Flood Gate

Last night while taking my before-bed nasal spray, I slipped off the applicator pump with the tip of the bottle in my nostril. Not good. It hurt like a bitch, poked into the central cartilage in my nose. Naturally, I started to cry. I put a tissue to my nose and sopped up the tears, the drool, and what turned out to be only a slight and faint nose bleed. I drew in a deep breath, and then I bawled my eyes out, not because I was badly hurt. It seems that minor poke into my nose released something. Don't get me wrong, it hurt. But when I continued to cry, even harder, my husband was scared I was wounded more seriously.

Nope, apparently the build up of everything in my life right now just became too overwhelming in that moment in time. I went from being wound up and worried about getting a good night sleep before a big day I have today (more on that later), to weeping, draining myself, and falling asleep pretty quickly. I'm grateful I got a good night's sleep and I can get my day started. I'll be glad when it's over.

So Much More...

If you've read any of my blog or met me in person, you know I am part of a writing circle. We call ourselves that. A writing circle. We write and we talk about writing. Once a year we hold a writing retreat and this year all but one of us attended the Sanibel Island Writers Conference together. We have a shared blog, and we have individual blogs. We write.

But we are so. much. more.

Our writing circle is as much a circle of trust and friendship as it is a writing circle, and that's probably what makes it such a strong writing circle too. Instead of attention-seeking cryptic posts on Facebook to express frustration, anger, disapproval, fear, or embarrassment, we spill our guts to each other, often in writing.

We dine. We talk. We Write. We trust.

I am so blessed to have these women in my life. Often they are the only ones I can share these emotions with when they are fresh and real. A strong and loving marriage and a supportive and loving family are wonderful. But sometimes the ones you really need in the moment are your sisters. This week I've been holding some stuff in. There are some things that I can't speak of publicly for good reason. All in time, but in the meantime I have my writing circle of trust and friendship. How do you like that name for these superwomen? I love it.

We are blessed.

Not all pictured here but the closest I could get.

Neverendingness

Sadness washes over me like the tide pulls away from the shore
my time at the coast is always too short
sounds of seagulls and waves will turn
to cars and commotion
what is it about the sea
its vastness, it's blending shades
of blue and green
looking out I see neverendingness
quiet and calm
where the ocean meets the sky

Beachside Morning

To capture the sound of  beachside morning
is it the gently rolling tide, the occasional wave
crashing over a small jutting point of the shoreline
or is it the wind swirling around the twentieth sorry balcony
a plane flying overhead, travelers headed home from their holiday visit
I sit here enjoying the morning breeze and the daybreak sun
two days after an un-Thanksgiving
thankful for this time in solitude

Trip Down Holiday Memory Lane

Thanksgiving is this weekend, which means the holidays are just around the corner. Yes, I say holidays because my family is Jewish and celebrates Chanukah and my husband's family celebrates Christmas. That means there are multiple holidays with an "s" celebrated in our neck of the woods. This year the first night of Chanukah is actually Christmas Eve, so it's all one big bang for our buck!

Speaking of bucks, my husband and I started shopping this past weekend. The Amazon boxes are already showing up at the door. We have two nieces and three nephews under the age of 10. As we were looking for just the right toys and games, I started thinking about the things my sister and I got most excited about during the Chanukahs of days past. When we were in elementary school, my parents did the one present for each night, gradually building to something a little bigger at the end. Eventually, the things we wanted or were interested in were higher cost items, and we got one or two bigger things rather than eight crazy nights!

Here are some of the most memorable, not in any order of chronology or preference...

Freazy Feakies

It was hard to find images of the original Freezy Freakies. We lived in New York until I was 14, and these gloves came out one winter in the 80's. I honestly don't remember which ones we had. I'm not sure if these are original or the new "throw back" versions that are now available for 80's nostalgia nuts. These gloves were all the rage one year, classic gimmick. They had a plastic coating, and the design changed colors in the cold. Seems kind of meh now, with all of the crazy technology and innovation we have. But we just had to have them. Funny thing about them is they weren't particularly comfortable. They provided little flexibility and gripping in them was tough. They were good for two things only: getting a kick out of having them and gathering snow for building forts or snowmen. Either way, we thought we were pretty cool!

Superstar Barbie Fashion Face

 

I was never into Barbies, but holy moly! I remember wanting this so badly. You could style barbie's plastic thread hair and it came with make-up so you could put it on her face. It's crazy to me, of all the things I wanted as a kid, this was the most "girly." My sister and I were tomboys, and she had Barbies, but not me. This though, man I wanted it! I never would have remembered that it was called a Fashion Face. I looked it up as Barbie Head, and there it was. My sister and I each got one that year.

Cabbage Patch Dolls

Before there were Ferbies or Tickle-Me-Elmo, there was the Cabbage Patch Doll. This was the toy of the decade of decadence, the me generation. Parents went absolutely insane waiting in lines, trampling each other, and telling off sales clerks to get their children Cabbage Patch Dolls. Every kid wanted them, and I was no different. Man was I excited when i opened my Chanukah present that year. Everyone wanted one, but not everyone got one. I'm not sure what my parents did to get one, but I never saw them in one of these crazy news stories:

What I do remember is bringing mine to school so I would have it when I went to my friend's house after school. I put it in my locker, and it got stolen. I don't know if I was more upset about losing the doll or knowing what my parents were going to do to me when they found out it was stollen. It took a long while, but I eventually got a new one. Too bad I didn't keep it all these years, I hear they're worth money to collectors. It's a good thing I'm a better real parent than a doll parent!

Other things I remember wanting: an Easy Bake Oven, a Sony Walkman (at the time, Sony was the only one who made one), an Islanders hockey jersey, leg warmers, a mini skirt, and Reebok high tops- the ones with the colored stripe down the middle of the shoe laces that matched the color on the bottom of the soles, a double wrap spiked belt, and this Benetton Rugby Jersey

My son is turning 18 a week from today; shopping has never been easier. Electronics and cash. Done.

It's Coming to Me

Procrastination or percolation
sometimes I can't tell the difference
It's like that word or phrase
on the tip of your tongue
It's an idea or concept
at the tip of your brain
You know what you're thinking
but it just will not surface
you can't write or type
you can't process out loud
so you wait
wait some more
wait a little longer
percolating
marinating
stewing
You wonder
Am I putting it off?
Or
Am
I
just
not
ready
yet?

Sick

My own version of "Sick," a take off on Shel Silverstein's poem by the same title.

Thank G-d there is no school today
thought an administrator named Laurie Jaye
I have the laundry and groceries too
There's just so much I have to do
Grade some papers, catch up on reading
Write my blog, prepare for a meeting
Baking bread, planning the week's meals
Early shopping for internet deals
Fixing lunches, packing to travel
So much to do and I'm about to unravel
My head is foggy, my stomach's not right
My nose is stuffed up, and my back is tight
I'm dragging ass and my energy is low
I am not getting sick, say it ain't so.
What's that? What's that you say?
This week there is a holiday?
Alright, I can stick it out three days.

Tail Spin

Conflict, fear, uncertainty
not the election
not the state of the country
though these things concern me too
this is about me

How do I feel?
What should I do?
What do I want?

It's not about figuring it all out
and worrying what will be
as much as it how to move forward
to focus my attention
and take action

Do I know what I want?
Do I have to know in order to do?
How do I channel the disequilibrium?

I wait, or is it I avoid?
I distract, or is it I choose?
Am I overthinking?

I wonder if I am being a realist
or a coward
I wonder if I am ready for change
or I just think I am
too much thinking not enough doing

Answers will come, but when?

Diary of a Colloquium Professor #11

Today was our fifth and final class field trip. It wasn't my greatest moment as an instructor, but nonetheless it was an enjoyable morning. I tried to pick up doughnuts for my students on the way to campus (there's a story there not worth getting into), and the Dunkin' Donuts on the way to campus has apparently closed. News to me. Strike 1. Surprised, but still running on time because I was early, I tried to stop at Target.   Any doughnuts I got there would likely be less than awesome, but hey, they'd still be doughnuts. Got up to the door at about 7:40 to find Target doesn't open until 8. Strike 2. The only other option not completely out of the way, was a Publix a few miles past campus. I pulled out and headed toward campus and sped past the entrance. I looked at the clock and feared I wouldn't make it there and back to campus on time, and decided to hang a u-turn. Strike 3.

I pulled into the garage and parked my car. I was early but there were a few students already there. We stood around and talked, waiting for the bus and the rest of the class to arrive. At 8:00 I noticed there was no student naturalist present. I didn't know we wouldn't have a student guide, and I felt a little nervous. I had never guided students on the Downtown Fort Myers trip on my own. Admittedly, I am not all that versed in the history. I knew I wasn't going to be able to give them as educational of an experience as I would have liked. We had no tour and no time in the museum scheduled. It was the city, my students, and me. Had I known I was flying solo today, I sure would have studied up a bit and I would have been more prepared. 

We walked through Centennial Park, and along the river.I shared with them some of the tidbits I did know. The history of the cattle business, the river basin, the treescapes and other restoration projects. And then I walked them over to Starbucks, where one of their classmates treated all 20 of them to beverage! Then they broke into groups and I gave them a Downtown Fort Myers scavenger hunt along with a link to a map to look at on their phones. We made a meeting spot and I set them free. One group asked me to walk with them, so I did. I was happy to be asked and I was able to show them a few more things I knew about, like the palm park, the River Basin Project, and the Florida Reparatory Theater. We walked up to the courthouse and back around to Harborside and the park. 

I asked my students if they felt slighted. There was another group from our campus that was on the professional Downtown Tour. My students said no way. Many of them had never been downtown before, and they enjoyed walking around and exploring. It was a beautiful day. I even convinced them to allow their dorky teacher to take a photo of all of them in the park before we left.

On the bus ride back a couple of them told me how much they loved the class. They said it was a lot of fun and they're going to miss me. I had a lot of fun with them too, and I'll be sad to say goodbye. I always am, it doesn't matter whether it's 4th grade, high school, or college. There's something bitter sweet about letting them go.

A Friend Haiku

Just when you need it

A friend calls out of the blue

Chit-chat and sushi!

Diary of a Colloquium Professor #10

Or why I love teaching college...

It's been a rough week. The full moon has brought the challenges all schools face during this monthly phenomenon. Everyone just seems slightly off. The student behavior is less than stellar, which makes the mood around school edgy. That of course leads to stressed out teachers and counselors. It's all part of the job, and we make it through by trying to remain strength-based and of course by supporting each other. But this afternoon was a doozy. I was looking forward to checking out right on time, and heading over to campus. I had time and the weather was spectacular, so I avoided the highway and planned to take a leisurely drive in the jeep and get to campus early.

Nope.

The universe had other plans. As I drove straight down the main road that leads to campus, up ahead I noticed people were starting to jump the median and u-turn back toward the direction I came from. I continued a little further until I could make out the words on the orange construction zone-looking sign. It wasn't construction at all. It said "Emergency scene ahead." More cars in front of me hopped the median revealing blue and red emergency lights high and ahead of the traffic. That's all  could see. I was about a 7 or 8 mile straight shot from campus and I had to turn around.

I could drag out the details of the backed up traffic and idiot drivers on the road to give you the feel of the frustration. But to sum it up, I spent well over an hour trying to get through one intersection and onto the highway I so gleefully avoided int he first place. My twenty minute commute to campus turned into a 2 hour drive. About 15 minutes before the class start time, in stand still traffic, I scrolled through my phone to find a text message from one of my students in my history. Jackpot! I sent a text to her explaining the situation, and asking her to tell the class to give me an extra 15 minutes to arrive. If I wasn't there by 6:15, they could leave and I would post something for them online. She responded so all was good.

At exactly 6:15, I pulled into the parking garage, texted her again to tell her I was parking and I'd be there in a couple of minutes. I could see on my phone that she had read the text, but she didn't respond. Hmm... I walked briskly from the garage to the academic building with my phone in hand. Nothing. I walked into the building and approached our classroom. One of my students was standing outside the room, leaning against the wall and looking at this phone. I could see in the classroom windows it was dark. Defeated.
"Did every leave already?" I asked desperately.
"I guess they must have," he said. He opened the door and it was dark and empty. I was a tiny bit relieved at the thought of going home because I was totally spent. But I was disappointed that the other student hadn't alerted them to stay.
"Wow, they're really gone. I just..." He opened the door again, and 22 college students jumped out and shouted at me! They were hiding and playing around with me. I was thrilled. Exhilarated. Happy. Not only did they not leave, but the entire class was in attendance. They waited for me and brought such a smile to my face.

I unloaded about my challenging day and my commute and thanked them for waiting. Then I asked them to go on a journey with me. They all agreed without reservation, and we went and had class in the middle of the lawn on campus. I had intended for us all to watch the sunset together, but it didn't work out. Instead, we sat under the moon with path lights. I invited them to lie down, close their eyes if they wished. We talked about sense of place and introduce them to David Orr's ideas about residing vs. inhabiting. I asked them how many of them had ever sat leisurely on the lawn on campus. I was absolutely flabbergasted to find only 3 of them had. Really? I told them about my undergrad days at UM, and how everyone hung out on the lawn. You could see people playing frisbee, studying, making out, eating lunch, sunbathing. It was part of campus life. Part of our place.

I told them that not all environmental education is about the doom and gloom and the catastrophic state of the earth. I told them it's as much about nurturing a love of nature and being outside. I encouraged each of them to spend some time on the lawn, in this place, at least once before they graduate, and to take their shoes and socks off and put their feet in the grass.

It was a delightful evening.

This is what I was hoping to expose them to, but it was too late.

Making the Familiar Strange

One of the best workshops I attended during the SIWC, was a two-day poetry session with Nikole Brown.  The two days were spent on the concept of Ostranenie, a Russian word meaning to make strange.* It is this idea that to write poetry, we need to defamiliarize things and see them as strange. We need to notice things in ways we never did before, experience them like they are new to us. In addition to sharing all of her words of wisdom, she took us through an exercise I found to be helpful in my own writing. I shared it with a member of my writing group over lunch that day and she thought it would be a great lesson with her middle school language arts students. I have tried to outline the activity for presentation in a lesson, while simultaneously producing my piece of writing. Brown had us use the image of a mermaid. I wasn't thrilled because I didn't have any connection to or interest in mermaids. Admittedly, it was the perfect type of image for the activity. The "steps" outlined below are the instructions given to us at each phase of the activity. Have at it!

Photo Credit- Hannah Mermaid by David Pu'u. Retrieved from http://flippinyourfins.tumblr.com/post/23400002571/hannah-mermaid-by-david-puu

Step 1:
Write a brief, one sentence description of a mermaid. It might be helpful to say "concrete description." She later added to describe it to someone who has never seen one before and has no idea what it is.

We wrote and she asked quite a few people to share examples. While we shared, she wrote words on the board. They were all words we heard repeatedly in people's writing. I wrote:

A mermaid has the head and torso of a human with the bottom and tail of a fish.

Step 2: 
She asked us to write a description again, only this time we were not permitted to use any of the words she put on the board.

sea
tail
fish
half-human

We wrote again and she asked people to share. As people read aloud again, she continued to take more words down and add them to the "do not use" list. I wrote:

An underwater creature who's bottom half is scales and skin, and whose top half looks perfect in a clam shell bikini.

Step 3:
She asked us to write a third time. The descriptions started to become a little more elaborate as writers tried to avoid the forbidden words. In addition to the other words, now she added more.

hair
creature
ocean
fins


We wrote again and she asked people to share. She took down more words again! I wrote:

A swimmer with no legs, only scales and flesh below the belly, and whose top half looks perfect in a clam shell bikini.

Step 4:
She asked us to write one more time. Now the do-not use list included all the others and

sand
legs
scales
swim

(There may have been others, but I lost track at this point while I tried to write.)

Now the writing was getting descriptive. We were starting to see how taking away the familiar words and cliche descriptions, were yielding some detailed and poetic imagery.

It's not particularly masterful, but here is what I finished with:

She flows through her world like a ribbon in the wind, her body one with the waves. She propels herself using only her dolphin kick. Arms by her sides, she needs them only as she rises to the surface. The other aquatic beings marvel at her grace, and she rises to the surface posing deceitfully for boaters who see her as a Barbie in a clam shell bikini.

Though I was fully engaged and bought in, I struggled with this activity. I wrote an encouraging note to myself in my notebook to keep trying and stretch myself as I worked through the exercise. It was all about defamiliarization and creating images not from your head but from your body. The discomfort I had was because I was learning something new. I loved every minute of it. There is another concept Brown spent some time on, but rather than drop it here and announce a future post, I'll save it for another day. It's coming. Stay tuned...

In the meantime, have fun trying this on your own as a writer or with students in a classroom. Take an iconic thing or image and gradually remove the go-to words everyone uses to describe it. It works!



*When speaking about defamiliarization and Ostranenie, Nicole Brown referred to Charles Baxter and his book, Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction.

Phenomenal Me

I'm double posting tonight. Because I want to. Because this post I wrote for my writing circle blog is worthy of living here as well. The prompt was tow rite about a phenomenal woman. It suggested writing about one you've never written about before. Famous, close to home, it didn't matter. I could have written about a famous author, a teacher, Hillary Clinton or Michelle Obama. But instead, I decided to keep it closer to home.

It’s hard to recognize a single woman who has influenced me. My life has had no shortage of phenomenal women, so here’s to all of them…

My mom who birthed me, raised me, and taught me what truly unconditional, unbreakable, infinite love is. Lucky for me, my grandmother also came with the package. My Bubbie loved family above all else. She taught me to cook, not with recipes but with love. I should only feel as beautiful and smart and perfect as I was in her eyes.

My sister, who above all else has been on the journey with me to womanhood. Sharing the most challenging and triumphant moments in young womanhood. Teaching me what I should look for in every friend I meet and expect nothing less than what she always shared with me.

My teachers, all of them, I never had a bad one. Mrs. Schneider, Mrs. Baranoff, Ms. Ritcher, Mrs. Kravitz, Mrs. Bliok, Mrs. Ortola. The teachers at E.M. Baker Elementary School in Great Neck, New York were outstanding. Each of them was special in their own way. Mrs. Schneider recognized me in a mall in Florida, almost ten years after I was in her Kindergarten class. Ms. Ritcher taught us to square dance. Mrs. Bliok brought back the fountain pen and taught us to write in cursive with the most beautiful peacock blue wet ink. Mrs. Ortola gave us our own checking accounts and had an archeological dig in a giant raised sandbox. They instilled a love of learning in me during the most important time in my development. 

My friends’ moms, the ones who were like mine, and the ones who weren’t. Julie’s mom, Linda, who was a wonderful artist and hand calligraphied all of the neighborhood Bar-Mitzvah invitations and hosted sleepover birthday parties. Jennifer’s mom, Carolyn, the school librarian who treated me like I was her own. Gillian’s mom, Suzanne, who was a musical free spirit who allowed us to explore the same in ourselves. And Stacy’s mom, Judy, who took me in like her own and even on family vacations, when my parents were splitting up.

My co-workers at the domestic violence center, where I had my first “grown-up” job. I learned to put others before self and became hooked on working in the non-profit sector. All of them for helping me understand women’s issues, and the challenges of women of color, and how a grassroots organization of women can empower a community.

My friends who have survived tragedies, losing children, losing parents. Fighting their way out of financial challenges and broken families. Committing themselves to be the best parents, teachers, nurses, artists, writers, lawyers, realtors, human beings they can be.

My grade school students over the years who have fought poverty, trauma, abuse, learning difficulties, broken homes, mental illness, or just childhood in general in the 21^st century. 

My college students who are raising children, working full time, supporting their families, and going to school. And doing really well at all of it.

There are so many more. The women I work with now at PACE. They give everything, heart and soul to the young women we serve. We all try to live by example and role model for the young women in our center. We work tirelessly to help them see the possibilities in life.

Golden Lines

Golden Lines

A found poem inspired by the SIWC 2016

Be actively seeking, even if you're not actively writing.

Art gives us a chance to objectify our lives.

As artists, we have to relearn the world all over again 

and see things like we've never seen them before.

When you are writing, don't feel like you have to go to exotic places. 

Just live your life as you do, and pay attention.

It's your call as a writer to be aware, to pay attention.

Good writing does not begin with answers, but questions.

Move everything that's in your head into the body. Writing lives in the body.

The more specific you get to a thing, the closer you get to poetry.

I give you my world so you can connect it to yours.

Work and world events have kept me from really processing the indescribable experience of the Sanibel Island Writers Conference (SIWC). I attended so many wonderful workshops, panels, and readings. One of the marks of a truly transformative experience in my opinion, is a journal filled with golden lines, nuggets of wisdom and advice from the various interactions. Tonight I began to mine these bits out of my writer's notebook. Here is the first piece I have created, admittedly out of the words of others. Much of this is from a poetry workshop with Nikole Brown, but there might also be tidbits from Sandra Beasley, Richard Blanco, and Steve Almond... all brilliant writers!

Purge and Hope

I haven't written in four days. I have felt numb. The 2016 U.S. presidential election results left me in shock. My initial reaction was to shut it out and go about my everyday activity. Inside, I was feeling something I couldn't put into words. Angry, fearful, sad... none of them seemed to describe the unsettling knots in my stomach, and in my heart. I swore I wouldn't lash out. I wouldn't pick up a pen or open my keyboard and rant. This was no time for an emotionally charged rant. I decided instead to retreat, to pretend nothing happened. But, we all know that's impossible.

In the days following, I have mostly been observing. I've listened to Trump supporters gloat about their "win" as though it was high school football competition. I've heard these same people shame protesters who feel strongly Trump is not their president. I've tried to pretend there isn't a thickness in the air, one even the high school students I work with can feel. I tried to comfort a friend who was weepy, in deep sorrow, about what this election will mean for the future of our nation.

I've listened to people from every side and angle spew self-righteousness and I have said nothing. Perhaps it's because I don't know what to say. I don't even know what I feel. And though I am not happy about the outcome of the election, I am scared to feel consumed by it. I am scared to feel that angry all the time. And I refuse.

So I have decided to purge, here and now. Then I will move on the best I can.

I am embarrassed that this man is the face of our nation. I am embarrassed by the things he has said and the things he said he wants to do. I am embarassed by the words of people I know. I can't believe people say we needed Trump because the last eight years under President Obama were "a mess." I don't agree with this statement.

I am sick of the slogan Make America great again, because I don't believe America was ever not great. I am now, though, afraid of what America will become. I'm sick of people dismissing Trump's deplorable comments and actions towards minorities and women.

I am scared for Americans' (all Americans) civil rights. I am scared for the future of health care, education, the environment, and social services in our country. I'm scared because I still feel disgust at the mention of his name and the sight of his face. I don't want to feel that way about the President of my country.

But I will hope for the best, because I have no other choice. I hope he will prove us wrong (though I am skeptical). I hope the next four years go quickly and without disaster. I hope our new President rises to the occasion. I hope as my dad said this morning, that the president will make the man. I hope  the people of our nation will find a way to come together again. I hope American can heal.

Full Plate

Mom always said I was best when I had too much on my plate. Right now I feel like I should be rockin' it. My plate is piled high, and I have responsibilities and to-do tasks dripping over the sides of my plate and onto the table. I guess it's time for me to pick up my fork, dig in and take one bite at a time There just is no other way.

I Can't Believe I Wrote This

This one is going to hurt bad. Really bad. There's a very painful part of my childhood I don't visit often in my writing or storytelling. It reads a bit like a subplot from the movie Mean Girls...

Middle school was a rough transition in the Long Island town of my childhood. Several elementary schools fed into two middle schools, North and South. All the kids I grew up with and around funneled into North, so I can't say much about South. But North was largely the landing ground for the kids from three schools, three different zip codes. Make no mistake, everyone knew the order of income and wealth from *Rock Hill and Rolling Green to Kingstown.

Suddenly each of the pockets of kids comfortable in their own neighborhoods, were thrown together to duke it out for their places in the hierarchy of middle school social life. Sixth grade was an important year. Where you landed could determine your station in secondary society for the next six years, because North Middle fed right into North High.

I struggled in middle school. I was with the same kids from kindergarten to fifth grade, and I was smart and athletic in a town that valued both academic achievement and sports. It was cool to be smart, and I had plenty of friends. It didn't matter so much that I was a little chubby, because I was active and young. Boys liked girls who ran fast and played soccer. Affirmative on both accounts.

But the girls in middle school, oh the girls. When the three feeder schools mixed, it was clear the rich girls were at the top of the food chain. The rest of us fought our way into the social circle. There was one dynamic that muddied the water though. In this predominantly Jewish town, there were several synagogues. The one your family joined, was not necessarily the one closest to your home. Membership to the temple was based on whether your family was Orthodox, Conservative, or Reformed. Kids who went to one elementary school might be "Hebrew School friends" with kids who went to a different elementary school because their families belonged to the same synagogue. This created alliances outside your everyday network of friends, giving you a wider friend base when you entered middle school. This was my situation.

I attended Rock Hill, the lowest school in the wealth hierarchy. My best friend from early childhood went to Rolling Hills, the school in the middle of the hierarchy. Our families both belonged to the Conservative Jewish temple. We went to nursery school and Hebrew school there with two girls named Rachael and Stacey, from the wealthiest school. In middle school, I started to hang out with Rachael and Stacey, and some of their friends from Kingstown. Some of my elementary friends knew some of their friends from another temple and soon enough the groups were blended. That's a lot of girls trying to impress each other.

Enough of the backstory. To be honest, I think I'm sharing it because this story is so embarrassing and hurtful, I feel the need to explain how cut-throat the social environment was. As an adult, I feel ashamed I even worried about these girls liking me. But when you grow up in a town like that, you just don't know any better... I'm glad I moved away in time for high school. I just got lucky.

In my constant struggle to be accepted and to feel good enough and popular enough, I spent many a day in middle school feeling physically ill. Nausea, nerves, it was awful. I remember days of feigning sore throats and headaches just so I didn't have to go to school. I woke up everyday wondering if it would be my turn to become the castaway. It sounds pathetic, but I identified with Claire from the Breakfast Club. In the scene when they're all bearing their soles to each other and she explains how high pressure it is to be in the popular crowd and the others didn't understand. I understood. The group I hung out with in 6th and 7th grade judged everything you did. It's strange, I wonder now who had the power, or if anyone really did. Maybe we all felt the same way. Stupid teenagers.

Everyone has an exit scene in this type of crowd. There comes a time when the spinner lands on you, and you become the social outcast. That day came for me in such a horrific and hurtful way, none other than a mortifying rumor. Even worse, it was unexplainably true. Sort of.

I got my period for the first time, when I was 13. Still trying to figure things out, and so unaware of my own body, I never really knew when it was coming. Spotting, cramping, it was all so hard to predict. One day I was at my friend Rachael's house. The friend who went to Kingstown. The one I went to Hebrew School with. She had a huge house, nothing like I had seen before. Black and white marble floors, a double kitchen because her family was kosher and had two sets of everything to keep dairy and meats separate. She had a pool too. Up north, only the wealthiest people had their own pools. She was all the way across this expansive house in the kitchen with her family when I went all the way down the hall to the bathroom between Rachael's and her sister's bedrooms.

I closed the door and locked it. I pulled down my pants and sat on the toilet. And my heart raced. I looked at my pants and saw that I had gotten my period and bled right through my underwear. I was a mess. And I was not prepared. I wasn't sure what to do. Had it been Stacey's house it would be a no-brainer. Stacey was a really good friend. The kind who farts in front of you. But this was Rachael's house, and I was insecure and trying to impress her, or at least not unimpressed her. I panicked. There was a door from the bathroom to Rachael's sister's room. I tiptoed gingerly, making sure there was no one in there and no one heard me. I opened a couple of drawers until I found an underwear drawer, and I grabbed a clean pair and ran back to the bathroom. I was desperate and scared, the way only a girl who doesn't know who her friends are can be. I balled up my bloodied underwear, wrapped them in a bunch of toilet paper and threw them in the trash can, throwing some crumpled up tissues on top to hide my shame. I rolled up some more, strategically trying to fold into the underwear in place of a maxi pad. I checked the back of my pants to make sure nothing bled through, washed up and went back to join everyone else. I waited until it was time to go home, the hours felt like days.

I don't remember anything else about that day. I don't remember if I stayed for dinner of her mom's delicious chicken and Persian rice (Rachael's dad was Persian) as I sometimes did. I don't remember if I got picked up or dropped off. I just remember feeling relieved that days went by and I never heard anything of it. A few weeks went by, and my luck changed. Drastically.

Apparently, the underwear I took had a custom tag (like the ones you iron in for summer camp) with Rachael's sister's name in it. And apparently, one of my other friends saw them somewhere when she was over my house. And apparently, none of those girls were really my friends after all. Before long, there was a rumor around school (not really school, but my social crowd, which felt like the whole school) that I took Rachael's sister's underwear, and now they all thought I was weird or a perv or whatever. What I was was ostracized and absolutely mortified. Rachael never confronted me about it privately. She never seemed to want an explanation, or even care that there might by a reasonable one. She just treated me like a pariah and got her friends to do the same.

Thinking back, it says a lot about my family and the kind of person I am that I didn't become suicidal. I know I felt like I never wanted to go back to school again. I know that girls who I thought I had become friends with would never talk to me again. I know I was more embarrassed about this than anything I had ever experienced before. I know I felt like I wanted to disappear. I knew there was nothing to be gained from trying to explain anything. I just denied it. I denied it though tears. I denied it by cursing those mean bitches for lying about me. I denied it.

I lost those "friends" and a bit of my dignity as well. But it was the last time I tried to maintain a friendship that was a bullshit facade. Stacey reached out to me. We became very close, and she helped me get through the difficulty of my parents' separation the following year. If you look back on parts of your life and the way different sets of circumstances lead to specific events in your life, it's hard to believe things don't happen for a reason. Stacey was the first true girlfriend I had. She didn't give a shit what the other girls said, and she helped me get to a place where I didn't care either. It was a pivotal point in my development as a young woman. And I survived to tell about it.

*Names of schools and people are changed.

Personal Magna Carta...

Or the things I like to read about, and therefore should right about:

Strong female characters
Raising children
Love
Family relationships
Marriage
Education & Teaching
Writing
Nature
Holocaust
Food & Cooking
Human nature
Coming of Age
Judaism
Beloved Pets
Poetry
Music, lyrics
Underdog stories
Rags to riches stories
Courtroom Drama
Prison Stories
Survival stories
Voices of the voiceless

Girl Crush

It was easy to do what she said,

look at things like you have never seen them before

because I had never seen her before.

I am married to a man,

never experimented 

or fantasized about a woman

and yet I was enchanted.

Her long and soft golden curly locks

like mine, only looser and more relaxed

fell wispy along her cheeks and down her back

into a purposely twisted, unclasped tie.

Her blue eyes, small swimming pools

framed by perfectly groomed eye brows

and lightly glossed lips, she looked 

midwestern more than southern.

A tiny little thing dressed in flow fashions

and platform shoes, she was adorned

with silver bangles and giant rings.

As beautiful as she appeared her tone

and her movement, and her way

were equally captivating.

A gentle quiet voice, soothing her listeners

into being more aware.

How could we not be?

The cadence in her words, 

in her movement.

I was aware.

She was poem.

It's Just Not Worth It

I hated those moments in the classroom. Despite what students think, we don't all stand around rubbing our hands together in devilish delight when we catch students doing things they shouldn't be doing. In fact, I detest even using the word caught. It implies a guard-like monitoring for wrongdoing. This however, was one of those moments...

I knew he was cheating. Teachers know when kids cheat. It's simple really. But sometimes we know, and other times we see. This time I saw. Casually and quietly, I approached his desk. It is always my intention, no matter how difficult the student or situation, to preserve a child's humility. It was a quick and stealth-like drive-by. I swiped the papers and walked back to my desk, trying not to create a scene but still letting him know with my straight face expression, I knew what he did. It was a shame really. This kid was a good student. But he was also impulsive and hot headed. His face was already turning red.

He came up to my desk and asked me what I was going to do now. He didn't even try to deny it. I told him during my break I'd be calling home. He tried to play it off and buddy-buddy me out of it. I could see he was nervous and a bit distraught. "I'm sorry, Michael. You know my policy. It's a zero and a call home. I do not tolerate cheating in my class." And I stood there, looking sympathetically into his eyes, hoping he would understand I was trying to teach him about honesty and integrity. He turned as if he was going to walk away, and then quickly turned back.

Over six feet tall and lanky, he swung his long arms up in the air and back down, giant flapping wings. Bang! He slammed his hands onto my desk, and leaned in right up to my face. With a forceful New York grit he yelled, "You fucking bitch!" Spit flew at me with the release of his teeth from his lip in the enunciation of the f in fuck, and again as he forcefully pushed out the b in bitch. His face was hot and his eyes glassy.

"Get. Out!" I yelled back pointing to the door. "Get out!" And he walked out the door, nearly slamming it off its hinges. I called downstairs to our small private school office to let them know to be on the lookout for him. I tried to keep in control, to continue with the test. But all eyes were on me. Our one room high school class was a close-knit bunch. It was difficult to tell if the rest of the boys were upset with me or worried about me. It was probably both.

Another teacher knocked on my door, and I stepped out in the hallway with one foot wedged in the doorway. She had found Michael in the stairwell. He was sitting on the floor crying. This sixteen-year-old, six foot whatever boy was bawling his eyes out. She watched my class and I stepped out to see him. "Why are you crying?" I asked. It took him a minute but he spilled his guts. He knew he should have studied but he was out with his grandparents the night before. He wasn't prepared for the test, and he knew it was stupid to cheat. He was mad at himself more than he was at me. He was impulsive. He struggled with ADHD. He had a a pretty rough go in life. But he cared about his education, and he had remorse. The whole experience of melting down in front of his peers and coming clean with me, I felt, was really all the consequence he needed. I made a deal with him. "Go home and review tonight. Come back and take the test tomorrow, and I won't call home." And he did.

I'm pretty certain he never cheated again. At least not in my class. Sometimes the pressure is too much. Sometimes it's even hard to live up to your own standards. But calling him out on it was the best thing I could have done for him. He felt bad about how he treated me, and I told him I forgave him. I think that was as important to him as anything else.

Empty Backseat

One of the bright spots for me in today's "new" country music is the Zac Brown Band. I saw them in concert a couple of years ago, and they are one of the best live acts I've ever seen. True musicianship. ZBB came up on my iPod on the drive home from work today. "Free" was the perfect song to soundtrack the ride. The weather was spectacular and I pulled apart the jeep and rode home topless, as my co-workers like to joke. The opening line of the poem below, is a line from the song. It stuck with me and inspiration set in. Below, I posted the song for your listening pleasure.

We'll drive until the city lights dissolve into the country sky
just me and you, and an empty backseat.
We knew this day would eventually come. It feels like
forever ago and yesterday all at once.
The diapers and carseats turned into college applications
in merely the blink of an eye.  Hearts full of pride
and perhaps a faint ache, our three is back to two.
He is off becoming a man, and we are sailing
into the sunset, feeling young once again.

Four Word Sad Stories

I've been working on a poem that I can't seem to get finished for my blog post today. So instead, this. Straight from my Facebook feed. I tried a couple of them. What? It's writing, and my writing group is always asking me to write more fiction! Actually, this is pretty depressing.

Story 1:     Girl's raped. Man walks.

Story 2:     Completely alone in life.

Story 3:     Child dies in accident.

Story 4:     Suicide, because no one cared.

Story 5:     Teen tortures helpless animal.