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
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
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!
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!
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