1. I rent a plot in a community garden. I grow vegetables now.
2. I'm on an eight week vacation.
3. I started going to son jarocho classes where I learn to play the jarana.
4. I like coming here.
The telephone call came Friday night, about the time when most of the seagulls in Oxnard had returned home to Anacapa Island. Our cats knew something was wrong. V had been expecting this call since he came to live in the United States. We packed our bag quickly. The cats just stared at us. V, who rarely wears anything, but tennis shoes, told me, " I think I'll wear my brown shoes this time." We spoke little on our three hour flight to Mexico City. We sat with a handful of memories of her and let our airplane food go cold. Most of my memories of her are hand-me-downs from V's recollections. I replayed over and over the time she sat down with V to teach him how to write silla and mesa. I thought of the photograph she gave me where she's standing so proud next to her little boy whom she had dressed like a German little boy from the mountains. V didn't have a smile for the camera. Last July, V asked her to dance danzón at La Ciudadela. He took her by the hand, and even with her bad knee, they danced slowly to the nectar of music.
Perhaps every son should dance with his mother at least once.
Facebook is a plastic keychain of a motel room. Sometimes it feels like a Charles Bukowski ham sandwich at a Greyhound station in Los Angeles back in 1987. Vic tells me you get out what you put in.
1. A student had an epileptic seizure within the first three minutes of school.
2. A student burst into tears uncontrollably after seeing a seizure for the first time.
3. Eighteen students looked at me thinking: Can we trust you?
4. A student told me in a scared, quiet voice, My daddy died last year. 5. My principal told us she is going to change our mascot from Cougars to Cyber Cougars (we are a technology school...whatever that means). I googled Cyber Cougars and I got escort dating services, playboy clubs, porn...
........
5. My husband sent me this text message at lunch: Te amo harto, harto, hartisisisimo
I know I sound corny and mushy, but I'm gonna be okay.
There's a place where I don't listen to punk rock or say the F word. I don't blog there. I don't text there. I get excited about fractions and solid figures at that place. I don't worry if I look dumb for singing about a baby beluga or apples and bananas. I even smile when a little face recognizes a long vowel. Yeap, I like that place.
(I made some corrections to this post many hours later)
1. I'm returning to school today----just to set up my classroom.I didn't do shit much. I wasted most of the time talking to other teachers about CST scores and about our 10 week vacation.
2. Tomorrow I'll be at a teacher training. I'm still planning to attend. On a positive note, I'll see old friends and we'll talk about, yes, CST scores! Ahem, at those trainings, I avoid sitting next to teachers that constantly brag about their progeny's successes.
3. On Friday I'll return to school----just to set up my classroom. A promise to self: avoid teacher friends and any discussion about CST scores!
4. Next Monday: the school year starts, officially. Lots and lots of meetings on that day about, yes, our CST scores and about how we are going to improve them next year.
5. On Tuesday: more and more meetings about CST Scores . The principal would probably do some scolding for not meeting the API and AYP on the CST Scores. She'll remind us that fourth grade teachers are the best! (At this point in my career, the only thing worth giving a fuck is student learning and NOT about fourth grade teachers).
6. On Wednesday, gulp, students officially start school. The first day of school is bitter sweet. I'm happy to see fresh new second graders in my classroom, but I can't help missing my previous students.
p.s.
The CST scores are up on the internet. I promise Homeland Security won't be after you if you see our scores. I am a public employee, therefore, my CST scores are available to the public (motherfucker!). If you know the name of the county where I live and the name of the school district where I work, plus! the name of my school (hint hint it starts with Mck) you'll see my grade level scores (second grade). You won't see my personal scores, but you'll see my scores combined with the other second grade teachers' scores. No names are made public! (Thank you, Goddess of Standardized Assessements!)
Good luck finding me.
Oh, and my students did very well on the CST. I'm so proud of them! For your information, I had a bunch of bright students, but with major behavior issues, fuck me! I was ready to quit back in May. Also, I should mention that my students are limited in English and the CST is in, yes, English! Further, most of my students live under the poverty line and you how that is, poverty and education. I can cry you a river.
(I haven't seen Waiting For Superman, but I was told about the scene at the beginning of this video clip. I don't support Charter Schools, but I DO support effective schools and effective teachers).
They had been waiting for the bus too long.
Too long to piss her off and too long for him to tap to his virtue,
patience. We should ride our bikes, he told her. It's too far, she said.
But what she meant to say was that she didn't have hope.
A five mile ride to the West would allow them to catch a train or a plane
To Shanghai.
To Paris.
To Buenos Aires.
They still had a million places to go.
They rushed West.
But he got lost on the way.
She looked for him.
Here, was the bed where he was born.
There, was the peluqueria where he got his first haircut.
Follow this road to his school pencil box.
Have you seen this man? became her mantra.
How could he vanish?
How could he leave her behind with the darkness of the familiar?
Her childhood home.
Her elementary school.
The rusty seesaw at the park.
She opened her messenger bag to touch his white bicycle helmet.
He had left it behind.
I went to see my doctor on Friday. Since my doctor's office is located in Ventura, I didn't want to waste the opportunity to visit one of my favorite thrift stores in that city, The Coalition Thrift Store. This store raises money to support survivors of domestic and sexual assault. It provides them with food and shelter. The store has scary looking posters of battered women throughout the store, but this depressing sight, and I say it with great shame, didn't diminish my archaeological curiosity to find artifacts that once belonged to a Jeff or a Debbie in suburbia. That day, the angels of vinyl were watching over me because I found lots of great records.
I bought this Yes album because it stretches my attention span. It teaches me to sit and wait for bees to make honey. The songs have a faded fabric with little holes. These open spaces invite your index finger to go in and search for the warmth of words. With patience, you'll hear wind chime kisses and 4 pm guitars. I promise.
I bought this Van Morrison record because it brings back a memory I have of my mother and I at a laundromat. We are in Modesto, California. She is folding shirts and I'm bouncing a ball on the floor. Then, a shirtless long haired man walks in to wash his clothes. I stared at him long and hard, making my mother feel uncomfortable. I stared at him because his body radiates a light I have never seen before, a light I want to follow and kiss and touch and leave my mother behind for the first time.
I like this early Neil Young record. He sings like a man with no self esteem. This is a man you want to take home and feed homemade bread and raspberry jam. But, women be warned, his songs make you bleed and your wounds will dream a million hanker chiefs.
I also bought a Buffalo Springfield album. I couldn't say no to Neil Young's Mr. Soul. How could I say no to a clown who is sick and does a trickof disaster?
The other album I couldn't say no was to a Simon and Garfunkel record. I didn't discover Simon and Garfunkel's music until the late 1980's. My younger sisters and I used to drive to Santa Barbara in the afternoons. We had little money for that expensive place, but we didn't care. A fog would sometimes accumulate on the 101 freeway. I remember how our hearts sang America not giving a damn about the lack of visibility on the road. We sang I'm 18 and aching and I don't know why . My sisters and I are in our 40's now and we still don't know what Mrs. Wagner's pies taste like.
p.s.
To a friend in Miño, Spain (yeah, you, Mr. B!) : You convinced me to allow comments again. Thank you.
1. I'm a lover, not a baker. I failed as a baker last night as i made another attempt to bake zucchini bread . V liked my bread, but, you know, he's sweet and very kind to my performance in the kitchen. I gave some bread to the seagulls this morning and they didn't like it. My heart broke into smithereens.
2. This was going to be my summer of sewing, but instead it's turning out to be my summer of viewing. I am addicted to the TV shows, The Wire and Mad Men. Don't get excited, I didn't buy a TV, I rent the DVDs from Netflix and I watch them on my laptop. Oh, dear lordy, I had forgotten the pleasure of sitting on my big, round ass for hours while watching TV shows!
3. I'm supposed to train on my bicycle each morning. I'm supposed to ride my bike 8 to 10 miles a day so I could make the pilgrimage to San Francisco next summer with V. But, yeap, instead I spend mornings listening to my 99 cent vinyl records. I'm finally learning to appreciate real' early Joni Mitchell and James Taylor. I love, love Joni's I had a king.
Here is a visual of my road to perdition:
( I dig those groovy album covers.)
4. When I'm not watching TV shows or listening to James or Joni, I listen to NPR. I also watch cooking videos on youtube, I read blogs, I read short stories, hell, I dance around in my living room to this song (another record from my 99 cent vinyl collection). It is fun to pretend to be a beatnik from the early 1960's that pretends to be Zelda Fitzgerald in the 1920's. When V gets home from work, he likes to be my F. Scott.
Wait, I'm not done.....
Since this is the summer of failure, when I'm not being a lazy ass at home, I go to, yes, my favorite places in the world, thrift stores. This summer I'm determined to find the tackiest, cheesiest and shittiest records of my childhood. So far, I've had two successes. I found, ta-da! Seasons In The Sun and I think I Love You. Remember that good feeling you got as a child when you sang songs you didn't know were shitty? Do you also remember singing Goodbye Papa, please pray for me in the shower?
Here's The Partridge Family singing I Think I Love You. This is my little homage to David Cassidy, my first childhood crush.
Of course, my summer would not be such failure if I manage to find the Holy Grail of shitty music: The Night Chicago Died.
Yeah!
V tells me I'll get additional accolades if I manage to find the Spanish version.
Yesterday I fullfilled a dream. I bought a copy of Peter Frampton's Comes Alive! at the Boys and Girls Club thrift store. The record was $1.95.
I've had that dream since my breasts were two pink strawberries and my lips were too big for my face. This dream of mine goes back to those days when my mother hung saints over my bed to protect me from evil and to keep me away from sin. I have to admit, I begged my parents for the Peter Frampton Comes Alive! record many times. But my cries at Woolworth's and at JC Penney went unheard as they never bought me the album. Their ears didn't hear beyond Vicente Fernandez and their wallets were not able to reach past frijoles and lentejas.
Peter Frampton was as close as I ever got to having my very own Justin Bieber. I didn't workship Peter. My bedroom walls were not decorated with Frampton posters. I didn't dream of licking his salty white skin at night. I didn't throw my Scoobie Doo panties at him, either. I didn't even like most of the songs in the album. However, I did workship one song, Do You Feel Like We Do. I spent a great deal of time listening to this song that lacks a question mark at the end. Don't expect poetry in this song. The lyrics were not written with the hands of the moon. You won't be able to queeze any light out. The song was mostly written with a wad of Bazooka gum inside a mouth.
Well, woke up this morning with a wine glass in my hand. Whose wine? What wine? Where the hell did I dine? Must have been a dream I don't believe where I've been. Come on, let's do it again.
Later on in my life, I would discover that if I wanted to take the rock and roll hedonistic road, I would prefer a morning with Jim Morrison and a beer in my hand, but, nonetheless, the question sang by Peter Frampton repeatedly, Do You Feel Like We Do intrigued me. It fascinated my dizzy pre- adolescent brain. I wanted to feel the answer. I wanted to drink from the answer. I wanted to believe there was another world to feel other than my world at projects on 135 Eliza Court. I used to wait patiently for KMET to play this song while listening to Fleetwood Mac and Ted Nugent dumb songs which was a small price to pay but I didn't care. When the station finally played the song, I'd lay on my twin bed and allow the hands of rock and roll caress my brown legs. I let the music draw maps on my brain and dig deep into my heart. I used to close my eyes and beg the Virgen De Guadalupe for forgiveness for allowing this question to reach under my skirt and blouse, kissing every dream it could find.
My father who worked 10 hours a day cutting celery under the California November rain. Do You Feel Like We Do?
My mother who worked nights packing chiles in little boxes. Do You Feel Like We Do?
My homegirls at Haydock Junior High who longed for Colonia Chiques 13 tattoos on their arms. Do You Feel Like We Do?
La Bright Eyes, pregant at 14. Do You Feel Like We Do?
La Dimples, sent to juve at 13. Do You Feel Like We Do?
Juanita's papá standing drunk on the corner of Cooper and McKinley. Do You Feel Like We Do?
Los illegals waiting for white men at 5 a.m. on Coloria Road to prostitute their hands and sweat. Do You Feel Like We Do?
Mr. Franklin, my algebra teacher who calls us dumb, dirty no good Mexicans. Do You Feel Like We Do?
Please, Virgen Santa, just this once, I want to feel. I want to feel.
It was difficult not to open the big package when it arrived. I had to wait for V. It was only fair as it was addressed to both of us. I kept the package away from my sight and far away since I know I lack self control.
Thank you, Mr. Crónicas!!!!
Your kind letter and awesome gifts touched us both. How did you know I love Steinbeck? (and stickers!!!! How did you know I place them on my laptop?)
The only jewelery I wear are dangling earrings and string bracelets. At this moment, I'm wearing a one-string bracelet that was given to me by a Buddhist monk. He told me it was my connection to humanity. It is old and raggedy. But now, I will wear the bracelet you've sent me. It will be my new connection to humanity...to Argentina...to you, Mr. D.
trash a crumpled up napkin a piece of paper a spoon to eat with some money pictures letters a sonogram picture of a fetus from a pregnant wife
(From NPR's Fresh Air that was aired on June 21, 2011. Jess Goodell spoke about her eight month experience recovering and processing the remains of fallen troops. She wrote a book with John Hearn, Shade It Black: Death and After in Iraq).
Le dí la mano a 21 estudiantes. Me despedí de ellos por última vez. Las lunas de sus manos sudaban. Algunas estaban sucias y pegosteosas. Otras manitas solo tenían hambre y rios de soledad. Le dí la mano por última vez a esos niños que dibujan cuartos con paredes naranja y gente de palitos morados. Se fueron esas manos que todavia dibujan flores del tamaño de las personas..
