tributes

Two Mondays ago M's stepdad came into school early. I was coming back from copying stuff in the staff lounge. He hurried toward me, intense, caught me a bit off guard, and said "I just wanted to tell you that M's dad is dead."
"Oh my God. What happened?"
I think about M, my second grade girl, sweet as pie and how often she talked about her dad. I just helped her edit a letter she'd written to him a few days before.
"We don't know. But M doesn't know yet."
Oh, great. Are you kidding?

So all morning I had this secret knowledge that M's life was completely changed and she didn't know yet, but I did. There was a bomb waiting to go off when she went home and I had to act like I didn't know.

Mom and stepdad picked her up early. Mom said she wasn't sure M would be in the next day, but she was. My para, who somehow finds out about everything, told me she'd heard it was a suicide.

At one point that next morning I sat with M.
"I am so sorry, M. I'm so sorry this happened."
"The thing I don't understand Ms Lowe, is that he did it to himself."

Wow. Whoa. What do I say now?

M has been doing remarkably well the past couple weeks, despite. She told me all about the funeral and putting roses on her dad, and how her uncle kissed him.

It occured to me over the weekend that she will forget, over the years, the little things.

"Maya." I approached her today. "I was thinking that all of the memories you have of your dad - the stories you've told me, the stories you know - you should write them down so that you never forget. When you're older you can go back and read your memories so you can keep him alive with you."

She didn't seem too keen on the idea, until she said "Yeah. Ms Lowe we can do it together. You can write about your gramma."

(My class all knows that I was out for two weeks in October to be with my dying Gramma Doe).

I was thinking about all the lessons I needed to give, but I said okay, let me get my book. I got my journal out of my pocketbook and she gave me a pencil. I read out loud as I wrote.

"My gramma drank more tea than anyone I know. She loved tea. She liked Decaf Irish breakfast tea from Trader Joes and when they stopped making it, she was sad. She always had something sweet with her tea. She loved orange and pinapple cake from shop and stop, but her favorite was a danish from the Lindencrest Diner."

That was about as far as I got when Maya skipped away with her own journal.

She came back an hour later and showed me two pages of handwritten single spaced writing that she read to me.

She wrote about her dad and she making spitballs at McDonalds and how whenever they went there he would buy her anything she wanted. She wrote about how when he woke up in the morning he would look in a mirror and say hey, handsome man! and she would say daddy, you are handsome. She wrote that she would tell him I love you sooo much and he would say I love you more. She wrote about camping and how much her dad exercised and had big muscles.

Then she surprised me. "Can I read it to the class at the gathering?"

"Um, yeah! Sure!"

So she did. And the children were attentive. And when she finished, she leaned her head against me. I said "Does anyone have any comments?"
Hands raised.
M pointed at children to comment.

"That was beautiful," one child said. I nearly floated.

"Do you wish you could see your dad again?" Oh, no. But Maya just nodded.

"That made me think of my grandpa. he died too."

"I think your dad is around you now like an angel." Wow.

This went on for a few minutes and we still had a little time before we had to leave for lunch.

"I have an idea," I said. "Let's have a moment of silence. A moment of silence is a time to honor someone, like M's dad. We'll just be quiet for a minute, bow our heads and think about her dad, and think about M and send her lots of love."

"Ready? Go."

And the class fell silent. And we could hear all the voices and activity in the classrooms around ours, but my kids were silent, their heads bowed, and I looked at them all so proud, so honored to be with them, and my chest filled with the memory of M's dad, and it filled with M herself, but most of all it filled and nearly overflowed with love, so much love, and how fragile and strong it can be all at once.

Oh I guess I wasn't finished...

Still Tuesday, still unraveling from a crap day and went to bed and was lying there talking with chris, or rather, complaining. Bitching. Unloading. He just wanted a nice night with me; dinner and talking and snuggles without all of this baggage I carry around today, and fair enough, I would have liked that too. Instead there I was laying in my bed and was just So Sad. So Damn Sad. I thought about MD. and all of her lashing out and then seeing her father, her father virtually ignore, virtually appear as unconcerned as it gets, appear to Not Give A Shit. And then there's D.'s dad, five messages and a confrontation later and no call back. It it appears he does Not Give A Shit. And I., who's been silent, I didn't even realize he was there today. Quiet and sad and dad's in jail. And M.s mom with ovarian cancer and now charges pressed against her for assaulting that other mother in the hallway and three kids and one on the way? with ovarian cancer? is that possible?
And sad and heavy and gloom and
I don't know. All of a sudden I'm laying in bed crying and crying and feeling guilty even for complaining and bitching and ruining what could have been this nice night with my husband and taking on and taking in
and
and
and
here I am wanting a baby, trying to have a baby, trying, still, perhaps, to come to terms with a miscarriage, the possibility that it might not ever happen for me. I asked Chris again does he really want a baby with me? He said "You are a mother. A mother without a baby."

and all these kids and these sad little lives and yet there's pregnancys all the time - M. is going to have another sister in a month or two; with a father who text messages in the delivery room.

God. I mean, these parents care the best they can. I mean no disrespect. But what the fuck?
Why?
Must I state the irony in this?

How do I turn this switch off? How do I not care, not feel?
I get so de-sensitized and then there seems this sudden BLAM --- knocked over hard.

4 days left before vacation and then I go to half time. And I wonder now if even that will be too much.

uggggggggggg

I can't stand myself today. Pressure to have a lot of math work out because the district was coming to observe. At nine, I was told. So my kids were doing math and by 1030 or 11 wanted to do something else. Sick of math. And then the district comes in and it's kind of falling apart. I have my best days when I don't try to control what the children are doing as some sort of showcase, don't you?

We're all getting time in our classrooms without kids. Most schools just call it "inservice" and get a whole day off with no kids in the building, or at least a few or even a bunch of half days. Not us. I mean we are damn lucky to even get the time at all. So our kids are dispersed into five different classrooms, and, for a week and a day, we have five extra kids in our classroom. And the kids, who are strangers to us and we to them, are generally on their best behavior, so it's really not a big deal ... but today... the pressure, the extra kids, the word FUCK that I am so sick of by now... D., very strange child D., refused to get in line after gym and instead walked in circles saying "Fucking asshole!! Fucking bitch! Fucking nigger! Fuck you!" Really, can we just can the "fuck" for awhile? Do we have to hear it read it find it on tables in elementary school? I mean, what the...fuck? So I called D.'s parents, for the FIFTH time. When I saw dad at pickup time I nearly yelled at him. "We must have a conference" and I told him what D. was saying today. "No way!" he said. Yeah. Yeah way. I asked him to call me later on my cell to set it up. Do you think he did? No, way.

M.'s dad finally came in for the "fucking ass humping sex" charming note M. wrote to T. She's suspended for two days. And while my principal scolded M. and admonished her father as to the gravity of the situation, I kid you not, he was texting on his cell phone. I mean nearly the entire duration of the conference. Looking at his phone. Not paying one damn bit of attention.
Hmmmm. Is it any wonder that M. is so FUCKED UP? I think not.

I am so lit today, tonight. Can't even seem to manage to shake it. I get so mean to my kids on days like this - seems like it's just gotten worse - where I say the meanest things and hate myself for it. "Are you kidding me?" I ask, sarcastic. Ms Lowe, can I get a drink of water? "NO!!!" ... I mean, monster. I mean like someone put a firecracker in my ass. I can't stand myself when I talk like this. I can't stand it. I want to run from the room and never come back.

anyway. No kids tomorrow. They'll be there, but not with me. Environmental revival. Which actually just means major inventory, but whatever. I need a break bad. Realllllllllllll bad.

catfight in the hallway

Teacher L told me there was a, I don't know, red alert, major code, I can't remember the term but it means all the big time personnel are to report to the big emergency area, which was in one of the stairwells by the main office. I had no idea what happened - probably some kid having a meltdown. Whatever. Nothing really surprises me anymore at my school.

Even when I got the story. The para from the next room came to ask me if I had such and such a student - no - she looked on my list - pointed to MC.'s name - "This one." she said. "His mother just started a fight with another mother in the stairwell."

Here's what I know - MC. is super SPED, still in my class for whatever reason though he's stopped running so much, and I've grown to adore him. However, when he gets stubborn, there is no stopping him - and he's a Big Kid. He's got two younger siblings at home, no dad in the picture, and his mother has said it's gotten harder and harder for her to protect her little ones at home when he starts losing it. And, p.s., she is pregnant. Last Tuesday MC. had a major meltdown wanting to be first on line from the library to lunch. I wasn't there, and my para wouldn't let him so there was some code call to come get him as he flipped out and spent the rest of the afternoon with the principal. The principal called his mother, who was at the doctor's office but came right after, having just been diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

So a few days later she beats up another mother in the stairwell. There is no excuse for this, but I can barely imagine what it's like to be her. In fact I have to shield myself from even thinking too much about it. What will happen to those kids? What will happen to MC., who has become so dear to me?

What's to become of any of these kids? What difference does it make that I am as present as possible, as loving as possible, an example of what? - some white woman that they will never be. I know it matters; I know it matters somehow. I know it matters or I would have bailed altogether rather than stay half time, which is still stressful enough. Even financially I'd be better off subbing a few days a week around my district than the half salary I"m taking. But I'm doing it because I love my kids. And I love my parents - even the ones who beat up on one another.

I talk to my husband a lot about my kids - this one did that today, this one made me laugh, that one finally got the math lesson, or that one wrote an amazing piece of writing -- I wonder sometimes what it will be like next year when I don't have them to talk about anymore.

more swearing on friday...

It's Monday and I really could have worked a half day, and thought about it very seriously and decided I'd rather stay home. Wouldn't you? Maybe if I hadn't worked as a waitress Friday night and Saturday night I would have had more energy to get there today - but alas, I'm home, with my coffee dog and cat, and frankly not sad about not being at school.

Friday wasn't a great day. J. the freakin whirlwind that he is was ping ponging around the room as usual, running up and yelling "CA-CA!" behind the kids backs then running away, etc etc. He is the first born and a prince at home who can do no wrong. His mother nearly cried during our conference because she claims my para is "mean to him." I can be mean to him too, I'm thinking - and he can be REALLY mean to other kids... Cry me a river lady. I'll go a-sailing away.

Not that I'm so mean and bitter - I just get so tired - it's Monday, I'm not even at school and the whole thing exhausts me. Damn. But that's not what I wanted to write about.

3:15 Friday, we're almost done, leaving in the next ten minutes and T., sitting there in the gathering holding a scrap of paper, says "Ms. Lowwwwe, MD wrote this about me."
"No I di'int! No I di'int!" MD is screeching.

I pick up the note: T. is a fucking ass and humps Y. and has sex with her. the end.

Beautiful. MD. is my second grade beautiful, so beautiful to look at but mean girl. Second grade. Fucking ass sex and hump, second grade. Lovely.

I get a piece of paper. I ask her to write T.'s name. It is the same handwriting.
"MD, this is your writing. You did this."

I think it was then I decided I was taking the day off Monday instead of going in for half. I wrote a note to the principal, shoved both of the notes in an envelope to leave with her to deal with.

My husband came home with boxes of books that someone random had given him. Harry Potter and other stuff- like 20 copies of the same books - thought OH! Perfect to give to my kids! We could have reading clubs with chapter books! Yeah! ... and I can't wait to hand them out - My third graders are all just starting to get into Harry Potter.

Oh but in this meantime. I can't wait til Christmas break. I can't wait to start working half time. I hope it helps.

fuck you bitch

It was a good morning, until the floor tables (low tables we have so the childen can work on the floor if they want to) were flipped over and "fuck you bitch" was exposed on two of them; in dark pencil, in two different hand writings. WTF. Ruin my morning. Rang the bell, made an announcement, asked anyone to raise their hand who might know something about the bad words written on the floor tables. Said if I didn't find out who did it, we wouldn't have recess until I did.

I'd seen it before. I mean, bitch - fuck - it's been graffiti'ed other places in my classroom in random places, but it's been awhile - and it set me off. Just when you think your class is relatively normal and functioning, it's like oh yeah, and then there's this...

I trusted I., my super star, to scrub the tables with a little ajax. He, by the way, is really the coolest most mature and wise second grader ever, in the world. Not only brilliant, but just a genuine amazing boy. But this is a story for another day. My stepdaughter needs to use the computer, after all.

So after gym we usually go outside for recess, and today was this unseasonably gorgeous day. But I said we couldn't go out. I was dying to go out myself for some fresh air, but had to stick to my guns. So I give them the speech, there in the hallway next to the doors, "I said we're not going out until I know who wrote those words." Etc, etc.

Well. D. and G. came forward. I took the rest of the kids outside while they stayed with my para. By the time I got to them, G. was crying and D. was sullen. "What were you thinking?" I asked. These are good kids. G's mom is a bit nuts (the one who wanted to beat me up when G. had lice, again), and D. is not a great student (soooo lazy), but they are not the kids I worry about or would expect "fuck you bitch" to come out of. I walked away and left them in an area alone (but in view) and let them stew awhile. When I went back, I asked them what they thought I should do, what should be their consequence.

I don't remember how it went or if any were volunteered. By this time of night I am so worn out I can't even remember what I ate for dinner. But we settled on their cleaning all the tables in the room, and writing an apology letter to the rest of the class which they would have to read.

And they did. At the end of the day, they both read their letters, apologizing and promising to never write bad words in the classroom again. G. even wrote "I know I'm better than that. I will never, ever write bad words again."

After they were finished reading, I asked the class if they had anything to say, and to raise their hands if they did.

I. raised his hand first. "Thank you for being honest," he said. Then I called on A. "Thank you for being brave," he said. and then I called Y., a first grader who raises her hand before a question is even asked, every time, and then has nothing to say when I call on her, but I called on her anyway. "Thank you.... uhhhhh...." oh brother. but I waited... "for... uh... being responsible."
Wow. that was a good one.

So there they are. My kids. It turned out to be a kind of good day in the end.

so it's been awhile...

It was hard to keep writing, knowing what I knew, knowing the access to the people who didn't know and might have vested interest when they found out that I wrote a letter of resignation saying I wouldn't be returning to my school come January:

This letter comes to you after much conflicted deliberation.

I won't be returning to teach (at school) after the new year.

Many factors have contributed to this decision, the most prominent and tipping point is about wanting to be a mother. After being somewhat unexpectedly pregnant for the first time last year and miscarrying at 10 weeks while working at (school), I realized how badly I want to have a child. I've been trying to conceive since my body has healed after that experience, so far to no avail. When I recently talked to my doctor about what I might do to be proactive in this process he asked, " Do you have a lot of stress in your life?" and all I could do in response was laugh.

I love my job in so many ways. I love the teaching, the learning, the excitement and even the challenges that arise due to complicated emotional circumstances. I also feel from the bottom of my gut the stress rising up through my chest and my throat every day when some of the afore mentioned conflicts arise. If I spend the rest of the year teaching and don't get pregnant and think for one second that the level of stress at my job had one thing to do with it, I would regret it for the rest of my life. If I relieve myself of the stress and find other ways to live a life of service in my work without so much stress and still don't get pregnant, I will have at least known that I tried. I'm over 40 now. I don't have time to mess with this. I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

One principal caught me in the hallway, gave me a hug and said to the effect that he was behind me and not to worry about anything. Another wrote me a heartfelt e mail saying she understood. My principal didn't talk to me for nearly two weeks. When she did, she offered up an idea: what if I could work half time? At first I thought no, done, sorry, no. But then - I really really love my kids. And they're really learning so much, and have gelled into this lovely little community, all dysfunction aside. So I came back and agreed that if that were an option, I would take it. It's still not set in stone, but I think I'd be okay with it if it were. Knowing I could go home, stop at the gym, take care of my neglected exhausted body, then go home, be with my dog and cat and write for a few hours before my husband comes home, actually have time to spend with my husband... wow. I'll forgo the sushi and thoughtless shopping and financial stability. I'll patronize my local library more than the bookstores I love. I won't buy myself flowers for our house every week, though that will be a hard habit to break.
I want a more simple life. I can't - no - it's not that - it's that I Don't Want To - act like some sort of superhero every day anymore, exhausting myself, commuting way too far, etc etc.

But I still have stories every day that I've neglected telling in what was this mixture of guilt, fear, and now is such exuberance and relief. If I'd known how it was going to feel after I quit, I would have done it a long time ago. Elation.

I've grown much fonder of my new first graders. Funny how I taught pre school for years and was so accustomed to their neediness. What a difference from second and third graders -
I. is one of my first graders, a little boy with a soft voice and gentleness. He often seems sad, but yesterday was verbal about it. "I'm sad," he told me. "I miss my dad."
"Where's your dad?"
"I can't tell you. My aunt told me not to."
I already had my suspicions.
"Well I'm sure that wherever he is, you are in his heart." I put my hand on his chest to illustrate.
"I can't tell you where he is because the other kids will hear."
"You could whisper in my ear if you want to."
He got close and cupped his hand around my ear. "He's in jail."
He stood back and looked at me.
"Can I tell you a secret?"
I cupped my hand and whispered to him. "My stepson is in jail."

He smiled, slightly, and looked at me. "It's okay," I said. He nodded and seemed satisfied.

He was still sad, though. When we were doing writing assigments I helped him write a letter to his dad. "You are my best dad. I love mommy and daddy forever."

While I was helping him, A. came over to me with a question. Then I asked him, "Hey is it okay if I tell I. where your dad is?"

"He's in jail," A. shrugged.

It's funny. My mother asked me about school, and I told her about I., how he's touched me, how sad he's been the last couple days.

"My God," she said. "These kids lives are so different than kids in a normal school."

Normal school.
I don't imagine the work would be necessarily easier in a "normal school." I don't imagine I would love my kids quite as fiercely, either.