Facing fears

I was in middle school when VHS video cameras became a big deal. My brother, five years older, was enthralled with the technology. The red record light was blinking a lot there for a while. My younger sister--still in elementary--was a real ham. She'd sing every lyric to the Mickey and Minnie soundtrack for the camera without a thought. I, however, was humiliated. When my siblings were staging scenes for their next big independent film, I was giving the metaphorical finger to the paparazzi. 

"Basta!" I'd think, rolling my eyes, as I retreated to my room out of sight. 

Now, I'm putting together a portfolio for National Board Teacher Certification, and the famous video component is on my to-do list. I wouldn't describe myself as shy over the last twenty years of my career. I love leading a class through lessons with or without the spotlight shining on me. Is it worth mentioning that since those family video days, musical theater was my niche? Shuffling off to Buffalo, I only needed a sec to grab my tap shoes. But the idea of capturing my class on tape, though, activated the familiar jitters of my pre-adolescent days.

Today, I did it. I planned a lesson--as teachers do--and then I taught it--also pretty standard. The good news is that the camera was on to catch it all. Did I panic? Shake in my boots? Break out in a cold sweat? Not a bit! And the relief of discovering that I have more than 15 minutes of footage to analyze? So sweet.

One video down. One more to go. 

Blue Skies Shining

When the phone rang, I was feeling pretty blue, but I rallied when I heard the familiar voice of an Optimist Club member. We talk this time every year--he sponsors a speech contest for our area's youth.

This year's prompt: “Discovering the Optimism within Me”

It can be challenging to convince adolescents to see the world through a positive lens. Some might argue it's a sign of the times--the world has turned to shit because of climate change, increased violence, hate crimes, and the headlines that shock us into submission on the daily. Thirty years ago, though, if someone asked me about optimsim within me--depending on their age--I'm just not sure what I would do either. 

On Friday, a colleague asked me to cover her afternoon class. Only one was a former student, and the rest were my present and future kids. She proudly told her classmates that her best writing of all time was her speech. I'll never forget her journey. She filled about six pages with a personal experience she was still processing. Several writing sessions later with a few friends cheering her on, she threaded the needle, stitched scenes together, and tied an unbreakable knot at the end. The day she stood at the podium, her peers praised her bravery. She didn't win the contest, but it didn't seem to matter.

So I'm going in, folks. This week, I'll invite students to look on the bright side. I have a feeling it will go really well. 

Who am I in the kitchen?

I'm not known for my cooking. In fact, grocery stores haven't counted me as an active member since March of 2020. But a good friend recently reminded me of my reference to the "Rise of the Kitchen Bitch" piece by Hanna Rosin more than a decade ago. (Note: The internet has been scrubbed of this piece, so don't bother searching for it.)

Then was a period of empowerment--the wooden spoon was my paintbrush, and the dinner hour was my canvas. I recall a binder of printed recipes and hand-written shopping lists that I made in response. Bon Appetit pages with notes scribbled in the margins still occupy my bookshelf in the yearbook and photo album section collecting dust.

My son and I made fried rice on Wednesday night. Almost every ingredient came from the vegetable drawer except for the aspirational tofu I purchased on a whim. I'm grateful for the wok that's hot enough to make every sauce sizzle. The power move came from the 12-year-old who plated the dish with a sunny-side-up egg atop each soy-infused dome, monuments to our culinary efforts. We sank our forks into a satisfying feast of our combined creation. 

I'm not known for my cooking, but I can cook. 

Better than a "Get Well" Card

Once I finally succumbed to the winter creep that was settling meanly in my chest, I sank to the depths of my bed and didn't come up for air for two and a half days. That bastard took my voice, which turned out to be very effective in stopping me in my tracks. Teachers need to talk...or so I thought.

I'd never seen such kindness in the eyes of my sixteen-year-old students until I gave them writing advice with a laryngitic (not an actual adjective, but it should be) whisper on Monday morning. If only I came prepared with all my wishes for the school year, I might have performed miracles. In a short time, I achieved wordless compliance with simple requests. The subtlest of gestures gained their rapt attention. A pin dropped, and it made the sweetest sound. But I admitted defeat by lunch. Mask or no mask, school was not the place for me.  

Now that I'm back and speaking words out loud, I wonder about that mythical morning: the day that students knew what to do without even being told. 

Sshhhh, it's Saturday

I thought I'd sleep in, but this morning's sun shining in my window expressed more ambition. I jumped at the invitation and made my to-do list over coffee. Sure, my hair was tied in the same knot from the night before, and I was still relishing my PJs, but my posture said, "Yes" to what lay ahead. I had places to go and boxes to check. 

Have you wanted to run in a dream but found your legs useless? Wanted to push without hands? Fly without wings? 

When the first of my family emerged today, I was happy to greet them in the kitchen. But when I did, all that came out was air--just a whisper. And okay, maybe I felt a little tired, too. I let my spine relax and my eyelids close.

Rendered speechless for a day, I modified my list. Took it easier than initially intended. Squeezed a bit more lemon into my tea. And most importantly, I didn't talk much at all.

I thought, maybe I'm not up to writing today. How cool is it, though, that I can tell a little story without even opening my mouth to speak? 

Hello, Friday

There's a low round vase on my table with some purple carnations with yellow circles at their centers. The rain is drop, drop, dropping off the roof on this cold, rainy Friday. I've already finished my tea. My glasses–reserved for driving–sit beside me as a tap, tap, tap on my keyboard. 

It has been the kind of week that feels like three. Maybe it was because I stayed home sick on Wednesday with a headache that wore me out so much that I slept for the duration of a workday. Before and after, I have been grading essays, writing comments that start with "Consider..." or "Aim to..." but also "Fix..." and "Try again." I'm simultaneously introducing a dystopian unit. My voice today is hoarse from the spirit I brought to my book talks. They were presenting their pre-unit thought experiments about how their utopias could flip to a dystopia with corruption, AI monsters, happy pill addiction, and the usual stuff. During their presentations, I'd ring a bell. Ding, Ding! to announce my connection to their reading options for the next few weeks. 

I see you're curious about government surveillance. You're clearly concerned by the propaganda flowing freely through your feed. Maybe a gruesome torture scene will scare it out of you. Here's a copy of 1984!

How about teenagers suffering through side-effects of genetic "lifting"? AI companions to make up for your lack of human interaction? You'll love Klara and the Sun!

Hate reading? Love your screen? Uninterested in complicated thoughts and fascinated by fire? Fahrenheit 451 is for you!

You're right, post-apocalyptic gang warfare is the pits. Drought and hunger? Dismembered bodies within the exposition? Try Parable of the Sower!

At the end of the day, a group of kids came in. I had taught them first thing in the morning, but they were all feeling the Friday vibes. They were making their way down the hall to say bye to their teachers, and they stopped in to look at my wall display, make some jokes, and say, "Have a great weekend!"

My kitchen table is clean. The dog is slurping up the water in her bowl, and the sun has gone down. My glasses are going back on, I'm headed to writing group. And life is good.

Coffee or Tea

Mornings are for strong coffee. It is as much a bitter jolt as it is a ritual before every school day. I’ve tried the handy self-timed brew, but my efforts to the carafe, measuring out the grounds, plus the triangulated steps I take from the counter to the sink to the fridge create its own zen. Sometimes I carry my cup all morning, taking mouthfuls until it comes up empty. Then there are days when its existence is sufficient—when conversations compete for my attention and win, but my coffee is both player and fan in the stands. We exchange knowing looks because I’m so glad she's there.

Afternoons are for herbal tea. Walking down the hall of my classroom, I fill a carafe from the fountain and listen for the steamy boil before brewing a soothing lemon ginger, peppermint, or peach. By now, the students have gone, and my beverage and I get some alone time. She doesn't mind that I'm multi-tasking, tapping away on my laptop, reading messages, and checking off items on my to-do list as I take sip after sip. Quite intentionally, I get no kick from tea. A spot of honey is not the only shot of sweetness I get to round out the day. Like I said about my friend Coffee, I am just grateful for the company.

Surprise, it's March 1st

My family knows I startle easily. Round any corner of my home to find me on the other side, you'll find me hair-raised, jumping out of my skin, sucking all the air out of the room. 

Growing up, there was a hallway. The dinner hour ended, and I was coaxed into mounting the staircase alone for bedtime. Energy-conscious folks today would be proud because the lights were switched off every single time inviting the shadowy darkness to swallow me whole. One step. Then another. My parents' familiar voices at the table became ever fainter.

On the last short flight, I could see the switch as my eyes adjusted to the dark. If only I could just make it there, I could shine a light on the toothbrushes in the jar, my nightgown hanging on a hook, and some books at my bedside. Quietly, I crept closer...

Then, two arms reached out from the dark of the hallway nook. They clamped down on my shoulders and a desperate shriek screamed for mercy, my body folding beneath the monster in a protective cocoon. 

Of course, I knew it was my brother every single time, but somehow, my brain succumbed to this disquieting routine. 

This year, the month of March seems to have been hiding in an alcove waiting to flex its familial claws. I've been stepping through the dark of February but writing this slice, I am most certainly not alone.