Thank You For Sharing

I have published this elsewhere, but thought I'd share it on my blog for a wider audience.  I wrote it a little over a month ago.

I took a group of students on a field trip today. It’s fun when you can take college sophomores and juniors on a trip. They appreciate it so much and seem to take pleasure in the idea that as far as their youth is concerned, one or two more field trips for the purpose of education can still be in the cards.  I love it.

We went to a wind farm, up to the education center.  Had a tour, viewed the Ed Center and ate some lunch.  Then we got to go to a turbine and even go inside.  It kicked ass.  It was cold, but not as cold as I had expected.  It was heavy jacket weather. Lunch was catered and as they were paninis, I took along a panini grill and cooked for everyone.  It was a nice way to serve my students. They are an affable group, interested in knowledge and silliness and learning to write better.

We took several opportunities to stop and write in the moment.  The urgency and energy of writing when you’re there is one which comes across authentically later, is detectable months after the writing and activity are over.  Of course, we have to share, warts and all.  There’s something I always ask my students to do when they share their writing together.  At the end of the reading- out loud, of course- I ask them to simply say “Thank You For Sharing.”

I do this for several reasons. The most obvious is affirmation that someone took an emotional risk and shared their writing and a part of their soul with another.  To be vulnerable takes trust, to build trust takes risk and affirmation.

I have another reason, and her name is Diane.

Dr. Diane Holt- Reynolds to be exact. It hurts a little to say her name.

I met Dr. Holt-Reynolds in the Fall of 2002 as I was beginning a master’s program in English Education and she became my advisor.  I’d never been to graduate school before. I had no idea what to expect. No preconceived notions, nothing. Nobody I knew had ever been to graduate school. Nobody I knew did these sorts of things. That’s why I needed a mentor.  She was a calm soul, one I always picture by the ocean, clear blue skies and thin white clouds in the background and happy waves dancing at her feet. She had short, dark, curly hair and mischievous eyes, and a smile that put people at ease. My first class with her and a bunch of other first year students began with a bit of arrogance.  How hard could it be to learn to teach English? I already knew the stuff, right?

Heh.  Diane said “Let’s just close the door and admit that we don’t know everything about grammar.”  Yeah right. I did an internal eye roll.  Then she gave us a test. Every single student failed. Except for one guy- and the rest of us decided right away that we didn’t like him. Then she taught us to teach grammar. I wanted to be like her- a gentle soul bent on helping others be better at what they do.

It took me three weeks to realize that she was left-handed because her right hand didn’t exist.  She had had a prosthetic hand since she was a kid; her right arm developed to the elbow but that was it.  It did not seem to impede her in any way and my admiration for her grew even more. We went on writing marathons and Writing Project outings and conferences.  Everyone knew Diane and liked her immensely.  When we shared our writing, she asked us to say “Thank you, for sharing.”  So we did. No explanation, just a request.  One did not wonder why.

At the same time, I was in the throes of a nasty divorce and suddenly needed a job.  I might have to drop out to find work but I didn’t want to leave my program. She gave me a graduate assistantship and I worked for her for six months until she died.

Diane had a recurrence of ovarian cancer. It came on fast and hit hard.  I went to doctors and hospitals with her and a cadre of concerned friends. They shaved her legs and we brought cake and drew funny chicken pictures on blown up hospital gloves.  She did her best to help people around her.

One day she asked that I call the Social Security office for her.  I gave her ID number and they asked why I called.  ”Ovarian Cancer”, she said. I repeated it.

“What stage?” I relayed the question.

“Stage four.” I told the disembodied voice on the other end.  She drew in her breath.

“Terminal, then.”  I drew in a quick breath myself.  That’s when I realized she was going to die.  And there was nothing I could do. She opened her library to me and I selected a few books. She insisted I take “A Perfect Storm”, so I did. Couldn’t bring myself to read it.

And I couldn’t, and she did. But I did attend her memorial, with chocolate cake (and chocolate frosting and chocolate sprinkles) and strong coffee. After losing the ability to digest food, and between the delirium of morphine and the agony of cancer spreading unchecked through her body, Diane advised me to find the joy in all I do and to never eat a meal unattended. Before she died, the department established a scholarship in her name and she was thrilled.  I was the first recipient, and perhaps the proudest. I finished my master’s, taught for awhile, finished a doctorate and here I am.

Today, eleven years later, in bright sunshine of a visitor’s center, amidst two stories of clean glass, roaring wind and the bright faces of students and colleagues, we prodded our imaginations and wrote our stories.  My students took that risk with me, to write something authentic and to show that vulnerable side of themselves, and in the echo of their words I can almost hear her voice and the waves of the ocean.

A Safe Place

Yesterday, I asked an 8th grade student to carry a slim toad away from our portable buildings.  He or she had gotten into a classroom the night before and was stunned after being manhandled by 18 sixth graders and kicked by one of them.  Gently, the 8th grader picked up said toadling and asked where to put it.  I couldn't really think of anywhere.  In the soccer field there would be children running around after school. The pavement was no good because of hot sun, foot and car traffic and lack of moisture.  The dumpster might be ok but the fence line would only lead to the sidewalk.  We decided on the dumpster and let our hopping friend loose.

Today is the 17th anniversary of the bombing of the Arthur P. Murrah building in Oklahoma City.  On this day so many days ago, in revenge for the ill-conceived and badly ended standoff between the Branch Davidian church group and the U.S. Government.  Timothy McVeigh chose the Murrah building and Oklahoma City as an easy target. The Murrah building was a federal building and housed many beaurocratic headquarters for federal business in the city.  He filled a large truck with homemade explosives and detonated it, killing 168 people- including children in the daycare- and changed the course of Oklahoma history.  Oklahoma, the safe place, was under attack in an act of domestic terrorism. When it came to light that it was a scrawny white guy, a separatist, former military and an American, well, people were stunned. What had we expected, a non-White, non-English speaking, non-graduate of American school systems who held beliefs that were never critically considered?

Last Friday, one of our sixth graders stabbed another sixth grader with a pencil in the shoulder over a bag of skittles.  She had stabbed the victim before the day before but it did not break the skin and the little girl did not report it at the time.  This time, however, the pencil went through a sweater and a shirt and lodged in her skin.  And our alleged perpetrator was so rotten, disrespectful and belligerent that the arresting police officer put cuffs on her and took her past kiddie booking and to a juvenile detention center where she will remain until her arraignment.  Her mother did not go to see her and she is now in a position to get real lessons on how to become a criminal.  She is twelve years old.

I am missing one of my students for the rest of the year as well.  He (allegedly) brought a large amount of illegal substances to school with intent to sell.  Four other students were busted in the boys room smoking a Swisher Sweet with a large amount of cannibis in it.  Gone. Those kids are gone for the year.  I'm not sure why my students are dealing and taking drugs. I figure that reality sucks when you are a teenager and it must really suck to live and go to school in a ghetto with few prospects and teachers who often fundamentally dislike children.  We finally and temporarily replaced our deceased geography teacher. The new lady is nice and blonde and pretty and with sky blue eyes that make me think she might come from Edmond.  The kids have mostly been nice to her, and one drew her a picture which she put outside of her door.  Unfortunately it has gang colors and the drawing is actually of "the shocker" hand gesture.  If you don't know what that is, click here for an eye-opening explanation.  I couldn't find her today so I'll try again tomorrow. I heard one of the 8th grade boys (not my student) said some highly sexual things to her during class, poked a pencil into her lunch and left.  I really hope that is not true.

Students have been roaming the hallways in droves. I took it upon myself to stroll the hallways during classes.  Ok, it's trolling.  My student intern is now competent enough to handle teaching by herself so I walk around looking for kids ditching class. I catch about four per day.  It makes me cranky.  Yesterday, one of my gang-girls was conducting business with her boyfriend's cell phone.  She's really sweet and I like her. I suspect she probably compartmentalizes and gets to be a kid during those classes she attends and a "thug" when she needs to be.

In the meantime, we are doing the OCCT- Oklahoma Core Curriculum Test.  Awesome.  Along with the continued construction, how can we possibly hope to pass those tests?  Yet many of them are.  A good number of my 8th grade students either passed or got outstanding scores on their reading tests.  Next week my 7th graders are up and I expect they will surpass my principal's expectations but not my own.  I want better for them.

Yes, yes I do. I want better for my kids and I am frustrated and fighting mad.  What does it matter if my kids can think critically or read and write their asses off if the end result is not going to change?  Necessity trumps luxuries like novels and me and my little narratives cannot compete with the immediate relief of getting high. Sometimes I feel like a fool for even trying. The world, as illustrated by Timothy McVeigh, is not as trustworthy as it might once have been. My students are stunned toads with no safe place to go but dumpsters. At least there is food and moisture there, even if it smells.  All I can do is keep guard and provide hope.

The Ends Of Things

This is the season of the ends of things.  This is the week of the ends of things and the night of the ends of things.  I have to turn in my dissertation revisions tomorrow but instead I'm writing a blog post.  I should be revising. I don't have internet at home right now and have to get to bed by 11 at the latest and that's after a shower.  I work in the morning. 
This is the end of my homeless wanderings.  I've spent the last 6 months wandering all around Oklahoma as my house was rented out while I finished my teaching contract in Ada.  The contract was not renewed and I ended up getting a teaching job in Oklahoma City. I got my house back on September 1.  It was a terrible mess and will cost me thousands of dollars to clean up.  My contractor is installing new kitchen countertops and replacing drywall in the pantry because of the heavy urine smell.  I bug bombed since the roaches were large and singularly unafraid.  One of them looked like "Ponyboy" from The Outsiders. I think he was carrying a straight razor so I backed out of the room and called in a nuclear attack. My cat is happy to be home at least.  The livingroom, hallway and one of the bedroom carpets has been steamcleaned four times and spot treated several times.  While stained badly, they won't be replaced since I just don't have the $1,700 to do it. Then there are the dead trees and landscaping in the back yard and the garbagea dn assorted junk tossed into the yard here and there.  It's going to take several pick up loads to get rid of it.  Now you know where the roaches came from.  All of this on only 6 months.  The meager deposit didn't even begin to cover the steam cleaning. I feel relatively safe tonight and the house is rather stink-free save for the pantry. The contractor will take care of it.  I put the ball in motion.  The end.  My very nice ex-boyfriend is babysitting my Big Dogg and he will come home soon too. My happy little family will be home and in the same place.

This is supposed to be the end of my dissertation. I'm a little blocked.  I don't want this to be over.  I'm teaching full time during the day and in the evenings I teach an online class.  On Tuesday nights I've got an in-person class.  I'm not sure that I'm spending enough time on revisions. I'm not sure what I'm afraid of. I'm not sure if it will pass. I'm not sure if it *should* pass.  I'm not sure what to do next. I've been a student for a long, long time. I don't want that to change. I don't want it to stop. Can't take it back now. I will finish this too and be done with it.

I am glad to be on the back side of summer and the end of the hottest season on record anywhere.  I thought I would die.  I didn't.  I complained a lot on Facebook and obsessed on the topic with my friends and family.  Wildfires raged and tempers flared. For four months I sweated and played ninja in my avoidance of the giant ball of gas in the sky.  I couldn't run more than 2 miles without getting heat stroke.  It went on and on forever until suddenly, like a puff of smoke, it was gone.  Today I turned on the heater in my car on the way to work.  It was all of 55 degrees.  I rejoiced. I reveled in it, rolling down the windows blasting the heater.  I love the descent into fall, bringing in the eaves and putting away the summer dresses.  I love putting the earth to bed, to sleep for a season of dormancy, of well deserved rest already after the long and winding dirt-road season under a burning sun.  And I feel an easing in my mind too, in my philosophy that things can wait and that there is time yet for me to think and to reflect and ponder some of life's greater mysteries. A season to compost my thoughts and plan and to dream.  To gather my wisdom about me like so much yarn to spin into the shawl of age.

I have had the end of a relationship too.  My brother is not speaking to me, nor I to him. I got pulled in to some stupid drama where I did not want to be. I am not a tactful woman and did not pull my punches when I perhaps should have.  We argued and fought and said things we cannot take back and he did something he cannot take back.  For now, for this season, I am done.  I'm not angry anymore but won't open my heart for someone who has caused that much grief for me, knowing the stress it would cause. I hate the ends of relationships and really, really dread conflict.  I do love being healthy and now perhaps we can both be healthy on our own. 

Finally, I am going to end my relationship with Blogspot.  People clicked on the ads.  I was supposedly making money from my blog.  Then I made too much money- over $300 that I never cashed in over the course of a year- and the blogspot people decided to suspend my adsense account.  So now you can read my work but I cannot make money from it.  This is work, keeping a blog and trying to put something thought-filled out there every week.  As soon as I get a suitable new home for my writing, I will let you know and we will go from there together. 

Drink the last of the summer wine. Enjoy the leftover pieces of watermelon in the refrigerator.  Pick the remaining tomatoes from shriveling vines and watch as the squash and pumpkins grow and grow. 
I leave you today with the following from William Butler Yeats:

The Folly Of Being Comforted

One that is ever kind said yesterday:
'Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey,
And little shadows come about her eyes;
Time can but make it easier to be wise
Though now it seems impossible, and so
All that you need is patience.'
Heart cries, 'No,
I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.
Time can but make her beauty over again:
Because of that great nobleness of hers
The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,
Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways
When all the wild Summer was in her gaze.'

Heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head,
You'd know the folly of being comforted.  

Grateful

So I'm living in the middle of nowhere and the biggest business in this two-horse town is the Walmart.  It's always busy there and believe me, short of sunrise, I'd rather go any time of the day when there aren't people. They're like zombies or something.  Walmart in Maine isn't much different than Walmart in Kentucky or Oklahoma.  There are always going to be people who don't brush their hair, teeth or armpit hairs before leaving the house. But enough about me..

Ada is pretty quiet.  Even though I live on Stadium Drive, on campus, and it's the busiest street with a couple thousand students a few stone's throws away, it's still more quiet than Berry Rd in Norman.  I don't know if that's because it's truly less traffic or because I live in a concrete cell block, but nonetheless, not a lot of noise.  My neighbors and I seem to have an understanding that peace and quiet are all we need.  No talking, no borrowing cups of sugar (Ok, I don't have any actual sugar and I barely know what to do with that shit other than to lend it to people.  What am I gonna do, bake?!). Just quiet.  We are all single women.  Two of the three apartments on my floor are occupied; the other is not.  Nobody downstairs as far as I can tell. Just me and them.  And across the complex in the other buildings are my students.  Lots and lots of them and they never come near.  I think they worry that I've got some evil den going on or that I'm somehow incapable of discussion outside of a classroom.  It's let me get some work done, that's for sure.

Every time I go somewhere, I think "I'm not staying, I shouldn't meet people or get attached".  So I tend to engage in solitary activities and anyone who knows me knows I already enjoy this.  I like walking in the little park by my house- to the park, around the lake and home is two miles.  It's a nice little jog on a sunny Spring day.  I also run or do the stairs at the track on campus.  It's roughly 200 steps from my door.  I can, if I want, go to the little fitness center on campus.  Only problem is that I'm pretty sure that I'm not going there.  I imagine this scenario:  I'm sweating, using some elliptical and listening to the Offspring on my little iPod.  I get interrupted by a student wanting help on his next assignment.  Another wants to know what's due tomorrow. And another who didn't make office hours but knows that I'm on campus and of course I will talk to her.  Meanwhile my mascara has run because I didn't go wash it off first and I'm sweating and smell almost as good as a warthog in heat.  Awesome.  Yeah. Not going there.

I thought I'd dwell on a few positive things.  You know, to cheer me up.  It's kinda lonely in the concrete bunker.  And I get sick of self-pity and being freaked out about how things didn't get the way I wanted them to.  Things go all wonky all over the world and in much worse ways than I have to deal with so i'm just going to get over it.

Today I'm going to be grateful. Way grateful that I have been given the opportunity to write a dissertation.  Not many people are that lucky (or even care. Or think it's cool, or think that I'm cool for wanting to.. ).  And grateful to Kimberly Stormer who met me at the library last week for a pep talk and a read-through on my work.  She gave great and timely feedback and showed me pictures of that gorgeous little girl of hers.  And Cathy who kept my dog Big for weeks and chauffeured him to the vet and back.  And met me for coffee and a pep talk and another read through.  I need lots of read-throughs.  And both of those amazing women looked me in the eye and said that it's going to be ok.  Actually, Kimberly said that I was not a normal white girl, but I'm sure she means that she believes in me.  My friend Greg read the whole thing and gave me written feedback in only a day.  And he sent me a text that said it didn't suck.

Valerie helped me move in and she and my cousin Christian both hung out with me for St. Patrick's Day.  It was awesome, low-key and fun (and normal, ha!) and sane.  I get messages all of the time from my friends- have a great day, thinking of you, please get done with that piece of writing because we want our friend back- you know, encouragement, by text or Facebook or email.  And I've really appreciated that. Hell, this afternoon, my friend Dan put on a Superman cape and flew to my rescue as I melted down over pagination.  Seriously, I emailed it to him and he emailed it back to me ten minutes later. All better.  Made me cry, but don't tell him I said that.

My Grandma is dying now, too.  I found out that it's a matter of days.  Actually, I found out as I was writing chapter 5.  I saw her at Christmas up in Washington state and I considered flying up there just to say goodbye one more time.  The thing is that she knows I love her and my uncle, aunt, sisters and their children are all there too. And my mom.  And our pastor.  They say that I should concentrate on this and on being here in this moment and that's a hard thing to do.  But again, I'm really grateful that my Grandma is surrounded by people who love her and care for her. She's a loving person and has always been well loved in return.  She has good karma.  Of course, she could cut you- make no mistake. Do not get on her bad side.  The good part about that is that it's pretty hard to get on her bad side. It can be done, but it takes some doing.  I have gratitude even in this, because if anyone deserves a little grace, it's my Grandma. And later, it will be us who love her who will need it.

So thanks, friends, for your support and encouragement in scary times and for rooting for me on the whole dissertation thing.  I think I'm ok if the whole thing blows up. So thank you, Valerie and and Cathy and Kimberly and Liz and Matt and Matt and MattMatt, and Luke and Greg (and Greg), and Samantha, and Davie and R.E. and Veronica and Brook and especially Shellie (OMG you are so funny!) and Jeff and Orinda and Elissa and Daren and Mitch and Tammy and Joe and Hassie and Jackie and Hayley and Matthew and Damian and my cousin Christian (yeah, cuz you are my friend too) and Joe and Tafv and Steve and Staci and Sandra and Britton and Dennis and Sabrina and Shelly and Mandy and Jen and Jen and everyone else that I forgot.  Damn!  How did I get so lucky?

Ok, I do have to go here: the worst case scenario is me sitting in a room with 5 committee members and them telling me how awful my project is and that I will never make it and I should just give up.  And somehow in there I am naked and wearing my nerd glasses with tape on them.  And braces. I've never had braces or needed them.  But I'm good, just in case that does happen.  I hear it's not too late to become a bartender.