"Butterflies are free to fly, so fly away..."

I'd love to start off with something super crafted and clever and witty. But, too much has happened and I am not the same Little Ball of Fury I once was. Years and Years ago, this started as something to occupy my time, to give my outrageous (and frankly privileged, ignorant 20-something opinions a place to go). To be quite honest I don't know that many people read. I don't know that going back to those posts would be worthwhile. I've lived, loved and died since then. I've been visited by the death of my father, the death of pets and the death of a marriage and ultimately the death of who I thought I was. Sure, that snark is still there, and that fury is still there, but it's tempered with more perspective and I hope more empathy. Thank God for therapy, am I right?! Still that's a lot of death and therefore a lot of grief. By far the biggest of these deaths was the death of my marriage, the death of what was supposed to be forever, what was supposed to be a lifelong promise, what was supposed to be sacred. It may be that I didn't grieve the other deaths, but I am weary of grieving this one. I'm tired of being sad over this. I also find it's the hardest to let go. Those are big heavy things to let go of on their own, trying to let go of how it happened or what could have been different has been nearly impossible.

I've been reading Untamed, by Glennon Doyle, and last night I read, "Greif is a cocoon from which we emerge new." This was one of those moments that I now know is called kismet. You know where you hear God, or the Universe (thanks Daddy issues) or whatever higher being speaking to you, and deep down, even if it really pisses you off, deep down you know that you needed to hear it, and that it's right. At the very beginning of this my therapist recommend I use a deck of Native American Medicine cards. Think tarot, but even more new age and with animals. Aside from the fact that I LOVE a psychic, I was willing to eat glass or fallate a woman to make the pain stop. And if those aren't some famous last words, I don't know what are.

The first time you draw your medicine cards you draw your spirit guardians. It seems in this tradition you have your Spirit Animal, the Native American version of your zodiac, and then you have seven spiritual animals that guide you on life's journeys. Listen, think what you want, because I'm a Virgo and a Bear, and that shit was SPOT. ON. It's New Age and crazy, but I've come this far (and I still LOVE a good tarot) so let's keep going. I don't remember all of the other spirit guides (as clearly anyway) but I do remember the first and the last. The first card you pull is your spiritual challenge and your greatest gift. The first card I pulled was the butterfly. The butterfly is transformation. According to Glennon, that's the gift that the shit sandwich of grief brings you. FUCK.

Glennon says: When grief rings: Surrender. There is nothing else to do. The delivery is utter transformation. 

We'll fast forward some tears and a few cards later, and what do I pull for my last card, the card that is my WITHIN, my inner truth?! I pull the bat. What does the bat symbolize? Rebirth. That's right, I begin with transformation and end with rebirth. At the beginning of something that literally

The takeaway might be this: The butterfly is beautiful, but no one, (LIKE ALMOST NO ONE) pauses to even think: How did you get here? How did you become so beautiful? HOW MUCH DID IT HURT?

I've spent the better part of 17 months feeling that hurt, and the hand to God truth is, I have no idea. I numbed some of it out. And, I also just kept going. in that keeping going, I've often thought, "How much does it hurt for the butterfly to emerge from the cocoon? The truth is, we don't know. We're not even sure if the butterfly is new. I'd like to think that despite being unrecognizable, the butterfly still carries a piece of the caterpillar. The butterfly remembers who that caterpillar was. I'd like to think that the butterfly remembers being stuck to a leaf and just trudging around. We can't know this, so I like my story. I like that the butterfly gets to remember what being a caterpillar felt like. No promises. What we do know is, that when the butterfly breaks is way out of that cocoon, when it leaves its womb (or its prison), the butterfly is unrecognizable, the butterfly is beautiful, and the butterfly is able to fly.

So here we go again. Reborn, rising...Welcome back.

What A Year

Today was my mother's birthday. My father has been dead just a week shy of 9 months and tomorrow, she will have to bury one of her dogs. I keep thinking back to last Christmas, and I can't help but notice, how different everything is. I woke up one day a completely different person, with a completely different life. 2011, what a year.

I would be lying if didn't acknowledge that 2011 has been a year of loss. Life-altering loss. When my father died, I changed. I don't laugh as easily, and everything is serious. Those pieces of charm that once softened my sharp edges are harder to muster, and get spent more quickly than they used to. Loss isn't totally an abyss. It's not like that hole in your dreams, full of nothing but limitless decent. Loss brings change and change brings many blessings.

I've learned so much about myself. I did things I'd never thought of doing before. New job, new hobbies, new me. I just wanted to escape, not feel. But you can't hide, you can't stop feeling and you have to get up and keep going everyday.

Change is a funny monster. Not comic, but sly, a wolf in sheep's clothing. Change doesn't always feel good, and there is no stopping it. Change makes you spend a lot of time looking back, because it's hard to see what's in front of you. Change makes you question who you are and where you're going. And change usually feels like being water-boarded (this is really just a metaphor, I have no actual knowledge of what water boarding feels like). It's grueling and constant, and it breaks you down.

You persevere. You keep going because the only other option is to give up. I was not raised to curl up and die. God does not make us that way. Eventually I think, you keep going until it doesn't hurt as badly anymore. It's not that things are any less painful, you just get used to it. Make not mistake I'm not clutching my like some teddy bear. It's just omnipresent. I've learned that I can survive it.

Change isn't all bad. I've learned much about myself. I'm stronger than I thought I was. I can carry much on my shoulders. I was made to keep going, so that's what I'm going to do.

You Have to Live by Faith, Not by Sight

Before, I never really thought about my faith. I don't mean that I took it for granted I just didn't think about it, didn't wear it on my sleave. I still don't. I find that presumptious, tacky, vulgar even. I have always thought that people who talk about their faith are trying to convince themselves they believe. Before, I thought I had it tough. Before, I didn't realize I had it easy. I had a complete family and firm ground. I didn't realize how little my faith has been tested. How little adversity I'd had to survive.

Sure, I wondered about "The Plan." Any time I faced an uphill battle or had a bad day at work, I wondered what the hell God was up to. In the past six months, though, I realize that faith is more than just believing that everything will be OK. Faith is trusting even when you don't see any light at the end of the tunnel. Faith is not having all the answers and keeping your head up. You aren't going to get answers to your questions, you aren't even supposed to ask.

I can't help but think that at the end of the day, everything will be OK, if I keep going. That repeats in my head, "If you can just keep going it will be OK." the problem is, most days "keeping going" means just getting out of bed and making sure that my pretty girl face doesn't crack too much. Lately I find that I just want to know when I'll feel like it's going to be OK. When will I feel like myself again? When will I be untouchable? When will i just be able not to feel like crying when I feel anything?

So for me lately, faith is just keeping going. Faith is realizing I don't have all the answers, and I'm not supposed to. Faith is holding on to whatever Is left of my very-deepest-insides and just remembering to breathe. You see, when all you have left is different, you just have to believe that the decisions you make; a new job, new this, new that are going to be good ones. You have to believe that even if they're the wrong decision, you're going to be alright.

The Only Constant is Change

I haven't written in a long time. Anything I feel like writing about cuts too deep. I've never been much for sharing and that goes doubly for what happens on the inside. To me most of the time, sharing what's inside is just another way for someone to exploit you. Sharing your inner most thoughts and feelings gives someone else ammunition to use against you. So I just haven't written.

I haven't written how broken I am on the inside some days. I haven't written that broken isn't really the word because the word itself implies that there is something to fix, and in my case, the damage is far, wide, catastrophic and irreperable. And along with irreperible damage comes change. Irreperable, never-take-it-back, change.

A long time ago I had a living father, and a different job, and different heartaches and concerns and problems. I had different insides. Adjusting to all the differents is I think more than I can bear. I miss knowing what I was doing, I miss saying something and being an expert, I miss being able to call someone and feel like no matter what, just because they were there, it would be ok.

And all of this is ultimately selfish. People survive worse, and grit their teeth against much heavier weights. So I just keep it in and grit my teeth, remember my breeding and keep going. I guess that's all there is, keeping going. Change means you're still alive. Without change, all you have left is death.

Legacies

I drove home from Mom's yesterday, and sat in the driver's seat with only the voices in my head keeping me company. For the past week I've been trying to put into words all these jumbled feelings. Much like finding the perfect Christmas present, this takes time and the ability to realize nothing is perfect. Including Dad. He knew this, and worked hard at trying to prove that he could be. I think this is where so much of his anxiety came from was never feeling good enough, and since I'm my father's son, I've been plagued by the same feeling in trying to eulogize him.

I am and will always be grateful for the fact that my dad made sure we could take care of ourselves, that we think about others and that we work hard to take care of ourselves and those we love. We don't lie, cheat or steal. Even though we bitch, complaining doesn't do any good, and just shouldn't happen. Crying doesn't solve anything, but it sure does make you feel better. Take care of your brother and sister, they're all you have in the end.

I see some things from the past week more clearly than others. Everyone pitching in on Wed., when Ben woke up late and needed help with the BBQ. Take care of each other, that's all you have.

This week I saw each of us doing the best that we could. There wasn't any complaining or great gnashing of teeth or tearing of clothes or utter colapse. There was grace and dignity and the resolute squaring of our shoulders and doing what needed to be done. My dad very much lived by the fact that "The price of greatness is responsiblity" and he made sure to pass that on to us.

I firmly believe that the Almighty gives us each of us only the load we can bear. When my Dad didn't have to carry his any further he went to rest. I think he could do this because he knew that he'd given each of us the tools that we needed. He knew we would be able to take care of ourselves, and make him proud.

No words can describe

If you asked him to write his own epitaph Bob Bitner, 54 of Georgetown would have said there was nothing to write about, greatly underestimating his impact. Some would say he led an ordinary life, and certainly from the outside looking in, he did. Bob raised three children with is wife Colleen calling Round Rock home for many years. Bob was a born leader, who led by example and held himself to an unyielding high standard. His example taught his children the value of dedication, honesty, compassion.

Bob was President of Sam Bass Baseball for many years, where he was an example to many, most especially the players. He was a long-term employee of Sieko Instruments and recently held a position with DelStar Industries and was recently promoted.

Bob Bitner did lead an ordinary life, but one full of passion, intensity, love and generosity. What he may not have realized in life was how much of a presence he was for so many. People who find themselves saddened today because he is gone too soon.

Born February 13, 1957 in Galveston, Bob called McAllen, “home”. He is survived by his wife of 30 years Colleen, of Georgetown and their three children Steven, of Dallas, Ben of Round Rock and Erin of Round Rock, also by his parents Bob and Carol Bitner of McAllen; sister Penny Gearhart and husband Mark of Round Rock,; and brother William and wife Sandra of Mission, as well as numerous nieces and nephews and their children.

Where Do We Go From Here?

The suicide of Rutgers student, Tyler Clementi has sent shockwaves across the United States. For me, it has awakened a long-dormant anger. "There are guilty parties everywhere." The question looms: "Where do we go from here?" For starters The Community could try the tack of past civil rights campaigns; from LULAC to the NAACP. If we want the support of Middle America we should try putting our best middle class, well educated foot forward. That makes it harder for them to alienate us. Next, we need the support of our government.
We must stop expecting our savior to come from outside.We must push, prod and bully our way into a fully integrated American society. There is no turning back, there will be no second chance, and we are ruining our chance for tomorrow because gay children all across the world are still alienated, sitting in their rooms praying for acceptance or escape, and when they find neither, they are just praying for it all to end.
"There are guilty parties everywhere," and Middle America is no exception. You must stop telling your children there is something wrong with them, when they hear that everywhere. You must stop making your children feel second class for something they were born with and cannot change. You must tell your children that there are so many different colors and tones to the world than what's in your house or in your neighborhood or in your town. You must realize that the differences between You and Us are only skin deep. There is no turning back, there will be no second chance for tomorrow because your children, your children who happen to be gay are still alienated, sitting in their rooms praying for acceptance or escape, and when they find neither, they are just praying for it all to end.
"There are guilty parties everywhere"

Is This Life Without Will and Grace?

I was a freshman in college, one of the most conservative in the country, one that had a known appetite for queer bating when I was getting ready to pack it in and go home. Aside from my handful of friends from home who carefully guarded my secret, there were no gay people, at least not outside of Gay.com.

"Watch Will and Grace, so you can see what life is really like for us." The simplest suggestion ever. Two gay men who made it through where I was and lived it up in New York. I knew then that everything would be OK. But Will and Grace are gone. The show has been off the air now for four years and even then, it pandered to a few too many stereotypes than real life. Vapid Jack bounced from man to man and Will had such an inferiority complex that he was always too afraid to get a man. Then Will meets Vince and off the air they go. Ironically just at the moment that America is pitched in the largest cultural battle since the Civil Rights struggles of the 1960s. But they did show that life could be as normal as anyone else. Gays can have close friends and find love and really the ladies on Sex and the City still haven't figured that out.

And so gay kids have almost no one to look to on TV today. Maybe that's why three of them have decided to take their own lives this week. The failure is larger than an absence of viable role models on television, the failure belongs to all of us. The parents of that child failed to reassure their frightened boys that they would love them unconditionally no matter what. The schools and public institutions failed to really prevent or assess the extent of the bullying. The Community failed to provide real-world role models. Perhaps we as a Community bear the heaviest guilt. We put too much emphasis on good looks and alcohol and recreational sex and drug use. All too often the twinks and leather daddies overshadow the professionals in long-term relationships with families. Doesn't this give the picture of a very limited reality for gays?

They Gay Community is probably one of the most diverse in the world. It encompasses many different ages and ethnicities, and a myriad of economic and cultural stratas. It is extremely difficult to unify that many people. It is extremely easy to vilify (and accuse) each of those individuals; to herd your children away from them on the street or stare from the corner of you eye in public and mutter your disapproval for something you think is a choice. From my own experience I know being gay is just something you come out with, not something you choose. I am almost positive that these boys would tell you that they were just like you, only a little different. Except because they were gay, and that is still such a terrible thing to be in the United States today, they just kept quiet and decided to end it all now, before they knew how good it can really be.

High Thinking

My dental hygeinist takes her tools out of a snap kit. It's like a combination evening bag/toolbox. She also listens to a Christian radio station. She is really good at what she does. My teeth have never been cleaner. Seems like all is as it should be, right? But not so fast. Yesterday while I was getting my gums cleaned (This is really an expensive form of tortue, like if they could recruit former SS members to do this, they probably would) they gave me gas and novicane. It. was. awesome.

For those of you who don't know, the "laughing" gas basically acts on your body much like alcohol, I even got numb when I had too much, just like the beginning stages of alcohol poisoning. Just like alcohol the gas made me pensive, observant and overly chatty. This is where I go when I want to "chat" out my thoughts somewhat anonymously.

Anyhow I got to thinking of stereotypes. You know, this woman is sitting here listening to a Christian radio station, I've already told her about my boyfriend. I hope my mouth isn't bleeding because I know exactly what she's thinking; gay=AIDS, gay=AIDS, gay=AIDS. I'm not blaming her, I'm thinking; Christian=judger, Christian=judger, Christian=judger. Nevermind that I had to choke out the word boyfriend, and I didn't notice that the music was Christian until halfway through my first appointment. I should also point out that she is really nice. I really like her. If she ever finds this I hope she doesn't hate me.

Now for the point. Staring at that little hard, plastic evening bag filled with goodies that would make Alice Orlowski smile I got to thinking about a dentist that I can never forget. A dentist who killed one of his paitents, just by cleaning her teeth. The dentist had AIDS, I'm not sure if he was gay, and he cleaned his own teeth. He nicked his gums, bringing forth blood and then, maybe on purpose or maybe because he forgot, he cleaned her teeth and re-used the tools. This happened 20 years ago. Now they're dead, long forgotten save for a few old news tapes and paper archives, but that has stuck with me forever. Did they throw out the tools? Did she flinch cleaning my teeth? Why do I hold my breath every time I get a nick or cut, even though I know I'm ok?

I guess it just goes to show that, there is no telling what a person carries with them. No telling what's buried underneath, when it might surface. No telling how long I'll choke when I tell people I have a boyfriend or when I'll finally stop holding my breath at the sight of a little blood.

Texas Our Texas...

I wrote this in March, and have been hesitant to publish it, but thought in light of the fact that Texas rejected in collaborating on national education standards that this was timely.

Two weeks ago the Texas Board of Education sent shockwaves rippling through the scholastic community of the United States, when it voted to reorgonize the social studies circullum being taught to the state’s elementary school children. According to the changes students will be learning more about “conservative values” and less about important non-white historical figures. Say goodbye to Juan Seguin and hello to John Wayne.

The vote not only opens up questions about the state’s educational direction, and its accuracy, but also reveals the socio-economic changes that are rapidly tearing cultural fissures into Texas’ cultural fabric. School children in Texas have gone from being mostly white to mostly non-white in less than a generation. From 1990 to 2000, Texas’ Hispanic population grew by 2 million souls, roughly 30% of these newcomers don’t speak English in the home. The board’s knee-jerk reaction is to change what these children are learning in school to protect against what it sees as a loss of Texas’ cultural heritage.

As a Texan, I was reared on stories of Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie and the Alamo. My people have been in Texas since it was wrested from Mexican control in the mid-1800’s. Learning about these historical events was easy in part because they were bedtime stories at home. These stories not only gave my pride in my state but also insight into what it means to be a good citizen; to stand up against despotism and fight for freedom, values that hold a different weight in other countries.

Much like Margret Mitchell, who was ten when the learned the South had been “licked” in the Civil War, it wasn’t until college when I learned of the brutality practiced by Texan soliders at the battle of San Jacinto, practices that made it hard to think that the Texians were just tired of being picked on. As an adult I’ve also learned that history is never one-sided it just sounds that way, since it’s written by the winner. Since the Anglo Texians ultimately won the battle for Texas Independence the Tejanos who fought alongside them were given the peripheral role as helpers, that’s why a white kid like me found those heroes I did learn about in school so easy to identify with. They looked like me, and talked like me, and that made it all the easier for me to say, “If they did it, so can I.”

Today, I teach 5^th Grade. I thought that teaching 5^th grade would be so easy because I liked 5^th grade and that somehow I’d be just like those teachers who taught me. But teaching mostly English Language Learners in Dallas’ Oak Cliff is a far cry from Deepwood Elementary in middle-class Round Rock, Texas. Not only was a appalled to learn that most of these kids don’t know where the Alamo is, I was even more surprised that they seemed not to care. That surpise gave way to hurt and anger. Three years later, I get it. Why the hell should you care about some white folks taking over Texas. To these kids (and I’m sure the rest of the majority-minority children who attend Texas public schools) all the state standards have managed to do is murder their home language (and by extension the culture that goes with it), test them on information that they don’t have means to access outside the school day and then not supply appropriate support to help them get there. They’re too busy learning how to read period to have time to fool with something that happened 150 years ago.

While I totally understand that those who are sitting on the Texas Board of Education are doing this to protect what they see as the “Texan Way,” I must say that they are wrong. Not only does it distort the valuable contributions of non-white Texans, but it robs the children in Texas’ schools today of role models who might actually inspire them to become productive citizens. If they never read or hear stories about important people who look like them, they’ll never get that chance to say, “If they did it, so can I.” Without even a small thing to invest in, these children who already know so little will have no desire to learn more. You see what the Board doesn’t understand is that the history and the values go hand in hand. Education starts early, and it should be interesting and engaging in order for it to be most effective. Taking out a tool that helps educators to inspire their students (especially in abstract areas like Social Studies) will accomplish exactly what the Board is trying to stop. Taking out this tool will breed a generation of students who have no desire to be Texans, no desire to be United States citizens and no desire to be productive members of society. Will Texas really be great then?

Lessons Learned

The last entry I wrote, and left unpublised, was from February. I was going to say how I had been so wrong to misjudge certain members of my family and how I was even hoping that sooner-rather-than-later, I'd be able to put things that happened between us in the past. I was going to say that, until I realize that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I was going to say, that forgiveness or the road that leads there is as much for the trespassed as the trespasser. When the wrong party doesn't forgive, then they just keep stewing on the past and hurting themselves. That's what I'd been doing when it came to certain members of my family. Since I tend to obssess about things this happens to me a lot.

I was going to do all of this, until I found our Friday, from other family members, as always happens in this passive-aggresive, shit-pit of a family that people are getting their feelings hurt, and rather than confront me directly have started a campaign behind my back over things that I have written here. So let me just put this to rest:

1. This is my space, my thoughts and my voice, it can say whatever the fuck it wants, when it wants and how it wants.

2. If I'm writing it down, I'm just as happy to tell you to your face that this is what I think and why I think it. I'm not a a twit, I'm an educated, articulate, bilingual person. I know for better or worse that this is out there. I'd be happy to respond to comments, questions or concerns. For the parties mentioned here though, I doubt it would matter much since they tend to like to victimize themselves.

3. I consistently keep in contact with those friends and family I choose to have a relationship with, just like I assume that they keep in contact with me for the same reason. If we're not talking it's probably because I got tired of putting up with your bullshit.

4. I'm sure that this post will make me a bit of a hypocrite. That's cool. No one's perfect. I tend to want to be a victim too, and I'm sure I'm not blameless. Once it's all said and done though, I'm not hiding behind being a good person either.

Oops.

This year I finally made resolutions at the beginning of the year: new job, GRE and grad school. Since my job now is sucking my soul out of me in a tortuously, agonizingly slow way, I've decided this will be the first resolution I tackle. Plus Chaz was whining about me looking at Grad School programs when a new job might not allow me the time...

I've applied for something like 15 jobs in the past week. I'm beginning to feel like the job slut. I'm cycling through these so fast that if I was taking on Johns I'd be able to quit my regular employment. But you know, I have a contract and I can hang in there.

Whilst praying for another job I also periodically ask that my boss be smite-ed by a hangover, dysentery or that she randomly gets hit by a bus or MACK truck on the way to work. I don't care what happens so long as I don't have to put up with her crazy for a day. Today was one of those days! Also since the kids were "testing" (because, you know, they're all so ambitious) I had lots of time to work on other things like grades, and cleaning my room and cover letters. I had already drafted a few of these on a legal pad, and decided to bring it out just in case I was inspired today.

On the way out of the car this morning my Starbucks was far more important than The Blue Pad. So I put it one the trunk, where it miraculously stayed all day. I imagine that hobos and crack heads don't really need a blue legal pad. That is it stayed all day until my boss came back from her meeting at 2:00 p.m.

In her quest to be Good Samaritan of the Year, she starts asking around to find the owner. I'll cut it short and say that once she started reading and one of my girlfriends freaked out, she might know I'm scavenging for a new job. Awesome. Funny thing is I don't really care.

Let's Try This Again

My last post (recently deleted though it is) was about how I'd had it with the school year. That was on October 6. Tomorrow I'll be taking a Mental Health Day before I really do carry through on my threat and throw a child out the window. Of course if I really had my way, I'd throw a child out the window after decapitating them and putting their head on a stake. While I jest, and really do love my kids deep down, the thought of getting them to behave by using some Henry VIII style disipline does bring a smile to my lips.

I've decided that I'm going to take tomorrow off to be able to breathe and search for what I want to do.

I can't help but wonder if I keep praying the wrong prayer about becoming a good teacher, but rather that I'm praying that I just find a better fit.

Gratitude Journal

Apparently I've typed this before, because when I typed this title in, the wonderful Predictive Text Fairy finished it up for me. I was reading another blog today (authored by another teacher for DISD) and said author commented that his blog this year has been nothing but rants. I feel like this has been the general trend for teachers this year. NCLB+poverty children= a group of kids who have never been taught that learning is important and that the American Dream is hard work, and that only the most nimble beasts (mentally nimble that is) survive the jungle.

Back when I was a kid, I fantasized being the Anne Frank of the Y-Generation, you know, minus, Nazis and Jews and fearing for my life in an Amsterdam attic, oh and minus a vagina. I tried to write in my journal constantly. All the time hoping that there would be something exciting, original or noteworthy that people would want to read about 50 years later. I never kept up with it. The Digital Age has now amplified this and given a real-time aspect to what my narcissism.

To the point. Back then I watched this one Oprah Show. She had been saying how she was keeping a gratitude journal and how this then turned up the volume on her positive outlook on life. She said to start with three things, the more practice you get the more you become grateful for. We'll give this a try again every so often.

1. I am so grateful for Chaz. Despite the terrible flutter of insecurity that just coursed through my body at the mere mention of this need for another person, I cannot go back or turn around. I can't even imagine not having him there. And, while I didn't get smacked around by any one of my boyfriends (unlike the two dreadful, hypothetical lesbian crack whores I passed on my run today) I did get a little mentally smacked around. My need for perfection in fact has made me a veritable 16 year old girl with low self esteem who picks out shitty boyfriends to continue to make them feel inferior.

2. I am so glad to have a job and feel like I actually know how to do it finally!

3. I am glad we have our pups! Sure they're like speed addicts and they need lots of attention but they give you great stories, and it's really fun to watch them play and run around and act like puppies.

Spinning

It's amazing that the first few weeks back to work have turned me into the alpha-male. This is the first night that I've gotten to slow down. No work, no cooking, no chores, no more I have to get this done right now or the world will fall apart. Maybe, just maybe, if I cross my fingers and close my eyes, and click my heels three times, I can get away with it.

To say I don't handle stress well, is sometimes and in some situations an understatement. I don't handle not being perfect (or not seeming perfect and put-together) well. I get short and mean and I'm downright just out for blood. I feel like that's how I've been at home these past few weeks. Tonight, when we're in bed even though it's 8:30 I know I'm so blessed and lucky to have someone and the puppies to come home too. Nice steak dinner, walk and now some reading and t.v., and there is contentment. It's terrible that I've been taking that for granted, that I feel that if I don't stop at some point, I'll just keep on going, full steam, bull-in-a-china-shop, and lose this amazing and wonderful gift.

We're Entering Week Four

I don't like blogging about work. It's boring as hell. I also hate focusing on what's wrong at school, that is, inevitably, what happens. This year I'm seeing my kids, and some of their parents, and how quickly so many immigrants, illegal or not, adapt to the legal system in our country.

I sent a note home with one of my kids yesterday that said he was talking and then rolled his eyes when I corrected him. Frankly I don't remember if he did or not, and I wasn't really mad, it's just the rules. And, because the educational system has become so hyper-legal, it serves as easy documentation. In the past I've just become infuriated and then when I yell or have the kids call or try to write a referral to the office, they have all this damning evidence that I'm a horrible person. Did I mention that I'm usually reducing them to tears in front of the entire class? Not that tears is my goal, kids to day are just pussies. That's right, I said it. But we'll get to that in a bit. So this mother shows up with her son in my class and her son who's older to interpret. Remember that her son (in my class) is in the bilingual program, that would make me...wait for it... bilingual. Since we're in Texas you can guess, speculate or imagine that I'm not a German bilingual teacher. The better part of all of that though, is that most Mexicans (or Hispanics) expect a bolillo like me to speak Spanish well and with a trace accent. This can either be really disarming or intimidating.

We talked and she was very nice but wasn't going to sign the notification because she disagreed and her son said her didn't roll her eyes. Damn! I forgot to write it down in my notebook! And school was starting! Talk about hit and run. So now already caught a little off-guard, when she wanted a copy I didn't know exactly what to do. SO I wrote on the paper that we had conference and then she could keep it. She still wouldn't sign it. That's cool though. When I have to write her little hoodlum up, I still wrote that I talked to her, so my boss will be more likely to have my back.

The question is, where the hell do folks who can hardly speak English find out about signing documents and admitting to responsibility or not admitting to anything? While we're on that vein why does our society provide more protections for illegal immigrants to begin with? As a teacher I understand not deporting kids from school and providing Title I funds to feed the children. There is no oversight. There are no consequences and it enables an atmosphere of entitlement with no recourse. Gimme mentality will lead Texas and then the United States, to have an under-educated, non-taxpaying, workforce. Lower wages, higher welfare and in the end the burden for many upon so few. We may very well return to a United States that looks something like the US during the Industrial Revolution. There won't be any Carnegies or Rockefeller's, they didn't have income taxes or Social Security or Medicaid and Medicare. But we're protecting the poor, the tired the huddled masses, so it's all good.

Being Teacher of the Year Sucks

The first week of school, one of my cousins posted a "God Bless Teachers!" for all the world to see on her Facebook. At the very least if, it wasn't the world, it was all of her friends. As the new school year begins I wonder how many parents express this identical sentiment.

For me, it was touching, in the sense that, while I didn't dread the school year or have my stomach knot up or try to drop ten pounds by not eating, I am down-right tired. This year, I'm actually hopeful. It's not that brand-spanking new teacher, JFK, Peace Corps, I-can-be-the-white Jaime Escalante- kind of hope. No, what I'm carrying is the third year teacher, I didn't royally fuck-up last year kind of hope. I may not reach them all but I can reach one or two. The one thing I didn't want to do this year was lose my patience. My kids get so much yelling and scolding at home, that I want them to really feel like they have a haven and then I can get them to calm down long enough to learn something. The beginning of the year always motivates me. I get up early, stay at school late, walk around the room and do all those things that they say good teachers do. This usually gets robbed by my domineering principal, kids without any type of concern and parents who thing that my job is to corral their rug rats for 8 hours. This is while they sit at home and take care of the other 4 under the age of 10 and if they don't have a job, they're married to some waste-of-life Mexican who thinks that if they un-thether their women somebody else will stick something in 'em. Ergo- welfare, free lunch, the cycle goes on.

That doesn't mean that all Mexicans are lazy or that some folks don't need welfare just to get a leg up and then move on, but what I am saying is that typically this upbringing engenders a kind of hand-out mentality. Why should my child learn to speak and read and write, in whatever language if there is always some government program that will give food to your kids.

So far this year, I have the best class yet. I don't know if this is due to me feeling comfortable in my own skin behind the overhead or if the fact that the kids have been in a more stable Bilingual program has anything to do with it. I do hope with all my heart that I can keep going, no matter how tired I may be or how much I feel that the kids aren't wanting to learn that I can be that haven. Right now, though after a weekend of grading papers and lesson plans and vocabulary lists, I'm just plain tired.

Lost At Sea.

So apparently one of the big attractions in Puerto Rico is the bio luminescent bay. There are two such bays in Puerto Rico. The reason they glow is that plankton (whale food) absorbs sunlight all day. By dusk their glowing like folks who work at Chernobyl. Sounds super romantic doesn't it? A nice kayak at sunset only to then you can swim in glowing water. Chaz had done this before and I really wanted to, a.) It sounds really cool, b.) Chaz likes outdoor stuff like that. In fact every time I mention going camping (weekend) Chaz starts telling this story about how he spent 10 days in the Tennessee wilderness not showering. Gross! But I really want to like outdoorsy stuff because I like being outside and then I'm afraid he'll go and find someone more rugged to hang out with. c.) This little cruise sounded totally romantic. I like being romantic, and again I think this is one of those things that Chaz is really terrific at and me not so much. For him it's nothing to take me to a nice dinner or have a really nice surprise planned. Me, on the other hand, I'm romantic when I think about it and cook hims something nice for dinner. d.) Since I work out I didn't think kayaking would be difficult.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Dusk really meant pitch-black-night. We then wade out into the bay on a bed of sea weed. Not only did it smell like all of northern Puerto Rico had flushed their toilet here, but I was also walking on what felt like hair and had these biting bugs biting my flip-flopped feet. On a side note I found out the next day that Puerto Rico has beach lice. Why did no one tell me to bring any OFF!?

"Be sure you don't lean too far because the boat will tip!" Gee thanks for that awesome advice babe! So there we are in the middle of Toilet Bay, rowing like hell because the tour guide said something like "The last one there is a rotten egg." I have no idea whose bright eph-ing idea it was to give 10 tourists who've never rowed a boat before paddles and told them in so-many-words to get to end as. fast. as. they. can.

Oh, and instead of being in the boat with those that have never before set out upon the high seas, the tour guides are interspersed throughout the group. After we set off on the bay we almost hit a sting ray, and then go down the darkest tunnel I have ever seen in my life.

Even more awesome, the bio bay is at the end of a tunnel of mangrove trees that have grown to create a tunnel. Kind of makes you feel like Dorothy lost in the forest. In any case, aside from being natural water filters (mangroves are necessary to create bio luminescent bays) thesewonderful (wonduhful) trees are natural mosquito nests. It doesn't matter if it's winter, I'm a furnace and now matter what mosquitoes are going to think I'm prime pickins. I'm not sure if it's retribution for a century of pseudo-colonization, or that these guys just thought it would be funny to have a gaggle of American tourists who've never rowed a boat before run into big gnarled trees, but apparently the best place to see the lil' glowers is as close to the mangroves as humanly possible.

I'd like to say that I acted like an adult on this trip. But I didn't. There was this little girl that was in a boat with her dad, and she was ter-ri-fied. I felt her pain. Here I was in the middle of the dark ocean, with bits of glowing crap and sting rays. I was scared shit less.

The more she screamed the more I wanted to hit her off the boat with my paddle. Then I remembered that I was an adult. Well not really...

The thing is Chaz kept trying to be helpful and on top of being way out of my comfort zone I was also really embarrassed that I wasn't just like McGyver. So in the end I'm yelling at Chaz that I'm never fucking doing anything like this again damn it.

After about an hour we rowed back (that was way more fun!) and I have decided while seeing glowing plankton is cool, this wasn't worth the effort, the mosquito bites or getting back to the hotel so late that we didn't get to eat. Next time they'd better row me down that shit like Cleopatra getting rowed down the Nile.

I'm Back!

Sorry for the long absence but I was just a little down in the mouth about what to write. I have so very little to write about with summer vacation, until that is Chaz and I actually took a vacation. This sounds really exciting, doesn't it? Our first real vacation for more than a few days all by ourselves? Aww how romantic (feel free to vomit now)! Both of us really were so excited that we didn't sleep the night before. This is totally awesome when you have a 5:30 am flight and have to be there almost 2 hrs early. So basically we set off with no sleep on a day long-ish flight. This wasn't a sign was it?

I have to tell you that I really love to "travel" you know; exotic places, good food, new experiences. I dreamt about being a CIA agent just to travel around the world (and carry a fire arm).

Really though, I'm not a good traveler. I hate flying. I hate everything about it. I hate airports and the Homeland Security and having to take off my shoes and belt and basically go through a strip search just to get on a plane. I hate stewardesses. This must be because I normally fly Delta. Not only do they hire no good looking queers that I can flirt with to get hooked up on the plane, but they must pick from the pool of reformed whores at flight attendant school. All cheap perfume and caked-on make-up. Not to mention that these women are so surely and small-thinking that I can't imagine any of these women would have any other options beside airline travel or pointing their heels to Jesus and thinking of handbags. I also hate crowded spaces, the general (non-brain-functioning) population at large, undisciplined children, everything that makes a plane ride fun.

Plane rides also turn me into a prayer. I mean I pray on a pretty regular basis. They're usually they prayers like, "Dear God, thanks for a good day", "Dear God, thanks for a great time tonight", however on an airplane, when I'm afraid we'll crash and die, and no one will ever be able to find anything of mine except my left pinkie or other such appendage these prayers usually go something like this: "Dear Ever-loving most merciful God; please don't let us crash and die because who will take care of the dog." I don't just pray this once I start chanting it like Bloody Mary Tudor chanting a novena. I'm not Catholic or else I probably would pray a novena on a flight. God forbid there be turbulence because then I just start confessing whatever sin I think God might kill me for by crashing the plane.

OK, OK, I jest about the God killing me part, a little. The flight to PR was surprisingly uneventful. Now I'm not going to say that I am the sharpest at 5:30 a.m. after 2 hrs of sleep. For most of you who read this regularly, we all know I'm not patient and that on no sleep I can be the biggest prick you'll ever meet.

We boarded the plane and weren't sitting together. At this point I didn't mind this and I have no idea why Chaz did. So I go back to my seat and find it occupied by an older couple. Turns out they're illiterate hillbillies and can't decipher the drawings on the plan showing you where to sit, in case you are in fact, illiterate. So after reading their ticket three times and still not hearing me practically yell at them that they are a row up from where they should be, the other gentleman who was displaced from his seat decides to sit in the ones that should belong to Ma and Pa Dumb Ass. Crisis averted I close my eyes, until this giant fool (that's exactly what he was) who lived up to every stereotype of a militant Black Man decides that I'm personally responsible for taking his seat.

Now don't get me wrong, I understand why he was upset. He wanted the seat he paid for. But now we had to go through yet another fun game of trying ever so politely (I did little of the talking at this point) of trying to tell Those Who Had Apparently Never Flown Before EVER that they were in the wrong seat. By this point I didn't see why one of us (not really me since I was sitting down) didn't just take empty seat number two behind us. Did I mention that the enraged gentleman standing over me was under the impression that I had made the mistake. I don't know why he thought this since he'd just heard the Old Ones misread their ticket.

Then I did it, "Well I don't mind moving since we're all gonna make a big deal out of it." I didn't feel it necessary to add on even though these dumb assholes are in my seat, since we'd already done all that not minutes before. But then I'm giving the general public too much credit for brain function. "I'm not making a big deal but I could!!!" Says the gentleman standing over me who apparently is now looking at me like I'm not only a seat stealer, but also a racist. I guess that at just shy of 6 a.m. everyone is living up to their racial stereotypes.

I was too tired to argue and really didn't feel like getting kicked off the plane, before vacation started, just because I school some giant black man on the intricacies of hand-to-hand combat with a tiny, scrappy man who is more afraid of dying in a fight than having to fight one. "I'd be happy to sit in that other seat if you'd like," it dripped sarcastically out of my mouth.

And for one of the few times I was the bigger person and sat in the seat and moved and tried not to hit this asshole in his head as the plane took off. I laid back, closed my eyes and heard, "Why don't you let me have the tickets so that we make sure we're in the right seats on the connecting flight." Gee thanks lady, now that I've almost gotten my ass kicked this is the time you decide to stand up to your husband who should obviously be a candidate for those Alzheimer's commercials on t.v. Just peachy.

My apologies

I know I haven't written in a while, but there has been a lot happening. Waves of things coming right on top of the other and I'm not focused enough to pick a topic yet. Lots of good stuff though. Pretty sure, tomorrow, I'll start writing.