April Showers

I'm sure you remember how much I do not like the month of April. I sort of crouch down, hide behind the couch and wait for it to be over. April is always filled with disparate images of life and death and regeneration. It teaches me something though, a lesson I hold onto with all I've got. It's the crocuses. Even in the midst of loss and sadness, and a fear that nothing will ever get better, these tiny blue, purple, and yellow flowers push up past the old pine needles, hold aside the dead leaves from last fall, and declare themselves. They are not tall, nor flashy, nor even particularly spectacular. But they are a quiet spot of hope in a sea of decomposition.

In my early twenties- a lifetime ago it seems now- I lost my great aunt and cousin to a drunk driver the very same month as an ex-boyfriend committed suicide. I am loathe to think of those times and those sad, dark days. Let's just say it's more complicated than those few words. I didn't have a support network and did most of that healing on my own. I did it badly and it took a long time.

Anyway, April hasn't been a great month since then.

This last week has been particularly rough, and it doesn't help that I hold these things in. I'm trying to let them out. I promise. It's always been important that I compartmentalize and not feel things for awhile. So when I hear news such as this, I just sort of go on for the day or week. Then at a juncture which is quiet and in which I am alone, the feelings leap up and and the scream that's been sitting at the base of my throat will suddenly find its voice.  This week, in three days, I know three people who died. One from natural causes; two from suicide. All pretty devastating for their families.  As I type this, ever keystroke feels as though it's hitting a bruise. None of these men knew each other, but I knew each one.

There is always a crocus though.

Joy.

I have been very fortunate in my life, given my background and history. People sometimes ask me how my life turned out differently than those around me. I tell them this: I have amazing women friends.  I seek out positive women who exhibit kindness and generosity of their spirit and I befriend them. I mentor younger women. This is the difference between me now and me twenty years ago.

I tagged along with my friend Joy for a road trip to Yakima. No big deal, just a beautiful drive, lunch, time to talk and a bit of shopping. We listen to each other and we are vulnerable to one another and we plot revenge on our enemies and celebrate the good parts of our lives.  If Charlotte or Cathy or Patricia or any of my Oklahoma friends had been close by, I could have gone on this same road trip with them.

This is not to say that G isn't my biggest supporter. He is. He is who I run to when I have good news and bad, as my best friend through everything. And he has cheered me up this week and made me laugh and just sat on the couch and held me because believe me when I say that I crawled into my pajamas at 4:00 and didn't leave the house thereafter. That's love.

It's Joy who will scream obscenities out a car window with me. Maybe not a flashy friendship, but one which pushes aside the sadness and says that we will make it through another spring.

Oh Spring! Oh March!

March is both one of my favorite and least favorite months.

I love lots of things about March- the advent of Spring and the last of the winter snows.  I love those last snows a lot because I know they won't last long.  This year the spring snows didn't even stick. Two nights ago, we turned the faucets on to drip for the last time until Fall. 

Spring Break went well too.  My very nice husband accompanied me to the Olympic Peninsula where we visited my sister and her family and explored Port Townsend, Port Angeles and Sequim.  Yes, he finally decided after months of denial that there is indeed, a place called Sequim.  It's pronounced "Skwim", by the way.  One syllable.  Now, if I can just get Grey to stop calling it "Su-kwim", we'd be set. I got to see an old friend from elementary school that I haven't seen since the late 80s, and boy is a cool dude. He teaches history, specializing in the Bronze Age.  It used to be medieval history but I think he switched over a few years back.  He does some great stuff in the classroom. Stuf I'd like to see published.  He and Grey got to talking about comparisons between some biblical king and King Arthur and I just sat and smiled and took it all in.  Maybe next time we will get to meet his wife.

My quarter is going exceedingly well.  We are two days into the Spring quarter. I've got 4 classes on my plate and teach from 10 a.m. until 3 p.m. It's gonna be a long ten weeks.  Scratch that, 9.5 weeks.  I'm starting to count down already.  I have 3 preps and two classes I haven't taught before. Yikes!

Other good things about March include the ability to wear open-toed shoes without freezing to death and digging out my Spring wardrobe. And it's an energetic month- the buds come out and crocuses bloom and pale legs get flased all over campus- and my exercise regemine is paying off so no more Winter weight.  Don't get me wrong, it serves a purpose, but now it's time to get moving!

Beware the Ides of March, says the soothsayer to Julius Caesar. Truer words have never been spoken.  March has always been a month of death.  I lost my grandma two years ago. Her birthday was on the 25th.   Her oldest sister - My Aunt Sis-  and my cousin were killed by a drunk driver in the last nineties during the month of March and I lost an ex-boyfriend to suicide that month too. Those were dark days.  It's difficult, at the tail end of winter, to clear thoughts from my mind as I look towards flowers and rain and sunshiny days. I can do it, it just takes time.

Fortunately, the sun IS shining. Little birdies are making more little birdies and I painted my toes a bright shade of purple.  Same color and same bottle that my sweet sister-in-law gave me on my wedding day.  Same sweet sister-in-law who just had a gorgeous baby girl last month.  Everyone is healthy and happy there, by the way.  There is so much hope in the world and so much to look forward to, that the weary blues won't last long. Three more days, I predict. 

Then bloom.

And here's a picture of my grandma. Because she is the best.

Words Once Spoken Cannot Be Recalled

Et semel emissum volat irrocabile verbum. ~Horace


I wrote a number down on my hand today.  It was 038162.  I can still see it faintly.  I had a student who was suspended and I tried to enter a grade for her but she had been taken out of the system for the suspension and not put back in.  If you know your Goffman or Foucault, you'll know instantly that my student knew her number and repeated it for me without hesitation.  She identifies with that number and so do so many of my students.  It's how they pay for lunch.  It's how they see their grades and how they get into and out of trouble.  It dehumanizes them and quantifies their lives ala George W Bush and his No Child Left Behind.  It's also a convenient product of the technological age.  In some ways, the number affords my kids some anonymity and in others, it sanitizes their place in society.  You don't hug child number 44728.  You don't give a sweet valentines book mark to student #732914679.  But you do punish the heck out of the miscreant marked #16739428565.  Or was that "inmate"?  


Anyway, I emailed the counselor about the snafu and to get her put back in the system.  But the counselors are pretty busy right now, dealing with the emotional fallout of the death of one of our teachers on Monday.  


Yes, someone died.  No, it was not a natural or expected death.  No, I'm not going to come out and say it.  

Death is irrevocable, much like a word spoken in anger.  There is a saying in Arabic, or so I am told.  The word is "Talik" or "Tarik", and if you say it in quick succession three times, you are divorced from you spouse and it cannot be undone.  Some actions you cannot take back and some words, once they leave your mouth, will do the harm they will do of their own accord, with or without your apologies.  

So yes, today was a shitty day.  There was a bunch of crying in middle school.  More than usual for hormonal teenagers.  I hugged a lot of kids and dealt with difficult and quiet questions.  Sometimes, kids just wanted to come and sit in a safe place.  Four extra kids snuck into my 7th hour class and DID THE LESSON PLAN so that they could be there.  They weren't even my students.  Ah well. 

After ten hours of work, I got a text from a friend who asked me for a ride.  I've struggled with my feelings about even discussing him and don't do so very often.  He has not found sobriety, not stayed in a rehab.  But tonight he asked me for a ride and I haven't seen him in awhile.  So I went and picked him up. And we haven't spent more than ten minutes together in months, so I asked if I could buy him dinner.  Yes.  

So we had dinner and caught up.  He is not well. He is staying with a friend and doing the best he can.  I asked about him mom- the person in the world who he cares about more than anyone else.  Or so I thought.  She is not speaking to him. And neither is his family because of his sobriety. During dinner he casually said to me, "The thing is, that I annoy my family.  I just try to lay low. When I was in AA, it was the only time they ever liked me.  Funny thing is, that when I was in AA, yeah, that's the only time I've ever just hated myself."  

I thought about those words all the way back to the place where he was staying.  And I chose my next ones carefully. I just think there is enough suffering in the world without all of my judgments. My day was rough and I know that 90% of the world had a worse day than I did.  I said that if he was sober or if he was using or drunk or high, I did not care.  My friendship and love and care of him as a human is not dependent on factors such as what he chooses or needs to put in his body. I told him that I value him as a person, and I do truly enjoy his company. I'll be happy to visit or talk or hang out whenever possible, as long as he was straight during those times.  And I vow never to  make him feel like less than a person just because he has addiction issues.  

We are not a number. We are people. We are humans with emotions and needs and a desire for care and compassion. We should not be classified and sorted.  We should be seen. And heard. And when we need it, we should be comforted and spoken to with kindness.  

Because a word once spoken, a deed once done, cannot be recalled.