And a Struggle Never Wins

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100 days, administration, bully, feminist, Jackson Browne, Merle Haggard, middle school, power struggle, special education, Stevie Wonder, teaching, The Grateful Dead, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, tug of war, women's march

I woke up early this morning thinking about Tug of War. Yes, the game with two teams of people, sometimes person against person, where the objective is to pull the rope from a ribboned center to a team’s specific side. Then you win.

Tug of War is interesting. Perhaps you sign up for it on Field Day, or it’s the way to award a winner, like arm wrestling. Fairly barbaric and out of date, I presume. I’ve seen it in movies done on a muddy field, which with deep consideration, feels pretty dirty. No pun intended.

Now, I am one to always take on a challenge–any challenge–and meet it face on. I’m not

We’re Grabbing at the Fray for Something

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Aimee Mann, Better off Dead, Big Head Todd and the Monsters, children, Election 2016, Hamilton, Hangover, Hillary, Jim Croce, john cusack, Mat Kearney, Paul Simon, Phish, Sam Cooke, school, Teachers, The Samples, The Shins, Trump

You may remember the John Cusack movie, “Better off Dead” from the 80s. There’s a particularly hilarious scene where the main character, Lane, suffers heartache after his girlfriend breaks up with him for someone else, and his radio mocks him. Love song after love song destroys him, and he finally rips the radio out of the car and chucks it into the street. This was Wednesday morning for me.

I woke up needing music more than anything. This year, in general, has been more difficult than easy. With a post-election hangover (and a real one thanks to too much wine), I was bleary eyed, praying that the coffee I made would be strong enough. As I entered the freeway, with more traffic than expected for a city that stayed up to the wee-hours to watch election coverage, song after song pained my heart. Like Lane, I felt as if the radio DJs were digging deep into the chasm of deep female loss. And I took it personally, as someone who voted for Hillary.

It was all too much for me. I cried most of the drive. I think the different DJs on XM Radio were making their own silent protests supporting Hillary, and asking what the hell happened. When Blondie came on, I heard her mantra of “The tide is high, but I’m holding on”.  This resonated with me, so I took it to work.

My first class, a 7th grade social studies class, was subdued. A few kids wore American pride garb, sporting stars and stripes, as well as signs that read “I Wish I was Canadian”,

Take the Easy Way and Give In

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Anne Frank, Carol King, fearless, guns n roses, lyle lovett, Morrissey, REM, spiders, waylon jennings, Willie Nelson, wonder woman

There is a spider living in my living room. In the 9 years I have lived in my aparentment, there has only been one other spider. It was when a friend subletted the place while I was in Vermont. She had stuff from storage. The spider got in. It wasn’t a Daddy Long Legs, but it also wasn’t a Brown Recluse. It was probably your average, everyday spider. No larger than a dime. It was in my shower on a Saturday morning years ago. When I pulled back the shower curtain, there it was. I was not clothed. Things got ugly. After nearly hyperventilating, I grabbed anything I could find to not provide a show for the neighbors, struggled to the kitchen, and found Clorox. I burned that bitch.

I hate spiders.

My mom was here a few weeks ago, and I asked her to kill this newly residing spider. She never really saw it in its glory. She went in with a wad of tissue, and…missed. It retreated. She stuffed the tissue in the window jamb, puffing herself up to the fact that “it’s a goner.”

That was 3 weeks ago. The damned thing is back. And it’s spun an enormous web over my entire living room window. It was there when I got home tonight as the rain came down.

Open Your Big Eyes, Take in the Sunrise

When I was a little girl, maybe 6…7, we would have Sunday night dinner at my Gram’s house. We would drive home at the end of the night, 2/5 of the car asleep, and we would suddenly fall above something I used to call Fairyland. Not sure if my parents or I coined the term, but it was at the top of the hill, where all the lights of Almaden would shine, and it was Fairyland. It was my favorite thing. I was reminded of it when I landed at SFO last week: Magic.

You see, lately, I feel very small. Not like I’m minuscule, or powerless, but as I’m always reminded, I’m just a piece in the puzzle we call life–a contributor.

I had several ups and downs this summer, from moments of helplessness, to feelings of being on top of the world. And I’m so happy to have experienced them both, along with the nuances in between.

It makes me human.

I’ve been thinking a lot about being human lately. Feeling very small. Friends have had babies, friends have dealt with loss. I was on a boat in the Chicago River in July with my mom, looking up at the great American Skyscraper, and I felt tiny. I was pulled inside the circus tent I bought my 2 year-old Goddaughter last week, and once again felt like a child. This summer, I experienced water balloons with 5-year-olds, a car break-in, and weeping like a child at the news that one of my students was finally in remission. I felt very small.

But not in a bad way.

When I was 22, wet behind the ears, fresh from college, I set out one morning to Clement street, a few blocks from where I lived, following rumors that I would run into Robin Williams, a “neighbor”. I was selling books back to Green Apple, one of the finest independent bookstores, which have always been close to my heart.

Half of the Time We’re Gone, but we Don’t Know Where

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15, end of the year, mean girls, teaching

When I was 15, I experienced Mean Girls. Ok, we know that’s not true–I definitely experienced Mean Girls way before I was 15, but they didn’t associate with me. They were usually the cool kids, and I wasn’t. But when I was 15, that changed. My circle of friends branched off, and the newly cooler half tormented the rest of us. Maybe they didn’t, maybe that’s just how it felt.

The closest thing I have felt to that since was a few years ago, when a grown up Mean Girl, a co-worker, belittled me frequently, often in front of her students. Behind closed doors, she told me that the reason my students (who were one of those groups that simply complained about everything, and never turned in any work) didn’t turn things in was because of me–that I was a bad teacher. I was back to 15 years old again, when someone–my peer, made me feel inferior. And I was so overwhelmed, and stressed, and baffled that I began to believe it.