuss their thoughts in order to show them that the quality of the work reflects on the student. I know they might not like Romeo and Juliet but it was a great way to see how annotation can lead to understanding. They did well on annotating when I was standing over them, but they put in the bare minimum for the project. On the test they had to annotate a new chunk of lines and they summarized the lines instead of doing what we worked on. On the summarize line section, they gave me plot. On the part where they explain their project scene and its purpose, some couldn’t tell me what happened. One said that Capulet said stuff to the 2nd servant and they did stuff. In life, unless you are a professional, most people work jobs they don’t like, but they do it to pay the bills. Even if you don’t like something, you still have to put forth effort. How do I communicate to them the importance of taking pride in one’s work? I mean the girl who shared she did the bare minimum caused her partner’s grades to fall, and she doesn’t care.

New Neighbors

B410 has become my new worse enemy. This is the third apartment we've had in this complex and by far the best until el screamo moved in. Our first place was a studio that had only a partial wall separating the bedroom from the living section. At night when I would try to drift away toward the island of sweet dreams, I’d be assaulted by either the flicker of blue lights streaming away from the tv and over the wall or the clicking of computer keys while Matt worked. After several months of misery, in addition to the sleep deprivation, we decided to move to a bigger space.

This one bedroom apartment was a building away and had a slight view of Mount Rainier, although the Puget Power Plant was the major focus. Honestly, who wouldn’t want to walk over to their window and see metal wires reaching out toward the sky every morning and night? At the time we liked having a deck, a partial view, and the little patch of grass that lay just beyond the building door. Keanu was happy, we were happy, all was well until the birds moved in next door. They seemed like normal people but they had two enormous birds, which they placed close to our bedroom wall and which they allowed to screech at all hours of the night. After a week of hearing these large birds screeching long after 10: 30 at night, I decided to complain to management. Apparently, the birds weren’t registered so the owners were made to pay and were told to quiet the creatures at a decent time. That would have been the end of our trials if it were not for their rocky marriage, which usually became apparent early Saturday mornings. “I’m not your f****** mother!” was screamed at seven in the morning and was always a great way to start the day. The two would yell and fight all morning long. It would usually end with her husband pounding out notes on his electric piano and her leaving. Or maybe she stayed, but she wasn’t speaking anymore and the music notes were appealing. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t have minded a certain level of silence emanating from the walls.

Unhappy, we moved to a birdless zone, which is where we currently reside. It’s a two bedroom apartment located closer to Lake Washington. We upgraded our view and now I can lie in bed and see the twinkling lights from across the lake. In front we have the vast field, which is a makeshift dog park, and beyond that is Boeing. Everyday Matt likes to look at the window, see the green planes on the runaway, and guess what airline will be painted on their tail. Once again we have a deck, and we love to barbeque steaks on a regular basis. Everything about this place has been wonderful until B410 moved here.

Right above us, this man is loud and heavy, since we can hear every stomp he makes. Today instead of rampaging around he decided to berate whoever was with him, and I heard every single word. The walls are thick. I have barely heard my neighbors on either side of me although I have seen them from time to time. How loud do you have to be if the people below you can follow your argument as if it was part of a new soap opera? Hopefully, he'll learn to harness that bad energy and take up yoga. Hey, I can always hope, right?

Habaneras Extraordinaire

A few weeks ago I decided to cook "kick-ass chili" since Matt always has to add hot sauce to everything I make. I wanted it to be hot so I bought lots of peppers-the brighter the better. So I saw habaneras and thought, "These are supposed to be one of the hottest peppers in the world. I can do it, and plus they're pretty and orange." I thought they would add color and taste. Yes, it did. I cut the habanera and threw it into the pot with my fingers. Before adding other peppers, I decided to take a pin hair of a bite. That side of my mouth went on fire. So I grabbed juice and some chips to change the flavor in my mouth. But the more I ate, the hotter my mouth became. So I grabbed sweet candies, but my mouth was fierce!!! I touched the tip of my nose and it was burning. Forty minutes later, Matt came home and I explained the dilemma. I happened to touch the corner of my eye and I felt like screaming. Get my phone! I cried. I needed to call Carolynn or April, my two nurse buddies, to figure out what the heck to do. He asked for her number as I frantically searched. Both of them were out so, clutching my eye, I ran to the computer and yahooed the problem. Apparently, habaneras are so hot that you are not supposed to touch them with bare skin. You can get chemical burns if you do. Everything you touch will get the oil from the pepper on your skin and will burn. The solution is to wash you hands with special stuff, which I didn't have, or with salt and milk (or strong alcohol). Also, ice cubes help. I put eye drops in my eye and held an ice cube to it. I held another ice cube on my lips and nose. My fingers still burned so I soaked them in milk. Eventually I had to take a sleep aid so it would conk me out so I didn't have to endure the pain. On a side note, we ate the chili, one slow bite at a time. I screamed anytime Matt had a piece of bright orange habanera. We'd put in on a napkin then clean the spoon completely. It was a tense dinner in which every bite could cause severe and deadly pain.

Transporter III and Other Oscar Winning Stories

After watching a very sad movie in which I cried for what seemed like forever, Matt decided to cheer me up by putting on Transporter III. I don’t know what’s worse, it’s motivational plot or the well scripted lines the characters deliver. Maybe it was when he drove his car, which he can't be more than 25 feet away from or he'll explode, into a lake and then used air from the tires for oxygen. Funny, ten minutes later he was pulled from the lake alive, managed to unflood his engine, and he sped off in order to land his water-surviving mercedes on top of a moving train. Very realistic, I'd say. Even Matt, who I think was getting tired of my running commentary, said it was cheesy!

Debbie Downers

I think my co-workers are strange. Last Friday my father called from Florida. I still remember it clearly. I was standing in my elevator, ski jacket on since I can’t stand being cold, dog by my side, when the phone rang. Irritated I quickly snatched the phone out of my pocket and briefly paused when I saw that it was my dad calling. He spoke briefly, first bragging about the weather and then he spilled the news, the news he’d been dying to share. My sister-n-law, Laurie, was pregnant. She and my brother have been trying for three years and their unsuccessful attempts have been brought up at various family function. So I was thrilled when I found out the happy news, so thrilled in fact that I decided to tell my co-workers at work. It was during lunch and one of them was going on and on about his adorable year old boy who coos and crawls on them in bed. Anyways, he was finishing a story about him, when I announced my happy news. Do you know what the first response was? He asked how far along she was. Normal, yes. I responded that it was recent so she wasn’t that far along. He next said, “Well, Alayna, I wouldn’t get too excited. You know 1 out of 3 pregnancies ends in a miscarriage.” Then the rest of them joined in and discussed how many friends they knew that had lost babies. I felt like I was in an SNL skit and kept waiting for the Debbie Downer music to play.