My first car was an El Camino

My first car was an El Camino. Seventeen-year-old me drove across town taking up every inch of my lane. There was no hiding even in a two-seater cab. This giant of a ride, with its Texas-sized truck bed, rolled right over my desire to be small. 

The paint was a two-tone blue--maybe fancy when it was new, but when my Dad handed me the keys, rust was creeping over the hood. If memory serves, my parents gave me the go-ahead to add the third tone--more sky than robin's egg-- over the dimpled metal. This was one of many times they said yes to the paintbrush. Squinting did nothing to improve its looks, but what a personality.

I remember the mulch. My industrious parents spent their weekends tending the yard. In my recollection, though, I carried a 3-foot pile to school every single day. When I picked up speed on the highway, I'd spot a spray of soil in my review mirror. Drivers, beware of the girl in the El Camino. 

Later, the car became my first canvas for a protest sign. A friend was suspended from our Catholic school for one whole day. I don't recall his crime as much as I recall the oppressive dean of discipline, Colonel LeFevre, who stored a 100-sheet stack of demerits in his chest pocket. One evening, a few of us in a Bible study asked ourselves what Jesus would do in the face of injustice. The result was rolling broadside with the words, "Free Matt McMahon. Stick it to the chicken!" Then, I parked my gargantuan heap in the Colonel's parking space.

My Mom didn't falter, which says a lot about her. Not only did she send her shy daughter off into the wild world in an absurd set of wheels, but she also answered the Colonel's call with feminist pride. 

"She did what?" she inquired smiling unbeknownst to the martinet on the line. "Of course, I'll talk to her."

In car heaven, that El Camino is home to a garden that grows to this day.

Who hasn't had a splinter?

Who hasn't had a splinter? My youngest slid his foot against a rough spot on the floor this afternoon. A needle of wood punctured the sole, and the alarm bells sounded. Instantly, every family task was set aside so we could gather around the patient. Cradling his foot gingerly, mother, father, and brother leaned in with our advice about how to remove the foreign body.

One grabbed the tweezers; another ran the bath. All hell broke loose when someone offered a needle. Only eleven years old, one might assume he'd give up his foot, squeeze his eyes shut, and clench his teeth until it was over. That was not what happened.

His blood boiled, but he found the words to call off the campaign:

"I dislike it when someone attempts to touch my wound because, almost always, I have it completely under control." 

The group retreated respectfully. I stayed for moral support only. Taking one moment at a time, he faced the beast head-on. With a perfect balance of technique, tools, and patience, he coaxed the enemy out of hiding. A quarter-inch shard now lies upon the soap dish, a vestige of his pain.

In one's personal timeline, there are moments when we surrender and moments when we seize control. Today, I was proud to witness the latter.

Some things we will never know

Some things we will never know, stories left untold until the end of time. The gate was only opened a crack, but the whole wide world welcomed my dog today. What she did out there is locked away without a key. 

Alice Thundercracker has what she needs inside the fence: a few tennis balls, a couple of bones, an earless cabbage patch doll. Yet her wanderlust sent her springing for the open road. To sniff the pile of yard debris next door? To follow a rabbit's scent across the way? These assumptions are low-hanging fruit, too obvious. I can imagine her darting from property to property. I can guess that she paraded her freedom for her friends still held captive in their homes. 

It's worth noting that she knows the shortcut to the field at the end of the cul de sac. The expanse includes a cluster of trees where a hawk presides. A substantial tangle of brush is home to countless small rodents. Where middle schoolers typically throw frisbees and play tag, the green expanse is begging for visitors to break into a sprint. On the edges are benches where the remains of school lunches are a cruel temptation. There's no chance she could have overlooked crumbs of chicken nuggets, a little fruit leather, or (thank you, Jesus) peanut butter. 

Not every moment of history is recorded. When the good Samaritan a few doors down escorted Allie home, we hadn't even realized she was gone. Her return, however, was impossible to ignore for the heinous odor she brought with her. How and why she coated herself with a mashup of manure and dead animal is the question of the hour.

Now bathed, she rests in the spring sun while her adventure plays like a song that only she can hear.

Thank you to...

Thank you to the gentleman behind the front desk at Planet Fitness. He saw my birthday alert and delivered a complimentary bottle of water. He's no psychic, but it was cold and delicious. 

Thank you to the spoken word artist who taught my students this week. He might be psychic. But did he know how excited I'd be when he asked, "Anyone's birthday today?" I haven't jumped that high in my classroom for a long time. 

Thank you to my niece whose singing voice is so sweet. She sang happy birthday through the car speaker on my way home. The "ta-da" at the end was a very nice touch.

Thank you to my family for knowing I favor hugs over pancakes. They don't spoil the Wordle with hints. They read my writing, too.

Thank you to me for buying pickles yesterday. Once cynical about self-care, I know now that the simple crunch in my sandwich does make the difference. Also painted fingernails. Occasionally, fresh flowers. Growing older has its perks.

Dear Sophomores

Dear Sophomores, 

A poet came to visit. I have no doubt that you remember because his voice shook the walls of our trailer classroom. Supersonic stanzas pushed us back in our seats. The floor could have buckled from the weight of his wisdom, which he won by telling his truths. 

Then, he leaned forward and asked, What's your story? Who needs to hear it?

Sometimes assignments are simple, but this is not one of those times. It's a big ask, this Best Life project. Whatever the product--be it poems, PSA, speech, or song--convince your audience that the challenges of this modern life can be overcome. I see you looking for the answer key; there isn't one. Instead, the answers are yours to give.

Some say sophomores are wise fools. When I was your age, I was a couple years short of wise. I didn't have the Kardashians or Tik Tok to excuse my foolishness. In my 10th-grade year, I could juggle tormented relationships, broken trust, and academic accidents with one hand. My "best life" was not a prospect I could picture. However, the doodles in my margins began to take up the space they were due. I found my voice on the stage even when my inner voice whispered doubts. And some days--not all--instead of choosing the back of the class, I sat in the front.

Joseph said, "I'm speaking to those who can use these ideas for their project. I'm also speaking to those who will better understand this ten years down the road." 

Either way, I’ll be here to help you try.

Yours,

Ms. Teacher Town

There should be a warning label

There should be a warning label on the Vanilla Sweet Cream Nitro Brew from Starbucks. I lie prostrate as I type, unsure if I should close my eyes or launch like a rocket to the moon. My blood is electrified. I can hardly move. Give me some bricks to smash. Pass me a pillow.

My son--the one with the mermaid logo on his hat--understands my condition. 

"Why did you order it?" he asked. 

"Because they pushed it on me; it's the first item on the menu!" I screamed sleepily.

I was already en route to Starbucks when I opened the app. At the top of my screen, it was more than a cup of coffee; it was an opera, and I could already hear the overture. Now, my brain sings like a soprano but feels like a baritone.

One might say the clarity of the 70 calorie label is missing the mark. Not bad, I said, when submitting my order. It wasn't until later that I discovered the dropdown data, more relevant to my grande order. 

280 mg of caffeine (classified as "extreme" on caffeineinformer.com)

Nope, I wasn't warned. But readers, you are. Proceed with caution.

We're out of pickles

We're out of pickles. This wasn't a big deal yesterday, but about halfway through my lunch, it was painfully obvious. 

Last week, I was in salad heaven. Greens, cherry tomatoes, and mini-cucumbers were in my fridge. All at once. Not only that, the avocados were ripe. Each morning, I sliced this miracle fruit to delight in pure green goodness. To top it all off, I had pickles. I think technically they're called cornichons, but please, the name doesn't matter. It was the sour crunch that turned the ordinary into extraordinary. Five days of bliss, thanks to the pickles. 

In two decades of teaching, I've taken lunch routines too far. Over time, the wholesomeness of yogurt and granola deflated like a balloon after a birthday party. The vibrant dance of rice, beans, and salsa grew tired after a while. 

The pickles are gone, and I see the sign. It's time to shift lunch gears again.

Dear Sunday

Dear Sunday,

You're in my thoughts during this difficult time.

You, friend, are a day I can shape to my liking. I appreciate the mornings you keep unencumbered by a cold-hearted alarm. You sing your weekly hymn and bring busy families together. Breakfast, brunch, or lunch--this delicious variety is yours alone. Your trips to the store--although too popular at times--fill the fruit bowl and set the table for days. Then you go enticing the sneakers to my feet. All of this before the day winds down, leaving the cherished hour or two to prepare for the week ahead. How you manage to balance the mind, body, and spirit in one 24-hour period is a wonder.

This is all to say that I'm sorry for your loss. 

Please know that my standard expectations for you are on hold. One can't expect to spring forward as you have without recovering from the strain. 

Are you feeling pressed to do it all? Not necessary.

Any trouble keeping your thoughts straight? That's to be expected.

Picturing PJs when the sun still shines? You're not alone.

Fifty-one weeks of the year, you carry so many of us with grace. Be kind to yourself. We know you'll be back to normal soon.

Sincerely,

Me

Echo the gecko

Echo the gecko has been with us for about two years. While some families adopted new dogs and cats during the covid lockdown, our youngest lobbied for a lizard. He determined the eyelash crested variety to be the best fit for our family. They're not shy, plus they can lick their own eyeballs. It was a no-brainer.

Echo enjoys a tall tank adorned with soil and hanging moss. They eat crickets and slurp on a pasty fruit concoction. Between the heat lamp and our misting routine, we hope they find conditions to be suitably humid. Similar to the climate of southern New Caledonia, an island off the coast of Australia? Probably not, but we try.

Sometime between 1866 and 1994, crested geckos slipped off the grid. Echo's cousins--those sneaky devils--managed to go unseen by humans for decades. What a life they lived,  jumping from tree to tree in the South Pacific rainforests. All the fruit and insects they could eat. Fire ants are a menace, but compared to the mess man was making, the geckos did right to keep their distance from us. Looking around today, I wonder if they're rethinking their come-back.

Ages ago, I read that gazing into my dog's eyes releases oxytocin, a love hormone, in both of us. In the morning, I greet Echo too. They sit atop a log, basking in the warmth and rain, and look at me wide-eyed (the absence of eyelids should be noted). In one eternal moment, we stare into the depths of our shared earthly experience. 

The lifespan of a gecko in captivity is up to 20 years. My youngest is set to move out in about 6. Echo and me--it looks like we have time to ponder this twisted world together.

What time is it?

What time is it? 4:30. 

My son, the barista, has an early-morning gig. He's no stranger to the bike commute, but I've been giving him a lift when shifts begin before the sun rises. Confession: I'm now the mom who gets in the car with her PJs on. At this hour, I can steal more sleep before my second alarm sounds. Not this morning.

Today, I seized the day. Out of my flannel pants, I jumped into proper gear and readied myself for the gym. On our way, we counted cars, acknowledged the stranger who routinely chooses the street over the sidewalk, and wondered aloud if we might ever sleep in again.  

Does anyone remember the Spin Doctors? I was in high school when a new friend described their scene. Picture NYC, all the lights, and you're up all night. I couldn't fathom that anyone my age would have found themselves at their show, but first-hand accounts set me daydreaming for every teenage year thereafter. 

It's not late, naw, naw. It's early. early.

(A closer look suggests their lyrics are worth another post.) This morning, though, the melody played innocently in my ear. A reminder that we need not be slaves to time.

When a day begins and when it ends is nobody's business but our own.

They call it prima vista.

They call it prima vista. At my son's choral concert tonight, the advanced groups received slips of paper on which they had never set their eyes. 

Upon receipt, they turned to one another to evaluate the new musical notation. Small groups engaged in a hurried 2-minute rehearsal. Listening to their discordant practice, some members of the audience wiped the cold sweat from their brows. Their director, however, shined confidence upon her players while they snapped out the tempo in a mess of missed notes and hapless harmony.

An anonymous voice--like Oz behind the curtain--ended the short period of experimentation. Then, a signal, and the chorus raised their voices in unison. 

As one, each trusted in their own knowledge and instincts. They were also magnets, relying on their invisible pull, vibrations braiding their voices together. We concertgoers worried for nothing, oblivious to the months of practice that led to tonight's victory. 

This "first sight" level of mastery has me thinking. What can my students do entirely on their own? What more they can do with each other's support? 

Instagram has a question...

Instagram has a question for us: Is it time to take a break? 

Today in a Socratic Seminar, I learned that the social media app is throwing some sudsy water on its tarnished image. They've been dealing with bad press and congressional hearings, not to mention the Kim/Kanye debacle. Their solution is a gentle prompt with some alternative activities--my favorite, of course, includes writing. :)

"So does it work?" I asked.

"Haha, no way. Ignore. Every time."

After some solid research, students are brainstorming viable solutions to modern-day problems: the effects of technology on mental health, censorship of books, misinformation, rise in hate crimes, the list goes on. I'm comforted by their compassion and genuine connections to the topics--just as it compels me to comfort them for living in this messed up world.

Before today, though, most of them didn't know the meaning of "top-down" decisions. I explained, "We rely on leaders to write policies that protect our well-being. At the same time, the same leaders are obliged to respond to our signals." (Yes, I'm an optimist.)

As for Instagram, this new setting isn't likely to sprout grass in my students' budding social movement. Frankly, its tone is reminiscent of their parents, or *gag*, their teachers. 

Come on, IG, don't tell us what to do. It's on us to decide when enough is enough. 

Winning isn't everything.

Winning isn't everything. But losing stings.

Wordle 262 X/6

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Just one week ago, I coasted to the finish line with a golden "rupee" hanging from my neck. Today, I bow my head in defeat over a word we all use around the house.

It's true, I struggled through six fruitless rows, only to receive a failing grade at the end. My heart swells for students who pour such passion into their academic demands and come up short. The ones who sit by when the honor certificates are delivered during T.A. Gosh, I'm even rethinking the Kahoot podium for those who remain in the stands. 

While today's loss won't deter me from trying again [at least 4:27:34 seconds from now], I will stand tall for the underdog. Soon, I hope to replace this verbal trouncing with the triumph I deserve. And if I don't, I have some advice at the ready:

"Things won are done; joy's soul lies in the doing." -Shakespeare

"Do teens like to argue?"

"Do teens like to argue?" I dropped the question in the Google machine, yielding over 20 million results in .47 seconds. In contrast, the phrase "Are teens agreeable?" delivered a measly 9 million hits, causing the search engine to labor .06 seconds longer. I rest my case.

This internet fact is what I'm relying on in the next couple of days when my classes take a seat at the Round Table to set Farhenheit 451's world alongside our own. Like King Arthur, my end goal is for students to fight for the safety of Camelot. Unlike the Big A, I'm hoping the knights care enough to quarrel. 

They're coming together to talk about Bradbury: 

Was he right? 

If so, how much? 

Enough for us to do something about it? 

If so, what?  

 

They can draw their swords against Ray, the world, or both. (Pretty please, don't choose none of the above.) By sharing their research and rehashing first-hand experience, I'm rooting for them to confirm what Google told me today. And I could sure use some evidence to back up my claim:

Teens like to argue. 

Clarisse could make bank...

Clarisse could make bank as an influencer.

When they reached [Clarisse's] house all its lights were blazing. 

"What's going on?" Montag had rarely seen that many house lights.

"Oh, just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking...Oh, we're most peculiar." 

-Farhenheit 451

Now, here's a trend worth our time. It's eclipsing the death scroll that leaves so many feeling empty inside. The warmth you feel when you like a post is a flash in the pan compared to the simmer that sustains all day. Clarisse and her family were on to something.

Talking.

This weekend was full of it. Around the table and the town, I set my introverted self aside and opened up to conversations with loved ones near and far. Rain or shine, a good old tête-à-tête has the power to make givers and receivers of us all. Dialogue for the win.

It is Sunday night, and the sun has set on Teacher Town. Like last week, this one will present puzzles to solve. My family is still unraveling our own stories of the day. But we're also remarking about the awkward expression on our dog's face. The song that just shuffled onto Spotify's Daily Mix. The black peppercorns with the power to make or break the meal on the stove. 

Today and tomorrow, I choose all of the above.

Clarisse, you have a follower in me.

The sun was shining...

The sun was shining this Saturday. After several months of cold, grey winter, I spent almost every hour outside, including a long walk with a friend. 

"I worry it's an addiction," she confessed about her college-graduate son, describing his phone use--not drugs, alcohol, sex, or gambling. 

We've been moms for almost 25 years, and we remember when our firstborns got their first flip phones sometime in middle school. They weren't even part of the tech wave that swept up our sons who followed. The wave in which countless families expanded their household budgets to include the cost of iPhones for everyone. Who doesn't have tech-savvy toddlers in their lives? My seventy-year-old parents usually read my texts in 1-10 seconds. 

"I blame the adults," is what one of my students said, "but the adults aren't better off, so what are the rest of us going to do?" 

I started the day with a long run along the river. My running partner and I paired miles with memories. Distance and discovery. Later, I weaved through the neighborhood with another friend and our dogs. In between, my middle and I watched the youngest at Taekwondo and then we all fit in a trip to the grocery store. It was a day that required no devices for entertainment. We had the sun, each other, and a sense of purpose to distract us. 

To what extent did Bradbury's predictions come true? You were on to something, Ray. But we're not going down without a fight. 

Do you think books are like birds?

Do you think books are like birds? Bradbury talks about birds in some fashion approximately 10 times in Fahrenheit 451. 

He describes pigeons and doves flapping their snowy white feathers. Children delight in birds and butterflies in the backyard. Books are also set ablaze to roast, pigeon-winged, and dying on the porch. After several bombs fall on the distant city, Montag and his new friends recall the mythical phoenix. A symbol of hope that with rupture, there is hope for repair. 

When we finished the last chapter about a week ago, I wished the rest of my books were birds. I wished for my favorite titles to fly off of the shelves into willing hands. And I suspect Bradbury cared less about students reading his books than he did about students reading many books. 

What's the opposite of burning books? As students dig into a research project--more on that later--they're exercising their freedom to read. 

We can read anything?

Yes

Does it have to connect to a certain theme?

Nope

Should we take notes on it?

Please, don't.

What should we do when we finish?

Read another one. :)

The books on my shelves that sat huddled like birds on a wire have taken flight. We're reading and talking, exchanging recommendations, and reacting. Some books are slow-roasting on the spit. Many others have the spirit of a sparrow. 

Thanks, Ray.

It was a simpler time...

It was a simpler time when Ray Bradbury was a boy. The "idyllic childhood" he enjoyed in Waukegan, Illinois in the 1920s sounds like a fantasy compared to 2020. He loved magic and reading fantasy stories. When his family couldn't afford college, he went to libraries instead. Ray was bothered by the television. Turning the knob meant that war, hatred, corruption, and more--albeit a human reality for millennia--couldn't be ignored. The scary realities of World War II surely disrupted visions of sleepy country roads and the warm-hearted librarian in the children's section. 

But what about kids today? They don't have the 1920s or even the relative peace and prosperity of the 90s in their personal archives. My sixteen-year-old sophomores were born in 2006. Think about that for a minute. I don't see them romanticizing the before/after. It just seems like they're dealing with some pretty tough shit. Right now.

Ray deserves a lot of props for predicting our impending doom in Farhenheit 451, and I'll keep teaching it. Because my kids study history, they get it. But do they get it? They've spent the last week exploring the question: To what extent did Bradbury's predictions come true? Fortunately, for the history of humankind, Google delivers some good news along with the bad. 

As for my next question: How can we promote the benefits of modern life and reduce the harms? This keeps me up at night, which is why I'll finish this post with another...

...be continued.

I made Fahrenheit 451 required reading...

I made Farhenheit 451 required reading for English 10 classes this year, and I thought, now here's a text that will speak to kids. I asked, To what extent did Bradbury's predictions come true? Because come on...guys! Montag! 

Technology-obsessed society.
I mean, look at us.

Burning books because they upset people.

A whole lot of upset and some mentions of matches.

Rise in violent crimes.

Do we need to check the numbers?

Media messages are drenched in materialism and misinformation.

Yeah, keep scrolling.

I've always been pretty impressed with Ray for his prescience. It's neat that he thought up Airpods before Steve Jobs, a.k.a. seashells. Mildred and Montag's need for BetterHelp.com should have been data-mined ages ago. Mechanical Hounds are actually a thing these days if you count the pups in Singapore who enforce social distancing in parks. Of course, there's more.

Young readers see things differently.

Does he need to use so many words?

What's with his interest in Clarisse? Is she a little young?

The hobos memorized books. You're not going make us do that, are you?

We get it, he was right. We might be okay with that.

When the required reading was done--we had unpacked the significance of the phoenix, the tree of life, and even the bacon--the city was obliterated, and it was time to rebuild. 

To be continued...

Will you judge me...

Will you judge me if I start the SOLSC by bragging about my Wordle score? 

Wordle 255 2/6

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Don't worry, I won't spoil it. You still have 4:09:16 before the next Wordle is released.

Funny story: When I send my Wordle score to my mom during my lunch period, she asks for my first word. A few minutes later? You guessed it--she shares a score that's one better than mine. I love her and resent her for this all at the same time.

Oh Wordle, I doubted you at first. After being raised on Scrabble and crosswords, I wondered if 5 letters could do it for me. But when a person can rule out 2-3 vowels in one turn, who wouldn't cherish the letters who remain free for your artful manuevering? 

It's the time it takes that I adore. What is it--2 minutes? 5 minutes max? Just like that, you have an accomplishment that's all your own. Check it off your list for the day. You just submitted your Wordle, and it offered its congratulations, assuming you make it before 6/6. 

If you get stuck, just text me. Or my mom. We'll help you out.